It was on the tip of my tongue to question that if Papa could not deny me, why would he not believe what I knew about Giulia? But Cesare had already turned me to the apartment entry.
“Come now,” he whispered, his hand pressing into my back. “Be bold.”
Within our father’s chamber, a pine-scented fire crackled in the hearth. Copper-and-glass Moorish lamps from Spain swung overhead from the eaves. My nose tickled as I entered, so impregnated was the room with stale perfume and incense. Papa sat on a chair before the fire, head bare and legs propped on a quilted stool. Sparse gray hair fringed his tonsured pate; with one hand, he clutched a shawl about his shoulders as he brooded at the flames. He did not look up at our entrance.
A rustle of silk preceded Giulia. I tensed as she went past me to set a cup in Papa’s hand. She assumed her place on a stool at his side, her cerulean skirts pooling about her. As she lifted her gaze, her pupils reflected the fire. “Rodrigo,” she said, “Lucrezia is here.”
Papa glanced up. “Ah, my farfallina. Come here.”
Cesare melted away as I kissed my father’s cheek. Papa was never the Holy Father to me behind closed doors; as he felt my touch, he let out a long sigh. Up close, I noticed a small, blood-clotted wound on his forehead. “Papa, you are injured!”
He winced. “It is nothing. Just another of my spells—”
“He fainted in the Consistory.” Giulia tucked his shawl about him as if he were an invalid. “In mid-session with the cardinals. Fortunately, Perotto threw himself across the floor to cushion the fall. I keep telling him, he works too much. There is no use in berating those who cannot possibly understand reason. You might as well toss pearls to swine.”
“Sforza swine, to be exact,” said my father, and Giulia smiled at me. “Which reminds me, Lucrezia. Will you not greet your husband?”
With a start, I looked about. To my surprise, Giovanni stood by the sideboard. I glanced at Cesare. He leaned against the door, arms crossed at his chest as if he waited for a spectacle to unfold. I returned my gaze to my father, ignoring my husband. Papa directed his next words at Giovanni. “Well? Will you tell your wife what you said to me after I nearly cracked my head open trying to talk some sense into those fools in the Curia?”
“Pearls to swine,” murmured Giulia, and I turned to Giovanni.
“Tell her,” blared Papa. “Tell my Lucrezia what an ungrateful wretch you are!”
“I am not ungrateful.” The tremor in Giovanni’s voice marred his protest as he lurched from the sideboard. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Giulia’s spiteful smile. What I would not have done to wipe that smirk off her face, to put an end to this charade by telling Papa what I knew. I could feel the words ready to spew from my lips. I forced them back. He was unwell. The last thing he needed was to hear that the woman he honored beyond her worth had betrayed him. Besides, though I couldn’t yet fully admit it to myself, I wanted to do what Cesare had asked. It was for the good of the family. At last I could prove my devotion to our Borgia cause.
“Your Holiness knows I have no other recourse.” Giovanni held out his hands in supplication. “Everyone says you seek alliance with Naples against my family. If so, you put me in an impossible situation, for I bear allegiance both to Milan and to Your Holiness. I only asked that you clarify your position, so I may not act contrary to my obligations—”
The clank of something hitting the floor cut off his voice. Giovanni froze. Cesare had flung a purse at him from across the room. “There,” said my brother. “We are tired of hearing about your so-called obligations. Take our payment and go. To Pesaro or the devil, we care not.”
“Holiness!” squeaked my husband, even as he nudged the purse with the tip of his boot, as if to gauge its worth. I knew at once that Cesare goaded him, seeking to humiliate him in the hope that Giovanni would assert a shred of pride and stake his claim on me and his right to return to his city.
My father blew a disgusted breath out of his mouth. “You heard His Eminence of Valencia, Sforza. Do what you will. No one here will stop you.”
Unexpectedly, Giovanni squared his shoulders. “We have an agreement. By canon and secular law, you cannot keep my wife from me. Not even the Vicar of Christ may stand in the way of those whom God has joined. If I go to Pesaro, Lucrezia must come with me.”
