The Borgia Bride

XII

Esmeralda and a trio of guards followed me as far as the door, but I whirled on them. ‘I will be alone!’ I demanded, in a voice that silenced even the formidable Donna Esmeralda. Normally, she would have refused to allow me to walk unaccompanied at night, but she was shrewd enough to know that I had reached a level of determination which allowed no argument. Besides, I had no fear; I always carried Alfonso’s stiletto.

I stepped alone into the Roman night. The air was slightly chill, the piazza before me dark; the only light came from the moon, gleaming off the marble rooftops, and the flickering golden windows of the Borgia apartments behind me. I lifted my skirts and, as carefully as I could, made my way down the high stairs to the level of the street, and from there, turned and used the dull glow coming from the ground floor of the Palazzo Santa Maria to guide me to my new home.

I was hardly a prude. I had been witness to a certain amount of debauchery at the court of my father-and at that of my own husband. Party games with courtesans were not unheard of. But they were conducted discreetly, in the presence of only a trusted few.

Apparently, this Pope trusted many. Or perhaps no one dared speak. Either way, it was clear that the man who had so scandalized Italian society by accosting several married women in a cathedral garden had not changed a whit since ascending to the papacy.

I could overlook such a thing, though I had expected more discretion. And I had convinced myself, after His Holiness so easily gave up his attempts to pursue me that afternoon, that all I had to do was refuse him a few times and I would be left alone.

I had even been warmed by how Alexander doted on his children; I had longed for such paternal affection, and imagined how my life might have been had my own father been kindly disposed towards me.

But the oddly triumphant look in Lucrezia’s eyes, as she pressed the Pope’s face to her bosom, made me yearn instead for the home I had known. I could not hide my revulsion toward such a scene between parent and child-for an instant, in my imagination, my own father took Alexander’s place, and I Lucrezia’s. I could only shudder at the thought of pressing my own breasts to Alfonso Il’s lips, of my father groping me drunkenly. So repellent was the notion that I suppressed it immediately.

I now understood, too well, the cause of Lucrezia’s jealousy…and it had nothing to do with my outshining her at social functions.

Her love for Alexander went beyond that of a daughter for her father. The gaze she had directed at me was that of a woman possessive of a lover, and challenging a rival: Leave him; he is mine.

The image of her, her young, white flesh unclothed, pressed against the aged, sagging body of the pontiff, made me ill; I stumbled along the edge of the piazza, drawing in the night air, laden with the marshy smell of the nearby Tiber, as if I could somehow cleanse myself of the memory of what I had just seen.

My instincts said that Lucrezia was a depraved, despicable creature. Her brazen behaviour with the chocolates hinted at a monstrous notion: that she granted her own father-the Pope-sexual favours.

I took a breath and steadied myself. I was a cynic, swift to judge. Away from my brother only a short while, I was already thinking the worst of everyone. How could I be more like Alfonso? I wondered. How would my brother react?

Surely I was wrong, I told myself. The two could not be physically involved; such an idea was too horrible to entertain. Lucrezia had a crush on her father, as some young girls do-and a fierce temper. She was jealous of sharing his affection, and was already forced to do so with Giulia; here was I, another woman who diverted Alexander’s attentions from her. And Lucrezia had been so angered by my harsh response to her during our dance that she had lost control of her temper and wanted badly to shock me.

That is it, I told myself. And perhaps she had drunk more wine than I realized. Perhaps she was not as sober as she seemed.

This thought calmed me to a degree; by the time I arrived at the Palazzo Santa Maria, I was convinced that Lucrezia had resorted to outlandish behaviour out of childishness, and that Alexander had certainly been too intoxicated to realize he nuzzled at his own daughter’s bosom.

The guards recognized me at once and permitted me entry. The ground floor loggia was well-lit, but the upstairs corridors were another matter, and I wandered in confusion until at last I found the entry to my suite.

I extended my hand to open the antechamber door. At once, my wrist was seized with brutal force.

I whirled. Beside me in the shadows loomed Rodrigo Borgia. Even the dim light could not hide the crudeness of his features-the receding chin that disappeared into folds of aging flesh, the prominent, slightly bulbous, irregular nose, the thick lips stretched now in a leer. His eyes were heavy-lidded with drink. The golden mantle was gone; he wore only his red satin robes and a velvet skullcap.

It is true, then, I thought with an odd detachment. A secret passage between Santa Maria and the Vatican exists. How else could His Holiness have left the celebration so quickly and be waiting here for me?

Standing next to him, I could not deny his physical advantage: I was not a large woman, and unlike his son Jofre, Rodrigo was a tall man, still powerful at sixty. My head did not come as high as his broad shoulders. His bones were large and thick, mine fine: his great hands together could encircle my waist, and he could easily snap my neck if he chose.

