I will never resort to evil! I had proclaimed haughtily. Certainly, I could think of no worse evil at the moment than being forced to wed Cesare.
Then you condemn to death those whom you most love, the strega had said.
I watched the proceedings with no emotion other than fear.
But Alfonso and Lucrezia were all smiles. The two could not have seemed happier; I held onto the fact desperately, hoping it would spare my brother the pain I had encountered at the Borgias’ hands.
Alfonso gave his answer in a sure, strong voice; Lucrezia’s reply was soft and shy as she gazed upon him with honest devotion. One look at her eyes, and at Alfonso’s, and I knew: they had been struck by the same thunderbolt that wounded me the day I met the Cardinal of Valencia.
Soon the presiding legate pronounced the pair man and wife. Radiant, Alfonso and Lucrezia processed arm in arm from the Hall, followed by Captain de Cervillon and Cardinal Borgia.
Unfortunately, as the rest of us began to leave from the private chapel to the reception area, an argument began. ‘The Princess of Squillace is sister to the groom, and her party will proceed next,’ Donna Esmeralda insisted in a strident voice. Soon she was shoving one of Cesare’s grooms aside; his servants were demanding precedence over mine. It is impossible to completely hide one’s personal feelings from one’s servants, and Cesare’s people and mine were, in a matter of seconds, at each other’s throats. One of Jofre’s grooms stepped forward and demanded, ‘Let the Prince and Princess of Squillace pass!’
In reply, he received a swift blow to the jaw, and fell back into the arms of his fellows. Donna Esmeralda and my ladies began shrieking; it did not help that His Holiness’ entourage became caught up in the mêlée as well.
More punches were thrown, and swords drawn; the Pope’s attendants became so terrified, they ran up the steps behind the altar and fled the chapel, leaving Alexander unprotected in the middle of a brawl. ‘Enough!’ he shouted, flailing his arms, his golden mantle very nearly pierced by a blade, and in danger of slipping from his shoulders. ‘Enough! This is a happy occasion!’
His pleas were drowned out by shouts. Jofre’s groom recovered enough to wrestle his attacker to the floor; the pair blocked any progress in or out of the chapel.
‘Stop!’ Jofre called, his voice adding to the cacophony. ‘Stop this idiocy at once!’
The task fell to Cesare. Without a word, he drew a dagger and in a swift, single movement was leaning over the two fighting men, the tip of the blade in reach of either’s throat. The ferocity in his gaze convinced the two wrestling that he would not hesitate to spill blood, even here, even now, on his sister’s wedding-day.
The room fell silent. ‘Disengage,’ Cesare said, in a deadly low voice, yet all heard it.
The grooms rolled aside, and stood, wide-eyed and complacent.
‘Where is His Holiness’ entourage?’ Cesare asked, in the same calm, low—yet altogether terrifying—tone.
His groom pointed to the altar, and the steps that led back toward the private papal chambers. ‘Hiding, Your Holiness.’
‘Fetch them. He is to process next, and must be attended.’
The groom sped to the altar, and up the stairs. Cesare, his dagger still drawn, but lowered, glanced at Jofre’s groom, the other participant in the altercation. ‘He will no doubt need help,’ the cardinal said.
With exaggerated eagerness, Jofre’s groom followed. It took some minutes before the full entourage appeared, but at last, the Pope was able to leave the chapel. Graciously—or rather, with the appearance of graciousness, Cesare insisted on my entourage departing next.
The ceremony was followed by a protracted supper, then dancing. Alfonso was, as always, filled with such charm and good cheer that even the Borgias were infected. For the first time since I had come to Rome, the Pope danced—first with Lucrezia, then with me. Despite his great size, he was possessed of the same athletic grace as his son Cesare.
I was especially happy to see that no courtesans were present—not even the Pope’s mistress Giulia. He seemed to be trying to convince Alfonso that the rumours surrounding the Sforza scandal and the birth of Lucrezia’s child were untrue; regardless, I was relieved that the celebration did not spiral downwards into the Borgias’ customary lewdness. The Pope drank far less wine than his custom, for once considerate of Lucrezia’s happiness. Even Cesare was pleasant.