Papa half-rose from his chair, stabbing his finger at Giovanni. “Your family plots against me. Your cousin Il Moro would bring the French into San Pietro itself to yank me from my throne. My daughter goes nowhere until you prove your loyalty—to us.”
Giovanni blanched. Swerving to me, looking me directly in my eyes for the first time since our wedding day, he said, “They cannot do this. We are husband and wife, bound by sacred vows. No one can separate us. Tell them.”
I couldn’t have planned it better. Though I didn’t dare look at him, I knew Cesare was smiling. But I was also disconcerted by the apparent sincerity in Giovanni’s words. He seemed to mean what he said, despite the perversion I’d witnessed through the spy hole. My resolve faltered. Maybe it wasn’t his fault. Maybe Juan and Giulia had forced him to—
As if he sensed my hesitation, Cesare said, “Perhaps we should hear what Lucrezia wants.”
“Absolutely not,” said Papa. “Lucrezia is a child. She doesn’t know her own mind yet. I will not send her to Pesaro with this ingrate.”
Swallowing my uncertainty, I turned to my father. “Papa, may I speak?” He shifted in his chair, averting his gaze. “Papa, please?”
He tucked in his chin. “Very well,” he grumbled.
“Is what my husband says true? Is it my duty as his wife to accompany him?”
The visible clenching of my father’s jaw was confirmation enough. But I could still back away and let my husband escape to Pesaro without me. Only the thought of disappointing Cesare steeled my resolve, making me take my father’s hand in mine.
“Papa, I know I owe my obedience to you above all others, but if it is my duty, perhaps we should honor it. All this talk of the French and war—it…it frightens me. I could go for a short while to visit my husband’s court. I know you wouldn’t want me in Rome should the worst come to pass.”
My father grunted. As I waited, poised on the edge of his indecision, I wondered what I truly wanted. I had never considered it. Certainly no one ever asked me. Did I want Papa to admit now, before everyone, before Giovanni himself, that my marriage was a lie? Did I wish to be relieved of the pretense and return to my comfortable life, unburdened by a husband I did not care for? Or did I want to unleash the hatred inside me and see Giulia ruined, severed from my father’s side forever? It troubled me that, despite everything, I did not truly wish Giovanni harm, although I knew that if I agreed to Cesare’s plan, it would bring about his ruin. He was weak, I realized, beholden to two masters: Milan on the one side and Rome on the other. He must feel as though he had no other choice; the Sforza were, after all, his blood. He might be spying for his cousin Il Moro, but was I not preparing to do the same for my own family?
I did not know the answers. It was too confusing; everything was happening too fast. When Papa finally looked at me, his eyes gleamed with tears. “What do you want of me, Papa?” I whispered. “Tell me. I will do anything. I would give my own life.”
“Oh, no. Never say that. Do not even think it.” He caressed my cheek. “Is this truly what you want, my farfallina?”
I made myself nod.
He sighed. “So be it. You shall go to Pesaro with your husband.”
I went limp. It was done. Gathering my courage, I said, “I…I would very much like it if Giulia came with me. I’d welcome her company. And if she stays here, I’d worry for her safety.”
Giulia almost recoiled when my father asked her, “Would you?”
She had no choice but to assent. “As Your Holiness commands.”
Papa nodded, returning to Giovanni. “I entrust you with their safety. When I order their return, you must bring them at once. You will personall
y escort them to Rome.”
“Yes, Holiness.” Giovanni bowed so low, I thought he might grasp my father’s hem to kiss it. “Your Holiness is as munificent as he is humble. I will endeavor to serve you always and be a loving husband to your daughter.”
Papa scowled. “See that you do. Christ’s Vicar may not dare stand in the way of those whom God has joined, but Rodrigo Borgia will, if you give me cause.”
As I stood, Giovanni snatched up the purse and pocketed it. Behind us, Cesare snickered.
Giulia gave me a taut smile. “I am honored you wish me to accompany you, Lucrezia. I will naturally be overjoyed to see you presented as the Signora of Pesaro.”
My own smile felt keen on my lips. “The honor is mine,” I said, as I turned to walk out.
She would learn that, no matter what title I held, I was still a Borgia.
