The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  He was gone before I could blink, blending into a surge of chattering courtiers, an exhalation of white smoke. I did not hear Alfonso approach until his hand was on my shoulder, startling me. “What did he say to you?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I whispered. I continued to stare at the empty space where my brother had stood, knowing I had lost him to the dark netherworld he’d chosen to inhabit, where nothing was sacrosanct and everything had a price.

  Then I turned to Alfonso. “Take me home.”

  Hail and spitting rain pelted the streets, and summer lightning slashed the skies, white light illuminating my rooms with such blazing relief that my Rodrigo started to wail and I ordered all the shutters and draperies closed.

  It was early afternoon, but the storm was relentless. Resigned to sitting all day near the braziers, I tried to concentrate on a book of Virgil’s sonnets, though the intricate phrasings swam before my eyes. I felt the rise of a headache that made me want to go to my bedchamber and nap.

  I was about to bid my women to accompany me, when loud voices echoed in the corridor. I rose, telling Murilla to go hush whoever was making such an infernal noise, lest they wake Rodrigo. She barely made it to the door before it burst open. Alfonso ran in, covered head to toe in a shroud of dust.

  My women cried out. He resembled a purgatorial specter out of Dante, bits of plaster and grit clinging to him in crumbling patches, embedded in his unkempt hair, in his beard, and on his cheeks and hands, his wild eyes and teeth like gashes within the crusted pallor of his face. I took a faltering step toward him, thinking for a horrifying second he was injured somehow, attacked, but then his words leapt at me in urgent, near-unintelligible fragments:

  “His Holiness…the audience-chamber roof…he is buried…”

  Gathering fistfuls of my skirts, I fled the room with Alfonso at my heels, crying out my name, as I raced down the staircase and through the galleries into the passageway leading to the Sistine and the Vatican.

  Minor courtiers, clerics, and underlings converged in a frantic wave toward my father’s stateroom, where Papa had been receiving envoys. I had almost attended the event but decided against it because of Rodrigo’s fear of the storm, knowing only my presence could comfort him. But Alfonso had gone. Now, as I reached the bronze double doors that stood open to the expanse beyond, roiling with clouds of the same dust that coated my husband, I heard a bone-chilling scream. It took me a moment to realize that it had come from my lips.

  Alfonso caught me by the waist as I started to plunge inside. Shadowy figures seemed to drift about the chamber like apparitions. “No,” he gasped, pulling me back. “You must not! It is not safe. A beam crashed through the roof over his throne. There is rubble everywhere.”

  “Dio mio, no!” I was fighting to get away from him, to rush inside and help, but he refused to release me, hauling me aside against the far wall until I ceased thrashing. “You cannot do anything. Lucrezia, they are working to dig him out. You will make it worse if you go in and risk yourself. They have enough to contend with already.”

  “Dig him out?” I stared at him wildly, as if he spoke another language. “Is he still alive?”

  He pulled me to him, whispering, “No one knows. One moment he was smiling, beckoning the ambassadors, and the next—it must have been lightning. The roof caved in so suddenly. They are doing all they can to rescue him.”

  I made myself breathe, drawing in shallow drafts of air that tasted of shattered plaster, of pulverized wood and paint from the roof’s collapse. Time seemed to move in fits and starts. I saw men coming and going through the doors, all bathed in that hellish grit, their voices colliding, as cries from within echoed and faded into the toppling of broken stone.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I heard yelling, a heaving of rubble, and leaden silence. I turned in Alfonso’s arms to the doorway, unaware that I too was now covered in a white film that I would spend days scrubbing from my pores.

  “He is here!” someone shouted.

  I blinked, looking uncomprehendingly at Alfonso. He stepped forward, uncertain. I clung to his hand. Then they came through the doors—a collection of exhausted grooms, cardinals, and envoys in tattered clothes—carrying between them a sagging makeshift stretcher fashioned from ragged crimson velvet that had once been the papal canopy.

  “Papa!” I started toward it, dreading what I might find.

  The men parted at my approach. I had to force myself to focus. He lay prone, shards and splinters stuck everywhere, a bloody wound on his forehead, other smaller injuries puncturing his large hands, which were clasped loosely—lifelessly, it appeared to me—across his chest. I detected no motion under his debris-littered robe, no sign of movement.

