Deftly, he pushed me down and clutched my wrists so hard the bones felt crushed to powder; I was forced to drop my weapon. I filled my lungs with air, and screamed pure fury into his face, praying that someone might be near the garden, staring out from the loggia—but the only response was the gurgling play of water from the cherub fountain.
Giuseppe crouched at my head and held my hands pinned fast as I kicked and thrashed with my legs; all the while, Juan loomed over me, triumphant, and unlaced his codpiece.
‘So,’ he joked with his henchman, ‘the mare is still unbroken? We shall ride her all the same.’
I did not make the act either easy or pleasant for him; he had to use his full weight to pin me down, and he was smaller in build than Cesare, so the task took a great deal of effort for him. But in the end, he was the stronger; I the weaker, and so he succeeded in violating me. He forced my legs apart, digging his fingers deep into the flesh of my thighs, bruising me. Then he thrust himself inside me with a brutality that made me bite my lip lest I give him the satisfaction of crying out in pain.
As Giuseppe gripped my arms, Juan pounded against me, grunting, swearing, calling me profane names no man would call the lowest whore, while the impact pressed the pebbles beneath me into my skin. The event seemed to last a mortifying eternity. During it, I forced myself to separate myself from the horror of what was happening, to distance myself from a rage that verged on madness: I am not here, I told myself. I am not here, and this is not truly happening…I fought not to shriek, and instead, tried to summon memories from childhood, of myself, safe and happy, playing with my brother, Alfonso.
The indignity Juan inflicted on me excited him overmuch; in reality, it was not long before he let go an explosive cry and reared against me, his eyelids fluttering.
With a deep sigh, he withdrew from me with intentional roughness; his warm fluid spilled out onto my legs. ‘There, bitch. Now you can say you have had a man.’ He pulled one of my hands from Giuseppe’s grip, and stared at my smallest finger, where I wore a small circlet of gold given me by my mother.
‘A keepsake,’ he said, smiling. ‘That it what I need from my new lover, so I shall always remember this moment.’ He stole it from rose, then rose, triumphant, swaggering. ‘Now, Donna Sancha, if you have any iota of sense in that feminine head of yours, you will leave Cesare and come begging to me for more.’
In answer, I spat at him. Unfortunately, Giuseppe still held me pinned, so my spittle never reached its target. Juan laughed as he refastened his leggings, then to his servant said, ‘Take her if you want. It is of no matter to me. One cunt is the same as another.’
And he strutted away, a peacock.
As for the servant: I lolled my head back, the better to see his eyes, and whispered, ‘Touch me, and I swear your life is forfeit.’
To my astonishment, he replied: ‘Forgive me, Madonna. To save my own life, I have aided this act—but I shall harm you no further, and shall pray each day to God for forgiveness—though I do not expect it from you.’
Then he was gone.
I rolled onto my side and at once took hold of my stiletto: throughout the brutal act, I had not allowed myself to lose the knowledge of where it rested in the gravel. Trembling, I replaced it in my dust-covered bodice. Fury, shame, and pain so overwhelmed me I scarce could stand; somehow, I managed not only to rise and collect myself so that my face was not a mask of terror, but to direct my shaking legs to walk.
I returned to my chambers and dismissed all my ladies—all save Donna Esmeralda. I allowed her to bathe me and put salve on the worst bruises, then dress me in a clean nightgown.
Afterwards, I began to shake with a violence so intense I feared it would split my body in two; then came a torrent of gasping, like a storm. But I would not weep because a man had hurt me; I would not weep, though in the end, I told her everything. Through it all, Esmeralda held me fast, as a mother would a child.
Spring–Summer 1497
XVIII
That evening, I sent a cryptic message via Esmeralda that only Cesare would understand: the black lady was ill. I was not of a mood to explain the events of the day to anyone, so I spent the night alone, save for good Esmeralda, with whom I shared the bed and whose quiet, stolid presence proved a great comfort. Out of respect for my misery, Esmeralda spoke only once—softly, but with a ferocity no less chilling: ‘Do not fear, my Sancha. God is witness to the crime against you, and in time, He will take His revenge.’
