The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  “They’ll have to pay the price for sanctuary if they want to stay. Papa will not lift a finger to help them. Or, rather, he will lift a finger—to take the ransoms our rabbis will offer to save their Spanish brethren. You heard him; he had to stop refurbishing his apartments to pay for Juan’s trousseau. Those Jews are now worth their weight in gold, and Papa will make sure to exact every last coin.”

  “A trousseau is for a girl,” I giggled, and he shot me a brusque look. I sobered, realizing he was in foul temper, for what he believed was good reason. “And this plot by Cardinal della Rovere,” I said, recalling Giovanni’s reaction. “Are we truly in danger from him?”

  “We are always in danger. You should know that by now, after seeing Juan slaughter one of della Rovere’s dogs. But I suppose it’s easy to forget, sequestered in your fine palazzo all day with Adriana and the Bride of Christ.”

  “Is that what you call Giulia?” I had to dig my nails into my palms to stop another giggle.

  “I call her worse,” he said grimly. “That’s one of the less insulting nicknames given to her by the people of Rome.” He resumed his brisk pace, forcing me to take up handfuls of my skirts to match his stride. “Bride of Christ. The Holy Whore. Curia Slut. She certainly has earned her disdain. Some even call her brother Alessandro ‘the Petticoat Cardinal,’ because he owes his hat to her favors. Yet Papa would waste his time and wealth on her just as he does on Juan, ignoring the fact that we’re being hunted by a pack of wolves that would bring us down.”

  I grasped his arm, bringing him to a halt. “Cesare, what wolves? What are you saying?”

  A shadow slipped across his face. He looked at me in silence before he said, “What I told Papa is true. I do have a spy in the Milanese court. He reports that Cardinal della Rovere is indeed conspiring with Il Moro to bring the French into Italy and depose Papa.”

  Alarm overcame me. “But how can they depose him? He was elected by holy writ. The conclave voted. It is God’s will.”

  “Not according to della Rovere. He accuses Papa of taking the Holy See by bribery. He also says Papa is guilty of simony, nepotism, and—what do I forget? Oh, yes—rampant carnality, courtesy of la Farnese. I warned Papa not to trust the Sforza. They are as faithless as the viper on their shield. Already our friend Cardinal Sforza has made himself scarce, pleading illness. While your husband—well, suffice to say that should Il Moro join della Rovere’s vendetta, we won’t want that spineless cur in your bed.”

  “He isn’t in my bed,” I said, before I realized what I was doing.

  Cesare went still. “What did you say?”

  “He…he’s not in my bed.” My voice quavered; I was startled by the sudden avid look in his eyes. “Giulia told me that Papa put a clause in our nuptial treaty. Giovanni must wait until Papa declares that I am of age.” I watched an indefinable emotion surface on my brother’s face. “You didn’t know?” I asked him. “You, who have spies in Milan and no doubt everywhere else?”

  A hint of teeth showed under his slight smile. “I did not. I had only heard that Papa was considering it when he had the nuptial treaty drafted. I thought the Sforza would never allow it.” His smile widened. “Well. It seems Papa is not as oblivious as I feared. At least he made provision for you in case we have played the wrong hand.”

  “Provision?” I frowned. “Giovanni and I are married. What can Papa possibly do?”

  “According to canon law, non-consummation of a marriage is grounds for annulment,” said Cesare, and before I could respond to this astonishing statement, he linked his arm in mine, turning us back toward the palace. “But you mustn’t let it trouble you. Just follow our counsel and—”

  “Stop it.” I jerked away from him. “Stop treating me like a child. I know everyone only wants to protect me, but while everyone does, I am but a wife in name alone.”

  His voice turned cold. “I thought Giovanni meant nothing to you.”

  “He doesn’t. But surely I can’t be expected to live like this forever?”

  “No, not forever,” Cesare murmured. “I promise you that.”

  I returned to my palazzo in disquiet. Cesare’s remark that the clause in my nuptial treaty might represent more than a temporary means to spare me until I came of age had unsettled me almost as much as the terrifying possibility that the French king, abetted by Milan, might march into Italy. We had not suffered such an invasion in hundreds of years; we had our own troubles, certainly—constant skirmishes over titles and lands, violent family feuds, and age-old rivalries—but no foreign power had successfully navigated the treacherous Alps since Hannibal. And history recorded that he had not fared well.

