The Borgia Mistress

by Sara Poole

  For a moment, I feared that she might give in to the tears glistening in her eyes, but she blinked them away hastily and nodded.

  “Then I thank God for guiding me as He has done, and I tell you truly, your friendship means as much to me as your mother’s ever did.”

  In the aftermath of the events at the villa, her kindness all but overwhelmed me. I needed a moment before I could respond. “Be assured that I feel the same way. When you have completed your pilgrimage to Assisi, perhaps we can—”

  I was about to voice my hope that she might stop in Viterbo again on the way back to her abbey, or visit me in Rome if we had, please God, returned to the city before then, but Mother Benedette forestalled me. “In that spirit of that friendship, I must speak with you honestly,” she said.

  Bracing myself for what I was sure must be her concerns about the state of my soul, I said, “By all means.”

  “I fear that you are in great danger, Francesca.”

  “I would be the last person to claim that I am without sin, but—”

  She looked at me in surprise. “Oh, I don’t mean that. I’m concerned because people are saying that you must also have been responsible for the death of the Spanish servant. And that is not all they are blaming you for.”

  “There is more?”

  “People want to believe that His Holiness will not take us into war, but they still have grave doubts about him and his intentions. They fear that he cares for nothing but the well-being of his own family and that he will do anything to increase his own power—even if that means that ordinary people are put in great peril.”

  She was right, of course. But that did not mean that Borgia was a poor choice for pope. Without doubt, there were far worse.

  “There is some truth to that,” I admitted. “But Borgia is a man of vision and daring. He supports the rebirth of classical learning, natural philosophy, the arts, and much more. He decries superstition and hypocrisy. He believes that the Church has become mired in ways that no longer work in the world and he wants to change that.”

  “All well and good,” Mother Benedette said. “But people are caught between wanting to put their trust in him and being unable to do so. In that situation, it is very easy for them to convince themselves that his failure to be what they want him to be is proof of a malign influence at work on him. More and more, they suspect you of being that influence.”

  “Me?” It was absurd, utterly ridiculous, past all reason. To begin with, I had no particular influence over Borgia, but that he should be absolved of his failings and I held responsible for them … I took a breath, forcing myself to remain calm. After all, there was nothing I could do about what was being said in the streets.

  “Words cannot hurt me,” I said with rather more confidence than I felt.

  “Dismiss it if you will,” Mother Benedette said, “but I would feel terrible if I went on to Assisi, leaving you in danger.”

  Though her concern touched me deeply, it also surprised me. “What happens to me is not your responsibility.”

  “In a way, it is. After all, I put myself in your life, taking it upon myself to stir up memories that you might have dealt with better in a calmer time. If you are confused or distracted as a result, and therefore less able to deal with the problems that confront you, I do have some responsibility for that.”

  I could not help but think that she was taking too much upon herself, but rather than say so, I replied, “Even so, I don’t see how you could help.”

  Mother Benedette sighed. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me beseechingly.

  “Your mother was as stubborn, always believing that she had to handle problems for herself. She had to meet your father and fall in love with him before she realized that we are not meant to face the trials and tribulations of this life alone. If there is anyone else you can trust to stand with you…”

  David had stepped forward when Herrera came at me, yet I was still not entirely certain of his motives. Cesare had done the same, but I was no more sure of his intent. Vittoro could be counted on, and Renaldo, too, but they both had their own burdens.

  “I cannot ask you—” I began.

  “You do not have to. I am offering—nay, I am pleading. Let me be your friend as I was your mother’s. I could not help her, but, God willing, I can help you.”

  What could I say? On the one hand, I was not accustomed to trusting anyone outside the very small circle of people in Rome on whom I could rely. However, they were not with me now; I was alone. Mother Benedette seemed to be a woman of sincerity and strength. I could do far worse in an ally.

  Besides, being seen in the company of a holy woman would do me no harm. To the contrary, it would make it more difficult for Herrera and others to label me a witch in need of burning. The thought of thwarting the Spaniard settled the matter for me.

  “I accept,” I said with a smile, “on the condition that you agree to stay here in the palazzo. If I am to impose on you in such a way, I want to be certain that you have every comfort.”

