The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Your Eminence,” she said, her voice low and with a faint accent of the south; the sound nearly caused my knees to buckle. “I am honored to meet you, and to be welcomed into the family of the Holy Father.” She cocked her head slightly and smiled, and the heat of the sun dimmed in comparison. “I am told I owe you a great deal of thanks, for your diplomatic efforts in defending my homeland.”

  I bowed slightly. “A land from which such beauty hails is worthy of all the defense Holy Mother Church can muster.”

  Her smile widened at this, and she held my gaze. My blood scorched my veins.

  “Brother,” came a voice to my right, and I quickly pulled my gaze away from Sancia. Yes, of course. My younger brother, who was married to the woman who stood before me.

  “Jofre!” I exclaimed, a bit too loudly. I moved away from Sancia—reluctantly, gratefully, and gave him a brotherly embrace. “You have grown into a fine young man.”

  He smiled, the awkwardness of a boy lingering in his face. “Indeed. I have learned much these past years—my wife, especially, is wise in the ways of the world, and I strive to be worthy of her.”

  His voice cracked on the last word, and my heart clenched. The look he turned on Sancia was one of pure adoration—and why would it not be? Surely he felt himself the luckiest man in Christendom, to have been given such a wife. I was not entirely sure that he was not the luckiest man in Christendom.

  Sancia gave him a fond smile in return, but I marked the difference in the way she regarded him. It was a look one would bestow upon a brother, not a husband. Certainly not a lover. She was a few years older than him and had had a much different life. Surviving and certainly thriving in Ferrante’s cruel court was not something that happened by accident. Jofre aroused affection in her, but not much else.

  Desire roared through me, shouting in my ear of all the ways I could show her what a real man could do for her. As potent—but much quieter—was my shame at the thought of cuckolding my own brother.

  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. In that moment I prayed silently for such deliverance, the most sincere prayer I had said in years.

  Prince of the Church or no, I was not confident God would hear me.

  Chapter 37

  MADDALENA

  The fan I was waving barely stirred the stifling air inside St. Peter’s, where Madonna Lucrezia was attending Mass with her family as well as some visiting dignitaries. One of the older cardinals was presiding and—God forgive me—the droning monotony of his voice did nothing to combat the Roman heat and inspire sharper attention.

  I did not usually attend Lucrezia outside of the palazzo, but given the heat, she had requested Isabella and I come to fan her and the Princess of Squillace during the Mass. I had happily obeyed, glad to attend Mass in the company of Lucrezia and the Holy Father—and the Cardinal of Valencia—but as the sweat trickled down my back beneath my chemise, I saw my enthusiasm had been misplaced.

  Still, I was delighted Lucrezia was back in Rome, and to be serving her again. I had taken up more embroidery work from her, as well as the mending of her finer gowns. After Sancia of Aragon’s arrival—she and her husband were residing in Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico—she had noticed my work and exclaimed over it, leading to my doing such work for her as well. I was busy indeed. And Lucrezia had graciously seen to a raise in my wages over the additional work. I was thrilled with the turn of events: more money for doing more of what I loved. Even closer I came to my dream, distant though it often seemed.

  The Princess of Squillace leaned over and whispered something in Lucrezia’s ear, too quietly for me to hear. Lucrezia giggled and glanced over her shoulder, looking at something behind and above her. “I don’t know. Do we dare?” I heard her whisper back.

  “I dare if you do,” Sancia responded, her eyes alight with mischief.

  Lucrezia giggled louder this time, and the elderly cardinal glared in her direction. Without warning, she rose to her feet. Startled, the ladies in her entourage did the same, as did Sancia and her ladies. Whispering and giggling the whole way, Lucrezia and Sancia led the women out of the pews and toward the staircase in the back of the sanctuary that led to the choir left.

  Isabella turned a shocked gaze to me, and my mouth hung open in response. As the last of the ladies’ entourage filed past us, we quickly scrambled to follow. My face burned with shame and uncertainty. One should never disrupt the Mass, but my place was at my mistress’s side, was it not? Surely I could not be faulted for that?

