The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  I went back into the tent to find Michelotto within, contorted with silent laughter.

  * * *

  We had been a few days on the road when a messenger arrived for King Charles.

  The messenger burst into the large tent where Charles and a few of his generals dined. I was present by command more than invitation. Like a jewel in a glass case, it was easier for the French king to enjoy his prestigious hostage when I was directly under his eye. I kept a smile on my face by constantly reminding myself of what was to come.

  The messenger, breathless and mud-spattered, dropped a hasty bow to the king. “Your Royal Highness,” he panted, “I bring urgent news.”

  “Oui, oui, what is it?” Charles barked.

  “Word has come from Naples. King Alfonso has abdicated the throne and fled to Sicily.”

  Gasps and excited murmurs immediately broke out among the gathered Frenchmen.

  “He has fled?” Charles asked, almost giddy, rising from his chair.

  “He has, Highness. He has left the crown to his son Ferrantino, who is even now mounting a defense of the capital city.”

  I grimaced. After everything the pope had done for Alfonso: defending his claim in consistory, risking his tiara, conspiring with Ferrantino and the Orsini and being betrayed by the latter as a result, out-maneuvering Charles and refusing to crown him King of Naples. All to support the Aragonese claim, and this was how Alfonso repaid him.

  Brash, blunt Ferrantino was now King of Naples. He would have made a good one under ordinary circumstances, no doubt. Yet this would likely be the final blow to Naples’s defense: their king had fled, abandoning them, without a care for his people or his family. The morale of her troops and the disarray of her government would be Naples’s undoing.

  Charles rubbed his hands together eagerly, as though ready to reach out and pluck his prize between two fingers—his task would not be much more difficult than that now. “Is there more?” he demanded.

  “They say King Alfonso was—is—rather mad,” the messenger continued. “That he has been driven mad by fear, and that is why he fled.”

  I remained silent as the men around me crowed with pleasure. Alfonso’s father, Ferrante, had no doubt been mad, after a fashion—what other word was there for a man who kept a grisly museum filled with the bodies of his enemies? Perhaps this madness tainted his bloodline.

  “Pull up a chair for this fine man! Bring him some wine and hot food!” Charles called. One of the servants hurried to add a chair to the end of the table. “A toast!” the king went on, raising his goblet. “To fair Naples, who lies on her back with her legs spread, moaning for a strong Frenchman to take her!”

  The gathered men roared their approval.

  Charles drank, and as he moved to sit back down his eye caught on me. “What shall the pope say now, eh?” he taunted. “He shall have no choice but to crown me king, once Ferrantino is dead in battle and my arse is on Alfonso’s throne!”

  I smiled, tight-lipped, as I picked up my goblet. “His Holiness will do what is right, as always,” I said calmly. I raised the goblet slightly in Charles’s direction, taking a long sip and ignoring his scowl.

  * * *

  After another two days of riding, we arrived at the town of Velletri, where Giuliano della Rovere was bishop. He was waiting in the grand bishop’s residence to welcome the French king, a wide smile that did not quite reach his eyes upon his angular face.

  As I stepped into the entryway of the palace, his eyes locked on mine immediately, as a stag will always sense the presence of a wolf. His smile did not dim for an instant as he glided toward me. “Cardinal Borgia,” he said smoothly, leaning in to give me the kiss of peace. “You are most welcome to Velletri.”

  “I thank you for your hospitality, Cardinal della Rovere,” I said.

  “I would not have thought His Holiness could have parted with your sharp mind at such a time,” he said, his grin widening as if he knew exactly how these words would pinch me. “But I am honored to have you as a guest.”

  “I can see why you must have preferred to come here at this time of year,” I said, glancing perfunctorily around the entrance hall. “Rome is a bit chilly for you at present.” I met his eyes with mine.

  His gaze hardened, but his smile did not slip. “Indeed. I have found Rome’s climate rather objectionable for some time now.”

