Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  Of the scandal that is our brother Juan's behavior in Spain you have doubtless heard, and it has brought much grief to our father's heart. After beggaring himself to provide the Duke with treasure such as would befit a king instead of spending the coin in preparation for the martial conflicts which will soon be engulfing Italy, the Pope has been treated to endless reports of our brother's intemperate behavior. He has made himself a familiar of gamblers, and instead of spending his time with the wife our Father's bounty provided, he keeps company with women of ill repute. There was talk that he had neglected even that most necessary act to ensure the legality of the marriage in favor of such women. Dogs and cats fear to roam the streets less they risk meeting Juan's sword, for he kills them for sport, as he was wont to do as a child. And yet his letters to our father and to myself make no mention of these things, only a fervent desire to return to Rome. But even that eternal city is a changed place, and daily the tally of those dead in the streets from plague grows. The Colonna eagerly anticipate the coming of the French and the disposition of our father from his Holy Office, and violence has been threatened against his very person. Should the French arrive here, we will take refuge in the Castel Sant'Angelo

  Although your sweet company would do much to provide solace during these trying times, that you are safely ensconced in Pesaro is a comfort for me, and it is with pleasure that I read those missives you have written to our father. Catherina Gonzaga, whom you have lately encountered, is indeed a woman of surpassing beauty, but she pales before your sweet presence...

  Again, I entreat you to soften your heart and welcome me into the light of your filial affection, which was ever the source of my greatest happiness. All the world seems a barren place without it.

  Chapter 38

  Bernaldino Serranda lounged against the uneven stone wall that surrounded the Palazzo Ducale. It was a lazy, sun-drenched afternoon when the light on the nearby sea cast a thousand golden sparkles on the water. Men surrounded him; the dozen Spaniards sent to guard the Lady Lucrezia kept to themselves, speaking their native tongue even as they whored and drank their way through Pesaro and the surrounding countryside.

  For weeks, Betta had watched them, learning their movements, discovering which of the grizzled soldiers was the one that Micheletto had engaged to teach her. Bernaldino was not the leader of the band, nor was he the youngest, or even the strongest. If anything, his age was the only thing that distinguished him from his fellows. The other men Betta judged to be close to the Cardinal’s age, nearing their second decade of life. The captain, Gabriel Hortiz, looked some years older, and he put her in mind of a wolf chained to a post: dangerous and straining at the bonds. Bernaldino was perhaps ten years his senior. Of middling height with shaggy dark hair that lightened to blond at the tips, his face was a tapestry of lines and wrinkles, golden skin and drooping eyelids. And yet there was something striking about his face that made her eyes follow him. The strong bones of chin and cheekbone made his face attractive despite the lines, and his rare smiles made the serving girls stop and stare.

  Betta’s hand tightened on the jug of water she had used as a pretense for approaching them. There was no reason for her fear. Micheletto had arranged for her to be taught by Serranda, and he was not a man to leave such matters to chance or an inept tutor. Straightening her shoulders, Betta left the safety of the loggia and crossed the courtyard to where the men sat or stood at the benches surrounding the gate, talking amongst themselves and laughing.

  Eyes turned in her direction. Betta had grown used to being the object of direct male stares, and it seldom troubled her any longer. But these men were so large and strange with their light hair and the pungent reek of onions.

  The Captain turned as she approached, and his eyes made thorough work of studying the way that she walked. Though a wolfish smile lit his lips, his eyes remained the same, watchful, and his hand never left the dagger at his waist. Fear touched her; it was an effort to continue on the half dozen paces to where they stood.

  “Here’s a pretty piece,” the captain murmured in Roman. “Come to brighten our day?”

  Betta’s hand itched for the coldness of the dagger strapped to the underside of her arm. The touch of them comforted her, cold steel and the polished wood handle. Even in sleep, she did not remove them. Betta kept her hands around the jug of water. The captain would see the movement if she touched her blades, and know what it meant.

  “Please, Don Hortiz, I wish to speak to Don Serranda.”

  Whistles and cackles emerged from the other men at her words. Bernaldino did not move from his position at the wall.

  “On what matter?”

  Weak, Betta thought. Timid and frightened. She fixed her gaze at his feet, the dusty leather boots that looked to have never been cleaned. “Please, Sir, I was not to s…say.”

  From beneath her eyelashes, she saw the captain relax back and nod at Serranda, who immediately moved on silent feet to stand beside her.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “By the old stables, Don Serranda,” she replied, eager to be away from the men, her feet already in motion. She was not quick enough. The Spaniard reached out, curling a hand around her arm and matching his step to hers.

  “Let us know how she is.” One of the men called after; Betta hunched her shoulders, feeling her neck heat.

  The pace of Serranda’s steps increased, carrying them away from the terrace. The Palazzo Ducale had two stables; the larger kept for the count’s horses and those of his men, ferocious animals that Betta would cross the yard to avoid. The smaller shelter was outside of the wall, a broken down, deserted little building used for merchant’s nags or new foals too delicate to be left with the other mounts.

