Cardinal Sforza, at least, was wise enough to recognize when he had been outmaneuvered. He bowed his head and said simply, “Of course, Your Holiness. As you wish.”
Giovanni, however, did not seem to know he was beaten. “This … restriction was not listed in the marriage contract,” he pointed out.
“Indeed it was not,” my father said. He rose from his throne, indicating the audience was at a close. “We did not think it needed to be included, certain as we are that you are a man of his word who does not need such a clause to pay your bride the respect she is owed, by virtue of who she is and who her father is.” He stared levelly down at Giovanni. “We trust we are in agreement, then?”
The implied threat was nevertheless clear. Giovanni had no choice but to bow his head and reply, “Yes, Your Holiness.”
Chapter 12
MADDALENA
“You, girl,” Adriana de Mila called to me, poking her head out of Lucrezia’s dressing room. “Come. We need your help.”
I rose from my usual chair where I was adding some embroidery to one of Lucrezia’s shifts and hurried toward her. “Of course, Madonna Adriana.”
Lucrezia was within, being dressed for her wedding, to take place that very day. I had seen much of her wedding gear over the past week—the gown, its elaborate sleeves, the new silk shoes dyed to match, some new pieces of jewelry. Yet I was unprepared for the true vision that my mistress made. When I stepped into her dressing room, I gasped.
She stood in front of a tall Venetian glass mirror, with Adriana, Giulia, and two maids standing around her. Her gown was of the palest blue and trimmed with gold: gold lace at the bodice and hem, gold embroidery down the front panel, and gold ribbons on the sleeves, which were slashed to reveal a cloth-of-gold chemise beneath. A gold chain set with pearls wound around her head, crossing her brow and disappearing into her elaborate coiffure, where the chain was woven through the strands of her pale hair. A gold necklace set with an enormous diamond encircled her throat, along with gold rings on various fingers, and dangling diamond earrings.
She was breathtaking, and all who set eyes on her would think her an angel. Her eyes moved to me as I entered and, set off by the gown as they were, seemed almost impossibly blue. Their troubled expression widened into one of relief when she saw me. “Oh, Maddalena,” she said. “Thank goodness. Come here, please, quickly.”
I crossed the room to her and bobbed a curtsy. “How may I serve you, Madonna?”
“There is a tear,” she said, her lip trembling as though she were trying not to cry, “in the hem of the dress.” She pointed down, and I saw where the gold lace had likely been stepped on and come away from the hem.
“Honestly, Lucrezia, if you had just stopped fidgeting like I told you to…” Adriana began to complain, but she was silenced by a sharp, irritated gesture from her young charge.
“Yes, I am well aware,” Lucrezia said testily. “But what’s done is done, and it must be fixed.” She turned her beseeching eyes back to me. “You can fix it, can’t you, Maddalena? You are the most gifted seamstress I know, and if you cannot fix it…”
That was all? A bit of lace torn away from the hem? Tension leaked from my body. I smiled with relief, hoping to put her more at ease. “This is easily fixed, Madonna,” I said. “Have no fear. I’ll only need you to stand in place while I mend it.”
Lucrezia’s delicate body sagged with relief. “Thank the Blessed Virgin,” she murmured. “Yes, of course, I shall stand for however long it takes, and be grateful for it. Zia Adriana, please get Maddalena whatever she needs.”
I knelt to examine the lace and the hem. I looked up at Donna Adriana. “I can fetch my needles from my bag in the next room; I have one fine enough for this work,” I said. “But I shall need gold thread.”
“We have some, somewhere,” Lucrezia said. “Zia Adriana, please find it, and fetch Maddalena’s sewing bag as well.”
“No, no, Madonna, I can—”
But Adriana was already off, gone to fetch my bag and to hunt for the gold thread. As a bride, Lucrezia was indeed queen for a day, and it seemed all would do her bidding, even if her bidding was to fetch and carry for a lowly maid like myself. I allowed myself a bit of satisfaction with this turn of events. I was saving the wedding dress and, in a way, the wedding! I would need to confess this sin of pride later, but for now I allowed myself to revel in it.
