The Borgia Mistress

by Sara Poole

  Borgia angry, greedy, ambitious, determined, caught within the irresistible force of his own will was dangerous enough. But Borgia afraid? I could scarcely imagine what he was capable of doing in such a state. More important, I had no desire to find out.

  Standing on the edge of a cliff, peering into the abyss with which I was becoming all too familiar, I said, “Be assured, I will do my best.”

  Borgia being Borgia, he had to have the last word. I was at the door, about to leave, when he hissed under his breath, “It’s your worst that I want, Francesca. Forget about the abbess redeeming you. Better that you remind men of why they feel the cold hand of terror when you pass by.”

  I should have brushed that off as no more than an echo of his fear, and I did try. Yet the bitter truth of it weighed on me. I left his presence hollow with sadness yet determined all the same to do what I must.

  * * *

  To that end, I went in search of Mother Benedette. Cesare had taken Herrera off hunting, sparing me the need to seek her among the Spaniards. I found the abbess in the garden, standing head bowed, in deep reflection. When I approached along the radiating gravel paths that ended in a sparkling fountain, she appeared startled, but she quickly smiled.

  “I was just going to look for you, Francesca. Are you well?”

  Though I smiled a little in turn, the effort fell short. I was too concerned about what both David and Borgia had said to pretend otherwise. “I have been better. Let us sit and talk awhile.”

  When we had settled on a bench nearby, I remained silent for a few moments, gathering my thoughts. Finally, I said, “I fear that I have asked too much of you.”

  “Dear child,” Mother Benedette said, “you worry needlessly. Everything is going as we planned. Herrera finds it useful to allow my presence, which affords me the opportunity to keep watch on him. At the same time, I am doing my best to persuade him to see you in a kinder light, and I think I am making some progress in that regard.”

  “Are you? Yet he has decided that I am responsible for the deaths that have occurred within His Holiness’s household. He thinks he is going to be able to prove that.”

  “Where did you get such a notion?” When I did not answer at once, her eyes narrowed. “You have someone else close to him, don’t you? Someone who has fed you this nonsense.”

  A cuckoo swooped down to take a drink from the fountain, then darted away again. The bird is known for its subterfuge, given as it is to laying eggs in the nests of other birds, thereby tricking them into raising its young at no cost to itself. Yet for all that, it has a lovely song.

  “It doesn’t matter how I learned of it,” I said. “My worry is that this is no place for a woman like you.”

  Mother Benedette sighed. Drawing her hands from inside the wide sleeves of her habit, she took hold of my own.

  “Francesca, when I came here, I had no idea that I was about to encounter so remarkable a young woman. You confront the darkness that surrounds us with extraordinary courage, yet for all that, you remain trapped within it.”

  I could have told her that she had it wrong, that the darkness was inside me, but before I could do so she continued.

  “Have you never considered that there is a better way? A truer way open to you if only you have the grace to see it?”

  “That is a tempting thought, but—”

  Her smooth face framed by her wimple became more animated. “It is hard, I know. But there is a means of rending the web of evil to see beyond this world. A way for the truly pure of spirit to find the path out of darkness into the light.”

  Was there anything that I desired more than to throw off the shackles of evil that had held me in its merciless grip since I was a tiny child and become the woman I would have been? A woman not of darkness but of the light?

  “I wish I could believe you,” I said.

  “But you already know the truth of what I am saying,” she exclaimed. “I saw it in you when we spoke of this before.”

  I shook my head, uncertain of what she meant. “Spoke of…?”

  “Of evil and the nature of this world. You mentioned Augustine, and I said there was another way of explaining the omnipresence of evil, because it is inherent in this realm of physical existence and material obsession.”

  She leaned back a little and studied me. “I think you recognized what I was saying and from whence it came, although I admit to being very surprised that you would have such knowledge.”

  Slowly, her meaning became clear. Yet even then I resisted accepting it. It did not seem possible that she could … “You know of the Cathar heresy?” I asked.

  Her hands tightened on mine. “So-called by the very agents of the evil it defies. But how have you come to know of this? For all the promise you show, you are not one of us.”

  I could not have heard her correctly. The Cathars had been exterminated hundreds of years ago. Scarcely the memory of them remained except in the deepest, most hidden recesses of the Vatican, where old enemies were never forgotten.

  Mother Benedette smiled. Her gaze, holding mine, was filled with excitement. “Surely there is no need for subterfuge between us any longer—and no point to it, either. I would be fascinated to learn what documents you were able to read and where you found them. Is it possible that the Church of Satan preserved our sacred texts? And if so, to what end? But unfortunately other matters must concern us.”

  A low buzzing filled my ears. Against it, I struggled to understand what she was telling me. Though I could hardly claim to know everything the Church had done to assure its supremacy over the long expanse of bloody centuries, I did not believe anyone had received more ruthless treatment than had the Cathars. And yet they had managed to endure despite everything?

  “How—?” I began.