  Still, the thought gnawed at my peace of mind, making me restless. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of running down an endless passage with blood dripping from my hands and awoke with a gasp to the crash of thunder outside, heralding a storm. My stomach felt sour, as if I had eaten bad mussels. Fumbling at my side table for flint and candle, I knocked both over. From her truckle bed at my side, Pantalisea groggily rose and lit the flame; leaning to me within the wavering light, she whispered, “My lady, are you ill?”

  “Yes. It’s too hot in here and I have a stomachache.” I flung aside my thin sheet, slipping out of bed. “I feel as if I cannot breathe. I think I’ll go out for some air.”

  “At this hour? But it’s the middle of the—”

  I waved her aside. “It’s past the hour when anyone will see me. I’ll stay on the loggia.”

  Pulling my light velvet robe around me and slipping my feet into low-heeled slippers, I felt another vicious stomach cramp as I left my chamber. Pearlescent gloom submerged the passageways and the cortile below. Tendrils of mist hung in the cloying air. The day’s heat had given way to humidity; even from here, I could smell the pungent Tiber. Sweat dripped down my skin. As I breathed deep to ease the pangs in my belly, thunder rumbled again. I turned my gaze to the lower arcade, expecting to see the first spatters of rain. As I waited, listening to the arid clash of clouds above, I found myself ruminating again on Cesare’s words.

  If his spy was right and Giovanni’s family plotted against mine, my husband had not known. His shock at dinner indicated as much. Although he did not inspire anything approximating affection in me, nor did I believe I inspired any in him, surely he must now be in a state of considerable concern. And if he knew about the clause in our nuptial treaty, which he must, he had every reason to be. Papa could see our marriage annulled. It meant nothing to me either way—until I thought of old Ferrante of Naples and his corpses. I did not want to end up wed to one of his sons. Giovanni of Pesaro might not be ideal, but at least he was beholden to my family, while another husband might have different loyalties.

  You must exercise discretion henceforth. Albeit only in name, you are now a married woman.

  As I heard Giulia’s reproach in my head, I decided to go speak with Giovanni. He had not been rude or unkind, and we were husband and wife. Perhaps together we could reach an understanding that would help us steer clear of our families’ entanglements. No doubt, he did not want our marriage annulled any more than I did.

  Removing my slippers, I tiptoed down the staircase into the arcade. I knew I was being impulsive and nearly turned back, disturbed by the thunder, by fear that anyone might come upon me sneaking about. I should return to bed. Whatever was decided regarding my marriage, I must accept it. But I proceeded, anyway, ignoring another cramp. Just a talk, I told myself. I was entitled at the very least to hear my husband’s opinion.

  At the entrance to Giovanni’s wing, I paused.

  Though he had been residing here since our marriage, it seemed disused, the emptiness amplifying the fading smell of paint and plaster. There were no hangings on the walls. The floors were bare. I saw no chairs or tables, no candles in the sconces. Most disturbing was the absence of servants. Where were the pages on pallets, the chamberlains to stand vigil at the doors during the night?

  As I took to the staircase leadin
g to the second floor—where I assumed Giovanni kept his personal quarters—my footsteps echoed. Why had he not hired servants or bought furnishings? Did he prefer to live like an uninvited guest, or was he was simply too impoverished, unable to afford basic comforts? It occurred to me that this too was unsuitable. Must my own husband dwell in privation when Giulia disposed of this entire palazzo?

  I reached the second level, where litter from the palazzo’s refurbishment—a stack of wood beams, a crusty bucket, broken hammers and trowels—lay scattered about. I did not recall the precise location of the suite where our brief nuptial bedding had taken place, but as I neared a corridor illumined—finally!—by a guttering torch in a bracket, I vaguely recollected being guided through this very passage by Giulia on that night.

  I came to a standstill. What was I doing? Even as I considered my foolhardiness, I heard muffled laughter from a nearby room. It awoke something inside me, the festering knowledge of too many secrets kept from me. Though I realized I would be wise to turn back, to remain for as long as I could the ignorant child everyone believed me to be, I stepped forward.

