The Borgia Mistress

by Sara Poole

  “And you don’t trust ben Eliezer to do the job?”

  Cesare’s notion that David might be behind the threat still lingered in the back of my mind. I did not want to give it any credence, any more than I wanted to believe that David was right about Cesare’s motives. I certainly was not about to discuss either possibility.

  “He may have compromised himself when he moved to stop Herrera from attacking me,” I said. “Besides, a second pair of eyes is always useful.”

  “You think she can spot the danger to him better than, say, I could?” he asked.

  Generally, I had a sensible regard for the pride of young men, particularly those raised to think of themselves as princes. But just then I answered more tartly than I usually would have.

  “For once, look beyond your own vanity, I pray you. She is my best hope because no one would suspect her of being on watch for an assassin. But even with her assistance, I fear that I have little chance of success.”

  The admission was wrenched from me, but Cesare seemed to think little of it. “It is not like you to give up so easily.”

  I stared at him in mingled astonishment and fury. “Easily? You have no idea what you are talking about. No concept of what has been happening to me—”

  “Of course I don’t,” he shot back. “You’ve barely told me anything. But I am not the insensitive clod you assume me to be—at least not entirely. I have enough sense to know that something is very wrong and to be worried about you.”

  My anger staunched, at least a little, I relented. With a sigh, I said, “I am worried about me, too.”

  He pulled his boots off before swinging his legs onto the bed. I had his mother to thank for that; the redoubtable Vannozza, as she was always called. He had left her roof for his father’s while still a very young child, yet her influence had never weakened.

  “Tell me why,” he said and put an arm around my shoulders, drawing me to him.

  I lay stiffly against him for a few moments, until the warmth of his body and my own need combined to drain away my resistance. Quietly, I said, “My mother didn’t die when I was born, as I have always believed. She was murdered three years later by her own family, who could not bear that she had married a Jew. Just before the attack, she hid me behind a wall, but there was a hole in it. I saw everything.”

  “Bon déu.” In his shock, Cesare lapsed into his native Catalan. Even so, I understood him well enough.

  With my head against his shoulder, I added, “I’ve always known that there was something wrong with me. A darkness that sets me apart and threatens to consume my soul. At least now I know why it exists.”

  His arms tightened around me. “That is what you were running from the other night?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Dimly, I remembered the shadowy figure who had seemed to be pursuing me. One of the men I had seen kill my mother? Perhaps her brother? Or an amorphous image of Death conjured by my frenzied brain?

  He turned over onto his side, drawing me beneath him. Engulfed in my own concerns as I was, I remained stiff and unyielding until the slow stroking of his hand along my thigh distracted me. He was, after all, still the boy I had exchanged glances with when we were both just trembling on the edge of understanding what it was that we were. The wounded youth who had come to me the first time in pain yet still had given me such pleasure. And, too, the dark lover before whom I could drop the mask I felt compelled to maintain with all others—even Rocco, whom I refused to think about just then.

  Very shortly I could not think at all. Our time apart had heightened my need for Cesare and his for me. We came together hotly, ravenous for each other. I clasped him tightly, savoring the beauty of his body and his perfectly honed strength. He groaned deeply when he entered me, and threw his head back. I arched upward, pressing my lips to the pulse beating in his throat, savoring the power of his life’s blood. Moonlight, flooding through the high windows, bathed our bodies in silver. We swayed together, locked in ecstasy, until the world dissolved and we with it. Still entwined, we fell across the bed. With what little strength I had left, I pulled the covers over us both.

  I was settled again in the crook of Cesare’s arm, my head against his shoulder, when he said, “Does this mean you’ll forego the nunnery?”

  I laughed and swatted at him lightly. We turned on our sides, spooning together. I was all but asleep when I heard—or imagined I heard—Cesare whisper: “I need you to be the woman you are, Francesca. Not whoever it is that you think you should be.”