  They rounded the corner of the building, and Betta pulled away from the Spaniard’s restraining hand. He allowed it, chuckling under his breath as she stalked three paces ahead and turned to face him.

  Fast. The word whispering from a corner of her mind. Though appearing at ease, body slouched and head cocked to the side, she could sense a readiness in him. His dark eyes never ceased moving; they touched on every part of her, lingering on her arm. Had he felt the blade as they walked to the stables? She thought he had.

  “Micheletto said…”

  He interrupted her. “I know what he said.” He took a step closer, crowding her. “What he wishes me to do.”

  Blood pounded in Betta’s ears. She could hear it, feel the urge to run sending strength to her legs. Menace rolled off the Spaniard in a wave. Though there was no blade in his hand, she thought he could kill her before she drew another breath. She did not have to continue this folly. In half a moment, she could return to the safety of the women’s quarters. Another could be found…

  No. She was no coward.

  “So you are Micheletto’s little whore.” The Spaniard caressed the words. “I did not think he took after girls.”

  She studied him, knowing that he was trying to frighten her off. Another wolf, like his captain, Betta thought, remembering the tales that her mother had told her late at night during the long winter hours. Not as quick as he had once been, but strong and vicious, like the she-wolf that had suckled the founders of Rome. More than a match for her.

  “Micheletto said that I was to find you,” she said, meeting his eyes. “And I am not a whore. You are to teach me blades.” Though her voice was low, it did not shake.

  “Why?”

  “Why does not matter, only that you are to do it.”

  As they walked, the sun had slipped beneath a line of clouds that edged the horizon, tempering the light. It wasn’t until it emerged from behind them that she noticed he had maneuvered them so that his back faced the setting sun. The glaring rays made her eyes water.

  “Stab me, then.” The words were lazy, utterly without fear, but his posture had changed. Loose-limbed, he balanced lightly on his feet, hands resting on thighs. He made no move to touch the dagger at his waist.

  Surprise made her draw back.
“What if I hurt you?”

  Another twist of his lips caused the lines to deepen at the corners. “You won’t.”

  Betta looked down, turning her wrist to draw back the fabric of her sleeve. Her fingers had hardly touched the linen when his open palm slammed into her chest, knocking her flat on the ground, banging her head against the packed dust of the stable yard. There was no air in her lungs, and she gasped, trying to draw a breath. It felt as though a club had knocked her in the chest.

  Above her, the Spaniard chuckled. “Stupid little bitch.” He turned and began walking up the path to the Palazzo.

  The place between her breasts where Serranda had struck her turned purple the next day and ached as though she had been kicked by a mule. Each time that Betta drew in a breath, she could feel it, digging into the place between her ribs. Stupid, she told herself. She could not even reach the blade that Micheletto had given her, much less use it in the time before he had struck out. But if Serranda was to be her teacher, the blow was a lesson, the first he had taught her.

  She was determined to learn. During the quiet moments of the day, Betta retreated to the small room where Lady Lucrezia’s chests were kept and practiced drawing out the blade at her wrist. The moment that it took for her to draw back a sleeve was too slow. The need to reach the knives in a single moment seemed an insurmountable obstacle that troubled her for a night and a day. It was only when she was attaching the sleeve to the countess’s gown for supper that the solution came to her. Using materials borrowed from one of the other serving girls, she picked apart the seam of her sleeve until a gap appeared, large enough for her to slip a hand through. When engaged in her duties, the slit was hidden beneath her arm, out of sight. After three days of practicing, she was able to draw the dagger free in a single motion.

  The blade that Micheletto had told her to strap to her leg was a different matter. Cumbersome wool blocked access to the weapon, and no slits could be made in the fabric that could not be seen, even when covered by an apron. In the end, she decided to leave the blade where he had bidden, reasoning that a moment might come when her skirts would not prove a hindrance.

  When she could withdraw the blade at her arm in a single fluid movement, she sought out the Spaniard again. Betta found the guards as they left mass at the Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta. The plain stone façade of the cathedral was thronged by the faithful, but she found the Spaniards easily, the small band of roughly dressed men like a flock of crows amongst the brightly garbed worshippers.

  A leer twisted his lips as she approached, her feet leaden as she crossed the piazza. “Again?” he taunted, turning his body so that she was blocked from the other men’s view. “Thought I was too much for you.”

  Betta dug her fingers into her palms to control the urge to run as the men laughed. It did not matter that they thought she was rutting with the Spaniard. It did not matter.

  “Again,” she replied. His head jerked in an affirmative gesture; with a nod and a word to the Captain who watched them with narrowed eyes, he moved to stand beside her. He offered his arm, eyes dancing with a challenge.

  Cursing him internally, she obliged, sliding her fingers around to cup his elbow. The leather of his doublet was supple. The crowd pressed them together, reeking with the scents of musk and badly tanned leather and incense. Betta noted that Serranda’s scent was not displeasing. The linen at his throat was clean, and his hair had been washed. He smelled of grass and horses instead of the dirt and sweat that clung to most men.

