Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  Betta's heart was racing as though she had run all the way back across the Corso. He had done this for her. Two dozen men had been sent to see that the Pope's daughter was kept safe, but this... this was from him. He had done this for her, that she would be protected.

  Until that moment, she had not realized how she looked forward to seeing him, their petty arguments, and that he did not seem to mind her sharp tongue. Even his groping hands would be missed.

  "Little fool," he began again, then stopped when he seemed to realize that she was no longer fighting to get away. The knife was clutched in her hands because it was precious, and she could feel herself smiling.

  He barked out a laugh. "Now?" and shook his head. Before she could blink, Betta found herself pressed against the stucco wall, surrounded by him, the heavy leather and steel scent, the strength in his hands, holding her shoulders but gently, so that it did not hurt. He pressed her to the side and breathed into her ear.

  "Listen to me, girl. Keep that knife on you, and use it if you must. When you come back to Rome, we will finish this." There was a press of his hips against her hip, a thick reminder of what he spoke. "Now go, before I think better of it.”

  He released her, and Betta staggered back, one, two steps, toward the door that had swung open, and the wagons which were beginning to depart. She could feel the place he had pressed against her like a missing limb.

  "Go. Now. And if you fuck Bernaldino, I will strangle you."

  Betta paused and looked back, stamping the way that he looked into her memory, the play of leather across his broad chest, the scowl. "I will miss you, Micheletto."

  Chapter 35

  Berenger de Gany swore as his boots submerged up to the ankle in a muddy puddle of water. The shock of cold was enough to make his toes curl against the influx through the cracks in the leather. The wool of his hose was sodden with moisture, and his chest was plagued by a cough. On days such as this, he wondered if his mother had been correct, and his foul deeds had landed him in hell, for surely there could be no worse place than Rome during the rainy month of December when water sluiced off the tile rooftops and turned the roads into rivers of mud.

  His only consolation was that his torment would not continue long - after years of preparation, the king was coming, marching across the mountains with his army. Soon, Berenger would be free to join him on the quest to take Naples. From there, on to defeat the Turks. Already Florence had fallen without a whimper. Piero de Medici, never the man that his family had hoped, had fled the city in terror, and Friar Savonarola, preaching of doom and judgment in the form of the oncoming French armies, had softened the way for them. Soon, the king would arrive at the gates of Rome, and they would crumble before his cannon.

  Berenger shifted his foot, attempting to drain the water from it, before abandoning the endeavor as useless. His rooms over the merchant’s shop were but three streets away; when he crossed the threshold, he would send down to the girl who served the family; she would bring him hot water for a wash, and perhaps soup from the tavern. His boots would dry before he ventured out again…

  A hand seized his wrist, and Berenger felt a blade press into the small of his back at the place where his doublet met his hose. He twisted, trying to spring away, but the knife dug in, the tip painting a spot of fire to the right of his spine.

  “Another move, and it’ll come through to your stomach.” A voice growled in his ear. The man was so close behind him that Berenger could feel the press of his hip bones against his side.

  Berenger bit back a moan. “What...” he began, stalling for time.

  The hand on his wrist clenched, and Berenger had to smother another gasp as pain shot through to his elbow. The man had a grip like iron; there would be bruises tomorrow.

  “Move.”

  A nudge with the knife sent him stumbling forward. His attacker kept behind, forcing his shoulder back into a painful curve that allowed him to control their direction. He moved fast, taking long, rapid strides, compelling Berenger into a trot to keep apace. One street, then another passed in a blur until they reached the shabby place where he had made his home for the past three years, the room above the merchant’s shop. Another nudge with the knife sent him stumbling forward, and Berenger mounted the stairs, his muscles protesting as he climbed each flight, coming at last to the paneled door that was his sanctuary, his small suite of rooms that nestled under the stars.

  The door closed, and his wrist was released. Berenger stumbled forward, one, two steps before catching his forward momentum on the edge of a table. His breath rasped in his throat, coming in hard, sharp pants. There was a noise behind him, that of a bar being fitted across the door. He turned, and it was as if his entire body turned from ice to flame and back again.

  “Micheletto.”