  “I would not expect an improvement any time soon if I were you,” I said.

  “I can see why you might feel so,” he said. He studied my face carefully. “You’ve the look of your mother about you,” he said. “She must be very proud of her eldest son.”

  If della Rovere was expecting me to be thrown by the sudden change in topic, he almost got his wish. It took my every effort to prevent my face from contorting into a bitter expression at his words.

  Politics had not been the only source of the rivalry between him and my father. Many years ago, Giuliano della Rovere had been madly in love with the young Vannozza dei Cattanei, and she had spurned his advances in favor of Rodrigo Borgia. Della Rovere had had a bastard daughter of his own since then with another woman, but as Roman gossip had it, he had never ceased to love Vannozza.

  I met his gaze, my own impassive. “She is indeed,” I said. “I would offer to give her your regards, but I know not when I shall see her next. You see, she was forced to flee after the Frenchmen you invited into Italy sacked her house in Rome and did not know better than to injure a Roman gentlewoman.”

  Shock flitted across della Rovere’s features; he could not hide it. “I … had not heard,” he said, crossing himself. “Terrible. I shall pray for her.”

  “Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself,” I said. “The pope, as well as her son the cardinal, pray for her every day. There is nothing she needs from you.” I walked past him and out of the entry hall, Michelotto following close at my back.

  * * *

  Snake though he was, Giuliano della Rovere was a fine host, seeing to every comfort of his French guests and keeping them well furnished with wine. The food and drink looked to be the finest available, though I very deliberately did not touch my goblet, and pushed the food about on my plate without taking a bite. Della Rovere noticed, and kept glancing toward me, irritation in his eyes. He spoke to me no more than courtesy demanded, and I was perfectly content to have it so.

  After the feasting had ended, a servant showed me to my room: a small, chilly one with damp stone walls and no wall hangings. There were two narrow cots crammed inside, for Michelotto and I.

  “His Eminence apologizes most profusely for the lodgings—he knows it is not what you’re used to but regrets to say there is nothing more suited to your station available at present,” the servant intoned pompously. “What with the French king and his retinue here, the finer rooms are already taken.”

  I laughed mirthlessly. “You may tell Cardinal della Rovere that I understand completely.”

  The servant bowed without further comment and left.

  I sat down on one of the beds right as Michelotto came through the door carrying a worn leather saddlebag, which he handed to me. “A few hours from now will be best, Eminence,” he said.

  I opened the saddlebag, smiling slightly at its contents: plain breeches, a shirt, and a hooded cloak. “Yes,” I agreed. “Everyone should be asleep by then. We’ve cause to thank Giuliano della Rovere’s generosity with his wine cellar this night.”

  * * *

  In the darkest hours of morning, Michelotto and I slipped outside and to the edge of the French camp. I was wearing the simple clothes he had brought for me, and my cardinals’ robes and hat were stowed in the bag in turn. We both wore dark cloaks, pulled up to cover our faces.

  The sentry guarding the horses straightened upon our approach. “Halt,” he said. “What business have you here?”

  “We need only two horses, monsieur, and we shall be on our way,” I said in perfect French, my voice low.

  He snorted. “I am hardly about to giv
e you—”

  He broke off, his eyes widening at the two gold coins in my outstretched hand. He took one, bit it, and quickly snatched the other from my palm. “On your way,” he said, and turned and melted into the darkness.

  It could not have been easier. Michelotto and I each chose and hastily saddled a fine stallion, mounted, and were off, galloping back toward Rome.

  * * *

  Two days’ hard riding later, we reached the papal castle of Spoleto, where my father had instructed I go. I had nearly laughed myself hoarse the entire way, imagining the faces of Charles and his men and Giuliano della Rovere when they found me gone. I laughed still further when I thought of them opening the many trunks I had brought, the ones I insisted contained all the valuable things I could not travel without, no matter the inconvenience, and finding them empty.

