The Borgia Bride

XIV

That night, I sent my closest ladies away from my bedchamber, saying I wished to sleep alone. They were used to my whims and did not question me, resigning themselves to sleeping in a nearby room. Before they left, I insisted my youngest maid, Felicia, set out a black silk gown and veil for me, saying that I missed Naples greatly and wished to wear nothing but mourning for the rest of the week.

I knew I should have consulted Donna Esmeralda-who had no doubt already found sources and gleaned as much information as possible about the members of the Borgia household. But so strong was my infatuation that I asked no questions; if Cesare was a rake, as lascivious and fickle as his father, I did not want to know. Even had I been told, I would have rejected such news.

I scarcely had time to blow out the oil lamp on my table when a swift knock came at the chamber door-one that made my heart sink, for I recognized it as Jofre’s. Without waiting for a reply, he entered; in the yellowish light, I saw the sheepish leer on his face.

‘Sancha, my darling,’ he said. ‘Is there a place in your bed for me tonight?’ He shut the door behind him. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, and his eyes half-lidded; he was drunk, a condition I found him in often since we had come to live with his family.

I paled. ‘I…I am feeling unwell,’ I stammered, and as though I were a virgin, I clutched my chemise round my neck, lest he see too much flesh.

Jofre seemed not to hear the words. Fuelled by wine, he stumbled over to where I sat upon the bed, and laid his hands upon my breasts. ‘I have the most beautiful wife in the world,’ he slurred, ‘and I shall take her now.’

I felt two things: pity for him, that I did not return his feelings, and fear, that the wine would cause him to fall asleep in my bed on the very night I had planned my first act of infidelity.

Had he been any drunker, he would have been incapable of the deed. I lay obediently on the bed and parted my legs for him. He, in turn, pulled down his leggings and hiked my underskirts up to my waist, crawled on top of me, and inserted himself.

What followed would not have inspired even the overwrought Petrarch. Jofre lay atop me, unable to support himself with his arms, his face buried in my breasts. For a moment, he thrust madly, clumsily-then, having worn himself out, stopped and gasped for air.

‘Can you ever love me?’ he asked, his voice pregnant with tears. ‘My Sancha, will you ever come to love me?’

‘You are my prince,’ I told him. I might deceive him with Cesare, but I could not lie to his face. ‘I grow fonder of you with every passing day.’

His head lolled; sleep threatened.

I used a womanly trick explained to me before my wedding: I used the muscles that surrounded Jofre’s organ to squeeze tightly, thus arousing him enough to continue his thrusting, and, at last, yield to pleasure and collapse.

He sighed and rolled over onto his back; I sensed that he was again on the verge of slumber, so I pulled up his leggings, then pushed him upright.

‘You must hurry to your chamber,’ I said, with no other explanation. ‘Here. Let me help you.’

Weary with wine and sexual release, Jofre was too confused to argue. I half-supported him as he staggered back to the door.

As was our custom, I gave him a little kiss. ‘Good night, my sweet.’

I returned to my bed. If all I had learned of God was true, then I was damned, and rightly so; guilt overwhelmed me. I did not want to betray my husband, yet my heart would let me do no else. You are evil, I told myself. Wicked. How can you be so cruel to one who loves you? But even as my legs were sticky with my husband’s seed, I dreamt of his brother, and the encounter to come. The strength of my feeling for Cesare left me no choice. It seemed ironic that such a dazzling, magnificent thing as love had struck too late, after both parties had taken vows prohibiting its celebration.

I cleansed myself with a cloth. At last the time came; I rose, and struggled in the darkness to dress myself.

The other ladies were all sleeping, and undisturbed-but Donna Esmeralda had not been fooled. As I fought to lace my bodice with unskilled fingers, the stout old matron, dressed only in her white linen nightgown, came into my chamber.

She said nothing. Given the lack of light, I could not see her expression, but I could sense her disapproval, imagine her baleful stare.

‘I could not sleep,’ I said haughtily. At Esmeralda’s continued silence, I demanded, ‘At least help me with my bodice.’

Esmeralda obeyed, tugging on the gown not at all gently. ‘This will only lead to more trouble, Madonna.’

I was too impetuous, too giddy with love to tolerate the truth. ‘I told you, I cannot sleep! I will take some fresh air.’

‘It is not seemly for a young woman to go out alone at this hour. Let me go with you, or call one of the guards.’ Her tone was insistent.

‘Lace my bodice, then leave me! I left the party last night alone, and arrived in my chamber safely, did I not? I can protect myself.’

For a time, she did not reply, merely finished her work, then stepped back. At last, she drew a breath; she knew me too well not to speak her mind.

‘That is not quite the case, is it, Madonna? You required a good deal of help last night.’

