Yet here I lay in my rumpled bed, which smelled faintly of mold from the incessant rain, with my child feeding from my body, warmer than a kiln as he curled against me. As I caressed his wisps of dark-copper hair, I felt that I could stay here forever; I couldn’t imagine being anywhere other than where he was. I chattered Pantalisea’s ears off whenever she returned from errands outside the convent, about how he’d gurgled or farted (“All babies do that,” she said); of how blue his eyes were, like mine (“That might change”); and how I thought he was already trying to talk (“At his age?”). But she also fussed over him and helped me change him, washing his soiled swaddles in the courtyard trough, which the prioress had allowed us to use, despite Suora Leocadia’s objections. Pantalisea slept on a pallet on the floor, always on her feet at the first whimper from his crib.
In my joyful exhaustion—sleep was an elusive balm I had to snatch whenever I had the chance—I forgot the prioress’s warning: that the cries of my child would set teeth on edge; his very presence reminding the nuns of San Sisto that new life, conceived in sin, was among them.
In February, the reminder came. I sat in the cloisters, swathed in shawls while he slept after nursing. I was starting to doze when footsteps jolted me awake. I turned to see the prioress, her face somber within its wimple. She extended a folded parchment to me.
“From His Holiness.”
I could not move, as doing so would disturb my child, so she bent down stiffly to tuck the paper near my buttocks. “I have already sent my reply,” she said, and she was turning away when I asked in a low voice, “What reply?” though I knew. I knew and dreaded it, for it signaled that my respite had come to an end.
“He wishes to pay us a visit,” the prioress told me. “He has asked that we accommodate his need for absolute privacy. I told him we shall, as we owe him our obedience. But once he departs, I expect your decision. If you wish to remain, you must prepare to take the veil and relinquish your son. If not, then you must depart.” With a nod, she went back down the cloister with the same brisk indifference with which she had delivered her message.
Clutching my son, I stared into the barren winter garden.
I had to protect him, no matter the cost.
—
I DRESSED IN the same gown I’d worn to the Curia, though now it hung loose on me. I wore no jewels save for a gold crucifix about my throat. At the last minute, I wrapped a few articles I had brought during my hasty departure from my palazzo—a modest bracelet of pearls, a ruby-studded comb, and a sapphire pendant—and thrust them at Pantalisea. “Pawn these. Find a way to hide him in safety until I can send for him.”
She gave me a sad shake of her head. “If we could not pay to end your pregnancy out of fear of discovery, how do you expect us to hide the child now? Besides, Perotto warned me that your brother Cesare has set spies on every corner of the road leading from the convent; he is told of every time I venture outside these walls. If I steal away with the babe, he will know.”
I kneaded fistfuls of my skirts. I had made the bargain; Juan’s death had sealed it. I need not fear him anymore, and Giovanni was no longer my husband. Why did I feel such an overpowering need to safeguard my son? Papa would never harm him; nor would Cesare or even my mother. They would cherish him, for he too shared our blood.
Sensing my distress, Pantalisea said, “You have a new mother’s nerves; it is to be expected that you’d fear for the child. You have more reason than most. But His Holiness will understand.” She coiled my hair at my nape. “Your father loves you. Tell him you cannot do it. Tell him you have searched your heart and you must raise your son as your own.”
“Yes.” I seized on this fragile shred of hope. “We are his family. He belongs with us.”
Nevertheless, when I stepped into the dining hall with its stained-glass windows depicting the Annunciation, the sunlit panes casting translucent colored lozenges at my feet, I had to force myself to smile: Papa was seated at the scarred table where the nuns ate their mutton. He wore a plain black tunic and hose, his thick legs sheathed in riding boots. As I neared, I saw sagging skin under his chin, lines bracketing his mouth and scoring his brow, his grief etched permanently upon him. His brooding eyes met mine before he motioned with his hand for me to approach. His papal ring glittered, sole evidence of his pontifical splendor.
