“Sancia is not our family.” Tears spilled down my face. “She knows. She told me. Must she die, too? Shall I bring her to you so you can silence her with your garrote?”
“Sancia is family: She’s married to Gioffre. Moreover, we cannot threaten a princess of Naples. She asked Papa about your time in San Sisto; she guessed why you were there, so we felt it best to tell her about the child. She would never have stopped asking, or looking for answers, if we hadn’t. But it is all she knows. She has no idea who the father was, and we strongly advise you to keep it that way.”
“We strongly advise?” I wrenched my arm from him. “Even if that same princess of Naples will soon wed you instead?” As his face registered disbelief, I spat out, “Yes. She told me that, as well. You plan to disavow yourself of the Church and take her as your bride because you need a new title—our brother’s own title of Prince of Squillace.”
“Lucia,” he said haltingly, “you mustn’t believe everything you hear—”
Raw laughter erupted from me, seething with rage. “Tell that to Rome! Tell that to everyone who speculates about why I tarried so long in the convent. Post a warning in the piazzas: Woe to those who dare question. Cesare Borgia will silence anyone who utters a word against us.” I took dark satisfaction in the pallor that spread across his face as I stepped away from him. As he began to reach out again, I said, “Do not touch me. I do not want to ever see or hear from you again. You should not have done this. I will never forgive you for it.”
Turning blindly, I walked back to the palace, not seeing or hearing anything around me, moving in a haze past courtiers spilling out from the sala, through the Vatican into the torchlit piazza, crossing to my palazzo and up the staircase to my rooms.
My women waited for me. “Pantalisea has not yet returned,” Nicola said anxiously. “She left hours ago to meet with Perotto, but she hasn’t come back.”
Without a word, I went into my bedchamber and closed the door. Not until I was finally alone did I allow the grief to well up in my throat, shoving my knuckles into my mouth and biting down hard, breaking the skin until I tasted my own blood.
Burying my face in my hands, I wept until I had no more tears left to shed.
Days passed. I stayed sequestered in my palazzo, where Nicola and Murilla fluttered about me, trying to entice me with fruit, slices of cured ham, and manchego from Castile. I could barely swallow a mouthful. I grew thin, listless, my eagerness to return to my former life a horrible delusion, a cruel trick of fate. I longed for the placid routine of San Sisto, where I knew what was expected and Pantalisea was always by my side. If I could have, I would have returned to the convent, renouncing all worldly comforts and locking myself inside. But I still had my son, now in my mother’s thrall, and the world outside my doors refused to wait.
Within the week, Sancia returned to regale me with my father’s excommunication of the friar Savonarola in Florence, whom he’d ordered arrested and condemned to burn at the stake. As I sat silent in my chair, she set my women to airing out my gowns and polishing my jewels while she detailed the friar’s terrible demise, how he’d been torn apart on the strappado—the rack—and forced to renounce his heresy before he was strung above a pyre and roasted alive. I half-expected to hear the indignant stomp of Pantalisea’s foot, her snort of disgust and muttering under her breath about frivolous princesses with too much time to spare and no manners.
But Pantalisea’s body had been dragged from the Tiber, found tied up in a sack. A few days later, Perotto’s corpse surfaced near an embankment. I paid for their funerals—Perotto consigned to a common grave, while Pantalisea was interred in a local church, her family compensated by Papa for their loss.
Nicola and Murilla were bereft. Sancia assumed the explanation, telling them that my maidservant and her lover had gone into the city and been beset by thieves. It was a paltry excuse; Pantalisea would never have ventured out after dark, given the perils, nor would Perotto, my father’s intimate servant, have allowed it. Nevertheless, my women accepted it. So many died at the hands of villains and rogues. Hadn’t my brother Juan perished in a similar manner? If violence could claim His Holiness’s own son, why not two servants?
Finally I bestirred myself, at Sancia’s insistence. “Come,” she urged. “You must get dressed and come outside. Let me take you to Vannozza’s house. It will do you good.”