The last of 1493, the second year of my father’s papacy, had slipped away. Shortly after Epiphany, word came that Ferrante of Naples had died—sine luce, sine cruce, sine Deo, reported our ambassador—and the French king issued more threats. Papa maintained a neutral stance, biding his time as blustering winter winds rattled the casements of the Apostolic Palace, blowing hapless birds against the glass. Then, in early March, he gathered the entire court under the musty wood-beamed ceiling of the Sala dei Pontefici to welcome the Neapolitan embassy.
I had the honor of flanking my father and Gioffre, my feet freezing in my ornamental slippers. As our sour-faced master of ceremonies, Burchard, oversaw the protracted ritual of conferring the papal bull that granted King Alfonso II sovereignty over Naples, thereby declaring our stance against France, Cesare watched impassively.
It was his first political achievement, but he did not show it, never once drawing attention to himself as he sat in his crimson regalia among the other cardinals, his handsome face composed. Yet a smile lurked behind his lips as the Neapolitan envoys presented Gioffre with his new title of Prince of Squillace, along with various lands, and Cesare had to lift a hand to his mouth as if to conceal his mirth when Papa declared our younger brother his “Borgia nephew” by his late brother. No one believed it, least of all the Neapolitans. They could barely conceal their own amusement as Papa stamped the decree of Gioffre’s lineage upon a portable desk held by kneeling pages, as though the act of tattooing the parchment with his signet ensured its veracity.
All the while, Gioffre attempted to appear older than his years, standing on tiptoes in his azure tunic and jaunty cap, his curly burnished hair (an unmistakable Borgia asset) falling to his narrow shoulders, jewels taken from the Vatican vault weighting his hands and chest. To my eyes, he was charming—a pretty boy who would grow to be a comely man—but he must have seemed a mere child to the envoys. It was a fact not lost on my father, who said, “He’s stronger than he looks,” and delivered such a hearty clap to Gioffre’s back that he nearly sent my poor brother sprawling from the dais.
We sat together at the feast. I had been charged with keeping Gioffre from drinking too much wine, but it proved an impossible feat, given the number of decanters circulating. His freckled face soon flushed with alcoholic excitement as he turned to me in his chair to whisper, “Do you think Sancia will love me as much as you love Giovanni?”
I sat in astonished silence. Even as I struggled for an appropriate answer, Papa’s laughter rang out from his own dais, where he dined with Cesare and the envoys. He had recovered from his spell and overflowed with goodwill, even if he had been obliged to leave Giulia sulking in Santa Maria, as this was one of those occasions when he must honor the statute forbidding men of cloth from sharing their board with women.
“Yes,” I finally said, with a quick smile. “What wife does not love her husband?” I felt a twinge as Gioffre preened; my words sounded as false as his patent of legitimacy, yet he seemed genuinely pleased, fishing in his tunic to remove an object wrapped in black satin.
“Sancia sent me this. Is she not beautiful?”
It was a miniature of a young woman in an emerald-hued gown, seated before an archway that offered a view of the famed Bay of Naples. Its execution was mediocre, hardly worthy of any Roman-trained artist, but compelling nevertheless, mainly because the subject had such arresting presence. Dusky hair accentuated her piercing gray-green eyes; her strong cheekbones and full lips lent her expression a defiant air. If whoever had painted Sancia of Aragon had stayed true to life, she might not be beautiful but she had undeniable allure, one of those rare women whose overall effect was more powerful than a mere perfection of features.
“She is lovely.” As I returned the pouch to Gioffre, I was surprised to feel a stab of envy. Perhaps I had not lied. Perhaps Sancia would love him. Perhaps they would be one of those fortunate couples that found joy in their union. As I pondered this unlikely possibility, I realized how few illusions I had left, and I looked across the table to where my husband sat in his borrowed finery, his pallor revealing confirmation of his worst fears. Our alliance with Naples had indeed placed him in an impossible position, snaring him between loyalty to Milan and Papa’s favor.
I sighed. Rather than worry about love, I had a task to perform.
I must discover which side he would ultimately choose.