  “How are we still here, in this world of evil?” she asked. “It is true that the Church of Satan tried to wipe out all traces of our existence in order to keep mankind enslaved in darkness forever. But the perfecti, the most enlightened among us, were determined to preserve the path to redemption. To that end, they sent a select group to safety even as all the others surrendered their own lives to make the Church believe that it had won. By that sacrifice, our fellows threw off the last shackles of this world and were freed from it forever. We who are still trapped in Satan’s realm pray to one day follow them.”

  From all that I had read, the Cathars had gone to their deaths without resistance, even cheerfully, singing as the flames consumed them. Their executioners had found that deeply disturbing. Some wrote of being haunted by the spectacle, reliving it over and over until they feared they were descending into madness. Several were suspected of taking their own lives, their deaths concealed by the Church with hasty burials far from consecrated ground. In the most secret reports that I had uncovered, a few witnesses even claimed that they had seen the souls of the Cathars rise into the sky on ribbons of silver light. Generally, the Church makes a public show of executing heretics, but next to the names of those witnesses there had been only a single, singularly ominous notation: Silenced.

  Was the Cathar faith merely a grand delusion, as, perhaps, all faith is by its very nature? Or had their rituals and practices revealed to them something that is hidden from the rest of us? The documents preserved within the Mysterium Mundi passed over the details of Cathar rites with suspiciously scant mention, as though even the act of recording them was dangerous to Holy Mother Church. Such restraint hinted that at least some in the highest reaches of the Church believed there was cause to be afraid. But why?

  I tried to speak, but the muscles of my throat were oddly weak. Shock gripped me as I struggled to understand the magnitude of what the abbess was revealing. The light, fractured and jagged as it fell through the branches overhead, distracted me. There was something I needed to think about, something important. The abbess was a secret Cathar … there were others … she was here in Viterbo.

  “I don’t understand.” My voice was weak and seemed to come from a
great distance. I could scarcely hear myself, but I heard her clearly enough.

  “You will, I promise. Before we are done, you will understand everything.” Her grip tightened. “Do not fear what is about to be revealed to you, Francesca. Embrace the truth and be reborn into the eternal light.”

  My fingers were tingling, the sensation radiating up my arms. On the periphery of my vision, the world appeared to be shattering into fragments, not unlike the strange mosaic I had glimpsed in the piazza. Before it disintegrated altogether, I stared down at the hands clasping mine.

  Too late, I realized why Mother Benedette was wearing gloves.

  25

  Poisons designed to enter the body through the skin, rather than by ingestion in food or drink, are among the most difficult to devise. Generally, they form a residue on any surface that even a person of middling sensibility will notice in time to avoid. It has taken me years to create a highly lethal contact poison for use on glass, a surface so difficult to taint as to be virtually above suspicion. Indeed, the Spanish poisoner hired to replace my father had not hesitated to touch it. He lived mere minutes after doing so.

  Confronting the problem posed by contact poison, Mother Benedette had employed the time-honored solution: Do not depend on the victim touching anything but instead touch the victim. Of course, that carries certain obvious dangers for the poisoner, but sensible precautions usually suffice. The best of these is to use gloves dipped in a solution of alum and sulfate of lead to discourage the passage of liquids inward to the skin. Additionally, it is prudent to encase the hands in melted wax before donning the gloves.

  To be perfectly fair, Mother Benedette had not actually poisoned me. I was merely drugged. The world was out of joint, bits of it no longer fitting together properly. I looked up and saw the branches of a tree seemingly engulfing the sky, only to shrink suddenly as I became a giantess looming above them. The gravel path curved upward like a wave about to crest, only to dissolve in a shower of light and fall back to earth. The face of the angel atop the stone fountain in the garden stood away from its body and seemed to fly straight at me. I gasped and tried to pull away, but the abbess held firm.

  “We cannot stay here, Francesca,” she said in a kindly manner. “People will see you and think that you truly are possessed. You know what they will do to you then, don’t you?”

  Flames rippled up from the ground. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. In addition to shattering my senses, whatever I had been given had also paralyzed my vocal cords. In my disordered state, gripped by the sudden terror of burning, I could not resist the abbess as she guided me out of the garden and back toward the palazzo.

  I have only scant recollection of returning with her to my quarters in the palazzo—a brief glimpse down a corridor, the murmur of Mother Benedette’s voice urging care as we walked up a flight of steps, staring at the complex wood grain of a door that looked like rippling waves frozen in space and time.

  And then I was lying on my bed. The abbess stood at the foot of it. At some point, she had removed her gloves and cleaned her hands. They were bare as she went about the task of removing my shoes.

  I tried to resist, but the effort was futile. Despite my most desperate efforts, my mind could no longer control my body.

  The abbess put her fingers to my lips. “Hush, Francesca. Don’t fight this. You have no idea how fortunate you are.”

  Fortunate? Beneath my confusion and fear, I felt like nothing so much as like Creation’s worst fool. There was a reason why the jagged mosaic appeared familiar; I had seen it before. This was not the first time Mother Benedette had drugged me; the panetto, the torrone, my mother’s psalter—all had played their part. However, this time the effect was both more intense and more refined, including rendering me mute.

  I tried to speak again to ask her why, but no sound emerged. She looked up in time to see the movement of my lips and frowned slightly.