  By the time Isabella and I arrived in the choir loft, Lucrezia and Sancia had resettled themselves, their ladies around them, and were talking and laughing openly without bothering to whisper. Below us, the assembled congregation had turned to observe us, some staring with open shock, others outrage—including the cardinal saying the Mass. The Holy Father, however, beamed indulgently at his daughter and daughter-in-law from his chair at the front, and turned back to motion imperiously for the cardinal to continue. The man stuttered and stumbled several times before he regained his place.

  “Come, come, you two,” Sancia of Aragon said when she spotted Isabella and me, snapping her fingers. “Come over here with those fans. It is beastly hot in here.”

  We did as she said, and she and Lucrezia immediately settled in to gossip and chatter throughout the rest of the service. My face burned from more than the heat, but if the pope did not disapprove, who was I to do so?

  * * *

  “Blessed Mother, Christ Jesus, forgive us,” Isabella sighed late that night as we slipped into the empty kitchen to find some bread and cheese and wine. “Never have I seen such disrespect during Holy Mass, let alone think I would ever be party to such.”

  “If the Holy Father did not mind, perhaps it is not as blasphemous as it seemed,” I said, the mantra I had repeated throughout the day as I wrestled with whether I would need to confess my part in the escapade.

  Isabella made a face. “I would never have imagined sweet, pious Lucrezia doing such a thing,” she said, finding a half-full jug of wine and two glasses. “It’s that Sancia. She’s a bad influence on our Lucrezia, and no mistake.”

  Privately I very much agreed, but I did not feel comfortable saying so out loud. “We should not speak ill of those whom we serve,” I said carefully.

  Isabella laughed. “Oh, come now, Maddalena. Gossip is one of the benefits of our position. One of the few, I might add.” She made a face. “Disrespect for the Mass is disrespect, no matter who you are.”

  Whatever the pope’s daughter did could not be wrong, could it? Not if he approved? Yet did not the Bible call on us to obey God and His laws the same way, no matter who we were or what our station?

  And after all, the pope should not even have a daughter. But I would not let my mind wander down that path.

  “Lucrezia would never have done that without Sancia urging her,” Isabella went on, taking a sip of her wine. “Sancia had better pay mind to her husband and attending to her wifely duties rather than stirring up trouble.”

  “Poor Jofre,” I said. “I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him.”

  Isabella giggled. “I know, poor lad. He is a lovesick puppy whenever he is around her, yet his voice sounds like that of a boy more often than not! God forgive me, a woman should always cleave to her husband, but he is not much of one, I don’t suppose.”

  “They are not well matched, that is certain.”

  “Never have I seen a couple so ill-matched!” Isabella exclaimed. “And I have seen many an unfortunate marriage, as I’m sure have you.”

  I was silent, thinking of my own unfortunate marriage, and of what a good match Federico and I would have been. If only I had been less of a fool.

  Luckily, Isabella pulled me from my melancholy before I could sink into it too deeply. “Why, and I think Cook shall quit if my lady Sancia complains about the food one more time.” She drew up to her full height, aping a bored yet seductive look. “You Romans eat so much meat,” she
said, mimicking Sancia’s southern accent and haughtiness. “All this rich food, it is not good for the figure, no? Ah, but then, I suppose it is impossible to get fresh seafood here. At the court of my grandfather, King Ferrante, in the Kingdom of Naples, we had fresh seafood every day.”

  I giggled. Isabella exaggerated, but only slightly; Sancia’s complaints about the food were habitual. She had said something similar only a few days ago.

  “Oh, my dearest Lucrezia,” I exclaimed, tossing my head. “The color of that gown simply will not do for someone of your fair complexion. It would be more suited for me, but oh no, you must wear this blue instead. Honestly,” I added in my own voice, as Isabella’s shoulders shook with mirth, “after I’d made all the alterations to that gown and added in all the embroidery Madonna Lucrezia requested! All that work, and now she’ll never wear it, because Sancia of Aragon told her she oughtn’t.”

