The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  I left the dinner table as soon as I reasonably could and returned to my rooms, where I paced like a caged beast. I wanted to send for wine, but decided against it. Too much drink could render a man unable to perform, and though it had never happened to me, I could not risk it this night. Not when the woman who embodied all my desires would be in my bed. I would make good on my promise to her if it killed me.

  And it may well damn my soul, but I could not bring myself to care.

  * * *

  As midnight approached, I left my rooms without so much as a torch and made my way down to the tunnel. I had dismissed my manservant for the night and told Michelotto to make himself scarce. I was still fully dressed in my cardinal’s robes; should anyone happen upon me, some excuse could be easily made. The way back, with Sancia in tow, would take more care. But should anyone see us, I would make sure they were bribed well. I was too consumed with desire to give it much more thought than that.

  I moved into the dark tunnel, feeling my way along the damp stone walls. I heard the scratching and skittering of rats and mice, but paid them no heed. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a cloaked and hooded figure waiting up ahead. I approached, and the figure did not move. “Sancia?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Sì,” she said, and stepped closer, removing her hood. “It is I. Your woman.”

  I stopped no more than an inch away from her, not close enough for our bodies to touch, but almost. “I have not made you mine yet.”

  Even in the dark I could see the look in her eyes, one of desire and expectation and relief but also … something more. “I am yours, Cesare,” she whispered. “I have been since first we set eyes on each other.” She looked down. “I was afraid you had changed your mind and would not come.”

  I took her hand, clasping it tightly in mine. She felt something more for me than just lust, then. And I, God help me, knew what I felt was not just lust, either. She fascinated and captivated me in every way, and I wanted nothing more than to be in her presence, always. “Never,” I said roughly. “Not pain of death nor threat of hellfire could keep me away from you.”

  With no further words, I led her back up the passage the way I had come.

  Thankfully, the fates were with us, and we saw no one else on our way back to my rooms. I led her into my bedchamber, where a low fire was lit against the slight nighttime chill, and bolted the door behind us. I turned to find her standing by the massive bed, already having removed her cloak. Beneath it, she wore only a shift, and I could not tell if I was disappointed I would not have the pleasure of removing her layers, or relieved I was that much closer to my goal. Watching her across the dimly lit room, I quickly removed my robes until I stood before her only in my long shirt. When she did not move, I quirked an eyebrow. “Now you,” I said.

  She smiled, that slow, sensuous curling of her lips, and took the hem of her shift between her fingers. Slowly she lifted it off over her head, letting the fabric gingerly trail over her smooth olive skin, revealing herself to me one inch at a time: first her thighs, then the dark patch of thick hair at their apex, then her generous hips, her slightly rounded belly, her ribs, and then her breasts. Finally she stood before me in her naked glory, as perfect and beautiful as any of the statutes sculpted by the ancient Greeks and Romans. They could have had no better model. And indeed, beholding her in her carnal glory, even with animalistic lust roaring through my veins, I could understand what many artists had long said: that the human body was God’s finest work of art. Only now, looking at Sancia of Aragon, did I see it was true.

  I started to move toward her, wanting to feel her curves beneath my hands, but she lifted a finger. “Aha,” she said. “First you must repay the favor.”

  I had not the patience to move slowly, and swiftly pulled my shirt off in one motion. She beheld me, my body well formed from much time riding and training in the fighting arts with Michelotto. My manhood stood erect, straining toward her, and she studied its length with a lascivious smile.

  “May I approach, and worship at your altar?” I asked.

  “Oh, you may,” she said, and in an instant I had crossed the room to her and was kissing her fiercely as the full length of our naked bodies pressed against each other. My hands roamed over her, first her breasts and then down her back to cup her buttocks. She made that same moaning sound low in her throat, and it took all of my self-control not to climax right then. Even if I had not been driven so completely mad for her, it had been some time since I had been with a woman.