  Mother Benedette laughed and squeezed my hands. “Only remember that I am a simple bride of Christ unaccustomed to the ways of the great and powerful.”

  “I am sure you will hold your own.” I had to hope that would prove to be true, but the more I considered it, the better the plan seemed. As soon as Renaldo returned from inspecting his new counting table—he reported that it was coming along nicely—I asked his help in finding suitable accommodations for the abbess.

  “She has gone to fetch her things and bid farewell to the other nuns, who are traveling on to Assisi now that the roads are reopening,” I told him.

  “Excellent. The apartment opposite yours is free.”

  Most likely, I thought, because no one was eager to sleep across the hall from a poisoner.

  “She can have that,” Renaldo continued. “I’ll make sure the majordomo knows that she is to be made very comfortable.” He reflected for a moment, then added, “I hope you won’t mind my being so frank, but I am very glad that she is staying. The Spaniards in particular are … getting a bit out of hand.”

  “I daresay we can manage them,” I replied.

  He went off happily as I hastened to make my usual rounds. By the time I was finished, the abbess had returned. She carried a small bundle bound in a length of homespun cloth, no more elaborate than would be expected of a nun, and was slightly flushed.

  “The good sisters tried to persuade me to go on to Assisi with them,” she said. “But I think in the end I convinced them that this is where I am called to be.”

  I had to hope she would not have cause to regret that. After I showed her to her quarters—which she described as breathtaking and beyond anything she could have expected—I offered her a tour of the palazzo.

  “Finding your way around isn’t as difficult as it may seem at first,” I said. “But I want to make sure that you don’t get lost.”

  “If I do, I’m afraid that I will wander for days.”

  She did appear a bit overwhelmed, which worried me until we came to the lion fountain at the center of the arched loggia overlooking the town. Just as Mother Benedette was admiring the vista, there was a flurry of movement at a door leading to the opposite wing of the palazzo. Borgia appeared, surrounded by a retinue of his secretaries and various of the prelates.

  Seeing me, he paused. I kept my head high and met his scrutiny without flinching. I had no doubt that he was looking for any sign of weakness in the aftermath of what had happened. If I showed the smallest glimmer of self-doubt, his confidence in me would be weakened and my own fate made all the more uncertain for that. Truly, it helped to have a friend at my side.

  At last, his gaze shifted to Mother Benedette. “Who would this be?” he inquired.

  “Your Holiness, may I have the honor to present to you Mother Benedette, abbess of the Convent of Saint Clare in Anzio.”

  Borgia extended his hand. With a look of reverence, Mother Benedette took it and pressed he
r lips to the papal ring. “Your Holiness,” she murmured.

  Staring over her bent head at me, the Vicar of Christ raised a brow in inquiry.

  “Mother Benedette and my mother were dear friends.”

  I watched him as I spoke, curious to see how he would react. It defied credulity that he would have hired my father in the ultrasensitive post of poisoner without investigating him thoroughly first. I wondered how long he had known the truth about my mother’s fate and whether he had ever intended to tell me.

  “I remember Francesca so well from when she was very small,” the abbess said. “It is the blessing of God that I have found her again.”

  Before Borgia could reply, I added, “I hope you will not mind, Your Holiness, but I have asked Mother Benedette to stay with me here in the palazzo for a time so that she and I may become better acquainted.”

  His look of surprise was gratifying, so rarely did it occur, but I knew it would not last. Quickly enough, he assessed the situation and came to his own conclusions regarding the abbess.

  “You are more than welcome, Mother Benedette,” Il Papa said with a warmth rarely seen in him. “I am certain that Francesca will benefit from your presence here.” Belatedly, he added, “So shall we all.”

  As the abbess murmured something about His Holiness’s great kindness and generosity, Borgia bent closer. Softly, so that only I could hear him, he said, “Nicely played. It appears that you have Herrera in check.”

  By which I concluded that I was still in His Holiness’s good graces.

  When he had passed on, Mother Benedette smiled, apparently not at all overwhelmed by her sudden encounter with Christ’s Vicar. “Quite an impressive man. I can see that you have your hands full protecting him.”

