May this be the first of many such nights, I thought.
* * *
My fears that my life and position would change greatly after Lucrezia’s wedding proved futile. The new bride returned to her rooms in Santa Maria in Portico, and though her husband now had rooms in the palazzo as well, I rarely saw him—nor did she see him more often. She often dined with him, I knew, sometimes in the company of her brothers and father; yet other than that, she passed her days much as she had before: gossiping and giggling with Giulia Farnese, enduring lessons in deportment and history with Donna Adriana, and attending Mass or praying in the palazzo’s private chapel.
I often wondered how she found her new husband, and if she had come to love him. I was surprised to realize I had grown protective of her, as though she were the younger sibling I never had. This feeling was far more familiar than a servant should feel toward her mistress. But I could not help it. Something about Lucrezia’s glowing innocence, her guileless charm and kindness, inspired such caring in me.
I wished I could ask if she was happy. That was all I wanted to know. Yet as the days passed, I had my answer: she was much the same as she had always been, full of life and spirit and with joy in her eyes. And why not? She was the favored daughter of the pope and had made a fine marriage, after all, one that would benefit her family and his. Surely she had little to be unhappy about.
* * *
It was not until a few weeks after the wedding that I came to see the ways in which I had misunderstood Lucrezia’s situation.
I was in the corner of the sitting room, working on some mending Donna Adriana had dumped at my feet: a gown, some chemises. Nothing arduous. As such, my attention wandered as I stitched, almost hoping one of the ladies would summon me to perform some task—the reason I did my work in the sitting room and not in the servants’ quarters.
My afternoon was certainly about to be livened up. As I worked, Lucrezia stormed into the room, Giulia on her heels. “Hunting! Again!” she cried. “I have hardly seen my husband since we were married! What sort of husband is he? And what sort of wife am I?”
Giulia sought to soothe her. “You have seen your husband much more since your marriage than I have seen mine,” she said, attempting a joke. The state of affairs between her and her cuckolded husband—who still languished at one of the Orsini country estates—was by then well-known to all of Rome.
Lucrezia, who would normally have giggled at such a scandalous joke, merely gave Giulia an exasperated look. She was not in the mood.
I kept my head lowered over the mending and my ears open.
“He is only getting settled,” Giulia said, trying again. “Imagine how different Rome must feel to him, after such a little place like Pesaro. He is overwhelmed, no doubt, and getting his bearings. Hunting is obviously something he enjoys, and so…”
“Is he such a country duck, then?” Lucrezia demanded. “Why would my father marry me to a man so … so provincial?”
“I am not privy to all of His Holiness’s decisions.”
“Psh!” Lucrezia scoffed. “You know his mind better than anyone, methinks. You and my brother Cesare.”
I could not help raising my head at the mention of the Archbishop of Valencia, but I looked down quickly, lest they notice my interest.
“His Holiness thought this an advantageous match for many reasons,” Giulia said, sounding uncomfortable. Clearly she did indeed know more about it than she was telling Lucrezia. “You know that.”
Lucrezia sighed loudly, and dramatically flopped down onto their usual couch in a most undignified way. “I just don’t know why Giovanni does not wish to spend time with me,” she wailed. “He is not what I pictured, I’ll admit, but I want to be a good wife to him. Yet he won’t let me!”
“Marriage is not easy,” Giulia said, sitting beside the younger girl. “And each marriage is different.”
“Oh, what would you know!” Lucrezia burst out petulantly, rising from her seat and pacing the room. “But since you claim to be so wise, tell me this: why has my husband not come to my bed yet?”
My head shot up at this. Luckily, neither woman noticed.
“He still has not?” Giulia asked neutrally.
