by Sara Poole
“But not away from your father, who is curiously possessive of you. He does not accept our marriage. Indeed, I have begun to wonder if he would accept your being truly married to anyone.”
“What do you mean?” Young as she was, Lucrezia was far from ignorant. She knew the depths to which Borgia’s enemies went in their efforts to defame him, even dragging his relationship with his young daughter through the vilest muck. I sucked in my breath as I realized what a mistake it was for Sforza to remind her of that, and an even worse one for him to entertain any such suspicions himself.
But the Lord of Pesaro seemed to have no sense of that. To the contrary, he seemed to have no sense at all. “I merely wonder whether if we were allowed to live together as husband and wife, I would find that you—”
Find what? That she was not a virgin because of the disgusting slander against her and her father? I slammed a hand over my mouth to contain my gasp. How could Sforza be so foolish? And so cruel?
“Get out!” Lucrezia screamed, her self-control finally shattering, if only for a moment. Or perhaps, like her father, she understood the selective use of rage. “Get out and do not come back!”
“You cannot order me about! I am your husband—”
“If you do not leave now, I will tell my father what you just said. Papa believes me too sheltered to know about the filth his enemies spread. I will let him think that was so until you put them in my mind. Do you have any idea how enraged he will be or what he will do to you in turn?”
Weakly, Sforza said, “He needs my family’s support—”
“He did need it in order to gain the papacy, but he is pope now and unless you are very careful, he will come to see all you Sforzas as a liability. Instead of making him regret that he ever agreed to our marriage, you should be seeking ways to win his favor.”
“I don’t know how.” A hard confession on the part of a member of one of the wiliest and most guileful families in all of Italy, but then no one had ever claimed that Giovanni Sforza was overly endowed with either intelligence or daring. Lucrezia possessed far more of both, as she did not hesitate to demonstrate.
“You may start by doing as I said—leave.”
A long moment of silence followed. I imagined the two of them staring at each other—golden-haired Lucrezia with her angelic face and dark, brooding Sforza, who was, to be fair, a handsome man. Under other circumstances, they might actually have been happy with each other. But the world was as it was, and it left very little room for matters of the heart.
Caught up in the drama happening just out of sight, I barely had the presence of mind to dart behind a nearby column before the door to Lucrezia’s apartment banged open and Sforza stomped out in a fury. I waited until he had vanished down the far end of the corridor before approaching tentatively. Half expecting to find Borgia’s daughter in tears, I was surprised to discover her in a window seat, reading calmly.
As I entered, she looked up and smiled. “Francesca, how good to see you. Come, sit down.” She patted the stool beside her. “I hope you have gossip to share. I am most dreadfully bored.”
The strain around her eyes suggested she was in the grip of far more turbulent feelings, but I understood her determination to conceal them. From a tender age, Lucrezia and I had both recognized the perils of revealing too much to the world.
“Let me see…,” I began as I settled onto the stool. A servant brought goblets of warmed wine. I sipped mine gladly, remembering only then that I had not yet eaten. Intent on diverting her, I embarked on a fanciful rendition of recent events in Viterbo.
“If rumor is to be believed, two housewives almost came to blows in the market over a particularly nice round of cheese. A pig got loose as a result, creating havoc. Someone took advantage of the uproar to steal several apples. While the thief was being pursued, a vat of wine was upended, its contents spilling all over the road. To the dismay of those who tried to sop it up, the wine was found to be sour. Now the winemaker is blaming the cooper who made the vat; the cooper says it was the fault of the fellow who hauled it to market, who says in turn that the problem lies in the winemaker using dregs fit only for vinegar. Several lawyers newly arrived from Rome have inserted themselves into the matter, so Heaven only knows when or how it will end.”
Lucrezia laughed, her altercation with Sforza seemingly forgotten. “Never, provided there are enough lawyers involved. Centuries from now no one will remember where the town of Viterbo stood, but they will know that the matter of its sour wine remains unresolved.”
I smiled at her whimsy, but I was not fooled by it. What Sforza had suggested truly was unforgivable. She would bide her time, but I was certain that in the end, she would exact a price for the insult he had done her and her father both. She was, after all, a Borgia.
“I need to speak with you about a matter of some seriousness,” I said. As young as she was, Lucrezia had a right to know why her security was being increased, if only so that she could be more vigilant about her own safety. I still did not believe that she or Cesare was a likely target, but precautions had to be taken in any case.
When I told her of the assassin, she showed no surprise but merely sighed. “Sometimes I wonder what it is like to live an entirely normal life, far from any such turmoil.”
As I wondered the same on occasion, I sympathized with her. However, I also pointed out, “Such a life may seem enviable, but it offers little opportunity to influence one’s own destiny. Ordinary people are always being surprised by events, usually unpleasantly.”
“Perhaps,” Lucrezia allowed. “But as I have no control over my own destiny under any circumstances, I still think that I would prefer such a life.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she might have more control than she knew, provided that she acted with care and circumspection, but I suspected that she would find that out for herself in time.