  He slept then, and I did as well, soothed as I was by all that had passed between us. But hours later, in the depths of the night, I awoke, driven by the hunger for Sofia’s powder that still gnawed at me. Too restless to sleep, I sat for a time beside the window, but before dawn I was up and dressed.

  I stood beside the bed, looking down at Cesare. As though sensing my gaze, he opened one eye and stared back at me quizzically.

  “I am going to the chapel to pray,” I said in answer to his silent question.

  He snorted, turned over, and buried his head in the pillow. Even so, I could just make out his reply. “Watch out for lightning bolts.”

  The monks had finished their prayers and were gone by the time I appeared, which suited me well enough. Contrary to Cesare’s assumption, I was not going merely to be seen; I truly did mean to pray. Or, failing that, at least to try to bring my unruly mind to some semblance of order.

  Clearly, the stress of protecting Borgia combined with learning of my mother’s fate had undone me. Nightmares, hallucinations, visions, and now strange fears and doubts were all signals that I was closer to outright madness than I had ever been before. Perhaps I had already crossed that line and didn’t realize it. Whatever the case, I had to find some way to continue functioning, and I had to do it quickly.

  And so I prayed. Not well, for I was never good at doing so, but I did make a wholehearted try.

  “God,” I began, only to quickly correct myself. “Almighty God, Father in Heaven.” Flattery never hurt with Borgia; I had to assume that it would not in this case either. “I beseech your help. Your servant, Christ’s Vicar on Earth, is in mortal danger. Sustain me so that I may protect him. Do not let me be undone by delusions born of darkness but give me the light to see true danger and defeat it.

  “And also, please, explain why You allow so much cruelty to exist in Your Creation. Why You leave Your children to suffer so much pain and suffering. Why You let monsters kill my mother.”

  As I said, I had never been any good at praying.

  Nor did I expect a response, although I did wait a few minutes as a simple courtesy. The stale scent of incense hung in the air. I inhaled, coughed a little, and rose to go. Turning, I observed a priest staring at me in blank confusion. Dropping my eyes in a show of humility, I crossed myself.

  The poor man stood frozen as I passed him on my way out of the chapel. He would recover quickly enough and hasten to tell what he had seen—the strega at prayer in God’s house, apparently unscathed. Either the Almighty was proving unexpectedly lax or I was not what others claimed. Under other circumstances, I would have been amused.

  As it was, my thoughts were grim as I walked through the great hall. The nature of evil and its presence in this world weighed heavily on me. For all that Augustine’s explanation was accepted Church doctrine, it appeared to be more the contrivance of an elegant mind than an insight into reality. Yet the Cathars’ view—that the material world was evil by its very nature—seemed to pass over the question rather than even attempt to resolve it.

  In the Mysterium Mundi, I had read sacred Cathar texts in which the sole purpose of human existence was to become perfecti, individuals of such spiritual enlightenment as to be able to free themselves forever from the bounds of this world. Those who could not do so in a single lifetime—the vast majority—were condemned to be reborn again and again until they at last proved their worthiness. In its time, the doctrine had attracted peasants, merchants, and even members of
the nobility, all united by the conviction that there was not even the potential for good in this realm of existence.

  If I were not careful, I could find myself thinking the same. I needed sunlight and fresh air, but even more I needed to be reminded that there was a world in which every thought and every breath did not hang on the will of men for whom nothing mattered except the raw exercise of power, no matter how much pain it inflicted. A world in which women cooked mutton shanks, children cut new teeth, babies were born and lived, and people were—against all odds—happy, if only briefly.

  Perhaps my effort at prayer, poor though it had been, had succeeded at least in clearing my head, for I set off about my duties with renewed vigor. No one attempted to impede me, but neither did I see any sign that Mother Benedette’s championing of me was having an effect. I continued to be met with hostile, hastily averted stares and cold silence.

  Several hours later, as I pressed my ring into a drop of soft wax on what I hoped was the last item to be inspected that day, I glanced up and saw David, hovering just outside the kitchens. He caught my eye, then turned and walked away.

