The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  I took up a practice sword and went out to the ring, where a few of the men were sparring. “Who wishes to try their hand today?”

  One of the men—a tall Spaniard named Enrique that I had fought before—stepped forward. “I’m game, Your Eminence,” he said in Catalan. “Been looking for a rematch since you thrashed me that last time.”

  The men around him chuckled good-naturedly, as I would have on any other day. Instead, I merely nodded grimly and moved to the center of the ring. The other men quickly dispersed to the sides of the ring and gathered to watch. I almost felt sorry for Enrique, who I knew to be a good man, as we crossed swords.

  “Begin!” one of the men shouted.

  Immediately I charged forward, on the attack. Enrique stumbled back, not expecting my speed, but he quickly recovered and parried my thrust. Before he had time to strike back, I had surged forward again, following up with an overhand strike, then a reverse. Enrique moved backward, barely able to block each of my attacks, never mind go on the offensive. I hacked away, wanting the satisfaction of the dull blade meeting flesh or at least the padded armor he wore, but he continued to block me.

  Apparently I had settled into a rhythm without realizing, for Enrique was able to break the pattern. In the split-second pause between blows, he thrust his sword at me, and I barely managed to jump aside in time. Incensed, I recovered and swung my sword over my head, meaning to bring it down on his skull. He raised his own sword in time to block, and I bore down. Though he was the larger man, I forced him to his knees. Once there, I kicked his sword away. Instead of placing the dull tip of my practice sword to his throat, to indicate a kill and thus the conclusion of the match, I backhanded him across the face, the blow leant an additional strength from the pommel of the sword still in my hand. I hit him again, and again, his nose streaming blood and his lip splitting. He tried to get up and stumbled back against the fence at the edge of the ring. I dropped my sword and kept punching. I no longer knew what I was doing or who I was hitting, I only knew this rage within me had to go somewhere, had to get out, no matter what, lest it consume me, kill me …

  I had drawn my arm back for another blow when someone grabbed my forearm in an iron grip. I struggled against the grip and whirled around to see Michelotto behind me. Immediately I remembered myself. “I think you have well and truly bested Enrique here, my lord,” Michelotto said softly. He nodded behind me. Enrique had slumped to the dusty ground, his face a mess of blood. He spat two teeth into the dirt and groaned.

  “God. My God. Enrique, my friend, I am so sorry…” I reached out a hand to help him up, but he flinched away.

  “See to him,” Michelotto barked, and one of the men ran off to get some water and a cloth.

  “Yes, yes. I will send my personal physician, I swear it,” I said. “I … I am sorry, Enrique.”

  My God, what had I done? I had been so afraid my rage would kill me that I had almost allowed it to kill another man, one I had considered a friend. What kind of monster was I?

  I followed Michelotto out of the practice ring, my head held high. My rage was gone, replaced by shame, but I could not let it show.

  * * *

  I made good on my promise to send my personal physician to see to Enrique, and when he returned I had him wash and bandage my knuckles, bloody and raw from my explosion of temper. I had my supper sent up to my rooms and drank two more glasses of wine to dull the pain. Then, as dark fell and most people had gone to bed, I made for the underground passage to the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico.

  I did not know what I meant to do when I found Sancia. Did I mean to rail at her or beg her?

  I supposed I would know when I saw her.

  I made my way through the darkened hallways of the palazzo, not seeing anyone, not caring how I would explain my presence should anyone see me.

  I was passing Lucrezia’s wing of the palace on my way to Sancia’s rooms when I saw a familiar slender, auburn-haired figure. Maddalena Moretti.

  Beautiful, sweet Maddalena, so kind and with such a good heart. Maddalena, who was afraid neither to strike me nor to cry in my arms.

  Maddalena. The one woman who had rejected my brother. The one person who had cause to hate him as much as I did.

  She could be mine. All mine.

  And suddenly I knew what I had come for.

  Chapter 49

  MADDALENA

  I started at the sight of the cardinal in the dim hallway. “Cardinal Borgia,” I said, once I’d caught my breath. I curtsied. “Forgive me, you startled me. Is there something I can help you with?”

