My head snapped up. “I … truly, Madonna?”
“Yes, indeed. Some small items, methinks; handkerchiefs and other linens, perhaps a few petticoats. Oh!” She clapped her hands as another idea occurred to her. “And I have an old gown that must be made over, since I have grown—some new panels added. Perhaps you could do some embroidery on that as well? And add some lace?” She turned to her guardian. “Do you not think?”
“It is certainly fine work,” Donna Adriana said. “You are old enough now to choose your own embroiderers and seamstresses, if you like their work.”
“Please do say yes, Maddalena!” Lucrezia said, clasping her hands together and looking the very picture of an earnest child begging for sweets.
“It would be my honor, Madonna Lucrezia,” I said, trying to bite back a wide grin at the thought of doing such work—if it could even be called work, as it was something I loved doing so!
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I shall see a little bit is added to your wages.”
“You honor me, Madonna,” I said, curtsying. I had sold some pieces back in the village—the only reason Mother had tolerated my “fool stitchery”—but there were few there with the money or appreciation for fine work. To be paid to take on these tasks for a noble lady like Lucrezia was more than I had ever dared dream of.
And perhaps … perhaps the experience, as well as the extra money, might help me someday achieve the thing I desired most: to support myself as a seamstress. It would not be easy, not when men controlled the guilds and such independent craftswomen were usually widows carrying on their husbands’ business, but maybe if I could win the confidence of the pope’s own daughter … maybe …
“No doubt we have maids enough to take care of these other tasks while you are working on the lady Lucrezia’s things,” Donna Adriana broke into my reverie, gesturing toward the tray I was still in the process of clearing.
“I am happy to serve in any way I can,” I said quickly.
With that, I gathered the rest of the dishes and whisked them away, at last letting my smile have free rein. Oh, what fortune was mine in this house!
Chapter 10
CESARE
Rome, February 1493
By January, all of Rome knew Lucrezia was due to marry Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, and by early February the betrothal was signed, sealed, and had been executed by proxy. All that was left was for the groom to come to Rome for a wedding as lavish as the pope could muster—which would no doubt make it the most lavish the Eternal City had ever seen.
“We must call to mind the splendor and pomp of ancient Rome,” Pope Alexander declared at the start of the wedding planning. It had been a small meeting, that first one: just myself, Johannes Burchard, the master of ceremonies, and Vice-Chancellor Ascanio Sforza, who beamed throughout (and throughout all the arrangements that followed) as though he were a proud papa. As well he might, I thought darkly, for he has managed to marry off his obscure cousin to the daughter of the pope. “Romans love a spectacle; they always have. We must give them one. And we must show that the Borgias are an empire unto themselves. It shall reflect our glory.”
Burchard—a pompous, pious little German whom I couldn’t help but like for his constant dry manner—paused, his quill ceasing scratching, and intoned, “You mean it shall reflect the glory of God’s kingdom on earth, Your Holiness, surely?”
My father waved his hand at Burchard good-naturedly. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “And Lucrezia’s gown, of course, is of the utmost import … it must be a setting suitable for the crowning jewel that she is…”
Cardinal Sforza chortled. “You are asking the wrong group of people for advice on gowns, Your Holiness.”
“Yes, perhaps Madonna Giulia Farnese would be of more assistance in this area,” Burchard said coolly.
“An excellent idea, Burchard,” I said, ignoring his barb. “There is no one in Rome more fashionable than La Bella Farnese. I am sure she can advise.”
Sforza rolled his eyes at me, but I stared stonily back.
“Yes, yes, indeed,” my father said distractedly. “Perhaps I get ahead of myself there. What I really wished to speak to you gentleman about was the guest list…”
And so it began, and went on for months. One would have thought we were planning large-scale conquest rather than a wedding.
And a wedding to so undeserving a groom. It still pricked at me, like a thorn caught in the folds of my archbishop’s robes.
