The Borgia Bride

XXXII

Given his strong constitution, Alexander recovered quite swiftly. The thunderbolt from God gave His Holiness a sense of mortality and a renewed appreciation of life; he began to spend less time with Cesare contemplating strategies for conquest and more time in the company of his family-which consisted of the swiftly-growing baby Rodrigo, Lucrezia, Alfonso, Jofre, and me. Once more, we supped nightly at the Pope’s table, where he discussed domestic matters instead of politics. A chasm was growing between Cesare and Alexander in terms of loyalty; I only hoped that the Pope was powerful enough to emerge the victor.

My private apocalypse began on the fifteenth day of July, barely two weeks after the ominous collapse of the ceiling upon the papal throne. We dined that night with His Holiness, and Lucrezia and I struck up a comfortable conversation with her father, one that we were reluctant to abandon when Alfonso stood up and announced:

‘With your leave, Your Holiness, I am tired this evening and wish to retire early.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Caught up in the discussion, Alexander dismissed him cursorily but civilly, with a wave of his hand. ‘May God grant you a good night’s rest.’

‘Thank you.’ Alfonso bowed, kissed Lucrezia’s hand and mine, then was off. I do not remember what we were chatting about, but I remember looking up at him, and being touched by the weariness in his face. Rome and its wicked intrigues had aged him; the sight prompted a distant memory: I was a mischievous eleven-year-old in Ferrante’s palace, taunting my little brother about our grandfather’s museum of the dead.

How can you stand it, Alfonso? Don’t you want to know if it is true?

No. Because it might be.

There were many things I wished I had never discovered; many things I wished I had been able to protect my brother from in Rome, allowing him to live in ignorant bliss. But such had been impossible.

I felt an odd desire to leave my conversation with Lucrezia at that moment and see Alfonso home-but to do so would have been rude. In retrospect, I cannot help but wonder how our lives would have changed had I accompanied him. Instead, I smiled up at him as he planted a kiss upon my hand; when he was gone, I dismissed all previous thoughts as useless worry.

An hour or two later, Lucrezia, the Pope and I had moved our talk out into the Hall of the Saints; our voices echoed off the walls of the vast, near-empty chamber. I had grown tired and was thinking of departing when we heard thunderous footfall and the alarmed voices of men headed towards us. Before I had time to realize what was occurring, soldiers had entered the room.

I looked up swiftly.

A uniformed papal guard, accompanied by five from his battalion, walked up to Alexander. He was a youth, no more than eighteen, his expression dazed, his complexion ashen with fright. Protocol demanded that he bow and ask permission to address His Holiness; the boy opened his mouth, but could not bring himself to speak.

In his arms, limp and pale as death, was my brother. I thought at once of the image of the Virgin, cradling the pierced and perished Christ.

Blood streamed from Alfonso’s forehead, painting his golden curls crimson, obscuring half of his face. The mantle he had worn earlier that night was gone-torn away-and his shirt slit in those areas where it was not stuck to his flesh with blood. One leg of his breeches was likewise soaked scarlet.

His eyes were closed; his head lolled back in the soldier’s arms. I thought that he was dead. I could not speak, could not breathe; my greatest fear had come true at last. My brother had perished before me; I no longer had reason to live, no longer had reason to abide by the morals of decent men.

At the same time, I saw the depth of my foolishness in a flash: I had always known, deep in my heart, that Cesare would try to kill my brother, had I not? It was the greatest possible revenge he could possibly take on me for rejecting him-greater, certainly, than taking my own life.

Had he not threatened as much at our last private encounter?

Now I know where I stand; now I know what course to take.

Lucrezia bolted to her feet, then fainted without a sound.

I left her on the floor and rushed to my brother. I put an ear to his gaping mouth, and nearly collapsed myself with tormented gratitude to hear the sound of his breath. God, I swore silently, I will do whatever You require of me. I will run from my destiny no more.

He was alive-alive, but terribly wounded, if not mortally so.

Behind me, Alexander had climbed down from his throne and was reviving his daughter.

I believe that determination and the realization that she was desperately needed returned Lucrezia almost at once to her senses. ‘I am well!’ she called, angry at herself for a show of weakness at such a time. ‘Let me see my husband! Let me go!’

She pulled away from her father’s embrace and stood beside me as both of us assessed Alfonso’s wounds. I wanted to scream, to faint as Lucrezia had. Most of all, I wanted to strangle His Holiness as he stood there, feigning innocence, for I had no doubt he had full knowledge of the planned attack.

I stared at Alfonso’s limp and beautiful form; like his wife, I forced myself into a state of preternatural calmness. In my mind, I heard my grandfather’s voice. We strong must take care of the weak.

‘We cannot move him,’ Lucrezia said.

