The Borgia Mistress

by Sara Poole

  “Someone will be on hand in case his memory is rusty?” I asked.

  Renaldo rolled his eyes. “We can only hope. Come, let’s get a good seat.”

  In honor of His Holiness’s presence and to accommodate all the dignitaries, benches were set up in the chapel. Renaldo had secured us places not far from the altar. We had an excellent view of Borgia as he processed to it, resplendent in his red and gold vestments, with the magnificent three-tiered jeweled crown that symbolized the papacy on his head. It was well understood that Il Papa had brought an immense amount of portable wealth from the papal treasury with him to Viterbo, but the sight of the triple crown sent a ripple through the crowd. Everyone loves a show, and Borgia seemed intent on providing one.

  He got down to business forthwith and proceeded fluidly, never once pausing or tripping. So expert was his performance that an uninformed observer could have been forgiven for believing that he said Mass daily. The Latin rolled smoothly from his tongue, but, it must be said, it lacked grace. I had heard Renaldo read lines of figures with more feeling than Borgia brought to the mystical transformation of bread and wine into the body and blood of our Savior.

  Never mind; he got through it well enough. Steeling myself, I joined the others in the line wending toward the altar. Despite my occasional tendency to shed blood with wanton abandon, I have a strong aversion to it, no doubt the result of what I had experienced as a child. Until recently, the taking of Communion had been a trial for me, but I had decided in the privacy of my own mind that wine was wine and no amount of prayer would ever make it blood. That is heresy, of course, but it was also a comfort to me. Naturally, I can understand why the Church punishes such thinking. The moment people begin to decide for themselves what they believe, it will not be merely Saint Peter’s roof that crumbles.

  With the Mass over, we exited the chapel. I was about to ask Mother Benedette if she would like to accompany me on my rounds when I became aware of nervous glances being thrown in our direction. A quick look over my shoulder told me why. Herrera, somber in the black velvet and silver that the Spaniards seemed to favor, was cutting a path toward us. Mindful of my last encounter with him, I resolved to restrain myself.

  Coming to a halt in front of me, he ignored the abbess and said, “Do not think for a moment that you are fooling anyone, bruja. I know what you did, God knows, and soon everyone will know.”

  At once, I flinched. “Witch” was “witch,” regardless of what language it was uttered in, Italian or Castilian. It required no great leap of imagination to understand that he was accusing me of killing his servant, as was rumored in the town. If I failed to respond, I would be acceding to my own guilt. A movement to the side momentarily distracted me. Cesare stood a little apart, watching us. I had not noticed him in the chapel, but that was no surprise. He had even less love for the trappings of faith than did his father, and less tolerance for them.

  Because I had no other choice, I said, “Be so good as to enlighten me, signore. What exactly is it that you think I have done?”

  “You have surrendered your soul to the Devil himself! You do his bidding in a frenzy, like the ancient Bacchae who tore men apart in their madness. And like them you will descend into Hell and be condemned through all eternity.”

  Herrera’s tirade did not surprise me; I understood full well that fear of what I could reveal about him was added to his genuine dislike for me, creating a vitriolic mixture. But he had managed to shock Mother Benedette.

  Before I could even think to stop her, she blurted out, “Signore, you abuse a young woman who desires only to preserve the safety and well-being of Our Holy Father. Surely you wish the same?”

  Her audacity took me aback, but no one was more astonished than Herrera himself. He stared at her down the long blade of his nose. “If you are a woman of faith, as you claim, you should separate yourself from this … this thing with all speed.”

  I waited, thinking that she would be cowed by him. He was, after all, a powerful man, well accustomed to intimidating lesser mortals. But Mother Benedette did not so much as flinch. With perfect calm, she said, “God does not send us into the fire to warm our bones. He sends us there to test us. I will not abandon a soul in need.”

  The Spaniard stared at her in bewilderment. Clearly, he had no notion of how to deal with a woman of genuine sanctity. Cesare took advantage of his confusion and stepped up smoothly. A word in Herrera’s ear, a hand on his arm, and he was drawing him away.

  Mother Benedette and I continued on. Very shortly, I became aware that she was muttering under her breath. At first I thought she was praying, but it quickly became obvious that she was not.

  “Dreadful man,” she said. “Absolutely dreadful.”

  Her anger in the aftermath of her calm reproach of Herrera left me at a loss for words. “Indeed.” A bit lamely, I added, “There is more to him than may appear. For instance, I have it on good report that he is a gifted architect.”

  The abbess looked at me as though I were daft. “How could that possibly matter? He wants to do you harm, and I, for one, am not inclined to let him. All the same, I will fast in repentance for my wicked thoughts. But you must eat; you will need all your strength to deal with him.”

