As soon as the linen touched her body, the knot of emotion encasing Lucrezia loosened, and tears began to fall. A trembling began, slowly at first, then so violently that her whole body shook with them. Betta bit her lip. Putting out a hand, she laid it gently on Lucrezia's shoulder, feeling the motion, the shaking which rippled through her entire body.
"Shhh." She murmured, patting again. "He didn't ...you are still whole, mistress. Clean."
The words made the tears come more fiercely. "I will never be clean again!" she wailed. Turning, she threw herself against Betta, whose arms rose to encircle her.
They remained in that posture until Betta's back felt as though the bones had been jerked out and replaced by white-hot pokers of agony. All the while, she murmured the most soothing words she could think of, that Lucrezia was still a virgin, that no one would know of this night’s work, that she could go to her husband unsullied. Eventually, the tears subsided, and Lucrezia pulled away to wipe her face with a cloth.
"What can I do?" Betta asked.
Lucrezia's face crumbled, cracking with grief and anger and fear. "Find Cesare," she pleaded. "Bring him to me."
The streets were quiet as Betta slipped out of the gate at the kitchen of the palazzo. Cats were feasting on the heaps of rubbish which would be hauled away in the morning and distributed to the city’s poor. The hiss of their fighting, eyes glowing a malevolent green in the night, sped her footsteps, and Betta raced along the alley, toward the Borgo, which would lead her into the heart of old Rome.
It was said that there were more whores than rats in Rome. Betta thought she saw them all as she raced along the streets, their flushed, painted cheeks, hanging off arms or leaning out of windows. The women grew thicker as she traveled, clustering around wine shops and spilling out of taverns and plying their trade with lusty, full-throated enthusiasm against the filthy walls.
Betta found him in the dimly lit interior of the third wine shop she visited. A woman was sitting in his lap, her blonde hair spilling over his arm as he cradled her. From the way the whore sat, giggling and moaning, his hand must have been up her skirts; the way it was moving, he was doing more than adjusting the layers of cloth.
From the opposite corner, the shattering of glass brought the Archbishop's eyes around. She met his eyes, felt the jolt of it when his face changed, sharpening into recognition before he smiled.
He waved her forward. "Here is a pretty piece for my friend Micheletto." The dark man next to him had no woman on his lap, though he was one of the few to remain unattended by the whores that in the tavern. He looked up from playing with his dagger, and her face must have communicated her distress. He pushed away from the table where Cesare was dripping wine into the wide neckline of the girl's dress and laving it off with his tongue.
“What is it?" he rasped into her ear when he had drawn close enough, and grasped her arm. Seething emotions poured off him in waves, anger, and something darker that made her wish to hide. She looked down, seeing lean fingers white across the brown wool cloth sleeve; there was no thought for the pain, the pinch of skin in his grasp, only anger. Lifting her eyes, she stared at him, daring him to continue. After a moment, he let go. There would be bruises there in the morning, she thought, feeling tingles as the blood rushed back. Her breath was coming too fast, almost a pant, but she could not steady it. Being in this man's company felt as though her feet were balanced on the span of a high bridge.
Though her stomach felt like it would leap out of her chest, she took hold of the slashed sleeve of his doublet and brought her face close his ear. Leather, she thought, and steel. The bitter tang of cold sweat. She spoke in a whisper. "Something has happened to my lady, and she begs that her brother will come to her."
He jerked away, breath escaping in a hiss. In two quick strides, he crossed to the corner table and laid his hand against the prelate’s sleeve.
Cesare Borgia lifted his face from the wine-soaked breasts of the whore. The girl's nipples were the same color as the vintage, Betta noted, and she must not have been feigning interest, for the buds exposed to the open air were hard and pointed, and her full lips were set in a pout. Fair hair spilled down her back, the brassy, brittle strands of one not born to the shade.