  It was time that I behaved like the woman I would soon become.

  The door was unlocked. Pushing it open, wincing at the creak of its unoiled hinges, I stepped into a darkened chamber with few furnishings. This was where my husband must live; I discerned faded tapestries on the walls, open coffers, chairs, a long table, an unlit candelabrum. A quiver of arrows, leather wrist guards, and other articles for hunting were tossed in a corner.

  The strange laughter came again, louder now. Veering toward a closed door that must give entrance to his bedchamber, I hesitated, wondering what I might find if I opened that door.

  An exhalation of breath stirred the hairs on my nape.

  “Is Madonna certain she wants to see?”

  Whirling about, I suppressed a gasp as I found myself facing Djem, materialized as if from nowhere, his pale eyes glittering in his swarthy countenance, his person inky as the shadows.

  “You…I did not know you were—” I started to say, but he cut me off by pressing one of his fingers to my lips. It was not an aggressive gesture; it was almost filial, something Cesare might have done to prevent me from saying something I should not.

  “If you talk too loud, they will hear,” he whispered. He inclined so close that I smelled the musk of his person, the damp of night and tinge of sandalwood clinging to his clothes. I had not had much opportunity to engage with Djem; he was Juan’s companion, always at his side, so much like a faithful dog, I’d ceased to see him as anything else. Now, as I stood before him, I caught a feral glint of teeth beneath his full lips, a scornful derision on his face, and I realized I had been more than simply foolish to venture here alone.

  He was an infidel. A Turk. His kind had plundered our coasts, spilling blood and capturing women and children as slaves. He was not just Juan’s dog. He was his wolf.

  “I should go,” I said, keeping my voice low but moving past him just the same.

  Without warning, he gripped my arm. No one except Juan would have ever dared handle me thus, and as I glared at him, he said, “You came to see. There are many ways to look, my lady.”

  Turning to the door, he shifted a small metallic latch. A circle of light spilled through.

  I found myself drawn to it as if by an invisible hand. It was a spy hole, drilled at eye level so that a vigilant chamberlain could keep watch over his resting lord.

  “You must be very quiet,” Djem warned. “Unless you want them to know you are here.”

  Unable to resist the enticement, the furtive conspiracy in his voice, I leaned forward, pressing my eye to the hole.

  At first all I saw was a circumscribed view where candlelight trembled and darkness swam. As I focused, details materialized: a decanter and goblets on the sideboard, the stain of wine on their flame-limned rims, and a drunken person slumped on a chair. No, not a person. A heap of discarded clothing.

  Straining to the left, I saw that enormous bed where I had lain so briefly with Giovanni, its red hangings pushed back as if to welcome my intrusion. A tripod of tapers bathed the scene.

  If Djem had not been beside me, his breath fast in my ear, I would have pulled away.

  The tableau before me made no sense. I blinked. A tear, perhaps from a bit of grit caught in my eye, seeped onto my cheek. Everything resolved itself with heart-stopping clarity.

  A naked woman knelt on the bed with her pale buttocks lifted, her dark hair in disarray about her face. Behind her stood a man I recognized at once as Giovanni, despite his shocking nudity. As I gleaned his organ jutting before him, I clapped a hand to my mouth to stifle my laughter. I had never seen a man erect before. It resembled an overgrown mushroom.

  He set his hands on the woman; she moaned, arching her spine. Giovanni guffawed. His was the laughter I’d overheard in the passageway when I approached the room, only I had failed to identify it because, until now, I’d never heard him laugh. As he pressed his fingers between the woman’s legs, she writhed. Then a movement beyond the bed snared my gaze.

  Appalled fascination overcame me as Juan stepped forward. He was bare-chested, every muscle sculpted beneath his skin. Incredulous, I saw him nuzzle Giovanni’s throat. My husband threw back his head as Juan’s hands snaked around his narrow chest to pinch his nipples. Giovanni groaned, began rubbing the woman more insistently. Juan bit him on the neck and said roughly, “Tell me what you want, Sforza pig.”

  The woman on the bed rocked back and forth, as if in desperate need.

  “What was that?” Juan bit again, hard enough to draw a welt. “I did not hear you.”

