Jofre embraced his father, then went to stand with the cardinals, while I sat on the velvet pillow, keenly aware that, on the opposite side of the throne, rested another matching cushion.
My ladies-in-waiting filed through, each paying their respects to the Pope as I had. When all formalities were done, Lucrezia ascended the steps to the throne and took her place upon the red cushion opposite mine.
I did my best to catch her gaze, and was rewarded again with the most subtle and fleeting look of sheer loathing. A daughter’s jealousy, I decided then; only later would I learn the true depth and cause of it.
‘God is truly good to me,’ Alexander exclaimed heartily, lifting his arms to gesture at me and Lucrezia, flanking him, ‘to surround me with such beautiful women!’
The gathered company laughed. Smiling with feigned shyness at the compliment, I looked to my husband to ensure that he was pleased with my performance.
He was. But beside him stood another who was equally pleased—if not more. One of the cardinals, a man my own age, lean and bearded, dark-eyed, with hair blue-black as my own, met my gaze boldly. I felt my cheeks flush hot; I looked away, my smile grown tremulous.
But I could not help stealing another glance at the handsome young cardinal—only to see him still regarding me with unapologetic interest. How dare he? I told myself, trying to summon a sense of outrage, of disgust. Here in front of my husband and His Holiness, and he a priest, a cardinal…
Earlier, when I was fifteen, I had thought myself in love with Onorato Caetani. But that affection had been nurtured by Onorato’s kindness to me, and his skill at lovemaking.
The sensation that seized me that morning—the twentieth of May—as I sat on my velvet cushion beside the Pope and stared down at the man standing beside my husband, was swift, irrevocable, and violent, like a dagger plunged into the heart. I trembled. I did not want it; I did not seek it; yet there it was, and I was at the mercy of it. And I knew nothing of the man who had just stolen my soul.
I had come into Pope Alexander’s household wishing to make a favourable impression, to be a good wife to his son, Jofre, and now I was utterly lost.
XI
After our official greeting, Jofre and I, along with our attendants and belongings, were led into the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico, next to the Vatican. It was a graceful structure with large arched windows to let in the Roman sun, and had been built for the purely carnal purpose of housing Pope Alexander’s feminine entourage. The main floor contained a loggia which overlooked the vast gardens; Alexander had spared no expense for his women. Lucrezia lived here, as did Alexander’s young mistress, Giulia Orsini, and his middle-aged niece, Adriana, procurer of his lovers. Other beauties who caught His Holiness’ eye were housed here from time to time, and it gave my heart no ease to be led into this building, knowing its reputation—even though Jofre accompanied me.
I was even less encouraged to discover my husband’s bedchamber was located in a different wing of the palace from mine, which was close to both Lucrezia and Giulia’s suites. Under normal circumstances, a wife would not find it so troubling to be housed near others of her sex—except for the fact that Alexander seemed to have a peculiar penchant for married women. Even the extravagantly lovely Giulia Farnese did not arouse his passion sufficiently for him to bring her to the Vatican—until he married her off to his niece Adriana’s son, the unfortunate, redundantly-named Orsino Orsini. His Holiness took special pleasure in violating the sanctity of other men’s marriages.
Thus, when Jofre and I turned away from each other to go to our separate suites, I stopped, turned back, and put a hand to his still-smooth, boyish cheek. He faced me, smiling brightly, still flushed with the exhilaration of his grand return to his native city. He was fifteen years of age, and finally my height, with his hair still long and curling; as I held my hand to his warm cheek, I swore I would never let his own father make him a cuckold.
At the same time, I prayed I would never again set eyes on the striking young cardinal whose glance had aroused such a tide of passion in me.
It was a prayer like all the others: one that God would not answer.
We rested for a time after our journey. I tried but could not sleep, though the bed, with its pillows of brocade and velvet, its fine linens and fur throws was sumptuous, finer than any I had lain on in the Castel Nuovo. The Borgias were not timid about showing their wealth. As my ladies were unpacking and placing my belongings about the room, I spied a small, worn leather book in Donna Esmeralda’s hand. Before she could put it down, I snatched it from her, settled upon a cushion, and began to read.