Within minutes Donna Adriana returned with my sewing bag and a spool of gold thread, and I got to work.
* * *
I was not permitted to attend the wedding ceremony, of course, nor the banquet that followed; but, as everyone I served was in attendance, there was no one to stop me from sneaking into the Vatican Palace to have a look at the revelry. And, I thought rather mischievously, perhaps I would seek out Federico and pass some of the evening in his company. It had been far too long since I had beheld his handsome face.
But oh, what a sight the wedding banquet made! Well worth the scolding I would receive if I were caught, though I knew Lucrezia wouldn’t mind if she saw me there.
The room was a glorious sight: an elaborate glass chandelier overhead blazed with candles, and more candles lit the room from sconces all around the walls and on the tables. Fine velvet and satin hangings, in the Borgia colors and stitched with the crest of the Borgia bull, adorned the marble walls, along with intricate tapestries depicting biblical scenes such as the Wedding at Cana and the Sermon on the Mount. The many tables in the huge hall were covered with cloth of gold, and gold plates and cutlery still remained on some of the tables as the servants worked to clear the remains of the feast—a feast comprised of enough food to have fed my village for a month, by the looks of it.
And the guests! They were nearly more dazzling than the room. Ladies wore gowns of every color, in the finest fabrics, and with jewels to match. The men wore clothes nearly as vibrant, and gold and silver stitching glinted from many a doublet. Even the cardinals in attendance, in their bright red robes and caps, had added lace to their sleeves and wore their largest jeweled crosses for the occasion.
The wealth on display was unbelievable. I had seen evidence of great wealth in the Vatican Palace, certainly, and the treasures in Madonna Lucrezia’s house, yet this was something else altogether. The excess was brilliant to look at, but was not such pride and vanity and waste a sin? Especially while people starved in the streets and villages outside?
Quickly I crossed myself. This was the pope’s palace, and his daughter’s wedding, I reminded myself. Many of these people served God and His Church. If God in his wisdom had seen fit to bestow such wealth upon them, it was not for me to question or judge. Surely it was right for God to reward His holy servants so.
I positioned myself behind one of the wall draperies, to watch as the dancing began. The pope sat at the head table beside Giulia Farnese, both watching approvingly as Lucrezia was led out by her bridegroom. I started a bit at the sight, so discordant a pair did they make: she, blushing and glowing radiantly in her extravagant gown, and he, dour and with a tight smile on his lips. He was not yet thirty—still much older than his teenaged bride—but already his drab brown hair was beginning to thin and he had developed a paunch around his middle, which his fine doublet did nothing to hide. He had a short beard that looked to hide a weak chin, and his small eyes darted nervously around the room, as though he were a rabbit in a room full of foxes and was hoping they had not noticed him yet, that he could still slip away unscathed.
He bowed to her and took her hand, and as the musicians in the corner struck up a lively tune, they began to dance. He was clumsy and awkward on his feet, and several times Lucrezia had to step gracefully out of the way, lest he tread on her toes. Still, her bright smile did not slip for so much as an instant, even as she tried to make conversation with her new husband, and he replied with no more than a word or two. No doubt he needed to direct his full concentration toward the dance, I thought, feeling somewhat irritated on my mistress’s behalf.
> After what seemed a painfully long time, the bride and groom’s dance ended, and other couples rose to take a spot on the floor. The pope rose from his seat at the dais and spoke in his booming voice. “Cesare,” he called, “lead the bride in a dance, won’t you? Let’s have a Spanish dance.”
All heads turned toward where Cesare Borgia rose from his seat. I blinked once, almost disbelievingly; I hadn’t recognized him without his archbishop’s robes. He was dressed as a nobleman, wearing a doublet of midnight blue trimmed with silver and silver hose—beautiful clothes, and finely made, but not nearly as ostentatious as what was worn by many others in the room. He wore only his large archbishop’s ring on his left hand; no other jewelry or adornment. His hair flowed freely in dark curls to his shoulders, without his bishop’s cap to hold it back. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen; handsomer even than Federico.
