I couldn’t imagine Vannozza dipping her eyes at anyone. In fact, all it had ever taken was one glare from her, one sneer, to pulverize any joy I felt.
Except now, for the first time, I understood. Now I knew why she hated me.
No one else has mattered to him since she was born….
I had something she no longer possessed. I had Papa’s love.
A plaintive meow startled me into awareness. Bending down, I coaxed Arancino out from behind one of the antique broken statues on the landing. As I scooped him up, footsteps echoed in the cortile below. With my cat in my arms, I peered over the balustrade into the inner courtyard and saw Adriana’s daughter-in-law, Giulia Farnese, entering in a hurry.
Unhooking her cloak, she flung it at her maidservant. As she ran her hands hastily over her coiffure—disheveled from her cowl—Giulia mounted the staircase to the piano nobile, our living quarters on the second floor. Her coral silk gown adhered to her figure, dampened by sweat; she looked flushed, so intent on trying to creep up the stairs that she did not notice me until she was almost stepping on my toes. With a gasp, she came to a halt. Her dark eyes flared.
“Lucrezia! Dio mio, you gave me a fright! What are you doing skulking about?”
“Hush!” I put a finger to my lips, glancing to the doors of the room where Adriana’s murmur was punctuated by the occasional staccato reply from my mother.
“Vannozza?” Giulia mouthed. I nodded, stifling a giggle. She and my mother had met two years ago, when Vannozza attended Giulia’s marriage to Adriana’s son, Orsino. After the ceremony, over which my father presided, Vannozza sat at the banquet and glowered as Papa honored Giulia with a ruby pendant. As he fastened the clasp about her throat, Giulia let out a delighted peal of laughter that echoed through the hall. Seated near my mother, I watched her expression darken. When Giulia led Orsino out to dance, her effortless grace making him look even more like a disjointed marionette, I heard Vannozza hiss, “Is this what we’ve come to? You would forsake me for that girl without a hair on her spoon.”
Papa had scowled. I took note of it because he rarely showed anger in public. Through his teeth, he replied, “Vannozza, no matter how high I raise you, you’ll always remain in the gutter.”
I had taken furtive delight in the shock that spread across Vannozza’s face. She had departed soon after, her complacent husband in tow. Before she left, however, she cast a despairing look over her shoulder at Giulia, twirling to the music of tamborette and string as my father beamed on the dais, tapping out the tempo on his upholstered chair arm.
As I now regarded Giulia with perspiration on her brow, her eyes shining in illicit excitement, I recalled how Papa’s hands had lingered on her throat as he’d fastened that ruby necklace and how her skin had in turn captured the reflection of his jeweled rings….
Giulia had turned eighteen. She was not a child anymore.
“Where have you been?” I asked. “Adriana thought you were upstairs, napping.”
Her response was to grasp my hand and tug me up the narrow staircase to the third floor, where our bedchambers were located. Arancino let himself be jostled against me as we entered my room, stepping over rushes of fresh-strewn herbs. The walls were painted in shades of blue and yellow, my favorite colors. In a niche by my narrow bed, a votive flickered before a Byzantine icon of the Virgin and Child, a gift from my father. In the corner was a pile of leather and calfskin volumes that Cesare had sent me from his university in Pisa: sonnets by Petrarch and Dante, which I devoured by candlelight, long into the night.
“Christ save us, it’s an inferno out there.” Giulia gestured to the majolica pitcher and basin on the side table. “Be a darling and bring me a wet cloth. I vow I’m about to faint.”
I let Arancino down so I could fetch the damp washcloth from the basin. “You went to the piazza, didn’t you?” I said, handing her the cloth.
She sighed, her eyes at half-mast as she stroked her throat and bosom with the linen. I waited impatiently for her ablutions to end.
“Well? Did you?”
Her eyes opened. “What do you think?”
I drew in a sharp breath. “You went outside without permission, after Adriana specifically told us to stay indoors?”
“Of course,” said Giulia, as if it was of no particular account, as if young noblewomen traipsed through the streets every day without escorts or chaperones, while the entire city smoldered and waited for the conclave to reach its decision.
“And did you…see anything?” I asked, my awe at her boldness struggling against a surge of resentment that she had not invited me on her forbidden excursion.
