At once, he pulled his hand back as if scalded, and jumped to his feet. ‘I am a dog!’ he proclaimed. ‘The son of a whore, the greatest scoundrel among men! You have relied on me for protection from my father’s lewd behaviour—and now I am no better than he!’
‘There is a difference,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice from shaking.
He whirled back toward me, distraught. ‘How so? You are my brother’s wife!’
‘I am your brother’s wife,’ I whispered.
‘Then how is my behaviour different from my father’s?’
‘I am not in love with your father.’ I flushed, startled by my own words, by their brazenness; I seemed to have no control over myself or my actions. I was, as my mother had been, quite helpless.
Yet I did not regret my words. When I saw longing and joy rise together in his eyes, I proffered my hand. He took it, and sat beside me.
‘I dared not hope—’ he stammered, then began again, ‘Since first I saw you, Sancha—’
He fell silent. Which of us initiated the kiss, I cannot say. He was holding himself back; he pressed me against him, kissing me repeatedly, at times gently nipping my lips with his teeth. I caught hold of his hand and laid it upon one of my breasts.
‘Not here,’ he breathed, though he did not remove his hand. ‘Not now. There is too great a risk of being seen.’
‘Tonight, then,’ I said, trembling at my own audacity. ‘You know the safest hour and place.’
‘Here. Two hours past midnight.’
Thus our complicity was effected. Those words sounded sweet as music to me then; I had entirely forgotten the prediction of the Strega, years ago, that my heart could destroy all I loved. Even if I had remembered her prophecy at that sunny moment in the garden with Cesare, I would not have understood it, would not have had the prescience to see how our passion for each other could, over the years, so horribly, inexorably, unwind.
When at last Jofre rose and dressed, the time came for him to escort me to Saint Peter’s for Whitsunday Mass. This he did, squinting painfully at the bright Roman light, as the two of us processed with our attendants to the venerable cathedral next to the Vatican.
Fortunately, an excess of drink and strange women had left Jofre dulled and silent; while he cast a single curious glance at the magnificence of my dress, he did not press me as to the cause of my sudden shift in sartorial tactic. Nor did he seem to notice my new ebullience.
I could not repress my smiles. I felt overwhelmed each time I recalled Cesare’s kiss. I no longer felt concern over what either His Holiness or Lucrezia thought of me. I cared not whether the Pope remembered my refusing him or not, or whether he intended revenge: so long as I lived long enough to meet Cesare in the garden, my joy was complete. All my thoughts, my emotions, were focused blithely on that one moment to come, when my love and I would be alone.
We entered the cathedral. Saint Peter’s had been constructed a dozen centuries before, and its interior reflected its age. I had expected grandeur and glory, but the stone walls within were cracked and crumbling, the floor so worn and uneven I had to take care lest I stumble. Neither the hundreds of candles which had been lit, nor the gilded purple vestments on the altar, could ease the gloom; the wafting incense intensified the sense of closeness, the lack of fresh air. It was like walking into an immense crypt. This was appropriate, I suppose, since Saint Peter was reportedly buried beneath the altar.
Yet none of it could dampen my cheer. I separated from my husband, and went to take my place with the women of the Borgia household. Lucrezia had not arrived, but the delicate, ethereal Giulia was already there, beside the keen-eyed Adriana and their ladies-in-waiting. We women stood in the front centre of the church, facing the altar while off to one side, a great throne had been erected for His Holiness, and beside it seats for the high-ranking cardinals and Borgia men. Many cardinals had already taken their places, but I found myself searching anxiously for only one: Cesare.
He had yet to come. Some time passed before we heard the sound of fanfare; at last, His Holiness appeared, clad in .white satin robes and matching cap, and his long gold mantle. He nodded to me with a beneficent smile; if he held any rancour toward me, he failed to show it—and as for myself, I bowed most respectfully. Behind him came Cesare, who took the seat flanking the throne; Jofre sat beside him, and the rest of the seats were quickly filled with cardinals.