  I realized just then that I was hungry, but I had no wish to eat alone. After a bit of cajoling, Mother Benedette agreed to postpone her fast and join me. We breakfasted in my rooms, sharing a loaf of still-warm semolina, a soft Ligurian cheese, and a handful of hard-cooked eggs sliced and seasoned with thyme. I also enjoyed a few slices of culatello, the ham that is soaked in wine until it emerges rosy red, but the abbess refrained from eating meat. With the servants come and gone, we were free to speak.

  Nibbling on a slice of egg, Mother Benedette said, “I had no real understanding of what you are facing here until this morning. How do you bear it?”

  The question took me unawares. I had not thought in terms of having a choice.

  “His Holiness must be protected. I do what I can.”

  “But that man, Herrera, is doing everything he can to undermine you. To think that he is the nephew of Their Most Catholic Majesties. Are they blind to the vileness of his character?”

  “They must think well enough of him, since he is their emissary. The unfortunate fact is that without his support, the Spanish alliance might well collapse.”

  “Surely that does not matter now with the French—”

  “I would not put too much store in that.”

  Mother Benedette’s gaze sharpened. “Would you not? Well, then, what if the alliance with the Spaniards did come to an end? What would happen?”

  I hesitated. The temptation to unburden myself to my mother’s friend—now mine—was very great, but so, too, was the habit of silence.

  When I did not answer at once, she took a bit more cheese and said, “You do not have to discuss such matters with me, of course. I understand completely. The problem is that you don’t know whom to trust, and whom can blame you for that, given the world that you live in? Only know that you can speak to me in perfect confidence. I will never share what you say with anyone, and even though I am only a simple abbess, it is possible that fresh ears and eyes might help you see more clearly.”

  She was right, of course. And I was in desperate need of sage counsel. Slowly, I said, “Herrera may be the target of an assassin who has been sent to Viterbo.”

  Mother Benedette laid down her knife. She looked at me closely. “And you are charged with protecting him? What a conundrum for you. You must preserve the life of a man who would be happy to take yours.”

  I nodded. “It doesn’t help that I killed two of his men, no matter how provoked I was. Or that when I tried to investigate the death of his servant, the only witness to that killing also died.”

  The abbess shook her head slowly. “Truly, you are beset with difficulties. But this is not the time to lose faith. On the contrary, you must cling to it as never before.”

  “In all honesty, my faith has nev
er been that strong.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, but I do understand it. You were forced to confront evil at a very young age. It is no wonder that you are filled with doubt regarding spiritual matters.”

  “It is true that I have struggled to understand why a loving God who is all powerful permits such cruelties to afflict us,” I admitted. Indeed, I had studied the matter at some length, seeking wisdom in learned texts. Unfortunately, I had yet to find it. “Saint Augustine claimed that evil is nothing more than the absence of good, but to be very frank, that seems too convenient an explanation.”

  The abbess did not appear to be offended by my candor, but neither did she seem impressed by the saint’s conclusions. “Augustine was a clever man,” she said. “There is no doubt of that. But there is another explanation. This world of physical existence and material obsession is inherently evil. Goodness is to be found solely in the spiritual realm. From there comes the divine light that exists in all of us and gives us our only hope of redemption.”

  The notion was provocative, but it also seemed somehow familiar. I had encountered a similar idea—no, exactly that idea—elsewhere. Yet within Holy Mother Church, Augustine was regarded as the absolute authority on the nature of evil. His teachings left no room for different interpretations, much less one that suggested that God’s Creation was evil in and of itself. Where then had I…?

  Abruptly, I remembered. The Mysterium Mundi beneath the Vatican, that secret repository of forbidden knowledge to which Borgia had reluctantly given me access when I had threatened to leave his employ a few months before. I had barely begun to explore the richness of what it contained, but though my interests lay primarily in the realm of natural philosophy and alchemy, documents touching on entirely different matters had compelled my attention. Although I was well aware of the great schism that had torn the Church apart for decades, and from which our Holy Mother was still healing, I had known nothing of earlier challenges to the rule of Rome. Most particularly, I had never heard of the Cathars until I encountered their sacred texts preserved in the hidden chamber beneath the papal palace.

  It was the Cathars who believed that this world was evil by its very nature. According to them, we dwelled not in the creation of a loving God, as the Church taught, but in the kingdom of Satan. God existed, but He was entirely separate in a realm of purity and light vastly beyond the physical world. No priesthood was needed in order to reach Him; to the contrary, His truth was available to every man and woman with the grace to seek it. As for the Church, its material wealth and opulence was all the proof needed that it served not God, as it claimed, but Satan.

  Not surprisingly, Holy Mother Church had repressed the Cathars with fire and sword. But their writings had been preserved against the day when the threat they represented might reappear. So far as I knew, all mention of them had been purged from the ordinary discourse of the faithful. Mother Benedette could not possibly know that she was repeating heresy.

  “An interesting view,” I said carefully.

  “Of no real consequence,” the abbess said. “My point is that evil is a potent force. We can sit around debating its nature or we can come to grips with preventing its worse effects.”

  “And how,” I ventured, “might we do that?”

