A Borgia Daughter Dies

by Maryann Philip

  The priora was writing letters in her whitewashed office, her quill bobbing across her scarred wooden writing table behind a crockery cup filled with yellow jonquils. She directed them to seat themselves on cushioned chairs, embroidered in bright colors by Girls’ House students.

  They told their story. When she finished, Priora Picchi nodded in agreement. “Undoubtedly poison. We must keep this a secret,” she directed.

  “But we have to look for the monster who did this,” protested Nicola. “Who would kill an innocent old nun? Maybe it’s the same person who killed Sister Annaluisa. If the killer is not found, it could happen again!”

  “Sister Annaluisa was killed by a cutpurse, Nicola,” said Sister Beatrice firmly. “This is an entirely different matter.”

  “Of course, it is,” the priora said absently. She stood, and paced her chamber. The walls were as white as her habit, their only adornment a large wooden crucifix.

  Tall and slender, Priora Picchi carried herself with quiet authority. Her heavy brows were speckled with grey, but her ageless face bore scarcely a line. Her air of quiet confidence comforted Nicola. So did the nun scent that lingered in her office, which Nicola thought of as the odor of sanctity: a combination of incense, lye soap, and a faint tang of sweat.

  The priora stopped and faced them. “You are right, Nicola, but there are exceptional circumstances here. The murder of a nun should be reported to the Vatican. I don’t dare do this, in this instance. They would want to know her family, and that I cannot reveal.”

  “Why not? “ asked Nicola, before thinking. When she thought, she knew the answer: Sister Gerolama was one of the pope's daughters, and the pope did not know she was even alive. But she, Nicola, was not supposed to know this. And she could not betray Sister Beatrice, who had revealed Sister Gerolama's secret inadvertently, and now looked very uncomfortable.

  The priora hesitated a moment, then spoke. “She was one of the pope's daughters, Nicola, from when he was a young cardinal,” the priora finally said. “She has been hiding from him here for most of her life.”

  “So she was Madonna Lucrezia's sister?” Nicola asked, knowing the answer.

  “Half sister.”

  “Why was she hiding from her father?” This, Nicola had never been sure about.

  “He married her to a man twice her age when she was thirteen—just as he did with Lucrezia, many years later. When her husband died of the plague, she wanted to join us here. But she knew her father would simply plan another marriage for her. So, she bribed her servants to declare she was dead from the plague, too--easy enough to do, in those terrible days.”

  The priora now looked at Sister Beatrice. “You must try to determine who poisoned Sister Gerolama.”

  Beatrice looked stunned. “Me? But how? And why?”

  “Because we need to know. But be careful. Don’t tell anyone she was the pope's daughter, who does not know it already. Also, no one must suspect that she was poisoned.”

  “I cannot go around asking people if they poisoned Sister Gerolama! What good would that do?”

  “You can at least ask about food poisoning—whether Gerolama ate anything bad; whether anybody else was sick. That makes sense coming from you—you are the infermiera, after all.”

  Beatrice shook her head, dismay on her face. “I can try, but I don’t think our food was at fault. We all took the same bread and watered wine from the kitchen. But in St. Peter’s Square, everyone was sharing food and drink. Even strangers offered food to us. Sister Gerolama was all by herself, when I found her. It is possible that she took food or drink from strangers. I can ask about that, I suppose.”

  “Let me do it,” said Nicola. “I am better at asking questions than Sister Beatrice.”

  A vague plan was forming in her mind, which she dared not voice: she would ask about the deaths of Sister Annaluisa and Sister Gerolama at the same time. Though the nuns had forbidden more questions about Sister Annaluisa, surely this was a justification. Or at least, an excuse.

  Both women stared at Nicola for a moment. “But you are a child, Nicola!” Sister Beatrice protested.

  This angered Nicola, who folded her arms in defiance. “I am not a child. I am old enough to marry. I am old enough help in the Death House. I am even old enough to become a nun,” she responded, rebellion in her voice.

  Both nuns crossed themselves. “You are not yet ready for the veil, Nicola,” the priora said. “Still--let me think for a moment.” She clasped her hands in brief, silent prayer. When finished, she smiled.