‘Sancha, my darling, my dream,’ he whispered, dragging me to him; the pressure on my wrist increased to the point of great pain, but I did not cry out. His words were slurred. ‘I have waited all day for this encounter, all evening-nay, for years, since the first instant you were described to me. But the war kept us apart…until now.’

I opened my mouth to rebuke him. Yet before I could utter a word, he encircled me with an arm, placed a palm against the back of my skull, and forced my face to his. I struggled, but to no use. He kissed me, lips pressed to my teeth; the smell of foetid meat, mixed with wine, made me gag.

He let go my wrist and drew back, his expression that of the young lover hopeful for a reaction. I gave him one: with all my strength, I landed a blow on his cheek.

He took a staggering step back before regaining his uncertain balance. His eyes narrowed with surprise and rage; he touched the offended area, then dropped his hand and laughed derisively. ‘You are too confident of your own worth, darling Sancha. You may be a princess-but do not forget, I am the Pope.’

‘I will call for my servants!’ I hissed. ‘They are just beyond the door.’

‘Call for them.’ He smiled. ‘And I will dismiss them. Do you truly think they will refuse to obey me?’

‘They are loyal to me.’

‘If they are, they will suffer for it.’ He said this with surprising pleasantness and ease.

‘How can you not be ashamed?’ I demanded. ‘I am the wife of your son!’

‘You are a woman.’ On his face, in his voice, was a sudden hardness, a meanness I had seen before only in his daughter’s eyes. ‘And I rule here. So long as you live in my household, you are my property, to do with as I please.’

To prove his words, he moved with surprising swiftness for one so full of wine, slipped a hand inside my bodice, and took my breast in his palm.

‘Sancha, my darling,’ he said, with pure petulance, ‘am I so old, so hideous, that you cannot imagine loving me? I would adore you beyond words; there is nothing I would deny you. Only name what you would have. Only name it! I am forever good to those who love me.’

Before he could finish his utterance, I seized his hand and pulled it from my bosom. He, in turn, grasped both my arms and, with a movement so powerful the wind was knocked from my lungs, shoved me backwards against the wall. His bulk pinned me; I flailed, I kicked, but his strength held me fast. In each fist, he held my wrists, forcing my arms out and against the wall at shoulder height-in a barbarous parody of the crucified Christ-then smothered my face with his.

I coughed, hurling spittle on him; I choked as he forced his tongue upon me, into me. And then he raised my wrists overhead, taking one of his great paws to pin them both against the wall. With his other hand, he reached to lift my skirts, bending down as he did. Given his intoxication, the movement made him dizzy, and he swayed.

I used the opportunity to tear one hand free. In a flash, I reached for my stiletto, hidden just beneath my stomacher. I was thinking to discourage him, not to wield it. But when he realized I had broken away and reached up to correct the matter, his hand found the tip of the blade.

He shrieked, and at once recoiled. My eyes had adjusted quite well to the dim light by then, and I could see the hand he held aloft, thick fingers fanned out tautly. We both stared up at it in amazement. The stiletto had nicked the palm, a perfect stigmata, and blood already trickled down to his wrist. The injury was minor, the effect dramatic.

He directed his gaze at me. I saw there, in full hellishness, the hatred that had only glinted in Lucrezia’s eyes. He let go a long hiss. Yet despite his fury, a second emotion played upon his features: Fear.

He is a bully but also a coward, I thought swiftly, just as Father was. I took advantage of this knowledge and advanced toward him, holding the stiletto threateningly aloft.

Rodrigo suddenly smiled, the intoxicated diplomat; his tone turned wheedling as he clasped his wounded hand in the other. ‘So. It is true what they say: you are fearless. I had heard that you saved the King of Naples by killing a man.’

‘With this very weapon,’ I averred flatly. ‘I slit his throat.’

‘All the more reason to love you,’ he proclaimed, with false good humour. ‘Surely, Sancha, you are not so foolish a woman as to turn down such an opportunity…’

‘I am, Holiness. Each time you come to me, you will receive the same response.’ I glared at him. ‘You are a father who claims to love his children. How would Jofre feel, to see us like this?’

Rodrigo bowed his head at my words, and stood in silence a time, swaying slightly. To my astonishment, he burst into tears and knelt. ‘I am an evil man,’ he said, his tone maudlin. ‘Old and drunk and foolish. I am helpless around women; it is the curse of my life. Donna Sancha, you do not understand-your great beauty has made me lose my senses. But now you have won my respect, for you are not only comely, but brave. Forgive me.’ His weeping intensified. ‘Forgive me for dishonouring you, and my poor son so…’

His remorse, though abrupt, seemed sincere. I lowered the stiletto and took a step towards him. ‘I forgive you, Holiness. I will never speak of this incident. Only let it never happen again.’