The moment that Micheletto began speaking into Borgia's ear, all interest in the girl fled, and a remarkable change came over his face. A flurry of activity followed. Betta found her arm seized; she was hustled out of the tavern behind the Archbishop and two guards who had materialized from a darkened corner. His pace increased as they crossed the threshold, not to the horses that waited, tied to a post, but to the darkened alley.
There was no moon overhead, no light but that from a torch held by one of the guards. Borgia nodded to Micheletto, and Betta found herself pressed against the uneven masonry of a building. His fingers clenched on her arm, and she felt the strength in them.
"Talk," he said.
Betta looked pointedly over their shoulder, to the two guards who stood within earshot, their full attention engaged though they appeared to focus on the piazza. "You will not wish this overheard."
Micheletto cocked his head but did as she asked, sending the men to see to the horses. When they were gone, the grip on her arm increased, but before he could command her again, she began the story.
"We were undressing my lady, and your Holy Father...there had been too much wine at dinner. We were removing her gown, preparing her for bed when there was the sound of singing in the corridor outside. It struck me that the man had a beautiful voice...like an angel singing." For a second, her attention wandered, focusing on the strangeness of what had happened. "And then, there was talking, and the Holy Father came through her door. He must have thought she was Madonna Giulia, for he... he touched her, and tore the camicia from her body. He forced her to the floor."
Borgia's face hardened as she spoke. When she spoke of the Holy Father’s hand reaching out to clasp her breast, he shoved Micheletto aside. In the dark, his face darkened into a mask of rage. He shook her, and her head kissed the stone wall behind.
"Did he rape her?" he demanded.
Betta shook her head, though her teeth felt as though they were rattling loose. "No... I threw the tray against a mirror. It shattered, and he came back to himself. He ran off, but my lady, she could not stop crying. She begged me to find you, my lord."
Releasing her arms, Borgia turned and began walking over to where the horses waiting, saddles and buckles dancing with their impatience.
"We ride," he bit off, mounting in a flurry of motion. "Bring the girl," he called over his shoulder, already sending his mount clattering along the stones.
Micheletto pulled her along, heading toward his own mount, a chestnut stallion who turned to look at them with mean eyes. Micheletto mounted, looking after his master, already galloping away.
"Come," he held out a hand, impatiently beckoning with his fingers. "I don't bite."
"A lie if ever I heard one," she muttered under her breath, taking his hand. As though she weighed nothing, Betta was swung up into the saddle and settled in front of him. White-knuckled, she clutched the horn as the animal shifted on its hoofs.
The motion of the stallion battered her as they charged down the street. Lacking a place for her hands, she gripped the edges of the saddle.
"Peace," he murmured into her ear. The arm around her waist flexed. "I won't drop you."
Betta made an effort to control her trembling. "I've never...I've never..." She could not continue. She wrapped her hands around the saddle leather so tightly that her fingers soon lost feeling, and she closed her eyes. Without the enormous horse in front of her eyes and the quick passage of the stones, she could almost forget where she was. Almost. The lack of sight made her more conscious of the feel of the man behind her, the press of his hipbones into the rounded skin of her behind.
"Never what?" His voice descended into deeper tones. "Never been this close to a man?" The hand around her waist moved up to cup her breast.
Anger blossomed, overshadowing all other emotions. She left a stinging slap on his hand. "Stop it," she hissed.
Borgia's henchman drew back, loosening his hold on her waist, and Betta wondered if he meant to toss her from the horse. She tightened her grip on the pommel. He was strong, but she was fast and would fight him every step of the way.
Micheletto started chuckling. "You are a sharp little one," he bent so that the words were whispered in her ear. A strange, disconcerting tingle spread from the feel of his warm breath against her earlobe. Micheletto spurred the horse so that it sped down the streets, still chasing after the Archbishop, who was far ahead. The thick leather of the seat slammed against her, an uncomfortable, painful sensation. Trying to counteract it, she rose up when the animal stepped forward, then swayed back, as Micheletto was doing behind her. It eased the discomfort, but brought her in repeated contact with his lower body; from the low grunt, he approved.