I nodded. ‘We need a room here, in these apartments.’

Lucrezia glanced at her father-not with her usual adoration and solicitousness, but with an uncharacteristic strength. In her grey eyes lay a clear threat should her command not be carried out. Alexander buckled at once.

‘This way,’ he said, and gestured for the soldier carrying Alfonso to follow him.

He led us to the nearby Hall of the Sibyls, where the guard gently laid Alfonso down on a brocade-covered bench. Lucrezia and I followed so closely, we pressed against the soldier on either side.

‘I will summon my doctor,’ Alexander said, but his words were ignored as Alfonso suddenly coughed.

My brother’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. Gazing up at Lucrezia and me, hovering tightly over him, he whispered: ‘I saw my attackers. I saw who directed them.’

‘Who?’ Lucrezia urged. ‘I will kill the bastard with my own hands!’

I knew my brother’s next word even before he uttered it.

‘Cesare,’ he said, and fainted again.

I let go a curse.

Lucrezia winced, and clutched her midsection, buckling forward as though she herself felt the bite of a blade; I caught her elbow to steady her, thinking she might fall.

She did not. Instead, she gathered herself, and showing no surprise at this horrifying revelation, addressed her father in an even, businesslike tone, as if he were a servant.

‘You may call for your doctor. But in the meantime, I shall send for the King of Naples’ own doctor. And the Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors must be summoned at once.’

‘Send for water,’ I added, ‘and for bandages. We must do what we can before the doctor gets here.’ As my brother was still bleeding, I unfastened my sleeves at the shoulders and removed them, then pressed the heavy velvet fabric to the gushing wound on his brow. I called upon my father’s coldness, his lack of feeling, and for the first time, was grateful to find it in myself.

Lucrezia followed my example; she, too, removed one of her own sleeves and applied it to the wound on Alfonso’s thigh.

‘Send for Alfonso’s grooms-and my ladies!’ I demanded. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than the comforting presence of Donna Esmeralda, and the company of our most trusted people from Naples.

In our desperation, Lucrezia and I failed to realize that the Pope himself took note of most of our requests, and ran to relay them to servants. One or two of the papal guards attempted to leave to follow our orders, but I looked up at them sharply. ‘Stay here! We cannot be without your protection. This man’s life is at stake, and he has enemies within his own household.’

Lucrezia did not contradict me. When her breathless father returned, she said, ‘I must have a contingent of at least sixteen armed men at the entrance to these chambers at all times.’

‘Surely you do not believe-’ her father began.

She eyed him coldly, her expression showing she most surely did believe. ‘I will have them!’

‘Very well,’ Alexander said, in a voice oddly quieted-by guilt, perhaps, at seeing the grief he had allowed Cesare to inflict on Lucrezia. For the first time, the Pope demonstrated publicly the coward that he was: his inconstancy was not so much the result of political scheming as it was the result of being pulled in opposite directions by his advisors and his children.

We were soon surrounded in our sanctuary by the Neapolitan and Spanish ambassadors, the Pope’s doctor and surgeon, Alfonso’s servants and mine, as well as a cadre of armed guards. I insisted that mattresses be brought in-I would not leave Alfonso’s side for an instant, nor would Lucrezia. I also called for a cook stove for the hearth. Conscious of the canterella, I intended to prepare every meal for my brother with my own hands.

Several hours later, Alfonso came to himself long enough to reveal the names of the men who had accompanied him when the attack occurred: his squire, Miguelito, and a gentleman-in-waiting, Tomaso Albanese.

Lucrezia summoned both men at once.

Albanese was still being tended to by the surgeon and could not be moved, but Miguelito, the squire, came almost immediately.

Alfonso’s favourite squire was still a youth, but tall and well-muscled. His shoulder was bandaged, and his right arm rested in a sling. He apologized for not having looked in after his master sooner, but his pallor and weakness made it clear his own wounds were serious. In fact, he was so unsteady on his feet that we insisted he sit, and he leaned back in the chair with a grateful sigh and rested his head against the wall.

Lucrezia had a glass of wine brought for him; he sipped it from time to time as he told the tale she and I insisted on hearing.

‘We three-the duke, Don Tomaso and I-were headed from the Vatican towards the Palazzo Santa Maria. This naturally required us to pass by Saint Peter’s-where many pilgrims were already sleeping on the steps.

‘We thought nothing of them, Madonna; perhaps I should have been more alert for the duke’s sake…’ Guilt crossed his plain, strong features. ‘But we passed by what seemed nothing more than a group of common beggars-six, I believe, all dressed in rags. I thought they had taken vows of poverty.

‘As I say, we gave them no notice; the duke and Don Tomaso were immersed in conversation and, I admit, I was not on my guard.