To make matters worse, tension was growing between Milan and Naples. The French were again making noise about enforcing their ancestral claim to the Kingdom of Naples, which was hotly disputed by—along with the Neapolitans themselves—King Ferdinand of Aragon, whose relatives reigned in Naples and who was furthermore a friend of my father’s. Indeed, as a cardinal, my father had helped broker the near-impossible match between Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile, uniting their two kingdoms on the Iberian Peninsula.
Ludovico Sforza, still insecure in the ducal crown he’d all but stolen from his nephew, was in a difficult spot politically: Venice nibbled at the edges of Milanese territory every chance they got, always waiting for their opportunity to take even bigger bites and add to their Adriatic empire; Naples was increasingly hostile given that King Ferrante’s granddaughter, Isabella, was married to the rightful duke; both Florence and the powerful Roman clan of the Orsini were friendly with Naples; and could Ludovico Sforza, even with a cousin marrying the pope’s daughter, be sure of the support of a Spanish pope against that nation’s interests? As such, he had been braying about how he would support the French if they chose to press their claim to Naples, no doubt wanting whatever scraps of protection he could get from a major European power. There were fears that the promise of free passage through the duchy of Milan would be enough to tempt the French king to come to Italy with his armies, though how likely that would be was difficult to say. But the question in my mind was: should war come, should the French come, did Pope Alexander really wish to find himself more closely allied with Milan, and against his natural allies in the Spanish king and queen?
I broached this subject with my father privately one night after the betrothal ceremony had already taken place. I was not altogether surprised that his outlook was more optimistic than mine. “Milan is a long way from Naples,” he reminded me. “Free passage through one duchy is not likely to offset the expense of such a campaign, especially when the French king does not yet know what resistance he would encounter from the rest of the Italian peninsula, particularly Venice.”
“But if King Charles does come?” I pressed.
“Cesare, do you think I have not thought of this?” he said. “If Ludovico Sforza invites the French into Italy, none of the rest of Italy will stand with him. It is a political position that would hardly be worth it for him. And Giovanni Sforza is bound by the marriage contract to provide his army when and where I call for it. His first loyalty will be to us.”
I remained silent.
“In any case,” he went on, “the betrothal has been set. They are as good as married now.”
* * *
In late May, I went to see Lucrezia as I did every week, if not more. With the wedding drawing nearer I had the sense she must be getting nervous. Could she possibly be excited? Perhaps young girls looked on their marriage with some combination of the two emotions.
I was shown into her sitting room, where she was chatting with Giulia Farnese. “Cesare!” Lucrezia cried excitedly as I entered, getting to her feet. Giulia rose and swept me a curtsy. “Your Excellency,” she murmured. “I shall leave you two to speak in private.” She swept out of the room, and a maid who’d been sitting off to one side, head bent over her embroidery, rose to leave as well. It was a moment before I recognized her—Maddalena. I smiled at her, and a pretty blush crept up her cheeks. She curtsied in my direction and left, taking her embroidery with her.
“Is Maddalena serving you well?” I asked my sister, switching to our native Cat
alan.
“Oh, yes!” Lucrezia enthused. “Thank you for sending her to me, germà. I discovered she is a most gifted seamstress and can do wonders with embroidery and lace. She is working on some items for my trousseau.”
“Ah,” I said. “I am glad. And tell me, how are you feeling with the wedding so soon approaching?”
Her face took on a contemplative look. “I am a bit nervous, of course,” she said. “I hope I will like my bridegroom, and that I shall be pleasing to him as well.”
“How could you be anything but pleasing?” I asked with a smile.
“I can only hope he thinks so!” she said. “I hope he is kind, and handsome, and that we shall come to love each other. Surely we shall, we must, for why else would God be bringing us together?”
“Indeed,” I said softly. My sister was wiser in the ways of the world than many other girls her age, but in some ways, she was still so innocent. If she believed all marriages were blissful gifts from God, I did not have it in my heart to disillusion her.
