Servant
To
The Borgia
Elizabeth McGlone
Copyright 2019
For my mother, who always lets me steal her books.
Chapter 1
May, 1497
“Bitch!”
The screech burst through the quiet, murmuring voices of the women gathered in small groups along the banks of the river. The wet slap of cloth against rock halted as heads turned, searching for the source of the noise. The sound was so calamitous that it scattered pigeons from the ruined stone blocks and silenced the chirping of the crickets in the marsh grass and the deep, thrumming roars of the frogs. Further on, muffled groans and oaths signaled the fouling of clean linen as the startled flocks released their bounty on the drying field.
Betta opened one eyelid, then another, blinking away the golden film of sleep. Settled back against the stone block of the ruined bridge, she had allowed exhaustion to overtake her, succumbing to a nap. From the angle of the sun in the sky, now edging toward the steep roofs of Trastevere, an hour had passed since she had closed her eyes, seeking a moment of peace. The branches of a pine tree rustled overhead, moving shade dappling cool patches across her cheeks.
It took a moment to find the two struggling figures that had disturbed her slumber. Tomasa, the wife of the carter, had a much younger woman clasped in her arms, dragging her back. When they reached the center current, where the river rose to the level of their waists, Tomasa stopped and began shaking her, hands now clamped on the girl’s thin shoulders.
“Think you can splatter my sheets with your mud?” One meaty hand moved from the girl’s arms to her hair, eliciting a pained cry.
“I never!” came a feeble protest that choked off into a gurgle as her head was submerged. The water frothed as the girl struggled, then she was allowed to surface, coughing, and spluttering before beginning a scream that sounded like a pig as it was slaughtered.
“And let that be a lesson to you!” With a massive shove, Tomasa forced the other woman under the water again before thrusting her away. Red-faced from exertion, the carter’s wife began huffing back to the shore, water sluicing off her apron and sleeves as she muttered under her breath.
Betta watched the unfolding drama with amusement, exhaustion forgotten. Spectacles and religious pageants were a weekly occurrence in Rome, but for her coin, there was nothing to compare to the drama of everyday life that unfolded every Sabbath at the river. Some women only came every month to wash their linen. Others, like her own family, only possessed enough shirts and camicias to last a week between washings.
What had the girl done to incur the other’s wrath? Betta scrutinized her face. Pretty, even with a dripping mop of brown hair and a mud-splattered, heart-shaped face. The girl scrunched up her nose in disgust, wiping a dripping sleeve across her mouth. Betta finally recognized her: Maria -Theresa, a girl one year older than her own seventeen years with two babies and a husband dead when the French had invaded. That explained Tomasa’s hostility. A pretty young widow would prove a heady temptation for Marco, the carter, a man whose enormous muscles were matched by an equally large appetite for the pleasures of female flesh.
Betta snorted and leaned her head back against the rock after running a practiced eye over the white linen sheets and camicias spread out over the drying field. Strong soap had reddened the skin of her hands before the bubbles were caught by the current and washed away, but she was accustomed to the stinging burn of lye. The linens were the same white as the clouds streaking lazily overhead, the sight pleasing to her. The old women who came to the river would find nothing to criticize in her or the way she cared for her family.
The marshy green scent of the river was heavy in her nostrils: a pleasant thing, calling to mind the years spent with her mother in the same spot. The feel of the place was the same: the willow twig basket she used to carry the linens, the prickle of the soap, the heavy weight of yesterday’s barley bread in her stomach, the end of a loaf nibbled as she worked.
Only the people changed. For years beyond count, women had been bringing baskets to the river Tiber, cleaning away dirt while exchanging news and commiseration, stories and heartbreak. Snatches of it drifted over the water.
“Three girls in a line, the poor thing…”
“Ahh, have him tie up his left stone with a stout cord before he lays with her, an’ have her shift ta the right hip, holdin’ his seed up tight after.”
“Aye, aye, that’s the way. T’is the left one that brings the girls. I’d a sister suffered the same until they did so, then,” there was the noise of hands clapping, “Two stout boys in a row, an’ only one of ‘em died in the spring fever.”
“Only take care that it’s not too soon after the bleedin’. You’d not want one like Prospero’s get.”
Betta winced and tried to ignore the loud conversation as it continued on, discussing Prospero’s children. That the cheese seller’s young daughter cut her hair short and wore tunic and hose seemed more likely to be caused by the child having six brothers and a mother who died giving birth to her rather than any influence of heat or humors or…position. Betta liked the girl and her face full of freckles; she seemed happy.
Betta smiled, watching the neighborhood children as they frolicked in the shallows, boys and girls mixing freely, naked with gleaming skin turned to gold in the sunshine. Her sister had been one of those children only a short time before, linking hands with the youngest son of the local baker as they hunted small fish and splashed each other with water. Now the two of them were talking of other matters, heads close together as they walked through the tall grasses surrounding the ruined bridge, her sister’s red curls like fire in the afternoon light. Their innocence and the young love surrounding them in a palpable cloud made her smile, imagining her mother’s joy. The plague had stolen those innocent moments away from her life before she had a chance to enjoy them, as they had stolen…
“Cousin.”