“Yes. Hordes of ruffians storming about, swearing vengeance if Cardinal della Rovere is not elected.” She grimaced. “They left filth all over the piazza and robbed the faithful gathered there. The papal guard had to disperse them. It’s a disgrace.”
“Adriana did warn us. She said it’s always dangerous before a new pope is elected.”
Giulia paused. “And is Adriana here, pray tell? Or am I talking to my Lucrezia?” As she registered my dismay—for much as I loved Adriana, I did not want to be like her—she added, “Of course it was dangerous, but how else are we to hear any news? It’s not as though Adriana can tell us.” Her voice turned avid. “The conclave is at a standstill. None of the candidates has earned enough votes. By tomorrow, they’ll be served only bread and water.”
I forgot my annoyance and perched on the bed. I knew that the more time the cardinals took to elect a new pope, the more restricted their enclosure in the Sistine Chapel became. Lawlessness could erupt if the papal throne sat empty for too long, and reducing the cardinals’ privileges was supposed to ensure a swift vote. But four days had passed without the announcement, leaving everyone in Rome on tenterhooks.
“They must be famished,” Giulia went on, “not to mention roasting alive inside with all the windows and doorways bricked up. But no candidate can win—save your father, whom even as we speak already sways the undecided to his side.” She paused, weighting her words. “If all goes as planned, Cardinal Borgia will be our new Holy Father.”
I resisted a roll of my eyes. She could be so dramatic.
“Papa has lost before,” I said. I did not add that he had in fact lost twice. I’d been too young to witness his setbacks myself, but the story of his defeats had been repeated often enough in my hearing. My father had never ceased declaring that one day he must earn the honor of being the first Borgia to follow in the hallowed footsteps of his late uncle, Calixtus III, so help him God. But there’d been other popes since then, including our recently departed Innocent, whom Papa served faithfully, though loyal service had thus far not secured his own accession.
“That was before,” said Giulia. “Everything is different now. Really, Lucrezia, don’t those nuns in San Sisto teach you anything of the world outside their walls?” She didn’t await my reply, ignoring my scowl as she plucked off her hairnet, unleashing damp auburn tresses over her shoulders. “Let me explain it to you: In Florence, Lorenzo de Medici is dead, and Milan is now governed by the Sforza tyrant, Il Moro. Venice remains aloof, while the royal house of Naples is caught between France and Spain, both of which claim a superior right to its throne. Only the pope can prevent chaos. Now more than ever, Rome needs a leader who knows the ways of power and can restore our— Oh, never mind!” she exclaimed irritably, for I had grown bored of her righteous tone and shifted my attention to Arancino, who was stalking a mosquito in the corner. “I don’t know why I bother. You’re still such a child.”
The twist in my stomach caught me off guard. Until this moment, I had never dared question Giulia, whom I regarded as a far more sophisticated, if occasionally irritating, elder sister. We had lived in amiable companionship these past five years, but she was married, proclaimed throughout Rome as la Bella Farnese—while I was still flat-chested, uninitiated into the mysteries of womanhood. But I’d learned something today; I knew that I had a gift even my mother b
egrudged, and I wasn’t about to let Giulia treat me as if I was a silly girl any longer.
“If I’m such a child,” I said, “then I can hardly be blamed if I let slip that you went out without permission today, risking your person for common gossip.”
Giulia went still, fingers twined in her hair. She regarded me for a long moment before she smiled. “Is that blackmail I hear falling from your lips? How very Borgia of you.”
I felt a rush of pleasure. “Well, if what you claim is true and Papa is to become the new pope, surely I deserve to know how it will affect me.”
“Indeed.” She wet her lips. “What do you wish to know?”
“Everything.” To my surprise, I meant it, though I’d not paid any mind to intrigues. I rarely set foot in the Vatican, my lessons at San Sisto keeping me occupied. But momentous changes were happening outside my door, and Papa was at their heart. All of a sudden, my very future seemed to hang in the balance, beckoning with untold possibilities.