"That’s the way," he mumbled. "And what have you never done?"
It was an effort to concentrate, with the feel of the animal moving between her legs. "What?"
"You said you'd never...."
The memory returned. "I've never been on a horse," she confessed, shoulders hunching with embarrassment when she felt his laughter.
"It's no difficult thing," his hand moved to rest on her hip, pressing forward. The heat of his skin burned through the layers of wool and linen. "Follow his motion; let him do the work."
The warmth from his hand was spreading. Betta's throat felt tight, she wanted to tell him to move back, to take his hands from her, but there was nowhere to escape. They were plunging through the streets of Rome, the wind blowing through her hair which had come loose from its scarf.
Ahead, Betta saw the Archbishop's horse race through the gate at the palazzo of Santa Maria. A moment later and they were passing under the curved archway. Micheletto dismounted in a jingle of spurs and a flash of leather, and he plucked her from the saddle. Legs trembling from the unaccustomed exertion, she stood before him, mute.
Micheletto nodded at the Archbishop, who was stripping off his gloves and already striding toward the steps. "Go after him,” he commanded. “They might require you." Betta nodded and would have hurried off, except that Micheletto caught her wrist. Leaning down so that he was level with her ear, he whispered, "And if you need to mount a horse again, come to me."
He was not speaking of horses, and his eyes were hot, molten with dark blue flames. The sight of them rekindled the burning feeling which she had felt before, moving on the horse. It frightened her. Without responding, Betta turned and hurried after the Archbishop, who was already ascending the stairs. Betta ran, trying to catch up with him.
"My lord," she hissed. "My lord, stop."
Cesare Borgia stopped.
"If you would not have this night's deeds known, you will come with me," She led him to the back of the Palazzo. The magnificence of the structure was muted in the darkness. All that could be seen of the paintings and tapestries were from the torches that lit the night sky peeked through the grates.
She laid finger against lips at the door and knocked. It was opened, and a weary, drawn face peered out. Catherina, whom Lucrezia trusted, had been brought up from her chamber and left with Lucrezia.
"Betta," the older girl whispered. "She will not stop crying. She..." Her voice trailed off as she recognized the man shadowing her at the door.
"Go and take your rest," Betta said. "I will care for my lady tonight."
Catherina would not look up. She bobbed a curtsy and slid out of the door, carefully so as not to let any part of her body touch Cesare Borgia.
Betta opened the door wider, allowing his entrance. Lucrezia lay in a puddle of golden candlelight on the bed, surrounded by half a dozen tapers set on low tables all around. The light shed golden sparks in her hair, tangled and flowing over her face where it was pressed against a pillow. The hem of her camicia was pulled up past her knee.
"Lucrezia," Borgia whispered, and the effect was that of a fish suddenly being returned to the water. In a tangle of hair and white linen, she stood, chest heaving. Her eyes were wet and scarlet from crying.
"Cesare," she gasped; before the single word was finished, she had flung herself from the bed into his arms. He sank to the floor with her there, whispered words interspersed with hiccupping sobs.
Betta knew that she was no longer needed. "I will be without if you have need of me." A nod from the dark head was her only answer.
It was quiet out on the loggia. On the levels below, Betta could hear nothing of the dozens of servants who formed the silent army that cared for the women beloved of the Pope. Even the sounds from the surrounding streets were muffled. There were no noises from the neighboring palazzos or horses, and the church bells from the thousand steeples that decked the skyline of Rome would not sound until dawn.
Betta took a deep breath, allowing the damp, sweet air to fill her and quiet her thoughts. The danger had not passed; instead, she was more surrounded by it than ever. Should the Pope wish to hide evidence of his transgression, she would be easier to snuff out than one of the candles even now guttering in Lady Lucrezia’s room. What maggot had entered the Pope's brain, that he should mistake his slim, virginal daughter for a buxom, full-bodied mistress?
