My features twisted into a scowl as I remembered Ernesto. He had owned a farm larger than ours, and though he was a widower over twenty years my senior, my mother had arranged the match when I was just fifteen—rather a young age to marry, in our village at least. “The sooner I’ve not got to worry about your mouth to feed, the better,” she’d said when I’d protested. So I’d married Ernesto, having had only one conversation with him prior to our wedding day.
I hadn’t loved him, nor had he loved me. He largely ignored my presence in his house, unless something was not to his liking, or he wanted to engage in the marriage act, which was often. I bit back my dislike of the act, for his hefty weight on me, his member inside my body. I knew it was a wife’s duty. I endured it—and the other acts he directed me to perform for his pleasure—without complaint, even if I knew I was not always successful at hiding my distaste. It did nothing to further endear me to him. I tried always to keep Uncle Cristiano’s advice in mind—Matrimony is a holy state, Maddalena, and the one God wishes for his flock—but my marriage had been miserable. Uncle Cristiano’s death of a fever, a few months after he performed my marriage ceremony, had only darkened my life further.
But as luck—and I crossed myself at the thought, at the sin of finding relief in another’s death—would have it, my sour marriage had lasted only a year. He had inadvertently strayed onto the lands of some lord or other while hunting. The lord and his men, assuming he’d been poaching, had tied him up and shot him full of arrows as punishment. Even bearing no love for Ernesto, I had been horrified to hear how he’d met his end. Yet I shed no tears, not when the news was brought to me, nor when I washed and prepared his body for burial, or even during his funeral Mass.
His death left me without a penny, for his son by his first wife—who was my age—inherited the farm, farmhouse, and everything else Ernesto had to his name. There was nothing left for me. But I was free.
I was free, and I thanked God for it every day, even on those nights when I was too exhausted from my duties to work on my embroidery. I had charge of myself, as much as any woman ever could, and I would never be sorry for it.
And if Federico did want to make me his wife, I could say yes or no as I pleased. I could not help but feel the marriage act would be rather different with a man like him.
Enough, Maddalena, I counseled myself. The man wished to write me some notes, not propose marriage.
But even so, the smile was back on my face.
Chapter 6
CESARE
“Cesare!” Lucrezia whirled around as her footman announced me. Trunks of clothing, hairpieces, jewelry, bedding, and linens surrounded her. “Oh, you should have come later, germà! We are in quite a tizzy of unpacking at the moment.” She started toward me, a perceptive maid whisking a small case of jewels out of her path so she would not trip.
“Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?” I teased as she kissed my cheek.
“It’s best Juan didn’t hear you say that,” she said, but I noted, with childish glee, that she didn’t correct me. “Oh, dear, I can send for some wine or food if you like, but much of the palazzo is still in disarray.” She waved her hand at the chaos of her bedroom.
The Holy Father had moved his women—Lucrezia, Giulia Farnese, and Adriana de Mila—to the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, so he might make use of the secret underground tunnel connecting it to the Vatican Palace.
“Do not trouble yourself,” I said. “I came to see how you were settling in, but it seems that is still a work in progress.”
I had wanted to assure myself Lucrezia was well and pleased with the move. And despite her flustered words, there was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks and a smile in her eyes as she surveyed her new rooms, with their marble floors and plush carpet and cheerful frescoes of frolicking nymphs. The change in her status completely agreed with her.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
The exasperated look she turned on me was one only a thirteen-year-old girl could give to her brother who knows nothing of women’s matters. “Indeed there is not, Cesare,” she said. “I love you dearly, but I do not trust you to see that my gowns are unpacked and put away properly.”
I laughed. “You are wise to withhold your trust in that regard, I think. Very well.” I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I shall away, and hope you invite me to supper once you are settled.”
“I surely shall!” she said, turning and flouncing back to a trunk full of dresses.
I shook my head and chuckled as I left. Dear Lucrezia.
I left the palace and swung back up onto my horse to head home, but hesitated. Perhaps I might stop in a tavern for a drink. Since I’d only been going to see Lucrezia, I hadn’t dressed in my archbishop’s robes, so there would be little danger of my being recognized. I turned my horse sharply down an alley, a shortcut that would take me to a favorite tavern.
It happened so quickly, but still I cursed myself for not being more aware. A dagger whirred past my head, so close my hair moved in the breeze it created. I immediately flung myself from the saddle and slapped my horse’s rump. “Home!” I commanded him in one loud, terse voice, and he ran. He was a well-trained beast and would not stop until he reached his stable. I drew my dagger from where it was sheathed at my hip and spun to face my attacker.
He was almost upon me, another dagger in his hand. “Here, let’s have your purse, m’lord,” he growled, swiping at me.
I dodged his blade easily and attacked, but though he was clumsy in wielding his weapon, he was quick. What manner of footpad robs a nobleman in broad daylight? I wondered even as I fought him off.
I heard the whir of another dagger behind me, and leapt out of the way, spinning to see yet another man at the mouth of the alley. Well. This grew more interesting by the second.
In the split second I took to decide whether or not I would charge at him, thus eliminating his range and to hell with the first man, a sword suddenly protruded through the man’s chest. His eyes went wide with shock as he looked down at the blade, as though he could not believe what he was seeing.