  “He is dead,” I whispered. I had started to cross myself instinctually, tears seeping from my eyes, when a hoarse voice said, “He is not dead. Never say that. Never, ever, say that.”

  I looked up in a daze. My brother stood with his black velvet coated in plaster. Dust drifted about him, a gravelly halo. He looked as if the roof had fallen upon him, as well.

  He lurched to me, eyes like reddened slits in the grime of his face. “He is alive and he will live. God’s hand is upon him. He would not allow His humble vicar to perish so ingloriously. It is treason to say it.” He seized me by my shoulder, shaking me. “Treason!”

  Alfonso loomed between us. “Unhand her.” His voice was low, but the menace was apparent in every fiber of his body. “Now, my lord. You forget yourself in your anguish.”

  Cesare’s fist clasped me harder; I sensed a recoiling around us, the abrupt rise of palpable fear, then Alfonso said in his impassive tone, “You do not want this. Not here. Not now. His Holiness has suffered a grave accident and we must behave accordingly, even though we may not like it.”

  A harsh sound—part mirth, part derision—tore from my brother’s lips. He reeled around, barking orders at the men. They began to stagger away with my father supine between them, his feeble whisper calling out, “Cesare, hijo mío. Come here, my son….”

  As he stalked after them, Cesare did not look back.

  “YOU MUST LEAVE Rome as soon as possible!” Sancia banged her fist against the sideboard. It had been a fortnight since my father’s injury—two weeks of unbearable waiting as he convalesced behind closed doors, attended by physicians, my every request to see him denied. Finally, word had arrived this morning. Papa was on his feet and wished us to join him tonight in the Vatican for dinner. I was astonished by his command but eager to see him; until then, Alfonso and I had planned to spend a quiet afternoon with our child. But then Sancia arrived in a whirlwind of accusations.

  “Sister, you are overwrought.” Alfonso looked up from the chair where he sat holding Rodrigo, who plucked at one of his doublet ribbons. It reminded me with a sharp pang of guilt of my other son, how he had done the same with my sleeve the last time I’d seen him….

  I pulled myself back to attention as Sancia exclaimed, “I may well be, but you, brother, are far too serene. Rome is no longer safe for you. Cesare is allied with France, but he has seen how fragile it all is, how fleeting. If His Holiness perished, where would he be? The bastard son of a dead pope who has earned the enmity of all Italy—he would not long survive. He will not abide being at Fortuna’s mercy. He will do whatever he can to protect himself.”

  Alfonso met my wary look from across the room before he returned his gaze to Sancia. “He may protect himself, but that is no reason to think he plots against me—or no more reason than there’s ever been. Cesare has learned that should His Holiness die unexpectedly, he stands to lose everything. He recognizes as much as I do the importance of maintaining balance in uncertain times. With Milan back in the hands of Il Moro, the French king who supported Cesare so assiduously must now find himself obliged to reconsider his obligations. Cesare cannot afford to alienate Naples. Therefore, he has no cause to move against me.”

  “No cause!” Sancia’s shrill disbelief startled Rodrigo, who
turned wide eyes to her. She spun to me. “Lucrezia, you know I speak the truth. Tell him that if he does not leave, we may as well throw open the palazzo gates and invite the wolf inside.”

  Alfonso was clucking at our son, a smile on his lips.

  “Perhaps we should heed her,” I ventured.

  My husband lifted suddenly sharp eyes. “Why? Do you have any knowledge of a plot?”

  I hesitated. Ever since his return, we’d lived under Cesare’s menace. The accident that nearly killed Papa had heightened my brother’s superstitious side; I’d heard he now consulted with astrologers and seers, as our mother did, remarking offhandedly that a prophet warned him that he was destined for an early grave. Yet besides his newfound affinity for the occult, I’d not seen or heard anything else to justify Sancia’s worry.

  “When it comes to Cesare,” I said, “we should never underestimate. I have no knowledge of a plot,” I added, raising my voice as Sancia let out an outraged gasp, “but that doesn’t mean something isn’t afoot. I never suspected that he—” I faltered, until Alfonso’s gaze sharpened and I had no choice but to continue. “I never suspected he would murder my maid Pantalisea and Papa’s servant Perotto,” I said in a low voice.

