Pantsilea led me back to the inner room, where, dressed only in a chemise although it was midday, Lucrezia sat propped up on the bed, her legs and stomach draped with fine linens. She was paler than I had ever seen her, her eyes and cheeks sunken, her expression one of complete listlessness. She looked over at me with disinterest, then turned her face towards the wall.
I went to her and sat at her side. ‘Lucrezia! Pantsilea says you will take no food or drink—but you must! I know you are sad over the loss of your brother—but he would not want you to hurt yourself or your child.’
‘To Hell with me,’ Lucrezia murmured. ‘And to Hell with the child. It’s already cursed.’ She directed a sharp glance at Pantsilea. ‘Leave—and do not skulk at the door listening. You already know far too much: I’m surprised you’ve lived this long.’
Pantsilea listened, her hand over her mouth—not in shock at her mistress’ words, but in sorrow over Lucrezia’s air of hopelessness. She turned, shoulders slumped with the weight of her concern, and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
When she had gone, Lucrezia turned and spoke to me with deathbed candour. ‘You say you know who the child’s father is. I assure you, Sancha, you do not. You do not know how you have been cruelly deceived…’
I did not hesitate. If she was willing to be dangerously honest, then I would be, too. ‘It is Cesare’s.’
She looked at me a long moment, during which time her eyes grew wide, then stricken; her face crumpled into a mask of grief, rage, and terror combined. She seized my hands with the sudden ferocity of a woman in childbirth, then released wrenching, guttural sounds that I at first did not recognize as sobs.
‘My life…is all lies,’ she gasped, when she could draw a breath. ‘At first I lived in fear of Rodrigo’—she did not say, my father—‘and now we all live in terror of Cesare.’ She nodded down at her unborn child. ‘Do not think I did this for love.’
‘He forced you?’ I asked. Her misery was too abject to be feigned.
Lucrezia looked beyond me at a distant wall. ‘My father had a daughter before me,’ she said absently. ‘She died many, many years ago, because she did not accept his advances with good grace.’ She released an abrupt, bitter laugh. ‘I have pretended for so long now, I no longer know the truth of my own feelings. I was jealous of you as a rival when you first came to Rome.’
‘But I rejected your father, yet I am alive,’ I blurted, then paused, realizing my admission would add to her pain.
Lucrezia’s expression grew composed, her eyes cold at this revelation. ‘You are alive because, had Alexander tried to seduce you again or harm you, Cesare would have killed him. If not immediately, then at some point, when it was to Cesare’s advantage. You live because my brother loves you.’ Her face contorted briefly again. ‘But he wanted Juan’s position…and Juan harmed you, so Juan is dead. Even Father will never dare accuse Cesare, though he knows the truth.
‘And I am safe because I can always make a politically advantageous marriage. I have no cause to live.’ Her expression grew piteous; she closed her eyes. ‘Just let me die, Sancha. It would be a great kindness. Let me die, and flee to Squillace with Jofre, if you can.’
I studied her for an instant. I had never forgotten her unprompted remark to Cesare to be kind to me.
My worst fears about Cesare had just been confirmed. My life was in jeopardy; one false step, and the man who loved me might just as easily grow displeased and kill me. I lived or died at Cesare’s whim, and I would not be able to keep him at arm’s length forever.
But I was not the only one to be pitied; Lucrezia’s burden was far greater than mine. She had been manipulated by two unspeakably wicked men since her childhood, with no chance of escape. She was truly the unhappiest woman on earth, in sore need of a friend.
I held her tightly. As desperate as our different situations were, we could comfort one another. ‘I will neither let you die, nor will I leave you,’ I vowed. ‘In fact, I will not depart this room until you have had something to eat and drink.’
Slowly, with my repeated visits and encouragement, Lucrezia regained her appetite and improved in outlook and health. I promised repeatedly not to leave her, and she in turn swore to me that I would always have her friendship.
