by Sarah Dunant
His chaplains’ practiced voices braid together with his, and for a moment the sound seems to find a pathway through the gale. Or could it be that the force of the wind is dipping just a little?
To my God I cried for help
From his temple he heard my voice.
The next waves soak, but the punch they deliver seems less angry. A few of the sailors who recognize the words of the psalm start yelling them out in wavering voices; even the captain himself calls into the wind.
The Lord reached down from on high, and He took me.
He drew me out of many waters.
There is no question: the force of the rain is lessening and the boat is holding her own inside the waves.
He drew me out of many waters.
The worst—and it is surely a miracle—is over.
Lucrezia and her ladies move through the palace like a flock of multicolored birds. If any of them were sick they have made a miraculous recovery. An extra day! Such a victory their mistress has achieved over the stuffy Stilts. They wheel up and down marble staircases, through dozens of elegant, connected salons. In one they sit cheek to cheek with gargoyle faces carved into stone seats. In another they sigh over portraits of female saints and martyrs, so exquisitely dressed that it makes them think of fashion rather than sacrifice. In a third they stand transfixed before a painting of a fabulous new city, perfect in its pristine architecture and proportions. What is Stilts always saying about Ferrara? How the old duke has built a whole other town in the modern style. “Imagine living in such a place, my lady duchess! We could dust the marble streets with our skirts!”
And they all laugh, for they are experts in enthusiasm. These pretty women are all that is left now of Lucrezia’s life in Rome. Exiled together, they have been picked for their youth and gaiety along with their loyalty and breeding. Some have grown up with her, seeing her through times of joy as well as sorrow; others were freshly recruited to mark this new turn in her life. They are her bodyguard against homesickness, and they take their work as seriously as any armed cohort. A few rooms later, when they come upon a painting of the Virgin mother holding a Christ child, his faraway gaze older than his baby flesh, they watch her carefully. Is the shine in her eyes an appreciation of beauty or the onslaught of memory?
“My lady, my lady. Come! Come over here. Isn’t this the ugliest man you have ever seen?” Angela Borgia, distant cousin by birth, is the newest and most mischievous of the flock. At fifteen what does she know of the vicissitudes of life? “I’d run a mile if he came anywhere near me!”
“Hush.” Lucrezia smiles. She knows how alert they are to any sign of sorrow. It is why, sometimes, she chooses to be alone. “That is a painting of our host’s dead father and his duchess.”
“Well, whoever he is, he is still uglier than sin. See how she insists on being separated from him, even in paint.”
The profiles of husband and wife stare coldly out at each other from a divided frame: her face as ordinary as countless other women of her age, his a study in hideousness: squashed and misshapen, with a jutting chin, a bulging fish eye and a viciously beaked nose, which looks as if someone has hacked a wedge out of the bridge. Since court artists are employed to flatter, the honesty of this ugliness makes it almost shocking.
“Oh, but you are right, my lady,” Angela squeals. “I see the family resemblance now! Think about the present Duke Urbino. His chin would come into a room well before him if he stood upright enough to carry it. He’s like…like a walking question mark!”
“And you know what everyone says: how that is not his only ailment?” another adds darkly.
“And what exactly does everyone say, Camilla?”
The women exchange hasty glances. They recognize their mistress’s high tone, but raised in the cesspit of Rome, where gossip is as normal as breathing, they simply cannot help themselves.
“That the Duke of Urbino can’t do it!” Angela jumps in with a theatrical whisper. “He is a gelded goat. Isn’t that right?” She turns to her companions eagerly; this tasty morsel is new and it is best to be sure of its veracity.
“Yes, no, it’s true, my lady.”
And now they all pile in.
“Though that doesn’t stop him trying.”
“Apparently his wife never knows when it’s going to happen, and she has to fight him off, because he jumps on her like a dog.”
“Sometimes he even tries to hump her leg.”