I was too astounded to answer. How could anyone, besides myself and Cesare, know of His Holiness’ indiscretion? If Donna Esmeralda was already party to the secret, then I had no hope of hiding an affair with Cesare from anyone at the papal court.

I told myself I did not care.

‘I shall not speak of this to you again,’ Esmeralda said finally. ‘I know you are wilful and impervious to reason. But hear, if you can: this will only lead to greater danger than you faced last night, my Sancha. Not less. You are Eve in the Garden-and the serpent himself confronts you.’

‘Leave me,’ I commanded, and drew the veil over my face.

The night air had cooled only slightly after the summer-warm day; I was accustomed to the mists and fog of a coastal clime, but Rome afforded no such cloak. I relied on the darkness and my veil for disguise on this, my first sally into deception.

Overhead, clouds half-hid a waxing moon. In such feeble light, my vision obstructed by a film of dark silk gauze, I moved haltingly, like one near blind. The garden seemed totally unfamiliar, the bright colours of the foliage reduced to shades of grey, the roses and orange trees sudden strangers. I hesitated along the path, fighting panic. Had I taken this turn, or the next? If I became lost, would Cesare think I had played him for a fool, and leave the garden in disgust?

Or had he played me for one?

I chided myself for entertaining such fears; I hated the intensity of my love for Cesare, because it made me weak.

I drew in a steadying breath, made my decision, and took the nearest turn. As I did, I caught sight of the stone bench beneath the shade tree, and something dark moving against the pale stone: the outline of a man.

Cesare. I wanted to cry out like a girl and run to him, but forced myself to walk slowly, regally: he would have wanted no less.

He, too, was dressed in black, all but face and hands blending into the background of night.

He waited, tall and dignified, till I arrived beside him-then both of us dropped all restraint. I cannot say who moved first; perhaps we moved together, but I sensed no passage of time between the moment I stepped up to him and the moment my veil was thrown back and we were locked fast in an embrace, lips against lips, body against body, so intensely, so strongly I felt as though the edges of my flesh were dissolving into his. So great was the heat generated that, without our arms gripping each other, I would have fallen back, senseless.

To my dismay, he tore himself from me. ‘Not here,’ he said, in a voice hoarse and desperate. ‘You are not some kitchen maid to be taken casually upon the dirt. Trust me; I have made arrangements. We will be safe.’

I replaced my veil; he took my hand. His step was certain; he knew his way well. He led me along the back of the palace, to an unguarded entrance leading to an unfamiliar corridor. This led to a heavy wooden door, which opened to another corridor…one long and of recent construction, crudely finished and unappointed. Its existence was clearly to provide private access, and nothing more. Wall torches lit our way.

After a moment, we arrived again at a door, which Cesare opened with a flourish. I frowned in puzzlement. Before us lay a great chapel, ancient and ornate; votive lamps flickered on the altar, and a great papal throne sat to one side, with stalls nearby for cardinals.

Cesare’s lips curved. ‘The Sistine Chapel,’ he said, as he helped me through the doorway. ‘We are in Saint Peter’s.’

My veil brushed softly against my lips as they parted in astonishment. So this was the same passageway His Holiness used to travel swiftly to the Palazzo Santa Maria.

‘Come,’ Cesare said. We moved swiftly through the chapel, through the cathedral, and into the adjoining halls of the Vatican. Never did we encounter a guard; Cesare had taken pains to ensure our privacy.

He led me into the Borgia apartments, which I recognized from the previous night’s gala; it gave me little comfort to think I would be so close to the Pope. Happily, Cesare led me in a different direction, and upstairs; at last we arrived at an unguarded suite, and he flung open the doors with a flourish.

‘I have brought you to my own bed, and dismissed all the servants until morning,’ he said, closing the doors behind us. ‘How long you wish to stay is your own choice, Madonna.’

‘Forever,’ I murmured.

At once, he fell to his knees before me and embraced my skirts, his arms wrapped round my legs, his face tilted upwards. Utterly earnest, he proclaimed, ‘Only say you wish it, Sancha, and I will give up the priesthood. My father wants me Pope, and so I must be a cardinal-but I am not suited by nature for such a calling. His Holiness will do whatever I ask of him; he would annul your marriage to Jofre. Surely you know your husband is not truly his son…’

Jofre not the Pope’s son? The revelation startled some distant part of me, that small, detached and silent part not overwhelmed by Cesare’s proposal and desperate to accept it. ‘Then whose is he?’ I whispered.

‘The very legitimate offspring of my mother Vannozza and her husband.’ Cesare smiled.

I wavered, thinking of myself and Cesare, free to love as we willed, free to bear children together. But Jofre and I were married; my own father and a Borgia cardinal had witnessed the physical consummation. There could be no grounds for annulment.

