‘Alfonso will be so worried,’ she whispered. ‘Have you told him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Good.’ She closed her eyes. ‘The surprise will have to wait, then, until I am better,’ She sighed. ‘He is going to find out soon enough about my fall. He will come here sometime after nightfall.’
‘He is a strong young man,’ I said. ‘He will recover from the shock.’
She smiled weakly, then grew silent. After a time, she fell into a light sleep. I felt relief, thinking her discomfort had eased, and she would now improve. But the midwife insisted on remaining nearby.
Lucrezia woke a few hours after sunset, with a great, terrifying moan. I leaned forward and clasped her hand. Her teeth were chattering; she was suffering too greatly even to speak.
The midwife lifted the covers and examined her, then—with a sombre glance that broke my heart—shook her head.
‘She is bleeding,’ she reported. ‘We can expect the worst.’ She turned to Donna Esmeralda and ordered several towels, a sheet, and a basin of water, then looked at me again, with a grim expression born of years of sad experience. ‘It would be best, Madonna Sancha, if you left.’
‘No!’ Lucrezia cried, in the midst of her groaning. Her flesh was white, beaded with sweat. ‘Sancha, do not leave me!’
I strengthened my grip on her hand. ‘I will not leave,’ I said, my voice steady, full of a strength I did not feel. ‘I will stay here with you until you tell me to go.’
She relaxed only for an instant; another wave of agony soon gripped her, and she squeezed my hand with crushing force.
Esmeralda returned to the room, having ordered the servant girls to fetch the required objects. ‘Summon His Holiness and the Duke of Bisciglie to the antechamber,’ I told her. ‘It is time they were notified.’
‘Sancha!’ Lucrezia gasped. ‘They will be so worried…Will you be the one to tell them?’
‘I will tell them,’ I soothed, and picked up the cloth that rested on her forehead. The side resting against her skin had grown warm, so I turned it over to the cooler side, and gently smoothed her brow with it. ‘I will be gentle, and make sure they do not worry overmuch.’
‘Yes. Yes. They both worry so…’ Lucrezia whispered, then gritted her teeth as another spasm overtook her.
Since Alfonso resided in the palazzo, he arrived first; I sent Donna Esmeralda out into the antechamber to tell him that Lucrezia had fallen in the vineyard, and that I would be out with more news as soon as His Holiness appeared. Esmeralda was a skilled dissembler, and played her part admirably; I could just make out her calm, even tone as she spoke to Alfonso. She stepped back inside the chamber with a confident nod; no doubt my brother thought his wife had merely turned her ankle.
But soon Lucrezia’s cries grew so loud that Alfonso, out in the antechamber, surely heard them. They must have stricken him to the core, so I extricated myself from Lucrezia in order to explain the situation. Fortunately, the Pope arrived just as I was embracing my brother.
At the sight of our agitated expressions, Alexander reacted with his overly emotional nature; his eyes welled up at once.
‘Dear God! It sounds as though she is dying! I could not imagine this was so serious…Sancha, what has become of our daughter?’
I pulled away from Alfonso. ‘Lucrezia is young and strong; she will no doubt survive this. It seems she was with child, but that child is surely lost now. She was racing her ladies in the vineyard…’
‘Racing in the vineyard! Who allowed this?’ Alexander demanded, with a fury born by grief. ‘Did she know she was pregnant?’
‘I think she knew. It was a simple accident, Your Holiness. The exercise should not have hurt her. Her slipper Was loose, and she tripped over it, and another girl fell on top of her.’
‘Who?’ Alexander’s tone grew vengeful.
Alfonso in the meantime was ignoring his father-in-law’s rantings; he listened to the information, then buried his face in his hands and whispered, ‘Pregnant…’ At the same instant Alexander demanded the name of the culprit, Alfonso lifted his face and asked, ‘You are sure Lucrezia will be all right?’ He turned his worried gaze towards the moans coming from his wife’s bedchamber.
I put a hand on my brother’s shoulder. ‘It is hard now, but the midwife says she is young, she will survive this, God willing.’ To Alexander, I lied. ‘I do not even remember which girl fell, Your Holiness. It was an act of God, and not the girl’s fault that Lucrezia’s slipper was loose.’