We nibbled almonds and sipped more wine, talking of Rome, fashion, and her vapid ladies, whose company she was happy to do without. At length, she fell silent. I perceived that something weighed on her mind and thought it must be Sforza, but she surprised me.
“Do you think Cesare will ever accept the life our father has chosen for him?” she asked.
I hesitated. Any suggestion of a conflict between father and son was inherently dangerous. Surrounded by enemies as they were, it was essential that la famiglia stand as one.
“He will do what he must,” I said.
“But how does he feel about it?”
“He … accepts what cannot be changed, at least for now.”
She nodded, seemingly satisfied, but she was not done. “What of you, Francesca? What life do you envision for yourself?”
I finished the last of the wine and rose to go. “I find it best not to dwell on such matters. Are you coming down to dinner?”
She took my refusal to answer with good grace and said, “Would I miss an opportunity to enjoy the wit of surly Spaniards and pompous prelates?”
I smiled despite myself. “There is a new jester.”
She brightened at that. “Really? Well, then I will come. Perhaps he will show us for the fools we are.”
“Or perhaps he will merely make you laugh.” I hoped that David could. Indeed, I hoped that he would make her laugh enough to forget, for some little time, Sforza, his vile accusations, and the price she was paying—indeed, we were all paying—for Borgia’s ambitions.
For myself, I had no interest in totaling up the cost, nor could I have done so even if I had been inclined to try. I could only hope that there would be room, as David had said, for other men to breathe.
All the same, Lucrezia’s question lingered in my mind. I could not tell her that it was not the future that weighed on me but the past. Until I found some way to put that to rest, I was trapped in a nightmare that had no end.
9
Renaldo found me in the great hall early the next morning. Despite the threat hanging over us, he looked better than he had
the night before. A merchant venture he had invested in had paid off nicely, and he was beginning to dream of his retirement.
“A villa in Capri, perhaps,” he said as we both drew our cloaks closer against the dank weather. Rain dripped from the palazzo eaves, splattering in puddles across the piazza. Rain, rain, endless rain. I was beginning to long for winter and at least the chance of snow. “A place to sit in the sun, doves cooing, a nice, plump wife…”
“Sounds lovely,” I allowed. “But what would we do without you?”
“Nothing lasts forever,” he said with a shrug. “Change is the only constant. Heraclitus said that, didn’t he? That Greek fellow who dreamed up the idea of Logos, the source and order of the cosmos. Scripture says the same: ‘In the beginning was the Word.’ But the ‘word’ is Logos. What are we to make of that?”
There had been a time when I assumed that Renaldo kept his nose securely in his ledgers. I had since learned otherwise, and therefore was unsurprised by such erudition.
“Heraclitus also said that the cosmos was not created by God or man but simply is,” I replied. “Which, I suppose, helps to explain why Holy Mother Church does not fully embrace the rebirth of ancient learning.”
Renaldo nodded gravely. “That is so. By the way, there is a nun looking for you.”
“A nun? Did she say what she wanted?”
“Not that I know of. I have to admit that I was surprised when the doorkeeper told me. Not that a nun looking for you is odd. We all know nuns, but—”
“I don’t.”
Renaldo’s eyes were watery and bulged a little, the result of too many hours bent over his accounts. He blinked slowly. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know any nuns and I have no idea why one would be looking for me. When was she here?”
Renaldo looked uncertain. “A few minutes ago, perhaps a little more.”
I looked around the hall, hoping to catch sight of her. When I did not, I took my leave of the steward and moved toward the wide double doors giving out onto the piazza. Despite the spitting rain, priests, merchants, petitioners, and hangers-on jostled for space as they tried to make their way toward the palazzo or simply stood about watching the gloriously attired prelates and their entourages coming and going.
No, not quite everyone. A nun was crossing the square in the opposite direction toward the nearby church of Santa Maria della Salute. As I watched, she glanced back over her shoulder toward the palazzo. In that moment, I recognized the pale face of the woman who had smiled at me near the town gates.
Without pausing to think, I hurried down the wide stone steps to the piazza. The nun was disappearing into the church. I followed quickly, sloshing through puddles that had collected between the cobblestones. Stepping inside, I looked in all directions, but saw no sign of her. By the time I had walked halfway down the nave, I was beginning to wonder if my imagination had been playing tricks on me. But a moment later, I caught sight of the nun kneeling at prayer before an altar dedicated to blessed Saint Clare.
Unsure of what I hoped to gain by following her, I hesitated. Irreligious as I was, even I knew that it wasn’t right to interrupt a nun at her prayers. Besides, what would I say to her? As it happened, I need not have been concerned. Even as I debated what to do, she crossed herself and rose. Turning, with her hands clasped together at her waist, she caught sight of me. Her lovely, serene face lit up with a smile.
“How astounding is the way of our Lord,” she said. “You were just now in my thoughts, and here you are before me.”
At a loss as to how to respond, I could only ask, “You came to the palazzo?”
She nodded. “To inquire about you, but alas, the doorkeeper was not very forthcoming.”
That did not surprise me. Few members of Borgia’s household would want to speak of me at all, much less involve themselves in any matter having to do with me.
“What was your purpose?” I asked. “Why do you seek me?”