—
GIOFFRE DEPARTED FOR Naples after Holy Week, during which he and my husband shared the honor of carrying the gold ewer in which my father had washed his hands on Palm Sunday. We also attended a passion play in the Coliseum, where the noble families outdid themselves staging a re-creation of our Savior’s Passion, including banging drums and clashing cymbals to mimic the storm over Golgotha as the unfortunate actor playing Christ hung by ropes from the cross.
As soon as we bid goodbye to Gioffre, who traveled under the guidance of Papa’s trusted cousin, Cardinal Francesco Borgia, Vannozza came knocking at Santa Maria’s gate. To Adriana’s dismay, Vannozza announced she was here to oversee my own departure and installed herself in one of the spare rooms, from which she assumed charge. I suspected Papa’s intervention; now that he had made the difficult decision to let me leave for Pesaro, he wanted to preempt another squabble for precedence between Adriana and Giulia. Though my mother had not attended my wedding, she now oversaw the packing of my trousseau with ruthless efficiency, weeding out whatever she considered superfluous.
“I see no reason for her to take things she has no use for or can purchase later,” retorted Vannozza when Adriana lifted an objection. “Twenty pairs of slippers are hardly needed when ten will suffice.”
I was secretly glad she was here. Though I had no affection for her, the sight of Vannozza marching about with anxious chambermaids at her heels gave me satisfaction, particularly as her presence made Giulia scarce. When they happened upon each other at mealtimes or on the stairs, Vannozza ignored her with a disdain that must have rankled la Farnese to no end. I had no doubt Giulia had plenty to say to my father behind closed doors about my mother’s interference, but I had no idea how much so until Vannozza barged in one day during my morning ablutions.
“It is an outrage!” Her voice resounded against the painted walls. “You must tell your father that under no circumstances can he allow that puttana to go with you.”
Pantalisea and Murilla froze at my tub, soap-lathered sponges in hand. Exchanging a wary look with Pantalisea, I sank into my milky bath, letting the water lap over my chest. My mother took a step forward. I suddenly felt as I imagined a fawn must, caught in a clearing as the hungry predator approached.
“Rise,” Vannozza ordered. “Let me see you.”
My women cringed. Vannozza snapped her fingers, sending them scurrying out. I had to stop myself from slipping farther under the water as she said, “Either you rise now or I’ll pull you up by your hair.” She had reached the edge of the sheet-draped tub, hands planted on her broad hips. One look at those coarse, reddened fingers—which plucked grapes from her vineyards and wrung countless chickens for the pot—was enough to assure me she would do precisely that.
I
drew a breath and came to my feet. Perfumed water slid off me in rivulets, unspooling over my pink-tipped breasts—which ached so much these days that I found myself teasing them in the privacy of my bed—and dripping over my hips to turn to glitter in my pubis, which also burned with a longing that could only be relieved by the midnight probe of my fingers.
My mother surveyed me from head to toe. “When did you start bleeding?”
I hesitated but knew that my evasion would not placate her. “Eight months.”
“That long, eh?” She snorted. “And no one the wiser. Well, well. You have more of me in you than I thought.” She reached to a nearby table, took up a towel from the stack, and thrust it at me. The chill of our encounter seeped into my very flesh as she added, “You cannot hide it forever. Rodrigo may send you to Pesaro because he feels it is best, but once you are there, in your husband’s domain, Giovanni has every right to do with you as he pleases.”
I lifted my chin. “He does not. Papa put a clause in the nuptial treaty that says—”
“I know what it says. Everyone in Italy knows what it says. They laugh at it and at Giovanni for consenting. But he is still a man, and men will have their way when their blood is up. You will be far from Rome, from your father and brothers, from anyone who would protect you. What will you do? Have that woman and dwarf of yours bolt the door? One kick and they will both end up with their legs in the air beside you. He can take all three of you if he likes.”
Her callous words roused the memory of the three I had already seen, and I clutched the towel closer. “He—he is not like that. Giovanni would never force me.”
“Oh? Have you already sampled him, perhaps, that you know what he will or will not do?” She stared at me. When her smile finally came, it was remorseless. “Can it be this is your doing? Do you actually want your father to send his whore to Pesaro with you?”
The Vatican Princess Page 14