by Sarah Dunant
‘I… he is in great distress.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She nods quickly. Not even the abbess, it seems, is totally inured to the temptations of gossip. ‘The ways of the world can be cruel. I am sure you are well picked for your kindness.’
He bows his head. ‘I am the most humble servant of the duchess.’
She studies him for a second, and then moves on to lead the way.
The sun is setting and the garden is bathed in softest gold. It is well cared for: rows of clipped box hedge around a small pond where sun-lazy carp glide in and out under lily leaves. Trained fruit trees and banks of herbs give off a mix of medicinal and summer smells, a rich illustration of God’s handiwork, as useful as it is lovely. He stands awkwardly in the middle, waiting. Waiting. He, Pedro Calderón, who was taught duty by a Spanish father but learned romance from an Italian mother so that it took him till the age of seventeen to lose his virginity, to a professional, while he continued to wait for the woman of his dreams. His Laura, his Beatrice, his Ginevara. His princess. His downfall.
She comes clothed in white; a simple day dress, her hair caught in a loose gold net with a few strands flying free. She walks quickly, head held high, and he remembers the first time he saw her, resplendent in her wedding gown, gliding down the corridor as if her feet were not touching the ground.
She gives a laughing little smile, her face aglow in the light. Whoever summoned her has not warned her that it is bad news. ‘Pedro Calderón!’ And she is almost running now. ‘Oh, I am so pleased. They did not tell me it was you.’ She reaches him and takes his hand impetuously, slipping into the Catalán tongue of childhood intimacy.
It is the first time they have ever touched and they are both aware of it.
‘Madam, I… It is an honour to see you again. You are well?’
‘I am well enough. Learning to be quiet.’ She shrugs. ‘Though it is not an easy lesson. And you? You bring me news from home?’
‘Yes—’
‘What?’ Now she is looking, she sees it immediately. ‘Oh, what? What is it?’
‘I – I have a letter.’
He holds it out, but she is still staring at his face.
‘What is it? Is it my father? Oh dear God, it is my father, something has happened to my father.’
‘Madam, I— No, no, your father is well.’
‘Then it is Cesare…’
‘No. The letter is from him. See the seal. Here. Please. Please, you should read it.’
She gives a little laugh of relief. ‘Oh, then it must be my marriage. Very well.’
Yet as she puts her hand out to take it, she knows that it is not her marriage. Her fingers fumble with the seal, and in her haste she nearly drops it. Her eyes scan the first few lines, the loving thoughts, the gentle way in, and then…
When she has finished she stands, her eyes fixed at the pond. She sees fish flashes of silver and red, notes the way a breeze tickles the surface of the water. Nothing has changed. How could that be? Juan is dead yet wind still blows and fish swim. Juan is dead, but there is nothing in the world to mark his extinction. The thought makes her feel dizzy.
‘My lady!’
Immediately she sways he is there, his arm around her waist, a hand under her elbow, moving her towards the edge of the garden and a stone bench under the wall of high cell windows. She allows herself to be taken.
He sits stiffly next to her, his hand still supporting. At her feet, the flagstones are blurring through tears. But tears are too easy for such horror. She pulls them back as she sits frozen in the moment.
Finally she looks up, frowning, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. ‘You know what is written here? Oh, yes, of course, of course you do. My brother says it was murder. Murder! But how? Who did it? What happened?’
‘Should she receive you herself and should she ask you further, tell her no details. The duchess feels things deeply and women like her do not need to know more than is necessary.’ Cesare’s voice is clear in his head.
‘I don’t – I mean it is not for me to…’
She stares at him. ‘Oh… Cesare has told you not to tell me, yes?’ She shakes her head. ‘He’s wrong, He thinks because I am a woman— He doesn’t understand that it is much worse not to know. I will hear it from others soon enough and the gossip will be more foul. It would be better if it came from you, Pedro Calderón. Please.’