  He did not reply.

  “I have just assisted your sister in readying for bed,” I told him. “She is not dressed to receive anyone, but if it is urgent I can tell her you are here.” Or perhaps he was attempting to sneak into Sancia of Aragon’s bedchamber? Oh, dear Virgin, should I have pretended I had not seen him?

  He stepped closer, into the light of one of the candle sconces on the wall, and I was taken aback when I saw his face. His handsome features looked drawn, haggard; his eyes were red, as though he had not slept of late. Surely he had not been weeping?

  I had never seen him like this, so wretched and forlorn. “Are … are you quite well, Your Eminence?”

  He snorted. “Am I well,” he repeated dully. “No. I think it is safe to say, Maddalena, that I am not.”

  “I … I am sorry to hear that, Your Eminence.” I twisted my fingers together nervously behind my back. How could I assure him that I only wanted to help in whatever way I could? That his secrets would be safe with me? “Is there … anything I can do for you?”

  At this, he drew nearer, stroking my cheek lightly with his fingers. I froze, scarcely able to believe what was happening. If his touch were not sending sparks throughout my entire body, I would have thought I was imagining it. He tucked a strand of hair that had fallen from my cap behind my ear. “There is something you can do for me, Maddalena. I am sorely in need of company this evening, and I confess that I have craved yours for some time.”

  My breath came shorter, more ragged. I was under no illusions as to what he meant by “company.” And what was more, he had just confessed that he desired me, had desired me as I desired him. Had he had the same dreams as I? The same fevered imaginings?

  Had he realized it was not Sancia of Aragon he wanted, but me?

  I could have what I’d long wanted, what I had tried to tell myself I did not want, must not want.

  “I…” I ran my tongue over my lips to moisten them, my mouth suddenly so dry I could not speak.

  He let his hand trail down to my waist and drew me closer to him. He gave my hip a squeeze and sighed, drawing back. “Forgive me, Maddalena. I should not say such things to you. You are a maiden, are you not? I would not despoil you, and I should not have asked.”

  I swallowed once. “I … I am no maiden, Your Eminence. I am a widow.”

  The meaning of my words was plain.

  Surprise crossed his features. “Is it so? And you so young?”

  “I swear it. I … I have not been a virgin for years.”

  “Then…” He cupped my face in his hands. “Would you join me, Maddalena? I swear, I do not mean to coerce or force you. I am not my brother.” A shadow crossed his face at these last words.

  “I…” I struggled for a moment. Yet what I was truly struggling with was that it was no struggle at all. Besides the endless reasons that I should say no—he was a cardinal, a man of the Church; it was a sin to lie with a man not my husband; lust was a deadly sin; there are seven deadly sins, Maddalena, but lust is the deadliest—I knew that I would not. Not after all this time dreaming of him, wanting him.

  All these years of guilt, of repentance—for Federico’s death, for sinful dreams and thoughts and desires … and where had it gotten me? I had been merciless with myself, as the Church demanded of sinners, yet it did not make me feel any more righteous. It certainly had not made me happy. If I was going to feel guilt, and repent,
why not at least do the deed, have the pleasure? I had already committed the sin of lust by desiring him—I might as well see it through to its conclusion. “I will, Your Eminence. I will come to your bed, gladly.”

  A smile touched his features. “Good. Follow me.”

  He took my hand and led me through the dark, quiet palazzo; down to the lowest level and to where the fabled tunnel was.

  I stayed close to him as we walked, body tight with nerves and anticipation and excitement.

  We emerged into the Vatican, and he led me up to his rooms. I followed him into the bedchamber, where a fire was burning despite the relative comfort of the spring evening.

  Once the door was closed behind us, he wasted no time. He spun and took me in his arms immediately, kissing me. His mouth opened hungrily over mine, and I let his tongue slide into my mouth, thrilling at the contact, my whole body coming alive with delicious shivers. All my imaginings paled beside the physical reality of my body pressed to his, of his mouth on mine.

