Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  The women observed him from beneath lowered eyelashes and smiled sidelong at one another. The wet garments only increased the air of dissipation that had clung to him. Compared to the splendor of the Pope and the potent masculinity of the Borgia men, he was a comic figure, one easily ignored.

  “Out,” he ordered, looking around to the half dozen ladies who glanced up from their sewing only to note his arrival.

  Lucrezia lifted her eyebrows. “Is something amiss, husband?” she asked with a slight lift of her eyebrow. The movement of her head brushed long amethyst earrings against her cheek, the jewels offset by the golden hair pulled into a black net. While her husband had shriveled into insignificance in the last months, the countess had blossomed. The midnight purple of her giornea swallowed the light as it entered through the open windows, making the pallor of her skin even more pronounced. The color and style of the gown, its vibrant color and subtle embroidery, reflected a new side to the countess. She no longer allowed her garments to be selected by her relatives or attendants; each was made according to her own specifications as to the color and styling. Weight had begun to settle lightly on her frame, enhancing her beauty. The pale globes of her breasts rose high and firm against the square bodice of her gamurra, and the roundness of her cheeks softened the line of her chin, which had always been too harsh for beauty.

  “As you can see, my ladies and I are occupied.” The acid touch of her voice stung. Beneath his wet robes, the Lord of Pesaro’s back straightened.

  From her place in the shadow of the doorway, Betta watched as he crossed the room to the credenza and poured himself a goblet of wine. His hand trembled, spilling the fluid on his doublet. Mouth open, he appeared ready to say something before he noticed the women still seated in a group around his wife, colorful gowns like the plumage of exotic birds, puddling against the gleaming floor. Sitting in a high-backed chair at their center, Lucrezia smiled up at him before placing another stitch into the framed linen on her lap, the image of the Holy Mother and Child half completed. The other women worked on similar pieces, linen stretched taut over frames, silk threads jewel-like in the bright sunshine.

  A purple flush moved over his face, and a vein began to pulse in his temples. “I said OUT!” Sforza shouted, his voice filling the room, startling the women from their labors. He flung the cup of wine in his hand. It exploded against the opposite wall. The tapestry quivered under the impact, and a wash of red drained down off the image at its center, that of a young maiden with golden hair holding a unicorn in her lap.

  The women gasped and looked at Lucrezia. Elizabetha of Siena held her embroidery frame outstretched at arm’s length, as though it were a shield against attack. She cowered back, hiding among the colorful skirts of the other women.

  Lucrezia sighed. Appearing not at all concerned, she looked around, gaze lingering on the ruin of the tapestry. “Since my husband seems to wish it, you may retire.” There was subtle mockery in her voice. It brought another flush to Giovanni’s face, and his fists clenched.

  Peeking out of the doorway, Betta caught her mistress’s eye. Lucrezia nodded, and Betta settled back in place, her eye pressed to the gap between the door and the molding surrounding it. Her heart was pounding in readiness, muscles tight and ready. Fear was pouring off of Giovani Sforza in a slick wave, anger and suppressed rage. A potent combination and Betta could smell their scents mingling with the layers of old wine and perfume floating about him.

  Although Lucrezia appeared unconcerned as she placed a last stitch in her frame before moving it to the side, Betta could see the tenseness in her posture, the subtle trembling in her hands and shallow breathing. Betta’s fingers clenched on the dagger at her sleeve.

  Lucrezia opened her mouth, but before the words could escape, the Lord of Pesaro cut in.

  “I have ordered your things to be gathered.”

  Lucrezia cocked her head. She leaned her arm against the side of the chair and rested against it, her cheek supported by two fingers. “My things?”

  Giovanni turned his back on her and poured another taza of wine. “Your gowns. We leave Rome within the hour. On horseback. Your gowns and jewels will follow behind.”

  Lucrezia’s jaw tensed, and she sat erect; the trembling in her hands stopped. “Leave?” she asked. “I think not. I have no desire for a journey.”

