Yes, he must be told. Just not yet.
IN AUGUST, PAPA obliged the cardinals to return to Rome from their summer retreats. Before their begrudging faces, Cesare, fully armed with papal approval, requested leave to renounce his holy vows. He symbolically set down his crimson cap and bowed his tonsured head to become a secular man once more, free to pursue a carnal life, including marriage, if he chose.
“Naturally, the Spanish ambassador had to raise a fuss,” he told me as we supped al fresco in my palazzo. Alfonso had gone into the city with his bodyguard, Tomasso Albanese, and Cesare had arrived unexpectedly. Though we had not been alone in some time and I was wary of him, he seemed not to notice my reserve, regaling me with news of his latest imbroglio. “He rebuked Papa for letting me ‘shed so lightly’ the honor bestowed upon me by Christ”—Cesare rolled his eyes—“though I rather think Their Catholic Majesties are less concerned with my lack of religious devotion than they are with my choice of a French bride.”
“So you are going to wed Princess Carlotta?” I said, taking a bite of bread stuffed with smoked ham and trying to maintain my reserve and not display my flare of interest in his affairs. “Papa has agreed to let you travel to France to pay suit to her?”
He nodded, twirling his goblet. He reclined in his chair, his long body at ease, but I could see traces of his recurring ailment. He had a new sore at the corner of his mouth, and a few recently scabbed spots on his throat and cheeks. His hands too were marred; to me, it appeared as though his fever had resurged with an alarming new virulence, but he made light of it when I asked, saying it was less severe than the first bout he’d suffered. He still referred to it as a tertian, but to me he did not look well, and those spots were troubling, even if his spirit seemed unaffected.
“Papa wants to send me as soon as possible,” he now said. “The French wait to receive me. King Louis has offered me an estate and the title of Duke of Valence; they already call me Il Valentino. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Downing his wine, he immediately reached for the flagon. His fourth cupful in less than two hours, I noted, when in the past he would rarely have finished one. “But we still have some challenges to overcome, mainly persuading all the cardinals to put their seals on the decree for Louis’s annulment and convincing that weasel Federico to make good on his promise to support my suit.”
Disquiet stole over me. “But I thought King Federico had expressed himself in favor of you marrying his daughter?”
Cesare scowled. “He did. I was there to crown him at the time; he would have said anything. Yet now he reneges, citing that unless we can arbitrate the disputes in the Romagna—which we’ve no intention of doing right now—he cannot support seeing his daughter wed to me. These Neapolitans are all the same. You cannot trust—”
“Is that so?” said Alfonso. I turned in my seat to find him standing in the gallery, still in his cloak, his manservant close by.
“My lord,” I said, flustered. “We—we were not expecting you so soon.”
“Evidently.” Alfonso unfastened his cloak, handed it to Albanese, and waved him off. Drawing up a chair, he began to ladle olives, slices of cheese, and cold chicken onto a plate. He ate with his hands, his appetite hearty. “What is this about mistrusting my uncle Federico?” he asked Cesare, who regarded him with unconcealed disdain. “Perhaps I can be of help.”
“I doubt it,” my brother said, slamming his goblet onto the table.
Alfonso chuckled. “You doubt what, precisely? My specific ability to influence my uncle or my general inability to influence anything?”
“Both.” Cesare stood abruptly, startling me, as he had always been courteous to Alfonso. His change in attitude reminded me of how he’d treated Giovanni Sforza. “I believe I have been misled, my lord, by said uncle and indeed by your own self. Had I known in Naples that your family would throw so much dust in my face, I might not have been so eager to see you to my sister’s bed.”
Alfonso shrugged. I found myself gripping my chair as he chewed his food before he said, “I did not mislead you when we spoke in Naples. I did indeed wish to marry Lucrezia, and I believe she wanted to marry me, as well—which, as it turns out, she did. As for this matter concerning my uncle, he is within his rights to decide who is best suited to wed his daughter, as you would agree if you only took a moment to consider his purpose rather than your pride.”
“Meaning?” Cesare’s voice was taut.