“But I … I am sure I shall be happy,” she said resolutely, but I could hear her uncertainty plain as day. “I am doing my part to help our family secure our place in the world and am honored to do so.”
This was so close an echo of the words our father had spoken when he’d told me about the Sforza match that I had no doubt he had repeated them to my sister. Yet she seemed to believe them, or was trying to.
How I wished I could have changed all this for her and found her a handsome prince out of some old heroic story to win her love, rather than this cold arrangement of contracts and armies and alliances and favors owed.
But my promise was not broken yet. Perhaps the groom could be persuaded to keep his bride in Rome. For no matter what Lucrezia—or our father—said, it was Giovanni Sforza who was advancing in the world with this match, not the Borgia family.
“I certainly pray you shall be happy,” I said aloud. I took one of her hands and brought it to my lips. “I pray for it every day.”
She threw her arms around me. “I know you do, dearest Cesare. You are the most beloved to me, I think, of any person in the world.”
“And you to me,” I said, holding her tightly.
Our talk soon turned to other things: how Mother was upset (but not surprised, protocol being what it was) to have not been invited to Lucrezia’s wedding, and the astonishing number of callers Giulia had been receiving, ones bringing her gifts and bribes in the hopes that she might advocate for them to the pope as they lay in bed together. “It is quite ridiculous, for it is not as if she needs any more costly cloth or jewelry or fine wines,” Lucrezia said. “Papa gives her all that she could possibly want.”
“Ah, but that is how the game is played, Crezia,” I said.
* * *
As I was leaving later that afternoon, I passed the maid, Maddalena, in the hallway. “Wait,” I said, and she stopped, startled. “Maddalena.”
“Your Excellency,” she said, dipping down in a curtsy.
“I will not keep you,” I said. “I only wished to know how you are finding your new position.”
Her eyes sparkled as they met mine, and I noticed anew what an extraordinary amber color they were. “I like it very much, Your Excellency,” she said, genuine contentment in her voice. “I am doing some embroidery for the lady Lucrezia, which is my favorite art to practice. I cannot thank you enough.”
“You need not mention it. And you are safer here, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes darkening slightly at the allusion to our first meeting.
“Eccellente. I am pleased to hear it. My sister was speaking to me of your fine work, and since you have made her happy, it is I who owe you thanks.”
She smiled once more, and I was surprised to realize I had been trying to bring forth that exact expression again. “You are a fine man, Your Excellency. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
I was taken aback by her words. “I thank you,” I said. “I shall endeavor to be worthy of such praise.”
And as I took my leave, I found I truly did want to be worthy.
Chapter 11
CESARE
Rome, June 1493
The week before the wedding, Father summoned Giovanni Sforza to a private audience.
A private audience with the Holy Father was never truly so, of course, for those who were not family. I was present, as was Burchard, Ascanio Sforza, and my father’s chamberlain. Michelotto waited outside, within shouting distance if there was trouble. I did not expect any, but Michelotto was always expecting trouble on my behalf. It was what made him so eminently well suited for his job.
Giovanni Sforza entered the throne room, flanked by an attendant, and bowed. Standing to my father’s right, I wondered at the formal setting. Private audiences were occasionally held in the throne room, but oftentimes in the Holy Father’s own rooms. Surely a meeting with his soon-to-be son-in-law was more suited for a smaller, private chamber?
It would seem, whatever it was Father wanted to discuss with Sforza, he wanted to remind the Lord of Pesaro who truly wielded the power here. I was a bit miffed I did not know why Father had summoned Sforza. But I was present in the room, standing at his right hand, and I would be informed in due course.
“Signor Sforza,” my father said as Giovanni approached, kneeling and kissing the papal ring and slipper. “Rise. I trust your esteemed cousin in Milan is not planning on causing us any trouble, sì?”