  He drew back, fingers undoing his cloak, then his doublet and shirt. “Undress,” he said, softly but firmly.

  I removed my cap and set about untying my apron, dress, sleeves. I stood before him in my shift, and he stepped forward, twining his fingers in my hair and undoing the pins and braids that held it back. He kissed me once and stepped back, arching an eyebrow in invitation for me to continue.

  Hands trembling, I reached for the hem of my shift and lifted it off. I stood, waiting as his eyes swept over me from head to toe. “To the bed,” he said, his voice rough.

  I did as he said, getting into the bed and pulling the sheet over me as he removed his breeches. Nerves assailed me. It had been so long since I had been with a man. What if I did not remember what to do? It had not taken all that much to please Ernesto, in truth; even my half-hearted attempts at kisses and caresses had seemed to sufficiently rouse him. But surely Cesare Borgia was used to more … skilled bedmates. Surely Sancia of Aragon knew exactly what she was doing …

  But she was not here in his bed. I was. That was what mattered.

  He got beneath the sheet with me and took me in his arms. His lips found mine once more and trailed down to my neck as he ran his hands over my body. Heat sprang up wherever he touched, the soft, tender skin that had been untouched for so long. And that had never been touched in love, not truly. I had not known being touched by another could be like this. I could scarcely breathe with delight, with anticipation; I could feel my heart beat between my legs. “You are beautiful, my sweet Maddalena,” he whispered in my ear. “You are not afraid, are you?”

  I struggled to speak. “Not afraid, no. I just … I wish to please Your Eminence—”

  He cut me off. “Say my name. That shall please me.” He was smiling as he kissed me, our naked skin pressed against one another.

  “Cesare,” I said, more of a gasp than anything else.

  “Again.” He reached down to part my legs, his hand trailing up my inner thigh, and I opened them willingly.

  “Cesare.” I closed my eyes, all thoughts vanishing, every nerve of my body so alive and awake as my skin brushed against his that it was almost painful. I could scarcely breathe.

  He positioned himself atop me, bracing his weight on his arms, and lowered his hips onto mine. I gasped as he pushed inside me, opening my legs wider, wrapping them around his waist. He was much larger than Ernesto had been, and I felt he would split me into pieces—and yet that somehow the shattering would be magnificent.

  He groaned as he slid fully inside me and began to move within me. I gasped at the slick pleasure of it, lifting my hips to meet his, and he began to thrust faster, his breath coming in short pants.

  “Maddalena,” he gasped. “Yes. So sweet. You are so sweet.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, drawing him closer. “Yes. Oh, yes, Cesare.” I could scarcely form the words, was barely conscious of having spoken them. All was sensation, sweat and skin and the hardness of him inside me, filling me.

  I felt the hitch in his breath as I said his name, and he began to thrust harder still. The strength and force of it felt so good, and pleasure crept up through my core, causing me to gasp.

  “Yes, Maddalena. God, you are good, so good…”

  I felt as though I was going to die, or burst, and suddenly it was though I had been plunged into a dark, warm wave, and I cried out with surprise and pleasure, sure I was being ripped apart.

  When I surfaced, Cesare called my name, then with one last, hard thrust collapsed against me, body shuddering as his pleasure came upon him. I clasped him tightly, my body wrapped around his, until he went still. He withdrew and lifted himself off me, the sticky warmth of his seed trickling out between my legs.

  “Oh, Maddalena,” he said, once he’d caught my breath. “You are exactly what I needed. You have pleased me indeed.”

  “And you me, my lord,” I said, grinning at him boldly. What need was there for shyness now, after all?

  He laughed and reached over to push strands of sweat-dampened hair out of my eyes. “Good. It is good you should have pleasure, too.”

  “I have never known such pleasure before,” I confessed.

  He smiled, pleased. “Your husband was not a very good lover, then? Too stupid to know and appreciate what a jewel he had, I’ll wager.”

  I laughed. “I think you are right.”