It was Petrarch’s Canzionere, his love poetry dedicated to the mysterious Laura; the hand-sized tome had been a gift from Onorato. I had always been of two minds about Petrarch: on one hand, I found it achingly amusing that he should make such proclamations of maudlin sentiment, describing love as an arrow that had pierced him through the heart, yet blessing the day that such emotional injury had occurred. He always spoke of pain, burning, and chills. At times, I would read his poetry aloud to my ladies, in exaggerated tones and with such great sarcasm that eventually, I could read no more, and all of us would be overcome by laughter. ‘Poor Petrarch!’ I would sigh. ‘I think he suffers not so much from love as the ague.’
Some, however, would not laugh quite as loudly, and said timidly, ‘There is such a thing. One day, Madonna Sancha, it might happen to you.’
How I mocked them! Yet privately, I wondered whether they were right, and yearned secretly to experience such magic; was Petrarch serious when he spoke of being riveted by a single gaze from his Laura, and from that moment forever bound? Eyes it was with Petrarch, always the eyes.
Yet at midday on the twentieth of May, I sat and began reading with my customary mocking tone to my ladies as they bustled about the room. When I came to the line:
I fear, yet hope; I burn, and am ice.
My voice failed. Abruptly overwhelmed by emotion, I turned my face away; I closed the little book and set it down beside me on the cushion. The words described precisely what I had felt when I had locked gazes with the handsome cardinal; once again I experienced a helpless rush of feeling. Memory summoned the image of my mother’s face, the sound of her voice, for once defiant: You speak as though I had a choice. At last, I understood what she meant.
The women slowed their movements, each in turn looking away from their work towards me; their smiles changed into expressions of concern.
‘She is homesick,’ Esmeralda said knowingly. ‘Donna Sancha, don’t be sad. Jofre is with you, and all of us, too; your heart will soon be here, as well.’
How could I tell her that my heart already was here—but not at all in the way that I wished?
Angry at permitting myself to be so easily smitten by a stranger, I rose, and stalked out onto the balcony, where I stared fiercely out at the gardens.
In the late afternoon, Jofre and I attended a feast thrown by His Holiness in our honour. The affair took place in the papal apartments. Flanked by guards and my ladies-in-waiting, we strolled together like young lovers, arm in arm, from the palazzo; the spring weather was beautiful, and the sun, now lower in the sky, cast a golden glow upon the great piazza and the shining white marble buildings that encircled it. Jofre smiled at me with pride. I clung to him—out of affection, the dear lad thought, and returned my tight grasp with a squeeze and a gaze—but it was out of trepidation. Only part of my concern was how I should handle any amorous advances from the Pope; my greatest worry was my attraction to the mysterious cardinal.
We made our way to the Borgia apartments. From the entry, I could look behind me and see, beyond the imposing Castel Sant’Angelo, greenery—carefully tended gardens and vineyards—stretching unbroken to distant mountains, and rows of orange trees dotted with evergreens. Flowers scented the cooling air.
We were announced, and entered, followed by our attendants.
The apartments were not vast, but the adornments were splend
id; the ceilings were gold, the walls freshly painted with the enamel and gilt frescoes of Pinturicchio, with scenes both pagan and Christian. Beneath the frescoes hung tapestries of silk, and the floors were covered with carpets from the Orient. Everywhere were places to sit: plump cushions of velvet and brocade, stools and chairs.
The Pope, his broad shoulders covered with a robe of pure white, stood smiling at the entry to the dining chamber. Unlike Jofre, he was a large man, and filled the doorway, his arms spread wide in greeting; his broad shoulders, neck and chest made me think of a powerful bull. ‘My children!’ he cried, smiling, without a trace of pomp. ‘Jofre, Sancha, come!’
He embraced first his son, then me, kissing me on the lips with troubling enthusiasm. ‘Jofre, take your seat for supper. As for you, Your Highness,’ he said to me, ‘let me give you a tour of our apartments.’
I dared not protest; Alexander encircled my waist with an arm, then led me into a separate room where we were alone.
‘This is the Sala dei Santi,’ he announced, ‘where our Lucrezia was married.’ He did not bother to mention the groom.