Meanwhile, the first man, unaware of his companion’s fate, took advantage of my hesitation and seized me from behind, reaching up—he was rather smaller than I—to cut my throat. I spun in his grip, grabbing his arm and bending it at an unnatural angle, and drove my dagger into his heart, twisting it as it found its mark. Blood bubbled onto his lips, and I ripped out the dagger and let him fall to the dirty cobblestones to breathe his last.
Breathing hard, I raised my eyes to the mouth of the alley, where I found a slender man of medium height cleaning his sword in an unconcerned manner, as though he stabbed would-be thieves in alleyways all the time—and perhaps he did. “It seems I owe you a debt of thanks, my good man,” I said, eyeing him carefully, hoping he would prove friend and not foe.
“I’ve no doubt you would have handled them on your own, signore,” he said casually. I was surprised to hear a slight Valencian accent. A fellow Spaniard. I relaxed slightly. “I merely hurried the process along.” He sheathed his sword and looked up at me meaningfully. “Or should I say, ‘Your Excellency’?”
“Ah,” I said. “It seems my lack of ecclesiastical garb is not quite the disguise I had hoped.”
“More people know you in this city than you realize, Your Excellency,” he said. “The same is true of your brothers and sister.”
My entire body tensed at these words. “Is that a threat?” I demanded.
“Not at all,” he replied. “I am merely stating facts. There is great interest in the city in the doings of your family since Pope Alexander’s election.”
I searched his face for honesty. “That is true enough,” I said carefully. “Including our friends here.” I motioned to the two bodies now lying on the filthy ground of the alley.
The man snorted. “Indeed,” he said. “I’m sure a man as astute as Your Excellency is reputed to be realizes this was no mere robbery.”
“I suppose I do. They’ve been tailing you since you left Santa Maria in Portico.”
That stopped me cold. As clumsy as they’d been, I had not noticed. My mind had been wandering, intent on a drink.
Clearly these brigands knew where I’d come from, that my sister was now housed within the palace. Such moves did not occur without much of Rome being aware. Could she have been their target?
No, they’d followed me, after all. And Lucrezia and Giulia Farnese were protected as well as the pope himself. I need not worry myself overmuch for them.
Myself, on the other hand … bold as it was to attack an archbishop—and the pope’s son—in broad daylight, I knew that I had likely become an attractive target. Perhaps these brigands had been hoping to ransom me back to Pope Alexander. Perhaps others would try to do the same in the coming weeks, months, and years.
I glanced up at the man and saw he had been watching me think all this over. “What is your name?” I asked.
He bowed. “Miguel da Corella, Your Excellency. Known to my friends and comrades as Michelotto.”
“A Valencian, as I’d thought,” I said. “You must be in Rome to work for my father.”
“I’m a recent member of his personal guard, yes, my lord.”
“Why are you here and not guarding him, then?”
“Day off,” Michelotto said. “Lucky for you that it is.”
Another nobleman, jealous of his pride—like my brother Juan—would have taken offense, but I only laughed. I wanted this Michelotto on my side. “Indeed,” I said. “It would seem I need another pair of eyes to watch my back. In that case, I’ll give you another thirty percent of whatever you make now to serve as my personal bodyguard.”
A look of surprise crossed Michelotto’s face, but he quickly masked it. “Generous of you, my lord,” he said. “But how do you know you can trust me? Might I not be in league with your attackers?”
“If you were, I doubt you’d confess such to me right as I’ve offered to hire you,” I said.
He grinned broadly. “You and I will get on splendidly, my lord. I accept.”
I stepped over the body of the man he’d slain and shook his hand. “Good,” I said. “Accompany me to my palace in the Borgo and we’ll see about getting you some livery, and a room.”
Michelotto nodded agreeably and fell into step beside me. Even as we walked, his eyes were everywhere, scanning for potential threats. It appeared to be something he did naturally, without thinking.
I had chosen well.
Chapter 7
MADDALENA
It was early evening, and I’d just left His Holiness’s chambers, where I’d delivered some fresh linens. Ever since I had served the pope and his son the first time, simply because there was no other servant handy at the time, I was often sent to perform tasks for His Holiness himself. I had no idea why, but I took great pride in each task. It almost—almost—made me long to see my mother, that I might tell her of the privilege. Not the task God would send a whore or a dire sinner, is it, Madre?
I was so lost in my prideful thoughts that I did not see the man coming toward me until he was almost upon me. “Oh,” I said, my face burning. I dipped a curtsy, eyes cast down. “Excuse me, signore.”
Yet he did not step past me, but stopped entirely. Fearful at having caused offense to some important personage, I peeped up through my lashes.
At once I recognized the pope’s second son, Juan, the Duke of Gandia. Rather than looking upset, he had a wide smile on his handsome face—handsome, yes, but features more watered down than his brother’s, somehow. I could not help but notice his weak chin.
“You may put yourself in my way any time you like,” he said with a leer. Instantly uneasy, I curtsied again and made to move around him, but he stopped me with a hand on my chin, lifting my face up so he might see it better. “I’ve seen you before,” he said. “You’re a pretty thing. Very pretty. What’s your name?”
