As one of the other maids put the finishing touches on her coiffure, Lucrezia clapped her hands and squealed in delight, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “I am ready, am I not?” She turned to me. “What do you think, Maddalena? Will he find me beautiful?”
I gave her an honest smile. “Of course he will, Madonna. You are radiant. He will not believe the vision before his eyes.”
She giggled girlishly and picked up her skirts. “Well, then, let us go! I am most eager for my wedding, and especially my wedding night!”
I picked up her train and followed, praying she would be this happy always. Praying she did not let her Borgia blood steal her joy and love of life.
I did not know how she had lasted this long.
Chapter 81
CESARE
Lucrezia and Alfonso are a handsome couple, I thought as I watched them dance. This wedding had been a long time in the making, and no one was more pleased than I. They’d been married in a small ceremony in a chapel in the Vatican, and the enthusiasm with which the couple said their marriage vows was plain to all.
As their dance ended, I rose and went to the floor, smiling as I approached the newlyweds. “May I steal the bride for a dance, good sir?” I said to my new brother-in-law.
He bowed and grinned amiably. “Of course, Your Eminence.”
“None of that,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We are brothers now. You must call me Cesare.”
“I shall, brother!”
Alfonso turned to escort out his sister in turn, and we all took our places for the next dance.
“Oh, I do hope you and Alfonso shall become great friends, Cesare,” Lucrezia said as we danced. “I love both of you so.”
I smiled. “I am happy you are happy, Crezia. More than I can say.”
I had been alarmed when I’d heard of her depression after the death of her lover Perotto. I knew she would be upset, but I’d thought that surely she’d come to see that it was better this way. She could live her life with her new husband and not fear any threat. However, that had not been the case. And I lived in fear that one day, she would learn it had been me who’d had Perotto killed.
But I had tried to put it behind me. Lucrezia was happy, and never again would I have to hurt anyone she loved.
“You were right all along, brother,” she said as I spun her. “This was the right path for me. The divorce and the new marriage … all of it.”
“That will teach you to doubt your elder brother,” I teased.
“It will indeed.”
When the dance ended, the musicians struck up a slower one in its place. “One more, Crezia,” I said, holding on to her hand.
She beamed up at me. “Of course.”
As we danced, I asked her, “Do you remember the promise I made to you, when we were both very young?”
“You promised me many wonderful things, as a good elder brother should.”
I laughed briefly, but grew serious. “Yes, but I mean: do you remember the day I swore I would never let you be parted from your family? From me?”
She laughed. “Of course I do! I was so small and fearful of what marriage and being a woman might bring. You were so sweet to reassure me, Cesare, as always.”
“And,” I said, drawing her closer, “I have kept my promise. You and Alfonso shall reside in Rome, and you need never leave us.”
She smiled merrily. “Oh, Cesare. I would follow Alfonso anywhere.”
The dance ended, and she curtsied and I kissed her hand. I watched her walk back to her husband, positively radiant with joy, and wondered why I suddenly felt so out of sorts.
Chapter 82
MADDALENA
This time, as I watched the wedding festivities, I was allowed to be there. I had been asked to attend should Madonna Lucrezia need anything. But if her happy, carefree glow all the evening long was any indication, she had everything she needed. As before, I was content to simply watch.
It was a much smaller affair than her first wedding, only family members and high-ranking nobles and church officials. Yet everyone was dressed splendidly, and the feast was as sumptuous as ever.
I watched as Lucrezia danced first one dance, and a second, with her brother Cesare. They danced close together, smiling and laughing, moving together as if they had done this their whole lives. And no doubt they had.
I thought of the rumors I had heard, that Lucrezia and Cesare committed incest together, that they had known one another in unholy ways. Watching them dance like this, at ease with one another, so loving, it was easy to see where the rumors had come from. I had never before seen siblings so close and affectionate.
Yet I could not believe it was true. If it was, I of all people surely would have seen evidence to give it credence, and I had not. Cesare Borgia might be guilty of many terrible deeds, but this was not one of them. He loved his sister protectively, fiercely—perhaps too much so—but not in such an unnatural way. The evil he had done had been out of love for her. As unforgivable, as misguided as what he had done had been, had he not thought only to protect his sister?
Could the intentions still be good when the act was so horrible?
As the night wore on and guests began to disperse, Cesare beckoned, discreetly, to me. I followed him out and up to his rooms. Lucrezia was not likely to look for me that night.
Yet when we got to his bedchamber, he did not seem eager for my company, as he often was. Instead he looked down into a darkened courtyard from the window. “Perhaps you should go,” he said at last. “It has been a long day for us both.”
I crossed the room and slid my arms around his waist, laying my cheek against his velvet-clad back. “Is something troubling you, Cesare?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing I could name.”
“I am happy to stay.”
“I do not know as I will be very good company.”
I could easily convince him otherwise. Perhaps other women might not have dared, but he continued to send for me and not for any other women, even after all this time. Even in the festering nest of gossip that was Rome, I had not heard any rumors about him and any other lady. Not since Sancia, before he had first taken me to his bed. I was sure I was not the only woman he had bedded in all this time, but I was certainly his favorite. His lover. His mistress. The keeper of his secrets.