  Isabella stifled her laughter and looked up at me, batting her eyelashes ridiculously and tugging the bodice of her dress down so her nipples were nearly showing. “Why, if it isn’t His Eminence, the Cardinal of Valencia,” she said in a breathy voice. “A true pleasure to see the savior of Naples.”

  I laughed a trifle uneasily at this. I had noticed Sancia of Aragon making eyes at Cesare Borgia when he came to visit his sister, but tried my best to ignore it. It had nothing to do with me, in any case.

  “Really, she has no shame,” Isabella said, putting her bodice back in order. “He is a cardinal, a man of God! I should think even one such as her would hesitate at seducing a man of the Church.”

  “God protect us from such sin,” I said, though I did not cross myself.

  “Sin indeed! And he her own brother-in-law besides!”

  “Surely she would not be that shameless in deed, though she may be in thought,” I said before changing the subject. “Now, what to eat, Isabella? I am hungry. What has Cook left for us?”

  Isabella turned to the counter behind her to see what could be found.

  “But if you cannot find me fresh seafood, simply do not bother,” I added.

  We both dissolved into giggles.

  Chapter 38

  CESARE

  “Your Eminence. What a pleasant surprise.”

  I looked up to see Sancia of Aragon coming toward me down the hallway. I had just left Lucrezia, having spent a pleasant afternoon visiting her.

  She was wearing a gown of dark red—her preferred color—and her dark curls were rather casually pinned up, as though they might escape the pins’ confines at the slightest touch. She wore no jewelry—unusual for her—and yet it was plain to me that she did not need it. She looked more beautiful without it, as though the gaudiness of the jewels detracted from her natural beauty.

  We had been in each other’s company often since her arrival—at family dinners, at public events with the Holy Father, and when I would visit Lucrezia and find her in Sancia’s company. The two had become fast friends, for which I was grateful—for Lucrezia’s sake, and ashamed though I was to admit it, my own.

  It seemed plain our attraction was mutual. We were often catching each other’s eye over the dining table, across a room, through a crowd. Each time I felt her gaze would set me on fire. I could only hope no one else had noticed. Indeed, we had never spoken a word to each other that was not perfectly appropriate. Yet that almost made it worse.

  Holy Virgin forgive me, but all I wanted to do as I watched her walk toward me was take her in my arms. Her movement was sensual, fluid. The way she would move against me in bed, pressing her body to mine …

  I forcibly wrenched myself from my sinful reverie as she approached and dropped a curtsy, all too aware this was the first time we had been alone together. “Princess Sancia,” I managed, hoping my voice did not sound as strangled to her as it did in my own ears. “Though perhaps, as we are family, we may dispense with the formalities. You may call me simply Cesare.”

  “Cesare,” she said. Her tongue curling around my given name nearly brought me to my knees. In the name of Christ, who was this man I had become, so in thrall to a woman I had never even touched? “Then you must call me simply Sancia.”

  I gave her a slight bow. “It would be my privilege.”

  She nodded back in the direction from which I had come. “Visiting your sister?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “A pity you must depart so soon, before I have had the pleasure of your company.”

  “I am set to dine with His Holiness this evening,” I said. My next words were out of my mouth before I could think better of them. “But I am not due for some time yet. Would you care to take a stroll through the gardens?”

  Interest—and, I thought, desire—flared in her eyes. “I would be honored.”

  I offered her my arm. I could nearly feel her hip pressing against mine as I led her down the stairs and out into the gardens. We were so close, too close, yet not nearly close enough.

  We started along one of the paths. When she did not seem inclined to speak, I cleared my throat. “And how are you finding Rome?” I asked. “Such a change it must be, after Naples.” Perhaps if we spoke of mundane things, my thoughts would stay on mundane things.

  “It is very different,” she said in her low, rich voice. “I am not used to being so far from the sea and its breezes.” She wrinkled her pert nose. “There is not such a stench there as there is here in Rome.”

  “Does Rome have nothing to recommend it, then?”