  The temper which had been shimmering around the count exploded. Crossing the room in two strides, he grasped Lucrezia by the arm and hauled her from the chair. Bending down, he spoke directly into her face. “I say that we shall. You are my wife, no matter that you have lain with half of the men in Rome, and I say that we shall leave.”

  Betta’s feet were already in motion toward the door when she heard the splintering of glass. Looking through the open door, she could see that the positions of the count and countess had shifted. Giovanni Sforza lay on the floor surrounded by the splinted remains of a taza; Lucrezia stood over him, angry spots of red color burning on her cheeks.

  “Strike me again, Giovanni Sforza!” she spat. “I beg you to do so. My brother already longs for a reason to split your throat, and I would see it done before the evening is out. Do it, and I shall weep convincing tears at your funeral.”

  Giovanni shook his head. He shrank back from her anger, becoming a paler, weaker man. “I… that was ill done of me.” Pulling himself to his feet, Giovanni wiped the wine from his eyes. “I have made a jumble of it. I planned what words to say to you, Lucrezia. As I rode here, I thought of it and planned what I would say to convince you, but words have never come easily to me, or if they do, they are the wrong ones. I am a fool.”

  “On that, we are agreed.”

  Sforza’s shoulders hunched at the insult. ”They plan to kill me, Lucrezia,” Defeat added decades of age to his face. “Your father and brother. Unless I agree to divorce you, they plan to kill me. My page heard them discussing it this morning. My ties with Milan no longer matter and my uncle… now that he had claimed the Duchy for himself, he no longer cares for anyone but the heirs he may get on his wife. I am without allies, Lucrezia. All but you. Come with me. I have told our servants that we will attend a pardoning ceremony outside the gates of the city, but there will be fresh horses waiting to take us to Pesaro. None can force an annulment there if we stand united.”

  For the first time, Lucrezia appeared to hesitate. “When do they mean to act?” she asked.

  “When your brothers travel to Naples for the investiture of Federigo. The discord with the Spanish grows, and your father seeks other alliances. Naples…he wishes to free you from me and wed you to Naples.” Giovanni rubbed his hand across his face.

  “It has been decided, then.” Lucrezia sank back into her chair. “It would be best to allow the divorce, Giovanni. It is no true marriage between us.”

  “Once it was. Come back with me to Pesaro, Lucrezia.” The sound of her name of his lips made a shudder run through the countess. “It was sweet between us in the beginning. Do you remember the days on the shore? The time we hunted boar together and laughed when none could compete with us. We could find that sweetness again, I am certain of it.”

  “Is it sweetness when you strike me?”

  “The wine…it makes me lose my temper. But I can change, Lucrezia. I will put away the wine, and find some cure for this affliction of mine. We could make a pilgrimage together, to pray that it passes and that we would be blessed with a child. If you say that you are my true wife...”

  The Countess of Pesaro stood and brushed splinters of glass from her gown. She looked down at Giovanni Sforza, and for the first time, pity showed in her eyes. “It is over, Giovanni. Those days…they were nothing to me. Less than a lie. Go to Pesaro with my blessing. I would not have your blood stain the hands of my family.”

  “Are you not my wife?”

  “I was never your wife. Our marriage…that was the lie.”

  Chapter 53

  The gardens surrounding the convent of San Sisto were an explosion of color
in the June sunshine. Fruit trees hung heavy with blossoms, and scores of bees danced through the branches, the noise of their song rivaling that of the nuns entering the chapel.

  Though the convent was only a short distance from the Vatican along the twisting narrow road overarched with trees called the Via Trionfale, it seemed to Betta that they had traveled a thousand leagues in the days since the Countess had retired to the convent after her husband’s flight from Rome. Quiet reigned in the walled enclosure, which echoed with the hushed voices of the Dominican sisters and the whisper of woolen robes; men’s loud voices seldom found the grounds, the clang of steel from armies sounded like distant thunder from across the mountains.

  It was an earthier world than the one Betta had grown accustomed to, following the rhythms of the harvest. Long beds of vegetables and herbs were planted in stretches along the southern wall. Some of them Betta could name, melons and beans beginning to swell as they ripened, squash blossoms the color of sunshine dotting the freshly turned soil. Many of the herbs were those she could name because of her instruction by the old Jewish woman- sage, with its pleasing scent and long tapered leaves, the long, upright stalks of hyssop, and yellow rue.