I stared at my surroundings and did my best to suppress a gasp; I felt as overwhelmed as a simple commoner, for the first time glimpsing the interior of a palace.
The Castel Nuovo, which until that time had represented my idea of royal luxury, was furnished after the Spanish style, with whitewashed walls, arched windows and ceilings decorated with mouldings of dark wood. Adornments consisted of carpets, dull paintings, statuary. I had thought the furnishings ornate.
But as I entered the Hall of the Saints, my eyes were as dazzled as if I had stared directly into the sun. Never had I seen such intense colour, such profusion of decoration. The vaulted ceiling was covered with countless paintings, each separated by gilded mouldings, some contained within lunettes; the background colour was the deepest blue I had ever seen, from pure crushed lapis lazuli, against which were rich reds, yellows, greens, and more pure gold. Each wall bore a different fresco, representing a different saint: I noted Saint Susanna, haloed in a draping blue gown, accosted in front of a fountain by two lecherous old men; in the foreground were rabbits, symbols of lust.
‘We paid Pinturicchio a pretty sum for the work. Beautiful, is it not?’ my host asked quietly; then, with a leer, added, ‘Though not so beautiful as you, my darling.’
I pulled away from him, and walked across flecked pastel marble toward a rendering of Catherine, disputing with pagan philosophers before the Emperor Maximilian; in the background, the Arch of Constantine was visible. The young saint, dressed like a Roman noblewoman in red and black, her golden hair flowing down to her waist, was unmistakably familiar.
‘Why, it is Lucrezia,’ I remarked.
The Pope chuckled, pleased. ‘It is indeed.’ There was naught of piety to him, only an earthy love of life. Appropriate, that he had taken the papal name of Alexander—not the name of a Christian, but of the Macedonian conqueror.
I gazed up at the ceiling. There were other tableaux—the martyred Saint Sebastian, Saint Anthony visiting the hermit, Paul—but the dominant painting was that of a pagan man and woman gesturing at a great bull. I noticed then that smaller pictures of the bull were repeated everywhere, interspersed with the symbol of the papacy, the tiara atop the crossed Keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.
‘The Apis bull,’ Alexander explained. ‘In ancient Egypt, it was worshipped as an incarnation of the god Osiris. The bull appears on our family crest.’ Before I could react, he once again moved close to me and wrapped an arm about my waist. ‘It is a symbol of masculine strength and virility, you know.’ Abruptly, he pressed a hand to my breast and attempted to kiss me; I slipped from his grasp and once again, walked quickly away. I understood why the pious Savonarola had called Alexander the Antichrist…for in the Pope’s apartments, pagan symbolism took precedence over Christian.
The Pope let me go with a little laugh. ‘You are a coy one, my dear. No matter; I enjoy the chase.’
‘Your Holiness, please,’ I said candidly. ‘I wish only to be a faithful wife to your son. I do not desire to be a favourite; and you have your choice of so many women…’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but of none so lovely.’
‘I am flattered,’ I countered. ‘But please, let me remain simply your loyal daughter-in-law.’
He smiled smugly and nodded, but did not appear to change his plans for me. He gestured broadly. ‘As you wish. Let us continue with the tour.’
We walked through different chambers, each as glorious as the first, each with a different theme: the Room of the Creed, the Room of the Faith, with a large mural showing the Adoration of the Magi, the Hall of the Sibyls, with paintings of Old Testament prophets announcing God’s wrath, accompanied by stern-faced sibyls, pagan seeresses. I had never seen such a display of magnificence and wealth; I was in fact glad that I had visited the other chambers before we went to dine, so that I could avoid gaping at my surroundings like an awestruck peasant.
His Holiness made no further attempt to seduce me, and we at last joined the others for dinner in the Room of the Liberal Arts. Beneath a painting of The Arithmetic—a blond woman draped in green velvet, holding a golden tome—the Pope gestured to me. ‘You will sit beside me.’
As he led me to the long dining table, covered with sconces and a great feast—roast fowl, venison, and lamb, wine and grapes, cheeses and breads—I passed by several cardinals, all of them Borgias, all of them clad in the traditional scarlet robes. I scanned their faces and failed to find my handsome man among them.