  She reached between us and took me in her hand, her fingers stroking, toying. I groaned and broke the kiss. “Christ Almighty, Sancia,” I swore. “You would undo me so soon?”

  She smiled, her hand continuing its light movement. “I am no shrinking virgin, Cesare,” she said. “And I have waited long enough.”

  That was all it took.

  I lifted her bodily and laid her on the bed, thrilling at her gasp of surprise and delight. I covered her body with mine, kissing her mouth hungrily before kissing my way down her body. I took one nipple in my mouth and sucked, then the other. She arched her body beneath me and moaned. “Yes,” she gasped. “More. Please.”

  I moved my hand between her legs, and they opened eagerly. I slid two fingers inside her, feeling the welcome moisture there. She was as aroused as I, even in this short time.

  “I am ready,” she breathed. “Oh, I am ready.” She wrapped her legs around my waist. “Please, Cesare. Please.”

  “I like it when you beg me,” I murmured, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin of her neck.

  “Please, Cesare, please!”

  I could resist no longer. I thrust myself into her, and we both cried out at the sweet relief and torture of the sensation. She lifted her hips to meet my thrusts, moaning with each stroke. “Yes, God, yes,” she gasped, pulling me even closer. “Yes. Harder.”

  I obliged, thrusting harder, faster, burying myself in her. Dear God, she was exquisite, tightening around me, her beautiful body welcoming my every stroke. I thrust again, and again, and finally nearly shouted as the most shattering pleasure shook me. Everything else in my life, everything that had been and everything yet to be, would come second to this moment. I heard her cry out my name sharply, her body shuddering around mine, and knew she had reached her pleasure as well. It seemed to go on and on, until finally I collapsed against her body, spent, and she wrapped her arms around me and held me to her chest, both of us breathing heavily with exertion.

  After a moment, she laughed. “You promised me excitement in your bed,” she said. “And you more than fulfilled your promise.”

  I laughed, lifting myself off her and turning onto my side to draw her against me. “I am nothing if not a man of my word.”

  “Then promise me this as well.” Her beautiful face turned serious, and she reached up to brush a sweaty curl off my forehead. “Promise me you will never leave me.”

  I was not able to promise her any such thing: she was married to my brother, and should he wish to leave Rome—or should my father send them away—she would be obliged to go. I had no rights to her, not in the eyes of God nor man. The only rights I had to her were in my heart.

  That would have to be enough.

  “I swear it,” I said. “Never will I leave you.”

  She kissed me, a long, sweet kiss, and nestled her head against my chest. We dozed off, sleeping lightly, ever aware of each other’s presence.

  I awoke perhaps an hour later to her hand stroking my manhood, and instantly I hardened beneath her touch.

  “I see the excitement has not ended for the night,” I said drowsily, opening one eye and looking at her.

  “The night is hardly over, Cesare Borgia.”

  “Indeed it is not.” Swiftly I moved her onto her back, causing her to squeal with delight. “But you shall not rush me along this time, vixen.”

  I let my hands and mouth wander over every curve of hers I had admired hiding beneath her clothes in weeks pas
t, kissing and caressing every inch, taking my time. I made my way slowly down her body, and put my mouth between her thighs, using my tongue to probe and caress that most intimate part of her. She cried out sharply at the first touch of my tongue, and I smiled against her. Her hands wove through my hair, gripping tightly; she was begging and sighing and moaning in the most exquisite ways. Then her climax was upon her, her body writhing beneath my mouth as she quivered and gasped my name. When she was finally still I sat up, gazing down at her, and she smiled with her eyes closed. “Oh, Cesare,” she said in a soft, breathy voice, and I was very pleased with myself. That she was experienced in the ways of bed sport was plain, but it seemed no lover had ever been quite this thorough before.

  “Are you too tired for more, my love?” I asked, and her eyes snapped open at the word love.

  “Hardly,” she said.

  I lowered myself over her and entered her once more, slowly, bit by bit, and she moaned, her voice ragged. “Yes, Cesare, yes. Yes, my love.”