  I followed. We met up around a corner of the stables. He was leaning against a wall, seeming at ease, but I sensed otherwise. The finely drawn lines around his eyes suggested that he was both tired and worried.

  “Call off your nun,” he said as soon as I appeared.

  Taken aback, I dodged. “She’s hardly ‘my’ nun.”

  “Don’t prevaricate, Francesca. It’s beneath you. Herrera thinks he can use her to bring you down. That’s the only reason he’s tolerating her.”

  “She had to make him believe that in order to get close to him. That business about the convent—”

  David waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not talking about that. He’s told his men that you’re responsible for all the deaths that have occurred, starting with the kitchen boy, and that with the abbess’s help, he’ll be able to prove it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Where would he get such a notion?”

  “From her? How do you know what she’s told him or why? For that matter, what do you know of her?”

  Anger rose in me. David was not the only one working under great strain and living in the shadow of disaster. He had no right to speak to me in such a way.

  Stiffly, I said, “I know that she was my mother’s friend.”

  “That must have been years ago. What does it matter now?”

  “Because she alone told me the truth about how my mother died. Do you have any idea what that means to me?”

  Holding my gaze, David said, “No, I don’t, and I won’t pretend otherwise. But it isn’t like you to give your trust so easily.”

  Or to give it at all, although I would not say that to him. I worried that Borgia’s meeting with the French might have been the signal David was waiting for. Yet Herrera still lived.

  “Is Mother Benedette making it more difficult for you to stay close to the Spaniard?”

  “She is, yes. He doesn’t need a jester around when he’s conspiring with a holy woman.”

  Was that the root of the problem, then, or was he genuinely concerned about the abbess’s actions? I had no way of knowing. But I could at least try to find out.

  “I will see what can be done, but in the meantime, you will have to tolerate her presence.”

  It was not the answer he wanted, as he made clear when, without another word, he turned and stalked away. Alone, I sagged against the wall of the stables and tried to gather my thoughts. I might even have managed it had not the world intruded yet again.

  A pale, wide-eyed page approached me but stopped a good six feet away. Head down, clearly wishing himself anywhere else, he said, “Your pardon, donna. His Holiness requires your presence.”

  I rubbed my hands over my face, took a breath, and went.

  24

  “Help me to understand,” Borgia said. “You thought this was a good time to introduce into my household a woman whose presence prompts reflection on the sinfulness of my papacy and the need for some sort of purification. Is that right?”

  “That was never my intent, nor do I believe it to be hers.” At least, I most profoundly hoped that it was not. “With all respect, Your Holiness, I’m not even aware that is happening.”

  His face darkened. “That’s because you don’t have to listen to my prelates prattle on and on.” In a singsong voice, he recited, “I’ve done too much to advance my own family at the cost of everyone else’s. I should temper my ambitions, make peace with the French, be seen to say Mass more often, and—oh, yes—put La Bella aside or at least be more discreet about her. Next they’ll want me in a hair shirt flagellating myself!”

  The image of Borgia, who was the most worldly man I knew, behaving in any such way tempted a smile from me. With difficulty, I suppressed it and said, “Is it really fair to ascribe all that to Mother Benedette’s influence?”

  In fact, I knew that it was not. Borgia was listing the litany of complaints about him that had existed since the day his pontificate began. His recent advancement of Cesare and Juan had merely exacerbated matters. But if he wanted to blame the abbess, there was little I could do about it. Except, perhaps, to remind him of what he already knew.

  “Mother Benedette offered her assistance and I accepted. You yourself thought having her here was a good idea.”

  “Because I thought the plan was to rehabilitate you so that you could get on with the job of protecting Herrera and, more important, me. Instead, you seem to have turned that task over to a nun and a jester.”

  “You know that David isn’t—”

  “All right, a nun and a troublemaking Jew. Is that better? Should I sleep more easily in my bed knowing that the two of them are looking after the man who is key to preserving my alliance with Spain?”