Giulia leaned close. “Well, the cardinals went into the chapel, certain that Cardinal della Rovere would win. After all, he’s been campaigning for the papal tiara for months, bribing everyone he can to his side. It’s even rumored that King Charles of France himself paid twenty thousand ducats to secure della Rovere’s election. But once the windows were shuttered and the doors chained, things within the conclave did not go so easy for him. Della Rovere has enemies, more than he thought. Cardinal Sforza of Milan, for one, opposes him. Il Moro doesn’t care to have a French toady on the throne, and—”
“How do you know all this?” I cut in. Arancino leapt onto the mattress, purring. I caressed his fur, keeping my gaze on Giulia. “Isn’t the conclave forbidden any contact with the outside world so the process of election can remain sacred?”
I wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t as ignorant as she thought, but she impatiently waved aside my words. “Yes, yes. Sacred to the multitude that fills the piazza, perhaps, but not to those who know its inner workings. Pope Innocent had been ailing for months; Rodrigo has had ample time to gather allies, though no one thought he had a chance. That is how a palio is won. No one sees the slow horse gaining ground until it crosses the finish line.”
Rodrigo…
It was the first time I’d heard her utter my father’s name, and the intimacy in her voice made it sound blasphemous. All this time, he had been Cardinal Borgia to her, our benevolent benefactor. The suspicion I felt when I saw her on the staircase returned, sharpening my tone. “And are you saying that Papa told you all this? He informed you of his plans?”
“Not exactly, but even with the conclave locked away, servants still must serve. They must empty chamber pots and carry messages. And servants, like cardinals, can be bribed.”
I went silent. With a few words, she had revealed how little I truly knew.
“And…?” I asked at length.
Giulia went tense, her voice quickening as she described events that by all rights she too should know nothing about, as if she’d been immured in the Sistine with my father and his fellow cardinals. “After the third round of votes was cast, it was clear that della Rovere couldn’t win; Cardinal Sforza also lacked the necessary two-thirds. Your father gave a speech that swayed a few to his side, but then he made his move, promising Cardinal Sforza his own office of vice-chancellor.” Her smile was triumphant. “That won Sforza over, sure as silver; the man is forever mired in debt, and the vice-chancellorship is the most lucrative office in the Vatican. By tomorrow, it could be over. All your father needs is one vote. One. And if I know him, he’ll do whatever he must to obtain it.”
I rocked back on my seat, my mind awhirl. No longer did I wonder how Giulia had managed to gain access to such privileged information; all I could think of, all I could see, was my father, clothed in white and gold, the ring of St. Peter the Fisherman on his finger.
“Papa could be pope,” I said aloud, in disbelief.
Giulia clapped her hands. “Think of it! There will be so much to enjoy, so much to fill our days from dawn to dusk. You will be the most sought-after woman at his court, His Holiness’s beloved daughter.” She reached out to hug me. Pressed against her, I heard her whisper, “Tomorrow, Lucrezia. Tomorrow everything will change.”
Closing my eyes, I surrendered to her excitement, even if I felt an unexpected frisson of fear. I wasn’t sure if being the pope’s daughter was something I should welcome.
Unable to contain herself, Giulia blurted out during dinner what she had learned, eliciting a frown from Adriana and a disapproving grunt from my mother, who was no doubt chagrined that her tarot cards had failed to yield such momentous news. But the import of the revelation could not be ignored, prompting Vannozza and Adriana to closet themselves in the parlor for urgent discussion, while Giulia and I went upstairs to spend a restless night.
As the fifth day of the conclave’s enclosure dawned, Adriana announced that we must go to the Vatican. If my father became pope, as Giulia claimed, we had to be there to witness the announcement. But before we did, Adriana hustled Giulia, my mother (who’d stayed overnight in a spare room), and me into the chapel to offer up prayers for his election.
As I knelt before the altar, my eyes burned from lack of sleep. My ears still rang from Giulia’s chatter about all the jewelry, dresses, furs, and other wealth that would soon be ours. But a deeper part of me remained somber, attuned to the current that could sweep us up like a flood, submerging the past to reveal an uncharted future.
I had no need to pray. Papa would win. As Giulia said, he’d do anything to achieve it. Afterward, we marshaled the servants, donning cloaks and veils to hide our faces. We had to forgo a carriage or litter, to avoid attention; yet as we traversed the streets, feral dogs and rooting pigs scattering from our path, I barely felt the grit and cobblestone under my soles, so eager to reach the Vatican that I managed to ignore my mother’s barbed sidelong looks.
