by Sarah Dunant
“It is how we work, Father,” Cesare says lightly. “As a strategy it hasn’t failed yet.”
“That may be true, but it is in danger of losing its edge of surprise,” Alexander retorts firmly.
“Anyway, King Louis doesn’t really care about Florence. He wants Naples back under his control. We all know that. And as long as we help him get it he’ll trade bits of the north in return.”
“Maybe he will and maybe he won’t. But either way this is too much too soon. You will listen to me on this, Cesare. Yes, yes, I know you bridle at being lectured, but I tell you, you are too impatient. It is a disease of the young. For now we leave Florence alone and concentrate on consolidating the lands we already have.”
He lets out a small fishy belch to mark the end of the matter.
“I think you’re wrong, Father. I tell you—”
“And I tell you, no. No! You will show some respect! You can rattle your armor as much as you like on the battlefield, but here, inside these walls, I remain both your pope and your father, is that clear? We will hear no more of Florence.”
The clash over, the two of them sit for a while in stony silence.
As ever, it is Alexander who recovers first.
How splendid this son of mine looks, he thinks, even without his mask. Out of the sunlight the scars are not so bad. Anyway, the world is full of pockmarks these days: the scabs and pustules of this new plague are almost become a mark of virility in a man. Still, he should smile more. When one is wielding so much power a little charm goes a long way.
“Come, don’t sulk with me,” he says, softened by his victory. “When there is a baby in Lucrezia’s belly to cement our ties with Ferrara, then we will talk of such things again.”
But the mention of his sister does nothing to lift Cesare’s mood. He glances toward the desk where the day’s dispatches are cracked open. “How is it with her?”
“She is welcomed like a daughter and a duchess.” Alexander chuckles. “The duke is struggling to outdo us in feasts and festivities. And you heard of her triumph in Urbino? She had the whole court eating out of her hand. My God, but I miss her. It is a daily dagger thrust into my heart.” And he puts his hand onto his chest, somewhere near the spot where indigestion begins. “What? She does not tell you all this herself?”
Cesare shrugs angrily. “Banalities, descriptions, courtesies. I get nothing of import. Nothing of her. It is as if we barely knew each other.”
“Ah, Cesare.” Of course. It is this, as much as any row about Florence, that is turning him sour. Alexander lifts his hands as if to show this spilled family milk is none of his doing. He has tried to make peace more than once, but who would blame a woman for taking offense when her husband is strangled on the orders of her own brother?
“I told you! The man was conspiring against me,” Cesare says automatically, as if he is reading his father’s thoughts. It is a lie he has repeated so many times he almost believes it himself. Even Alexander had been tempted by it at first, for when his daughter’s grief was at its worst the alternative had been too painful. “Her life would be nothing if she were still joined to that sap. Instead she is duchess of one of the finest states in Italy. She should be licking my hand in gratitude.”
The image of his daughter like one of Cesare’s hunting hounds is not lost on Alexander, nor the vast dowry he himself had raised from family and papal funds to pay her passage. But there is nothing to be gained by further antagonism. It pains him greatly for there to be family discord.
“I know how much the two of you love each other,” he says firmly. “She will come round. Give her time and all will be well. Meanwhile, let us make our peace too. We have enjoyed triumph these last weeks. There are other jewels ready to be plucked. What you lose here you will gain in the money you squeeze out of me for the next campaign, for I can refuse you nothing. Come, give your long-suffering father an embrace to show there is no bad feeling.”
Cesare moves toward him. He knows his father is wrong. That he has grown old playing games of Church politics and he has forgotten how to seize the moment. Elba and Piombino fly the Borgia flag only because he had ordered a forced march when everyone thought his army was returning to Rome. What in the council chamber looked like a risk, on the field was no risk at all. And as long as King Louis needs the Borgias’ help on a claim to Naples, he will make concessions elsewhere.
As he helps his father out of the chair, his mind is on the chessboard of central Italy, calibrating an alternative strategy to counter the blocking by what he had thought was his own queen.