  “With a garrote,” added Sancia, making me wince. “He strangled a defenseless woman in the Vatican garden while his manservant, Michelotto, the one with the dead eyes, killed the pope’s attendant. He has no remorse. Murder comes as naturally to him as breathing.”

  A frown creased Alfonso’s brow. My nails dug into my palms. I should tell him what else I knew, about Juan’s death. I should tell him so he could be fully aware of the lengths to which Cesare was willing to go. The words choked me, however, as if saying them aloud would destroy whatever hope for reconciliation might yet exist between my husband and my family.

  “Why would he kill your maid and—His Holiness’s servant, was it?” Alfonso asked. “That seems rather garish, even for him. What possible threat could they have posed?”

  “It was Perotto who posed the threat,” I said quickly, preempting Sancia in my desperate attempt to avoid more questions, which would only lead Alfonso into the tangled web surrounding my stay in San Sisto. “He must have known something, as we think Cervillon did, about Papa and Cesare’s secret dealings. Perotto served Papa in his apartments; I often saw him present during private conversations.”

  I kept my gaze level, my voice as assured as it could be under the circumstances. I did not want Alfonso to sense the panic rushing through me, the need to deflect before he adopted a direct approach I could not hope to evade.

  He sat quiet, considering. Then he handed Rodrigo to me and unfurled his strong limbs from the chair. “Then it seems the time has come for me to have a word with him.”

  Fraught silence fell, broken by Sancia’s horrified whisper, “Are you mad?” He ignored her, reaching for his cloak. “Alfonso, you must not do this. You must never see him alone! It is what he waits for—the opportunity, handed to him by you.”

  Alfonso flung his cloak over his shoulders and buckled on his wide belt with its poniard and sword. “I am fully armed. And wherever I go, my man Albanese goes with me.” He chuckled. “Besides, I doubt Cesare would dare assault me in the middle of the Vatican when we’re due to dine tonight with His Holiness. How would it look if I end up being the meal?”

  Sancia posted herself at the door, barring his exit. “This is no laughing matter. If you must find out what he plots, if confronting him is the only way to convince you, then send Lucrezia to him instead. Let her discover the truth, if he is even capable of telling it.”

  Alfonso went still. When he finally spoke, his voice was terse. “I’ll not send my wife again to conduct my business. Whatever Valentino has to say, he can do so to my face. But I plan to return here to dress for tonight. If I do not, then you will know I am dead.”

  “You must not—” cried Sancia, but Alfonso motioned her aside. She stepped away reluctantly. As he moved over the threshold, he turned to look at me. I had risen from my chair, our son in my arms. Despite the tumult, Rodrigo had fallen asleep; as I glanced down at him, sudden foreboding made me want to beg Alfonso to stay here with us.

  “I would have a word with you alone,” I said. Handing Rodrigo to Sancia, I went to my husband as Alfonso warned her, “Do not wake the baby with your dramatics.”

  Together, we moved through my antechamber, where my women sat, and into the corridor. His manservant, Albanese, lounged in the gallery, his hand poised on his sword hilt. The sight of him immediately reassured me; with a man like him to defend Alfonso, it was indeed improbable that anyone would dare attack him.

  Alfonso said softly, “You mustn’t let her frighten you. Sancia has always had a vivid imagination. She can spin a conspiracy out of idle rumor.”

  “She’s concerned for your safety,” I said, thinking of how my brother had let slip his role in Juan’s death. “As am I. Promise me, you will not see him alone. He cannot be trusted.”

  “I have no doubt. But your brother is not a fool. He cannot afford to alienate me, not when everyone else might turn against him. Cesare has made too many enemies in too short a time; his conquests in the Romagna have woken others to his threat, as has his behavior since His Holiness’s accident. He dwells on the dagger’s edge. I am in no danger when he might have to beg me for Naples’s support.”

  I searched his eyes. “Still, I’d rather you waited. Perhaps we should request Papa’s leave instead to depart Rome. The terms you negotiated with him allow us that privilege.”