  “Beatrice, I see that you are reluctant to do this task, and I frankly think you are ill-suited to it. There is no one obvious who is—and I am reluctant to let anyone else know the truth about Sister Gerolama’s death, in any event. Gossip spreads like the plague here. In this instance, it is dangerous.”

  She turned to Nicola. “But Nicola has been asking odd questions and popping up everywhere in the convent for years,” she said. “It isn’t a bad idea, to let her ask a few more. Much easier than trying to stop her! She is certainly more eager than you are, and she has more opportunities.”

  She faced Nicola. “This will be a more difficult task of obedience for you, Nicola—one that will require judgment. First, can you promise to keep everything a secret?”

  “Of course. You know I have been obedient.”

  “Including a secret from your friend Pia?”

  “Especially from Pia. She has trouble keeping secrets.”

  “Bene. Now: everyone who went to receive the pope’s blessing saw you weeping at the gates, because you could not go with them. So, they know you really wanted to be there. Do you remember which nuns and students went?”

  “Of course.”

  “Here is what you can do: when you see someone who was there, ask her about the day in St. Peter’s Square. What did it look like? Could she see the pope? Did she see what happened to Sister Gerolama? What did that look like? Who was there? What did everyone eat? You must make it look like you are interested in everything, not just in Sister Gerolama’s death, do you understand?”

  “That will not be hard, because I am interested in everything,” Nicola replied.

  “Bene. But you cannot mention poison, or say anything that might make people think that Sister Gerolama died an unnatural death. Understood?”

  Here Nicola hesitated, thinking for a moment. “Mostly we want to know who was with her, and what she ate, si?”

  “Just ask, ‘Who was there to comfort her?’ and ‘She didn’t die alone, did she?’ and ‘Were you frightened?’ Questions like that. Tell Sister Beatrice everything you learn. That is all I want you to do, unless you get permission from me. Understood?”

  Nicola nodded. “I promise,” she said.

  “And no questions about Sister Annaluisa!”

  For a fleeting moment, Nicola considered arguing. But questions about Annaluisa had always been useless. She would have to find out what happened, without asking questions. Somehow.

  “I promise I will not ask questions about Sister Annaluisa,” she said to the priora. Then she turned to Sister Beatrice. “Can you tell me where everyone was standing before Sister Gerolama died, Suora?”

  “I was near the middle of the group, thinking to be of assistance if someone became ill. La Greca was with the students to my left, along with your teachers, Sister Ignacia and Sister Domenica. Several of the younger nuns helped them--Sister Anna, for one. Sister Gerolama and some of the older nuns were to my right--probably trying to get away from the noise of the students. Sister Amelia and Sister Joanna were there. Sister Francesca as well, I think. Sister Gerolama must have been on the outside edge of the group. The guests and their retainers were close by. They were sharing food and water with the nuns, I remember.”

  Sister Beatrice smacked the table with the palm of her hand. “It must be Madonna Sforza! She was there soon after Gerolama died. Her family hates the Borgias. Leonora Sforza could have ordered her retainers to share poisoned food with Ge
rolama, or done it herself! That must be the answer.”

  “Madonna Sforza? Isn’t she my teacher’s sister?” Nicola asked.

  “Half sister. She chose to stay in our convent to visit Ignacia.”

  “But why do the Sforzas hate the Borgias—wasn't Lucrezia married to a Sforza? “

  “She was, but the pope divorced them, because the Sforza wouldn't support the papal armies. But then, the papal armies wouldn't support the Sforza. Who knows where it started? But Lucrezia's divorce from Giovanni Sforza was the final rupture. Leonora is his sister.”

  “She is a powerful woman, Beatrice,” the priora warned. “We cannot accuse her without proof.”

  “Can I talk to her menservants?” Nicola asked.

  “Talk to strange men? Certainly not.”

  “To Madonna Sforza, then?”

  The priora hesitated. “Yes--but be careful what you say.”

  “I don’t think we will find anything out, Priora,” Sister Beatrice warned.