The following morning, I was not even sure that I should tell my lover of his brother’s crime. I worried Cesare might lose his head and react with violence—even though I dreamt of murdering Juan myself. But the Duke of Gandia was Alexander’s favourite—and I feared, after learning that Cesare’s own father had threatened him, that His Holiness would avenge any harm done Juan.
For two days, I feigned illness—turning Jofre away with the same excuse—and then Cesare sent a message back through Esmeralda, begging to see me at our usual place, if I was well enough.
I responded that I would meet him—for I missed him, but I had already concocted an excuse as to why we should not have sexual relations that night. The bruises left on my back—imprints of each accursed pebble on the path where Juan had taken me—had faded slightly, as had the marks on my thighs and wrists, but were visible enough to draw questions.
So, veiled in black, I went at the appointed hour to the appointed place and found myself, for the first time, alone there. Cesare did not await me, as he always had; Cesare, in fact, never appeared.
My first reaction, being of royal blood and by nature impatient, was one of anger. How dare he insult me so?
My second reaction was one of fear. What if he had learned of Juan’s crime, and had been injured or killed in his efforts to seek justice?
I lingered in the darkness, hoping Cesare would arrive with an explanation that would put my doubts to rest; but he did not come, and I returned to my bedchamber, troubled.
The next day, Cesare was immersed in Vatican business, and failed to appear at the family supper. I sent an even-toned letter asking whether there had been a misunderstanding, but a day passed, then two, and I received no reply.
My confusion grew. Even had Cesare miraculously learned of Juan’s crime against me, that would scarce be cause for his sudden silence. If anything, he would be rushing to comfort me, to vow revenge against Juan.
My opportunity finally came at one of the many parties Lucrezia had planned. The great loggia of the Palazzo Santa Maria was the chosen site, large enough to allow for a good deal of dancing. His Holiness sat on a throne and enjoyed dictating who should dance with whom.
At one point, he demanded that Cesare and I dance together.
Fortunately, the music was loud, and we were not the only dancers on the floor. This gave me the opportunity to address Cesare quite frankly.
Lucrezia had desired a masquerade; I wore a mask of dyed blue feathers, while Cesare wore one of gilded leather. With or without the disguise, his expression would have been equally unreadable.
He took my hand with a distant air, and limited our contact to only what was necessary to perform the dance. Framed by shining leather, his dark eyes were impenetrable.
‘You have ignored my messages,’ I said, as we began our steps. It was difficult to keep the anguish from my tone; I felt doubly wounded, doubly betrayed. ‘Why have you not replied?’
‘I do not understand,’ said he, with a coolness that chilled my blood. ‘Donna Sancha, you ask a question whose answer you already possess.’
‘I know this alone,’ I countered, my voice shaking with hurt. ‘That you will not see me. That you have shamed me by making me wait for you when you had no intention of coming. What is the cause of this sudden cruelty?’
The loathing in Cesare’s manner and tone was unbearable. ‘Ask Juan.’
I froze in mid-step; Cesare had to prompt me to continue. ‘He told you what he did to me?’ I was disbelieving. ‘Then, pray tell
, Cardinal, why are you angry with me?’
He looked on me with unspeakable disgust, and for a time said nothing. Finally, he offered, ‘I do not understand your point, Madonna. You engage in an affair with my brother, and you ask the cause of my anger?’
‘An affair?’ I recoiled as if struck. ‘He violated me against my will!’
Cesare remained unmoved. ‘There is a witness who says otherwise.’
‘And you would take this person’s word over mine?’
‘Madonna, Juan sports your mother’s gold ring on a small chain round his neck—a love token. He wears it privately so that it does not show, but I have seen it. He confessed his love for you and yours for him—without knowing we two were intimate.’
I let go a gasp. For a time, I was speechless—too outraged, too wounded to know how to deal with the revenge Juan had taken on me—a hard revenge, indeed, for a rebuff and single slap in public. With his false words, he had destroyed the one thing that had brought me happiness since coming to Rome.
