The Borgia Mistress

by Sara Poole

  I dismounted in front of the villa moments after Borgia did the same. A woman stood on the stone terrace overlooking the lake. She was young, exquisitely beautiful, and visibly pregnant. I recognized her in an instant, as, I am sure, did the rest of the company. Giulia Farnese, justifiably known as La Bella, was considered to be the greatest beauty of our age. At nineteen—with long, golden hair, a complexion as pure as cream, and a slender but curvaceous form—she possessed the ability to turn the most stalwart man into a besotted fool.

  Borgia was no exception; he adored her and cosseted her in every way. His decision a month or so before to send her from Rome to the comfort of her family’s estate outside Orvieto had been taken as a sign that His Holiness did not regard the city as entirely secure for his mistress and their unborn child. Now here she was in the villa beside the Marta, seemingly overwhelmed with joy to see her lover.

  For his part, Borgia bounded up the steps to her with all the eagerness of a much younger man. Taking both her hands in his, he kissed them passionately before embracing her. They were cooing to each other when a man I had never seen before walked out of the villa onto the terrace.

  As though caught by surprise, Borgia startled. Looking down into La Bella’s lovely face, he asked loudly enough for all to hear, “Who is this?”

  She gave a charming little laugh and replied, “A visitor from the French court, my lord. Only just learning that you were about to arrive, he asked if he might stay to greet you. I hope I did not do wrong to tell him that he could?”

  For just a moment, Borgia looked at her sternly, but then, as any man could be expected to do, he yielded. Releasing his beloved, he turned to greet the Frenchman. Together, they went into the villa. La Bella, whose smile had begun to waver, took a breath and sagged a little.

  At once, I went to her. There were no other women present, but in addition, I had a particular reason for being concerned about her. Despite my best efforts, La Bella had lost a baby the previous year after being poisoned. Now she had been brought from the comfort of Orvieto to provide cover for Borgia’s meeting with the Frenchman. I could understand if she felt ill-used and in need of rest.

  “Are you in any difficulty?” I asked quietly when I reached her side.

  Recognizing me, she mustered a smile and shook her head. “Just tired and a bit concerned … you know.”

  In fact, I did. Serving a man as powerful and willful as Borgia is never easy in any capacity.

  I took her arm and we started into the villa. Behind me, I heard an angry exclamation from Herrera and glanced back over my shoulder in time to see Cesare shrug. Apparently, he had just told the Spaniard whom His Holiness was meeting with.

  The fiction that an emissary of the French king had just happened to turn up in the neighborhood of Lake Bolsena at the same time that Borgia arrived there to visit his mistress would not fool anyone, nor was it meant to. Il Papa had brought the beloved nephew of Their Most Catholic Majesties along precisely so that Herrera could witness the meeting with the Frenchman and send word of it to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.

  “Who is the emissary?” I asked as Giulia and I made our way to the pretty white-and-gold rooms she was occupying overlooking the lake. With a sigh, she settled into a chair. I took the stool beside her.

  “Comte François de Rochanaud, the French king’s minister of state,” she replied. “He seems a charming man.”

  No doubt he was to La Bella, but I rather thought Herrera would view him differently. The sheer audacity of what Borgia was doing stunned me. With all attention focused on the Spanish alliance and the threats to it, including from the still unknown assassin, His Holiness had pivoted in an entirely unexpected direction. By arranging to meet with a representative of the French king—an extremely high-ranking one at that—he signaled to the Spaniards that he was far less reliant on their support than they had presumed. He was Borgia the Bull and he had no equal. His enemies were lesser men who could never defeat him. When the dust settled, he would still be on Saint Peter’s Throne and they would be nothing.

  It was a bluff, of course. Borgia was Spanish himself; he would never favor the French over his own kinsmen, no matter how difficult or tiresome Their Most Catholic Majesties might be. Unless, of course, he was forced to do so by circumstances beyond his control.

