“A lovely name,” he said, brow furrowed. “Unfortunately, after I’ve succeeded in embarrassing my brother so, I think he may seek you out again.”
Bile rose in my throat.
“It would be best if you could be out of his way,” he mused.
He has rescued me only to tell me I am dismissed, I thought dismally, so that I might not further tempt his brother.
“I have an idea, if you are agreeable,” the archbishop went on, and I grasped at his words hopefully. “I can see to it you are given a place in the household of my sister, Lucrezia, and her chaperone, Adriana de Mila. You would be responsible for serving them, as well as Adriana’s daughter-in-law, Giulia Farnese.”
“Truly, Your Excellency?” I asked. “You could arrange that?”
“Of course, if you wish.”
It had been a very long time since anyone had asked me what I wished. “But what of my duties here?” I would miss waiting on the pope, but if I did not need to fear further advances from Juan Borgia, that would be compensation enough, and more.
Even if I would be serving the pope’s mistress.
He waved a hand casually at this. “There are plenty of servants here, are there not? And someone else can always be hired if need be.”
We are all the same to them, I thought crossly. But I swiftly shoved aside my annoyance. He had done me a good turn and sought to do me another. Gratitude was what was in order here. “In that case, I accept.” I curtsied. “Your Excellency is most kind.”
“It is no trouble,” he said. “I will send the chamberlain at the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico a message letting him know to expect you. Report there tomorrow morning. I will see that your wages are the same as here—with perhaps a little extra for the inconvenience of taking a new position.”
“I … I cannot thank you enough, Your Excellency,” I said.
“As I said, it is nothing. And you will like working for my sister.” A tender smile came over his face, succeeding at making him even more handsome. “She is hardly a harsh taskmistress.”
“I am sure I shall like it very much,” I said, already curious, in spite of the tawdry nature of the situation, for my first glance at the pope’s famous daughter and his even more famous mistress.
“Yes.” He rested his eyes on me once more. “Well. Buona fortuna in your new position, Maddalena.” With that, he turned and continued back up the hallway, headed for the pope’s private chambers.
That night when I returned to my room, I immediately fell to my knees and thanked God for delivering me from the Duke of Gandia, and for sending the Archbishop of Valencia.
Chapter 8
CESARE
When I finally arrived at my father’s rooms, he rose impatiently upon my entrance. “Cesare,” he said sourly. “You are late.”
His words sparked my anger at Juan anew. “Apologies, Holy Father,” I said stiffly. “I had to prevent His Grace the Duke of Gandia from violating one of Your Holiness’s servant girls.”
My father was taken aback straightaway. “May God forgive him,” he sighed, crossing himself. “I will speak to Juan.”
Yet almost immediately, we left the subject of Juan’s outrages against women. “Sit, my son, sit, and have some wine. I have something of great import to discuss with you.”
I sat, but did not drink. I was still too angry with Juan, and my father for so casually brushing his actions aside. “What would that be?”
My father’s next words chased all thoughts of Juan and the poor servant girl—Maddalena, her name was Maddalena—from my mind. “Lucrezia’s marriage,” he said. “I have decided on a suitable bridegroom.”
I sat up straighter. “You have? Who?” I demanded. I had expected to be consulted, to be able to advocate for the man who would be likely to keep Lucrezia in Rome, or at least nearby. Yet I had not so much as heard the name of any man being considered, and here my father was telling me he had already decided.
“Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro,” my father said with satisfaction.
Immediately I sorted through the information I possessed about this man, admittedly not much. He was a cousin of Ludovico and Ascanio, if I was not mistaken—not of the main branch of the Sforza family. And Pesaro was a small city of little import. “Giovanni Sforza?” I repeated, incredulously. “He is married already, is he not?”
“Widowed,” my father said. “The marriage would make Lucrezia Countess of Pesaro, as well as strengthen our ties with the Sforzas of Milan.”
