The Borgia Bride

XVI

By the time I arrived back in my chambers at the Palace of Santa Maria, I had grown even more agitated. The fact that I had slapped the Pope’s favourite son in public took full hold of me, as did the knowledge that Juan would not rest until he had his revenge.

Worse, Cesare had stepped forward as my outraged protector-Cesare, and not my own husband. The former’s passionate response would set tongues wagging in the court…and such rumours would hurt Jofre deeply. Not only would they damage my marriage, they would outrage Alexander, and destroy my friendship with Lucrezia.

Worst of all, I feared the news might reach Naples, and Alfonso…and I would not be able to lie to him, even in a letter. Having to admit my adultery to my dear brother would shame me most of all.

Fortunately, I was set to rendezvous later that night with Cesare in the garden, and I focused on the fact as a way to calm myself. Cesare’s unparalleled skill at diplomacy would save me from Juan’s wrath, just as it had saved me from Alexander’s unwanted attentions; I waited restlessly until I could discuss the matter with him.

At last, the time came for me to set out. Instead of struggling with a full gown with bodice and sleeves that required lacing, I had taken to wearing a black silk chemise and an overgown that I could slip on easily. Again, there was always the veil, to protect me from recognition-and the stiletto in case I was accosted.

Thus disguised, I stepped silently out into the corridor. The hour was so late that few sconces were lit, but I made my way through the dimness with ease, as I knew my way well. Cesare had, as always, bribed the guards to keep them out of my path, and so I encountered no one.

But as I passed by the corridor that led to Giulia’s and Lucrezia’s apartments, I heard a woman cry out, as if in pain.

In retrospect, I should have been wise; I should have hardened my heart and continued onward-after all, my affair with Cesare was at stake. But the sound evoked in me concern and curiosity. Thus I took that irrevocable turn down the wrong corridor.

The moment I did so, intuition froze me to the spot, even though I at first could not identify what I saw. Soon enough, however, I distinguished Lucrezia’s moon-coloured face in the dimness. She was still fully dressed in the gown she had worn to Juan’s reception, and apparently just returning from it; her eyes were closed, her lips half-parted, and soft, regular moans escaped from her.

She was leaning forward, swaying, decidedly intoxicated, and perhaps about to be ill. I decided to help her, saying that I had been unable to sleep; perhaps she would remember little or nothing of my intervention the following day.

Luckily, common sense kept me rooted where I was-for in the next instant, I realized that I looked upon not just Lucrezia, but Lucrezia merged with another. Great male hands clasped her breasts, which had fallen forward out of her bodice, and her swaying was the result of a large, dark figure behind her, thrusting violently where her skirts had been lifted out of the way.

A lover, I realized, and was on the verge of scurrying away. I could scarcely blame Lucrezia for doing what I myself did-especially since her own husband had quite publicly deserted her.

Then she cried out, with drunken, lustful abandon, ‘Oh, Papa…!’

A chill overtook me. I recognized the hulking figure at once-the white robe, the skullcap, and the face so similar to Lucrezia’s own.

This is rape, I tried to convince myself. Rape. I should sneak behind him with the stiletto…The poor girl must be too drunk to know what she is doing…

‘Papa!’ she cried again, with the rapture of a lover, and I remembered the night when she had attempted to shock me by forcing her breasts to her father’s lips.

I lifted a hand to my veiled lips and nearly retched. Fortunately, no sound came with the reflex, and the motion of my arm was undetected by the lovers, who were distracted by their own moaning. Lovers, I say, but the term here is profane; I thought of the passage in the Book of Revelation: of the painted whore, Babylon, astride the great horned Beast. The tangle of flesh and fabric that pulsed together here in the darkness was indeed something as monstrous.

‘My darling,’ I heard the Beast whisper. ‘My Lucrezia, my own. You belong to no other as you do to me.’

His words were clear, unslurred. This was no drunken accident, but a consciously chosen embrace.

Bile stung my throat; my eyes watered. I turned and, as silently as I had come, hurried away from the sight.

I half-wanted to return to my chambers, to tremble in quiet revulsion at what I had seen. But this secret was too hideous to bear alone; I wanted the comfort of Cesare. And were I a member of Lucrezia’s family, I would want to know the truth. I wanted to believe, as Alfonso would have, that she was young and confused-and that Rodrigo was taking advantage of that. As her older brother, Cesare needed to intervene, to protect her. Of all the Borgias, he seemed the most responsible, the most in control of his emotions; he would know best how to handle this dreadful situation.

I hurried from the corridor and left the palazzo through an unguarded back entrance. My steps along the garden path were swift and haunted: I understood far better, now, why Lucrezia had been jealous of my appearance in Rome. It had not been the girlish crush I had tried so hard to convince myself it had been, or simple envy over the fact I was shown more attention; I was in fact seen as a true rival for Rodrigo’s sexual favours. Cesare had made a comment, too, that troubled me now: She was the same way with Donna Giulia; it took her some time to realize that a man’s love for a woman and for his daughter are not one and the same.

Ah, but she had never come to realize it-nor had her father.

I could only pray that neither the Pope nor Lucrezia had seen me, or recognized me beneath my veil.