  Soon he was asleep beside me, but I was too awake—in every sense—to do the same. I could only look at him, at his handsome face, at his hard, muscular body, and marvel that I had, for perhaps the first time in my life, gotten something I so desperately wanted.

  Chapter 50

  CESARE

  I awoke slowly the next morning, as though surfacing from a deep dream that had held me captive all night. When I was finally awake, I saw Maddalena asleep beside me, her red-tinted hair spread out over the pillow.

  As I had fallen asleep the night before, I had expected to regret this in the morning. I was distraught over Sancia’s betrayal, and so I went and debauched my sister’s maid? What way was that for a nobleman to act?

  But Maddalena had been forthright; I had not taken her virginity, and she had come willingly. I had given her a choice. And she had certainly seemed to enjoy herself in my bed.

  I smiled at the memory of what she’d said, that she’d never known such pleasure with her husband. Poor woman. Well, now she knew of the pleasures of the flesh that she’d been denied in her marriage bed. I grew hard again as I recalled how she’d gasped when I entered her, how her hips had met mine …

  I had no regrets. None. I had done what I had done, and I would do it again.

  She stirred beside me and opened her eyes. They widened in something like surprised happiness when her gaze fell on me. “It was not a dream, then?” she said, her voice raspy from sleep.

  “No, my Maddalena.”

  She smiled. “For I have dreamed of such a thing before.”

  That startled me. “You had dreamed of … me? Of this?”

  She blushed but nodded. “I knew it was wrong,” she said. “But I … could not help my thoughts where you were concerned.”

  To think, all the times I had seen her in Lucrezia’s rooms, admired her beauty—above that of many noble ladies in Rome—and mused idly of what it would be like to bed her, she had been thinking the same. “And was it as good as you dreamt?”

  “Better.”

  I grinned. No guile, no flirtation; she was as unlike Sancia as it was possible to be.

  The thought of Sancia pierced like a blade, yet a slightly duller blade than the day before. The rage was still there—leashed, but there—but the place where my love for her had been had begun to harden. And why waste my thoughts on such things when I had a beautiful woman in bed with me? “Well,” I said, reaching a hand between her legs. “Perhaps we had better make absolutely certain I compare favorably to your dreams.”

  We made love again, and it was just as satisfying as the night before. When we
finished, I directed her to get dressed. “My sister will no doubt be looking for you soon,” I said, kissing her as she looked about for her clothes. “And I can no longer hide from my duties.”

  She gave me a quizzical look at that, but I did not want to elaborate on Sancia’s betrayal, and how I had wasted the day before. I dressed and sent her back in the direction of the tunnel. “I shall no doubt see you soon, my Maddalena,” I said, kissing her one last time at the door.

  And surely I would, I thought as I watched her walk away. She was a willing bedmate, beautiful, eager to please. I would send for her again.

  Chapter 51

  MADDALENA

  Thankfully, I got back into Santa Maria in Portico without being detected, and after quickly washing up and brushing the wrinkles from my clothes, I went about my duties attending to Madonna Lucrezia and reattaching the lace on a set of her sleeves. If anyone noticed the small, quiet smile that refused to leave my lips, no one remarked upon it.

  * * *

  Later that night, though, things felt somewhat different as I lay on my pallet, seeking sleep, which was not inclined to come. I tried not to toss and turn, so as to avoid waking Isabella. But now, in the dark, while the rest of the world slept, I was forced to confront what I had done.

  When I had followed Cardinal Borgia—Cesare—to his rooms, I had known that I was committing a number of sins, foremost among them that he was a prince of the Church and therefore sworn to celibacy. Did that not make what we had done his sin, though? No, I certainly shared in the blame, for woman was always a temptress, just as Eve had tempted Adam to taste of the apple in the Garden. I was certainly guilty of the sins of lust and fornication, of wantonly going to a man’s bed and letting him have me …

  I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Sin though it had been, I could not help but relive what it had felt like to be in his bed, to feel his hands and lips on me … even now I could feel the weight of his body on mine, the length of him pushing inside of me …