From the first lie to the first disobedience. What else can he possibly do? He makes it brief, dwelling as much on the care as the violence, painting a picture of the majesty of the cortège, the perfection of Juan’s body on the bier after the beauticians of death had worked their magic. ‘So peaceful – his face as perfect as if he was still alive. That is what everyone who saw him said.’
‘Yes.’ She listens, never taking her eyes from his face, nodding, deep concentration. ‘Yes, I can see it. I think I have even seen the river somewhere near that place.’ She shivers, then looks down at the letter again, as if she knows there might be more solace in the words now.
‘Will you answer me another question, Pedro Calderón?’ she says after a while.
‘Yes, my lady. If I can.’
‘Have you ever killed a man?’
‘Me?’
‘You are a bodyguard for my brother, yes? I think there must have been times, fights…’
He is back in the Piazza Navona with the Swiss Guard; all is panic and mayhem, with screams of fury and pain as blood sprays across the cobbles. He would prefer to keep his counsel on this as it is not something he is proud of, but a man of honour cannot break his promise to the woman he already loves. ‘Yes, there have been fights. And men have died. One fight in particular. I know I killed one, maybe more.’
‘And as he was dying… did he know?’
‘I don’t understand…’
‘Did he know he was dying? Was there time for him to pray?’
‘Pray?’ Prayer? Had there been prayer in the scream for mercy? Did that count? ‘I don’t know. They spoke another language.’
‘Ah! Well I pray that before Juan died he had time to ask forgiveness for his sins. I would have him at peace more than I might wish him back again here on earth.’ Her eyes fill with tears again. ‘My poor father… the Pope… This letter comes from Cesare because he is in too much grief to write himself. Is that right?’
‘I think it possible, yes, my lady.’
‘Oh, I wish I was there to comfort him.’ She shakes her head. ‘Well, I am not going to cry. Juan needs prayers more than tears,’ she says firmly, taking a deep breath and straightening up, her chin high, only the merest, sweetest touch of puppy fat around the jawline. They sit in silence for a few moments. He can feel his own pulse inside his head, tapping out the passing of time. Let me stay here for ever, he thinks.
‘It is close to this very convent that Saint Sixtus was martyred,’ she says. ‘Did you know that? He was beheaded on the orders of the Roman Emperor, and even as they wielded the sword his face was filled with joy. Because in death he knew he would find eternal life. The abbess speaks of him often and when she does all the nuns cry. Everyone knows that it makes this convent, built in his name, special for prayers of intercession.’ She is talking faster now, as if she is trying to convince herself. ‘So I am in the right place to pray for Juan, do you not think?’ She does not wait for his answer. ‘I mean he was… he was rash sometimes and I know he was not liked by everyone – but he was so filled with life, and much was put upon his shoulders. He was God’s child and underneath it all his heart was pure. I know that. So if I pray here then surely Our Lord will hear me.’
‘I am sure He will, my lady.’
‘Yes, yes. I think so too,’ she says with perfect earnestness.
They sit further, the light draining away under a gaudy pink- and apricot-streaked sky. They are both aware that their hands, though no longer touching, remain too close. She moves hers away, self-conscious now. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I – I am glad i
t was you who was sent to tell me.’
He nods. ‘I… I will go now… if you wish.’
‘I… If you don’t mind, would you sit a little longer? The nuns are very kind but… my cell grows gloomy after sunset and it is so beautiful here.’ And she lifts up her face into the light, so that her skin glistens.
‘My lady, I will stay here till night ends and the day comes again if it would help.’
‘Ha! I am not sure the abbess would allow that. You sound like a knight in a romance tale, Pedro Calderón.’
‘I did not mean—’ He drops his eyes.
‘No, no. It is not a bad thing to be. I think the world would be a lesser place without the bravery of Buovo or the love of Lancilotto and Ginevara. When I was a child I loved such stories. I—’
She stops, realising suddenly what she is saying, how just for that instant she is no longer thinking of the horror of Juan.
Neither is he. No, right now he is imagining instead what a wonder it would be to be sitting at her side in the fading light sharing romance stories. How, if that might happen, he would surely die happy.