  “It can be challenging,” I allowed. “Perhaps you would like to see the kitchens next?” The more people who saw us out and about together, the more quickly news of my warm relationship with the abbess would spread. And the more quickly Herrera’s campaign to slander me would be undone.

  “I would like nothing better,” Mother Benedette said, and took my arm.

  22

  Renaldo leaned back in his chair, folded his arms behind his head, and gazed up at the ceiling. Deep in thought, he asked, “Mother Benedette has been here how long? Two days?”

  Seated across from him in his office, sipping a very decent burgundy he had offered with no apology for its being French, I replied, “About that.”

  He nodded. “Thus far all of the following is being said with great authority: She received a visitation from Saint Clare, who told her to come to you. Alternatively, His Holiness sent for her because he fears for the state of your soul. Or you sent for her because you fear for the state of His Holiness’s soul. Or you received a visitation from Saint Clare or Saint Mary Magdalene or the Devil—there is some disagreement about which—and you sent for her for the sake of your own soul.”

  I swallowed half the burgundy and said, “The rumormongers have been even busier than usual.” I strongly suspected that I was speaking to one of them, but I didn’t fault Renaldo’s intentions.

  “They have,” he agreed. “The best part is that Herrera and the other Spaniards are enraged but stymied. They’re convinced this is a trick of some sort, but they can’t decide how you’ve managed it.”

  “I’m surprised they aren’t suggesting that, as a servant of the Devil, I didn’t just conjure Mother Benedette.”

  “They would if they could, but she is just so … genuine. That homespun habit of hers, the wooden rosary, the aura of sanctity that shines all around her…”

  “Really? Aura of sanctity?” I liked Mother Benedette well enough, but I saw no halo on her.

  “Oh, yes, definitely. I think we should make frequent references to that whenever we speak of her.”

  “You’re seriously suggesting that we—?”

  “Look at the facts, Donna Francesca. She arrives in Viterbo, seemingly from nowhere, in the midst of great danger and upheaval. She appeals to you directly, and really, who has more power to preserve the life of His Holiness than you?”

  “Vittoro … the pope’s personal army … all the mercenaries he has hired … his own incessant but usually brilliant scheming…”

  Renaldo brushed all that aside as though it was of no consequence. “I am speaking in a more spiritual sense, touching on the eternal battle between good and evil, which surely you personify. She arrives, but she doesn’t seek out the Spaniards or His Holiness or anyone except you, a woman like Mary Magdalene herself, tainted by all sorts of aspersions on her character. And what do you do? Like Lot in Sodom, you take her in. You give her refuge and you listen to her wise counsel.”

  “Lot’s wife ended up a pillar of salt, didn’t she? And isn’t there something about him lying with his own daughters?”

  “Details, nothing more. My point is—the point is—our Lord has reached out to succor and protect His Holiness despite Borgia’s personal weaknesses and in the face of all his enemies. Moreover, He has chosen you as the instrument of His divine will.”

  “You’re drunk.” And rather adorably so. Renaldo and I had retired to his office after dinner in the great hall, which we had both observed from the sidelines in our respective roles as steward and poisoner. Mother Benedette, on the other hand, had dined in good company, having been invited to sit next to Lucrezia, who showed her much kind attention. She had since retired, leaving the court agog over her presence.

  “I am inspired,” Renaldo corrected. “And I am also drunk, but that is only because I don’t normally drink enough to not be drunk now.”

  “I see. Did you really say that I personify the struggle between good and evil?”

  “I did, and you do. Whatever the Spaniards are putting about, we both know that you are a fundamentally good person. Yet you have chosen an occupation that assures you will be called upon to kill.”

  “I did not choose it. It chose me. My father’s death left me no alternative.” So did I justify my actions to myself and anyone else who cared to listen, including God.

  “Yes, I know. As a lone woman, you had no means of avenging his murder, but as Borgia’s poisoner—” He shrugged, leaving unsaid what we both knew: that I had so far failed to bring his murderer to justice precisely because of the responsibilities that came with the power that I had gone to such pains to acquire.