I realized that in the horror of the past days, submerged as I was in my grief, I had ceased to miss my child. The fear that in some awful part of me, I blamed him, too—had I rid myself of him before his birth, as Pantalisea had suggested, it might have saved her life—compelled me to agree to Sancia’s suggestion. Enveloped in a cloak, I went with her to my mother’s house, where I beheld my son playing on a blanket in Vannozza’s trellised courtyard.
He was beautiful, paddling his plump feet and entranced by the lacings of my sleeve, tugging and tugging until one snapped and he tried to stuff it into his mouth. My sorrow boiled up then, remembering how much Pantalisea had cared for him. I might have wept as I leaned over him, had Vannozza’s rebuke not fallen on me like a fist.
“No tears in front of little Juan. He will feel your distress.”
I whirled to her. “His name is Rodrigo.”
She shrugged. “I changed it for his christening. Juan, or Giovanni in Italian, is now his official name. Your father has claimed the child as his; he would never name a bastard after himself, so it was necessary—as necessary as that unpleasantness with the servants. I assure you, no one took any pleasure in it, but sometimes we must do what is against our nature to protect those we love.” Her eyes took in my appalled silence. “Now it is done and we should never speak of it again.” Without awaiting my response, she returned to her tasks, leaving me to cradle my son until he drifted off to sleep in my arms.
Then Vannozza came to take him from me.
Sancia was uncharacteristically subdued during our return to my palazzo. As I bade her good night, she said softly, “I never meant to deceive you. I overheard Cesare talking to that manservant of his with the flat eyes: Michelotto. I tried to dissuade him, but he told me to not meddle in matters that did not concern me. He ordered me to keep you occupied in the hall while he and Michelotto went to find them. You were never supposed to know. They were supposed to disappear, their bodies found later, as if it had been an anonymous act.”
“But I did know,” I said, angrily turning on her. “If you’d deigned to tell me while there was time, I might have prevented it. Instead, you kept silent and now they are dead.”
She gave me a despairing look. I wanted to reassure her, for I now realized that nothing we might have done would have changed it, short of whisking Pantalisea and Perotto away from Rome, and even then my father would have found a way. But I did not tell her this; she had betrayed me, just like Papa and Cesare, and so I went into my palazzo alone.
WEEKS LATER, AS I paced the cortile, restless and at odds with my own refusal to return to the Vatican, Cesare came to see me.
I did not hear his approach. One minute I was alone, kicking at fallen blossoms from the potted fruit trees; the next, I turned to find him standing under the colonnade, a shadow among the pilasters. Despite everything, the sight of him moved me, even as I affected an impassive stance when he said, “Word is you will not come to see Papa. He says you may as well not have left the convent at all, seeing as you’re intent on living cloistered here like a nun.”
“Does it surprise him? It shouldn’t, after what he ordered you to do.”
He made a deprecatory gesture, taking a step toward me. I lifted my hand. “If that is all you came here to say, then you have said it and you may go.”
“Lucia,” he said. I went still. “Lucia,” he repeated, and he moved so swiftly, he was like a streak of dusk, dropping to his knees before me. “Forgive me. I beg you. I will do anything you ask, only do not deny me your love. I cannot bear it.”
I tried to resist his imploration, his magnetic proximit
y. I had vowed to myself since that horrible night that he’d strayed beyond even my capacity for forgiveness. He had hunted Pantalisea and Perotto like prey, killed them in the very gardens of the Vatican. His henchman had bound up their corpses, flung them into the Tiber. I could not reconcile the horror of it with the brother I loved, whom I’d adored even more than my father. He had become someone I did not know, did not want to ever know; and yet, as he knelt before me, his head lowered, I longed to caress the copper curls on his nape, to confess that he knew, as no one else did, that no matter what he did, I could never deny him my love.
“You should have never have done it,” I finally whispered.