  “I didn’t know he was bringing the Spaniards,” Giulia said wearily. “Does that strike you as wise?”

  “It seems he wants to make sure that they—and Ferdinand and Isabella—understand that he has options apart from them,” I said.

  “I suppose,” La Bella agreed. She slipped off her shoes and wiggled her small, plump toes. “I think I will dine here tonight. You are welcome to join me.”

  I thanked her for her thoughtfulness but declined. Petty though it was of me, I wanted to see Herrera’s reaction for myself, all the better to savor it.

  Leaving La Bella to rest, I was looking for a room to claim for the night when I encountered Renaldo. He appeared flustered and in a great rush.

  “They are threatening to leave!” the steward exclaimed. “Herrera is in such a state, he claims he won’t remain here a moment longer. He says he has been insulted beyond bearing and he’s going back to Spain.”

  As appealing as the notion was, I thought it highly unlikely. “And tell Their Most Catholic Majesties what, exactly? That the alliance is finished because the beloved nephew has been out-maneuvered?”

  Renaldo grinned. “I heard Cesare tell him to go if he wished but he would be ceding the field to the French.”

  Anxious to see what Herrera would do, I followed Renaldo out toward the terrace. On the way, I asked, “How did you know this was happening?”

  He glanced around to be sure no one else could hear, then said, “His Holiness personally instructed me to send supplies here to the villa. I couldn’t imagine why. Supplies to Orvieto would have made sense if he were going there to visit La Bella, but to here? So I asked myself, what does this place have that would recommend it to Il Papa?”

  “And the answer?”

  “The river, of course. A visitor who wished to be discreet could hardly come to Rome, or to Viterbo for that matter, without being seen and recognized before he got anywhere near Borgia. The prelates would have been up in arms, each wanting to have his say. Nothing of any significance could be accomplished. But the port at Corneto and a quick trip up the Marta, that would do quite well. By the time the emissary’s presence was known, it would be too late to do anything about it.”

  I stared at him in admiration. “You are wasted as Borgia’s steward. You should be his co-conspirator.”

  Renaldo chuckled. “Five to three the Spaniards stay, what do you think?”

  I shook my head. “No bet, but let’s go see all the same.”

  We reached the terrace in time to find Cesare, his arm thrown around Herrera’s shoulders, smiling in apparent good humor as all around them hounds yelped and bayed, and handlers hurried to ready the horses. Herrera did not appear at all mollified, but apparently he had been convinced to go hunting rather than go back to Spain.

  I should have been relieved, and perhaps I would have been had I not been all too vividly aware that by remaining, Herrera continued to make himself a target. Perhaps of the very man who was making every effort just then to appear to be his dearest friend.

  20

  His Holiness and the French emissary remained closeted together into the afternoon and beyond. What they had to say to each other was anyone’s guess, as no servants, attendants, or secretaries were permitted in the room. Both men being fluent in Latin, there was no impediment to their entirely private conversation. Even so, the intimacy of their meeting was bound to distress the Spaniards even more.

  With Borgia occupied and Cesare absent, I found a small but pleasant chamber for myself. Keeping in mind that my rooms in Viterbo had been searched, I left my clothes strewn about to give a false appearance of disorder that would in fact reveal any tampering. I also to
ok care to secure the small box of supplies I had brought with me. Generally, I have found that most places have a loose floorboard or two with space beneath to conceal small items. The villa was no exception.

  As weary as I was, having slept little and poorly the night before in addition to enduring the mad ride from Viterbo, I had to fight the impulse to lie down. Instead, I made my way to the kitchens. The staff, sent from La Bella’s family estate near Orvieto, knew me by name and reputation. I was welcomed with whispers and anxious looks, which I ignored.

  His Holiness would dine that evening on shad stuffed with minced oysters in a light basil sauce, seared lake duck with dried cherries soaked in liqueur, and a succulent custard of eggs, cream, lemons, and ginger. I made a point of sampling some of each, but only in very small portions. My stomach was unsettled, and I could not shake a sense of nausea creeping over me. That and the unsettled state of my nerves I reluctantly ascribed to having gone as long as I had without Sofia’s powder. Her warning to me of its dangers no longer seemed overblown.