“Maddalena,” I said.
“Maddalena,” he repeated, his tongue curling obscenely around my name. “Just like the companion of Our Lord. Tell me, Maddalena, are you as free with your favors as she was?”
My heart began to pound. “No, my lord,” I said softly, but hoping he could hear the steel behind my words.
“No? More’s the pity.” Before I knew what was happening, he had seized my arm and tugged me into a narrow, dark hallway, where he pressed me against the wall, my body trapped beneath his. “But women are so fickle … no doubt you can be convinced…”
He put his mouth over mine, and I froze in shock and horror. He took it for acquiescence, pressing his body flush with mine, and I could feel his arousal prodding against me. I tried to push him away, but he was too strong and kept me firmly in place against the wall. I went still again, hoping not to encourage him further.
He broke away, and I found a moment of relief before he reached down and began to lift my skirts. “No!” I cried out, looking frantically up and down the hall for help. But then I had a horrible thought—even if someone did see, who would have the nerve to gainsay the pope’s son?
“Now, now,” he said, running a hand up my thigh. “You’ll enjoy this, I promise.”
“No!” I cried again, struggling against his grip. “Please, my lord!”
“Yes, say it again,” he said, fumbling with the laces of his codpiece and breeches. “I’d like to hear you beg me.”
Rage tore through me. I survived a horrid mother, an inconsiderate and lustful husband, and came all the way to Rome where I serve the Holy Father himself, only to be raped in a hallway by this … this bastard? I think not.
As Juan’s attention turned to shoving down his breeches, I raised my knee and drove it as hard as I could into his balls.
He let out a scream, one of shock as much as of pain, and I tried to shove past him and run. My heart sank as his hand closed on my wrist with a roar of fury. I’ll do whatever it takes … he will not violate me, I swear it … even if I have to kill him with my bare hands …
“Why, you little…” he growled, shoving me up against the wall again.
“Juan.”
The one cold, terse syllable stopped him in his tracks. He hurriedly hiked up his breeches and stepped back, still breathing hard and doubled over. Weak with terror and dread and anger, I collapsed to my knees, hands pressed over my mouth to muffle a sob of relief. I glanced up to see my savior and found none other than the Archbishop of Valencia.
“Why must you spoil my fun, Cesare?” Juan complained.
“It did not look as though the lady was having fun,” his brother said, genuine fury filling his voice. A scornful smile crossed his lips as he surveyed his brother’s posture. “Nor, perhaps, would you have, by the time she was through with you.”
Juan scoffed. “She is no lady, brother. Just a serving girl.”
“Be that as it may,” the archbishop said, his disgust for his brother evident in his voice, “I hardly think it appropriate for you to rape one of His Holiness’s servants in his very palace.”
The Duke of Gandia rolled his eyes. “Come, come, Cesare,” he said languidly. “Surely you find pleasure in subduing a reluctant woman every now and then?”
An involuntary shudder worked its way through my body. Men like this were the reason women could not walk safely in the streets at night.
“I do not,” the archbishop replied sharply. “Personally I much prefer a woman who will gladly devote herself to pleasing me. But,” he added coldly, “I am not a coward who must prey upon defenseless women to prove I am a man.”
“You dare,” the duke snarled, stepping forward, hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“I say only what I see in front of me,” the archbishop said. He reached out a hand to help me to my feet, and I took it. “Now, you’d best be off and not trouble me further. I am late for a meeting with His Holi
ness as it is.”
“Not before I’ve spoken to him,” the duke protested, and suddenly I had been forgotten.
“He summoned me, and I doubt he’d thank you for keeping him waiting.”
The duke scowled, remaining where he was standing, yet his expression was uncertain.
“Get out, Juan,” the archbishop said, sounding almost bored. “There are plenty of whores in Rome who will be happy to take your coin.”
The duke spat on the marble floor at his brother’s feet, spun on his heel, and walked away.
Once he was out of sight, the archbishop turned his attention to me. “Are you all right?” he asked, his face filled with concern.
“Yes, I … I think so,” I said.
“He didn’t manage to…?”
“No,” I answered. “No, he … he didn’t. I … I injured him somewhat, and…”
He smiled. “Praise be to God. Yes, I gathered the, ah, nature of his injury. Quick thinking. You may not have needed my assistance at all, in the end.” He sighed, his face looking drawn suddenly. “I cannot apologize enough for my brother. He does not conduct himself as a man should, let alone one of his station. His actions are inexcusable.”
“You … you need not apologize, Your Excellency,” I said. “His sin is not yours. And I must thank you for coming to my aid.”
“I could do nothing else.” He studied me, my face growing warm under his scrutiny. As I relaxed somewhat, I was struck anew at how handsome he was. “I have seen you before, serving His Holiness,” he said finally. “What is your name?”
It was nearly the same thing his brother had said, but the words bore not the slightest trace of threat. How strange, that the same words could so differ in their meaning when spoken by two different men. “Maddalena, Your Excellency,” I said, a genuine smile spreading across my face. “Maddalena Moretti.”
The Borgia Confessions Page 4