Betta started, feeling her heart thumping wildly in her chest. The footsteps approaching the block had been so quiet that she had initially dismissed them, thinking another woman waited nearby, judging the possibility of securing a prime spot worth a few moments of idleness. She took a deep breath and shaded her eyes, trying to regain a sense of calm as she studied the familiar girl who stood twisting her fingers into knots beneath her apron.
It took a moment before she was able to place a name to the face.
“Laura,” she said, patting a space on the block in invitation. “How goes it with you?”
Face glowing at the recognition, Laura sat, arranging her skirts so that fabric covered her ankles. Betta took the opportunity to observe her, noting the changes the years had wrought.
All of those descended from Lorenzo the leather worker, her mother’s grandfather, bore a resemblance; between the two of them, the likeness was startling. At fourteen, Laura could have been her sister; the dark, nearly black hair hidden beneath Betta’s cap was allowed to spill down Laura’s back in a black mane that framed her narrow waist. The eyes were also the same, dark and tilted at the corners. It took little effort for Betta to read the brimming emotion there. The nervous way they darted from the river and then back to Betta, avidly looking at the sumptuous folds of the camicia visible beneath the low neckline of her gown revealed the purpose of the meeting before the other girl had opened her mouth.
“Have you heard that Ghita is to marry again?” Laura blurted out.
Betta did not have to feign astonishment. “Her husband died only last month!”
Laura began to chatter in response, sharing what she knew of the scandalous exploits of the tanner’s wife before moving on to other tales. Betta listened to the news her c
ousin brought though she had already heard much of it from Ginevra, nodding her head when Laura paused, all the while thinking over what she knew of the girl sitting next to her. Inevitably, the conversation turned to family. There was much that she could no longer remember of the cousins who dotted the twisting streets of Trastevere like so many threads in a piece of cloth. They shunned her mother after a disastrous second marriage, and Betta had little patience for those who had refused her aid.
Laura spoke on, either unaware of the tension between their two families or choosing to ignore it. Paolo, Laura’s father, was nearing the end of his working years. Soon the eldest son, newly married with a babe on the way, would assume his place as head of the family bodega producing finely tooled leather belts for the wealthy of Rome. Three other brothers still lived in the two rooms above the workshop, and they were nearing the end of their apprenticeships.
“So many for you to care for,” Betta murmured, shaking her head.
Laura expelled a breath, half a laugh, and half a sigh. “From morning to night, I am surrounded by them. Even Sancia, Orazio’s wife, is of little help now that she is great with child. And Lucha will be married as well. But Philipo, do you remember him? The tooler’s son? He has said that he will offer for me once his term is complete, but even then, there is little money for my dowry, and his mother is so…proud.” Laura bit her lip and looked down. When she raised her eyes again, they swam with liquid pleading.
“Cousin.” Reaching out, she took Betta’s hand. As she did so, Betta noticed how smooth they were, the skin yet unmarred by callouses. “Can you find me a place to serve at the Palazzo with you?”
Betta looked away, although she allowed the hand to remain in place. Others had asked for the same favor in the years since she had moved to the palazzo of Santa Maria in Portico as a servant to the most powerful family in Rome. Her position was envied by many. The luxurious caress of the linen fabric against her arms was a potent reminder of why so many were willing to risk the dangers of working within the shadow of the Vatican. The rewards of her position were many: silky linen shifts cast off from the mistress’s wardrobe after a single use, food from the high table, and wage in coin that could become a dowry.
But the dangers were greater. Only last month a scullery maid found stealing had been hung in the square, the household servants taken in force to watch as she kicked and whimpered her last. Girls were dismissed from service when rounded bellies revealed indiscretions and guards caught spying disappeared, never to be seen again except as stinking corpses who washed up on the banks of the Tiber.
And those dangers were no different from those faced by any of the legions who took service in one of the noble households. Lies and theft were always punished severely. But to be in service to the Borgia family brought with it a host of other dangers. Secrets sprouted like weeds in the frescoed halls of the Vatican, each more dangerous than the last. Knowledge of them left her balanced on the edge of a blade, its hilt laid against her skin so that the coldness could be felt. And there was no secret deadlier than the one she held, the one which she knew to be a truth.
Betta shook her head and withdrew her hand from the other’s grasp, softening the refusal with a smile. She would not willingly expose one of her blood to the Vatican. “The housekeeper for the Contarini is a friend. I can arrange a place for you there.”
Though Laura’s face fell in disappointment, she was soon smiling as Betta told her of the house, one of the finest in the Ponte district, and the comfortable living of servants who cared for an aging master with children scattered throughout the papal states.
Soon, they were laughing again. Maria-Teresa, gown still dripping from the dunking in the water, and had come up behind the carter’s wife and tipped the basket of clean linen into the water before running off, a triumphant grin on her face. Tomasa, recognizing defeat, laid hands on hips and began cursing, the words gaining intensity as a day’s work sank in the murky green depths.
“Do such things happen in the Vatican?” Laura asked, and her smile was that of a girl, carefree and innocent as Betta herself had been in the years before she entered service.
