The Borgia Mistress

by Sara Poole

  When I was properly arrayed, I paid another visit to the kitchens, appropriating several bottles of the Sangiovese in the process, then made my way across the piazza to the cheerful little house that Vittoro was renting. The delectable aromas wafting from it made my stomach growl and reminded me that I had not eaten a proper meal all day.

  Vittoro greeted me at the door. Instead of the solemn and always proper condottiere I was accustomed to, he looked rumpled and a little distracted as he attempted to soothe a fractious child he held in his arms.

  “He has a tooth coming in,” he said as he passed the little boy to a pretty blond woman who gave me a quick smile before she hastened off. Meanwhile, men whom I took to be the sons-in-law were busy assembling a large table from trestles and planks of wood otherwise kept stacked against the wall of the main room. Vittoro poured the wine I had brought; we drank to Borgia’s health, and, as I had expected, Felicia spilled a little into the rushes for, she said, Saint Vesta, patroness of home and hearth.

  Vesta is a goddess, not a saint, as I am quite sure Felicia knew, but no matter.

  The mutton shanks were every bit as good as their aroma promised. After a day of dark turmoil and uncertainty, my mood slowly brightened. Good wine, good food, and, above all, good company will drive most demons away for at least a little while. We finished with a pear tart made by one of the daughters. I, who clung to solitude as a protection from the world, found myself basking in the moment. When a small child crawled up into my lap, I froze, but only briefly. She smiled around the thumb stuck in her mouth and seemed to require that I do no more than breathe. After a time, she fell asleep. When Felicia lifted her gently to take her off to bed, I was startled by a sense of loss.

  Too soon duty beckoned. After many thanks and promises to sup with them again, I returned to the palazzo in time to be present at the more fashionable hour when Borgia dined. I was also anxious to see if Cesare had returned. In this I was not disappointed. He was there, looking princely in black velvet and crimson silk, but when I caught his gaze, he turned away.

  I was forced to wait through the seemingly interminable meal as the Spaniards made asses of themselves as usual, Herrera braying above all the rest about the general vileness of the town, as evinced by his servant’s murder. I would have sworn that he did not even know the fellow’s name, for he never used it, but he went on and on as though they had been inseparable.

  From time to time, I caught him glancing in my direction. Sadly, I was no Medusa; the sight of me failed utterly to turn him to stone. I was reflecting on what a handy talent that would be to have when Borgia finally rose, signaling the meal’s end.

  On the way out of the hall, I tried again to catch Cesare’s eye. Clearly he was avoiding me, but why? Had he been unable to arrange Magdalene’s departure? Or had he reconsidered doing so? In either case, he should have told me. I would not have idled away the hours, first eating mutton shanks and then enduring Herrera’s cold stare, if I had known that she still languished in the shed where I had left her.

  I had worked myself up to the point of being angry at Cesare’s failure when he finally managed to disentangle himself from the Spaniards. Slipping into an alcove, he tipped his head to indicate that I should follow.

  Face-to-face with him, I did not wait. “What happened? Did you find her? Is she—”

  I meant to ask if she was on her way to Rome, but I didn’t get the chance. Without warning, Cesare said, “Your Magdalene is dead. I found her where you said she would be. There were no wounds or any other sign of violence. She appears to have simply … died.”

  Shock roared through me. Of course, I understood that she was ill and malnourished. But to expire so suddenly just when she was on the verge of being rescued—

  “Did anyone know what happened … when she died?”

  “They all made themselves scarce the moment we got there. She’ll have a proper burial, but you would be wise not to tell anyone else that you found her.”

  It took me a moment to understand what he was saying. When I did, bile rose in my throat.

  “You think I killed her?”

  His dark, almond-shaped eyes glinted. “The possibility crossed my mind.”

  Instinctively, I knew that there was no point in trying to appeal to any feelings Cesare might have for me. Everything about his manner at that moment proclaimed that I faced not a friend and lover but a stern and unyielding prince for whom there was neither morality nor immorality, only expediency.