He embraces the great bulk, catching a noseful of sweaty flesh and the tang of returning fish on his breath. In recent months these old man smells have grown stronger, as if something inside him is starting to rot.
They may be building an empire, but there is one question that never leaves Cesare’s mind now: how much longer have they got? Whatever comes next, it must send a chill down the spine of all who might ever dare to oppose them. He thinks of his sister’s triumphant passage through the golden cities of the Apennines, and by the time he reaches the door an idea is already forming in his mind. My God, now that would be something that would stun them all.
He turns, but the Pope is busy mopping up the fish juice with a chunk of bread. Well, let him wait. The surprise will be all the greater.
CHAPTER 7
It is well after dark when the wedding night witnesses take their places in the bedchamber of the ducal palace in Ferrara.
Of course, there must be witnesses…how could there not be? Lucrezia’s marriage to Alfonso is an alliance of states more binding than any diplomatic treaty, and once the dowry has been counted and the vows exchanged, it’s only right that the act of consummation—the bodily bureaucracy if you like—be officially recorded. Custom demands it, because even now there are things that could go wrong. It is amazing what can be concealed beneath the sheets: men who shrivel rather than grow, brides with pathways so small that the only husband who will have them is Jesus Christ (which is as well, since once the secret is out, a convent is where they will spend the rest of their days).
Then there are the considerations of this particular union. The bridegroom’s father is an old man. For the Este succession to go smoothly, his heir must himself have an heir to provide a security of lineage. Past generations have bred like rabbits so the palace is full of half brothers and cousins, slipped out from both sides of the blanket: vigorous, ambitious young men who while they swear loyalty now, might be tempted to make a bid for power should the occasion arise. The duke may have negotiated a fortune along with this Borgia bride, but unless she can give the family what it needs, he will still be the loser. That she is fertile is beyond question. Nevertheless, a new husband needs new proof.
Equally on the Borgia side, the Pope did not lay out a fortune to have a son who does not do his duty in bed—he has played with the fire of such lunacy—and clear evidence of commitment is necessary. Then there is family pride. The Pope’s daughter deserves a man who appreciates her beauty. What celebrating there had been when the report of Cesare’s wedding night in France had arrived in Rome. The duke had “broken his lance” eight times! Eight! Who could ever doubt the virility of Borgia blood after that? In private, Ercole d’Este might ridicule such bragging, but in public, for it to go well tonight he will be embarrassed by—say—fewer than two. No, a number of lances must be broken here tonight for this coupling to be counted as a success.
Given so many interested parties gathered in this high-class marital bed, it is a tribute to the power of nature that any conjunction takes place at all.
—
We are both old enough for what is to come.
Lucrezia has thought a lot about her husband’s words whispered during that first meeting, not least because they remain the most intimate exchange they have had. Over the last few days they have sworn vows and swapped rings, shared banqueting tables, danced together—he is by no means as bad a dancer as he claimed—watched conce
rts and plays, and sat through speeches so hyperbolic and endless that on one occasion she had pressed her elbow into his side to alert him to his snoring. But any sustained or personal conversation, even the odd secret look or smile acknowledging each other as coconspirators in this elaborate ritual—this has not happened.
She draws comfort—if comfort is the right word—from the fact that it is not only her he treats this way. Alfonso d’Este seems singularly ill suited to the role of courtier. There are times when, like an adolescent at an adult gathering, he appears indifferent to the point of sullen. Though his wardrobe has clearly cost a sack of money and been fitted by the best tailors, he shifts and fidgets as if a dozen fleas are biting him. It makes her think of her son, Rodrigo, so boisterous with energy that he cannot bear to be trussed up in court robes and after a while tries to keep pulling them off. How they would laugh at him.
“Oh, let him go, he is a boy,” the Pope would say, waving an arm, before puffing and panting theatrically as he got down on his knees to tickle Rodrigo. And how little Rodrigo would squeal and giggle helplessly then, as if he was in danger of dying of the pleasure.