  She laughed, and the sound was like music, like the taste of a fine wine. “No, no. Do not misunderstand me, Your Eminence. Cesare. I confess I merely fall into homesickness for my beloved Naples at times. Rome has much to recommend it, from the lovely architecture of its palaces and churches to the fine society. And it is the Holy City. Anyone who lives here must consider themselves blessed to do so.” She looked up at me. “And there is your presence, of course. Perhaps the chief way in which Rome is superior to Naples.”

  I felt a strange twinge in the pit of my stomach—and lower—at her words. There was no mistaking her meaning, not with those words and the way she was peering up at me through her eyelashes, her head tilted and a slight, almost hungry smile on her face, as though she wanted to devour me. How I responded would determine how we moved forward from here.

  I could ignore her words. Ignore them and in so doing say I had no interest in pursuing whatever this was between us. No interest in hurting my little brother. Not even if his wife was the woman I wanted more than any other in all my life.

  Yes, that is what I would do.

  She pulled me to a stop on a garden path surrounded by high bushes and trees. “Have you nothing to say to such a declaration, Cesare?” she asked, shattering nearly all that was left of my resolve with her repeated use of my Christian name.

  “I have many things I wish to say to you, Sancia,” I said, not backing away, “but none are in the least appropriate to say to my brother’s wife.”

  “Then do not say them to your brother’s wife,” she challenged. “Say them to me, Sancia, the woman who stands before you, for I wish to hear them all.”

  My resistance crumbled at that. I reached out and pulled her against me, my mouth coming down on hers. Her lips opened readily beneath mine, and she made a low noise in her throat that made me hard in an instant. I was pushing her back onto a low stone bench and pulling up her skirts before I realized what I was doing. Abruptly I pulled away from her, and she sat up, breathing hard.

  “Why did you stop?” she asked. “I can feel that you are ready.” Her gaze moved downward meaningfully, and she reached out to put her hand beneath my robes. I caught her wrist, stopping her.

  “No,” I said, my voice strangled. “Not here. Anyone could happen upon us.”

  “That is part of the fun.”

  “If we are to do this, we cannot be discovered. It would kill Jofre. Do you want that?”

  She was silent. Despite her actions, she was fond of my brother; no doubt more like a siblin
g, as I had surmised. “You are right,” she said aloud. She rose and met my eyes. “Where? And when?”

  It would need to be as soon as possible, lest I be driven out of my mind. “Tonight,” I said. “Do you know of the tunnel that leads from Santa Maria in Portico into the Vatican?”

  “I have heard of it, but never seen it.”

  “Find it. I will meet you halfway down the tunnel at midnight and bring you back to my rooms. No one will disturb us.”

  She smiled with relief and anticipated pleasure. “A whole night spent with you? It is nearly more than I dared dream.”

  I wanted to laugh with pure joy that I need not resist this magnificent woman any longer. “And I. We must make sure you are back before dawn, so you are not missed.”

  She shivered. “Perhaps this shall be as exciting as a tryst in the garden, after all.”

  She went to move past me toward the palazzo, but I caught her by the arm. “I can promise you will have more excitement than you ever thought possible in my bed.”

  Her eyes darkened with desire. “I must go inside and pray,” she murmured.

  Fear struck my heart. Had I gone too far?

  “Pray for what? Forgiveness for sins we have not yet committed?” I demanded.

  She looked back at me, her gaze bold. “Pray this day passes as quickly as possible.” With that she turned and disappeared down the garden path, leaving me to collect myself as best I could before returning to the Vatican.

  I should have been asking God for forgiveness for what I was about to do. Instead I could only thank Him for sending me Sancia of Aragon.

  * * *

  I usually enjoyed dinners with my father. It was when we would discuss politics and make plans, and he would often seek my counsel. But that night, it seemed an interminable affair. Father spoke of plans for Juan’s triumphant return to Rome, a subject on which I normally would have had much to say, but I barely listened. I could think only of Sancia, and the pleasures that awaited us both.