‘Suddenly, the beggars on the nearby steps leapt up-all of them brandishing swords. They had been lying in wait for the duke, for I heard one of them call out to the others just as we passed.

‘They surrounded us at once. It was clear they were trained soldiers; fortunately-as you well know, Donna Sancha-we were trained, too, in the Naples style of swordsmanship. Your brother-your husband, Donna Lucrezia-was the most skilled and the bravest of us all. Despite the fact that we were outnumbered, Don Alfonso fought so well that he held off his enemies for some time.

‘Don Tomaso, too, fought hard and well, and showed admirable courage in protecting the duke. As for me-I did my best, but it breaks my heart to see the noble duke lying there so pale and still.

‘Despite our best efforts to protect him, the duke was wounded. Still he kept fighting, even after he was bleeding terribly from the leg and shoulder. It was not until he received the final blow to his head that he at last fell.

‘At that time, his attackers converged on him. Other men-dark-clad, whose faces I did not recognize-had brought horses, and the attackers tried to pull Don Alfonso toward them.

‘Don Tomaso and I renewed our efforts, for we realized that if our master was taken from us, it would surely mean his end.

‘We began to shout for help, directing our cries first toward the Palazzo Santa Maria, and the guards stationed there. I gathered my master into my arms, and began to carry him in the direction of the palazzo, while Don Tomaso valiantly struck out with his sword against the attackers who remained standing-three by this time.

‘It was then that I saw two other men waiting in front of the palazzo, blocking access to the guards at the gate. One was an assassin on foot, his blade drawn and waiting, and the other sat on horseback…’

Here, young Miguelito’s voice dropped to a whisper, after which he fell silent. At first, I thought exhaustion and loss of blood had prompted a sudden weakness in him, especially after the effort of speech; I urged him to take more wine.

Then I caught the look in his eyes; it was not exhaustion, but fear that held his tongue.

I shot Lucrezia a glance, then turned back to the squire. ‘This horse,’ I said slowly. ‘Was it white, shod with silver?’

He stared up at me, stricken, then looked over at Lucrezia.

‘Your master has already named Cesare as his attacker,’ she said, with an evenness I admired. ‘You are among the friends of Naples here, and I am deeply indebted to you for saving my husband’s life. I swear that no harm will come to you for repeating the truth.’

The young squire gave a reluctant nod, then admitted hoarsely, ‘Yes. It was Don Cesare, the Duke of Valencia, on horseback. I feared for my master, so I went the opposite direction, back to the Vatican, while Don Tomaso kept the would-be assassins at bay. The two of us shouted until the papal guards opened the gates and admitted us; at that moment, our assailants fled.’

‘Thank you,’ Lucrezia told him, in a blunt, flat tone I had never heard before-the sound of her true voice, unaffected and unfrightened. ‘Thank you, Miguelito, for telling the truth.’

For the next few days, the suite in the Borgia apartments-guarded constantly by soldiers and Alfonso’s most trusted men-became a peculiar Hell. We set up screens, dividing the brilliantly frescoed Hall of the Sibyls into an inner and outer chamber, so that we might have more privacy. Furniture was brought in, and with our attendants, including Donna Esmeralda, we set up a primitive camp in our luxurious surroundings, as though we were at war.

Within an hour after being sent for, the Pope’s physician arrived. He examined Alfonso, and, to Lucrezia’s and my relief, proclaimed that, given my brother’s youth and tenacious constitution, he would survive, ‘so long as his wounds are tended conscientiously.’

That they would be so tended was without question, for there were no nurses in all the world more conscientious than Lucrezia and myself. We cleaned and dressed the wounds with our own hands; with Esmeralda’s guidance, I cooked Alfonso’s favourite childhood dishes myself, and Lucrezia held cup and spoon to his lips. In our devotion to him, we were united, so much so that we began to anticipate what the other required without the need for words.

Alfonso began to recover quickly, though his injuries were grave and would have killed a lesser man. He woke by nightfall of that first terrible day, and asked coherently after the health of his squire, Miguelito, and Tomaso Albanese. He sighed thankfully on hearing they had both survived.

‘Lucrezia,’ he said with sudden urgency (though he was too weak even to sit), ‘Sancha-neither of you can stay here with me. It is not safe. I am a doomed man.’

Lucrezia’s cheeks coloured brightly; with a vehemence that took us aback, she said, ‘I swear before God, you are safe from Cesare here. If I must strangle my brother with my own hands, I will let no harm come to you.’ And she struggled, for Alfonso’s sake, to suppress an onrush of tears.

I held her; and as I did, swaying and patting her on the back as one would a child, I explained to Alfonso all the precautions his wife had taken: how the Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors were, at this very instant, in the antechamber, and how the doors were guarded by more than two dozen soldiers.