Career Spaniards, alas, are not so in thrall to the wonder of Dante that they read him as diligently as educated Romans. So this dreamy young man has not spent time in the fifth circle of hell, marvelling at the burning wind of agony which sweeps sinners in its path, or hearing the plaintive tale of Francesca and her brother-in-law Paolo, whose mutual appreciation of chivalric poetry pulled them into sin and an eternity of such cruel punishment that even Dante himself was brought to tears.
As for Lucrezia? Well, Lucrezia knows that story well enough. But as much as she dreams of heaven after death, she also dreams of just a taste of it on earth. She is seventeen years old with one brother cruelly murdered, another who loves her too much and a discarded husband who does not love her at all. She sits caught inside a vortex of grief, fear and yearning. Yet whatever the confusion, life is worth living. Ah, Juan…
Across the way, the door opens, silhouetting the figure of the watch sister. The convent is on its way to bed and visiting, even for its most powerful guests, is over. They are both on their feet immediately.
‘I am grateful to you, Pedro Calderón,’ she says quickly. ‘I would wish to send word back, but it is late now and I must compose my thoughts…’
‘I could return again in the morning, my lady. I am the appointed messenger between the Vatican and the convent.’
‘Oh, then… you will come back?’
‘Without fail.’
He drops on to his knee and takes her hand.
‘Tell my brother and my father that my heart is with them, and with God’s help I will find the words to comfort them.’
At a small window on the second floor the abbess stands, watching their leavetaking.
It is always a challenge when a convent opens its doors to noblewomen in distress: in the time it takes for their trunks and maidservants to enter, the ways of the world slide in with them, sending tremors through the hard-won calm of regulated worship. In her time, Abbess Pichi has overseen all kinds of dramas played out inside the walls and has grown adept at reading the signs. In the search for future nuns, it is her job to distinguish the spiritual from the sensual in young girls, not always an easy task when their bodies are as full of turmoil as their hearts. When the young Lucrezia had left to take up her place in the world she had prayed that God would preserve her from too much temptation. But His will often works in ways that even His most humble children cannot divine. That night she remembers her again in her prayers. And makes a note to talk to the watch sister about an occasional inspection of the garden during the evening hour of private prayer.
CHAPTER 30
Finally, on the afternoon of Sunday June 18, after three days and three nights of grief, Alexander calls his manservant in to wash and dress him. With much coaxing he agrees to take a little soup and watered wine. Burchard is then allowed to enter. Through him he sends a message to his waiting cardinals, thanking them for their sweet vigil and asking them to leave him now for the comfort of their own beds. He will address them all in closed consistory of the Sacred College the next morning.
When the hour comes the great room is filled to bursting, the only absences being della Rovere, still in self-imposed exile in France, and the Vice-Chancellor, Ascanio Sforza, who clearly does not feel safe enough to leave the house of the Milanese ambassador. The Pope arrives leaning heavily on his servant’s arm. They all fall to their knees as he enters, then rise quickly to take in the sight of a man who seems smaller than they remember. Alexander, for so long propelled through life on an energy greater than his years, appears suddenly vulnerable, even old. His son, the Cardinal of Valencia, the most handsome and dandified cleric in the room, looks grim and tired. Everyone waits.
‘The Duke of Gandia is dead.’ His voice is strong with emotion. ‘A worse blow could not have been dealt us because we loved him above all things and valued not more the papacy nor anything else. God has done this perhaps for some sin of ours, and not because he deserved such a terrible or mysterious death. Nor do we know who killed him and threw him like dung into the Tiber—’
He falters for a second, looking around him. The cardinals sit locked into the drama. It is clear they have no idea what words will come out of his mouth next.
‘There are many rumours, but this we will say now. We absolve our vice-chancellor of any suspicion of guilt and would ask that he return to his home and our service, and lay aside any fears for his own safety that he might have. Equally we are convinced of the innocence of our son-in-law, and of our former compatriot in arms, Guidobaldo da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, both of whose names are being carried on the winds of gossip.