I pressed my fingers firmly against Cesare’s lips to staunch the flow of his words. ‘The marriage act was witnessed and cannot be undone,’ I said. ‘But now is not the time to speak of the future: now is the time for you to take me to your bed.’

He accepted this. He rose and, facing me, his fingertips beneath mine, led me back into his bedchamber.

The shutters were closed, but the room glowed with the light of twenty candles, placed about the room on gold sconces. There was a half-finished mural on the wall, of a pagan theme, and on the bed, a coverlet of crimson velvet. Fur throws covered the floor, and on a beautifully carved bedside table rested a flagon of wine, and two golden goblets, inlaid with rubies. This was the bedchamber of a prince, not a priest.

I was prepared to throw myself down and hike up my skirts for a fleeting event, as I was accustomed to with Jofre. Yet as I neared the bed, Cesare arrested me with his voice.

‘May I see you, Sancha, as God made you?’

I removed my veil and turned to face him, surprised by this request. I was near trembling with desperation to consummate the affair; I saw the quiver in Cesare’s parted lips. The intensity in his eyes approached madness, yet in his tone, his manner, was delicate.

I lifted my chin, determined. ‘Only if you return the favour.’

In reply, he unfastened his priest’s robe and slipped it off, to reveal beneath a black tunic of alternating bands of black satin and velvet, and a sheathed dagger at his hip, and black leggings-the costume of a Roman gentleman. With swiftness and grace, he removed first slippers, then the tunic, revealing a high, well-muscled chest, with sparse, dark hairs at the hollow; he was lean, and his collarbone, hips and ribs showed prominently as he carefully pulled the leggings down over his sculpted thighs. When he finished, he rose and stood, humbly available for my scrutiny.

I stared in awe. I had never seen a fully naked man before. Even the pleasure-giving Onorato had never removed his tunic, and had only lowered his leggings as far as necessary during our dalliances. Jofre never removed his tunic, save for our wedding night, when custom required us to be naked, and I believe he removed his leggings completely only once. The closest I came to being unclad with Jofre were times such as this evening, when I had already removed my gown and wore only my shift. Even then, our relations took place under cover of clothing.

But here was Cesare, entirely revealed and glorious. I could not avoid staring at the place between his legs, where, emerging from a profusion of jet-black hair, his erect male organ pointed at me with a decidedly upward slant. It was larger than Jofre’s, and I began to move my hand toward it, wanting to touch it.

‘Not yet,’ Cesare whispered. Like a lady-in-waiting, he moved behind me, and with surprising skill, began untying my sleeves. I pulled them off, laughing at the sudden sense of freedom, then waited while he unlaced my bodice.

That done, I pulled my gown down and stepped out of it. Such a heavy weight to bear, clothes. I was in a hurry to pull my chemise over my head, but Cesare spoke again.

‘Stand in front of the candlelight-there.’ He tilted his head, dark eyes shining with admiration. ‘The effect is gossamer; like looking at an angel, through wisps of cloud.’

‘Bah!’ I pulled off the undergarment and flung it to the floor. ‘To the bed!’

‘No,’ he countered, as emphatically as an artist demanding a masterpiece be admired. ‘Look at you,’ he breathed. ‘One cannot question God’s wisdom.’

I smiled at that-in part, at his adoration, in part, out of my own vanity. I was still young then, and had never suckled a child; my breasts had been called perfect by Onorato, neither too large nor too small, with a firm, pleasing shape. I knew, too, that the curve of my hips was womanly, and that I was not too thin.

He stepped up behind me and began to unfasten my hair, done up in a single fat braid to keep it out of my way while sleeping. When it was free, I shook my head and let it fall unhindered to my waist; he drew his fingers through it once, twice, sighing, then moved again to stand in front of me and study me as a painter might assess his own work.

Once again, he surprised me. As I stood there for his regard, he walked up to me, knelt again with the reverence of a pilgrim at a shrine, and kissed the dark mound of Venus between my legs. I started slightly-then started even more when he parted my nether lips with his thumbs and began to massage the region with his tongue.

Embarrassment warred with delight. I twitched, I shifted my weight from leg to leg, I tried, overwhelmed by the sensation at one point, to pull away from him, but he cupped his hands round my backside and held me fast.

‘Stop,’ I begged him, for I was swaying backward, near falling. In response, he half-lifted me and pressed me hard against the nearest wall. ‘Stop,’ I begged again, for the feeling was too intense to bear…

Only when I ceased begging and began moaning did he at last lift his face, wearing a self-satisfied, wicked little smile, and say, ‘Now to the bed.’

He did not, as I had hoped, continue licking; instead, he kissed me full on the lips, his beard and tongue covered with my scent. For the first time, I experienced the warmth of flesh pressed against flesh, from head to breast to sex to legs to toe, and shivered: how could this be sinful, and not divine?