  The priora sighed. “In the best of circumstances, we would be unlikely to find the killer. If Gerolama was a victim of a vendetta against the pope, she would have preferred to see it ended at her grave. Just do the best you can.”

  “Could it really be a vendetta?” Nicola asked.

  “I cannot think it was anything else. Sister Gerolama had no enemies, but all of Rome's first families have children in this convent. And Pope Alexander has imprisoned or killed members of almost every family here.”

  “Surely you don't think one of the sisters poisoned Gerolama,” said a shocked Sister Beatrice.

  “No. . . . but an outside family member might have. The older nuns--the ones who were here when Gerolama arrived-- all knew she was the pope's daughter. All were sworn to silence, but it is possible that word spread outside the convent. It would be a clever way to pursue a vendetta. Family honor could be avenged without the pope even knowing it.”

  Sister Beatrice’s face was grim. “By someone like Leonora Sforza.”

  “But how could poisoning an innocent nun possibly avenge a family’s honor?” Nicola persisted. “If it were honorable, wouldn’t it be done openly?”

  The priora and Sister Beatrice looked at each other, the way the nuns usually did when Nicola asked a question they didn’t like.

  “Revenge is always ugly and sinful,” the priora said. “Maybe that is why it is so often secret. Sometimes, innocent family members die mysteriously when the capo di famiglia is well-protected—like the pope. The evildoers get extra satisfaction from fooling their enemies—plus, they can hope the matter will end there, if they are not caught.”

  Sister Beatrice nodded. “Madonna Lucrezia's wedding probably reawoke all the gossip about Gerolama’s identity. In St. Peter's Square, she was exposed to the world,” she said thoughtfully. “You have probably hit on the answer, Priora. At any rate, you have found the only rational explanation.”

  “The two of you will immediately compile a list of the nuns and guests whose families may be pursuing a vendetta against the Borgia family,” the priora said. “I will make it my task to talk to the nuns who knew about Sister Gerolama, to see if they spread word of her identity. This much we can do, without attracting too much attention.”

  The priora shook her head regretfully. “If I had known her father would become pope, I would not have dared take Gerolama in. As it is, I greatly fear what would happen if the Holy Father ever knows the truth. I already faced him down once, when he sent soldiers for Lucrezia. This convent may not survive if I anger him again.”

  Nicola remembered hearing the soldiers banging on the convent gate, soon after Madonna Lucrezia arrived. She had climbed into her favorite fig tree and watched, as Priora Picchi spoke to them from inside the convent. Eventually they went away, shaking their heads. So the rumors were true: the priora had defied the pope! No wonder she was afraid to do it again.

  “Did Madonna Lucrezia know her sister was here when she came?” Nicola asked.

  “Of course,” said the priora. “How do you think she knew to come here when she needed refuge herself?”

  Sister Beatrice had been frowning in thought. Now she spoke. “I do not condone vendetta, Priora. But I say, let God impose justice. If one of our sisters let her family know about Gerolama, it was done in innocence. It is a matter between her and her confessor. Pursuing the killer can only lead to further bloodshed. That is the nature of vendetta, and with this pope. . . . . Also, how could we identify the killer to the authorities, without revealing Sister Gerolama's secret, and further angering the pope? I like it not.”

  The priora sighed. “I wish we could leave things as they are, but there is a problem. Giulia Orsini has asked us to take her daughter as a student here. I can tell her we have no room at present, but I cannot put her off indefinitely. What am I to tell her? That the child would be unsafe?”

  “Why would an Orsini be unsafe?” asked Nicola. “I thought we were talking about a vendetta against the Borgias.”

  The priora and Sister Beatrice looked at each other. “Giulia’s child is thought to be the daughter of the pope,” the priora explained.

  “The pope has too many children,” Nicola pronounced. “All the cardinales have one or two, but this makes how many? Nine or ten?”

  “Hush, Nicola.” said the priora, as if the pope might overhear. “You see my dilemma. If I refuse to take her daughter as a student, Madonna Giulia will appeal to the pope. Unless I tell her why I am refusing-- in which case she will also tell the pope.”

  “A dilemma indeed,” said Sister Beatrice reluctantly.