The Pope covered his face and moaned with a misery to rival his daughter’s. ‘Ah, my poor daughter! My poor Lucrezia!’
‘Be strong,’ I told them both. ‘Lucrezia has asked me to stay with her. But I will come and tell you news as soon as I can.’
I left them to comfort each other, and returned to Lucrezia’s side.
Lucrezia’s suffering continued for two more hours, after which she was delivered of a small, bloody child; I saw the poor, barely-formed creature myself as the midwife caught it on a towel and examined it. It was too soon to tell whether a son or daughter had been lost.
Blessedly, Lucrezia’s moans ceased at once, but she wept at the realization that she no longer carried the child. The bleeding that followed was scarce, a good sign, and she finally fell into a sleep that the midwife pronounced healing.
The duty fell to me to inform father and husband of the bad and good news: that Lucrezia had miscarried, that no permanent damage had been done, and she was expected to recover quickly.
I kept my promise to Lucrezia: I went back into her room, where I dozed on a great velvet pillow while she slept through the night. I did not leave until the next morning, until convinced all was well.
Spring 1499–Winter 1499
XXVI
Fortunately, the midwife’s prediction was correct: Lucrezia made a full recovery, and in time became annoyed with the over-attentiveness and coddling that her father, Alfonso, and I shamelessly heaped on her. Although there had been some jealousy between Donna Esmeralda and Lucrezia’s new head lady-in-waiting, Donna Maria, they now became united in their goal of ensuring that the Duchess of Bisciglie was always warm, pampered, and overfed.
In only a few months’ time, our solicitousness was repaid. Lucrezia walked with me out of earshot of our entourages one April evening, after supper, as we strolled from the Vatican back to the palace, and whispered, ‘I am pregnant again. But we must tell no one for some time, until I am sure the child is safe.’
‘No races,’ I hissed back at her, and she had enough of a sense of humour to smile wryly back at me.
‘No races,’ she agreed.
We smiled and linked arms, warmed by our shared secret. Rome seemed to me a safe haven that night, with the lanterns of boats twinkling below us on the Tiber, and the golden glow emanating from the graceful arched windows of the palace we approached.
Meanwhile, events in France were not proceeding precisely according to Cesare Borgia’s plan. The writ was to be delivered by Cesare, and presented to the King only in exchange for Carlotta of Aragon’s hand.
Thus armed, Cesare had left for France. I put the matter out of my mind, confident that Alfonso’s and my political status in the House of Borgia was now secure.
Upon Cesare’s arrival in France, he was directed by Carlotta and her father, King Federico, to entreat Louis for his permission to wed her; the King, however, while receiving Cesare politely, refused to discuss the subject. In the interim, Louis insisted on having the writ of divorce turned over to him—so fiercely that Cesare began to doubt for his safety. He stalled for as long as he could, but in the end, he yielded to Louis’ demand, and turned over the writ.
The instant Louis had what he desired, Cesare lost all advantage, and the French King would hear no more about Carlotta.
In frustration, Cesare turned again to Carlotta’s father, Federico of Naples—who, after being evasive for a great deal of time, finally flatly rejected Cesare’s offer. Typically outspoken, Uncl
e Federico commented disgustedly that he would not have his daughter wed to a man with a reputation as an ‘adventurer’. In other words, he was saving his daughter for a legitimate suitor, not a pope’s bastard who had so lightly freed himself of priestly vows, and certainly not a man with a rumoured penchant for murder.
Cesare’s appeals to Louis were ignored. By this time, months had passed. Cesare threatened to return to Italy, and the Pope made noises about finding him an Italian wife—but the Duke of Valencia was not given leave to depart France, or even the King’s court.
Instead, he was offered the hand of one French princess, then another; in time, a whole procession of French beauties was offered to him, and he must have finally realized the truth. While he was being treated well, he was the King’s prisoner until he relented to Louis’s plan: a French wife for Pope Alexander’s son.
In late spring Don Garcia, Cesare’s personal messenger, arrived in Rome from France. The news was of such import that His Holiness invited Garcia to join us at the family table at supper—although Garcia stood to recite his piece.