  “You!” My husband’s voice burst from him. “I want you, my lord!”

  A ripple of low, cruel laughter came from Djem. I could not have moved if I had wanted to, transfixed as Juan unlaced his codpiece. Trembling, Giovanni leaned over the woman. Now I distinguished a curve of alabaster cheek within her lush fall of hair, her eyes closed as if in ecstasy when Giovanni yanked her to him, revealing her unmistakable profile.

  In horror, I remembered the day Juan killed the man outside Adriana’s palazzo and how Giulia had accused him of jealousy. I recalled her coy intimacy when she told me she was with child, and then, with an awareness that incinerated my last residue of trust, I thought of how Papa ignored her babe, though he adored all his children. He doubted her daughter was his, just as he doubted Gioffre’s paternity, though he could never have imagined this.

  Rage boiled in me. Indulged his entire life, taught to think only of himself, Juan just did what came naturally to him, repellent as it was. But Giulia—she owed us everything. She owed Papa everything. She was nothing without him; all she had was because of his love, and what had she given in return? Lies. Falsehoods. The betrayal of everything he held sacrosanct, his devotion turned to ashes in her mouth as she whispered in his ear and then left his side to deceive him with his son and my own husband.

  I tasted metallic hatred in that moment, watching Giovanni thrust inside her while Juan positioned himself behind. My husband bucked his hips. I told myself to leave, knowing I’d seen enough, but Giovanni’s gasp as Juan took him became a guttural cry, and I had the sudden sensation that, no matter where I fled, I would never escape this sight. The sensation dug into me, like a blade in my very core. Heat flooded me as Juan turned his head to stare toward the door.

  At the spy hole. At me.

  A lewd grin broke across his lips. He knew I was here.

  I reeled backward, shoving against Djem. The Turk said, “Sometimes, my lady, it is best not to know,” and I ran blindly from the room, staggering into the passage and down the stairs, into the arcade, where humid night collapsed around me like a sodden mantle.

  Lightning flashed. Rain came pouring down, splashing into the fountain, pummeling the terra-cotta pots. I did not feel it—all that water, rushing over scorched walls, rousing steam. In my mind, all I could feel, all I could see, was flesh upon flesh and that cry from
Giovanni that had seemed more like pleasure than pain.

  My stomach twisted. I gasped at the force of it, doubling over. I did not hear Pantalisea as she came rushing to me and said, aghast, “Oh, my lady, you are bleeding!”

  I gazed at my hands, smeared with blood as they had been in my dream. My robe fastenings had come undone; my nightgown, wet with rain, adhered to my legs. A stain bloomed from my groin like a melting rose. Visceral shame and understanding filled me.

  “If you tell anyone about this,” I said to her, “I will cut out your tongue.”

  She shook her head. “Not a soul. I swear it, my lady.”

  I turned away, trudging through the rain to my rooms, my newborn womanhood and knowledge stoking fiery vengeance in my heart.

  In September, we assembled before St. Peter’s Piazza to see Juan depart for Spain.

  Papa had provided for him as if Juan were an anointed king, his entourage of nearly three hundred complemented by wagons crammed with apparel for every season, with carpets, platters, ewers, and tapestries. A special galley would transport ten white stallions from Mantua, though the Spaniards were reputed to breed some of the finest horses in the world.

  In the Sala Reale, Juan knelt to kiss Papa’s slipper. Our father wept unabashedly. “You must do us honor,” he said haltingly. “Always wear gloves when you ride, as our people esteem beautiful hands. Heed Their Catholic Majesties and be tender to your wife, as she is of noble birth.”

  “Maybe he should say, Don’t treat her like one of your slatterns,” whispered Cesare to me as Juan swaggered toward us. He had grown a luxuriant beard that made him look a satyr from a fresco, who had done too much too young. I had to force away the terrible image of him with Giulia as he gave Cesare a halfhearted embrace.

  “I will not ask you to miss me,” Juan said, drawing back.

  Cesare smiled. “That is good, for I would hate to lie.”

  Juan turned to me. As he grazed my cheek, he whispered, “We cannot keep you immacolata forever, sister. I trust you now know how to best please your husband.”