“Meaning she is a legitimate princess of Naples and—”
“I am but the bastard of the pope.” He threw out his hand, sending his goblet crashing to the tiles. “I am well versed in Naples’s ploys, Signore. I came to manhood whilst your ogre of a grandfather, Ferrante, schemed and plundered his way to his grave; I know how much you esteem your own words. And lest you forget, some might say you are as much a bastard as I am, seeing as the French claim to that rock you call a kingdom could be declared more valid than your family’s, should His Holiness my father set his mind to it.”
Alfonso’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I never denied that my father sired me out of wedlock or that I bear no legitimate claim to the throne.” He paused. “But you appear to seek such a claim for yourself through marriage to Carlotta. How can you not see that the situation might prove somewhat vexing for her father, who also has his heirs to protect?”
Cesare’s expression grew so icy, I actually began to rise from my chair, my hand held out as if to ward him off. “Come now. Is this necessary? Surely Alfonso can assist by at least writing to his uncle to ask that he reconsider—”
“No.” Cesare spat out his refusal as if it were a seed stuck in his teeth. “I forbid it. If Federico chooses to refute his promise, then let him learn what comes from it.” He glared at Alfonso. “I will thank you, my lord, not to interfere,” and with a terse incline of his head in my direction, he left us.
I heard Arancino wander under the table, purring. “He is…not himself,” I said to Alfonso. “He has been ill and at Papa’s side constantly—he did not mean what he said.”
Alfonso reached down to pet my cat, who, perversely, after having disdained every other male touch, had discovered he could not resist my husband’s. “I think Cesare knows exactly what he says. He despises me.”
“Why would you say that?” I protested. “Did he not negotiate our own marriage?”
“He did, but now he finds cause to regret it.” Plucking a sliver of chicken from his plate, Alfonso fed it to Arancino. “If Cesare Borgia does not get his way, the alliance that binds us could sour.” He turned pensive. “Should that occur, you may have to choose whose side you are on.”
“Side? But he is my brother. His Holiness is my father.”
“And I am your husband.” He wiped his hands on my discarded napkin. Rounding the table, he kissed my cheek. “As I said on our wedding night, I would never oblige you. Yet neither shall I sit by and wait for them to do to me what they did to the Sforza of Pesaro. Should it become necessary, I will fight them—with or without you.”
He did not await my reply. Turning away, he retreated to the wing Giovanni had once occupied, which had since been appointed for Alfonso, though he never used it save to store his possessions and provide a place for his servants to sleep.
Arancino leapt onto the table and began to tear at the chicken carcass. I let him eat his fill as I stared after Alfonso, not able to decipher if what I felt was fury that my husband dared doubt me or foreboding that he might have reason to do so.
For the first time since our marriage, that night we slept apart.
AS AUTUMN WINDS set the pennants depicting our bull, rampant against a scythed sun, snapping, we gathered to bid Cesare farewell. He was departing for France, accompanied by an escort that not only eclipsed the retinue that had accompanied Juan to Spain but also made him the talk of Rome, with rumors running wild that even the shoes of his horses were made of silver and his pages’ livery fringed in real gold.
It was not true, of cour
se. His horses and pages, plentiful as these were, wore the usual trappings, though the same could not be said of their master. Determined to have Cesare arrive in France like the prince he would become, Papa had sold the benefices of his forsaken cardinalship for a profit of two hundred thousand ducats, now turned into the bejeweled accessories that filled Cesare’s caskets. My brother himself wore white damask studded in pearls, his sumptuous velvet cloak girded off the shoulder in the French style, his plumed cap sporting a fiery brim of rubies, under which his features were covered by a half mask of fine gauze to hide the scars of his ailment. I had wanted to express my concern that he should leave while still obviously unwell, but with him and Alfonso at odds, it was better for all if he did. As he held my hands tight, Cesare said, “You must take care, Lucia. I expect to read only happiness in your letters.” He sidled closer. “I shall not be gone long. When I return, I will have everything we need to ensure that no one challenges us again.”