“I thought it best to meet alone,” he began. “I let it be known about the Vatican that I rode out to hunt. We cannot afford any more scandal, as I’m sure you would agree.”
I found the imperviousness in his voice disturbing. Then he said, “Cesare told me everything. I am very disappointed, Lucrezia.”
Not “farfallina.” Not “my beloved daughter.”
My temper flared. “Surely you do not think I am to blame?”
“I did not say that. I am saying that I am disappointed you didn’t confide in me.” When I did not speak, he sighed. “Come here.” I took a wary step forward. He reached for my hand, enfolding it in his fingers. I let out a small sound of relief; all of a sudden, I was on my knees with my head in his lap as he set his palms on my head and whispered, “I know it is my fault. You were so vulnerable, married to that lout, and I left you to fend for yourself, like a doe set upon by wolves.”
“Papa—”
“No. Do not make excuses for me. I am an old fool. I did not want to see it. I didn’t want to believe he was anything less than perfect. I thought the best of him, always. I knew he lacked the talents that you and Cesare have in such abundance, but it endeared him to me. He…he reminded me of myself, of my own struggles in my youth, when I labored to find a place to call my own in this wretched world. But Juan was not like me; he had no aptitude for anything beyond his own pleasures. Still, I gave him everything I could, because I thought he would change. Despite my disillusionment, I thought in time he’d become the man I wanted him to be.”
I had never known this; I had never paused to consider that the overwhelming love he’d lavished on Juan welled from a hidden aspiration that his son could never fulfill. It explained so much about why he’d favored Juan over Cesare, unwittingly sowing their enmity. Cesare had always been his rapier, keen and capable, a true Borgia through and through, while my dead brother—he had been the clumsy ax which Papa tried in vain to hone to his exacting standards.
I reached up to caress his cheek. It felt rough, grizzled, as though he had not had a razor taken to it in days. “Papa, you could not have known. No one could. I do not blame you. I don’t even blame him anymore.” As he choked back a sob, I stood and embraced him. “Papa, please do not cry. I hate it when you cry.” I could feel his shoulder blades indenting the wool of his tunic; he had grown alarmingly thin, and any fears I had of his intentions melted away. “It’s over now, Papa. And my child, your grandson—he is so beautiful. Just like you.”
He snorted through his tears. “I should hope not. I am not beautiful. I never was.”
“You are to me.” I drew back. “Do you want to see him?”
He nodded, but as I turned around to fetch my child, I heard him say, “Before you bring him to me, we must reach an understanding.”
I went still.
“You told Vannozza you wished to surrender the boy. Do you still want that?”
I turned back to him and said quietly, “No. I want to keep him.”
He went silent. Something hardened in his eyes, as in times past when I’d asked for something he was unwilling to give.
“I am his mother, Papa. Surely, he belongs with me.”
“He does. A child should always be with his mother. But you must realize how impossible it would be?” He lifted a hand, staving my protest. “Farfallina, let me finish. I did not come here to chastise you. Nor am I saying you must never see him or be a part of his life, but we cannot let the world know the truth about him, not only for your sake but also for his.”
“But he is my son. He…he is everything to me.”
“And we both know who his father was.” He watc
hed me struggle to gain control of myself. “Think of your future,” he said. “You are not yet eighteen. You have your entire life to live. You will bear other children, God willing. Would you sacrifice everything, let yourself be branded like this for the rest of your days?” He paused, his tone softening even as his words twisted an invisible noose about my throat. “We have annulled your marriage, declared you a virgin before the world. Would you say now that we deceived, that I, the Supreme Pontiff, lied? We will never live it down. It will be our end—yours, mine, Cesare’s. And the child’s.”
I was finding it difficult to breathe. I could not imagine giving away my son, no matter what happened. The thought that I’d not see him every day, not smell his milky skin and hear his cry, made me want to grab my child, flee Rome, and never look back. “I do not care. I will sacrifice everything if I must. I can go away, live in the country. Just, please, Papa. Do not take him from me.” Tears broke my voice. “I could not endure it. He is all I have.”