“No! Drusilla, Camilla, Angela! All of you.” Lucrezia struggles to keep her face stern as she puts her hands over her ears. She has been too much the victim of outrageous slander to believe every rumor that floats in the air. “Our host the duke is a fine man, and his wife, Elisabetta, an even finer woman, cultivated and modest. We are guests in their home and I will hear no more of this.”
Still, once it has been said, how can she ever look at Elisabetta in the same way, her or her question mark husband? Such is the greasy slide from rumor into fact.
She detaches herself from the group and makes her way into the next chamber, where a set of elegant windows is lit by the setting sun. She pushes open an intricately leaded frame. It is high up here and the drop to the valley floor is breathtaking. The greatest marvel of the palace of Urbino is how it could have been built at all. That had been her first thought as she glimpsed it from the road: how it seemed to sprout out of sheer rock, its dazzling white façade decorated by two delicate Byzantine towers soaring up toward the heavens. Looking down, she sees the very same path they traveled, like a length of grubby cord winding through the valley floor. Anyone standing here now could spot an invading force twenty, even thirty miles away.
She thinks of Cesare and his reputation for war, how his cannons have blown apart seemingly impregnable fortresses to take half a dozen cities north of here. His military success is the only reason she is here at all. Though she might carry with her a dowry to make a sultan’s eyes water, that alone would never have “persuaded” the Duke of Ferrara, head of the ancient family of Este, to marry his son and heir, Alfonso, to the twice-married and gossip-stained bastard daughter of a pope. No. It is fear of her violent brother that twisted his arm. The alliance is a triumph for the Borgias, another building block in the formation of a dynasty. What had it mattered to him if it had been bought at the price of the murder of her adored last husband?
Alfonso: it is a particular cruelty of fate that Lucrezia’s new husband has the same name as her old one. Except that her Alfonso will never be old. She might live until she drowns in fat or shrink till her skull shows through her skin, but her Alfonso will always be young and lovely: the dancer’s leg, the smooth chiseled face and those extraordinary blue eyes, like chips of polished lapis lazuli.
The drop grows vertiginous beneath her and she has to steady herself by holding on to the window ledge.
“No, Lucrezia,” she murmurs under her breath. “This is not the time…”
But it is too late. She is back there again, hearing the howling inside her ears as she stands in front of her brother, a cohort of armed men at his back as he tells her how the death was necessary, how his own safety had been threatened by a plot against his life! Coward! Liar! At the time she had met his deceit with ice rather than fire, but standing here now she has a different image of her grief, seeing it as a raging wind, sucking him up, lifting him across the room, smashing him through the windows and hurling him into a fire-spitting vortex, one of the circles of hell made flesh by Dante’s violent poetry.
Only what then? What would that mean for her? To be a woman without a husband or a brother. A shiver runs through her.
“I am fine,” she says quickly, registering the touch of Angela’s hand on her arm. “The view made me dizzy for a moment, that’s all. Come, it is time to get ready.”
And it is true. She is fine. Within a few weeks she will be duchess of one of Italy’s most cultured cities, for though the old duke still lives, with his wife dead the title will be hers. She will have a court of h
er own filled with musicians and poets, and though she will not command an army or breach any walls, she will wage another kind of warfare: one that needs no deaths to take prisoners. As she will do tonight when she laughs and dances, watching everyone in Urbino melt under the warmth of her charm.
What? Do men like Stilts really believe that full skirts mean empty heads? He should have been with her in the Vatican when the Pope was away and she was left in charge of domestic business, or looked over her shoulder as she read petitions and court cases put before her as governor of Spoleto and Narni. If diplomacy is war without weapons, why shouldn’t women play as well as men? Her father has never been so shortsighted. They both know that Urbino and the papacy have had their disagreements in the past; indeed they had discussed it before she left: how this visit would be an opportunity to show the connection between them. And now she has gained an extra day, she will do whatever she can to forward the cause.