“No!” Lucrezia cried, anguished. “I know what to expect, what he will do—my mother told me, since you weren’t any help.” She shot a look in my direction at this, too. “And my husband has never so much as entered my bedchamber. He kisses me on the forehead each night as we retire—rather stiffly, too, as though I were his sister and not his wife. Then he goes off to his chambers, or God knows where.” She flopped back on the couch in a huff. “What is wrong with me, Giulia? What can be so wrong with me that my own husband does not wish to lie with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you, cara,” Giulia assured her, wrapping her long arms around the younger girl’s shoulders. “Why, you are one of the loveliest women in Rome.”
“Then why? Why won’t he lie with me?”
“That I cannot say,” Giulia said, a look of calculation in her eyes. She knew something. But what? I found myself leaning forward in expectation. “But do not despair, Lucrezia. Perhaps this is a good thing. If he does not come to your bed, you shall be spared the dangers of childbirth for some time yet.”
“I suppose. But it is my duty to give my lord and husband an heir.”
“Indeed it is. But you are so young yet, cara. Your father needed to make this marriage, yes, but it is not such a bad thing to retain your innocence for a bit longer,” she said, with a trace of wistfulness in her voice. Perhaps she spoke from her heart more than Lucrezia realized.
“I do not want to be a child anymore,” Lucrezia protested.
“I understand. Believe me, I do. But sex does not necessarily make one a woman, either, no matter what many would have you believe. And sometimes it is more trouble than it is worth, for women especially.”
Lucrezia glanced sideways at her. “You seem to enjoy it well enough,” she pointed out.
Giulia giggled. “I surely do,” she admitted. “It can be most pleasurable, especially with a man who knows how to treat a woman in bed.” She blushed, as though remembering she was speaking to her lover’s daughter. “But it is not all that is important in a relationship between a man and a woman, Lucrezia. Get to know your husband, talk to him, spend time with him. Perhaps he is merely being considerate of your young age. When the time is right, he will come to your bed. And if you are lucky, by then you will love him.”
“I want to love him,” Lucrezia whispered. “But I do not know if he wants to love me.”
Giulia gave her a quick hug. “Of course he does. Who would not love you?”
With Lucrezia reassured, their talk turned to other things. Yet my mind continued to turn over what I had heard.
I had never heard of a marriage not being consummated immediately—unless the man was unable to perform, of course. Could that be the case? But, no—he was a widower, and I’d heard his first wife had died in childbed, though perhaps I was mistaken on that count.
I did not know well the ways of the wealthy—maybe this was more customary than I knew. Yet if that were so, why was Lucrezia so upset?
The more I thought about it, the less sense it made. It was possible Sforza was simply being considerate of her age—she was rather younger than most brides. Yet it would seem to me that a marriage to cement a political alliance would need to be consummated as quickly as possible. A marriage that was never consummated was not valid.
I bit back a gasp. Yes, by the laws of God and man, Lucrezia’s marriage was not truly valid. Why had the pope not directed her husband to come to her bed posthaste?
My fingers stopped on my needlework as my mind whirled, going further than it should have dared. Yes, in an important alliance the pope would have made certain everything was legal and irrevocable. He was no fool, far from it. Could it be … was it possible…?
I crossed myself quickly and returned to my work. I did not want to think tha
t the Holy Father might be sabotaging his daughter’s marriage for some hidden political purpose. He would not do that—after all, the very God with whose voice he spoke prescribed the roles of husband and wife.
He wouldn’t do that. Would he?
* * *
That evening, released for my duties for supper, I met Federico by the servants’ entrance, as we always did on nights when we had arranged to see each other. He grinned widely when he saw me, and my heart fluttered at the sight of his handsome face. Smiling, I took his arm, as I always did, like we were a grand lord and lady out for a stroll without a care in the world.
We headed in the direction of the market, to get some fresh bread and cheese for dinner, and no doubt some wine. For someone who claimed he had no interest in winemaking, Federico certainly could wax poetic about the types of grapes and what sort of soil they had been grown in. I enjoyed listening to him, for I always learned something.
“What gossip from the domain of the lady Lucrezia?” Federico asked, when we were far enough from the palazzo.