During my trips to San Sisto, Alexander received an epistle from the outspoken Savonarola, who still preached in defiance of the papal brief. The letter relayed sorrow over the loss of His Holiness’ son, while also castigating the Pope for the sinfulness of his lifestyle. If Alexander repented, the priest urged, the Apocalypse could be averted. Otherwise, God would visit more sorrows on him and his family.
For the first time, His Holiness took Savonarola’s words to heart. He sent away his women—and his children. Cesare and Lucrezia were already gone, so Jofre received the imperious decree that he and I were to return to Squillace, until it pleased Alexander for us to return.
Jofre was crushed by what he considered a punishment; I was sorry to leave Lucrezia during her most desperate hour, but felt guilty relief at the news. We packed and made the trip southward to the coast, where we spent two months—August and September—free from Rome’s crushing heat and scandals. Squillace was just as rocky, barren and provincial as I remembered; now that I had seen the glories of Rome, our palace seemed a pathetically rustic hovel, the food and wine atrocious. Nevertheless, I revelled in the absence of splendour; the bare whitewashed walls were refreshing, the lack of gilt soothing. I wandered the scraggly little gardens under the harsh sun, unafraid that an attacker might be hidden in the bushes; I roamed the corridors without concern that I might witness a horrific scene. I looked out upon the blue ocean—not caring that I had only a partial view from my balcony—and found it good, even if it was less beautiful than Naples’ Bay. I ate fish cooked simply, with local olives and lemons, and found it as delicious as any feast in the papal palace.
Best of all, Alfonso came to visit.
‘How you have changed!’ I laughed, holding him tightly at first, then drawing back, our hands clasped, to admire him. He had grown into a tall, handsome man of eighteen, with a neatly trimmed blond beard that glinted in the sun. ‘How is it possible that you have not married? You must be driving all the women in Naples mad!’
‘As best I can,’ he said, smiling. ‘But look at you, Sancha—you have changed so! So grand you look! Such a lady of wealth and stature!’
I looked down at myself. I had forgotten the southern custom of dressing starkly; here I was, weighed down with diamonds and rubies round my neck and in my hair, dressed in a silver velvet gown with burgundy trim—in Squillace, of all places. This unnatural splendour seemed a reflection of the degree I had been corrupted by the Borgias; I yearned for Alfonso’s presence to purify me, to bring out the goodness that had become hidden. I forced a smile. ‘In Rome, we do not wear much black.’
‘Because of the heat, no doubt,’ he countered playfully, and I realized how terribly I had missed him. It was divine to be in the presence of a loving, guileless soul once more, and I enjoyed his company each day for as long as he was able to grant it. I knew we would not be allowed to remain in Squillace forever; this was a temporary respite. I lived as though these were my last days, for my final encounter with Cesare could not be delayed forever.
Yet in the presence of Alfonso’s kindness, my heart, so scarred by Juan’s brutality and Cesare’s duplicity, began to heal; I thought often of Lucrezia, and wrote her many letters of encouragement.
Sadly, Alexander grew bored with his newfound love of piety, and soon called for us to rejoin him in Rome.
We returned to Rome in the late autumn, just before winter settled in. Cesare had already come home—still a cardinal, though he had convinced Alexander to begin the manipulations of Church law necessary to free him of his scarlet robes. Fortunately, he was distracted by the legal arrangements and dispensed with appearing at family suppers. I saw little of him during those weeks.
Lucrezia, meanwhile, remained at
San Sisto until the days before Christmas, when she was commanded to appear at the Vatican by the cardinals who were to grant her divorce.
I visited Lucrezia in her chambers as Pantsilea tried to dress her—but she was several months gone with child, and even the fullest ermine-trimmed tabard worn over her gown could not hide the fact. We embraced and I kissed her; she smiled, but her lips trembled slightly.
‘They will do whatever your father tells them,’ I reminded her, but her voice wavered nonetheless.
‘I know.’ Her tone was uncertain.
‘Things will improve,’ I continued. ‘Soon your confinement will be over, and we will be able to go out together. You have been very brave, Lucrezia. Your courage will be rewarded.’
She steadied herself and put a hand on my cheek. ‘I was right to trust you, Sancha. You have been a good friend.’