  By the time the company gathered in the small but gracious hall of the villa, Borgia appeared to be in a considerably better mood than he had earlier in the day. He emerged from his consultations in the company of Comte François de Rochanaud, the two of them rattling away like the oldest and best of friends.

  By contrast, Herrera looked positively sullen.

  “The hunting didn’t go well,” Renaldo said as he joined me where I stood against one of the walls, a position from which we could observe the proceedings without getting caught up in them. “Either the deer hereabouts are too swift or Herrera was too slow, but they came back empty-handed.”

  “No matter,” I said. “The cooks have outdone themselves.”

  Borgia seemed to think so, as did the Comte, for they fell to with good appetites. Herrera, on the other hand, ignored what was set before him in favor of drinking steadily. Several times I caught him watching me. While I pretended not to notice, the truth is that I would have had to be a fool to ignore his animosity, or to fail to wonder how far he would go to bring about my destruction.

  The French emissary, proving himself a consummate diplomat, made an effort to be pleasant to Herrera, but he was rebuffed crudely. He shrugged that off with a worldly smile and gave his attention to Cesare, whose measure he seemed intent on taking.

  As the evening wore on, it became more and more difficult for me to fight off the fatigue weighing me down. I did not dare lean against the wall for fear that I might slip into sleep. Seeing my difficulty, Renaldo urged me to withdraw.

  “Aside from Herrera getting drunk and sulking,” he said, “nothing is going to happen. Tomorrow we return to Viterbo. You should get some rest while you can.”

  The reminder that I would be back on a horse in a few short hours was enough to decide me. With a quick nod of thanks to the steward, I slipped away.

  Although the villa was small, I was so tired that I took a wrong turn and had to make my way back down one corridor and along another before I finally found the room I had chosen. With no thought other than sleep, I opened the door.

  And walked into chaos.

  Everything in the room had been turned upside down. The mattress had been pulled off the bed and thrown to one side. The bed hangings had been yanked down and were crumpled on the floor. My clothing lay in heaps. The saddlebags I had used had been slit open. Tables, a chair, and two stools had been hurled into the corners so carelessly that several were smashed.

  Nor was the violence finished. The two men in the room were in the act of pulling up the loose floorboard where I had hidden my box of supplies. As I entered, they turned and saw me. One of the men leaped to his feet and came at me in a rush.

  Shocked as I was, instinct took over. I drew my knife, flicked it in his direction, and said, “Come any closer and you die.”

  He did hesitate, but only long enough to bellow for the second man, who, seeing his fellow’s difficulty, joined him in coming at me. What did they think? That for all my fearsome reputation, I was only a woman and therefore helpless? Or that the punishment their master would exact if they failed was worse than anything I might do? There is even the possibility that they believed they would win great favor with him if they did away with me right then and there. Or perhaps they did not think at all. In my experience, it is often a mistake to assume that people do so.

  I had fought before with a knife, but never against two men at the same time. Moreover, there was no poison on the blade. Killing—or even defending myself—would require far more than a mere nick.

  My skirt hindered me. I pulled it back with one hand while with the other I brandished my knife. I have a very clear memory of saying, “I have no wish to hurt you.”

  And then I remember nothing more. Or almost nothing. It is easiest to claim that I have no memory of what followed, and that is mostly true, but fragments still replay in my mind. The snarling face of one of the men as he launched himself at me with his own knife drawn, aimed for my heart. The ribbon of blood that appeared across his throat where I slashed him. The strength I drew from the darkness that welled up within me. The second man, drawing his own blade, coming at me, his mouth wide in a scream of mingled terror and rage. I pivoted on one foot, locked my arm at the elbow, and drove my knife into his belly up to my wrist. We hung together, he and I, in a macabre embrace, until at last I pulled the blade out. He sank down at my feet as his life ran out of him.