But there is no laughter between this father and son. Indeed, from what Lucrezia can see there is no affection of any kind. The two men act like strangers to each other: their greetings barely courteous, their embraces cold and soon over. If the son is indifferent, the duke himself seems furious. She has watched his face when the two men think they are not observed, seen how he can barely contain his disapproval, as if this lack of engagement on Alfonso’s part is a personal insult. Coming from a family where her father’s love is so fierce and public that it can feel embarrassing, she has been fascinated and distressed.
More than once she has caught her father-in-law staring at his son’s hands. The tailors have done their work well, and when he is not wearing gloves, the duke elect’s sleeves are cut fashionably long so that they mask his fingers when he is standing. Certainly others do not seem to notice: or perhaps they notice so much that they choose not to look. Except when the attention of the whole court had been on them: the moment when this burly, surly husband of hers had joined a group of court musicians and picked up a gleaming six-stringed viol.
She had been transfixed, almost terrified; like watching a piece of Venetian glass perched between two slabs of uncooked beef. Oh, what an awful thing to think. She had closed her eyes to dispel the image. When she opened them again it was in awe that two such powerful senses—eye and ear—could be so utterly at war. Because Alfonso d’Este is an excellent viol player. The music he makes is joyful, intimate, witty, exuberant and charming. Everything, in short, that he isn’t. When he finished, she had applauded so merrily that people couldn’t help but note her enthusiasm. It had been a warm touch in an otherwise rather cold wedding.
Cold, yes, she thinks. That’s the right word for it. And such hard work; all the plucking, perfuming, creaming, corseting, lacing, powdering of her body and endless crimping of her hair: in readiness for the wedding night, her scalp has been furrowed like a new field; a hundred little sections of hair wetted and curled, pinned to her head and wrapped in a succession of hot towels to accelerate the drying.
It had been worth the effort. The release of each boisterous golden ringlet had been met by gasps of approval from her ladies, and when she entered the salon, an appreciative wave had run through the waiting women of the Este court. The real triumph, though, had been written on the face of her new sister-in-law. Because in the absence of any drama between husband and wife, it has been the bare-knuckle fight of fashion that has given the chroniclers spice for their dispatches.
—
Lucrezia Borgia and Isabella d’Este. They have much in common. Both are intelligent, cultured, wealthy women with the innate confidence that comes from being spoiled by adoring fathers. What separates them is breeding, age and looks. The Este lineage—and her clear legitimacy—puts Isabella’s nose much higher in the air. Seven years older than Lucrezia, she was betrothed at six, married at sixteen into the noble House of Mantua, and she has proved her fertility with two daughters and now, finally, a young heir while along the way she has used her own and her husband’s money and influence to create a court that is famous across half of Europe.
All this Lucrezia readily admires and aspires to. But there has been another more primal comparison at stake. At nearly twenty-two, Lucrezia is a flower in full bloom; her pale, perfect skin lights up any jewel she wears and the more voluminous her skirts the more gracefully she carries them. Isabella, in contrast, has little of the girl left in her. After three children she is already stout and spreading with an upper lip that needs tweezing weekly and a jaw that would benefit from the decoration of soft falling curls (for a married woman the seduction of hair is no longer appropriate).
So when Lucrezia had set out for their first public meeting, on her wedding day, dressed from head to foot in white and gold, she had been confident that she would be the brightest star in the firmament.
Isabella, though, had been well prepared. What could possibly eclipse white and gold? Well, how about a sultan-style turban covered in jewels to make her taller and a gown of midnight blue velvet, enhanced by embroidery? And not just any old pattern of birds and flowers. No. Instead each inch of golden thread represents a symbol of musical notation. Musical notation on a dress! A woman making music as she walks! Who had ever heard of such a thing? Such panache! Such daring! And also the most witty compliment to their host, the duke, a man famed for his love of music.