“Holy Father, you cannot be serious.” The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think better of it.
His expression darkened. “I assure you I am,” he said, irritated. “And I wonder that you have the nerve to speak to me in such a tone.”
“I assumed you brought me here so that I might offer my opinion,” I said, trying to sound as calm and reasonable as possible.
His scowl softened slightly. “I did,” he conceded. “Now explain to me what possible objections you can have.”
“Giovanni Sforza is hardly the most wealthy or prestigious match that could be found for the pope’s daughter,” I began. “He brings a connection to the Sforzas of Milan, yet he is but a cousin—and a relatively poor one at that. Pesaro and its title are of little importance to those on the Italian peninsula. And he must be at least twice her age, no?” I could not add my final and perhaps most strenuous objection, one that would carry little weight here: I promised Lucrezia she would never be made to leave us. To leave me.
“Is there a more prestigious Sforza relative for her to wed that you are hiding from me?” my father demanded. “Any connection to them will benefit us, and we owe them a boon after Ascanio’s support of me in conclave. The boon they wish for is to be more closely connected to the Holy Father.”
“The vice-chancellorship is not enough for Ascanio, I see,” I said scornfully. I had never much liked the man; he had a face like a rat, and his ambition knew no bounds. I wondered how far he would take this sense of obligation Pope Alexander felt toward him, and how far the pope would allow it to go.
My father looked at me with a faint glare. “We owe them a boon,” he repeated. “And what is more, Giovanni Sforza is a noted condottiere, as I’m sure you know yet left out of your accounting of him. We can call upon his military strength and his numbers whenever we have need.”
Referring to the man as a “noted” condottiere was rather generous, but I held my tongue. In truth, that Giovanni Sforza could bring military aid to us was perhaps the only advantage of the match, so far as I could see. We would need his troops and more to bring the Romagna firmly under control. “Surely there are even more advantageous matches, from a military perspective,” I argued. “One of the Orsini or Colonna, even…”
“And how to repay the Sforzas, then?” my father asked impatiently.
“Why must it be Lucrezia who marries into their Godforsaken family?” I demanded. “Why not get a Sforza bride for Juan or Jofre?”
“I have other plans for Juan,” he said. He meant bigger plans, better plans. Nothing but the best for his favorite son, no matter how little deserved. “And Jofre is too young for marriage as yet. We need this alliance now.”
Jofre was not that much younger than Lucrezia. “I do not trust the Sforzas,” I said. “Ludovico has all but stolen the ducal crown, and Ascanio—”
“All the more reason to align ourselves with them, and keep them close,” my father interrupted. “And you know as well as I do that we need an alliance with a notable Italian family as soon as possible. The Italian nobles do not trust our Catalan blood.”
He was right, but I still couldn’t bear the thought of Lucrezia marrying into that family, of this being her future. “Do you think Lucrezia could love him?” I asked at last.
My father waved this away. “Young girls fall in and out of love as easily as they change their gowns,” he said. “Political alliances are not made on the basis of love. You should understand this by now, Cesare.”
“But this is Lucrezia,” I protested, finally making the emotional plea. “Your only daughter, my only sister. Do you not want her to be happy?”
His face softened. “Of course I want her to be happy. And I expect doing her duty to her family will make her happy.”
I angrily picked up the goblet of wine and finally took a sip. A long one.
“Lucrezia is a prize as a bride,” my father went on. “Giovanni Sforza will know this and will know how he is being honored with her hand. He will have no reason not to treat her like the princess she is.”
“I shall make certain he does,” I said, through gritted teeth. “For if he does not, I will make him pay.”
My father chuckled. “Ever you are a loyal brother, Cesare,” he said. “I mark it well and appreciate your loyalty. We will have much need of it in the days to come.” He picked up his glass from the table between us. “Then we are decided?”
I took up my own glass, clinked it against his, and drank, though I did not speak. I could not bear to give words to my acquiescence.