Betta shrugged, unable to speak the truth. Worse happened at the Vatican.
Much, much worse.
Chapter 2
February, 1487
“Hurry.”
The morning sun had yet to make an appearance over the rooftops. The night held Trastevere firmly in its grasp as two figures rushed through the narrow curving streets to the bridge that separated their signori from Ponte.
Constanza kept an iron grip on her daughter’s wrist as they raced along. In the other hand, she carried an oil lamp, flame lighting the path ahead. The small puddle of illumination caused strange shadows to form on the ancient walls, flickering for a moment as they passed. The houses, two and three and four stories tall, loomed overhead, the tops almost touching in some places: faint noises emerging from them, the barking of dogs, disturbed at their passing, the shuffling groans of those newly awakened, the breathy sounds of those in pursuit of a moment’s pleasure.
“We must not be late, Betta. Remember that. If you are to serve at one of the great houses, you must never be late. For every girl hired to scrub pots, there are three girls ready to take her place, all smarter and quicker and harder working.”
“Yes, Mama,” Betta replied, keeping her head down, careful so as not to trip on the rutted pathway and soil the dress her mother had scrubbed in the Tiber yesterday. She was lagging. Although her mother was heavily pregnant, with a belly that swelled like a wine barrel beneath the skirt of her dark brown gown, she had long legs and used them to press on, her stride rapid as she skirted the stinking piles of water and filth that clogged the streets.
In the distance, a cock began to crow, and Constanza made a sound of distress low in her throat. A lightening had started in the sky, darkened velvet shot through with faint traces of gray. Even without the reminder, Betta had known the dawn would soon break. There was a quality to the early morning air, the freshness of a new day overlaying the stink of a city which had seen the dawns of a thousand years and more.
From the sheds and in the alleys, the sounds of animals waking from their slumber began, scratching and pants and yawns. The unmistakable squeal of a piglet sounded, drawing Betta’s attention. Her stomach gurgled as she paused, remembering the taste of salted pork like a pleasant dream from weeks before. Food, she thought. Fresh food, unspoiled by rot or mold. Pies and tarts or a …….
A hand shot out, grasping Betta’s wrist and yanking. Constanza’s breath huffed out in short, ragged gasps. “Be silent, Betta, unless you are spoken to. And never let yourself be seen unless you are performing some task. Our cousin had agreed to take you into the house until Lent. You know how important this is. The coin you earn will buy bread for your brothers and sister. If you stay there, after your father…”
“He is not my father,” Betta muttered. Though her mother had only misspoken, she refused to allow the word to pass. Her father had been a kind man with soft brown hair and a smile that still whispered through her dreams at night. Ruberto, her mother’s second husband, was no more her father than the pig she had heard squealing earlier.
“Yes, of course,” Constanza agreed, and for a moment she appeared flustered. “After Ruberto begins to earn better commissions, the coin that you earn can be saved for your dowry.”
“Yes, Mama,” Betta agreed, though she privately doubted the ability of her stepfather to earn better commissions. Or to earn any coin at all, and not to depend on the labor of her two oldest brothers to keep the family in bread. And even their efforts had not been sufficient of late. Summer rains had rotted grain in the fields, and every day, the sellers in the market charged more for flour. Betta could not remember the last time she had laid down to her pallet without hunger pains gripping her belly. There was never enough food to feed the older two boys and her sister, let alone the new baby that would shortly be arriving.
&nb
sp; A pain in her side made Betta double over, trying to catch her breath. Already three paces ahead, her mother threw a frantic glance back.
“Come!”
As they climbed up the hill, the houses grew finer. Square structures with pale plaster, they reminded Betta of the pieces of stone that littered the banks of the river where her mother took the wash. Taking a moment to get her bearings, Constanza turned down an alley and stopped at an arched door that interrupted the walls of a house that rose three stories high. A gate led onto a small terrace lined with tables. There were hooks embedded in the walls that surrounded it. Smoke poured from a cupola at the roof, smelling of pastry and sugared fruit. Betta’s stomach rumbled again.
Constanza rapped on the door. Beneath the patched linen of her shift, small breasts rose and fell, and she placed a hand against the small of her back. In the light spilling out from the window of the kitchen, the skin of her mother’s face was chalky white.
Betta felt a moment’s uneasiness. Ginevra was small, only three, and there was so much to do in the quarters above the cobbler’s shop. In a few weeks, another baby would come, and no one would be there to help her mother.
“Mama, are you certain…”
“Shush!” Came the tense reply as footsteps sounded from inside.
The door opened. A young man close to her brother Marco’s age was blocking the entrance with his body; flour staining a pristine white apron. Disgust pinched his nostrils.
“Don’t want no beggars here,” he snapped and made to shut the door.
Constanza’s hand flew out, stopping the door from closing. “We are not beggars,” she insisted, pride loud in her voice. “My cousin keeps this house and has agreed to take my daughter into service.”
Confusion showed on the boy’s face. He had thick black eyebrows that grew into a single line, making his face stern, like a churchman. He crossed his arms and looked over his shoulder to the kitchen, then back out to the street where they stood. A flash of annoyance enhanced his brooding appearance.
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