Alfonso and I performed a Neapolitan dance for His Holiness, and my brother’s eyes were bright, his smile genuine. I knew that part of his joy came from knowing we two would be together again—but I could also see that his delight with Lucrezia was sincere. They had, as Alexander put it jocularly over supper, ‘taken to each other. Look at those two! It is as though the rest of us do not exist. Shall we all retreat quietly, lest we disturb them?’
I could not understand why my little brother, who had his choice of more beautiful and honourable women, should fall in love with Lucrezia; I only hoped for his happiness.
After much dancing, theatricals were presented on a small stage that had been erected in the reception area. One presentation involved a beautifully dressed maid who coaxed a unicorn to lay its head upon her lap. The maid was played by none other than Giulia, the Pope’s mistress, but this was not the greatest irony, for I at last recognized, from his body and movements, the man beneath the heavy unicorn’s mask, a full headpiece with a gilded horn, and holes for the eyes and mouth.
It was Cesare Borgia, portraying the very symbol of chasteness and loyalty.
As dawn approached, Lucrezia and Alfonso retired together, with a smugly smiling Giovanni Borgia following them. My poor brother was about to be subjected to the same indignity I had—that of having the leering cardinal witness his first sexual union with his spouse. At least, I reflected, Alfonso did not have the added embarrassment of having his own father watch the proceedings; I wondered whether the cardinal would comment about roses.
A few weeks after the marriage, Cesare was granted what he had dreamt of for years: the chance to present his case before the consistory of cardinals, asking them to free him from a vocation for which he had never been suited. In exchange, he swore that he would surrender himself to the service of the Church and go at once to France, where he would do everything necessary to save Italy from another invasion by another French king.
There was no more doubt that Cesare would be granted his petition than there had been doubt that Lucrezia would be declared virgo intacta.
Cesare got his wish. No sooner had it been granted than he began looking about for a suitable mate. I steeled myself for the worst, expecting to receive another summons to his office: to my astonishment, Lucrezia revealed that he had chosen Carlotta of Aragon—my cousin, the legitimate daughter of Uncle Federico, the King of Naples.
I was ecstatic; I thought I had underestimated Cesare. Lucrezia had said that he truly cared for me—and perhaps that was why he wished neither to coerce me, nor cause me harm. Even better, his choice of bride made Alfonso’s position, as a Prince of Naples, more secure in the House of Borgia.
Carlotta was at the time in France, being educated at the court of the piously Catholic, pro-Borgia Queen Anne of Brittany, widow of Re Petito, Charles VIII, who had died that spring. Cesare dressed himself in his best finery, and, astride his white horse shod with silver, headed north. He was confident he would win Carlotta’s hand, for the new King, Louis XII, greatly desired a divorce from his crippled, barren wife, Queen Jeanne, so that he could marry Anne, whom he loved.
And Cesare was just the person who, as the Pope’s son, could deliver a writ of divorce directly into Louis’ hands—for a price.
With a sigh of relief, I watched him ride away, believing my country’s troubles had at last ended.
Autumn–Winter 1498
XXV
A hot, brutal summer finally gave way to autumn, then a mild winter. My life in Rome had never been more pleasant; Juan was dead, Cesare was busy with politics and courtship in France, lea
ving me in the company of my husband, my brother, Lucrezia, and Alexander.
Away from Cesare’s and Juan’s demeaning barbs, Jofre was more at ease and kinder. Alfonso was by nature in good spirits, and his love for Lucrezia made him even more jovial and charming; he brought out a sweetness in Lucrezia that I had only glimpsed earlier, but which now became a constant of her nature. And because his family was happy, Alexander was happy. His daughter had made a good match, and was now a duchess instead of a mere countess; his eldest son was about to make an even better match, and there was now the prospect of legitimate grandchildren.
Because of our shared love for Alfonso, Lucrezia and I became closer than ever before. I tattled on Alfonso for all his little idiosyncrasies, and Lucrezia loved to listen to stories of his childhood—how he had once tried to set fire to the tail of the Queen’s lapdog, to see whether it would burn like a candle, how he had almost been swept out to sea as a child of four, and nearly drowned. And she confessed to me how he snored, drawing in great puffs of air—ah, ah, ah—then at last letting them go with one great, sonorous gust.