No, brother, she says to herself as she turns from the window. You are not the only one who can take cities.
Cesare, who has never had any patience when it comes to waiting for divine intervention, is fighting nausea with fury. There is no time for this; in Rome there are dispatches waiting to be read: news of his sister’s progress, offers of arms and men for sale, informants to squeeze for information. Yet here they are penned like pigs squealing in fear of the butcher’s knife. Damn to hell this captain and his superior airs.
He glances round the cramped cabin. Like his father, he keeps only a few men close: Spaniards from old families schooled in loyalty and soldiering. They would give up their lives for him without question, though at this moment they are more worried about losing the contents of their stomachs. No time for prayers here, only the sound of retching and swearing.
Only Miguel de Corella, the duke’s bodyguard, sits unperturbed. His face is an artwork of scars carved by someone who didn’t live long enough to see the blood dry. Had it been five or six of them he had dispatched that day? The number grows with each retelling. Though not by him. Michelotto, as he is known, does not bother with stories. He is already a legend: a man who has disciplined himself to be free from all vanities of self, his mind and body absorbed only in the service of his master. In another life, with another God, he would have made the most impressive monk, withstanding pain, thriving on physical hardship, rejecting all temptation and holding to the commandments with the same fervor with which he now breaks them. If Cesare Borgia has any confidant, then this man is it.
He is aware of the duke’s fury and frustration, knows exactly what he is thinking. The violence of the swell is calming and the thunder of the rain against the wood dying away. He catches Cesare’s eye, nodding in acknowledgment of what he knows is to come.
“God’s blood, I cannot be the only one who has had enough of this.” Cesare’s voice is strong and clear as he gets to his feet. “Are there any here who cannot swim?”
To the left of Michelotto a hand starts to rise, then sensing its isolation comes firmly down again.
“Good.” The duke grins. “Then tonight we will sleep on featherbeds.”
“The blue silk, I think, with the cap of pearls.” Back in her room, Lucrezia runs over the two outfits laid across the chest. “The slashes in the sleeves show well on the dance floor.”
Tonight, as always, the festivities will include envoys and spies from all over the country, their mission to note her every gesture and to price each piece of jewelry, every yard of cloth for their dispatches home. This outrageously rich dowry that she brings offers an easy excuse for envy and spite, and there have been moments when she has misjudged the level of ostentation necessary to impress, when the number of precious stones resting on her skin or sewn into her skirts has made it hard for people to see the sincerity in her eyes. But she has learned fast.
“I think the gold would be more fitting to the occasion, my lady.”
“Perhaps, but I wore it already in Rome. Imagine the pleasure it would give my new sister-in-law to read that in her man’s dispatch.”
He is the worst of them: masquerading as a hanger-on in someone else’s entourage, but in reality the ears and eyes of Isabella d’Este-Gonzaga, the Marchesa of Mantua. Everyone knows what a gorgon she is in matters of fashion and that she is outraged at this marriage of a scandal-soaked bastard daughter to her most noble brother. From the beginning, this tubby little diplomat spy of hers had attached himself to Lucrezia like a traveling burr, obsessed by every outfit, counting each jewel however big or small and noting them down in a small book he keeps chained at his side. His diligence has made him a laughingstock, but he fears his mistress more than mockery.
“You should have seen his eyes bulge when I told him the number of pearls, diamonds and rubies in your crimson cloak. He’d already gone half blind trying to count them.”
Thank God for Donna Angela’s youthful flashing smile. These last weeks she has gone out of her way to befriend him, flirting and gossiping and using the intimacy created to feed him inner circle information on the wealth and styles yet to come. This contest can be played both ways, and one would not want the marchesa to underestimate the sartorial challenge on offer here.
“I told him I only knew the exact figure because it was my job to count them every time you wore it to check if any had fallen off in the journey. I swear he believes every word I utter.”