  Though he had known it was he from the first, the shock of his appearance was like a blow between his ribs, stealing the breath. Always it was the same. No matter where he traveled in Rome when Micheletto wanted him, he found him, and then…

  He reached a hand forward, meaning to touch him, wanting to touch him, to stroke the wetness that streamed down his face, the hair that clung to his cheeks, exposing the deep cleft of his chin, but Micheletto batted his hand aside. Anger darkened his expression.

  “You know what I want.”

  His voice…Berenger trembled at it, even as he moved to obey the command. A grave voice, so rough and deep that it pulled at the very heart of him. Berenger crossed the two paces that separated them and sank to his knees.

  Droplets of moisture patted to the wooden floor, darkening it. Berenger was aware of it, the puddles, the ache in his shoulder from where his arm had been wrenched, even as his hands reached forward, pulling at the laces of Micheletto’s codpiece. A quick adjustment, and then he was free, the shaft hanging between them.

  Berenger wanted to take a moment to admire it, the heavy virility and beauty of his manhood, capped with the sheath of the foreskin, but Micheletto reached forward, tangling his fingers into Berenger’s hair, and mashed his face to the exposed skin.

  “Now.”

  It was a command, and Berenger was helpless to do anything but obey. He opened his mouth wide, taking him down to the root, choking as the flesh swelled but unable to do more than whimper as mouth and tongue were plundered, used for the pleasure of the man who stood over him, commanding and controlling his every action as once, he had controlled others.

  A hot blast of fluid scorched his tongue, and the grip on Berenger’s hair relaxed, allowing him to draw back and collapse on the floor. He was panting, out of breath and so unspeakably aroused that he could do nothing but tremble as Micheletto shuddered again, a droplet of fluid landing on the floor with a splash.

  “Lick it up.”

  No, no, he wanted to protest, hating that he was already moving, to press his tongue against the floorboards covered with mud from the streets, sucking at the salty fluid as though it were gold and he was a beggar. There was a grunt of satisfaction from the man still leaning against the door.

  “Do you have any wine?” Micheletto asked, stalking into the room as though he owned it or anything else that crossed his gaze.

  “B...by the bed,” Berenger muttered, struggling to his feet. He watched with helpless anger as Micheletto shed his garments, tugging off doublet and shirt in a single motion then dropping them to the floor, where they landed with a wet splash. Shoes were flung across the room in his direction, and Berenger obediently picked them up, taking them to the brazier where the coals would dry them.

  Micheletto removed the cork with his teeth and took a long drink, the muscles of his throat convulsing with every swallow. Evidently pleased, he drank again, then tossed the bottle back onto the table before turning back to face him. Even clad in hose, Micheletto was an intimidating sight, thick of muscle and crossed with a multitude of scars.

  “Why are you still dressed?” The rumble was back in Micheletto’s voice. Berenger discarded his garments, leaving
them in a dripping pile on the floor. As he worked to undo the laces, he watched as Micheletto uncorked the small bottle of oil that he kept on the table and poured a measure of it into his palm. His chest gleamed in the dim light as he anointed himself, spent shaft gaining thickness with every long stroke.

  “Come. Here.”

  It was a command, and Berenger was helpless but to obey.

  The room was without light, utterly dark, only sound remaining. Berenger listened, straining to hear the noises that he had grown accustomed to over the past years - the cats howling in the alley, waiting for the merchant’s wife to throw scraps to them, the deafening rumble of the man in the next house, screaming at his lazy children, and the fall of raindrops off the tiles. In the morning, there would be a wet patch near the brazier where the roof had leaked. His feet knew the places to avoid, and he would skirt the damp spot on the floor. He would miss that in the days to follow, the comfortable familiarity of life in the city that he hated. He would also miss the man lying next to him in the open legged abandon of exhaustion.

  Though he could not see Micheletto, the months since they had begun their affair were burned into his thoughts; he fancied he could remember each word the henchman had spoken, every mood, every turn of his mobile face. He did not love him, dear God, he prayed that he did not love him, but the man’s existence was seared into his thoughts like the brand from a white-hot iron. When he closed his eyes, it was there, staring back, demanding something that Berenger could not give.