‘This is a hellish lie!’ I exclaimed. ‘What kind of man—’ I broke off, fighting to gather control of myself, for I had altogether stopped dancing, and had raised my voice to a shout. Others dancing near us stared and murmured; such was my fury that I cared not, even though Alexander was watching us with a frown.
In a lower tone, I hissed, ‘I know what kind of a man. Your brother is a snake, the vilest, lowest sort of creature…He has not only soiled my honour, he has perpetrated the most heinous falsehood to punish me for my striking him in public. He stole that ring from me. I did not go to you that night because I was tormented, grief-stricken…and afraid that you might do something rash. So rash that I feared for your sake. Now I see I was quite mistaken.’
Beneath the mask, his lips twitched slightly, but he answered nothing.
‘Bring forth your “witness”—Giuseppe, is it not? Let him look me in the eye and see if he is capable of repeating the lie—for it was he who held me down. Press him, and the truth will come out.’
‘Giuseppe has been my trusted servant for years,’ Cesare said. ‘He despises Juan. There is nothing that would convince him to help my brother accomplish such an act.’
‘Something did, Cardinal.’ I paused in word only, my body still going through the meaningless machinations of the dance, following the rhythm of music that seemed tuneless. ‘And Juan lies when he pretends to know nothing of our affair. In truth, I slapped him that very first night because he said I might as well bed him—since I had bedded both of his other brothers.’
Cesare hesitated at that—but then injured pride overtook him, and he replied, ‘I will not be cuckolded, Donna. There is no point in arguing further on this matter.’
‘So,’ I countered softly, with a dignity and composure I did not feel, ‘you choose then to put your faith in Juan’s word over mine.’
He answered nothing.
‘It is your brother, Don Cesare, and not I, who has played you for the fool,’ I told him.
We completed our dance without a further word to each other.
That night I did not even attempt to lie in my bed. Love stripped me of all self-respect; as much as I had chided my mother for her unreasoning devotion to my father, I now found myself in the same position. Humbled, I dressed in my black tabard and veil, and moved alone through the secret corridor leading from Santa Maria to Saint Peter’s. The guards knew enough to let me pass; when the single soldier at Cesare’s antechamber door saw me, he discreetly moved down the corridor while I knocked upon the heavy wood.
The hour was late. Cesare answered the door himself, still dressed, and I found relief in the realization that sleep had not come easily to him, either. I was even more relieved to find him alone.
At the sight of me, veiled and speechless, he said nothing, merely scowled at me a time—then motioned curtly for me to enter.
At once I drew back my veil. ‘Cesare,’ I said, ‘I cannot bear being separated from you. I am willing to debase myself in order to win back your trust.’
He stood waiting for further words, his handsome, bearded face tilted at a sceptic’s angle, his arms folded across his chest; but I gave him action. I slipped out of my heavy tabard, then pulled my black chemise over my head; in an instant, I stood before him naked, and held forth my arms.
‘Here are my wrists where Giuseppe held me,’ I said, rotating them slowly to better show the yellowing bruises; then I turned and revealed my back, which Esmeralda said still bore numerous marks from the garden stones. I half-expected to hear Cesare gasp with sympathy, to curse his brother—but from behind me came only silence.
I faced him once again; there was doubt in his expression, and so I humiliated myself to the utmost degree, and parted my legs. ‘Here.’ I gestured at my thighs, at the dark bruises left by Juan’s harsh hands upon the otherwise pale flesh there.
A long silence passed between us; heat rose to my cheeks, and I slowly gathered my clothing and slipped it back on. Yet I could not bring myself to leave him. I waited, desperate, heart pounding, eager for even the slightest sign that I had recaptured his trust.
At last he said, slowly, ‘These could simply be the marks left by great passion.’
I gazed up at him, stricken to speechlessness. I left his chamber quickly, lest he see the depth of my hurt.
I did not return to my bed. Instead, I sought the dark privacy of the garden, and there sat, frozen by pain, until the night began to ease towards dawn.
XIX
Cesare and I were coolly civil on those occasions when we I could not avoid each other. As for Juan, he made sure that rumours of our ‘affair’ spread throughout Rome. Otherwise, he let me be—other than occasionally inflicting a triumphant glance upon me, especially when he saw Cesare and I pass each other in silence. It was apparently enough for Juan that he had degraded me once—he did not need to repeat the offence.