  The nuns slowed when they neared the arbor where the Countess sat and bowed their heads in greeting. She was a well-loved figure, even among the nuns whose names had once been Orsini or Colonna. The Countess had given generously to the order of Dominicans, and despite the scandal of her crumbling marriage, she had been welcomed into the convent where she had been educated as a child and given the room at the top of one of the square towers reserved for revered holy sisters or royal guests. The simple bed had been dressed with velvet hangings, and tapestries and paintings adorned the white plaster walls. Candles burned long on the nights she did not join the sisters in prayer, soot darkening the ceiling as she wrote letters to her father, refusing his instructions to leave her seclusion, curt missives to her husband in response to his pleading and letters to the cardinal, sealed with wax before any could spy the contents.

  A bell tolled, calling the faithful. Rising from her seat in the arbor, Lucrezia joined hands with Catherina Spagnola and began walking toward the open doors of the church. The rustling of their skirts, the striking of wooden heels against the tiles, startled the doves; they rose up from the trees in a gray cloud, blocking out the light.

  Still clutching the peacock fan she had been wafting overhead, Betta concealed herself behind an apricot tree until the last of the women had crossed the arches of the loggia, entering the chapel. Her heart was pounding. Soon, prayers would begin, Latin rising up in a melodious harmony that echoed and danced along the roof of the ancient chapel.

  Betta leaned the fan against one of the stools and looked away from the chapel. Freedom. The word whispered softly in her mind, a wild, seductive voice. Escape. Betta covered her ears as she walked toward the far wall of the garden, trying to block out the sound of singing and worship. The days since they had come to the convent had preyed on her mind, an unending procession of devotion. The heavy weight of the sister’s faith pressed down on her like an accusation; she feared what they could see, her own lack of belief, the anger she buried deep.

  Walking toward the gate, she smiled at the guard who stood outside, holding a heavy truncheon. He winked back at her as he swung open the iron grate. Theirs was a comfortable understanding. In return for the smiles, he let her pass at all hours and asked no questions, even when she delivered packages to the Countess.

  There were no letters to deliver this night, no herbs or potions that the Lady Lucrezia required, only escape from the women and their collection of icons, the Madonna with the golden hands who watched over the nuns, her face beatific and terrifying with the simplicity of its faith, and the bones of a long dead saint.

  “Bring me a bit of bread,” the guard called after her; she could feel his eyes lingering on her hips as she walked. Though a man approaching middle years, he treated the servants who visited the convent far differently than the nuns, for whom he showed a profound reverence. Betta added more swing to her skirts and tossed a look over her shoulder.

  “Perhaps something a little sweeter,” she called, flashing another smile. He grinned back.

  “Say the word, little one.”

  The light in his eyes lingered as she threaded her way along the Via Trionfale, the smooth stones like sand beneath her feet until it became the Via Lata, the widest road in Rome, where Pope Paul had once raced his horses.

  Thoughts swirled through her mind as she walked, the same that had preyed on her for months. A word only, and she could have a man. Many, if she wished; for her, there was no danger. The need for it was growing inside, a seed planted by midnight rides and dusty fights until the blossoming edges pressed against her skin, which felt tight and aching. A word only and it could be done, but for her, the word was fear and pain, the ripping, the weight of a man’s chest pressing down upon her. No matter that she had been taught to kill and carried knives with her at every moment, when it came to the act of love, she was still a mouse, afraid to reach for what she desired.

  Betta put her dark thoughts aside as she turned down another street, entering Trastevere. The hectic weeks of removal and upset had allowed little time for her to visit her sister, and her purse was heavy with coins. Some she had placed to the side, a small savings towards her sister’s dowry. Red painted shutters of the bodega flashed in the distance, the color fresh, clean, reminding her of a time many years before.