  I nearly lost all control as she applied the word to me in turn, but I held on, moving deep and slow within her, painfully slow, until she was begging me again, until she could no longer bear it, and I made sure she came to her pleasure before I allowed myself to let go.

  I never wanted to leave this bed.

  Chapter 39

  MADDALENA

  I had let Donna Adriana know I would need additional ribbons and thread for some of the work I was doing on Madonna Lucrezia’s gowns, so she had counted out some coins and bid me go to the market. Isabella had insisted on joining me, claiming she would not be missed. She had been assigned duties serving mainly Sancia of Aragon—much to her chagrin—and since Sancia and the rest of the Borgia family had been summoned to the midday meal with His Holiness, she had decided to take advantage of her brief leisure time.

  “I swear I have not left that palazzo in weeks!” Isabella said, tilting her head up to the bright and unforgiving Roman sun as we walked to the market. “Madonna Sancia is even more demanding than I expected. Every hour of the day and night she needs something, practically.”

  “You exaggerate, amica mia. Surely she must sleep,” I teased.

  Isabella arched one dark eyebrow. “I am certain she does, but where she sleeps, I do not know.”

  I turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

  “There have been several nights when I have looked in on her after she had retired—lest she accuse me of being derelict in seeing to her every need—and found she was not in her bed.”

  “Why would you go into her bedchamber when you have not been summoned?”

  Isabella flushed slightly. “Well, the first time it was as I said—I wanted to leave her no room to criticize me. But after I became curious to see if she was out of her bed on other nights, so I checked back. And indeed she has been. She was missing more nights than not last week.”

  “Let us hope you are not caught snooping,” I said.

  “Maddalena, you are quite missing the point. Where has she been all these nights, at such an indecent hour?”

  “No doubt with her husband.”

  Isabella snorted. “If that is the case, he has more stamina than I gave him credit for. But would it not be more appropriate for him to visit her rooms, and not the other way around?”

  “I am surprised you did not check Don Jofre’s rooms on those nights to be sure,” I said, half-joking.

  “I wanted to, but I could not think of a plausible excuse that I could give to his servants. I can hardly say that Sancia sent me, for if she is there it will be an obvious lie, and if she is not, she will not thank me for summoning her husband when she is not in her rooms.”

  I laughed aloud. “You have plainly given this a great deal of thought.”

  “What else have I to occupy my mind all day? I do not have fine embroidery to work on, as you do.”

  I grinned. “Do not act as though you are jealous, Isabella. We both know you would sooner put the needle through your eye than be forced to apply it to fabric.”

  Isabella shuddered. “God forgive me, but you’re right. I had rather scrub Sancia of Aragon’s chamber pots all day than sew.”

  “Then we are perfectly suited to our tasks,” I said, giggling.

  She sighed. “I do wish I had some special skill like you, though, one that makes me more valuable to these fine ladies we serve.” Before I could think how to reply, she added, “Nor would I say no to a private word on occasion with Cardinal Borgia.” She winked at me.

  “Isabella!” I chastened, feeling myself blush. “He is kind to me because he helped me once, and he appreciates my service to his dear sister. Nothing more. And for shame—he is a prince of the Church!”

  “Who is advocating anything shameful?” she said with a grin. “I am speaking only of exchanging a few words, is all.”

  I fell silent. Surely she could not know of my most secret and disgraceful thoughts about Cardinal Borgia, could she? Surely I had not given such away?

  By then we had reached the market, and I sought out the vendors who would have what I needed. As I purchased some thread in several colors—silver, crimson, and a few shades of blue—and tucked them away in my satchel, I heard a voice hailing me from a few stalls over. “Maddalena Moretti! Can it be you?”

  I turned to see Fabrizia, a maid from the Vatican with whom I had been friendly. Our paths had not crossed since I’d left for Santa Maria in Portico. “Fabrizia! Lovely to see you. You look well,” I said.