  Chapter 33

  MADDALENA

  It was not until some three weeks after the French departed—at the insistence of the Holy Father, who counseled caution—that Giulia and Adriana moved the household back into the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico. It meant a flurry of activity for us maids, packing everything up from our quarters in the Castel Sant’ Angelo—honestly, why had these ladies brought so much with them to essentially be imprisoned?—and seeing it all transported back to the palazzo, where everything needed to be unpacked again and put in its proper place.

  It was clear the soldiers and mercenaries had been through the palazzo, but they would have found little of value: all the valuables kept here had been transferred to the Castel Sant’ Angelo along with the papal treasures. The French had made off with some cheaper tapestries and furniture, as well as a few statues from the garden, but nothing Adriana was troubled to lose. However, soldiers had tramped through the palazzo with muddy boots, had spilled their wine about, and had even urinated in the halls, making for quite a mess that we servants were obliged to clean up.

  We were busy for several days, between cleaning and unpacking and brushing out gowns and seeing to the washing of linens. And the whole time, even as I was hauling linens to the laundry or gossiping with Isabella or putting away jewels, my mind was racing like a horse in the Palio, and I, just like one of the bareback riders of that race, tried desperately to cling on.

  Ever since I had watched Cesare Borgia, Cardinal of Valencia—whom many Romans had taken to referring to by the Italianized version of his title, Valentino—ride away with the French army, my mind had been scampering about ceaselessly. It did not even pause when I slept, for I was once again dreaming of him, dreams no good woman should have. I would wake up in a sweat, certain parts of me throbbing for him. Eventually I would fall back asleep, only to dream of the cramped dark space of the confessional, and of speaking aloud the sins of which I dreamt and that I carried in my heart. I would awake again, in the early light of dawn, relieved that it had been only a dream, knowing I should confess such things but also knowing that I never would. I could not bear it.

  And so my mind continued to churn, both sleeping and waking, one state bringing me my heated desires and fears and another bringing me cool reason and duty. I could not seem to escape either.

  Mixed into all these desperate thoughts was Federico. I had not had a moment free to seek him. Part of me hoped he might come to me instead and take me away from this den of sin I had built for myself.

  But I did not wait in suspense long. A few days after we returned to Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, a messenger came for me, telling me that the Cardinal of Valencia wished to see me.

  Isabella and another maid were in the hall where the messenger gave me my summons, and both gaped at me. “Our paths crossed in the Castel, and he offered to help me find Federico,” I explained. “I assumed he had forgotten.”

  It would not have surprised me if he had. By then word had spread throughout Rome of Cardinal Valentino’s exploits in escaping French captivity, and it was repeated by all with a measure of awe. The pope’s dashing son had outsmarted the murderous, rapacious French! He had become something of a hero since his recent return to the city.

  Isabella recovered her wits first. “You had best go, then,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ll give your excuses if you’re missed. Go! No doubt he has found your man!”

  As I followed the messenger to the Vatican, I tried to tell myself that this was the only reason for my pounding heart: I was finally to learn what had become of Federico. Yet even that had the ring of a lie.

  The messenger led me to a room not far from those occupied by the Holy Father, knocked on the open door, and stepped inside. I followed hesitantly. “Maddalena Moretti, as you requested, Your Eminence,” the man said, bowing.

  Cardinal Borgia rose from behind an ornate wooden desk and walked around it, handing a coin to the messenger. “Eccellente. Grazie.”

  The messenger took the coin, bowed, and left.

  “Maddalena,” he said, turning to face me.

  I swept a curtsy. “Your Eminence,” I murmured, wondering if he could hear my pounding heart.

  “No doubt you have surmised why I’ve called you here,” he said. He motioned to a bench that had been cut into the window across from the door. “Sit, please.”

  I moved across the room to sit, and to my surprise he sat beside me, as though we were equals. The stone bench was large enough that we were not touching, as was proper, with not even the whisper of clothing brushing clothing; yet my body sprung into awareness at his close proximity.