I was told she conducted herself admirably in front of the consistory, and did not flinch when it was announced that the midwives had found her to be virgo intacta. Not one of the cardinals dared to mention the fact that, for the second time in history, God had seen fit to make a virgin pregnant.
From that moment on, Lucrezia remained at home in the Palazzo Santa Maria as a recluse. It was inappropriate for her to sit, heavy with child, beside her father’s throne while he held audience, so she remained in her chambers.
In his daughter’s absence, Alexander requested that I occasionally sit, not on Lucrezia’s velvet cushion, but on the one he had once reserved for me; I could not refuse what was in essence a command.
One February morning I sat dutifully, listening to the plea a particular noble brought before His Holiness concerning an annulment he wished for his eldest daughter. I was quite bored and so was Alexander, who yawned several times, and kept adjusting his ermine wrap about his shoulders for warmth against the winter cold. Ancient cardinals stood in the room, shivering despite the fire blazing in the hearth.
Suddenly, shouts came from several rooms away.
‘Bastard! Son of a whore! How dare you touch her!’
The tone was one of raw, unrestrained fury; the voice was Cesare’s.
The nobleman who had been droning away stopped; all of us in the throne room stared, wide-eyed, in the direction of the commotion.
Rapid footsteps approached; Cesare was giving chase to someone headed directly towards us.
‘I will kill you, you bastard! Who do you think you are, to have touched her?’
A young man came running at full speed into the throne room; I recognized him as Perotto, the servant who had accompanied me to and from San Sisto, when Lucrezia was confined there.
Cesare followed, red-faced and waving a sword, displaying an utterly uncharacteristic rage.
‘Cesare…?’ the Pope asked, so startled his voice came out barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat and with greater authority, demanded, ‘What is this about?’
‘Help me, Your Holiness!’ the distraught Perotto cried. ‘He has gone mad, he is raving, spouting foolishness—and he will not be content until he has killed me!’ He ascended the steps to the throne, threw himself at Alexander’s feet, and grasped the hem of his white wool garment. I was so astonished that I rose without permission and scrambled down the steps, out of the way.
Cesare dashed at him with the sword.
‘Stop!’ the Pope commanded. ‘Cesare, explain yourself!’
Such explanation was required, as was the cessation of hostilities, since grasping the hem of the Pope’s garment was a sacred act, one that conferred greater protection than taking refuge inside a church.
In reply, Cesare lunged forward, turned the cringing, moaning Perotto over, and slashed his neck with the sword.
I recoiled and instinctively raised an arm to protect myself. Alexander gasped as blood sprayed up onto his white robes and ermine cape, spattering his face.
Perotto gurgled, spasmed violently for a long, terrible moment, then lay still, sprawled across the entire span of the steps to the throne.
Cesare watched, jaw twitching, with grim pleasure. When Perotto fell eternally silent, Cesare said at last, ‘Lucrezia. He is the father. As her brother, I could not permit him to live. I was morally bound to seek vengeance.’
Alexander seemed less concerned with explanations than he did with the blood dripping from his cheeks. ‘Bring a cloth at once,’ he ordered, to no one in particular, and then he looked down in disgust at Perotto’s corpse. ‘And take this mess away.’
The following morning, Perotto’s body was found in the Tiber, with hand and feet bound. Custom demanded a symbolic display showing what would become of those who violated the Pope’s daughter.
Floating nearby was the body of Pantsilea. Her limbs were unbound; she had been strangled, and a gag stuffed into her now-silent mouth, a clear sign to other Borgia servants of what became of those who knew and told too much.
Early Spring 1498
XXIII
Lucrezia gave birth in early spring. Before her delivery, she was spirited away from Santa Maria, lest her screams during labour reveal to Rome the ‘secret’ it already knew. Fuelled by the rumours, Savonarola’s attacks on the papacy grew vicious: he called for an international council to be formed to depose Alexander.
The child was a boy—named Giovanni, at Lucrezia’s insistence. I could not help wondering what Giovanni Sforza, now a disgraced, divorced man held in fatal contempt by the Borgias, thought of the infant being named for him, as if it were his own get.