Cesare was betrothed, and the King of France had given his approval. The bride was Charlotte d’Albret, the King of Navarre’s daughter, and Louis’ cousin.
Beside me, Alfonso listened carefully, his expression revealing no sign of his inner distress; on my other flank, Jofre let go a cheer on behalf of his brother. It did not occur to him that his bride and brother-in-law were now in grave political danger.
With Juan dead, Lucrezia was Alexander’s favourite child; but a son always takes precedence over a daughter, so the Pope’s first loyalty—and his fear—was owed to Cesare. And Cesare had chosen to ally himself with France—out of spite and a desire for revenge on me, and perhaps the entire House of Aragon, after the all-too-public sting of Carlotta’s refusal.
As for His Holiness, he showed a maudlin pleasure. ‘At last, all my children shall be wed,’ he sighed, ‘and perhaps I shall soon be a grandfather.’
Lucrezia directed at me a complicitous little smile, one I could barely return, for I was heartsick.
After supper, I contrived a moment alone with Alfonso in his chambers, before he went to Lucrezia for the night. Such was my level of unease and suspicion that I demanded Alfonso dismiss all his servants—including the most trusted men who had served him for years in Naples. I insisted we retire into his bedchamber after locking the door to the outer suite, for I worried that someone might press an ear there and listen to any conversation held in the antechamber.
I spoke first, before Alfonso had the opportunity.
‘If Cesare goes through with this, a French invasion is inevitable—and we are doomed. You know how easily Lucrezia rid herself of her first husband.’ I sat on a tufted ottoman and shivered, drawing my fur wrap tightly about me.
Alfonso stood with his back to me in front of his balcony. He had thrown open the shutters, and took in the warm spring air as he stared out at the night. The darkness framed his golden head and his square, muscular shoulders, clad in the palest green brocade. He appeared strong and resolute, invincible, but as I studied his pose, I read the concern in his posture, saw a tension not there before supper.
Alfonso most deliberately closed the shutters, and turned away from the balcony—movements that revealed a rare anger rising in him. His face showed strain; I knew my comment had provoked him, but I also knew I was not the sole source of his ire.
‘That was not her doing. She fought the divorce as best she could, and is still deeply shamed by it. Her father coerced her.’
‘Nevertheless, she does as she is told.’
His manner turned uncharacteristically cool. ‘Do not be so certain. We love each other, Sancha. Lucrezia has been misused by her father for far too many years, and her loyalty to him is strained. But she knows I would never hurt her, never betray her.’
‘I can only hope you are right. But there are others whose fates I dare not speak of—’ I was thinking of Perotto, of Pantsilea…and mostly of Juan, whose relation by blood could not save him.
Alfonso flared. ‘I will not hear such talk. Lucrezia is my wife. And she is incapable of even the mildest cruelty.’
I turned conciliatory. ‘I love Lucrezia as a sister and friend. I am not accusing her of anything. But Cesare…’ I lowered my voice at once. ‘If he decides to ally the papal army with France…’
Alfonso’s anger fled, replaced by sombreness. ‘I know. We must take great care from now on. There will be spies; we dare not take the chance of speaking freely, even in front of our own servants, and we must watch everything we put into writing.’ He paused. ‘I will meet privately with the Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors. There are cardinals with strong ties to Spain and Naples who can be trusted, and have the Pope’s ear.’ He forced an encouraging smile. ‘Do not fret, Sancha. The deed is not yet accomplished; I will do everything in my power to stop this marriage. And I will have Lucrezia speak to her father as well; she has more influence over him than anyone.’
‘Lucrezia!’ I exclaimed. ‘Alfonso, you dare not speak to her about any of this.’
He looked at me, his hurt tempered by indignation. ‘I speak to Lucrezia about everything,’ he stated simply. ‘She is my life, my soul. I could hide nothing from her.’
Despair settled over me like instant nightfall. ‘You must understand, little brother. Lucrezia’s first loyalty will always be to her family.’ And as he opened his mouth to protest, I raised a hand for silence. ‘That shows no weakness in her character, but rather a strength. Confess, Alfonso: to whom are you more loyal? The House of Borgia, or the House of Aragon?’