  “I would guess, Your Eminence, it is to do with Federico Lucci, my betrothed,” I said.

  “Indeed.”

  “I am surprised Your Eminence remembered,” I said. “Much has passed since last we saw each other.”

  “Yes, a great deal. But I made a promise, did I not?” I glanced up and found his eyes locked on mine, steady and serious. “I am not a man who goes back on his promises, Maddalena.”

  “I … I did not mean to imply you were,” I said hastily. “It is simply that…”

  He waved my clarification aside. “I have taken no offense,” he said.

  Silence fell, and when I could bear it no longer I asked, “If it please Your Eminence … what have you learned of Federico?”

  “Ah,” he said. “I suppose I am hesitant because, well, I do not have good news, I’m afraid.”

  Cold spread through my limbs, even as my mind rushed to find some way out of the darkness they implied. “Please,” I whispered, through lips that felt numb, “I would know the truth.”

  He sighed and clasped his hands in his lap. “I will get to the point, then,” he said. “I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid Federico Lucci was killed by French soldiers during the invasion.”

  I closed my eyes, as though to keep out his words. “He … he is dead?” I whispered. I could not tell if I meant it as a question or a statement.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Tears seeped out from beneath my closed lids. This cannot be. No. Holy Lord Jesus, Blessed Mother Mary, please, tell me it isn’t true, I prayed.

  Yet hadn’t I known since I had seen those bloodstains in the wine shop? I hadn’t let myself believe, but I had suspected, deep down. I had known, somehow, when he and I had said goodbye, that it was our last. That that kiss would be our last.

  And it was my fault.

  It took me a moment to realize Cardinal Borgia was speaking once more. “I had my best man looking for word of him. It did not take him long to determine what happened. Some French soldiers had set upon a shop owned by a friend of his, I believe—were starting to loot it. He was there with the man that day and tried to fight them off. They cut both men down without a second glance. It was very courageous, I must say. I do not know as it is any comfort, but he died a brave man.”

  “But a foolish one,” I said softly. I finally opened my eyes and was almost taken aback by his expression: full of compassion and sorrow, almost as though my loss was his own.

  “An honorable one,” he corrected gently.

  The blood on t
he wine shop floor … it had been Federico’s blood. I had been there, at the spot where he died. Had the bodies of Federico and his friend been inside still? I let out a choked sob.

  “He was given a Christian burial,” the cardinal offered. “I made certain of it.”

  I nodded. “I … I thank you for that.” I could not hold back my anguish, my guilt, any longer. I buried my face in my hands and began to sob, only embarrassed in some tiny part of my mind to be carrying on so before Cesare Borgia.

  “Ah, Maddalena.” He shifted closer, wrapping his arms around me and drawing me to his chest. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to have given you this news.”

  With my face buried against his shoulder, I let out all my sorrow: for Federico and the death he hadn’t deserved, the one he would not have had if I had not been so selfish and full of lust and pride; for his friend, a man whose name I could not remember but who had been a good man; and for the life I had so foolishly turned my back on and would never have.

  And I cried for the remorse I felt, that would never leave me as long as I lived. I cried for how Federico’s death was my fault, as certain as if I had been the Frenchman who had run him through with a blade.

  Cardinal Borgia drew me closer, so we were pressed tightly together—indeed, I was nearly sitting in his lap. To my horror, a shiver of pleasure went through me, and my crying stopped as I became more aware of my chest meeting his, his cheek resting on the top of my head as he held me, his breath stirring my hair.

  It took me far too long to pull away. But reluctantly I did, pulling one of my handkerchiefs out of my bodice and drying my eyes. “I … I am sorry, Your Eminence,” I said, my voice still thick with tears—and something else I couldn’t, wouldn’t identify. “I have behaved most inappropriately.”

  He took my hand, twining my fingers through his. “Not at all,” he said. “You have had a terrible shock. Anything I can do to comfort you…”