I slid my hands lower, to his manhood. “I shall go if you want me to,” I murmured, brushing my fingers against him. He was hard beneath his breeches. I drew back, as though to leave.
He caught my wrist and spun to face me. “No,” he said. “Stay.”
I smiled, and went to work removing his clothing, then mine. We went to the bed, and I pushed him down and straddled him, lowering myself slowly onto him. He lifted his hips, thrusting himself deeper into me. “Oh, Maddalena,” he groaned.
I began to move atop him, his fingers digging into my hips as he arched beneath me. When he reached his ecstasy, I looked down at his face, my eyes hazy with my own pleasure, and took in his expression, twisted with exquisite agony. I smiled, enjoying the sight.
* * *
A week or so after Lucrezia’s wedding, Cesare sent for me, and I went eagerly, as I always—still—did. When I arrived that night he was sprawled in a chair before the cold fireplace, idly toying with the goblet of wine in his hand. He scarcely noticed my arrival. “Cesare,” I said, and moved to stand behind him, running my hands down his shoulders and over his chest. I bent forward and kissed his neck.
He sighed, turning his head and catching my lips with his. But then he turned his gaze forward again, toward the cold stone of the fireplace. “There is wine there on the table, if you would like some,” he said, somewhat offhandedly.
I served myself from the jug he had indicated and took the chair next to his, studying him carefully as I sipped—a good red from Tuscany, if I wasn’t mistaken. God forgive me, but being a cardinal’s mistress had given me an appreciation for fine wine, finer than I had had any occasion
to taste before in my life. “Are you well, Cesare?” I asked finally, when he did not speak further.
He turned to face me at last, and the smile that crossed his face, while weary, was genuine. “Perfectly well,” he said. “Only tired.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I was in negotiations with the French ambassador much of the day.”
I went still at this. “Oh?” I asked, prompting him to go on, even as I both did and didn’t wish to know more.
Everyone in the Borgia circle had heard the rumors by then, even if they likely hadn’t reached the rest of Rome yet. Pope Alexander was seeking an alliance with the new French king—the same nation that had invaded us just a few short years ago—and would use his son to seal this alliance. His son Cesare’s marriage, which of course would involve said Cardinal Borgia leaving the Church, something almost unheard of.
I suspected it was not so much Pope Alexander using his son to get what he wanted as it was the other way around.
“Yes,” he said. “He assures me his king is agreeable to everything, and that our accord shall be a mutually beneficial one. Finally, there shall be no more obstacles. I shall have what I want. What I’ve always wanted.”
I was rather puzzled at the flat tone of his voice. “And does this not make you happy?”
He laughed shortly and took another swig of wine. “Of course it does.”
“Forgive me, but you do not seem happy.”
“It shall be strange, to leave Rome. To leave Italy.” He looked up at me. “To leave you.” He spun the stem of his wineglass between his thumb and index finger. “I had not thought very long on any of those things before.”
Will you truly miss me, when you go off to conquer the world? When you marry your royal wife? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. Not because I did not dare, but because I did not wish to hear the answer.
He drained the rest of the wine from his glass and stood up. “Never mind,” he said brusquely. “As I said, I am only tired.” He reached out and pulled me to my feet. “But not too tired for you, my Maddalena.” He kissed me deeply and drew me over to the bed.
Enjoy this, Maddalena, I told myself as he unlaced my dress, shivering as his fingers brushed my bare skin. This is all you can ever have of him.
Chapter 83
CESARE
I burst into my father’s rooms, jubilant. “I have the agreement, Father,” I said, holding up a roll of parchment. “Louis has agreed to it and signed.”
“Has he? Excellent! Let us see,” Father said, holding out his hand.
I unrolled the parchment and placed it upon the desk before him.
The last months had been a flurry of negotiations between the new King of France, Louis XII, and I. King Charles had died suddenly in April—oddly enough, another event Savonarola had prophesied—and to our surprise and delight we found the new French monarch eager to reverse his predecessor’s stance and become as friendly as possible with the papacy.
Our old allies in Spain certainly hadn’t been any help. Ferdinand opposed the prospect of my match with Princess Carlotta and had been heard to mutter about the Borgias lusting for the entire Italian peninsula.
He was right.
In addition, Their Most Catholic Majesties made no secret of their shocked disapproval at my leaving the Church. Spanish though we might be, Father and I had no interest in creating a puppet papacy for the Spanish monarchs, and so we had decided to look farther afield for allies. The new French king, in need of our favor if he wished to press his claims to Naples and Milan, was a perfect candidate, and an alliance with France might serve to bring Ferdinand and Isabella back in line.
The situation was perfect, because the French king wanted something from the Holy See—namely, to set aside his barren wife and marry Charles’s widow, Anne of Brittany, so he might keep Brittany under the jurisdiction of France. Only the pope could give him this.