  Either that or David was right and Cesare really was behind the plot to force his father to a reconciliation with his enemies. If that was the case, there was every likelihood that I had sent Magdalene’s killer to her.

  As calmly as I could, I said, “I did not kill her.” True enough, I had considered doing so, but only fleetingly.

  “She may have died of natural causes,” Cesare allowed. “But the Spanish servant most certainly did not, and she witnessed his death.”

  “She didn’t see the killer’s face.”

  “So you say.”

  We had come to the crux of it. Could my word be trusted? In the grip of madness brought on by the realization of what had happened to my mother and how my father had deceived me, had I killed the Spaniard? Then hunted down and slain the witness whose testimony could send me to the stake?

  I had killed before, more than a few times. Usually, I acted out of necessity and with strict professionalism. But there had been incidences when the darkness overwhelmed me and I killed with relish, savoring every moment.

  Yet never had I killed an innocent, nor had I ever considered that I could do so.

  Could Cesare?

  “Find the assassin David claims has come to Viterbo,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away, adding, “Do that and nothing else will matter.”

  And if I could not, whether because David was wrong or simply because I had finally met my match? What then?

  It is said that there are places in the Indies where the mad are held to be sacred and are revered as second only to the gods. Here where the god of Abraham holds sway, it is different. The mad are left to waste away their days in babble and frenzy, if they are fortunate. Otherwise, they are condemned as harborers of demons that can only be driven out in the purifying fire.

  Standing alone in the alcove, feeling the darkness of night closing in around me, I was certain of only one thing: I would swallow a dose of my own poison before I let either of those fates become my own.

  19

  I did not sleep that night. As though Cesare’s suspicions of me and my own fears regarding him were not enough to keep me awake, upon returning to my rooms, I discovered that they had been searched. The signs were faint but unmistakable. I had not brought so many belongings to Viterbo that I would be unaware when they were disturbed. My suspicion was aroused first when I noticed that the drawer in the table beside the bed had not been closed entirely. My hairbrush and combs were where I had left them, but they were pushed to one side of the drawer instead of being in the middle. As I investigated further, I discovered that the clothes I had folded neatly and placed in a wardrobe were all slightly askew, as though hasty hands had searched beneath and behind them. My precious books, kept in a small wooden chest on a table, were still in there, but they were no longer in the order in which I had left them.

  Worse yet, my puzzle chest had been completely turned around so that the front left now faced the wall, something I would never do. Quickly, I searched for any sign that it had been broken into, but to my relief, I found none. The chest, which my father had said was made by a sailor from the Indies, was of heavy, tough ebony. The weight of it alone would be daunting to anyone thinking of getting inside it quickly.

  From all this I gleaned that whoever had searched my quarters had done so in haste, no doubt taking advantage of my absence from the palazzo. As desperately as I did not want to believe that Cesare could be responsible, the shadow of suspicion between us made me fear exactly that.

>   Hunger for Sofia’s powder stirred within me. In a bid to distance myself from it, I picked up The City of Ladies by the extraordinary Venetian Christine de Pizan, who dared to argue that women were the equal of men and deserving of regard. For such heretical notions, she had been libeled in her own time; but she had persevered, never yielding in her defense of the worthiness of our sex. I read her words that night as a consolation to my wounded spirit and for strength against the deep tidal pull of fear that threatened to drag me under and drown me.

  Toward dawn, I finally dozed off sitting up in a chair. A knock at the door snapped me back to awareness. I rose stiff and sore to answer it. Did I hope, even in passing, that Cesare had come to make peace and allay my concerns about him? I could confide in him about the search of my rooms. He would have some ready explanation for it or, even better, know nothing but join me in determination to find the culprit.

  Renaldo dropped his hand when I opened the door and peered at him. He looked as he always did—harassed, worried, anxious—yet he mustered a smile that appeared genuine. I had no idea how much he knew (to this day I do not), but I was certain it was more than he would ever tell.