  He could not even use the excuse that he used their fucking to gain information. From the moment they had met in the tavern, he had never asked Micheletto so much as the Cardinal’s favorite thing to sup on in the early morning hours. From the first, it had been same - Micheletto ordering, and he agreeing, anything to keep him finding him again on the streets, forcing them into his room, and then the bed, feeling Micheletto moving over him like a storm, taking everything and giving nothing, like the most excellent wine and the rankest poison blended into a concoction that he would always crave.

  “You’ll be going soon.” Micheletto’s voice came out of the darkness with no warning. One moment he was asleep, breathing heavily, and the next he was speaking, and following the tenor of Berenger’s own thoughts.

  “Yes,” Berenger agreed. “Before the week is out.” Then, because he could not help himself. “You could come with me.”

  “As what, page?” Micheletto’s voice was heavy with scorn.

  “As…companion, or guard. Whatever it would please you to be.” Although Micheletto let out another snort, Berenger hurried on, the words he had been thinking of for the last months tripping over themselves in his haste. “The Pope, he will not submit even though all is lost. He has no allies, no armies with which to defend the city. It will fall.”

  Micheletto was silent. Taking it as a hopeful sign, Berenger continued on.

  “Come with me. My king is a just man, he will…”

  “Your king is a fool, just as you are. Would you parade me through the camp, your pet sodomite?” The words escaped in a vicious hiss. “I will fight by my master’s side.”

  “Your master is a fool if he thinks to win.” Berenger could not control the quirk of his lips at having bested the henchman at last. Led by his king, all of Italia was moving against the scourge of the Borgia Papacy. A Grand Council would be called as soon as his monarch took the city, and the papacy would be shifted to Della Rovere, always more malleable to French interests.

  “My master will triumph and send your king on his way. And the sooner the lot of you leave, the better.”

  The words stabbed deep. Though he knew Micheletto did not share his depth of feeling, he had thought there was something between them; desire, if nothing else. “Sometimes, you act as though you hate me.” His voice was a pained rasp.

  “I hate everyone.”

  “And…me?”

  Micheletto did not deny it; a lead weight descended, pressing down against his chest. Though he had debased himself, doing anything to please his lover, nothing had mattered. Micheletto was locked against him.

  “What do you like? There must be something.”

  Berenger did not expect an answer. The straw mattress moved as Micheletto levered himself up and began pulling on his hose. His voice, when it emerged, was soft.

  “My father was a pikeman for Charles of Burgundy,”

  “What…”

  “Shut it,” Micheletto interrupted him. “After that one lost, he came to Italy and took up with my mother. But he couldn’t leave the fighting behind, it was in his blood. Later, he took me with him, from the time I was five or six years old and able to clean the blood from his halberd after a battle. I don’t know what he liked better, cutting men to pieces, or holding me down afterward, fucking me ‘til I screamed when the heat was upon him.”

  Berenger felt his gorge rise, but said nothing. What Micheletto described was common. He had been treated in much the same way when he had first begun his training in arms so many years ago.

  “I fought him. Each time, I fought him, and when I was old enough, I bashed his head to bloody mush with his own mace. You ask what I like, Berenger de Gany?” Micheletto de Corella’s French was flawless; he realized with a start that Micheletto had begun speaking it for some time without his even noticing the difference. He had crossed the room, and the door was open.

  “I like the ones who fight back. See that the women my master loves are left in peace when your master invades, Berenger de Gany, and you may live to see King Charles take the throne of Naples.”

  Chapter 36

  Rain fell in gusts from a leaden sky as they neared the town of Pesaro, turning the road into a sea of mud and swelling the banks of the rivers until they overflowed onto the fields beyond, further delaying the journey.

  Their trek north from Rome had been followed by the rainclouds. Lady Giulia and Adriana, who had decided to accompany the Countess to her new home, loudly bewailed the horrors of the weather, and refused to leave their litters. From her place in the wagons, Betta watched the wilting of their gowns as the droplets found the cracks in the curtains, the drip of water from their noses, the hasty sips of strong spirits to drive away the chill.