She hesitated. We were both speaking softly in deference to our surroundings, but the nun glanced around as though to be sure that we could not be overheard.
“You are Francesca Giordano, are you not?”
When I nodded, she clasped her hands more tightly, as though to contain her excitement.
“I thought as much yesterday when I saw you by the town gate,” she said. “Forgive me, but the shock was so unsettling that I really didn’t know what to do. I prayed for guidance and woke this morning certain that I had to speak with you.”
“I don’t understand…” My profession was shocking, to be sure, but there was nothing particularly remarkable about my appearance. Certainly nothing that required praying over.
Without warning, the nun reached out and took my hands in hers. I stiffened in surprise but did not attempt to pull away. Looking into my eyes, she said, “Has no one ever told you? You are the very image of your mother. The moment I saw you, I knew that you had to be dear Adriana’s daughter.”
* * *
We sat on a stone bench near the altar to Saint Clare. The nun was silent, her fingers working the plain wooden beads of her rosary. When the tightness in my chest eased, I was able to speak.
“Other than my father, I have never met anyone who knew my mother.”
She lowered her beads and looked at me. Once again, I was struck by the smooth serenity of her features; testament, I assumed, to her sanctity, which protected her from the trials of ordinary life.
“I am sorry to hear that,” she said softly. “Please forgive me for taking you by surprise. My name is Mother Benedette. I am abbess of a religious house in Anzio. Adriana and I were friends when we were both girls in Milan. Our lives took very different paths, but I have never forgotten her.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. I am … glad to have a chance to speak of her.” In fact, I was overwhelmed. My long-dead mother was an imagined ideal for whom I yearned with all the desperation of a child’s wounded heart. On occasion, I even fancied that I could remember her singing to me. Given that she had died at my birth, I could only conclude that my grip on sanity was even more precarious than I wanted to admit.
Hesitantly, because this was all so new and fraught, I asked, “Do I really look like her?” My father had spoken of my mother very little, I supposed because of the lingering pain of her loss. And I, a deeply troubled child with a disturbing talent for the art of death, had never wanted to burden him with questions.
“For a moment when I saw you near the gate,” the abbess said, “I thought that time had rolled back and I was seeing Adriana. The resemblance is that uncanny.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Your mother and I were so close; like sisters, really. It is the blessing of God that has guided me to you.”
She would not think so when she knew the truth about me. It could not be very long before some well-intentioned soul whispered in her ear that I was the pope’s poisoner and a witch in the bargain. Oh, yes, and a puttana who took a prince of Holy Mother Church to my bed. Before that happened, I was determined to seize the opportunity to learn everything from her that I could.
“What was my mother like?” I asked.
As though she understood my hunger, the abbess said, “Adriana was the kindest, most caring person I have ever known. She was also very high-spirited. She always preferred to run anywhere rather than walk. She loved music and played the lute very well. As for her needlework—”
“She wasn’t good at it?” My heart leaped at the thought that my mother and I might be alike in some way, however small. Such a possibility had never occurred to me.
Mother Benedette chuckled. “It was her bane. Her threads were always tangled, her stitches uneven. Once, I remember, we were both set samplers to do. I sped through mine while Adriana labored, pricking her fingers over and over until the linen was stained with her blood. I could not bear that and offered to do the work for her, but she knew that such duplicity was wrong and would not allow me to fall into sin. Fortunately, the embroidery mistre
ss was a sensible woman who, seeing what Adriana had produced despite so great an effort, suggested that she pursue drawing instead.”
“And did she?” I had never so much as picked up a piece of charcoal, although I enjoyed watching others, especially Rocco’s young son, Nando, draw. The process fascinated me.
“Oh, yes, quite successfully. Her best drawings were of animals. She truly loved them and was forever bringing home strays.”
My father and I had used stray animals to test new poisons on, a practice he accepted only reluctantly as a regrettable necessity. Seeing how it troubled him, I suggested using humans instead. When he recovered from his shock that I would think of such a thing, I was able to persuade him that it was an act of mercy to grant a quicker, less painful death to those otherwise condemned to torturous execution. Such had been my practice ever since. That the results are more accurate, and therefore more useful, surely does not make the act of compassion any less.
“Do you know how she met my father?”
Mother Benedette nodded. “Adriana’s mother was stung by a wasp. The injury became infected and the poor woman was suffering horribly. The physicians were useless, as usual, but Giovanni, who was earning a reputation for himself as an apothecary, devised a poultice that drew the poison out and allowed her to heal.”
“I suppose the family was grateful?”
“They certainly should have been, but like so many others, they preferred not to deal with Jews. They had turned to Giovanni only as a last resort. Adriana thought their behavior was unkind. She sought your father out privately to tell him that.”
I had only recently come to terms with the fact that my father had been born a Jew, a fact he had concealed from me all my life. Granted, he had converted to Christianity and, so far as I knew, had been sincere in his faith. But my mother had known him before that happened. I wondered how she had possessed the courage to seek him out.
“I would like to tell you more,” Mother Benedette said as she stood. “But it is almost time for vespers. Perhaps we can meet again?”