  “You’re awake,” he said. “Good. The rain has stopped; the sun is out. It’s actually a nice day. Our master has announced his intention to inspect the fortifications between here and Orvieto. We are to accompany him.”

  Belatedly, I recalled that the inspection of fortifications was Borgia’s stated reason for making the trip to Viterbo. The fact that his current mistress, the exquisite and very young Giulia Farnese, called La Bella and reputed to be the most beautiful woman in all of Italy, was staying at her family’s estate near Orvieto doubtless played no part in His Holiness’s travel plans.

  “When are we leaving?” I asked.

  “Hark and you will hear our master bellowing,” Renaldo replied. “Apparently, we should all have been on the road before dawn and would have been but for the fact that he only just thought to mention it a short time ago.”

  “I need to pack and—”

  Renaldo was shaking his head before I could finish. “We travel light or we do not. Grab what you can and be ready with all speed.” He tossed a pair of saddlebags on the bed. “These and no more,” he said as he hurried off.

  Cursing Borgia and his everlasting love of frantic activity bordering on chaos, I made haste. Stuffing clothes into one of the bags, I ignored everything Lucrezia had tried to teach me about how to put together an appropriate ensemble and only hoped that I would be suitably attired for however long we were to be away. Into the other bag I put what I regarded as the bare necessities of my trade—including the very few substances that, provided they are administered in time, can offer some remedy for poisoning.

  At the last moment, I hesitated over the puzzle chest. This time I would be away not for a few hours but at least overnight and well into the following day. A determined searcher would have time to pry his way into the chest no matter how difficult that task. Of course, it would be impossible to conceal such an effort, but that might not be as great a concern as was finding proof of my alleged guilt. With that possibility in my mind, I went through the sequence of movements needed to unlock the chest and withdrew the knife that had killed the Spaniard, returning the weapon to my pouch. I hesitated over the various poisons contained within the chest, as well as the ground diamonds intended to kill della Rovere, but there was a limit to how much I could carry; and besides, I doubted that I was dealing with a mere thief.

  Having secured the chest once again, I flung a bag over each shoulder and hurried as best I could along the corridor, down the steps, and through the great hall. Outside in the piazza, I could hear Borgia booming.

  “I am away! Cesare, to me! The rest of you sluggards, lie abed as you will, being good for nothing else.”

  Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw the upper windows of the palazzo crowded with an assortment of befuddled prelates and their entourages, all caught unawares by Borgia’s intentions. No doubt exactly as he had planned.

  Which is not to say that His Holiness was alone. Vittoro was there, along with at least a hundred men-at-arms. Cesare was already mounted beside his father, accompanied by Herrera and a bevy of the Spaniards. Frantically, I looked around for Renaldo, spying him finally on a sturdy gray, his traveling desk strapped to his chest. With one hand he controlled his own horse, and with the other he held on to mine. Apparently, in snatching a mount for me, the steward had not considered my dislike of riding, far less my general ineptitude. The chestnut mare pawed the ground and snorted even as she rolled her eyes in my direction.

  “Away!” Borgia shouted and set his spurs. With no choice whatsoever, I threw the saddlebags over the mare and launched myself onto her. She bucked; I held on with fierce desperation, and too quickly found myself rattling down the same road where I had almost been trampled by Cesare and the Spaniards. Down we went, dogs barking, trumpets blaring, townspeople scattering. In the blink of an eye—or so it seemed—we were through the market and out past the gate. The mulberry and gold banners of Il Papa streamed out in the wind as we turned north onto the continuation of the old Via Cassia, in the direction of Orvieto.

  At some point, I finally managed to breathe. So, too, I was able to adjust myself in the saddle at least so much that I no longer felt as though I was about to be thrown from it. The mare ran full out, apparently determined to keep to the front. All my efforts to persuade her otherwise were ignored. I could only hold on and hope that before too long Borgia would moderate his pace.

