by Sarah Dunant
‘And you too, are welcome, esteemed son-in-law,’ he mutters as he finally lets her go. ‘We have missed you both.’
Across the room Cesare’s smile is wide and cold. Whatever the future of their marriage, the bridegroom will be the last to know. Giovanni Sforza’s digestive system, however, has long been as effective as a palace full of spies, and he registers both men’s welcome as knife-thrusts into his bowels. Or perhaps it is conscience where the blade reaches, for most agree that it resides somewhere near the stomach. Either way, such is his level of nerves that during the first weeks he will not eat or drink anything that he has not seen first pass his wife’s lips.
‘Oh, my lord. You will enjoy this, I think. Here, taste the sauce. It has a thick Roman sweetness to it, and goes well with the wine.’
At their first dinner in the papal apartments, Lucrezia feels his discomfort so profoundly that she makes a virtue of feeding him mouthfuls from her own plate, then cupping arms so that they drink from each other’s goblet. His smile, for those who glimpse it, betrays a painful gratitude.
Her kindness reflects the truce that has been reached between them. During the occupation of Rome, their separate levels of anxiety were so consuming that there were days when they barely spoke to each other. But with news of the Pope’s victory and the Sforzas’ change of sides, it was clear that they too must make their peace. In place of affection they had cultivated civility. It was not so hard. As mistress of a court she had seen worse marriages: open displays of disdain or boredom, the careless lust of roaming husbands. He was never like that. Even when things were at their worst he did not directly insult or abuse her. Nor did he in any way – and in one way in particular – force himself upon her. After the war was over and his nerves had steadied, he still did not return to her bed. She did not ask. Neither did she miss him. It was a compromise agreeable to them both, an understanding without words. It has never been in her nature to hold grudges, and at sixteen she is still in love with the possibilities of life and would prefer to be in high spirits rather than low ones.
‘Such a handsome couple. May I take the liberty of raising a toast to welcome them home?’ Cardinal Ascanio Sforza’s nasal voice rises above the hubbub of the room as he lifts his goblet towards the Pope. ‘What a joy to see our families so closely linked in friendship again.’ Across the tables, the envoys scrabble for their wine, amending their dispatches in their heads.
When Cesare quizzes her later, as they sit together waiting for musicians to start the dancing, she finds herself torn between loyalty and a kind of pity.
‘We are well enough, considering.’
‘Considering he is a fool.’
‘Considering I am married to him.’
‘I do not see much affection between you.’
‘Oh, Cesare. Do not make it more difficult than it is.’
‘I am your brother. I want you to be happy.’
‘And I am. I am back with you and Papà. You are both safe and the war is ended. I cannot tell you how that warms my soul. I was so worried.’
‘You shouldn’t have been.’
Across the room the Pope is settling further into his chair, his face flushed with banquet wine and food. He raises a hand towards them and she smiles back. ‘You say that, but Papà looks different. He seems older, more worn.’
‘Fatter, more like. Our mother overfed him during the occupation. She insisted on bringing her own food and wine to the castle.’
‘At least she was safe.’ She pauses. ‘I can’t imagine how it was. Is it true that we came near to losing everything?’
‘Who told you that? Your husband?’ His voice is sharp.
‘Do not jump down his throat, Cesare. He was not the only one.’
‘We were never going to lose. I made that clear in my letters.’
‘Sometimes people say what they think you want to hear.’
‘What? Like everyone telling you how much more lovely you have grown while you have been away?’ He looks straight into her eyes without letting his gaze falter.
She shakes her head, embarrassed. ‘You are teasing me,’ she murmurs. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean that perhaps they say it because that is what you want to hear. Except it is not true. Not from what I see.’
‘Why? What do you see?’
‘I see a lovely young woman, yes, but with something missing in her.’
‘What? What is missing in me?’ she says, like a child demanding the answer to some question that even the adult cannot know.
‘You are unloved.’
She continues to stare at him. ‘Unloved?’
‘Yes, unloved. You have a husband, yet you remain unloved.’ He lets the word hang for a second. ‘But then traitors are not good at love. And you, dear sister, deserve more.’
She feels heat rushing into her face and drops her head so that he doesn’t see it. ‘I cannot hear such things. Please. This does not help.’
Across the room Giovanni, who has been in pointed conversation with his cousin, has stopped talking and is looking towards them.
‘What things, Lucrezia?’ Cesare, who notices everything that is going on around, makes his voice light and normal now. ‘It is just Roman banter, sis,’ he says theatrically and as she looks up he gives her his most charming public smile. ‘You have been away so long you have forgotten how we do it.’ He takes her hand and brings it to his lips. ‘But we will not have you leave again. You are far too precious for that.’ And he pulls her towards him and kisses her fondly on both cheeks. As his lips brush close to her ear he whispers, ‘You don’t need to be afraid. Whatever happens, I will always love you.’
As he turns back to the room, he sees that a number of the guests are now looking in their direction. One might almost think he has been courting such attention.
The musicians have gathered themselves and the viol strikes up the opening notes of a dance. He gets up with the intention of partnering her, but before he can do so Giovanni is standing in front of her, his hand outstretched.