He lifted his eyes. “I know….” His voice faded into uneasy silence. “If I could change it, I would. I should have persuaded Papa to another recourse. Only he was so determined…”
He spoke as though he had broken one of my toys, not cruelly taken two lives. I made myself draw back. He stood, brushing bits of grit from his hose. For a moment, I saw the boy of our childhood, so clever yet also so secretly insecure, always eager to do Papa’s bidding, to win the approval our father had lavished on Juan. Papa commanded it and Cesare obeyed. All my thwarted rage and sorrow should have been directed at my father, in truth, for he too had known what would happen that night and given no thought to how it might affect me.
“Why are you here?” I said. “You cannot have come solely to implore my forgiveness or chastise me for denying the Vatican my presence. Papa must want something. What is it?”
He sighed. “You know we’ve had numerous offers for your hand?” He paused; when I did not confirm or refute his question, he added, “We believe there is one best suited for you.”
“Oh?” I felt a terse smile cross my lips. “What if I do not wish to marry again?”
He frowned. “Surely you know we must fulfill our duty, now more than ever. Papa has suspended the inquiry into Juan’s murder, against my advice. I told him we must find the culprits, lest the speculation further tarnish our repute, but he says it has become too painful, and it will not bring Juan back. Our enemies rejoice at our loss and seek every advantage in it. The Romagna in particular has become a cesspit of intrigue, abetted by Milan. We cannot let our foes see us weak.”
“Yes.” I turned away. “I see only that nothing has changed. I want no part of it.”
I heard him move closer; I shut my eyes, as if in pain, as he touched my shoulder. “This is why we chose this suitor. I think he will make you happy.” I felt his hand tremble. “I want you to be happy, Lucia. You must believe that, even if you believe nothing else.”
Without warning, the memory buried deep within surfaced, of his hands upon me in the Villa Imperiale, the strength of his desire, so urgent, like a forbidden rush in my veins—
“Who?” I heard myself say. “Who have you and Papa chosen for me?”
He was silent for a moment before he said, “Alfonso of Aragon.”
I couldn’t move, turning back around to regard him in incredulity.
“I hear you like him well enough,” Cesare went on. “Sancia told me that when he accompanied her here, you found each other agreeable. He’s also your age, and King Federico has agreed to make him duke of Bisceglie, so he’ll be more worthy to take you as his bride.” He paused, frowning at my silence. “Would he please you? Papa says this time, you must not be forced.”
I didn’t know what to say, let alone how to feel. I had not thought of Alfonso in so long, he almost was like a stranger to me. I’d consigned him to the past, to a brief halcyon moment from a time when I’d not yet understood what it meant to be a Borgia. With a pang, I remembered my joy at meeting a man besides my father or brother whom I might come to love, and then the letter he wrote to me, which I had failed to answer. To marry him now, after everything—it seemed incredible. Impossible. An unexpected gift I no longer deserved.
“Would it please Alfonso?” I managed to ask. “Or has no one bothered to ask him?”
Cesare removed his hand. “He seemed enthused enough by the prospect during my visit to Federico’s court.”
“You discussed it with him in Naples?” I recoiled. “While I was in San Sisto, awaiting the birth? But my marriage to Giovanni had not yet been annulled.”
“And?” He gave me a puzzled look. “Papa instructed me to make overtures. I told you that we’ve learned to keep Naples on our side. But I promised nothing, if that’s what concerns you.”
“I see. And with Sancia as your bride, which will keep Naples further on our side, shall we make it a double wedding, brother?”
He gave a derisive chuckle. Then, when he realized I was serious, he said, “I may have ridden the mare, but I have no interest in stabling her. Sancia is Gioffre’s wife. So she shall remain.”
Though I’d suspected as much, his indifference still took me aback. “Does she know? Because she thinks you love her. She said you promised to move heaven and earth to wed her.”
“Did she? She misunderstood. Love cannot serve me. King Federico, on the other hand, can—by giving me his legitimate daughter, Princess Carlotta, currently serving as lady-in-waiting to the royal French widow, Anne of Brittany.”
“The same widow King Louis wishes to marry,” I said, recalling what Sancia had told me. “Only Louis needs an annulment. And Papa is the only one who can grant it.”
“I see you have not completely forgotten the art of politics.”