At last I arrived at the garden bench and the tree, and was relieved to see Cesare there, waiting for me as always. Normally, we embraced with a passionate kiss, but that night, I caught hold of his hands between mine.

A crease appeared between his dark eyebrows. ‘Madonna. What has happened?’

I could not hide my agitation. ‘First, I must know-are you all right? When I left, you and Juan-’

‘Juan is an idiot,’ Cesare said, his tone flinty. ‘He has been put in his place. If he ever annoys you again, come to me at once. Fortunately, he is not here for long; he will be leading Father’s army into battle shortly.’ He tilted his head, studying me intently. ‘But this has to do with far more than a buffoon such as Juan.’ He drew back my veil, and put a gentle hand to my cheek. ‘Look at you, Sancha. You are trembling.’

‘I saw…’ I began, and could say no more.

‘Sit. Sit before you fall.’ He drew me down beside him on the garden bench.

‘Your father and your sister…’ I began again, then stopped.

I needed say no more.

He dropped my hands as if they had become stinging nettles, and turned his face away quickly, but not before I saw the look of pain and humiliation there. ‘You saw them,’ he whispered, then let out a sound very like a groan. After a pause, he added, ‘I had prayed-I had hoped-that it had stopped.’

‘You knew.’ There was no recrimination in my tone, only wonder.

He stared down at his lap, so that I could see his profile in the dim light; his expression hardened, and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he spoke. ‘There is no reasoning with my father, Madonna. I have tried. I have tried…’ His voice broke on the final word. Then he gathered himself, and glanced up at me with abrupt dismay. ‘Tell me they did not see you!’ He caught my hands, his eyes wide with concern.

‘No.’

‘Thank God.’ He sagged and let go a sigh of deep relief, which was short-lived. ‘You did not speak of this to anyone? Not even to Donna Esmeralda, certainly?’

‘To no one but you.’

Cesare relaxed once more. ‘Good. Good.’ He drew a finger tenderly along my temple, down the curve of my jaw. ‘I am sorry. Sorry you had to witness such a thing…’

‘Can you not force your father to stop this?’ I asked. ‘Say that you will tell the College of Cardinals, will make this knowledge public?’

His unguarded expression revealed his inner turmoil; at last, he said, ‘All that I am to tell you must swear to keep secret.

‘You can trust me with your life,’ I replied.

He smiled humourlessly. ‘That is precisely what I am about to do.’ After a long moment of contemplation, he began. ‘My father…is a good man. He loves his children more than life. You have seen how generous he is with his affections.’ He paused. ‘His love is genuine, and runs deep…and likewise, his hatred. He is exceptionally dangerous when provoked. Even…when his children are the ones who provoke him.’ As I tensed beside him, he put a hand upon my arm to comfort me and said, ‘Yes, he remembered-vaguely-the encounter with you. But you need have no fear. He found it amusing, considering it a diverting game of love. He prefers his women to be more yielding-not so “hot-tempered”, as he put it. In other words, you were a bit too much trouble for him, and not admiring enough to suit his pride. I doubt he will trouble you again.’ His expression darkened. ‘But when it comes to politics, to true gain or loss-he can be deadly. And while there have been rumours, to actually expose his relationship with Lucrezia would jeopardize his political standing. Do you understand what I am saying, Sancha?’

‘Did he threaten your life when you confronted him about your sister?’ A sickening hatred overwhelmed me. What kind of man would use his daughter in such a manner, then speak of murdering his own son? I jumped to my feet. ‘I am sorry I did not kill him with the stiletto!’

‘Hold your tongue,’ Cesare warned, and drew me back to stand before him; he touched his fingers to my lips. ‘Such is the price of living with an exceedingly ambitious man. I do not know how to further impress upon you the need for silence, except to say: People have died for less. This secret is yours to keep for the rest of your life. And mine.’ He studied me intently. ‘You feel emotions very deeply, Sancha, and react swiftly, with passion. You must learn to temper that impulse if you are to survive here.’

‘I heard a rumour,’ I said, more quietly. ‘About the death of Rodrigo’s brother, who surely would have been elected pope…’

He held my gaze as he answered slowly, ‘It is no rumour,’

‘How can you bear it?’ I whispered. My own father had been a tyrant-but even he would never have considered assassinating a member of his own family. Surely he never would have laid his hands on me, then threatened Alfonso with death if my brother tried to intervene.

Cesare shrugged; hardness crept into his eyes. ‘Such is the price of being a Borgia.’

I was not of a mood to make love to Cesare that night; he understood, and we parted with grim reluctance. I could not help wondering how my brother would react to such shocking decadence-but I dared not relay this information to him, as it would upset him too greatly to know the truth about my life in Rome.

Afterwards, in my bed, I dreamed of the card the strega had drawn for me: The heart pierced by two swords-by evil, and by good. Rodrigo Borgia stood before me, smiling, and opened the breast of his white satin robe to reveal a red heart beating therein, skewered by two swords in the shape of a silver X.

One of the swords was much larger than its mate; I stepped forward and pulled it out. It came forth bloodied, but beneath the crimson stain I could easily read the legend inscribed on the blade.

EVIL .