  “As do you,” she said, approaching with a smile. “You are still serving the pope’s daughter?”

  “I am indeed.” I indicated the stall we were moving away from. “I do much sewing and embroidering for her and others in her household. I am here replenishing my supplies. And you are still employed in the Vatican Palace?”

  “I am indeed.” She gave me a sly look. “Sancia of Aragon lives with Donna Lucrezia in Santa Maria in Portico, does she not? Along with her husband, the youngest Borgia boy?”

  “She does,” I said, wondering at the shift in topic. “I do embroidery work for her as well. Isabella here,” I indicated, “mainly serves Madonna Sancia. Isabella, this is Fabrizia Tortelli.”

  Fabrizia nodded. “A pleasure, Isabella. I only ask about Madonna Sancia because…” She glanced around furtively. “Well, I wondered if you had noticed anything untoward.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” Isabella spoke up. “I was just telling Maddalena that for several nights in the last week Madonna Sancia has not been in her bed. I suppose she may be with her husband, but—”

  “To be sure she is not,” Fabrizia said, her eyes sparkling with gossip. “Here, come away from the crowds, I’ve something to tell you both…”

  She drew us off to a quiet corner of the market and glanced around before continuing. “Right,” she said, her voice low. “I saw her—this Sancia of Aragon—one night in the Vatican. Very late, it was. Near dawn, in fact—I had just arisen to go about my duties.”

  “What was she doing there at such an hour?” I asked.

  Fabrizia chuckled. “Ah, Maddalena. Still such an innocent. What else would she be doing there at that hour?”

  I bristled at her condescension. “Why don’t you tell us, as you seem to know so much about it?”

  “Oh, I shall,” she said, either missing or ignoring the irritation in my voice. She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper, and we both moved forward to hear her. “She was dressed in a dark cloak, with a hood covering her face. At one point she turned, and I was able to see her clearly. She did not notice me, I am certain,” Fabrizia said with satisfaction. “But she was in the company of none other than Cardinal Cesare Borgia. She was clutching his arm—rather intimately, I might add—and they appeared to be heading for the tunnel that runs beneath the Vatican.”

  “And to Santa Maria in Portico,” I whispered.

  “Is that where it goes indeed? I had heard that, of course, but I’ve never followed it to the end mys
elf.” Fabrizia continued. “Now mind you, when I saw her, I did not know it was the lady Sancia. I thought it was some harlot Valentino had smuggled in for his pleasure. Such things happen often enough. It was not until I saw her two nights later, bold as you please, walking into the Vatican all dressed up and on the arm of her little husband to dine with the Holy Father. Imagine! She has no shame, she cannot—she is bedding her husband’s brother, a holy cardinal, and still she dines with Pope Alexander himself!” Fabrizia crossed herself, her eyes cast piously toward Heaven.

  Arguments rose to my tongue—Fabrizia had not seen them in any sort of a compromising position; Sancia could have been there to seek Cardinal Borgia’s help or …

  The words withered before I could speak them. I did not need Fabrizia to call me a naive fool again. And why should I make excuses for Sancia of Aragon? Especially when there were clearly none to be made.

  Why should I care what she did, or what Cardinal Borgia did? Their sins were not mine. I would not be called to answer for their actions. It should make no matter to me.

  But it did. Suddenly I could not rid myself of images of the two of them entwined, the man who was so kind to me and that shameless woman …

  Quickly I crossed myself, and if either Fabrizia or Isabella noticed no doubt they attributed it to my horror at the thought of such sin. In truth, I was begging God for forgiveness. For had I not committed the same sin as Sancia, in thought if not deed?

  I hated her, but not for her sin, as the Church taught us to despise such sin. For I was guilty of not one but two cardinal sins now: lust and envy.

  I hated her, and I had no right to do so.

  It took me a second to realize Isabella was speaking. “… thought it must be something like that.” She nudged me. “Did I not say so, Maddalena?”

  “Oh … yes, you did. Not an hour ago, in fact.”