The child was returned to the palazzo in the care of a wet nurse. It was kept in a distant wing, that its cries might not disturb the adult occupants. Lucrezia visited the infant as frequently as she was permitted, which was not often enough to suit her. When we were alone, she often confided in me about her heartbreak that she was not allowed to act as the boy’s mother. At times, she wept, inconsolable with grief.
Once she was delivered suitors lined up for her hand, either disbelieving the charges brought by Sforza, or totally unconcerned by them. The political advantage was, after all, great.
The Pope and Cesare conferred at length about these men; some names they shared with Lucrezia, and she in turn shared them with me. There was Francesco Orsini, the Duke of Gravina, and a count, Ottaviano Riario. The most favoured one was Antonello Sanseverino, a Neapolitan—but an Angevin, a supporter of France. Such a match would put me at a grave political disadvantage within the family.
I was troubled as well by my role as Lucrezia’s friend and confidante. I had seen the innocent Perotto’s fate, and Pantsilea’s, and knew the Borgias would not let years of loyalty interfere with their plans. If someone needed to be silenced—no matter how beloved, how trusted—then they were silenced.
Pantsilea’s death left me with nightmares. I had never seen the corpse, only heard it described in great detail by Esmeralda, who by then had assembled a most impressive network of informants and spies. I often woke gasping to the image of Pantsilea’s body rising like a cork from the depths of the dark Tiber, and her dead eyes slowly opening to regard me. Her bloated arm rose to point an accusatory finger: You. You are the cause of my death…
For I had taken the canterella, the poison, hidden in Lucrezia’s gown. And I could not help thinking that the poor maidservant had been murdered because the poison had been missed. I assumed that Cesare had forced the poison on Lucrezia, with instructions. And when Cesare asked for it, Lucrezia would have been forced to explain that it was missing.
Pantsilea, of course, would have been first to be blamed.
In my less guilty moments, I convinced myself the young lady-in-waiting had died for the very reason symbolized by the gag found in her mouth: she had known too much, and needed to be silenced. Had she not, after all, pushed me into the armoire as a way of sharing what she could not say: the truth of the relationship between Lucrezia and Cesare?
Lucrezia was not the only one, that spring and summer, whose thoughts turned to marriage.
One day, I was summoned
to the Vatican—to Cesare’s office. The notice was signed ‘Cesare Borgia, Cardinal of Valencia’.
I sat on my bed with the parchment in my hand. The moment I most dreaded had come. Cesare would demand to know the extent of my love and loyalty; he would accept no further excuses.
In the vain hope of preventing a private confrontation, I took Esmeralda and two of my younger ladies with me; we made our way on foot through the piazza to the Vatican. There we were escorted by two guards to the cardinal’s office; at the entry, a single soldier waved my ladies away. ‘His Holiness has requested that he meet with the Princess of Squillace alone.’
Esmeralda frowned at the impropriety, but my ladies were led to a waiting area, and I entered the cardinal’s office unattended.
Cesare sat at a grand, gilded desk of inlaid ebony wood. Leather-bound tomes of canon law filled the shelves behind him; an oil lamp flickered on the desk. When the soldier escorted me in, Cesare rose, and gestured for me to take the padded velvet chair across from him.
I sat. The soldier was dismissed, and Cesare promptly vacated his desk and went down on one knee in front of me. He was wearing his official skullcap and scarlet robes; the silk hem rustled against the marble floor.
‘Donna Sancha,’ he said. Months had passed since he had bedded me, yet despite the formality of the situation, he spoke with the familiar affection of a lover. ‘I have received official word from my father that I am soon to be relieved of the burden of monastic life.’
I was not fool enough to show my trepidation; instead, I kept my tone cordial. ‘I am happy for you. This must certainly be a great relief.’
‘It is more than that,’ he said. ‘It is a great opportunity…for us.’ He took my hand gently, and held it in one of his; before I could react, he swiftly slipped a small gold ring onto my smallest finger.
The Borgia Bride Page 26