In return the man has let a few secrets slip himself. Somewhere in the ducal palace in Mantua a team of Illyrian women, experts in embroidery and gold threading, has been locked in for the best part of two months to ensure that the work gets done on time. What Lucrezia wouldn’t give to know the styles and fabrics they have chosen. Well, that is tomorrow’s battle. For now it is Urbino that must be taken.
Once she is dressed, her bedchamber servants move hand mirrors in a slow dance around her head to check her hair: a labyrinth of swirls and curls piled up under a pearled cap showing off the delicate shape of her ears. Her rib cage feels squeezed beneath the fitted bodice. She takes a few breaths to judge its pull.
“The seamstress has put in extra stitches, my lady.”
Catrinella, black as night with fresh fruit lips and sharp white teeth, is newly made head of the bedchamber for this journey and is intensely proud of the promotion. How she has grown! Lucrezia thinks. She had been a child slave when she arrived in the Borgia house, purchased as a fashion accessory for Lucrezia’s first marriage. She can still see the girl, wedding train in her hands, the dark of her skin against the white silk making a wondrous contrast in a sea of color. And always her fierce little face, determined to get everything right.
“You have lost weight these last weeks, my lady. Everyone says you must eat more tonight or the dancing will fatigue you,” she says, clicking her tongue in motherly fashion. Fluent now in Italian and two dialects of Spanish, as well as the language of fashion, she offers loyalty that is boundless and unshakable.
“That’s as may be. But I must also still be able to breathe.”
Lucrezia lifts up her pale blue skirts and underpetticoats to reveal a set of well-turned ankles. Tonight she will flirt carefully with the duke, while being ever aware that she does not overwhelm the duchess. And then, because his bent back means he does not choose to dance, she will dance for him, a modest Salome with no motive other than to bring him courtly pleasure.
One last thing. Catrinella, crouched at her feet now, holds two gilt leather shoes in her hands.
“Oh, no, not another new pair,” she groans. “I will wear yesterday’s again.”
“You can’t, my lady. They had mud stains on them and are still wet from the swabbing. We have stretched these as best we can on the wooden foot.”
Not far enough. Her toes sing out in protest as the leather bites.
The earnest shining face looks up at her. “After the first few passes you will barely notice them.”
She laughs, because she knows it is true.
“In God’s name what are they doing?”<
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The storm may be over, but the Pope’s good humor is draining fast as through the lifting cloud he watches Cesare’s galley, its sail now hoisted to catch the remaining wind, heading directly toward the coast.
“Your Holiness, you are wet to the skin. You must come inside and let us warm you.”
But Alexander is not going anywhere. “Sweet Mary, look. Look! They are heading toward land! Don’t they know there are reefs all along this coast? If they go too far in they risk running aground.”
Smashed like a bunch of kindling twigs. That was how it had been: a brace of churchmen and courtiers sucked under the sea, their bodies spat out along a beach with their chests of costumes and silver chalices strewn around them. And all he and his fellow travelers could do was watch it happen: the same coast, the same treacherous waters. God would not deliver such a blow now, surely.
“Bring the captain! We must stop them. Don’t they know how perilous it is?”
“The commander is an experienced sailor, Your Holiness.” The captain has been asking himself the same question from his position at the wheel. “He must be going toward the shore in order to launch the rowing boat.”
The Pope yanks his sodden cap farther down on his head. “But! But that is hardly less dangerous! What in God’s name would make him do that?”
“I would suggest an order from Duke Valentine, Holy Father,” the captain says evenly. “You will remember how keen the duke was to get back to Rome. If the rowing boat makes land and they find horses, Corvetto is not far away.”
An order from the duke. The words have an appalling plausibility to them. The Pope grips the rails tighter and lets out a groan. What does it matter if he can help bring a ship through chaos, if he cannot get his own son to obey him?
“Can we stop them?”
“There is too much distance between us. By the time we get there the boat will already be launched.”
“Just how dangerous is it?” Alexander says quietly.