Although Jofre had heard the rumours, he persisted in showing me kindness—which only served to deepen my melancholy. I slept poorly, ate poorly; my husband sent doctors to examine me and give me tonics, but they had no cure for the ailment from which I suffered.
Cesare’s image was always before me; I could not rid myself of constant thoughts of him. Yet what more could I do to win him back? I had humiliated myself for him as I had for no other man; and I could not understand how he doubted my love or loyalty. How could he not believe me, when he had seen the bruises himself? How could he think me so duplicitous?
The answer came to me often, but each time I tried to stifle it: Only a man capable of great treachery would suspect others of the same.
So distraught was I that I altogether gave up seeking the company of others. At every opportunity, I took to my bed. Letters from my mother and Alfonso, unread and unanswered, collected in a pile upon my bedside table.
Lucrezia noticed my sadness—and to my surprise, did her best to relieve it. She invited me to luncheons, with dishes designed to tempt my faltering appetite; she invited me for rides and picnics in the countryside. I was touched by her efforts. When we two were alone, she attempted to be my confidante, to learn the source of my sorrow.
But my silence was steadfast; Cesare had impressed well upon me the connection between survival and holding one’s tongue when it came to the Borgias. So I smiled and accepted Lucrezia’s friendship, but explained nothing.
One day, Lucrezia and a pair of her ladies came to my chambers. ‘Come!’ she announced. ‘We are going to give alms to the poor!’
I had been ensconced in my bed, listless and bored. ‘It is too cold,’ I complained. In fact, the sky was cloudless, brilliant with sun.
‘Bah!’ Lucrezia said. She walked over to my bed, took the book from my hands, and pulled me up. ‘It is glorious outside! Let us find you a proper gown!’
We went to my armoire, and just as if she were Donna Esmeralda preparing me for a ball, she chose one of my finest gowns, a creation of forest green velvet and gossamer sea-green silk; the sleeve
s were laced with gilt ribbon. When we both were properly bedecked—she in sapphire blue—she said:
‘Ah, Sancha! You are far too beautiful to be so sad! Look at you—the loveliest woman in Rome. When the people see you, they will think themselves in the company of a goddess!’
I could only smile at her kindness. It was difficult to believe that this was the same woman who had eyed me with such suspicion and hatred when I first came to Rome—but her concern for me seemed genuine. Perhaps, once her trust was gained, it was whole-hearted; perhaps I had misjudged her, and she secretly yearned for a life that was good and simple.
So we rode into the city, in a fine open carriage, its lacquered door emblazoned with the Borgia crest: a fiery red bull.
We had not gone far when the people spotted us, and began to run toward the carriage, shouting blessings. Lucrezia leaned towards me and, from a velvet bag, poured into my lap the ‘alms’ I was to throw.
I stared down at the glistening heap. ‘Lucrezia—these are gold ducats!’ A single ducat could purchase a peasant a farm, a house…This was unthinkable generosity.
She grinned extravagantly. ‘All the more reason for them to love us.’ She stood, and hurled a palmful of coins into the waiting crowds.
Vigorous cheers soon followed.
I looked at her, her face flushed pink from the sun, her eyes bright with the joy of making others happy.
How could I deny her? I smiled, took a handful of ducats, and pelted them into the midst of the throng.
Giovanni Sforza, Lucrezia’s long-absent husband, arrived that previous January. Apparently he could no longer ignore the Pope’s increasingly insistent messages that he return and be a proper husband to Lucrezia.
And so Sforza was welcomed back to Rome—without the fanfare reserved for the Pope’s children, and certainly without the celebration. Giovanni, Count of Pesaro, cut an altogether unimpressive figure. He was lanky and graceless, with an oversized Adam’s apple and large eyes that bulged, so that he appeared perpetually startled. His personality was likewise grating: he was effusive at the wrong moments, cowering at others; I suspected Alexander had chosen him for his malleability. Lucrezia should have been able to handle him easily.
The Borgia Bride Page 22