He referred to the supremacy of our family, to which my husband now belonged, yet I heard a threat in his voice that caused me to draw back. We stood paces from Papa, who sat on his dais overlooking the piazza. The papal court congregated around us, while the populace lining the barricaded route guffawed and drank free claret flowing from the fountains.
“You must take care, as well,” I finally said. When I looked into his eyes, they were like scorched holes within his mask. “Forza e in bocca al lupo. Show moderation in all things, for the sake of our peace of mind and your own continued health.”
His gaze narrowed. Then he smiled and bent to me for our goodbye kiss. I stifled a gasp when I felt his teeth nip my lip. “Do not stray too far from the fold,” he whispered. “I am finding it more difficult than I imagined to see you love another.”
Before I could utter a response, he turned to Papa with a swirl of his cape and knelt to kiss the papal slipper. Papa embraced him. As Cesare proceeded into the piazza, where his Mantua steed awaited, I glanced at my father. Cold satisfaction slipped over his face, in startling contrast to the tearful sorrow he had shown at Juan’s departure.
I had the unsettling impression that, rather than celebrate the son he had just exalted, Papa still grieved for the one he had lost.
THE NATIVITY FESTIVITIES came and went in a blur of frankincense and Masses. With the taste of the host still on my tongue, we welcomed the new year of 1499 and advent of Carnival, that time of hedonistic indulgence that preceded Ash Wednesday and the austerity of Lent. Together with Alfonso, Papa and I donned beaded masks and stood on the balcony of the Castel Sant’Angelo to greet revelers. But the winter had been harsh, with biting winds and incessant rain swelling the Tiber to overflowing, and we saw few people, though we remained for over an hour under the dripping canopy. Finally we retreated indoors, soaked to our skins.
“Your famous Roman carnival leaves much to be desired,” declared Alfonso, shivering as we undressed in our suite and plunged into the large linen-lined copper tub prepared for us. He ducked his head under the hot rosewater, surfacing with his hair slicked like liquid gold from his brow, his newly grown beard glistening with slivers of petals as he eyed me with that lazy gaze I had come to know so well.
We had not spoken about our dispute. Although months had passed, I remained uneasy over his suspicions of my family. It seemed pointless now, with Cesare gone to the French court for what would surely be months, if not longer; still, my uneasiness prickled me as he crooked a finger and said in a husky voice, “Come here.”
I floated to his arms, his hardness sending a startled thrill through me as he drew me to him. “I am freezing. You must warm me.”
“You do not seem very cold to me.” I flattened my hands on his chest, pushing him away.
He growled. “Would you refuse your husband?”
I pointed at his chin. “Your beard scratches. It feels like I’m being kissed by a bear.”
“What, this? I would have you know, Madonna, that beards are the latest style among fashionable lords. Any man who can grow one does, and if he can’t, he—”
“Buys a face wig?” I teased, and Alfonso yanked me to him, my body slippery as an eel caught in his net. “Kiss me now,” he demanded, and I did. As I felt him pulsing against my thigh, I finally ventured, “Are you still angry over what Cesare said to you that day?”
“I had forgotten about it,” he replied, but the tightening of his brow told me he had not. “And I was never angry. Your brother is a Borgia; he has too much pride. He and Sancia, in truth, would have made the perfect couple.” He chuckled. “Or ended up killing each other in their bed.”
“Yet I share the same Borgia blood,” I persisted, needing to hear what he truly thought. “It stands to reason that if you doubt him, you must doubt me, too.”
He took my hand, brought it under the water to his erect manhood. “Does this feel as if I doubt you?” He lifted me up, sliding me upon him. A moan escaped me. He thrust upward. “I do not doubt you, sweet Lucrezia,” he whispered. “I want and desire you—always.”
The water splashed in waves over the sides of the tub, wetting the floor. His groans grew so loud that I started to giggle, pushing my hand over his mouth to shush him, lest the servants outside our door (forever eavesdropping) overheard.
He did not care, and by the time we were done, neither did I. But I did not fail to note that he had not fully answered my question.