  “At least you sleep.” I spoke before I could think, and I regretted it immediately. The single decent night’s rest that I had enjoyed had done little to smooth the rough edges of my temper or soothe my jangled nerves. Worse yet, the craving for Sofia’s powder was greater than ever.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

  “Sit down,” Borgia ordered. When I had done so, he stared hard at me and said, “What’s wrong with you?” Before I could reply, he provided his own answer. “Do you want absolution for killing those men? You don’t need it, but if it will make you feel better—”

  “Can you absolve me for being able to kill them?”

  He lowered himself into his chair and studied me. “So that’s the problem? You don’t appreciate your own nature even when it keeps you alive? Would you rather go a sheep to the slaughter?”

  “As the Lamb of God did?”

  Really, I seemed to have no control over my tongue. Who was I to remind Christ’s Vicar of the sacrifice on the cross?

  “My apologies, Your Holiness. I spoke without thought. What is it that you wish me to do?”

  A great sigh escaped him, like a snort from a bull. For a moment, he looked older even than his years, weighed down by the insatiable appetite of his own ambitions. But in the next instant, he rallied, and said, “I must hold this all together. If I cannot…”

  The results would mean disaster for la famiglia and all those close to Borgia. I did not need to be reminded of that.

  “I will speak with Mother Benedette.” After what David had told me, I had already intended to do so. As much as I did not want to send her away, if she was causing problems, however inadvertently, I would have no choice.

  Cautiously, mindful of Borgia’s temper, I added, “However, if you truly are as concerned as you appear to be, there is an obvious solution.”

  He raised an eyebrow as though daring me to continue. “Spare us both and do not suggest again that Herrera should have a convenient accident.”

  I took a breath, let it out slowly, and said, “I wasn’t about to do so. Take him into custody. Surround him with guards, control everything and everyone that comes near him. The assass
in will be unable to do his work, and you will be safe.”

  Borgia chuckled. It wasn’t a sound that I was accustomed to hearing from him, and it took me a moment to recognize it. By the time I did, it had become a full-throated laugh.

  “By God, Francesca,” His Holiness exclaimed when he was able to speak again. “I had no idea that you had such a wicked sense of humor.”

  I was not amused. “I am not joking.”

  His good humor fled as quickly as it had appeared. Such mercurial behavior was unlike him. I was unsure what to make of it.

  His prodigious brow drawn into furrows, he scowled at me. “But what you’ve just suggested is a joke, and a dangerous one at that. Juan has been arrested and is being held by the Spaniards. You want me to in effect return the favor and arrest Herrera?”

  “For his own good, to keep him and yourself safe. That is altogether different.”

  “Their Most Catholic Majesties will not see it as such. What will I tell them? That I am powerless before one lone assassin? How long do you imagine it will take them to switch their support to whichever one of my enemies they decide is stronger?”

  I could not hide my frustration. “What are we to do, then? Just let Herrera be killed and the alliance die with him?”

  Abruptly, Borgia slammed his fist down on the desk. The carved silver inkwell leaped into the air, fell off the edge, and crashed to the floor, showering black droplets in all directions. Red-faced, His Holiness snarled, “Find the assassin! Kill him! Do what I keep you to do or I will be done with you, by God!”

  I had seen Borgia in a fury before, but I had never seen him as I did at that moment. The ruthless prince who had clawed his way to the pinnacle of power in all of Christendom, never showing an instant’s lack of certainty or confidence, was … afraid? Truly, genuinely frightened by events that were spiraling out of control. And perhaps by more. Borgia had what everyone recognized as the most formidable spy service in all of Christendom. It was entirely possible that he was receiving information that confirmed the danger he was in while giving no hint of its source. He—who was so accustomed to maneuvering and manipulating his way from triumph to triumph—had no real experience with defeat, but if he truly believed that he faced it now …