  She was silent for a moment before she said, “Herrera will not let you protect him. To the contrary; he will do everything to hold you at bay. I, on the other hand, can win his confidence.”

  “But you despise him. You said so yourself.”

  “That is not important. I will put aside my personal feelings in the interest of helping you.”

  As much as I hated to impose on her any more than I was already, the fact remained that I was stymied when it came to the Spaniard. His opinion of me—from whatever source it sprang—made it impossible for me to protect him adequately. Moreover, I was concerned that David might be unable, or unwilling, to do so.

  “You actually think that you can get close enough to him to see a threat if it comes?”

  “Do you have a better alternative?”

  Honesty forced me to admit that I did not. But I did say, “If you intend to befriend him, he will expect you to repudiate me.”

  “I will never do that,” the abbess said emphatically. “But he must have some chink, some weakness, that will help me to reach him.”

  “He … admires Cesare. But he knows that His Eminence and I are—” I broke off, reluctant to shock her.

  But apparently Mother Benedette understood me—and the ways of the world—better than I knew. “Then I will tell him that I am working to persuade you that your relationship with a prince of Holy Mother Church is wrong and that, for the sake of both your souls, you should withdraw to a convent.”

  The notion of my poor self taking holy vows was ludicrous … and yet as a ploy it had much to recommend it. “Do you really think you can convince him of that?”

  She shrugged as though the answer were self-evident. With certainty that I could only envy, she said, “People will always believe what they want to believe.”

  23

  Two days passed. In all my public encounters with the abbess, I endeavored to appear solemn and thoughtful as befitted someone coming to terms with her own sinfulness. Privately, I vacillated between concern and relief. On the one hand, Herrera seemed willing to grant her access to him. But on the other, I feared that she was putting herself in danger on my behalf.

  “Nonsense,” she said on the second night, when we were alone in my rooms. By all evidence, the abbess was enjoying her new role. Her customary composure had given way to a sense of excitement that made her seem even more youthful and energetic.

  “He has no notion that I am there to keep an eye on anything other than the welfare of his soul,” she said with confidence. “Which, by the way, needs much attending to.”

  “He confides in you?”

  “Not in the least, except to rant about you and Cesare. But his household priests have let drop that rumors of his behavior here have reached Spain. Word has come back that Their Most Catholic Majesties are not pleased. They may recall him. I suspect that is why he has allowed me to befriend him.”

  David had not mentioned that to me in the one brief encounter we had managed since returning to Viterbo. He claimed to still be in the good graces of the Spaniards despite his instinctive move at the villa to help me, but I had my doubts. He had also expressed his concern about the wisdom of using Mother Benedette, but I put that down to his understandable suspicion of Christians and did not worry overly much about it.

  Listening to her, I was reconfirmed in that decision. The news about the Spanish monarchs was important. I wondered if Borgia was aware of it. “Much good that would do the alliance,” I said.

  “I don’t think it will come to that. Once your assassin makes his move and is caught, surely Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand will realize that they have no choice but to continue to support His Holiness, or risk the triumph of someone who is both his enemy and theirs?”

  “That is to be hoped. Of course, it all hinges on catching the assassin before he can kill Herrera. I take it that you have encountered no one suspicious?”

  “Regrettably not, but be assured that I will persevere.”

  I nodded, grateful for her help even as I still regretted involving her in the matter.

  * * *

  Several hours after she had crossed the hall to her own quarters, I was awake and mulling over those regrets when my door suddenly opened. As a matter of routine, I kept it secured; but locks are made to be picked, and it seemed that someone had done just that. At once, I reached for the knife under my pillow, only to quickly slip it out of sight again when Cesare entered, pocketing a key I had not known he had.

  He must have caught a glimpse of the knife, for he smiled and said, “However did you restrain yourself from throwing that at me?”

  I did my best to appear unruffled by his sudden appearance, but the truth is that my heart beat more rapi
dly than I would have liked. In the light from the glowing embers in the braziers, he looked disheveled, weary, and all too desirable.

  “Alas, I’ve only ever used it close in,” I said. Perhaps it was not wise to remind him of what I had done with a knife such a short time before, but I felt an overwhelming need for candor between us.

  Cesare stepped farther into the room, shutting the door behind him.

  “Have you tucked Herrera in for the night?” I asked.

  A look of … regret?… flitted across his face. “He’s passed out drunk, as usual. If he keeps on this way, the assassin’s job will be done for him.” Taking a seat on the side of the bed, he asked, “What’s this I hear about you leaving me?”

  Leaving him. Not Il Papa or my position in the household or anything else. Only him. I smiled despite myself. “Are you referring to my newfound conscience, which is prompting me to contemplate retirement to a nunnery?”

  “Yes, I believe I am.”

  “You find that plausible?”

  “Not at all. The marvel is that anyone does. I take it you wanted the abbess to get close to Herrera?”

  I nodded. “She offered, and I felt that I had no choice but to accept. He certainly will not let me near him.”