‘They play to welcome us home, dear wife,’ he says, altogether too loudly. ‘Will you take the floor with me?’
She rises unsteadily and puts her hand in his. It is damp with sweat.
CHAPTER 22
As spring turns to summer, the papal court grows hotter faster than the weather. For the first few weeks Lucrezia and Sancia are inseparable, closeted together in their respective palaces with cloth merchants and tailors, picking out fabrics and playing at fashion. Alexander, who lacks only the presence of Juan to make his happiness complete, is charmed by his new daughter-in-law, though her appetite for mischief plays havoc with Burchard’s official structures. During one public church service in St Peter’s, she and Lucrezia grow so bored with the interminable sermon that halfway through they break ranks and, accompanied by their flock of brightly coloured ladies, clamber up to the choir stalls, where they settle noisily, giggling and preening themselves. It is a small but perfect scandal. The Pope looks on indulgently as Burchard, nailed to his place, suffers a fit of what appears to be hyperventilation. What is news in Rome one day is gossip for the rest of Italy the next.
Like all Sancia’s behaviour, it is both spontaneous and calculating. She has grown up on a diet of adoration and is at her most relaxed when all eyes are upon her, though at any given time she always knows which particular man’s attention she is seeking. As does everyone else, fast enough.
For a while, Cesare is amused as much as attracted. The first meeting between the two of them had been spiced with such obvious mutual appreciation that it felt as if the future had already happened. Nevertheless, he is a busy Church politician these days and his time for dalliance is limited. During the war he had been so focused on affairs of state that his courtesan mistress, Fiammetta, with her professional wit and lack of jealousy, seemed to have won him over to an unexpected fidelity.
The vibrant young Duchess of Squillace, however, is used to getting what
she desires. She reveals her charms in all manner of fashionably lovely outfits, coddling and petting her husband while all the time throwing sly little looks in the cardinal’s direction. It becomes almost impolite for him to resist. By the second month there is a wager on how long it will take her to bed him.
Fiammetta, who is not allowed at court, could have won the bet easily.
‘I see you have come from Naples,’ she says when he arrives one night dressed in a new black jacket sculpted tight over his chest, its sleeves dramatically slashed to the elbows to allow clouds of crushed white silk to billow out through the cuts.
He laughs. ‘I wasn’t sure you would like it. It was a present.’
‘I shall not bother to ask in return for what.’ She pours the wine. ‘It does not concern you that she is married to your brother?’
‘It is not a marriage. She has a lapdog called Jofré.’
‘Perhaps jealousy will teach it how to bite.’
‘Ah, Fiammetta, don’t tell me that you begrudge me a little fun?’
‘I begrudge you nothing. As you know, I am not a possessive type. But I should warn you, I may also be more occupied over the coming months.’
Their passion for each other runs hot and fast. They share a fearlessness, which allows them to take risks, so that when it is at its peak you can smell their desire for each other in a room full of people. Out of cardinal’s clothing, Cesare is every inch the courtier, with a tongue as fast and sharp as his sword, and their public banter becomes a kind of foreplay. The effect is both shocking and exhilarating. It awakes a certain carnality in the whole court, with Sancia’s ladies leading the dance. Some are entranced, others appalled. Jofré reacts by dressing even more loudly and spending more time trying to crawl into his wife’s lap. He is not so much angry as glum. It is not the first time and it will not be the last. When he does allow himself to think about it, he becomes fixated on the fact that there is another Borgia brother to come home.
Giovanni, who has taken to spending time in the palace of his cousin, the Vice-Chancellor, is also having trouble breathing.
‘Please, stay. You are my husband and we have a position to maintain.’
‘So come back with me. You are my wife and Pesaro needs you too.’
‘You know I can’t do that. My father has asked for us to be at court with him.’
‘This is not a court, Lucrezia, it’s a bordello. And anyone who doesn’t play the game is to be despised. I am barely tolerated here as it is. Have you seen the way your brother looks at me?’
But recently all Lucrezia has seen is the way Cesare looks at her sister-in-law. Alone that night, she cries in a way she has not done for many months. It is hard to know what upsets her most: the behaviour of her husband or that of her brother.
One afternoon she calls on Sancia unannounced, only to find her behind the box hedge in the garden courtyard with Cesare’s hand halfway up her skirts, her head pushed back and little moans coming out of her mouth.
He sees her first, rising to greet her so fast that Sancia has to steady herself against falling. Lucrezia turns on her heel and is halfway across the receiving-room when he reaches her. He puts out his hand to her shoulder but she pushes it off.
‘What is it?’
‘What is it!’ She looks at him incredulously.
‘Do not take it so seriously. It is a passing affection.’
‘Cesare! She is our brother’s wife.’
‘And as family I have grown most fond of her.’ He smiles.
‘Don’t,’ she says angrily. ‘It does not make it better joking or lying about it.’
‘I am not lying, Lucrezia. I am telling you not to worry. It is a dalliance, that is all.’
‘A dalliance? And is that what she thinks it is too?’
‘Sancia has grown up in Naples. She knows what she is doing.’