Behind Cesare came Lucrezia, with a dozen attendants. She was dressed in a blue-grey silk gown that made the best of her eyes. So expansive was my mood, so glad my heart, that I smiled brightly in welcome as she came to stand beside me, and embraced her with such enthusiasm that she was taken aback.
It being Pentecost, a visiting Spanish prelate had been invited to give the sermon. He was desperate to impress his distinguished audience with his erudition, for he droned on for an intolerable time. I had never realized that the fire of God, which caused supernatural wisdom to flow from the tongues of men, could be a dry and utterly boring topic.
He spoke for more than an hour—an unforgivable length, during which time His Holiness suffered two coughing fits and numerous cardinals fidgeted openly in their seats. One old Borgia dropped his head back, and, mouth agape, began to snore quite loudly.
I could not help myself. I began to giggle. I was able to suppress the sound sufficiently so that I did not catch the Pope’s attention, but my entire body shook with the effort. My encounter with Cesare had left me in a strange and childlike mood; normally, I would never have permitted myself to behave with such indignity.
Yet my giggles were so utterly helpless that Lucrezia, that cautious creature, became infected herself. I gasped in a breath, met her gaze…and the two of us had to grasp each other’s arms for support, lest we collapse upon the worn stone.
At that instant, a wicked thought seized me. Here we poor women were forced to stand upon unforgiving rock, our feet tiring during the endless sermon, while the men had the comfort of their chairs. But to my left was a flight of narrow stairs leading up to the wooden stalls built for the canons who sang the gospel. On this particular Sunday, the benches were empty.
I gave Lucrezia’s sleeve a gentle tug, and gestured with my eyes at the stalls above and behind us. Her own eyes widened—at first with mild horror at the thought of impropriety. Reverence required us to keep our places during the sermon, and remain utterly still; such was especially important for a relative of the Pope. But as she considered the misdeed, horror transformed to evil gaiety.
I moved past the other ladies, and, unable to mask my mirth, scurried up the stairs like a girl, then dropped down onto the bench with an utter lack of decorum.
Lucrezia followed—though she moved up the stairs with exaggerated noise and difficulty, drawing more attention to herself and increasing the outrageousness of the act. She sat, emitting such a large, gusting sigh that the prelate giving the sermon paused and frowned, scandalized at the disruption. My ladies and hers were obliged to follow us up, a production which caused no small amount of noise for the prelate, who lost his train of thought and repeated the same sentence three times before regaining his composure.
I glanced over at the Pope; he was grinning openly, delighted at the playfulness of his women. I glanced at Cesare; he did not smile, but his dark eyes shone with humour.
Without looking at her, I leaned sideways towards Lucrezia and whispered, ‘Please believe me: I have no designs on your father. I wish to be nothing more than your brother’s wife.’
She pretended not to hear. Yet after a few moments had passed, I glanced over at her to find her gazing back at me, merry with approval. I had won another friend in the Vatican.
XIV
That night, I sent my closest ladies away from my bedchamber, saying I wished to sleep alone. They were used to my whims and did not question me, resigning themselves to sleeping in a nearby room. Before they left, I insisted my youngest maid, Felicia, set out a black silk gown and veil for me, saying that I missed Nap
les greatly and wished to wear nothing but mourning for the rest of the week.
I knew I should have consulted Donna Esmeralda—who had no doubt already found sources and gleaned as much information as possible about the members of the Borgia household. But so strong was my infatuation that I asked no questions; if Cesare was a rake, as lascivious and fickle as his father, I did not want to know. Even had I been told, I would have rejected such news.
I scarcely had time to blow out the oil lamp on my table when a swift knock came at the chamber door—one that made my heart sink, for I recognized it as Jofre’s. Without waiting for a reply, he entered; in the yellowish light, I saw the sheepish leer on his face.
‘Sancha, my darling,’ he said. ‘Is there a place in your bed for me tonight?’ He shut the door behind him. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, and his eyes half-lidded; he was drunk, a condition I found him in often since we had come to live with his family.
I paled. ‘I…I am feeling unwell,’ I stammered, and as though I were a virgin, I clutched my chemise round my neck, lest he see too much flesh.