  “All that I have done since meeting you has been for your sake. Soon you will understand that.”

  As she spoke, the abbess began to bind me to the four corners of the bed with long strips of cloth.

  In desperation, I struggled to jerk away, but the drug I had been given weakened me in every regard. My muscles refused to obey the frantic commands of my mind. I could only lie, compliant and helpless, as she finished securing my arms and legs.

  “Don’t be alarmed; this is only for your safety,” she said. “The journey you are about to make is difficult and demanding. I don’t want you to injure yourself. Indeed, I have gone to the greatest lengths to prevent that.” Patting my arm as she might a fractious child’s, she added, “They only wanted me to use you as a means of slipping into Borgia’s household and arranging Herrera’s death in such way that you would be blamed. But I recognized the strength in you, how you have learned to use the darkness of this world. I knew in an instant where your true destiny lies.”

  The sweetness of her smile belied the fierce fanaticism of her gaze. “The elixir you are about to receive is the rarest and most precious legacy of the Cathars,” she said. “It was revealed to the first of us by the Angel Gabriel. Ever since, the most spiritually advanced have been able to use it to find the path to liberation from this world. But to do so takes great courage, for truly, the path to Heaven lies through Hell. Ever since we first met, I have been preparing you for this. You must not resist or hesitate; and above all, you must not retreat or you will be lost forever. Go forward, Francesca, and find the light.”

  With that, she drew a small vial from beneath her robe, removed the stopper from it, and held the rim to my lips. When I tried to jerk my head away, she gripped me tightly within the curve of her arm and held me immobile as she slowly dripped a pale, glistening liquid into my mouth. I tried desperately to spit it out, but again, my muscles would not obey me. To my horror, I was helpless to prevent it from slipping down my throat.

  “It is done,” she said when she had finished and closed the vial. “I will not leave you, and if anyone comes to inquire about you, I will say that you are in prayer and reflection and cannot be disturbed.”

  She would be believed. No one would think to doubt the holy woman of Anzio who stood in such stark contrast to the worldly corruption of the papal court. Only Cesare might, and he was away, hunting with Herrera. I was trapped alone with her, helpless before the power of the Cathar elixir that was taking over my body and my mind.

  Never had I known such terror, or at least not since I was a child hidden behind a wall, peering out at a sea of blood and death.

  Had I been able to make any sound at all, I would have screamed in horror. As it was I could do nothing as slowly but inexorably I began my descent into Hell.

  * * *

  To my surprise, I found myself on a street I recognized, more or less, for it was like many that run as strands of life and commerce through the thriving Campo dei Fiore, the central market in Rome. Unlike the parts of the city rebuilt by the prelates of the Church and the great merchant princes, those parts that are all travertine marble that changes hue throughout the day, the Campo is of good red brick made from Tiber mud. When the sun hits it just right, it turns to blushing gold. All around me I saw the two- and- three-story buildings that fill the neighborhood—shops and taverns on the ground floor, apartments above. The old Romans lived that way and their descendents do as well, now that the city has emerged from the chaos of the Great Schism that almost destroyed Holy Mother Church.

  Baskets of autumn flowers hung from trellises, adding their aroma to the more pungent scents of manure, garbage, and offal that drifted as a low miasma along the pavement. Oddly, so I thought, the street was empty. I saw no sign of the merchants, traders, shoppers, and thieves who normally thronged the Campo. Despite their absence, I had no sense of anything being wrong, no dire circumstance that would explain why I was alone when I should have been among many.

  I turned a corner and came to a street I knew only too well, Via dei Vertrarari, where
the glassmakers cluster. At once, I hesitated. Rocco’s shop was on that street. I had no desire to see it, much less him. Yet despite my best efforts, I was propelled forward by some force I could not resist, past a dozen other shops until I came finally to a modest timbered building half hidden between its neighbors on either side.

  A woman was sitting on a bench out in front. Her head was bent so that I could not see her face. Looking more closely, I realized that she held an infant on her lap. She was singing softly. I strained to hear her.

  Firefly, firefly, yellow and bright

  Bridle the filly under your light,

  The child of my heart is ready to ride,

  Firefly, firefly, fly by her side.

  As she finished, she lifted her head and looked straight at me. I gasped to see a face that appeared to be mine yet was not. The woman’s expression was filled with peace and love. She seemed utterly happy. So, too, did the child she held, who looked up at her adoringly and waved its chubby little arms to embrace her.

  If I had been the woman I longed to be, the woman who could have married Rocco, that would be my child. We would be sitting there, in the bright sunlight, with no shadow of darkness over us. Shortly, I would get up and go back into the shop. Little Nando would be sitting at the table, perhaps sketching as he loved to do. I was convinced that he was going to be a brilliant artist someday, not unlike his father. I would ruffle his hair as I passed, before stepping out into the courtyard in the back where Rocco had his furnace. He would be there—a tall, powerfully built man in his late twenties, his bare chest covered by the leather apron he wore when he worked at the furnace, turning globs of ordinary sand into works of surpassing beauty. He would look up and see me and our child. And he would smile with all the love that he had been ready to offer me but which I had not been worthy to receive.