In response, he took Lucrezia’s hand, feeble as he was, and kissed it, then forced a smile. She in turn broke free from my arms and herself smiled wanly. It was painful to see them each trying to be brave for the other’s sake.

Both were terrified; both knew that the makeshift bedchamber in the Hall of the Sibyls was the only bright spot in a dark and shadowy Rome, where Cesare Borgia lurked, waiting to strike again.

On the second day, Alfonso was well enough to eat a little; on the third day, he was well enough to sit up and speak at length. On the fourth day, the doctors from Naples arrived: Don Clemente Gactula, the King’s physician, and Don Galeano da Anna, the King’s surgeon. I greeted both men warmly, for I had known them when I was a girl, and they had tended my grandfather, Ferrante. Lucrezia consulted them on how soon Alfonso could be expected to walk, then be able to sit on a horse, then to ride: she did not say as much, but we all understood. The sooner Alfonso was able to travel and flee Rome for the safety of Naples, the better. And from Lucrezia’s attitude toward her brother and father, I had no doubt that this time, she would not let her husband leave her behind.

Alfonso continued to improve, and developed no fever. Either Lucrezia or I remained in the room at all times, and most of the time, both of us were there; we slept on the floor only inches from Alfonso’s bed, and the three of us took our meals together.

Every moment, I was wary, waiting for the next attempt on my brother’s life.

One afternoon as I was bent over the hearth like a scullery maid, basting a trio of roasting pheasants, I heard the sharp voices of men out in the antechamber.

Lucrezia was seated beside the bed, reading poetry to her husband; we three glanced up at the commotion, just in time to see Cesare Borgia-flanked on either side by one of our trusted guards-enter the bedchamber.

Lucrezia hurled her little leather-bound volume to the floor and leapt up, her face contorted with rage. ‘How could you!’ she shouted. At first, I thought she addressed her brother, until she continued: ‘How could you permit him, of all people, in here!’

‘He requested it, Madonna,’ one of the guards replied meekly. ‘We searched him for weapons; he is carrying none.’

‘It matters not!’ Lucrezia’s voice quavered with rage. ‘You are never to let him in here again!’

Cesare listened to his sister’s ranting with utter equanimity; even the look of hatred on Alfonso’s face did not ruffle him. I rose and planted myself between Cesare and my brother.

‘Lucrezia,’ Cesare said soothingly, ‘I understand your anger. Believe me when I say that I share it-and that I was most distraught, Don Alfonso, to hear of the attempt on your life. But I have been maliciously and wrongly accused by your squire-Miguelito Herrera, is that not the boy’s name? I assure you, I am entirely innocent of any hand in this. I greatly resent the implication that I would harm a relative. I wish to conduct an investigation so that I can clear my name and regain your trust.’

When Cesare finished his smooth little speech, a pregnant silence ensued.

‘You fool,’ Alfonso whispered.

I turned. My brother’s eyes blazed with hatred.

‘You fool,’ Alfonso repeated, his voice growing louder with each word. ‘You thought, because I had fallen, that I did not recognize you there, on your fine white stallion with its fine silver hooves.’

Cesare’s expression darkened dangerously.

‘I saw you,’ Alfonso stated heatedly, ‘and so did Don Tomaso as well-and he is in a safe place under heavy guard. So you see, there would be no point in your murdering Miguelito. We all saw you-and everyone here knows.’

‘I have tried to make peace,’ Cesare said in a low voice, and turned to go. The guards escorted him out as Lucrezia called after him, in a tone filled with venom:

‘Yes, go, murderer!’

But Alfonso had not finished addressing his brother-in-law, despite the fact that Cesare was already moving out into the antechamber. ‘So now you must kill us!’ Alfonso cried after him. ‘The ambassadors, the doctors, the servants, the guards-all of us!’

I followed Cesare all the way to the outer doors, my hatred for him drawing me like a magnet.

Just before the guards parted to let him go, I called out his name.

He turned to face me, expectant, uncertain.

For a moment, I thought to seize my stiletto, and kill him on the spot-but I knew I had no chance. I would be stopped by him or one of his guards before I could do him any harm…and it could always be claimed that I acted at the behest of my brother. It would do Alfonso and Naples no good to act here, now.

Instead, I spat directly into his face. The spittle caught the edge of his beard and dripped down onto the fine black silk of his well-fitted tunic.

He loomed toward me, so abruptly two of our guards drew their swords. In his dark eyes was pure murder. Had we been alone, he would have struck me dead and taken pleasure in the act.

As it was, he simply leaned forward and, smoothing an errant lock of hair behind my ear, whispered into it:

‘What failed at lunch will succeed by supper.’

He drew back and smiled-tenderly, evilly-at the response his words provoked in me.

Then he turned abruptly and left, moving confidently between the parted rows of guards.