  Lady Lucrezia faced the journey with a grim determination that increased as the days dragged on. Refusing to ride in the wagons, she found saddle each morning at the head of the procession, listening with rapt attention as her husband spoke of the Sforza’s who had molded the shape of the Papal States after the collapse of empires had left them disjointed and ripe for conquest.

  The Ravenna road where they traveled was another ancient one, straight lines leading across the horizons, with tunnels cut through the mountains and bridges spanning dizzying heights. They continued on as the storms dogged their steps, the only respite to be found in the frequent stops made at the homes of the lords eager to seek the favor of the Pope by hosting his daughter. Feasts and hunting marked the days spent drying gowns and shoes, and the frantic scrambles of the servants to accommodate the traveling party and see them on their way.

  Despite heavy rain, a tumultuous welcome greeted the Lord of Pesaro and his new lady when they arrived in the city. Flowers joined the raindrops showering them, bright petals soon covered with mud. The cheers were warm, genuine smiles, not the thin grimaces of those forced or paid, and Betta began to revise her opinion of the new master, a man clearly beloved by his people.

  Betta had not thought of what to expect from his home, only that it would be a fine one. His shabbiness, the borrowed finery which he wore to his wedding, suggested a lack of ready coin. But as the fog of the journey lifted along with the clouds that darkened the sky, Betta could not help but wonder at the beauty of Pesaro. Though small, the city center was crowned with graceful buildings fashioned in the modern style. The Palazzo Ducale on the piazza where they took up residence was a massive building with smooth plaster walls, shiny with newness after the weight of ages which crowded out every corner of Rom
e; each of the rooms was handsomely appointed with frescoes and expansive windows that looked out over the rolling countryside.

  When the banquets and festivities celebrating Lady Lucrezia’s arrival had passed, and the count had grown impatient for other sport, he ordered their removal to the country. The Villa Imperiale was another surprise, as beautiful in its way as the Palazzo Ducale. Placed on a low hill at the edge of the sea, forests crowded close around, filled with boar and deer, which soon claimed the count’s interest, and paths which lead down to the coast. The walls of the villa were covered in clinging vines that obscured the sand-colored stone, and a tower reached up, carving a line into the bright blue sky. A courtyard in the center of the villa held urns and a well whose water was cold and fresh, no matter the heat of the day.

  Stone terraces edged with gardens and vineyards framed the villa, and each night after pranzo, the ladies took wine as they ambled along the paths, enjoying the scent of jasmine and roses. The setting sun turned the stone to umber, the gowns of the ladies strolling along the banks caught fire with gold and silver threads.

  Slowly, gradually, the rigid lines of Lady Lucrezia’s shoulders eased. She began to smile again and savor the delights of her new home.

  Chapter 37

  To the Most Honored Lady of Pesaro

  15 July 1494

  Although you have yet to grace me with a reply from the previous letters I have written since your journey to Pesaro, I send you the warmest greetings in the hope that it will soften the harshness of the feelings you harbor against me. It is my fervent desire that this time of separation will recall to you the tenderness you once held for me, those of a sister for the brother that loves her no matter the sins which can be laid upon his shoulders.

  The sun burns the stones of our fair city, and yet there can be no relief either for myself or for our most Holy Father. We continue our sojourn here while those prelates and nobles not intimately connected with our cause flee in preparation for the coming invasion. The mass of the French army has been gathered, and like a serpent, they trek through the mountains. Verily, there have been moments that I question our father's refusal to invest the King of France with the crown of Naples, for we cannot hope to stand against them, even with the support of their most Catholic majesties, the King and Queen of Spain. Our father is firm in his resolve, however, as those surrounding him have shown the perfidy of their natures. Della Rovere, who, you will recall, was once named a familiar of our mother, has fled, and supports the French cause with all the vitriol in his nature. Even the uncle of your illustrious husband, Ludovico Sforza, has offered Milan as a place of safe conduct to their armies. For the love you bear your husband, I would council Giovanni to support our father's cause, for the insult done to our family after being allied to it by the bestowing of your precious hand in marriage is not one that will lightly be forgiven.