I may not have recognized Cesare Borgia when I’d first slipped into the room, but once I did, I did not know how I had missed him. Or how to look away. He inclined his head to his father in agreement and walked out onto the floor, where the other dancers waited for him to take his place. He took Lucrezia’s hand and kissed it, and she beamed, a smile that eclipsed any she had thus far given her bridegroom. She was no doubt relieved to be dancing with someone as familiar as her brother. Giovanni Sforza stood awkwardly behind the pair; then, as though only just realizing he had been dismissed, walked stiffly off the dance floor and back to his seat. A slight scowl twisted his features, and I wondered if anyone else noticed, and what they made of it if they did.
“Very good!” the pope called out and clapped his hands. “Begin!”
On his cue, the musicians struck up a lively dance, and Lucrezia and Cesare began to move. The other couples had returned to their seats, as it seemed they were not familiar with this Spanish dance.
And what a striking pair they made. If one did not know they were brother and sister, it would not be easy to guess: him dark and tall, she slight and golden. They were each beautiful in their own way, though, and therefore alike even as they were different.
The dance was a quick, vigorous one, yet it managed to be sensual all the same, with the dancers holding each other’s gaze and pressing together quickly before again moving apart. It was slightly shocking to me that a brother and sister should dance it together, yet the Holy Father was beaming approvingly from his seat on the dais, clapping along with the quick beat.
A glance at the other attendees, however, showed I was not the only one mildly scandalized. A few other guests, some of them cardinals, raised their eyebrows as they watched the Borgia siblings. Others exchanged shocked glances. And Giovanni Sforza wore a scowl that only deepened as the dance went on. Only Juan Borgia, sitting beside Cesare’s empty seat, seemed indifferent, his attention fully focused on his wine goblet. I pressed myself closer to the wall, praying the Blessed Mother would keep his gaze from falling on me, this night or any other.
Once the dance ended, all those in attendance clapped heartily, and the two dancers bowed in acknowledgement. Juan rose to take his turn dancing with the bride, and Cesare escorted a smiling Giulia Farnese to a place among the other couples who had returned to the floor. And the bridegroom, amidst all the splendor put on for his sake, remained sullenly in his seat.
I could not help but pity Lucrezia while watching the sneer of distaste beginning to curl his lip. She was so young and full of life, too much so to be saddled with a husband who could take no pleasure in the things that brought her joy. If anyone would know that, it was I.
And as I watched the dancing continue on into the night, my eyes were drawn back again and again to Cesare Borgia, in his elegant and understated clothing. A true prince, in both looks and dignity, I thought, watching him charm his dance partner of the moment, a lady I did not know. A pity a man more like him could not have been found for young Lucrezia.
Chapter 13
CESARE
The wedding banquet had begun to come to a close, and the bride and groom would be retiring soon. I knew what was not supposed to happen behind the doors of their marital chamber, and I wanted to make certain Giovanni Sforza remembered it as well.
He had been sitting sullenly at his place most of the night, dancing only once more with Lucrezia after their first dance. He had also been drinking heavily, and from the scowl on his face, I highly doubted he’d forgotten his conversation with the Holy Father. Yet on the off chance he was drinking to get his courage up for disregarding the pope’s wishes, I decided it was best that he and I have a chat.
He rose from the table, no doubt intending to go fetch his bride, but I was already at his side. “Brother-in-law,” I said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. I smiled widely. “A word with you, if I might.”
“Very well.” He met my eyes, waiting.
My smile never slipped as I said, “I just wanted to ensure that you remember what was discussed in your audience with His Holiness last week.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “As if I could forget.”
My fingers tightened their grip, digging into his shoulder. “Good,” I said. “Make certain you don’t.”