‘The investigation for the perpetrators of this obscene crime will continue, but we will move forward in a resolve to lead a new life for ourselves and for the Church which it is our privilege to rule over. In future, we will pay scrupulous attention to the appointments of all sacred offices. Benefices will be conferred only to those who merit them, with all nepotism renounced and a commission of ecclesiastics to oversee a new era of reform. If we had seven papacies, we would give them all to have the Duke of Gandia alive again, yet nevertheless we will go forward under God’s clear and watchful eye.’
And now, at last, Alexander’s gaze falls on the Cardinal of Valencia, who sits impassive, his eyes cold into the distance, as if there is no longer any connection between father and son. Such is the shock of it all that afterwards the cardinals, who can scarcely believe their ears at this turn of events, wonder if this cocky young Borgia has lost not only a brother but also the approval of a father who has done so much to advance his career.
What they do not know is that by the time Alexander walks into the room, father and son have already been in conference, feeling their way towards a strategy to deal with the chaos into which the family has been plunged.
It was close to dawn when Alexander, pulled from fitful sleep back into a fog of grief, secretly called for the Cardinal of Valencia. Cesare had been waiting for the moment: he, who could face a goaded bull and feel no fear, registered an unfamiliar lurch in his stomach as he entered the bedchamber.
‘Ah, my son!’
The air is stifling. In the gloom he makes out the figure of his father sitting heavily on the side of his bed in a linen robe, his head bare, no papal regalia to give him stature. He rises up and opens his arms, swaying slightly on his feet. As they embrace Cesare feels the sweat on his body and the gasping breaths of a man who still has more tears to shed.
‘Father.’ They stand entwined, as if Alexander has not the strength to support himself alone. ‘Father, your suffering is inside us all. The palace has been in fear for your well-being.’
‘Ah, what is my pain compared to his?’ He breaks away and sinks back towards the bed, his hand grasping the thick carved bedstead as a crutch. ‘He is dead, Cesare. Juan is dead; tortured and thrown like a dog’s corpse into the Tiber.’
<
br /> ‘Yes, Father. I know.’
‘And I… I have been in hell.’
‘But you are back now,’ Cesare says firmly. ‘Which is only right and proper, for as God’s vicar on earth you are sorely needed here. The whole of Rome is holding its breath waiting for your response.’
‘Yes, yes, you are right. I am needed. You know when I was lost, even Mary Madonna, Mother of God, would not heed my cries. She who has supported me through all my triumphs and tribulations. Ha! But she came to me in the end. When I had no more strength she took pity and offered me her hand. Oh, the sublime comfort of her blessing. And now, as you say, we must go forward. And make amends. Our behaviour has offended God, Cesare.’
‘That may be so, Father,’ Cesare says carefully, moving to stand in front of him. ‘But I think it was not God who plunged the dagger into Juan’s body.’
‘No, no. Still, it is to Him we must make amends.’
‘And He will listen and bring us all to peace.’
‘Yes, all of us. Oh, I have been selfish in my pain. Your mother? Ah, who will tell Vannozza that her son is dead?’ He grabs at his son’s hand, squeezing it hard. ‘And Jofré? And my sweet, sweet Lucrezia? Lucrezia, who loved her brother so.’
‘The news is delivered to all of them, Father. Our mother will find solace in God and Lucrezia will be better cared for in the convent than she would be here.’ He pauses, never taking his eyes from Alexander’s face. ‘We must look to ourselves now. Whoever did this intended to destroy you as much as Juan. But they will not succeed. You are too strong for them.’
Alexander nods heavily, staring at the fiercely coloured tiles on the floor in front of him. His face is sagging flesh, as if the bones beneath have melted; a man collapsing into himself.
‘Father?’
‘Yes, yes. I am still here,’ he mutters. And slowly he pulls himself back from the slump until he is sitting upright. The head lifts last of all. ‘So, tell me, Cesare. Who is it, you think, that we have offended more than God?’