  “You would do that for me? Leave your family, your city?”

  “You know I would. I would go anywhere with you.” I meant it. If he had said the word in that moment, I would have ordered my women to start packing. There was nothing left for me here—nothing save my secret son, whom I now realized I must leave in Vannozza’s care if I wanted to protect Alfonso and Rodrigo. If I dared try to take little Giovanni with me, my father would make sure none of us left. He would never allow us to raise his grandson by Juan in Naples.

  Alfonso brought his lips to mine. “I love you, wife. I will not meet with him alone, so you needn’t worry. I promise to return as soon as I can, so we may go together to the Vatican. Then we shall see about whether it is time for us to leave Rome, yes?”

  As always, the teasing lilt in his voice made my knees weaken. He murmured, “Perhaps we can find a moment alone, too, before dinner, if you can persuade my sister to leave.”

  I arched a brow. “If you desire that, my lord, I suggest you trim your beard. I would rather not go to the Vatican wearing a veil.”

  He threw back his head, guffawing, and strode off with Albanese.

  I returned to my rooms, my unease dissipating—until I stepped into my bedchamber and Sancia whirled to me, having settled Rodrigo in his crib.

  “Would you let him walk into that devil’s lair?” she demanded.

  I marked the anxiety that had drained her complexion. “He promises to be safe. He said he will be back in a few hours to accompany us to dinner.” I stepped to my son’s cradle, reached down to adjust his blanket. “I don’t believe Cesare will harm him,” I added, without looking at her. “As Alfonso pointed out, he needs to know Naples is on his side.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” Her tone was subdued now, and more alarming because of it. “I once thought the same of him: I believed that while he might harm others, he’d never touch his own family.” I heard her skirts rustle as she stepped to me. “But he does not care; he is not like us.” Her voice caught, bringing my eyes up to hers. “When he promised me marriage, when he said he loved me, only to toss me aside like a candle-shop whore, I realized I would never know him, because no one can. He is a cipher; he may look and sound like us, but he can be whatever we want him to be, because he lacks all feeling. His power lies in his ability to deceive. Tell me you still trust him. Tell me you know he has not lied to you, as well.”

  Her words plunged me back to the fe
ast before Lent, when I looked into Cesare’s eyes and saw the darkness there, the insatiable need for dominion. He had an endless emptiness inside him that not even Juan’s murder had sated. But what more could he possibly want that he had not already achieved? He was Papa’s most trusted intimate, just as he’d always longed to be; was hailed as a conqueror, with the Romagna trembling in his wake. It seemed impossible that he would ever consider anything as heinous as depriving me of my husband or my son of his father.

  “Yes,” I finally said. “He has deceived me. But I’ve also known him all my life, and I must believe that I, at least, still mean something to him.” I turned back to my son. “He knows that if he ever harms Alfonso, it would be the end of me,” I whispered. “And the last thing that Cesare desires is my death.”

  She went silent, gnawing at her lip. I reached out, pressing her hand. “Now, I must rest a while before tonight. You should, too. We shall see each other later in the Vatican.”

  She lowered her eyes. I almost did not hear her murmur, “Are you so certain?”

  I paused. In that instant, it occurred to me how much I had changed. Times past, I would have leapt to Cesare’s defense, challenged anyone who dared question his devotion to me.

  “I’m not certain of anything anymore, save Alfonso’s love,” I admitted quietly. “But should the need arise, I will speak to Papa. I will ask him to find a way to…” I paused, seeing her mouth tighten.

  “There is no other way,” she said. “If Alfonso is to remain alive, he must leave Rome.”

  I felt my shoulders sag. I could not deny the wisdom of her advice. Yet even as I decided that I must indeed act, I thought again of my other son, whom I must leave behind. If I went to Naples, what would become of him, an innocent, caught up in my family’s machinations?

  I sighed. “Very well. If it will ease your mind, I’ll talk to Papa tonight.”

  She kissed my cheek, grasping my face between her hands. “I am so sorry to have caused you such upset. You are not like them; you may be a Borgia, but you have true goodness in your heart. It is why Alfonso loves you so. But his time is running out. You must act before it is too late. Promise me that you will, no matter what Alfonso says.”