You will be the most sought-after woman at his court….
Crossing the Ponte Sant’Angelo, we took the narrow road up the hill to the Vatican, which was composed of the brick Apostolic Palace, where the popes resided, and a bewildering array of inner buildings, passageways, and courtyards connecting to the Holy Basilica, built upon the crucifixion site and tomb of St. Peter, whose martyrdom had founded our Church.
We were in the heart of Rome, before the ancient structures of our faith. Perhaps because I’d not visited the Vatican often, I was struck by how plain and decrepit it all looked, a sprawl of red-tile rooftops and crumbling façades, festooned with mildew-stained stone angels and faceless saints brooding down upon the cobblestone square. From where we stood, the giant pinecone fountain that gushed in the palace atrium, which provided clean water to nearby residents and where I’d once plunged my bare feet as a child, was hardly visible, but I could see that the open colonnades surrounding it—usually crowded with trinket hawkers and vendors of delicious roast ceci beans—stood empty, access blocked by regiments of the papal guard.
It was still early, a rare cool in the morning air, but I soon began to sweat under my cloak and hood. My stomach grumbled; in her zeal to see us here, Adriana had forgotten our breakfast, and I’d have given anything for a bag of those roasted beans. We had taken care to disguise ourselves as pious women, come to see if we would soon have a new Holy Vicar, but the square was deserted, mist unfurling from the uneven paving stones. More guards ringed the outer staircases, I noticed, but they were propped against the peeling walls, with the bleary faces of men who had rested too little and drunk too much.
Then the sun broke through the clouds. People began to appear—black-clad widows fingering rosaries; beleaguered mothers towing grimy children by the hand; men with their caps doffed; merchants and street vendors; and finally the denizens of our underworld, the prostitutes in frothy skirts and cinched bodices, furtive thieves and footpads who could filch a purse with a snip of their tiny daggers. Within minutes, the square echoed with the scuffle of footsteps as everyo
ne congregated before the colonnaded entry to the Vatican, south of the crumbling basilica, as close as they could get without disturbing the guards. All eyes lifted to the window of the Sistine Chapel, which reflected only its makeshift wall of hasty brickwork, designed thus so it could be torn down easily to announce the new pope.
We hurried to join them, our servants a barricade around us.
Most of the women dropped to their knees. Giulia shot me a look of consternation from under her veil, making me want to giggle. She was worried she’d soil her lavish azure gown, which she’d insisted on donning to prevent Adriana, often transported by piety, from ordering us to also kneel. It could be hours yet before an answer came, if it came at all. Eyeing the ancient paving stones caked with centuries of residue, I shared Giulia’s reluctance, though my gown was plain linen. Between my hunger and the grime before me, I began to wish I’d stayed at home, curled up with Arancino, away from the rabble—
My mother gripped my arm. “Don’t think any of this can change your fate. You are betrothed; you still must go to Spain, far from Rome and his side. He will never be yours.”
I turned to find her eyes boring into me. “He is my father,” I said. “He is already mine.”
Fury twisted her mouth. “Not for much longer. Do you think he can keep his unwed daughter about him for all to see? Sons, yes; a pope can always find places for sons, discreet posts of influence to further his aims. But a daughter must wed where he sees fit.”
A chill went through me. Adriana and Giulia turned toward us, frowning. Before they could intervene, there was an abrupt swelling of the crowd, a united push forward and joyous cry. My gaze followed the mass of fingers pointing upward; a communal whisper rippled through the square like a gust of wind: “Habemus Papam!”
I watched through a daze as the bricks in the window were pulled down in chunks. Within a cloud of reddish dust, the pane cracked open. I caught a glimpse of the shadowy robed figures in the chapel beyond before one stepped to the window, casting out a handful of white feathers. They drifted upon the air, as if about to take flight, before raining upon the cobblestones below. The people surged forth to catch them; only then did I realize, as Giulia lunged forward, they were not feathers at all but small pieces of paper, folded in half.
The Vatican Princess Page 2