I forgot the canterella I had hidden with the jewels in my bedchamber. I forgot its source; I even forgot the sight of Lucrezia in her father’s carnal embrace, the passionate kiss she had shared with her own brother. (Lucrezia reported with great relief that the Pope had left her alone ever since her pregnancy, either because old age had taken the fire out of him, or because he no longer wished to fan the rumours provoked by the birth of the illegitimate child he had supposedly got on her.) She also confessed that she and Alfonso spent every night together in her bedchamber, and he always woke there, rarely spending time in his own chambers in the men’s wing of the palazzo. ‘I had never dared hope,’ she confided, quite wistfully, ‘that my own husband should also be my ardent lover.’
One winter morning, when the bright sun had taken all the chill from the air, we women decided to go on a picnic in Cardinal Lopez’s vineyard. It was too lovely to stay inside, and Lucrezia seemed restless with an anticipation I did not understand, until she settled beside me in the carriage and confessed, ‘I have a secret. I have not told anyone, not even Alfonso—but I must tell you.’
I was lazily enjoying the sun on my face. ‘Secret?’ From Lucrezia’s smug smile, it was obviously a happy one. I suspected a party, or a gift she had obtained for her new husband.
‘I am pregnant. Two months now without my monthly courses.’
‘Lucrezia!’ Genuinely pleased, I grabbed her shoulders. ‘You are sure then? There is no other cause?’
She laughed, delighted with my response. ‘I am sure. My breasts are so tender, I can scarcely bear for Alfonso to touch them. And I must eat, eat all the time—or else I become too ill to tolerate the smell of food. You must play the fool, and tell no one—I intend to surprise him with the news at supper tonight.’
‘He will be so excited. And your father, too.’ I smiled at the thought of playing aunt to my brother’s child.
Once we arrived at the vineyard, we found the perfect pastoral setting: a copse of tall pines perpendicular to a clearing of grass and wildflowers, then rows of grape arbours, their gnarled vines bare of leaf or fruit. The land sloped gradually downward, providing a pleasant vista. A table had been brought, and as the servant girls busied themselves with unloading the food and wine, Lucrezia looked the setting up and down, dropped her ermine cape casually on the grass, and said: ‘It’s a perfect day for a race.’
I laughed. It was an entirely girlish suggestion—yet, when I met Lucrezia’s mischievous gaze, I saw that she was serious. ‘Your condition, Madonna,’ I said, under my breath.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she countered. ‘I couldn’t be healthier! And I am so excited about telling Alfonso—if I don’t do something, I’ll go mad from the energy.’
Grinning, I studied her: she had put on a bit of weight since marrying my brother, and brimmed with vigour. She was used to a great deal of walking and riding; a short run would not tax her in the least, pregnant or not. ‘Race, then, Duchess,’ I said. I eyed the perfectly straight rows of grapevines, and said, ‘It is an ideal setting.’
‘Then let’s run.’ Lucrezia pointed to the first break in the arbour. ‘That’s our end-point; first one to reach it wins.’
I slipped off my cape and tabard; both hems were long and would trip me. Lucrezia removed her own tabard as I asked, ‘And what are the stakes?’
She frowned, thinking, then one corner of her lip curled upward. ‘A diamond. Either you take one from me, or I take one from you.’
‘But whose choice?’ I persisted.
‘The loser’s,’ she said, suddenly timid.
I folded my arms and shook my head, and she laughed.
‘All right, all right, victor’s choice. I suppose I shall have to win, then.’
We held our skirts high, called for Donna Esmeralda to give the signal—and then were off.
It was scarcely a fair contest. I was taller and longer of limb and won handily, kicking up a great deal of dust. ‘So,’ I gloated, ‘I will have to pick out your finest diamond.’ Lucrezia rolled her eyes and made a fine show of being worried, when we both knew that I had no intention of claiming my prize.
