The Borgia Bride

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  He directed his gaze at me. I saw there, in full hellishness, the hatred that had only glinted in Lucrezia’s eyes. He let go a long hiss. Yet despite his fury, a second emotion played upon his features: Fear.

  He is a bully but also a coward, I thought swiftly, just as Father was. I took advantage of this knowledge and advanced toward him, holding the stiletto threateningly aloft.

  Rodrigo suddenly smiled, the intoxicated diplomat; his tone turned wheedling as he clasped his wounded hand in the other. ‘So. It is true what they say: you are fearless. I had heard that you saved the King of Naples by killing a man.’

  ‘With this very weapon,’ I averred flatly. ‘I slit his throat.’

  ‘All the more reason to love you,’ he proclaimed, with false good humour. ‘Surely, Sancha, you are not so foolish a woman as to turn down such an opportunity…’

  ‘I am, Holiness. Each time you come to me, you will receive the same response.’ I glared at him. ‘You are a father who claims to love his children. How would Jofre feel, to see us like this?’

  Rodrigo bowed his head at my words, and stood in silence a time, swaying slightly. To my astonishment, he burst into tears and knelt. ‘I am an evil man,’ he said, his tone maudlin. ‘Old and drunk and foolish. I am helpless around women; it is the curse of my life. Donna Sancha, you do not understand—your great beauty has made me lose my senses. But now you have won my respect, for you are not only comely, but brave. Forgive me.’ His weeping intensified. ‘Forgive me for dishonouring you, and my poor son so…’

  His remorse, though abrupt, seemed sincere. I lowered the stiletto and took a step towards him. ‘I forgive you, Holiness. I will never speak of this incident. Only let it never happen again.’

  He shook his great head. ‘I swear it will not, Madonna. I swear…’

  I drew closer, thinking to extend a hand, to lift him to his feet.

  He reared upwards suddenly, his head and shoulders delivering a blow that knocked me to the cold tile floor and sent the weapon flying. Where it went, I could not see; tangled in my skirts, I struggled to rise, realizing my vulnerability.

  Yet my heavy skirts and velvet slippers allowed me no purchase. Rodrigo’s bullish figure loomed before me and reached out…

  In the same instant, a second figure appeared, equally tall but leaner, more proportionately built, and caught one of the Pope’s arms.

  ‘Father,’ Cesare said, his manner easy and calm, as if he were rousing the old man from sleep rather than interrupting a rape.

  Disoriented, Rodrigo whirled on his son, still ready to fight. He struck out—but Cesare, with a strength much greater than his father’s, caught Rodrigo’s arm, then laughed, as if it were all a splendid joke. ‘Father! You have had too much wine—you know that if you wished to beat me, you could do so handily when sober. Come, Giulia has been asking for you.’

  ‘Giulia?’ The Pope looked back at me uncertainly. He had been all too sure of himself when accosting me, but suddenly he seemed no more than a confused old man.

  Cesare jerked his head cursorily in my direction. ‘You have no need of this one. But Giulia will grow jealous if you do not go to see her soon.’

  The Pope scowled at me, then turned and began ambling down the corridor. Cesare watched him for a heartbeat—then, certain his father was well on his way, hurried over and knelt by my side.

  ‘Madonna Sancha, are you injured?’ His concern was urgent.

  I shook my head. My shoulder and ribs ached, and my wrists were bruised, but I had not been seriously damaged.

  ‘I will go and make sure His Holiness arrives at the correct destination. I must apologize for him, Madonna; he is drunk.’ He extended both his hands, and helped me to my feet. ‘With your indulgence, I will call upon you shortly, to make a better apology. Now I must tend to him.’

  And he was gone.

  I found the stiletto on the marble floor and replaced it; once more, my brother’s gift had proved its worth. When I arrived at my chambers, the maids met me, wide-eyed and silent; only when I glanced in my mirror did I realize that my breasts had almost fallen out of my bodice, my skirt was torn, and my hair had spilled halfway out of its gold netting onto my shoulders.