Chapter 9
MADDALENA
Reluctant as I had been to give up my service to the pope—which only served to make me more resentful of Juan Borgia—I soon found that a place in his daughter’s household was just as delightful, if not more so. The tasks were light; there were other maids already employed to see to the scrubbing and the laundry, so I was responsible only for such things as bringing trays up from the kitchens, mending, and seeing that Madonna Lucrezia’s room was always in good order and her clothes properly put away, though she had two other maids to help her with dressing, her hair, and bathing. The heaviest task was hauling hot water up from the kitchens when Madonna Lucrezia took her weekly bath, which also involved washing her long, thick, pale golden hair. I’d never seen someone with such an obsessive need for cleanliness, but it was not for me to say what was right for a noblewoman of her standing.
My new position suited me perfectly, and with the extra wages I was able to purchase even finer thread for my embroidery, which I now had more time for. I certainly owed His Excellency the Archbishop of Valencia a debt, though how the likes of me could ever repay someone like him I had no idea. I only knew I was grateful.
My biggest regret was that I missed seeing Federico regularly. A part of me wished I might have had more time to discover how he truly felt about me, and in turn, how I felt about him. Yet I was strangely relieved I would likely not find out his true feelings and have to make a difficult decision.
I sent him a note to tell him of the change in my position—hoping he had not simply enjoyed flirting with me as a passing amusement—but the messenger returned without a reply, saying Federico had not been in his room. As time passed, and I never heard from him, I meant to send another note, but I grew accustomed to my new life and it slipped my mind. Surely if he missed me he would have sought me out, no? Perhaps that in and of itself was answer enough to my questions.
Since I’d come to the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, wisps of rumor about the lady Lucrezia’s marriage had gathered into the certainty of a rain cloud overhead, though I had yet to hear the name of a groom confirmed. I was rather wistful at the thought of losing so fine a mistress, but maybe she’d bring me to her married house. Or, barring that, I could still serve Giulia Farnese and Adriana de Mila, who were not much more trouble.
Giulia Farnese was as beautiful as everyone said, with her heart-shaped face, long gold hair that fell almost to her ankles, and a figure that was by turns slender and fleshy in all the right places. I had been brought up to believe the pope was more divine than man—though living and working in the house of two popes had showed me how human they truly were—and so should be above such earthly temptations, but La Bella Farnese could truly tempt a saint. And very few men were in fact saints.
Initially I had tried to keep my distance from her; after all, how did one properly interact with a woman committing such grave sin? But not only was Giulia beautiful, she was kind to a fault, and never failed to thank the servants or give us a quick smile. It was impossible not to warm to her, whether you were a man or a woman.
One day I brought a requested tray of pastries and cakes from the kitchen into the second floor sitting room, where I found Lucrezia and Giulia giggling with their heads together, and Adriana nowhere in sight. “Oh, come, Giulia, you must tell me,” Lucrezia wheedled.
“I wish I could,” the older girl said, laughing, “but I cannot.”
“Then who will?”
“Surely that is the duty of Madonna Vannozza, your mother.”
“I should far rather have you explain such a thing to me!”
I set down the tray on the table before them, curtsied, and made to withdraw. But Lucrezia glanced up then. “Oh, Maddalena,” she said, waving a hand at me. “We are gossiping of women’s things, so you must tell us. Are you married?”
“Widowed, Madonna,” I said, surprised she should ask. Most women in domestic service were either unmarried or widowed, yet a young lady from a wealthy family would have no reason to know what was usual for the poor and working classes. I had an uncomfortable idea of where this conversation was going.
“Oh!” Her hands flew to her pale cheeks, surprised. “And at such a young age, too! Why, you cannot be older than my brother Cesare!”
“No, Madonna,” I said, for gossip had informed me we were the same age. “It was a brief marriage, as my husband met with a … fatal misfortune.” I did not wish to go into the horrifying details in front of these fine ladies.