At the head of the table was the Pope’s chair, taller and more ornate than the others; to his right sat Lucrezia. I curtsied; she gave me a prim little nod, her fine, small lips pressed tightly together, her eyes narrowed and managing, cleverly, to convey only to me the intensity of her contempt. Jofre noticed none of this subtlety, but kissed his sister and sat beside her.
My empty chair waited directly to the Pope’s left; once again, I had been cast as Lucrezia’s direct opposition. I moved to take it—and was stopped at once by the Pope’s hand, firm yet affectionate, upon my shoulder.
‘But wait! Our darling Donna Sancha has not yet met her new brother!’
My gaze followed the Pope’s gesture to the chair beside mine. The young man sitting in it had already risen: a man my age. A strikingly handsome man, with a fine, straight nose and a strong chin, covered by a full beard.
‘Cesare! Cesare, kiss your new sister, Sancha!’
He had his mother’s features, and hair dark as jet, so I had not recognized him as a Borgia. Unlike the other cardinals, he had changed into the black frock of a priest—one of plain but elegant design. The gaze we exchanged was no less powerful than it had been earlier that morning, when I had looked down at him from my seat beside the papal throne.
I had known that Jofre had an older brother, Cesare, the Cardinal of Valencia, called by some Valentino. Yet I had not made the connection that morning at the papal audience, when Jofre had gone to stand beside him.
We turned to each other and performed a courteous but familial embrace, each clasping the other’s arms above the elbows. I turned my cheek upwards towards him, and was startled when he bent down to plant a firm, single kiss upon my brow. His beard was full, thick, a man’s, and I trembled as it brushed against my skin.
‘You must hear my confession, Holiness,’ he said, without taking his gaze from me. ‘I envy my brother; he has captured a truly beautiful woman.’ Everyone laughed politely.
‘You are too kind,’ I murmured.
Alexander took his seat—which allowed everyone to resume theirs—and smiling, gestured at Cesare. ‘Is he not witty?’ he said, with honest love and pride. ‘I am blessed with the most beautiful and intelligent children in all Christendom; I thank God each one of you is now here with me, and safe.’
I had been repelled by the Pope’s inability to control his lust—but now I noticed how his sons and his daughter bloomed beneath his heartfelt
praise. Obviously, Alexander was a man of generous emotion, despite his flaws, and I wondered wistfully what it must be like to have a father so affectionate and kind.
I said and ate little during dinner, though the others laughed and spoke freely; I spent the time listening to Cesare. I remember little that he said, but his voice, his manner, were like velvet.
The feast was limited to family—an extended one, with many names to be committed to memory. I already knew Cardinal Borgia of Monreale, who had witnessed the consummation of my marriage to Jofre.
Long after the moon had risen, the Pope set his massive hands upon the table, and pushed himself up—which prompted everyone else at the table to stand.
‘On to the reception,’ he announced, his voice thick with wine.
Out we went, into the largest room in the apartments, where a small crowd waited. At the sight of us, musicians began to play their lutes and reeds. Though I had not been introduced, I recognized at once she whom Rome called La Bella—the infamous Giulia, with features as fine and fair as an ancient marble statue, and light brown hair braided, coiled, and covered by a net of gold, save for the fine, serpentine tendrils that framed her face. She wore a pale rose silk gown, with folds so numerous and of material so sheer that they rippled with her every movement. Her eyes were large and heavy-lidded, filled with an odd shyness and timidity for one who held the heart of such a powerful man. I sensed no malice in her, no pretence. His Holiness’ favour had apparently been bestowed upon her without any effort or manipulation on her part; she gave the impression of a child overwhelmed by a too-magnificent toy.
With her was her husband, Orsino Orsini—he with a distracting monocular gaze, for he had lost an eye some years ago. Orsino was short, stocky of build, morose of expression and resigned in manner. He and his wife were closely watched by his mother, the Pope’s niece, Adriana Mila, a stout matron with a shrewd, assessing glance and constant furrows of worry upon her brow. Adriana was a skilled tactician; she had earned a great deal of the Pope’s favour not only by procuring Giulia for him, but also by raising Lucrezia in the Pope’s household. Surely, no one brought up in this woman’s care could learn the art of trust.
The Borgia Bride Page 15