Giovanni rose stiffly. “I cannot speak for my cousin Ludovico, nor his actions,” he said, and it was all I could do not to laugh aloud at such a clumsy answer. “But I—”
“My brother Ludovico wants only to be in the good graces of Your Holiness, and to enjoy as close a relationship with the Holy See as possible,” Ascanio cut in smoothly. “There is nothing as dear to his heart, being a man of true piety as he is.”
I could not resist a soft snort. I failed to see how a man of true piety would keep his nephew, the true duke of Milan, all but a prisoner while usurping the powers that belonged, by rights, only to the duke. I caught the glare Ascanio sent my way, but I ignored him. At the side of the room, Burchard’s eyebrows were raised, but he merely continued to studiously take notes.
“Of course,” my father replied, no hint of irony in his voice. He focused his attention on Giovanni. “And I trust you are still finding your accommodations quite comfortable?”
“Very much so,” Giovanni said. “Your Holiness is most generous.”
“Indeed,” my father said. “Your rooms in Santa Maria in Portico are being prepared as we speak, so you might live with your wife after the wedding.”
“I thank Your Holiness.”
“Not at all. A man must be near to his wife, of course. And you will be free to take her back to Pesaro with you as soon as travel arrangements can be made. However, we are very fond of our daughter and would not encourage you to make haste.”
“I am eager to show her my home, Holiness,” Giovanni said. I was astonished to hear a note of petulance in his voice, that he would dare show even a trace of ungratefulness before the Holy Father. “And the people of Pesaro are eager to meet their new countess.”
“Indeed,” my father said, his voice cooling. “Yet surely there is no rush. You’ve a lifetime of wedded bliss to introduce your wife to Pesaro. As she is still so young, we would not wish to see her unduly homesick. Some time for her to adjust to married life in the comforts of her own home is warranted.”
I marked the look of frustration Giovanni sent to his cousin the cardinal. He opened his mouth to protest, but Ascanio shot him a quelling look. “Of course, Your Holiness,” he said tightly. “As you say.”
“We are glad we’re in accord. Which brings us to the other matter we wished to raise.” Father paused, steepling his fingers and peering at Giovanni over them. “As you are well aware, Lucrezia is of a tender age. In the interest of cementing the alliance between our two families in such … uncertain times, the marriage will
be proceeding anyway. However, we have one additional condition. It is regarding the consummation of the marriage.” He paused again.
The pope remained silent for so long that Giovanni was prompted to speak. “Yes, Your Holiness?” he asked. “What of it?”
“It is our desire that the marriage not be consummated immediately.”
I saw my own surprise reflected on Giovanni’s face, though I was certain I hid it better than he did. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Father continued. “As we said, she is of a young age still, and out of respect for such an innocent state we think the consummation could be left off for some time. Say, until November of this year, at which time we can revisit the issue.”
I could not resist a slight smile of satisfaction. Not only was I pleased my little sister would not need to bed this man just yet, but I could not help but feel perhaps my father had come around to my way of thinking on this marriage. For if the marriage had never been consummated, it could be put aside without any difficulty at all, if political circumstances should warrant such.
Both Sforzas, Giovanni and his cousin the cardinal, had obviously come to the same conclusion. “This is most irregular,” Giovanni sputtered.
“But important, and hopefully understandable given the circumstances,” my father replied good-naturedly.
“Holiness, surely this is not necessary,” Ascanio interjected. “Your daughter is a fine and obedient young woman, and pious, too, from what I hear. Surely she will understand her duty to her husband as ordained by God, and wish to perform that duty.”
“And so she does,” Father said, his good humor not slipping for an instant. “I ask only that you indulge a doting, loving father.”
It was a masterstroke, and they both knew it. The marriage was going ahead and would be legally binding; the alliance between Borgia and Sforza would be complete. Yet it gave the pope a way out should he need it, and these men could hardly argue with a tenderhearted father—especially not one who was also the pope and to whom they both owed obedience.
The Borgia Confessions Page 6