Jofre seemed not to hear the words. Fuelled by wine, he stumbled over to where I sat upon the bed, and laid his hands upon my breasts. ‘I have the most beautiful wife in the world,’ he slurred, ‘and I shall take her now.’
I felt two things: pity for him, that I did not return his feelings, and fear, that the wine would cause him to fall asleep in my bed on the very night I had planned my first act of infidelity.
Had he been any drunker, he would have been incapable of the deed. I lay obediently on the bed and parted my legs for him. He, in turn, pulled down his leggings and hiked my underskirts up to my waist, crawled on top of me, and inserted himself.
What followed would not have inspired even the overwrought Petrarch. Jofre lay atop me, unable to support himself with his arms, his face buried in my breasts. For a moment, he thrust madly, clumsily—then, having worn himself out, stopped and gasped for air.
‘Can you ever love me?’ he asked, his voice pregnant with tears. ‘My Sancha, will you ever come to love me?’
‘You are my prince,’ I told him. I might deceive him with Cesare, but I could not lie to his face. ‘I grow fonder of you with every passing day.’
His head lolled; sleep threatened.
I used a womanly trick explained to me before my wedding: I used the muscles that surrounded Jofre’s organ to squeeze tightly, thus arousing him enough to continue his thrusting, and, at last, yield to pleasure and collapse.
He sighed and rolled over onto his back; I sensed that he was again on the verge of slumber, so I pulled up his leggings, then pushed him upright.
‘You must hurry to your chamber,’ I said, with no other explanation. ‘Here. Let me help you.’
Weary with wine and sexual release, Jofre was too confused to argue. I half-supported him as he staggered back to the door.
As was our custom, I gave him a little kiss. ‘Good night, my sweet.’
I returned to my bed. If all I had learned of God was true, then I was damned, and rightly so; guilt overwhelmed me. I did not want to betray my husband, yet my heart would let me do no else. You are evil, I told myself. Wicked. How can you be so cruel to one who loves you? But even as my legs were sticky with my husband’s seed, I dreamt of his brother, and the encounter to come. The strength of my feeling for Cesare left me no choice. It seemed ironic that such a dazzling, magnificent thing as love had struck too late, after both parties had taken vows prohibiting its celebration.
I cleansed myself with a cloth. At last the time came; I rose, and struggled in the darkness to dress myself.
The other ladies were all sleeping, and undisturbed—but Donna Esmeralda had not been fooled. As I fought to lace my bodice with unskilled fingers, the stout old matron, dressed only in her white linen nightgown, came into my chamber.
She said nothing. Given the lack of light, I could not see her expression, but I could sense her disapproval, imagine her baleful stare.
‘I could not sleep,’ I said haughtily. At Esmeralda’s continued silence, I demanded, ‘At least help me with my bodice.’
Esmeralda obeyed, tugging on the gown not at all gently. ‘This will only lead to more trouble, Madonna.’
I was too impetuous, too giddy with love to tolerate the truth. ‘I told you, I cannot sleep! I will take some fresh air.’
‘It is not seemly for a young woman to go out alone at this hour. Let me go with you, or call one of the guards.’ Her tone was insistent.
‘Lace my bodice, then leave me! I left the party last night alone, and arrived in my chamber safely, did I not? I can protect myself.’
For a time, she did not reply, merely finished her work, then stepped back. At last, she drew a breath; she knew me too well not to speak her mind.
‘That is not quite the case, is it, Madonna? You required a good deal of help last night.’
I was too astounded to answer. How could anyone, besides myself and Cesare, know of His Holiness’ indiscretion? If Donna Esmeralda was already party to the secret, then I had no hope of hiding an affair with Cesare from anyone at the papal court.
I told myself I did not care.
‘I shall not speak of this to you again,’ Esmeralda said finally. ‘I know you are wilful and impervious to reason. But hear, if you can: this will only lead to greater danger than you faced last night, my Sancha. Not less. You are Eve in the Garden—and the serpent himself confronts you.’