“I am my father’s child. It’s not something we can easily forget,” I replied coldly, even as I thought of Sancia and how wrong she had been. She would not take well having been lied to. Though Cesare might not care, he’d make an enemy of her for this.
“Did Papa truly say he would not force me?” I said.
“Yes. He says he learned his lesson with the Sforza. He wants you to be happy. We both only want you to be happy, Lucia.”
I ignored his attempt to appease me. I was not yet ready to return to that place of safety where he had been my protector and confidant—my stalwart brother, who could do no wrong.
“Then tell Papa I shall pray on it,” I said, unable to curb the sarcasm in my tone.
His brow arched. “Pray?”
“Yes.” I met his stare. “Have you forgotten how? You shouldn’t. You have much to atone for.”
Without another word, I walked away.
ALFONSO ARRIVED IN mid-July, as the ponentino wind stirred the noxious heat of summer. There was no fanfare this time, no extravagant escort or trumpets, no horseback ride in borrowed finery to salute me at my balcony. My bridegroom slipped into the city unannounced, with only a small group of servants, and was greeted at the gate by Cesare and Gioffre, who escorted him to the Vatican to his reception in the papal apartments.
Perhaps it was the surroundings, the windows shuttered by intricate celosias, turning the light saffron as it sifted through the apertures. Or perhaps it was my awareness of my appearance, clad in black velvet with a jewel-studded stomacher, my girdle edged in pearls, the symbols of chastity. I’d twined my hair in a gold-filigree caul and refused Sancia’s attempt to paint my face—“You’re sallow as an invalid,” she exclaimed, “after all these weeks indoors!”—because I did not want him to think me frivolous. But I knew that no matter how much care I had taken, he must have heard the rumors even in Naples, of my failed marriage and confinement in a convent.
Whichever the reason, the moment he stepped into the room in his gray doublet, broad-shouldered and with the sheen of sweat still on his brow, his short stature made taller somehow by his confidence, all I could see, all I could feel, was him.
I wanted nothing more than to be his.
Dropping to one knee, he kissed Papa’s foot. He did not seem to have changed in the two years since we’d seen each other, and I had to remind myself, as Sancia elbowed me and he turned to greet the cardinals, that there was no reason he should have. He had gone home to fight for Naples; he had not suffered the collapse of a marriage, a violent attack, a forced refu
ge, or the birth of a child he could never claim….
Then he came before me. The scent of him—of velvet and salt, of the tang of horseflesh clinging to his clothes—overwhelmed me. His eyes were darker than I recalled, a deeper brown than the mellow honey hue I remembered, but they still riveted me, so that I could not look away as he bowed and Sancia chided me, “Your hand. You must give him your hand.”
I quickly extended my fingers, devoid of rings. His lips were soft as they brushed my skin, the slightest touch of warmth before his eyes lifted again to mine.
“My lady Lucrezia,” he said.
“My lord Alfonso,” I replied.
My heart was beating so hard, I thought he must hear it. The whole room must hear it, a thundering announcement that betrayed my desire.
“Well?” Papa grumbled, and only then did I realize Alfonso and I were staring at each other, our hands entwined in the space between us.
Cesare drawled, “I believe they approve, Holiness.”
Papa beamed. “Good! Then let us proceed to the ceremony and the feast. I see no reason to delay what the Almighty has ordained.”
Around us, a burst of movement—the cardinals and others were making haste to the double doors to secure seats in the chapel. My fingers felt melded to Alfonso’s; I had to make a conscious effort to not clutch at his hand like a child who had finally been found after wandering for years, lost in a tangled wood.
He could be my savior. While he was beholden to Papa for the privilege of marrying me, he had royal blood, with the power of Naples at his back. He was not like Giovanni, dependent on whichever crumbs his relatives tossed his way. Alfonso was respected, cherished by his family. He could make me happy, I thought, staring into his eyes and seeing myself reflected there. But the mere hope of happiness terrified me. He might be a prince in his own right, but could that protect him from my family’s exigencies and caprices? Or, like Giovanni before him, would he find himself trapped, forced to choose between pleasing or enraging us?
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