I smiled tightly. I often shared small tidbits of gossip with Federico—a temper tantrum Donna Adriana had thrown over a poorly prepared meal; an extravagant gift Giulia Farnese had received from a favor seeker; Lucrezia insisting upon bathing twice in one week. He was always amused, and I liked that I could make him laugh in the telling of such simple, silly stories.
Yet what I had heard that day felt very different. This was no small, passing amusement. Whether I was right in my suspicions about Lucrezia’s marriage or not, it was not something of which to speak lightly. She would be mortified to know something that caused her such hurt and embarrassment was the talk of her servants. I owed the lady Lucrezia a great deal, and my loyalty was an easy enough place to start.
I looked up and smiled at Federico. “La Bella Farnese misplaced her favorite headpiece when she was summoned to dinner with the Holy Father,” I reported instead. It was true; it had happened the night before. “She was in a right state.”
Federico laughed. “Surely Giulia La Bella has more headpieces to choose from than she could possibly count.”
I giggled. “She surely does. But this one frames and flatters her face like no other, or so she claims. I think she looks equally as beautiful with anything or nothing on.”
Federico’s eyes gleamed. “I’m sure Pope Alexander agrees.”
My face flushed—honestly, how could I still be so squeamish, working for these women as I did? “Indeed. Nevertheless, she had nearly all the maids in the palazzo searching high and low for it until it was found. She kept the Holy Father waiting at dinner! Imagine!”
He chuckled. “Beauty’s privilege. One you could exercise as flagrantly, if you so chose.”
I blushed again. “Surely you do not put me in the same class as La Bella Farnese, when you speak of beauty.”
Federico stopped walking and took my face in his hands. “You are a class all your own, Maddalena Moretti,” he said, in a voice very different from the one he usually used. “You could stand right beside Giulia Farnese and I would have eyes only for you.”
My heart began to pound wildly, both at his touch and at the affection in his eyes. Never before had a man looked at me like that, as though I were truly the only woman in the world he had eyes for. As though his pretty words matched what was in his heart.
I thought he might kiss me then, and I leaned forward, lips parted ever so slightly, but he dropped his hands and drew away.
“So,” he said, after a moment had passed. “Where was La Farnese’s glorious headpiece finally found?”
I smiled, somehow both relieved and saddened by the return to our usual banter. “Why, in the chest where it was supposed to be all along, of course. She’d simply put it in the wrong spot within it.”
Federico laughed outright at this, and his reaction made me giggle in turn as we reached the market. Such a silly story, in truth. Yet everything, I was finding, was more enjoyable with him beside me.
* * *
That night, back in my tiny room at Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, I had a dream.
I had never had a dream like it before. Perhaps I had never had reason to. I had never truly known the sin of lust before.
I was back in the marital chamber I had once shared with Ernesto, but it was not my husband in bed with me—it was Federico. I was in his arms, and he was kissing me, passionately, his tongue tangling with mine, and I responded in kind, wantonly pressing myself against him. At some point I realized that we were both unclothed, though I could not remember either of us removing our clothing. It simply was, in the strange way of dreams.
He had shifted his body atop mine, moving himself between my legs. Some small corner of my mind—a part nearer wakefulness than the rest—protested, telling me something was wrong, that this couldn’t, shouldn’t, be happening. But the rest of my mind pushed this aside and clung to him eagerly.
“Maddalena,” he whispered, the word a statement and a question, a request for permission.
“Yes,” I gasped, shamelessly opening my legs for him. “Yes.”
And as he entered me, I threw my head back with a cry of pleasure, such as I had never uttered before, and opened my eyes to see it was no longer Federico with me, inside of me.
It was Cesare Borgia, the Archbishop of Valencia.
“Maddalena,” he said softly with another thrust, his voice penetrating to my very core as his brown eyes met mine.
I let out another cry—of pleasure or surprise, I could not be sure—and I awoke, sweating and panting, in my narrow bed in Santa Maria in Portico.
I sat up quickly—too quickly—and was struck with a wave of dizziness, my head spinning so that I nearly toppled to the floor. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath.