  I think I staggered back against the door, but again, I cannot be sure. I do know that I was covered with blood. It was in my hair, on my face, saturating my clothes. It caked my nostrils, and when I tried to breathe through my mouth, I gagged on the stench of copper. Horror filled me, and in that instant, something inside me snapped. Frantically, I tore at my garments, my hair, my face, all in a futile effort to escape the effects of what I had done. But there was no escape; I was saturated in blood, drowning in it. I reeled on the edge of an abyss as my mind threatened to shatter completely.

  In that writhing darkness, a single cord of light appeared. I seized hold of it, clinging desperately, knowing that it was all that kept me from plummeting into endless darkness.

  I would like to believe that it was my longing for Rocco and the dream of a better life that gave me the strength to hold on. Or my love for my friends—David, Sofia, Portia, and others. Or that it was of Cesare and the intimacy that we shared that I thought as I crawled my way back up into the world of reason. But none of that would be true.

  I thought instead of myself, of the child I had been, so helpless and terrified, hiding first behind a wall that could not protect me and then behind the wall of my own mind. Against all odds, that child had survived. She was still there, somewhere inside me. If I perished, so would all that was left of the innocence and goodness of my soul.

  And those who had done all the dark and terrible things, who had inflicted so much pain and suffering, would win.

  Never again would I flee from the agony of the world. I would confront it with all the strength I possessed, beginning with the carnage I had just wrought. Two men were dead—butchered. And I … I had to look like a figure from the Hell to which so many were eager to consign me.

  But, I reminded myself, I had acted in self-defense. Most women would not have been able to do so, as the men had clearly expected that I would not. They had died for their ignorance, but surely no one could blame me for reacting as I had?

  Even as I tried to convince myself that I had acted well within the right of any person to defend his or her own life, I heard the pounding of approaching feet. Belatedly, I remembered that one of the men had screamed as he came at me. And perhaps also as he died. The sounds of our struggle had reached well beyond the room, alerting others to what was happening.

  I looked around quickly with some thought of trying to straighten myself as best I could, but it was too late. A pair of Vittoro’s men-at-arms came on the double, only to halt suddenly when they saw me.

  �
�Donna?” one managed to say as his face drained of all color.

  “Go to His Eminence, Cardinal Cesare Borgia,” I directed. Even to my own ears, my voice sounded unnaturally flat. A strange calm had settled over me, as though I were part of the world yet somehow standing apart from it. In such unexpected ways do we sometimes find evidence of a merciful god. “Tell him I have need of him.”

  I had only the smallest hope that the men would be discreet, therefore I was not overly surprised when Cesare did not come alone. A bevy of others trailed after him—his own attendants, Vittoro and more men-at-arms, Renaldo, and, I saw with sinking heart, Herrera and the other Spaniards, with David close behind. Of His Holiness there was no sign, or of the French emissary. Both men were far too wily and experienced to involve themselves in such a matter.

  “I was attacked,” I said before anyone else spoke. “These men were searching my room. When I discovered them, they came at me armed. I warned them, but they would not listen.”

  “Devil!” Herrera screamed. Lapsing into his native Castilian, he went on, “¡Puta! ¡Engendro de Satanás! ¡Destructor de todo lo que es bueno y puro!”

  I caught “whore” and something about Satan before I stopped listening. Herrera was coming toward me. David was moving to stop him. I braced myself, gripping the hilt of my knife tightly.

  Cesare stepped between us. Grabbing the Spaniard by the shoulders, he demanded, “Are these your men?”

  At first I thought that Herrera would not answer him. His eyes were wild with rage, and flecks of foam shone on the corners of his mouth. He appeared to have no thought other than to get at me.

  “Are they?” Cesare demanded and shook him hard.

  Abruptly, Herrera became aware that the man he believed to be his friend was speaking to him. He took a breath, then another, and said, “Of course they are. Someone has to protect you from her.”