THE WINDS WANED. A sullen sun emerged from the brooding clouds and we repaired to the countryside, to hunt and dine in a cardinal’s villa. Alfonso was full of vigor, having taken down a brace of quail and five rabbits earlier in the day with the white goshawk that Papa gave him for Christmas—an exquisite creature, brought with great expense to Rome from the northern wastes of Iceland. Alfonso had fallen in love with the falcon at first sight, naming her Bianca and letting her reside in a silver-chased cage in our rooms, feeding her chunks of raw meat with his own hands, and adorning her with jesses of gilt and a sapphire-studded hood that brought out the azure shadows in her plumage.
“I’m beginning to think he loves that bird more than me,” I remarked to Sancia as we strolled through the vineyard, past trellises hung with winter-shriveled vines. “Look at him. He cannot keep his eyes off her.”
“He does seem infatuated, doesn’t he?” Sancia laughed. She had reverted to her ebullient self, obsessed with gossip, clothes, and impressing every man she met, just because she could. I’d had opportunity to observe her at numerous feasts and ceremonial occasions in the Vatican, and she seemed oblivious to Cesare’s absence or the humiliation she’d endured at his hands, thrown aside for another Neapolitan princess whose legitimate birthright promised more than she could ever deliver.
“Gioffre wants one, too.” I couldn’t help but smile as I watched my younger brother venture to the imperious goshawk perched on Alfonso’s gauntlet. “I think I shall ask Papa to buy him one for his seventeenth birthday. Does that sound agreeable?”
I let my suggestion linger. She nodded absently. “Whatever you deem best.”
I sighed. “Are you still not…?”
She gave me an exasperated look. “Must we discuss it?”
“Well, it has been almost five years since you and he wed, and—”
“I know how long it has been.” Sancia picked up her skirts, exposing the wood patens we both wore to avoid muddying our satin slippers as we navigated the rain-glutted path. “His Holiness has already spoken to me about it. He scolded me for not bearing him grandchildren.” I heard the edge in her voice. “Gioffre is willing enough, but I cannot endure him pawing at me.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” I mumbled.
“Yes, well. We cannot all be so fortunate in our husband as you. Now, let us forget my woeful state. Have you heard the latest about your other brother?” Her voice turned avid. “No? Oh, you do need to get out of your marriage bed more often. It is the talk of Europe! King Louis received our Valentino with due pomp, but it seems the French court laughed at him b
ehind their sleeves for being so overdressed.” She smiled in cruel delight, for which I could not fault her. “And despite the king’s promise to hasten Cesare’s marriage to Carlotta, he has kept our lord entertained yet unfulfilled, as she apparently refuses to even consider it.”
As I cringed inwardly, imagining how enraged Cesare must be, Sancia added, “Louis now seeks alliance for him with another princess, though I hardly think that after all the effort and expense, Valentino will be willing to settle for— Watch your step!”
She lunged for my arm, but I was already slipping, my muddied hem tangled about my patens, tripping me on a stone in the path. I barely felt the fall, cushioned by my cloak and gown, but it knocked the air out of me, so that I lay flat on my stomach, gasping, partly amused by my own clumsiness and partly mortified as I heard frantic footsteps racing toward me.
Alfonso knelt beside me, his face white. “Amore, are you hurt?”
I shook my head. “Help me up.” Taking his hand, I let him haul me to my feet, my surroundings swimming about me as I grappled for my bearings. His men looked on in concern; I saw Papa rise up from his chair on the villa’s terrace, a hand at his brow. At his side, Gioffre struggled to hold my husband’s flapping goshawk on his arm.
“Such a fuss.” I turned to Alfonso. “I only stumbled and—” A sudden cramp cut off my voice, and I grimaced, tried to draw breath. All of a sudden I heard my own whimper, followed by Alfonso’s urgent cry—“She is injured!”—and, to my horror, I felt something hot and liquid seep down my thighs.
—
“NO, MY LOVE. Do not weep.” Alfonso cradled me in his arms. We lay in the villa’s rumpled bed, which had been hastily prepared by the stunned cardinal and his servants, for by the time Alfonso carried me into the house, blood dripped off my soiled slippers. After I was brought to the strange room, Sancia had barely loosened my stays before the unformed mass gushed from me onto the floor.
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