The marriage ceremony has been the least of the show. What everyone was waiting for was the moment when the two women met, costume to costume. The crowd had parted like the waves of the Red Sea to give them a stage for the encounter.
It was Lucrezia who had taken the initiative. Swallowing her fury, she had embraced her sister fondly. And then, roundly and very loudly, complimented her on the beauty and utter brilliance of her dress. Not once, not twice, but many times.
Oh, but it is the most original fabric in Italy.
Please tell me, was the idea yours or your dressmaker’s?
The compliments went on and on.
I warrant there’s a tune hidden in all those folds. When the dancing comes we must stay close together, so I can try to fit my steps to it.
After the first simpering thank-you there was little Isabella could do but stand and listen, for Lucrezia leaves no time for answers, so that in the end it was the Marchesa of Mantua who was the more embarrassed of the two: exposed in her strategy of upstaging this young pretty woman of such fresh and guileless spirit—despite the gossip—that she remained graceful and courteous even when faced with malicious provocation.
It hadn’t taken long for Lucrezia to get her revenge. That night as her rival remained seated (Isabella’s feet are a good deal flatter than her voice, and all that velvet would be a burden when one is trying to fly), she had moved onto the dance floor and been airborne within minutes; the dozen cunningly cut white silk panels that fell from each of her elbows streaming out like banners of light around her, while the jewels in her skirts caught fire under the lamps, effectively eclipsing the dark velvet of Isabella’s musical night.
In the privacy of her rooms, everyone agreed that the day had gone to the Borgias. Though no doubt the opposite assessment was made in the chambers of the marchesa.
—
We are both old enough for what is to come.
To minimize the assault on a woman’s modesty, it is customary for the bride to be undressed and prepared before the witnesses arrive. And Lucrezia is ready.
She is a veteran of two husbands. The first had puffed and fumbled through the night, too anxious about his own body to be much interested in hers; the second had been so eager for ecstasy that it had been easy to share it with him. But she has vowed not to think of him tonight.
In the room at large the candles are now snuffed out. The embers of a fire lie in the grate, their glow barely strong enough to pick out
the shape of the great raised curtained bed with a chest at its foot. Not even the sharpest sight could read the morally invigorating story of Susannah and the elders painted on its front. But then, this is not a job for the eyes. Like the duke’s musical performance on the viol, posterity’s report here will be based almost entirely on sound.
At the back of the woodpaneled room a door creaks open, then closes again. There are footsteps followed by a rustle of heavy material and a noisy settling of wooden planks under a mattress as they accommodate a noticeable extra weight. The three witnesses strain forward and close their eyes to concentrate.
—
An hour or so later, including two short intervals, it is all over, the conclusion marked by a further parting of curtains and heavy footfalls as the bridegroom retraces his steps to the door and leaves the room. The witnesses gather up their robes amid surreptitious clearing of throats and make their way out of the chamber. Their reviews will be unanimous: a fluent, well-orchestrated performance in a gamut of vocal registers, with some spirited allegros building to three clear crescendos, and a few tentative harmonic moments on either side. No diplomatic audience could possibly be disappointed in such a concert.
—
But what of the players themselves?
For Alfonso the performance was hardly an overwhelming ordeal. After all, he is a man well known for his experience in making this kind of music. For years now he has taken part in regular concerts in less salubrious areas of town, accompanied by willing professional partners with a wide and colorful repertoire.
And Lucrezia? How was it for her?
The ducal bedroom has not been empty for long when:
“My lady?”
At night, Catrinella goes barefoot, invisible as a cat, passing through doors and across floors as if she has never been there at all. She parts the bed curtains and holds up the lamp.
The bed is a storm of crumpled linen. Lucrezia is propped up against the pillows, a halo of muzzy curls around her face and her shift halfway up her body. She holds a pad of fresh gauze between her legs. Catrinella lets out a small gasp of horror, and her expression is one of such alarm that Lucrezia, who until that moment has been unsure if she is feeling sadness or triumph, can only laugh out loud.