He sighed. ‘You have a point, my sister. I will be discreet in what I discuss with my wife. In the meantime, have faith: I will lobby with all my ability against this French marriage.’
I tried to have faith. Alfonso performed as promised, and the representatives of both the Spanish and Neapolitan Kings warned the Pope of dire consequences should Cesare’s marriage to Louis’ kinswoman be allowed. Alexander seemed to listen.
But one morning in mid-May, as Lucrezia and I sat on our velvet cushions, flanking Alexander’s throne as he heard petitioners, the arrival of a visitor was announced. Cesare’s messenger, Don Garcia, had just dismounted his horse after a hard four-day ride from Blois in France.
He had news for His Holiness, happy news, the page reported, but he begged Alexander’s forbearance: he had scarcely slept and could not stand. He wished to make his report after some hours of rest.
Alexander, in his excitement, would not hear of it. He dismissed the petitioners, summoned Jofre, Alfonso, and the exhausted rider to his throne. The family arrived, followed by Don Garcia—leaning heavily on a servant, for he could not walk unaided.
‘Your Holiness, forgive me,’ Garcia begged. ‘I will tell you this: that your son, Cesare Borgia, the Duke of Valentinois, is now four days’ happily wed to Charlotte d’Albret, Princess of Navarre, and the marriage was consummated before King Louis himself.’
I listened woodenly. Alexander clasped his hands, ecstatic. Later, I learned he had helped seal the marriage months before, by granting Charlotte’s brother a cardinal’s hat—even as he had pretended to listen to the Spanish and Neapolitans.
‘So it is done!’ He studied the swaying, worn messenger and demanded, ‘Someone bring a chair! I give you leave, Don Garcia, to sit in my presence—so long as you give a complete, full account of the wedding. Leave no detail out.’
A chair was brought; reluctantly, Garcia dropped into it, and—prodded by the Pope’s questions—droned on for a full seven hours. Food and drink was brought after a few hours for the speaker and his audience. I sat and listened, growing ever more horrified as Alexander grew ever more delighted.
I heard how Cesare and his bride—‘quite beautiful, with pale, delicate skin and fair hair,’ according to Garcia—exchanged rings in a solemn ceremony. Cesare had, in a manly display, consummated the marriage physically six times in front of King Louis, who
applauded and called him ‘a better man than me.’ So many distinguished guests, including the King and his entourage, attended the reception afterwards that there was no room for them all, and they were forced to hold the celebration outdoors in a meadow.
The Pope revelled in Cesare’s union. Each visitor to the Vatican was regaled with the story of Cesare’s wedding, complete with His Holiness bringing out mounds of jewels he intended to send his new daughter-in-law, and holding each gem up to the light for the visitor to admire.
Alfonso and I could only attempt to control the damage. One cardinal whose help Alfonso had solicited, Ascanio Sforza, gently tested the waters in the midst of a conversation with the Pope concerning Church business. He did not believe, Cardinal Sforza told His Holiness, that Louis really intended to invade Naples, since Queen Anne and her people were against it. Besides, the French had already learned their lesson, when King Charles was forced to retreat in humiliation.
The Pope laughed derisively in Sforza’s face. King Federico should take care, Alexander remarked, grinning, lest he find himself in the same position as my father had—believing all the while that the French would never come, then fleeing when Charles’ army neared Naples’ gate.
Upon hearing this, I lost hope—even though Alfonso continued his political lobbying in secret. I took wicked pleasure in one thing: the news that university students in Paris were performing comic parodies of Cesare’s wedding; the Roman sense of grandeur was considered vulgar and extreme by French standards. Cesare’s silver-shod horses had made him a laughingstock.
Jofre finally realized that I was no longer in His Holiness’ good graces, and decided the best course of action was to prove himself a true Borgia, like his brothers. In the company of Spanish soldiers, he roamed the streets at night, drunk and wielding his sword in a pale imitation of Juan, but Jofre’s gentle nature had never equipped him for fighting.
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