But even as she marinated in her fury, she was forced to admit that it was a departure from his habits. The servants of the Vatican marveled at this Pope's energy, his unbridled enthusiasm for life. Unless he was entertaining one of the dignitaries that flocked to the papal residence, the one who had been Rodrigo Borgia worked long on church affairs into the night, stopping only to visit Madonna Giulia. He seldom drank to excess, and the meals that he favored were plain.
Perhaps it had been a maggot, she thought, or any evil spirit whispering to him that one of the most beautiful girls in Rome resided beneath his very roof, and there were none to gainsay him.
Betta took another deep breath and slid to the floor. She was tired. The night's run through the streets had come after another long day, cleaning and seeing to the thousand small tasks that comprised the Madonna's care. And she could not sleep, not until Cesare had been spirited from the Palazzo with none the wiser. There had been scandal enough for one night.
There was stone beneath her legs; she laid her head against the frame of the door. There was a small gap between the door and the floor- through it, she could hear the Archbishop speaking.
"Shush, Lucrezia. You know our father. Doubtless, he will be horrified by what happened this night.
"But why would he do this?"
Because he is a man, Betta wanted to answer her. Able to do as he wishes. But the words caught in her throat. She could not further abuse the girl's innocence. She had always thought of Lucrezia Borgia as a princess in a tower, gilded and cossetted and safe from all harm, but she had been wrong. The darkness had finally found her.
"Because you are lovely, enough to raise any man's passions. When you are older, when you have become a wife in truth, you will understand."
"When I am a wife in truth? How can I even think of taking Lord Sforza to bed after... this."
"You must." For the first time, there was sadness in Cesare's voice. "This changes nothing, little sister, save that you now know the evil beast that lurks in the heart of men."
"Not you," there was a sound, like a hand being kissed. "Not in my Cesare."
"In me more than most."
The first cockerels had begun to crow by the time Cesare opened the door. All the candles in the room had been extinguished save one, enough to see that Lucrezia slept, hair smoothed back, a tranquil expression on her face.
The Archbishop was looking at her, and Betta realized that she had a smile on her face, watching her. "You did well this night."
Betta shook her head and looked down. "I did nothing..."
"Cease," he interrupted. "From what Lucrezia has told me, our Holy Father was but two heartbeats away from fucking he
r when you threw the tray. What could have possessed him?" Cold fury resonated in his voice, sharp as a needle.
Betta bit her lip, hesitating. "My lord...If I may."
He said nothing, only looked at her. In the darkness, his eyes were two black pools, glittering with emotion.
"When...before he entered the room, it seemed that I heard someone outside with him, a man with a most beautiful voice. And when he entered, he called her "La Bella," as though she were his lady, not his daughter. And..." she searched her memory. "That this was a game that they would play, the virgin waiting to be devoured. That she was hungry for it."
Cesare drew back, his hand clenched into a fist. "Was the voice one that is known to you?"
"No, my lord."
"A beautiful voice, you said,” he mused. “Like an angel.”
Though the words were not a question, she answered. “Yes, my lord.”
The Archbishop dropped his hand and looked out over the loggia. “A shame,” he murmured, then shook himself, throwing off whatever thoughts had troubled him. “You have served my family well this night, little Betta. If ever there is a need, come to me again."
Betta bowed her head, watching from beneath her eyelashes as he walked away. There was power in him. Intelligence and some inner fire lit the Archbishop so that all other men were diminished by comparison, even his father. It must be the reason that the Holy Father seemed to prefer Juan Borgia. Betta had never met the younger son of His Holiness, but he was renowned throughout Rome for his drinking and cruelty.
A pity, she thought, taking off her shoes and sliding into the blankets on her pallet for an hour of rest before the start of her duties. The way that Cesare Borgia had looked as he rode through the streets of Rome lingered in her mind. The Archbishop was a man that others followed, not because they had been paid to do so, but because they wanted to, knowing that he would lead them on to glory.
Servant to the Borgia Page 17