We wrestled. I could not, as I had with Onorato, lie back and let myself be the object of attention, a passive creature to be won: I fought, in the midst of Cesare’s pleasuring me, to do the same for him. I craved to do the same for him. Some never-before tapped force within me rose, something at once bestial and holy. I felt consumed by flame-not bestowed by an external God, but arising from within, internal and intense, filling me and then bursting forth from the crown of my head, like an apostle at Pentecost, like one of the tapers flickering in the wall sconce near Cesare’s bed.

He would not enter me: he made me wait, made me demand, made me plead. Only when I had crossed over into madness did he at last oblige me, and I clung fast to him, legs and arms grasping him so tightly they ached, but I did not care; I had him now, and would permit no escape. He laughed slightly, softly, at the ferocity with which I held him, but there was no detachment in it. I could see reflected in his dark eyes the wildness in my own: we were lost to each other. I was no more an ordinary lover to him than he to me. We were possessed of a passion that not all men and women have the grace to experience in their lifetimes.

He rode me-or I him, I cannot tell, for we moved of a singular accord-with alternating savagery and delicacy. During the latter times, as he moved inside me slowly, his eyes narrowed, his breathing slow and tortured, I tried to thrash, to force him back to more brutal love-making, but he held me fast, pinning my arms above my head, whispering, ‘Patience, Princess…’

Once again, he drove me to begging-something I would do for no other man. I ached to be spent, to be done away with; but Cesare was determined to take me to the precipice of the greatest desperation I had ever known.

How much time passed since I had entered his chamber, I could not say. It might have been hours.

When I could bear no more, he tore himself away. This provoked the worst horror in me-such a thing could not be allowed. Yet he was stronger than I, and with that strength, gently applied, and calm words one might use to soothe an anxious beast, he coaxed me to lie back, and applied tongue and fingers to the delta between my legs.

I thought I had experienced pleasure before; I thought I had experienced passionate heat. But the sensation Cesare induced in me that night began slowly, building like an ember coaxed into raging flames. It seemed to begin outside myself, somewhere in the heavens above my head, and I felt it descend on me, an unspeakable, sacred force, inescapable, all-consuming. The room before me: the bed, my own naked skin, the walls and ceiling, the flickering light-even Cesare’s face over mine, his eyes wide, burning with anticipation-disappeared.

I shall certainly go to Hell for saying it, but there seemed nothing in all the world but God, but bliss, whatever one must call the extreme sensation where all boundaries between self and the world disappear. Even I was gone…

Yet despite my absence from reality, I sensed union with Cesare again. He had mounted me in the midst of my ecstasy, merging with it, riding it until our voices joined.

I was quite used to repressing my moans of delight in the past, to reducing them to whispers, lest others hear. This experience tore from me a scream, one I was quite helpless to control. But it was not only my voice; Cesare joined in. Yet I could not have differentiated one of us from the other; the two of us made one sound-which surely was heard in every corner of the papal apartments.

We lay for a time on the bed. Neither of us spoke; I certainly could not, for my throat was rendered quite hoarse, and I was exhausted, my long hair stuck to my arms, my back, my breasts, with perspiration. At long last, Cesare turned to me and smoothed tendrils back from my forehead and cheek.

‘I have never had such an incredible experience with a woman. I think I have never known love before now, Sancha.’

I coughed, then managed to whisper, ‘My heart is yours, Cesare. And we are both damned for it.’

He rose to fetch me wine. A sudden playfulness overtook me-the same sort of silliness that had come over me in Saint Peter’s-perhaps because of the sense of freedom provoked by ecstatic release. I would not, I told myself merrily, be deprived of the finest lover I had ever known, at least not so soon after being conquered by him. As he attempted to rise from the bed, I wrapped both my arms about his thigh.

He laughed-dignified Cesare, always in control, snickered in helpless surprise at the unexpectedness of the act. Nonetheless, he continued onward, struggling toward the carafe of wine, certainly thinking that I would not persist in such childlike behaviour.

Chuckling, I strengthened my grasp; he, in turn, would not be dissuaded from his task.

I held on even as he rose, clinging to his leg despite the fact that doing so pulled me from the bed onto the fur-carpeted floor. He gasped with hilarity and astonishment at the fact, and took one step, two; all the while, I held on firmly, forcing him to drag me along.

At last, he yielded, collapsing on top of me, and the two of us giggled on the floor like children.

When I returned to my own bed, I lay for a time listening to Esmeralda’s soft wheezing breath, and stared up at the darkness. At first I dwelled in drowsy euphoria, reliving the moments of bliss with Cesare…and then guilt returned once more, bringing me to full, agitated consciousness.

I was, like my forebears, far too capable of cruelty and deception-especially when away from my brother’s good and gentle influence. Only two days among the Borgias, and I was already an adulteress. What was to become of me, if I spent the rest of my life in Rome?