“Hush, hush.” He had his hands clasped before him, his eyes now moist with his own tears. “You do not have to sacrifice everything, save these first years of his life and the freedom to call yourself his mother. I am prepared to strike a pact with you—one that will benefit you and the child, if you will only heed me.”
I fought against the urge to run, to plunge into the teeming streets, where I might lose myself: another anonymous woman with a babe. Yet even as I imagined it, I knew how utterly naïve I was. I had nothing. Everything I had was because of my family. How would I survive in a brutal world I’d never set foot in, save for when I stepped from an upholstered litter surrounded by guards? To indulge my sentiment, I would risk my child’s very life.
“A pact?” I echoed.
“Yes.” The sadness in his face vanished, replaced by that vibrancy I always associated with him. He was eager now, as he always was when negotiation came to the fore, no matter the subject. He could not escape the politician inside him even if God Himself commanded it.
“I will declare the child mine,” he said, “the fruit of an unfortunate indiscretion. I’ll draw up an official bull proclaiming him as such, citing his mother to be an unwed woman, one who must remain nameless for her reputation. He will be entrusted to Vannozza’s care; she will oversee his rearing.” He saw me grimace. “I realize you and your mother are at odds, but I think you both can agree that your son must grow up knowing that Borgia blood runs in his veins. Only we must never divulge his true parentage. A child of such sin: He would carry the stain always.”
Every part of me rebelled against it. My mother raising my child, after how she had treated me? My son growing up never knowing who I truly was? It was unacceptable.
“You can visit him,” added Papa, “within reason, of course, and with the utmost discretion. He will adore you—his beautiful sister. And he’ll have brothers to look up to—Cesare and Gioffre—who can teach him to be a man. On my word, he will lack for nothing.”
“Except the truth,” I whispered.
His sigh was heavy. “What good can it do him? We know the truth. Is it not enough? This world would never understand. They will use him to strike at us; you and your son will become living proof of our evil. I know what the truth can do. Best if we keep it to ourselves.”
I did not answer at once. I let the silence stretch between us, so it would not appear as though I capitulated without deliberation. I knew it was indeed for the best, the only option open to me, unless I wanted to find myself in a pitched battle of wills against my father, which I was certain to lose. I also knew in my heart, though it pained me to my core, that it was best for my son. He would be privileged, a prince of our house, which was all I could wish for him. Yet still I hesitated, unwilling to concede, because Papa must know that I was no longer that eager girl who would do whatever he asked of me.
Finally, I assented. “Under one condition: If she harms him in any way, he must return to me. He must live with me, the truth be damned.”
“Naturally. Though she would never. He is her grandson, too. That means everything to Vannozza. La familia es nuestra sangre. The family is our blood. Nothing is more important.”
I resisted a bitter smile. “Then let me bring him to you.”
When I returned with the babe in my arms, fretful and hungry after his nap, Papa came to his feet in awestruck wonder. At first he seemed uncertain as I set the kicking bundle in his arms, but then I saw instinct take over, his large veined hands enveloping the little body, the joy in his face easing his pain, so that he again resembled the robust man who had never let tragedy or failure defeat him.
“Such a gift,” he breathed. “A Borgia grandson. What shall we name him?”
“Rodrigo,” I said quietly, as if the answer had always been in me. “I would name him after you, Papa.”
I RETURNED TO my palazzo in the spring.
Nicola and Murilla were elated to welcome me home. Every furnishing in my apartments had been polished with linseed oil; every vase and hearth overflowed with greenery. Even my aloof Arancino meowed plaintively and curled about my ankles until I scooped him up. As he purred in my arms, I gazed about my rooms. It unsettled me, the orderliness, as though I had only just stepped outside for air. There was no indication I’d been gone nearly a year, during which so much about who I was had changed. How could I return to being the girl who had twirled about this palazzo, enamored of her position in life, unaware of the savagery awaiting her?