‘Leave me,’ I commanded, and drew the veil over my face.
The night air had cooled only slightly after the summer-warm day; I was accustomed to the mists and fog of a coastal clime, but Rome afforded no such cloak. I relied on the darkness and my veil for disguise on this, my first sally into deception.
Overhead, clouds half-hid a waxing moon. In such feeble light, my vision obstructed by a film of dark silk gauze, I moved haltingly, like one near blind. The garden seemed totally unfamiliar, the bright colours of the foliage reduced to shades of grey, the roses and orange trees sudden strangers. I hesitated along the path, fighting panic. Had I taken this turn, or the next? If I became lost, would Cesare think I had played him for a fool, and leave the garden in disgust?
Or had he played me for one?
I chided myself for entertaining such fears; I hated the intensity of my love for Cesare, because it made me weak.
I drew in a steadying breath, made my decision, and took the nearest turn. As I did, I caught sight of the stone bench beneath the shade tree, and something dark moving against the pale stone: the outline of a man.
Cesare. I wanted to cry out like a girl and run to him, but forced myself to walk slowly, regally: he would have wanted no less.
He, too, was dressed in black, all but face and hands blending into the background of night.
He waited, tall and dignified, till I arrived beside him—then both of us dropped all restraint. I cannot say who moved first; perhaps we moved together, but I sensed no passage of time between the moment I stepped up to him and the moment my veil was thrown back and we were locked fast in an embrace, lips against lips, body against body, so intensely, so strongly I felt as though the edges of my flesh were dissolving into his. So great was the heat generated that, without our arms gripping each other, I would have fallen back, senseless.
To my dismay, he tore himself from me. ‘Not here,’ he said, in a voice hoarse and desperate. ‘You are not some kitchen maid to be taken casually upon the dirt. Trust me; I have made arrangements. We will be safe.’
I replaced my veil; he took my hand. His step was certain; he knew his way well. He led me along the back of the palace, to an unguarded entrance leading to an unfamiliar corridor. This led to a heavy wooden door, which opened to another corridor…one long and of recent construction, crudely finished and unappointed. Its existence was clearly to provide private access, and nothing more. Wall torches lit our way.
After a moment, we arrived again at a door, which Cesare ope
ned with a flourish. I frowned in puzzlement. Before us lay a great chapel, ancient and ornate; votive lamps flickered on the altar, and a great papal throne sat to one side, with stalls nearby for cardinals.
Cesare’s lips curved. ‘The Sistine Chapel,’ he said, as he helped me through the doorway. ‘We are in Saint Peter’s.’
My veil brushed softly against my lips as they parted in astonishment. So this was the same passageway His Holiness used to travel swiftly to the Palazzo Santa Maria.
‘Come,’ Cesare said. We moved swiftly through the chapel, through the cathedral, and into the adjoining halls of the Vatican. Never did we encounter a guard; Cesare had taken pains to ensure our privacy.
He led me into the Borgia apartments, which I recognized from the previous night’s gala; it gave me little comfort to think I would be so close to the Pope. Happily, Cesare led me in a different direction, and upstairs; at last we arrived at an unguarded suite, and he flung open the doors with a flourish.
‘I have brought you to my own bed, and dismissed all the servants until morning,’ he said, closing the doors behind us. ‘How long you wish to stay is your own choice, Madonna.’
‘Forever,’ I murmured.
At once, he fell to his knees before me and embraced my skirts, his arms wrapped round my legs, his face tilted upwards. Utterly earnest, he proclaimed, ‘Only say you wish it, Sancha, and I will give up the priesthood. My father wants me Pope, and so I must be a cardinal—but I am not suited by nature for such a calling. His Holiness will do whatever I ask of him; he would annul your marriage to Jofre. Surely you know your husband is not truly his son…’
Jofre not the Pope’s son? The revelation startled some distant part of me, that small, detached and silent part not overwhelmed by Cesare’s proposal and desperate to accept it. ‘Then whose is he?’ I whispered.
‘The very legitimate offspring of my mother Vannozza and her husband.’ Cesare smiled.
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