  Cesare made good his promise. Within moments after disappearing after his father—not even time enough for my maids to remove the golden net and completely brush out my tousled hair—a discreet knock came at my antechamber door.

  I righted my bodice, dismissed my maids to their rooms and went to the door myself. I was still shaking from the physical exertion of the struggle, a fact I found highly annoying.

  Cesare, sober, yet troubled after a controlled, dignified fashion, stood waiting. I bade him enter, and he stood, refusing an offer to sit.

  ‘Madonna Sancha, are you quite certain you are unhurt?’

  ‘I am certain.’ I did my best to reflect his own dignity back to him. In truth, I cared not so much about the violation his father had just committed against my person as I did about what Cesare thought of me.

  ‘I implore your forgiveness,’ Cesare said, with a hint of passion in his otherwise cautious tone. ‘His Holiness too often tries to forget the enormous concerns of state by immersing himself in wine. He is already fast asleep. I suspect he will have forgotten this entire incident come morning.’

  And you are suggesting that I forget it as well, I wanted to say, but such would be impolitic. I had no choice but to do so; the Pope had full power over my destiny. He could banish me, if he wished, to the prison in the Castle Sant’Angelo, on a mythical charge of treason; he could even have me murdered by one of his henchmen. I was grateful for Cesare’s concern, for it meant I had more than the ineffectual Jofre as an ally in the Borgia household.

  Instead I replied, ‘There is physical evidence of the event. I pierced him…with a stiletto. His hand is injured.’

  ‘It must not be a serious wound,’ Cesare replied. ‘I failed to notice it, and he did not complain of it.’

  ‘It is not. But it left a mark, nonetheless.’

  Cesare considered this a time; his expression reminded me of the surface of a lake when the water is very, very still. At last he offered, ‘Then if my father does not recall the event, you and I shall both agree here and now that the wound was the result of an encounter with one of the courtesans. I shall tell him I witnessed this myself, and that the woman was dealt with harshly.’

  I nodded.

  Cesare returned the gesture in acknowledgment of our complicity, then bowed. ‘I take my leave, Madonna.’

  He turned to go—then stopped, and regarded me over his shoulder, again with that intense, dark-eyed stare that left me uncomfortable and thrilled at the same time. ‘You are the only woman I know of who has refused him, Madonna. That requires great courage and conviction.’

  I lowered my gaze. ‘I am married to his son.’ I was not simply replying to Cesare; I was reminding myself of the fact as well.

  He fell silent a time. And then: ‘A pity, Madonna, that you met the youngest before the eldest.’ He ventured another glance at me; this time, I returned it boldly.

  ‘A pity,’ I said.

  He smiled very faintly, then left.

  XIII

  Donna Esmeralda and my other ladies waited an appropriate half-an-hour before returning from the festivities to my chamber, by which time the maids had undressed me to my shift and untangled the golden net from my hair. They undid the elaborate coils and had finished brushing them out by the time Esmeralda entered, but I think I was still shaking then—and my expression must have been haunted. Certainly, the maids knew from my disarray and torn gown that something alarming had happened, but they were also wise enough to see that I was of a mood, so they kept silent.

  Likewise, I knew from the way old Esmeralda’s eyes narrowed when she saw me that she knew, as well—but she, too, asked no questions. There was no point in confiding in her; it would only serve to underscore her disapproval of the Pope, and belief in Savonarola—dangerous
opinions to hold in the Vatican. Besides, she would learn what happened soon enough, given her talent for gathering information.

  So long as my home was the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, I was no longer Sancha of Aragon, princess and natural daughter of the King of Naples. My domain was no longer my own to rule, my words no longer things to be carelessly tossed about without fear of reprisal, my actions no longer unguarded and free. I was Donna Sancha, wife of the youngest, least gifted bastard of the Pope, and I lived and breathed at His Holiness’ pleasure.

  I said nothing to my women, but let myself be put into my sumptuous new bed, my head cradled by soft feather pillows.

  It was a troubled head. If the Pope remembered our encounter, his rage might well be fathomless. Cesare had said no woman had ever denied him.