“Let go of me, Borgia,” he snarled, forgetting all titles and courtesy in his frustrated drunkenness. “I’m not some Borgia dog to be commanded as your family wills it. She is my wife and if I choose to exercise my right as her husband, then I—”
He broke off as I tightened my grip, pressing my thumb into the spot above his collarbone that would cause the most pain. “I think you’ll find that you are to be commanded as we will it,” I said smoothly. “That is what you agreed to when you signed the marriage contract. And as such, you will not lay a finger on my sister. Is that understood?”
“Take your hand off me, bastard.”
Icy rage flared in me, but I tamped it down. “Be careful who you insult, Sforza. You will not touch my sister.”
“And if I do? There is not a court in the land that would find me guilty of anything for fucking my own wife.”
Michelotto stepped from the shadows to stand behind me, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Is there a problem here, my lord?” he asked calmly.
Sforza’s face went white. Michelotto had quickly become known throughout Rome as my bodyguard and hired blade. Just as I had intended when I’d dropped the story of the would-be assailants into the right ears.
“Non lo so, Michelotto.” I looked back at Giovanni, my grip not loosening at all. “Is there, Sforza?”
“No,” he bit out. “No, there isn’t.”
“Good.” I released him, and he stumbled slightly. “I have made myself clear, then?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Yes!” he all but shouted. “You and your father were very clear.”
“Excellent. I do so wish you a good night.” I grinned at him, more a baring of the teeth than anything. “You will no doubt find it a restful one.”
With that, I left the dais, and Michelotto faded back into the shadows. I had a servant bring me another glass of wine, well satisfied with my work that evening.
Chapter 14
MADDALENA
When I slipped back into my tiny chamber after the wedding banquet—shared with my friend Isabella, who mostly served Donna Adriana—I stripped down to my shift and climbed into bed. As I laid my head on the pillow, the crinkling of parchment startled me. I sat up quickly. Frowning, I unfolded the parchment and got up, walking to the small window to try to make out the words by moonlight.
The hand was one I did not recognize, the letters bold and spiky. I glanced at the bottom of the missive and smiled at the name scrawled there: Federico.
In my tiredness I had forgotten my plan to seek him out; but it mattered not. Apparently he had also been thinking of me this night. That had to be a sign of some kind, surely?
Squinting in the dim light, I pressed closer to the window and began to read.
Mia amica Maddalena—
I
trust you will forgive the tardiness of this missive. It was some time ago indeed that I promised to write you. The Duke of Gandia sent me from Rome with several of the grooms to secure some fine horseflesh for him, having heard I’ve an eye for such things, and in the meantime you were given a new position. I did not receive your missive until my return, and I did not know anyone in your household whom I might have persuaded to carry a message for me.
I flinched at the mention of the Duke of Gandia, but my grin returned as I pored over Federico’s words. He must have slipped in, knowing everyone would be busy with Lucrezia’s wedding. No doubt Isabella, at the sight of his handsome face, had directed him to where he might leave his letter.
I have missed your company, even in our brief encounters in the courtyard or the hallways. I flatter myself that you have not forgotten me—though surely such a beauty has all the men of Rome at her feet—and that you think fondly of me from time to time. If this is the case, perhaps I could persuade you to take a stroll with me tomorrow night, in the cool of evening. I will be waiting beside the gates of Santa Maria in Portico at twilight if you are so inclined. If you’ve another suitor who has swept you off your feet since last we spoke, I completely understand and can only envy the lucky man.
Yours,
Federico
I shut my eyes and clutched the paper to my chest.
Lucrezia Borgia had been required to make a marriage that was arranged for her, as I once had. Yet for the first time I pitied her, for it was I who might—just maybe—have a chance at falling in love.
The following evening, I slipped from the palazzo as the sky began to darken. I pulled the pins from my hair, letting it fall loosely over my shoulders. My heartbeat quickened when I saw him leaning against the marble wall. Federico, as handsome as ever. His wide smile matched my own as I placed my hand on his arm, and we set off into the Roman dusk. I did not ask where we were going, for it did not matter; I was content for Federico to lead me anywhere.
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