  Instead of the stables, Bernaldino Serranda led them through the Palazzo Ducale until they came to a long, high ceilinged room high up in the warren of passages on the third level. The room was without ornament or furniture, the only light emerging from a pair of windows blocked with wooden shutters that Bernaldino threw open, exposing a dusty floor and the pelleted remnants of mice and rats.

  He leaned against the wall. “Stab me then, little whore.”

  Betta kept her eyes on him, ready for the strike as her hand moved to her sleeve. His arm whipped out, almost too fast to be seen, but she dodged, throwing herself to the side while grasping the hilt and sliding it free. She brought the dagger up, preparing to strike out when his fist caught her in the arm. Shock pulsed down, turning the limb into a searing lance of pain, and the blade clattered to the floor.

  Betta bit back a pained cry as she cradled her arm, close against her chest.

  “Pick it up,” he commanded, gesturing at the blade near his feet.

  She shook her head; the tensing of his leg muscles, ready for a strike, had her wincing at the imagined pain.

  Bernaldino grunted out a laugh. “Smart.” Stepping forward, he swiped the blade off the floor and advanced toward her, twirling it between his fingers. Reflexively, Betta stepped back, but he just shook his head and reached out to take her injured hand. Ignoring her flinch, he jerked her closer.

  “Like this,” he said, positioning the blade so that the cutting edge was held back instead of forward.

  “Why?”

  “To block. Hold it,” he growled, batting at her hand. Curling her fingers tighter, she refused to allow the blade to be swept from her grasp. When her fingers felt numb and boneless from the tight grip, he relented.

  “Better,” he said, and stalked from the room.

  The lessons continued in the same manner, once, sometimes twice a week she would find him, and they would return to the dusty room at the top of the Palazzo. Drawing her weapon, she would advance until he batted it aside with fist or feet or his own naked blade. Bruises blossomed on her skin, and she nursed them with quiet pride.

  Summer bled into fall as the French advanced through the countryside, burning and pillaging. Though letters came from the cardinal and his Holiness in a steady stream, the hills around Pesaro insulated them from the fighting; it seemed as though the war could never reach them. Even the news that the French king was at the gates of Rome failed to pierce the protective veil that surrounded the city, where the long summer of peace would never end.

  The soldiers alone chaffed at being left to molder at Pesaro. Their impatience was a tangible thing of lowered eyebrows and muttering that ceased only when the Count began training for the conflicts to come. The Spaniards suffered more than most. Their only duty was the protection of a countess who had no need of their services.

  Betta slipped onto the third floor of the Palazzo as the sun neared its zenith. The other maids had followed the countess’s example, stealing a few hours of sleep in preparation for a feast to come, and there was no one to wonder at her absence. Bernaldino was waiting for her, sitting next to the open window, a jug of wine at his side.

  He rose as she approached. The same posture, feet apart, body relaxed, hands resting lightly on thighs. The patient readiness of him was a threat, even more so because she could feel the anger rolling off of him, the tension loosely reined.

  “Stab me then, little whore,” he whispered, the low sound more frightening than if he had shouted the words.

  “I am not a whore,” Betta said, moving to the side, circling him.

  In a moment, the Spaniard rushed forward, catching her blade at the hilt and dropping it to the floor. His foot caught her ankle, and she fell, landing hard. The bulk of his body was like a stone, chaining her in place. Her hands were seized, and his voice whispered in her ear.

  “Armies come, and we sit here on our asses. You’ll make it worth the effort, yes?” His hips pressed into her back, and Betta felt his cock, growing harder with every moment. She struck out, catching his ear with the back of her hand as her hips shifted. When he reached for her again, she brought her elbow up, catching him in the codpiece.

  His body writhed, dropping his restraining hold on her hands. She wriggled free and rolled, coming up in a crouch three paces away, the knife from her skirts clutched in her hand.

  “You’ll regret that,” he wheezed. Though he spoke through his teeth, his eyes were fired and bright. The color was not black, as she
had thought, but dark amber, matching the lights in his hair. Struggling, he rose to his feet, the dagger already in his hand. “I take you down again, it’s him you’ll take.” He cupped the front of his hose as he stalked toward her.

  Anger blossomed, and she stopped trying to think, to remember all of the ways she could be defeated. She watched neither his hands or his eyes. Her sight narrowed until his face was a blur, his hands like the branches of trees, caught in the wind. There was no fear; she felt alive, as though nothing existed except the dagger in her hand and their movements toward one another, dodging and then slashing, looking for a way past the Spaniard’s guard.

  His foot struck out, trying to catch her knee. Betta whipped her hand up, already seeing the path that his arm would take. The resistance to her strike was a shock of cold water. She looked at the blade, seeing a thin line of blood streaking the dark steel.

  “Bitch!” Bernaldino hissed, hand pressing down on his forearm. Blood was dripping on the floor, a thin trickle of red.