  By the time he finally did so, we were well away from the town, trotting along the tree-lined road. Renaldo came up beside me. The steward was flushed and bright-eyed, apparently exhilarated by the sudden adventure.

  “Our master never does anything halfway, does he?” he asked, grinning.

  Given that my posterior felt like it was being pounded against an anvil, the jarring motion traveling all the way up my spine to make my teeth rattle, I think I responded with admirable calm.

  “A little moderation would not necessarily be a bad thing. What hornet stung him that he should take off like this, do you know?”

  “Something in the dispatch bag, I think. It arrived just before he announced that we were going.”

  “But you have no idea what it was?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I? As it happens, there is a possibility that His Holiness has a scheme up his sleeve that surpasses even his usual cleverness.”

  We were riding close enough together that Renaldo could keep his voice very low. I did the same. “What scheme? What is he plotting?”

  “I dare not say, it is that audacious. But if it comes to pass, we will have a better understanding of why he left Rome in the first place and why he has just abandoned all those prelates who came with him to Viterbo.”

  “Renaldo—” I was torn between remonstrating with him for his coyness and pleading with him to satisfy my curiosity. But the steward would not be swayed.

  “Just keep an eye on the Spaniards,” he advised. “If what I suspect is true, they are in for a nasty surprise.”

  That cheered me just enough for me to hold my tongue. The miles passed in a blur as the morning wore on and the air warmed. Up ahead, I could see Borgia, who looked to be in high good humor. Not so Cesare, who appeared watchful and subdued. I had to wonder if he was aware of what his father was planning or if, like the rest of us, he had been kept in the dark.

  We had come to the foothills surrounding Lake Bolsena, which I had heard of but never seen before, at least not so far as I knew. It was possible that my father and I had traveled along its shores on our way to Rome when I was a child, but as that time is lost to me in darkness, I had no recollection of the area. I did, however, have the sense to appreciate the beauty of the landscape that unfolded before me. Rolling hills flowed down to the shores of the immense oval-shaped lake in which two small islands nestled comfortably. At the southern end of the lake lay a small, pretty town
set beside a broad river that flowed out of the lake and away toward the sea. A villa lay a short distance beyond the town. We appeared to be heading for it.

  “Are we stopping here?” I wondered out loud, on the off chance that Renaldo would relent and reveal why he was looking so puffed up and pleased with himself. As for me, I welcomed a chance to put distance between my posterior and the mare, if only temporarily. However, I saw no sign of the fortifications that Borgia had supposedly come to inspect.

  The steward gestured toward the river. “That’s the Marta. Pretty name, don’t you think? A very useful river. It runs all the way from this lake to the port at Corneto. An enterprising traveler, wishing to avoid Rome for whatever reason, could put in there and avail himself of one of the wherries that ply the Marta in both directions. Oh, look, there’s one of those now docked just beside that villa.”

  I observed the low flat boat equipped with oars at the same time as I said, “Enough, for pity’s sake! What traveler?” A sudden suspicion surfaced in my mind. Surely it wasn’t possible that—

  “Has Borgia come here to meet someone?” I demanded.

  To my utter astonishment, Renaldo smiled and in a singsongy voice that mocked my ignorance said, “Il vaut mieux être marteau qu’enclume.”

  I speak very little French and that badly, so I had no real idea what he had said, although it was something about a hammer. However, that scarcely mattered. It was the French itself that counted.

  The French.

  The Spaniards’ great rival, their sometime enemy, whose bellicose young king had his eye on Naples and whom Borgia’s most dangerous rival for the papacy, Cardinal della Rovere, was counting on as his ally.

  And, quite possibly, the signal that we had entered the end game. Whatever was to happen was hard upon us, and I still had no idea from which direction the danger would come.

  I dug my spurs into the sides of the mare and clattered after Borgia as he made for the villa with all speed. Behind me, I was aware of the Spaniards, still in Cesare’s care and, from what I could see as I went by, with no notion of what was happening.