I felt I did not belong here anymore. And there was more trouble yet to face: my upcoming reception in society. No matter how well kept my secret was, there would still be widespread speculation over the dissolution of my marriage, and every eye would be upon me, the daughter who had fled and hidden away for months while her marriage was declared invalid.
Nevertheless, I was relieved to leave behind the frugal crust of the convent. My first bath was a decadent affair; I spent hours luxuriating, until my fingertips wrinkled and Pantalisea scolded me for drying out my skin. “What will they say when they see you looking like a sun-dried prune?”
“That at least I am clean,” I replied, as Nicola and Murilla giggled. “And still a virgin, remember? Virgins are eternally fresh. Besides,” I added, leaning to her, “perhaps you should be the one who worries over appearances, after all those rendezvous you kept with our gallant Perotto while we were immured in San Sisto.”
Nicola burst into laughter; Pantalisea tried to look scandalized but it did not take. Instead, she blushed, gathered up my wet towels, and marched out.
Murilla said, “We missed her, too, my lady, oddly enough.”
“And I missed you.” Throwing my arms about her tiny person, I swung her around as she squealed; my attendants outside the bathing chamber rushed off to spread the word that Madonna Lucrezia was certainly in high spirits for a woman who’d entered a convent because her impotent husband had forsaken her.
Laughter was healing, the company of my trusted ladies a solace, but every night after I retired, I pushed my face into my pillows to stifle my sobs over my Rodrigo, for I missed him so much it was a constant loss inside me. I had surrendered him to my mother outside San Sisto in the dead of night. She took him in her arms and had started to turn away when I grabbed her by the arm. “He may go off his milk. He’s accustomed to me, not a wet nurse, and—”
She gave a brusque laugh. “I’ve given birth to six children, four of them by your father. I think I know by now how to care for a babe.”
Before I could demand that she return my child, which I was about to do, she clambered into her litter and rode off, leaving me with furious tears in my eyes.
“She is his grandmother. She’ll watch over him like a hawk,” Pantalisea kept saying that night, our last in San Sisto, while we waited for the escort from the Vatican to arrive. I wanted to believe it. Nevertheless, in the next weeks as I resumed life in Santa Maria in Portico, I sent Pantalisea to my mother’s house on the Esquiline with a variety of flimsy excuses, bidding
her to act as my spy, until Vannozza put a halt to her visits by declaring, “Tell my daughter if she is so concerned, she can come see for herself. Otherwise, I’ll thank her to stop sending others to meddle in my affairs. As you can see, the child grows fat as a bishop. Tell her one teat tastes much like another and he does not miss her at all.”
Pantalisea looked askance as she relayed this message, uncomfortable but confirming that my son indeed seemed both healthy and happy. I hated the very idea that he could forget me so easily but took some solace in the fact that he’d adjusted to the change. I could have slipped out to see him anytime I wanted; by now, I had perfected subterfuge. But the moment I made the decision, I balked. I feared that if I set eyes on him again, nothing would stop me from taking him back.
Thus I wept at night and smiled by day, as word of my return spread and I was besieged by offers to dine with the noble families. Every morning when I woke, there was another invitation waiting, a puzzling development that only became clear when Sancia came to see me.
She and Gioffre had recently returned from their two-month visit to Naples, and she pranced into my rooms clad in green velvet that brought out the color of the sea in her eyes, her exuberant “Cara mia!” trilling from her lips before she halted. “Is that you? I can scarcely believe it.”
I went to hug her. She held me at arm’s length, appraising me. Behind me, Pantalisea coughed. All of a sudden I was aware of how much I had actually changed, having shed the slimness of girlhood, my hips rounder and breasts full, as I was still binding them to aid in the painful drying of my milk. To Sancia, who had not seen me in many months, I must appear quite transformed.
“Why, you are grown up,” she said, almost in dismay. Her gaze narrowed. “It seems every woman must seek retreat in a convent more often, if these are the results.”
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