The shift I slept in was soaked, clinging to my skin, and my heart was pounding as though I had been engaging in some physical exertion—as though, I thought, flushing anew, the dream had been real. Even as my heart pounded in my chest, so too was there a throbbing between my legs. The dream might not have been real, but the desire—and therefore the sin—very much was.
I rose from my pallet and blindly opened my trunk to pull out my cloak. I needed fresh air and did not want to risk waking Isabella by fiddling around in the dark for clothes. Instead I simply threw my cloak on and stole into the hallway, and out one of the servants’ entrances into the cool night air. From there, I wandered into the maze of hedges and flowers that was the palazzo’s garden.
It mortified me to remember the particulars of the dream, but I could not stop thinking about it. Bad enough I should dream something so shameful about one man; about Federico, someone I counted as a friend. But to dream about a second man, an archbishop, a man of God no less … I crossed myself, whispering the Pater Noster under my breath as I walked.
Yet the feeling of the heat of skin against skin, of being touched in love, in passion, stayed with me. I was no virgin, but that was something I had never known. The throbbing between my legs had lessened only somewhat; it was an ache waiting to be soothed.
But which man was I imagining touching me? Which did I desire?
One was above desire. To even think it was a grave sin.
I turned and went back into the palazzo, moving swiftly but silently into the chapel. A single candle burned on the altar at this hour, but I did not need more. I knelt on the hard stone and began to pray for forgiveness and that I might be washed clean of such desires.
I remembered something that Uncle Cristiano had once told me. There are seven deadly sins, Maddalena, but lust is the deadliest, he’d explained as I was on the brink of womanhood. All other sins flow from it: lust for power, for money, for recognition, and yes, for another person. For pleasures of the flesh. I’d blushed furiously at this, uncomfortable to be discussing such a thing when I barely knew what pleasures of the flesh involved. Nevertheless, despite my squirming and my crimson countenance he had forged on. If you can avoid one sin only, let it
be this one. Being free of lust will save you much pain, much heartache, and many a stain on your soul. Remember this.
I prayed until the sky outside began to lighten, and when I rose from my knees and left the chapel to dress and ready for the day, I was more at peace. I would go to confession later that day and be absolved, doing my penance gladly.
And if, somehow, that ache still remained—for love, tenderness, passion—the answer was not far to seek. Federico enjoyed my company, that much was plain. Perhaps, as I had once fancied, he would soon find himself in want of a wife. I could say yes and have those things I ached for within the sanctity of marriage, where they were blessed by God.
I could have what I wanted, what no doubt God wanted for me, and I could forget I had ever looked with desire upon the Archbishop of Valencia.
I would be washed clean.
Chapter 15
CESARE
My father was in a fine mood. That he had something he was eager to share was obvious. He beamed at all of us from the head of the table: myself, Juan, Giulia Farnese, Lucrezia, and Giovanni Sforza. Even the latter was not exempt from Father’s good cheer. Sforza never looked truly relaxed in our company, but tonight was the closest I had ever seen him. I’m sure we had the wine, some of the finest vintages from His Holiness’s cellars, to thank for that.
“I’m delighted to have you all here tonight,” Father said after the main course had been cleared away. He spoke in Italian rather than Catalan, in deference to Giulia and Giovanni. “I have been in negotiations with Their Most Catholic Majesties, Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand of our native Spain,” he said. Instantly my mind flew back over the past few weeks, trying to remember any conversation I’d had with the pope about Spain, and what we may need or want from them or vice versa. The last in-depth conversation concerning Spain we had had was shortly after he was elected, when Isabella and Ferdinand had issued their edict expelling all Jews from their kingdom. They had wanted the Holy Father to forbid the Jewish refugees entry into Rome, but Alexander had refused. Whether this arose from any ideal of mercy, or more so from his desire to welcome the wealth those formerly prominent Spanish Jews brought with them into Rome’s economy, I could only guess. Perhaps it was both.
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