The king would have his divorce; I’d made sure of that. And we would have what we needed in return. Impatient to see it all done, and done according to my specifications, I’d conducted most of the negotiations myself, consulting with the pope along the way.
“It is as we discussed,” I said as Father read over the agreement. “We shall see to his annulment and provide him with a dispensation to marry Anne of Brittany. In return, once I have put aside the cardinal’s hat, he shall bestow upon me the duchy of Valentinois and welcome me at the French court. He will also support my bid for the hand of Carlotta of Aragon.”
Father’s eyes continued to skim down the page. “And an army,” he said quietly. “He shall put an army at your disposal. And mine.”
“Yes,” I said. “We can begin to forge of Italy one nation, as we always said. I shall start by subduing the barons of the Romagna, who spit on Rome’s authority as their overlord.”
He waved a hand. “Sit, Cesare.” I took a chair beside his desk. He glanced at me. “You must not be too hasty. The first step is to go to France, take possession of your estate, and find a wife. Everything else will follow.”
“It will,” I agreed. “I do not mean to get ahead of myself. But know I shall achieve all that I stated I would. It all starts now. I finally have the tools at my disposal.”
“You do indeed,” he said. “Very well. Next month we shall have you announce in consistory that you are renouncing the cardinalcy. And soon after, you shall go to France.”
I left the room, exultant, to find Michelotto waiting for me. “So, Your Eminence?” he asked. “Are we bound for France?”
“We are, soon enough,” I said. “And shortly you shall no longer need to address me as Your Eminence.”
“All went well?” he asked, nodding toward the papal apartments.
“Yes. He has the agreement. The die is cast. And when I return to Italy, it shall be at the head of an army, as a conqueror.”
“And His Holiness is in support of your aims?”
I thought of Father’s reluctance, his desire that I slow down in my ambition. But it did not matter. Not anymore. For I would be the one at the head of the army, not him. “This is what he has always wanted our family to achieve. His Holiness shall continue to keep the keys to Heaven, and I shall have the keys to his earthly kingdom. The much more immediate kingdom.”
Michelotto studied me. “And what do you call the keeper of the one who keeps the keys?”
My lips curled into something that I was sure was more a sneer than a smile. “God.”
Chapter 84
MADDALENA
Rome, August 1498
I lay in bed beside Cesare, breathing heavily from our lovemaking. It had been tinged with sadness for me. The next day, he would announce he was leaving the Church, and he would be off to France, to find himself that wealthy and important wife he needed so badly.
And I would be here, in Rome.
He turned toward me, brushing my hair off of my face. “I shall miss you when I am in France,” he said. “I wish you could come with me.” He brought my face toward his and kissed me.
No, you don’t, I thought, even as his tongue tangled with mine, and his hand lazily stroked my breast. For what man wished his lover present while he was attempting to woo a wife?
And where did that leave me?
Perhaps an hour later, we made love again, and I tried to enjoy it as best I could, to revel in it. It might be the last time. I was going to have to live without him. But how would I live? How might I live?
Did it have to be in Rome?
His arm tightened around me. “You will be here when I return from France, won’t you?”
My back was pressed to his chest, and he could not see my face. “Where else would I go?”
He kissed my neck and lightly stroked my hip, my belly, appearing satisfied with my answer. He did not seem to realize that it was not truly an answer at all.
He soon fell asleep, but I found I could not. I slid out from under his arm and sat up, looking down at his face in the flickering light of the single candle besi
de the bed. He looked so much younger when he slept, like the young man he was instead of a would-be monarch who was trying to put the world on his shoulders. I shivered, for though it was summer, it felt to me like the deepest of winter.
If I were ever going to leave Rome, this was my chance. He would go off to France, claim his new title and new bride, and have no further use for me. He might well gather his armies and ride off to conquer Italy and never think of me again. Yet if he did, he would never find me if I did not want him to. The poor can disappear in ways people like him can never conceive of. It is our curse; it is our blessing.
I could go somewhere else and make a living with my needle. I knew I could. I could live a new life, one where I did not have to carefully parse through every word I spoke to be sure I was not condemning anyone to death. To be sure I was saving the right lives. Though there was a kind of power in that, too.
I could start over, and begin to truly atone for my many, deadly sins.
There are seven deadly sins, Maddalena, but lust is the deadliest.
Or I could stay, and wait for him to come back someday, addicted to the pleasure he could wring from my body, to the look in his eyes when he said my name, to the measure of power I held over him. Because I did have power. Not much, but more than he was aware of. That was the thing with powerful men: they only ever thought about what power they stood to gain, not the power they gave away.
I could stay and test the limits of my power.
Or I could leave, and let him come back someday to find me gone.
I could leave, and save what remained of my soul.
Chapter 85
CESARE
I waited in the antechamber, the attendees for the consistory gathering in the audience chamber next door. I had just removed my cardinal’s robes and hat for the last time and dressed in a rich doublet of black velvet trimmed in gold, with gray hose.
The Borgia Confessions Page 39