  Her mother would have been proud to see them prosper. She served the preeminent family in Rome, and Ginevra would be married as soon as the agreed upon dowry was raised. The arrangements had taken weeks of haggling, meetings with the baker’s family where the mother sat stone-faced and disapproving, a match for Ruberto, who refused to contribute a copper to the bride price. Tentatively, she had begun planning the ceremony. At one of the merchant’s stalls, there was a length of bright blue wool that would suit her sister’s fiery hair and pale skin, and the sturdy cloth would serve her for years. There would need to be food for the wedding feast, roast pork and tarts and cakes, enough to see her family and that of Paolo’s fed. It would have honored her family to see all the families on the street feasted, but there would scarce be enough coin to see her sister safely married.

  Pushing open the door of the bodega, Betta looked around, expecting to find her sister hunched over the worktable while something bubbled on the brazier in the center of the room. The downstairs shop was empty though the windows were open, and the door was unbolted. Ginevra was not so careless as to leave the tools Ruberto had acquired out where they could be stolen. Though of poor quality, they were dependent on them for bread.

  A noise sounded from upstairs, a harsh moan and the squeaking of floorboards. Betta’s heart began to pound in fast, heavy beats as sickness roiled in her stomach. The noise was a familiar one. Shifting the balance of her weight forward, she moved across the shop to the stairs, softly, making no noise as she swept upwards, remembering, even after all the years away, what spots to avoid, which places made them squeak. Each step began in her toes and was rolled back as she crept forward.

  It could be nothing, she thought, trying to calm herself. Ginevra had some task that occupied her above stairs. It might not be what she feared. Tomorrow, her sister would take the linens down to the river, perhaps she was gathering them early. Or Paolo, her betrothed, had ventured over when Ruberto was off on some errand, and they were anticipating the wedding. There would be little shame if they had; many bellies were rounded by the time formal vows were said.

  Betta took the last step, waiting until the very end to turn her body toward the bed in the corner, wanting, hoping, that it was not what she feared. The breath held in her chest was released in a slow exhalation.

  She took in each part of the scene as though it were a painting observed through the prism of a crystal, cloudy fading to bright focus slashed with lurid color: a man was sprawled out on the pile of straw in
the corner, wide legged, his hose parted in the center. Above him, the girl crouched, hair unbound so that the bright stream of copper flowed onto his chest; his hand rested at the back of her neck, moving her head up and down, taking his rod into her mouth.

  The knife was in her hand, cold steel and polished handle. Betta rushed forward, silent on her feet, wanting death to find him now before another moment had passed. There was no time for gentleness; ignoring Ginevra’s start of surprise, she flung her sister back, though not before Ruberto had let loose with a pained cry. Ginevra must have clenched her teeth, because a trickle of blood was already seeping through the skin of his cock, painting the organ scarlet.

  “Wha…” he began, sitting up, fists clenched. His eyes narrowed. “You.”

  Before he could say another word, Betta flew at him, the knife an extension of her arm, sweeping out to carve a line across his chest. For all of his bulk, Ruberto was fast, and he had seen the danger. Flinging himself back, he escaped the full force of the strike, and what would have carved a deep line in his skin became a minor wound, the skin separated by the width of a hair. He twisted and flung out with his legs, knocking her to the floor. By the time she had recovered her feet, Ruberto was standing on the other side of the bed, a long, curving blade in his hand.

  “Bitch,” he panted, grimacing as pressed his other hand to his chest, feeling the blood. Then he smiled, showing gapes in his teeth. “I’m going to cut you ugly, whore. You’ll beg to come back when I am done.”

  “Never. I’m going to kill you, Ruberto,” Betta whispered, fear leaving her. She had wanted it for years, this fight; it did not matter if she died, as long as she felt his blood coating her hand, she would think it a fitting end. Never moving her eyes, she pulled the second blade from her sleeve, holding each of them so that the flats protected her arms from his strikes. Anticipation thundered through her veins; he could not harm her. Though he was more than twice her weight, he had no skill, it was plain from the way he held the knife, too far from his body, the cutting edge pointed away. Betta had skill, and had been taught by a man of unmatched prowess. She could kill him in a hundred different ways, and laugh all the while.