  At the same time I reprimanded myself, You need not fear for your life. Perhaps Rodrigo is capable of political assassination for gain; but I am his daughter-in-law, and he knows Jofre loves me. Besides, he would never harm a woman.

  My worries over the Pope’s reaction were equally balanced by the memory, revisited a thousand times, of Cesare’s last words to me; of the small curve of a smile that played on his lips.

  A pity, Madonna, that you met the youngest before the eldest.

  Ah, the thrill the image brought me, the joy, which made me quake; for I realized I was not alone in my feeling. He was as bewitched as I.

  I rose early the following morning, Whitsunday.

  Though I had taken care the day before to dress discreetly, even matronly, in deference to Lucrezia, that morning I was filled with a strange wildness. I ordered my ladies to fetch one of my finest gowns, a delectable creation of brilliant green satin, with a forest green velvet stomacher corseted with golden laces. The tied-on sleeves were of matching velvet—great wings with narrow under-sleeves of lighter green satin.

  I watched Donna Esmeralda’s lips thin with suspicion as she watched all of this, but she said nothing. When she took my brush and began to plait my hair, preparing to put it up in a sedate coil, as she had done every morning since my wedding, I waved her away.

  ‘Just brush it out. I shall wear it down.’

  She tucked her chin and drew back her head in disapproval. ‘Donna Sancha, you are a married woman.’

  ‘So is Lucrezia. She wears her hair down.’

  She glared; without comment, she began brushing my hair, not at all gently. She was closer to me than my own mother, so I did not complain, or permit myself to yelp when she found a stubborn snarl and tugged without pity.

  Once the brushing was accomplished, I demanded gems. Around my neck I wore one of the wedding gifts Jofre had brought me: an emerald the size of my thumb, heavy against my throat; and around my forehead was tied a headpiece of gold, with a smaller emerald that came to rest just beneath my hairline. The combined effect made my eyes glow greener than the jewels.

  I might well have been on my way to a ball, not Mass.

  Thus adorned, I went to my husband’s chamber—and in the corridor just outside his door, discovered one of the previous evening’s courtesans leaving his room. She had obviously spent the night there, then been shooed away by a servant, for her exit was less than ceremonious: her hair was down, her slippers in one hand, her gown so rapidly donned that her chemise had not been pulled through the openings in her sleeves and properly puffed. Her small breasts were on the verge of slipping from her loosely-laced bodice.

  She was crouching, stealing away in such exaggerated fashion I found the effect comical. Her hair, falling in random tendrils, was a dubious shade of red, her eyes cerulean; they glanced up at me in alarm as I halted, blocking her path. Playing the role of injured spouse, I drew myself up quite straight, and stared down at her with a withering gaze worthy of Lucrezia.

  ‘Madonna!’ she whispered, beside herself; wither she did, then bowed very low. In such position she backed away from me, then turned and ran down the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the marble floor.

  After a discreet moment’s wait, I entered the antechamber and was told by Jofre’s manservant that his master was still sleeping very soundly due to the effects of much wine.

  I breakfasted alone in my suite, then became quite bored. The palace was very quiet; no doubt, Jofre was not the only one still clinging to his bed.

  Mass was still hours away. It would be an occasion with more than the usual amount of fanfare, given the ecclesiastical significance of the date: Whitsunday, marking Pentecost, that rare event which occurred fifteen hundred years before, when the fire of God had so filled the apostles that they preached in tongues they had never learned.

  Such a miracle seemed quite distant and meaningless to me that morning: I was alternately elated and terrified by what had happened my first day among the Borgias. Restless, I went downstairs through the marble-floored loggia and out into the beautiful courtyard garden that I had viewed the day before from my balcony. The day was sunny and warm, the garden delightfully fragrant: miniature orange trees in terracotta pots lined one walkway; the perfectly trimmed globes of greenery were redolent with white blossoms. On the other side were well-tended rose bushes, pushing forth delicate buds.

  I walked alone, until I was out of sight of my balcony, out of sight of anyone—or so I thought—and at last, because of the increasing warmth, sat upon a carved bench placed beneath the shade of an olive tree, to fan myself.