  “Her child would be safe,” Nicola pronounced. “Sister Beatrice says there is no poison here. No one in the convent could have access to it. Plus, Lucrezia came to no harm when she was here.”

  “Lucrezia had all her food tasted for poison. I was insulted at the time, but now I am thankful.”

  “I do not keep poisons for medicinal purposes.” Beatrice interjected. “Sister Francesca or Cook might keep some for poisoning vermin, however. Also, the yellow paint that Sister Elisabetta uses for illustrating manuscripts is made with yellow arsenic.”

  “We have yellow paint in the schoolroom, Priora," Nicola volunteered.

  “Miserecordia! Is it locked up?”

  “None of the school supplies are locked.”

  “Then I am afraid you will also need to look into this question. We will need to know what poisons are available within the convent, and to whom,” the priora pronounced. She smiled at Sister Beatrice, whose agonized expression showed how little pleased she was with her instructions.

  “Just do the best you can, Beatrice. That is all that I ask. Go now.”

  Chapter 12—The Suspects

  The next day

  Sister Beatrice and Nicola began their investigation the next day. Nicola circulated among the nuns and workers in the kitchen and barns, asking whether poisons were kept for control of vermin. Sister Beatrice needed some, she insisted, to control mice in the infermeria. Everyone told her, firmly, that the convent used cats, rather than poison, to control vermin. She should ask La Greca for a cat, if there was a problem with mice.

  Nicola also listened carefully to the Girls’ House gossip in the weeks after Sister Gerolama’s death, to learn what the students saw while in St. Peter’s Square. To their loud collective regret, nobody saw anything—not even the pope--because of the crowd. Most students knew nothing about the death until they saw Sister Gerolama’s body bundled in the wheelbarrow. Or, so they said. No one seemed to suspect that Sister Gerolama was murdered.

  Pia, who had been first on the scene, had this to say: “I was bored, so I followed Sister Beatrice when the screaming started, to see what was happening. I saw her kneeling beside one of the sisters. No, I don’t remember who else was there. Sister Beatrice told me to find a priest, and I did. She made me miss everything.”

  Nicola had little more success with Madonna Sforza, whom she cornered outside the guest house.

&
nbsp; “Madonna Sforza! I wanted to thank you for helping Sister Gerolama when she died. It was good of you. I’m so glad she didn’t die alone.”

  “No need for thanks. I only did what was needful.”

  “Did you see her when she collapsed?”

  “No, no. A servant came and told me.”

  “Oh, I thought you were close by. I’m glad the servant was with her, then. Did he give her anything to eat or drink?”

  Madonna Sforza stopped abruptly, and turned to stare at Nicola. “Who are you?”

  “I am Nicola. And I know you are my teacher’s sister because you look like her—only prettier. Of course.” Leonora Sforza was shorter and sallower than her half-sister, but had the same bruised look around the eyes. To Nicola’s mind, she looked like God had squashed Mortuos with His thumb, then baked her briefly. While Mortuos looked sad, though, her half-sister seemed angry.

  “I didn’t see her, and I don’t know if my servants gave her anything to eat or drink,” Madonna Sforza snapped.

  “I just don’t like to think of her dying alone, or hungry, or thirsty. I hear everyone was sharing Easter treats. Did your servants share food with the crowd?”

  “Not with my permission,” Madonna Sforza responded, turning away abruptly.

  Nicola followed her. “I just hope she didn’t die among strangers. Do you know who was with her when she died?”

  “Just the nursing sister, was all I saw.”

  “But you just said—“

  “I have said as much as I am going to say.” Madonna Sforza disappeared into the guest house, closing the door behind her. Nicola returned to Girl’s House, wondering if she should have asked different questions.

  She did learn one thing: she was sure her teachers knew that the yellow paint used by the students was poisonous. That had been easy: she simply declared that it looked delicious, and asked permission to eat some of it. Vivos had jumped as if stuck with a hot poker, shouting, “Are you pazza? It is poison!” Mortuos glided wordlessly across the room and removed the yellow paint from the storage cupboard. Nicola hadn’t seen it since.