‘I don’t think either of you know what you are doing.’
‘We are fine. There is no hurt involved.’
‘Except to your souls,’ she says.
‘Ah, my young sweet sister,’ he laughs. ‘No one loves me like you do. Do not fret about my soul.’
‘And do not treat me like a child. I am neither sweet nor young any more.’
He stops for a second, looking evenly at her. ‘I know that,’ he says. ‘And I also know you care more about me than most of the priests I have ever met. But you must understand that everyone must look after his own soul.’
‘And do you? Look after your soul?’
‘Of course.’
‘How? How do you do that, Cesare?’
‘I confess my sins.’
‘You take confession. Regularly?’
‘Whenever there is need. So, regularly, yes.’
‘And you complete your penance and are given absolution?’
‘Always,’ he says, allowing himself a small smile. ‘I am the Cardinal of Valencia after all.’
‘Oh, Cesare.’ She sighs, because underneath the banter she does not know how much to believe him. She is well aware of how silly her fears sound when she puts words to them. How young they make her appear. She prays sometimes that she could be worldlier. Understand it all more. But how can one ask God for less conscience?
‘And what about Jofré?’
‘Jofré is my brother and I would die for him. He has had too much asked of him, too young. But if we are to make the family secure, he must grow up fast. Better to be prodded into it by someone who loves him rather than one who doesn’t.’ He holds her gaze. ‘And in answer to your next question; no, that is not why I am doing it, but it is true nevertheless. So. Does that satisfy you, little sister? Is there anything else within the family that I can help you with?’
She stares at him. While the words are sarcastic, his tone is not. Is there anything else?
‘Will I stay married to my husband?’ The question spurts out almost against her will. She expects him to laugh, or at least mock her in some way.
‘Why?’ he says quietly. ‘Would you prefer another?’
She makes a fierce little movement with her head, but it is hard to tell if it is agreement or denial. She closes her eyes tight. He takes her hands and holds them for a moment. Before he can say anything they both hear the tapping footsteps of Sancia. It is one thing to be interrupted, another to be abandoned altogether. He turns and offers his arm in welcome. But she stops short of them, slightly breathless though she does not look as if she has been running. Underneath her robes there is perhaps the stomp of a little foot.
She is so very pretty, Lucrezia thinks. She smiles at her. It helps to know there is nothing to worry about.
Of course, it is not as easy as he makes it sound. The fire of sex, once lit, travels where the winds of passion take it, and Sancia, for all that she is a product of the morally feral court of Naples, is not immune to injury. For the first months she registers only the wild beauty of the flame. She has become the heart and soul of the court of Rome, snaring not one but now two of the Pope’s sons, and the most handsome and most charismatic man in the Vatican to boot.
Her triumph becomes the centre of her life: her days are filled with fashion and fun and the exquisite anticipation of their next meeting. Cesare, in contrast, has many lives to lead, so that when they part, however sweet the connection, he forgets it almost immediately. As the weeks pass, what was once irresistible to him starts to become almost routine.
Within the Church there is some serious business to be done, more new cardinals to be chosen to capitalise on Alexander’s recent victory. It is a mark of the Pope’s confidence in his son that he leaves much of the deciding to him. But such things take time, and there are evenings when he is late or even fails completely to make their assignations. Sancia, who is not used to being ignored, takes it badly. She pouts and stomps and plays hard to get. He storms the citadel once, enjoying the game, but finds it tedious a second and third time. In her well-appointed white house on the other side of the bridge, Fiammetta, whose job it
is to negotiate men’s desires without them knowing they are being managed, welcomes him one night when Sancia has closed the door in his face. She listens and laughs and when they retire to bed resists him just enough to make him feel that she is a conquest again.
When the gossip of his straying filters through, as it must, Sancia goes into a rage of hot tears, then recovers, and then collapses again. Where once the court was full of excitement, there is now an undercurrent of anxiety. Alexander himself, who has been indulgent of the situation, now finds it less relaxing being in their company and spends more evenings at work or in private suppers with ambassadors. His withdrawal in turn affects the mood of those who remain. What was once fun becomes difficult.
‘She can be rather tiresome in her emotions. It would be better if she was more of a wife to Jofré,’ he says one night in bed to Giulia. ‘It does not help our reputation that he is made such an obvious cuckold.’ He seems to see no irony in this remark. But then their own relationship has cooled a little since the drama of her self-imposed exile, so that he spends more nights alone than in her bed.
‘Your father finds her tiresome.’ Giulia visits Lucrezia the next afternoon. What she feels about her own gradual fall from favour she does not say. At twenty-three she is as lovely as ever, and with a daughter, a cardinal brother and a receiving-room still buzzing with those in need of papal favours she is hardly a woman discarded. Perhaps, like Vannozza before her, she is enjoying having a certain weight lifted off her. ‘You should talk to her. You know her better than the rest of us.’
‘What? What should I say?’
‘Tell her she must look to making her own marriage more of a success and not make a fuss about things she can do nothing about.’
Lucrezia shrugs. ‘I think she may be disappointed in her husband.’
Giulia smiles. ‘You have developed some of your family’s wit while you have been away.’