  “Was not Joan of Arc sent by Almighty God to make Charles the Seventh king of all France?” Renaldo asked.

  With no idea why we were suddenly discussing the Maid of Orleans, I countered, “Was she not burned at the stake for her pains?”

  “Only because she fell into the hands of Charles’s enemies. I am not suggesting for a moment that we let the same happen to Mother Benedette; although, frankly, having a martyr on our side wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

  I didn’t take him seriously … at least not entirely. “Just so long as it isn’t me. Can you imagine centuries from now, good Christians praying to Saint Francesca of the Poisoned Chalice or some such? Truly, I fear for the fate of our Holy Mother were that ever to come to pass.”

  Renaldo choked on his wine, spewed a quantity out his nose, and fell back in his chair. “You don’t worry about Hell at all, do you?”

  I thought of what I had seen in Tanners Lane. “Has it ever occurred to you that we are already there?”

  He considered the possibility. “That would explain quite a lot. So what do you think? We put it about that Mother Benedette—maybe we should hint that she’s actually an angel disguised as a humble abbess—that her presence is proof that God loves Borgia. Give him a cloak of sanctity, as it were, over his nakedness. Heaven knows he could use it.”

  “And people say I’m evil.” I meant it as a compliment, as I was sure he would know.

  “People have only ever said that I’m a little man obsessed with his ledgers. I wouldn’t mind being thought of as rather more than that.”

  “All right, then; but no martyring. When this is a
ll said and done, Mother Benedette goes back to her abbey in Anzio without ever being the wiser as to how we have used her.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll put a word in the right ears. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt if you showed yourself at Mass with her. The weather is bidding fair, so we shouldn’t have to worry about any lightning strikes.”

  I thought of what had happened to Borgia’s office in the Vatican and grinned. “If I must be damned, Renaldo, I am grateful to be in such good company.”

  He was fairly beaming when I departed a short time later. It was by then the deep part of the night, when all the world seems hushed and expectant. Holy Mother Church is said to spend such hours in vigil, awaiting the return of her bridegroom, Christ. Accordingly, the monks were at prayer in the chapel as I walked by. The flowing cadence of their voices as they chanted the office of matins was a balm to the jagged edges of my spirit. I paused for a few moments to listen before going on to my rooms.

  Having had almost no sleep now for a second night, I forced myself to lie down on the bed. Sofia’s powder beckoned, and—after wrestling briefly with my better sense—I took most of what remained of it. When next I opened my eyes, it was morning.

  Having dressed hurriedly, I went in search of Mother Benedette, finding her about to depart for morning services.

  “There you are, dear,” she said. “I hope you slept well?”

  “I did, yes.” Remembering Renaldo’s suggestion, I added, “Would you mind if I accompany you?”

  “On the contrary; I would be delighted.”

  We proceeded to the chapel, where, to my surprise, there was a far larger crowd than was usual. Seeing the steward, who appeared no worse for his excesses of the night before, I asked, “Isn’t it early for so many to be up and about, much less in the mood for prayer?”

  Renaldo inclined his head to Mother Benedette, bestowed a smile on me, and said, “His Holiness has sent word that he will conduct Mass this morning.”

  The rarity of that event and the curiosity it naturally provoked explained the crowd. But it gave no hint of what Borgia was thinking. Although technically he had taken holy orders decades before—a dozen years after becoming a cardinal—and was therefore required to say Mass daily, he had not done so in several months. Indeed, I wasn’t entirely sure when he had last attended Mass. In Rome, he enjoyed visiting the Sistine Chapel, adorned with magnificent frescoes by Ghirlandaio, Botticelli, Perugino, and Cosimo Rosselli depicting the lives of Moses and of Christ, but he went there at odd hours, when no services were under way. Rumor had it that he had his eye on the vast ceiling with the thought of commissioning a great work for it. However, the funding to do so continued to elude him. As for the adjacent Saint Peter’s Basilica with its overall air of dilapidation, to the best of my knowledge His Holiness had not set foot there since the roof had almost quite literally come down on his head a few months before.