He shook his great head. ‘I swear it will not, Madonna. I swear…’

I drew closer, thinking to extend a hand, to lift him to his feet.

He reared upwards suddenly, his head and shoulders delivering a blow that knocked me to the cold tile floor and sent the weapon flying. Where it went, I could not see; tangled in my skirts, I struggled to rise, realizing my vulnerability.

Yet my heavy skirts and velvet slippers allowed me no purchase. Rodrigo’s bullish figure loomed before me and reached out…

In the same instant, a second figure appeared, equally tall but leaner, more proportionately built, and caught one of the Pope’s arms.

‘Father,’ Cesare said, his manner easy and calm, as if he were rousing the old man from sleep rather than interrupting a rape.

Disoriented, Rodrigo whirled on his son, still ready to fight. He struck out-but Cesare, with a strength much greater than his father’s, caught Rodrigo’s arm, then laughed, as if it were all a splendid joke. ‘Father! You have had too much wine-you know that if you wished to beat me, you could do so handily when sober. Come, Giulia has been asking for you.’

‘Giulia?’ The Pope looked back at me uncertainly. He had been all too sure of himself when accosting me, but suddenly he seemed no more than a confused old man.

Cesare jerked his head cursorily in my direction. ‘You have no need of this one. But Giulia will grow jealous if you do not go to see her soon.’

The Pope scowled at me, then turned and began ambling down the corridor. Cesare watched him for a heartbeat-then, certain his father was well on his way, hurried over and knelt by my side.

‘Madonna Sancha, are you injured?’ His concern was urgent.

I shook my head. My shoulder and ribs ached, and my wrists were bruised, but I had not been seriously damaged.

‘I will go and make sure His Holiness arrives at the correct destination. I must apologize for him, Madonna; he is drunk.’ He extended both his hands, and helped me to my feet. ‘With your indulgence, I will call upon you shortly, to make a better apology. Now I must tend to him.’

And he was gone.

I found the stiletto on the marble floor and replaced it; once more, my brother’s gift had proved its worth. When I arrived at my chambers, the maids met me, wide-eyed and silent; only when I glanced in my mirror did I realize that my breasts had almost fallen out of my bodice, my skirt was torn, and my hair had spilled halfway out of its gold netting onto my shoulders.

Cesare made good his promise. Within moments after disappearing after his father-not even time enough for my maids to remove the golden net and completely brush out my tousled hair-a discreet knock came at my antechamber door.

I righted my bodice, dismissed my maids to their rooms and went to the door myself. I was still shaking from the physical exertion of the struggle, a fact I found highly annoying.

Cesare, sober, yet troubled after a controlled, dignified fashion, stood waiting. I bade him enter, and he stood, refusing an offer to sit.

‘Madonna Sancha, are you quite certain you are unhurt?’

‘I am certain.’ I did my best to reflect his own dignity back to him. In truth, I cared not so much about the violation his father had just committed against my person as I did about what Cesare thought of me.

‘I implore your forgiveness,’ Cesare said, with a hint of passion in his otherwise cautious tone. ‘His Holiness too often tries to forget the enormous concerns of state by immersing himself in wine. He is already fast asleep. I suspect he will have forgotten this entire incident come morning.’

And you are suggesting that I forget it as well, I wanted to say, but such would be impolitic. I had no choice but to do so; the Pope had full power over my destiny. He could banish me, if he wished, to the prison in the Castle Sant’Angelo, on a mythical charge of treason; he could even have me murdered by one of his henchmen. I was grateful for Cesare’s concern, for it meant I had more than the ineffectual Jofre as an ally in the Borgia household.

Instead I replied, ‘There is physical evidence of the event. I pierced him…with a stiletto. His hand is injured.’

‘It must not be a serious wound,’ Cesare replied. ‘I failed to notice it, and he did not complain of it.’

‘It is not. But it left a mark, nonetheless.’

Cesare considered this a time; his expression reminded me of the surface of a lake when the water is very, very still. At last he offered, ‘Then if my father does not recall the event, you and I shall both agree here and now that the wound was the result of an encounter with one of the courtesans. I shall tell him I witnessed this myself, and that the woman was dealt with harshly.’

I nodded.

Cesare returned the gesture in acknowledgment of our complicity, then bowed. ‘I take my leave, Madonna.’

He turned to go-then stopped, and regarded me over his shoulder, again with that intense, dark-eyed stare that left me uncomfortable and thrilled at the same time. ‘You are the only woman I know of who has refused him, Madonna. That requires great courage and conviction.’

I lowered my gaze. ‘I am married to his son.’ I was not simply replying to Cesare; I was reminding myself of the fact as well.

He fell silent a time. And then: ‘A pity, Madonna, that you met the youngest before the eldest.’ He ventured another glance at me; this time, I returned it boldly.

‘A pity,’ I said.

He smiled very faintly, then left.