“You poor thing! To have had a taste of wedded bliss, only to have it snatched away,” Lucrezia cried. She crossed herself. “May God have mercy on his soul. I shall light a candle for him when next I go to Mass.”
Giulia crossed herself as well.
My heart warmed even further toward the pope’s daughter. Blessed Virgin, keep her happy and innocent as long as you can, I prayed silently. May she never know anything but wedded bliss, hard as it may be for many women to find. “You are very kind, Madonna,” I said, smiling.
“Well,” she began, eyes sparkling anew as she returned to the topic at hand. “Perhaps you can tell me, since our lovely Giulia is so reluctant…” She trailed off, raising her eyebrows at her friend before turning her gaze back to me. “What, precisely, takes place in the marriage bed between husband and wife?”
My face flushed, though I had been expecting this question. “Madonna, I … it … it is not my place to tell you such things,” I stammered. May God and all the saints strike me down if I were to explain such a thing to the pope’s daughter, soon to be married or no!
“Oh, per favore, Maddalena?” she cajoled, reaching out to take my hands. “I am nearly a woman grown, and yet no one will tell me anything!”
How sad, that in our world thirteen years of age should be nearly a woman grown. “It would not be proper, Madonna,” I said, lowering my eyes and carefully withdrawing my hands from her smooth ones. “The task of revealing such information must fall to your lady mother.”
Lucrezia sat back with a huff. “Oh, you are terrible, the two of you!” she said, looking between Giulia and I, but merriment was in her eyes. “Never you mind. I shall find out, soon enough!”
“Indeed you shall, but no sooner than you need to,” Giulia said, soothing her.
Sensing I was no longer needed, I curtsied once more and left the room, still smiling to myself. I wished only the best for Lucrezia Borgia in her marriage—and surely the daughter of the pope had a far happier, more exalted marriage to look forward to than a poor country girl like me had.
* * *
One afternoon, as I was bent over a table in the sitting room, returning the dirtied dishes and linens to the kitchen tray, my handkerchief—the one I’d finished embroidering weeks ago—slipped from my sleeve and fluttered to the floor. I stooped further to pick it up, but Madonna Lucrezia noticed first and scooped it up. “What it this, Maddalena?” she asked, the teasing n
ote I’d already grown to know so well in her voice. “A token from a lover, perhaps?”
I smiled. “No, Madonna. Only my handkerchief, I’m afraid.”
She made to hand it back to me, but her eyes caught on the embroidery. “My, this is exquisite work,” she said, spreading out the cloth so she could examine it more closely. She traced the patterns of flowers along the edge, all emanating from a cross in one of the corners. “Beautiful. Some of the finest work I have seen anywhere. Where did you get it?”
“I made it, Madonna,” I said. “That is, I had the scrap of cloth from an old dress, and I did the embroidery myself.”
She looked up at me, astonished. “You? Indeed?”
“Sì, Madonna. I can make lace as well.”
“Wherever did you learn how to do work so fine?” She passed the handkerchief to Donna Adriana, who was seated beside her. Adriana bent over it, murmuring noises of surprise and approval.
“My grandmother, Madonna. She was educated at a convent school, and one of the sisters there taught her.” My mother’s mother. She had lived with us until her death when I was ten. I missed her dearly, not least because she had not been there to protect me from my mother’s cruelty. It was highly unusual for women of her station—and mine—to learn such fine embroidery, as such was the province of noble ladies, and she’d managed to make a good income for herself—and us—while she lived. She had been lucky to receive such tutelage from a nun who was the daughter of a wealthy family, and who recognized a gift for needlework when she saw one. I was lucky to have inherited her gift.
“You have quite a gift for this work,” Lucrezia said, echoing my thoughts. She gave the handkerchief one last look before taking it from Adriana and passing it back to me. “I wonder,” she said, tapping a fingertip against her lips, “if you could be persuaded to embroider some items for my trousseau.”
The Borgia Confessions Page 5