  ‘Madonna,’ a man whispered, and I started, filled with the sudden conviction that Rodrigo had sent an assassin to accomplish his revenge on me. I gasped and put a hand to my heart.

  Beside me stood a man dressed entirely in black—in what might have been a priest’s frock, save the collar and cuffs were fine velvet, and the body of the garment silk.

  ‘Forgive me; I have startled you,’ Cesare said. The austerity of his dress served to underscore the severe handsomeness of his features. He scarcely resembled his two siblings at all; his hair was black, straight, cut in a simple style that fell halfway between his chin and shoulders; a dark fringe partially hid a high forehead. His beard and moustache were carefully trimmed, his lips and hands fine, quite unlike his father’s; he had Rodrigo’s dark colouring but his mother Vannozza’s beauty. There was an elegance to him, a sense of presence and dignity that, despite all their jewels and finery, none in his family could match. In Lucrezia and Pope Alexander, I sensed connivance; in Cesare, I sensed breathtaking intelligence.

  ‘It is hardly your fault,’ I replied. ‘I am ill at ease after the events of last night.’

  ‘With good reason, Madonna. I swear that I will do everything in my power to prevent such a dreadful violation of decency from occurring again.’

  I lowered my eyes, like a foolish girl glad that I was wearing one of my finest gowns. ‘I fear His Holiness—’

  ‘His Holiness still sleeps. I assure you, I consider it my duty to repair relations between the two of you. Now that he is older, too much drink makes him forgetful. But whatever he remembers of last night, I will lead him down the path that is to your best advantage.’

  ‘I am in your debt,’ I told him, then realized that courtesy had required him to stand in the bright sun, while I sat comfortably in the cooler shade. ‘Please…’ I motioned for him to sit beside me, then added, ‘I have thus far impressed your family less than favourably.’

  Before I could continue my thought, he countered swiftly, ‘You have duly impressed at least one.’

  I smiled at the compliment, but persisted, ‘Your sister does not care for me. I do not understand it, and would like to remedy it.’

  Cesare looked away for a moment, at distant green hills. ‘She is jealous of anyone who directs my father’s attentions away from her.’ He turned to face me, his expression earnest. ‘Understand, Donna Sancha, that her own husband, Giovanni, does not wish to reside with her. This is a source of great embarrassment, which my father has tried repeatedly to remedy by begging Giovanni to return to Rome. Besides, my father has always doted o
n her, and she on him; but when she sees you are no real rival for his affections, she will come to trust you.’ He paused. ‘She was the same way with Donna Giulia; it took her a long time to realize a father’s love for another woman and that for his daughter are not one and the same. I do not mean to imply, of course, that you would ever become involved in such a way with His Holiness…’

  ‘No,’ I stated firmly. ‘I would not. I appreciate your insight, Cardinal.’

  ‘Please.’ He flashed a smile; the teeth beneath his moustache were small and even. ‘Cesare. I am a cardinal not by calling, but at my father’s insistence.’

  ‘Cesare,’ I repeated.

  ‘Lucrezia can be very affectionate,’ he said fondly, ‘and quite passionate in her loyalties. Most of all, she loves to have fun, to play like a child. She has had few opportunities to do so, given the responsibilities of her position. She has a man’s intellect, you know. My father relies on her as an advisor, more so than he does on me.’

  I listened, nodding, straining to keep my focus on his words and not on the movement of his lips, on the high, sculpted angle of his cheekbone, on the glints of red in his beard, caused by the play of dappled light. But sitting beside him, I felt my lap growing warmer, as though the very muscles and bones and organs of my lower-half were melting and spreading outward into a pool, like snow in bright sun.

  He finished his statement; my internal sensations must have been revealed in my expression, for an odd look of vulnerability, of tenderness, came over him. He leaned toward me and rested his palm gently against my cheek.

  ‘You look like a queen this morning,’ he murmured. ‘The world’s most beautiful queen, with the world’s most exquisite eyes. They make the emeralds look common.’

  I thrilled to the words; I leaned closer into his hand, like a cat seeking a caress. What I felt for Cesare was so powerful that I easily forgot my marriage vows.