Lucrezia demanded a rematch; when I refused (for I did not want her to tire herself), she insisted on racing the younger ladies-in-waiting. At one point, there were four ladies taking the runner’s stance, waiting for Donna Esmeralda to give the signal—two in each wide row.
I grew mildly concerned, for Lucrezia’s face was quite flushed, and she had begun to perspire, despite the coolness of the day. I decided to insist that lunch be served and all exertion end by the time Donna Esmeralda called for the runners to start.
As the last race began, I moved away from the arbours, toward Donna Esmeralda and the table, laden now with a tempting array of foods; Lucrezia would no doubt be hungry after all her activity.
I was looking away when I heard the subtle, troubling sound of flesh and bone colliding with earth. A shout followed. I turned to see Donna Esmeralda running as fast as her stout form would allow, towards two women in the arbour path. At the same instant, I spotted the second woman in mid-fall, her green brocade skirts ballooning above her in the air. I, too, ran until, like Esmeralda, I stood beside Lucrezia and the young lady-in-waiting who had fallen atop her, and now pushed herself slowly up and away from her mistress.
‘Lucrezia!’ I cried, kneeling down beside her. She was unconscious and frighteningly pale. I looked accusingly up at the poor lady-in-waiting, who stood trembling, knuckles to her mouth. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know, Madonna,’ she said, her voice tearful. ‘She was running and, I think, tripped on her slipper. She fell, and I could not stop in time…’ She gazed at us, her young face terrified of rebuke or punishment, but we had no interest in her, as she was unharmed. Lucrezia had taken the brunt of her fall.
I patted Lucrezia’s cheeks; they were cool, but she remained in a faint. I glanced up at Donna Esmeralda, all business.
‘The Duchess of Bisciglie is pregnant,’ I said. ‘We must get her back to the palazzo at once, and call for a doctor and midwife.’
Donna Esmeralda gasped at this news, then ran to fetch the young male drivers of our carriage, who had been off hunting. Within half-an-hour, we were back in the carriage. Esmeralda and I spread Lucrezia out across our laps, and I kept my hand pressed to her forehead, worrying about the potential for fever, and cursing myself for ever allowing the first race to be run.
By the time we arrived back at the palazzo, Lucrezia had come to herself—though she was somewhat shaken and had to be reminded of the fall.
‘That damned slipper!’ she cursed—trying to fend off the carriage driver—who insisted on carrying her into the palazzo—but in the end yielding. When he, for modesty’s sake, left her at the door of her bedchamber, we women surrounded her, propping her up as she staggered to her bed.
Each step caused her pain. ‘It is only
my back,’ she said nonchalantly, ‘and a headache. I will be better by the morrow.’
The midwife awaited her, and Lucrezia submitted meekly to an examination. When the older woman at last emerged from the bedchamber, Donna Esmeralda and I leapt up from our seats to hear the news.
‘The duchess has taken serious blows to the head and back,’ the old woman reported. ‘She shows no fever, no bleeding or other signs of losing the child—but it is too early to know.’
Donna Esmeralda and I consulted with Lucrezia’s head lady-in-waiting, and I decided that we would tell the doctor not to come. His arrival might be noted by others, as his appearance always indicated a serious malady, whereas the midwife was often consulted for minor female complaints. There was no point in alarming the Pope and Alfonso. We would retain the midwife, and watch Lucrezia over the next several hours to see how she fared.
By that time, it was afternoon. Fortunately, no family supper was planned for that evening, since we women were expected to return late from our picnic.
At Lucrezia’s request, I went in and sat beside her. She was nauseated and refused offers of food or drink; her head pained her greatly, and she could barely open her eyes. Still, she insisted on remaining cheerful and conversing with me, her forehead covered with cool, damp cloths.
‘All this trouble over a stupid slipper,’ she told me. ‘The left one was too loose; I was of a mind to pull it off and run barefoot. I should have. We could have avoided all this foolishness.’
‘Donna Esmeralda would never have permitted it in cold weather,’ I retorted lightly, with the same good humour, though I was racked with guilt and concern. ‘She would have worried you would catch the grippe. So you would have had to wear the accursed slipper regardless.’
The Borgia Bride Page 28