Blood & Beauty

by Sarah Dunant

  ‘The duke and his sister are both in love and in hate.’ The idea slips its way into the watching crowd while the Pope, oblivious, beams his approval. The ambassadors, scorched by the heat, sit wondering what words they can find to convey the complexity of this family that will soon be joined with theirs.

  In private audience with the duchess there can, of course, be no mention of such things. Instead, she appears light, almost sunny with excitement of the future.

  ‘Oh, Madonna Lucrezia, you will be amazed by the city.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am sure I will. It is true that Duke Ercole has knocked down half the town in order to build it anew?’

  ‘My lady, it is the most ambitious plan that any city in Italy has seen. The roads are wide enough for chariot races and every house built is of the new style, with its own courtyard and garden. There is one palace which, when finished, will have jewels for its outside walls.’

  ‘Jewels?’

  ‘Well, stone diamonds anyway. It is a new kind of rustication that the duke’s architect has dreamed up. Then there is the castle, and near to the river the great palace of Schifanoia, built to banish boredom. Yes! That is how it is named! The frescos are unequalled in their brilliance, and the concerts – oh, the concerts they put on there! Well, the duke is renowned for his love of music. You will see for yourself soon enough.’

  ‘And poets? You have poets and writers too?’

  ‘Oh, poets help run the state.’ Lawyers by training and career diplomats by trade, Ercole’s men are a well-honed double act when it comes to painting glorious pictures of their home. ‘Matteo Boiardo is Governor of Reggio and Modena and his words flow like liquid gold. You are fond of poets, yes?’

  ‘Yes, very,’ she says. ‘I have some men about me who in the past – well, when my husband was alive…’ She trails off.

  Their smiles stay fixed as she makes a gay little gesture with her hand. My husband: one might think she had never had a second marriage, his presence is so absent in Rome these days. For a second she is thrown off her stride; her mind filled with an image of a sculpture she has seen in St Peter’s Basilica: white marble, a woman serene, resigned, holding the body of a beautiful dead man in her lap. Not now, she thinks. There will be time later. Do not think of it now.

  ‘Yes,’ she says again quietly. ‘I am fond of poetry.’

  ‘In which case you will know of Petro Bembo. A scholar of the highest order who visits Ferrara often. They say he is writing the greatest poem on love since Petrarch dipped his pen in the ink for his sonnets.’

  ‘Petro Bembo? I think I have heard of him. But perhaps not.’ She shakes her head, still disturbed by the sad beauty of marble. ‘It seems I have much to learn, sirs. I will trust in God to help me find my way in such a wondrous journey.’

  And they smile. It is one of many endearing things about the woman who will be their new duchess that she does not pretend to know that which she doesn’t. Indeed, the more time they spend with her the more they find to admire.

  ‘Your Highness and Lord Alfonso will be well satisfied.’ They sit with their reports late into the night. ‘The Lady Lucrezia is most intelligent and most lovely, and her manners add to her charm. She is a devout and God-fearing Christian, modest and affable in every way. In short her character is such that we cannot suspect her of any… unseemly behaviour.’

  As if there could remain any doubt about her worth, when the Pope and his son leave for a tour of inspection of their latest batch of seized castles north of Rome, it is Lucrezia who is left in charge of Vatican business while they are away. A woman sitting in the papal apartments opening correspondence and offering opinions. Perhaps the only thing more shocking is that the cardinals who advise and watch over her do not seem to find it shocking at all. She is diligent and careful certainly. But it is not all so dour. Cardinal Costa, at eighty-five years old a veteran of the Borgia administration, can often be heard laughing with her as they work side by side. Lucrezia has a natural aptitude in such relationships. While Alexander’s love for his daughter may appear almost unhealthy at times, it has given her advantages in the world when it comes to dealing with powerful old men. It is as if she expects them to like her, and so, of course, they do.

  From the sidelines, the Ferrarese envoys watch with particular interest. Their lord and master Duke Ercole is a very powerful old man, used to getting his own way. Privately they take a wager on how he will get on with his daughter-in-law; how far she will charm him and how long it will take for him to expose his steel.

  Given the importance of their dispatches home, it is just as well that they are busy elsewhere when Cesare hosts a certain informal dinner party in his apartments in the Vatican in late October. The guest list is exclusive – family and close family friends, though Cesare makes a point of informing Burchard so that he is on hand should anything be called for. The table, however, is laid for a much larger gathering. Just before the food is served the doors are flung open and a group of lovely, laughing ladies arrive, as fragrant and fashionable as any courtiers, but with an infectious informality to their manner. Perched on the back of one of their chairs as they sit to eat, a red and yellow parrot bobs up and down, squawking the name of his host to the approval of the whole gathering.

  After dinner the women’s work begins. It is proposed that they play a game of chestnuts: the men will scatter them to the floor and the women will pick them up in their teeth. If, that is, their clothes don’t get in the way. And if they want to win, then of course…

  Lucrezia chooses the moment to slip away. That such – things – take place in her brother’s house does not surprise her, but she has not worked this hard to woo the Ferrarese for it to be so easily squandered. As she goes she catches sight of Burchard, his mask of bureaucratic nonchalance slipping for a moment.

  Oh, how this man hates us, she thinks. Perhaps if I were him, I would feel the same way too.

  She is still in the antechamber when Cesare’s voice calls her back.

  ‘Leaving so soon, sister?’

  ‘Why did you invite me here, Cesare?’ She turns to him, face flushed. ‘This is not a fit evening for me to attend.’

  ‘Why not? What is wrong with my guests? They are honest women.’ His insolence has its own anger. ‘More honest than most of the whores who ply their trade in a court.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but I would not be seen as honest if I spent time with them.’

  ‘Well, at least I have some reaction from you. It is better than being ignored.’

  ‘I am not ignoring you,’ she says quietly. ‘You have been away for months campaigning and I have been consumed by this work of marriage. There is a great deal to do before—’

  ‘Before you become Duchess of Ferrara. Yes, I know. Duchess of Ferrara. I have kept my promise to you, sister. Remember? You are out of Rome. Whatever happens here, you will prosper.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘And?’ He waits.

  ‘And I thank you for it.’

  ‘So. I am forgiven now?’

  ‘Valentwaah. Valentwaaah.’ The parrot’s voice rises above raucous female laughter.

  ‘Why is Johannes Burchard here?’ she says, sliding away from the question. ‘Have you seen his face? He is in a fury of disgust.’

  ‘Burchard? I thought Fiammetta might melt his ice.’ He laughs. ‘I like to see him shocked. He writes it all down, you know. Every disapproving detail.’

  ‘Oh! Then we must hope that no one ever reads it. We will be damned by his outrage.’

  ‘On the contrary, sweet sister. The more outrage the better. This way people will fear us while we are alive and never – ever – forget us when we are dead.’

  But Lucrezia has her own fears about being forgotten. In the months since their return from Nepi, Rodrigo has grown from a baby into a vigorous, noisy little boy. Now when she visits, rather than running into her arms he runs away from her, because he likes nothing better than to be chased around the room, squealing with joy
until he is caught and tickled as he rolls on the floor. The noise of his helpless giggles brings back memories of her own childhood in Aunt Adriana Mila’s house: the sounds of Juan and Jofré cavorting and spatting together. She, however, will not see Rodrigo grow to be either of their ages.

  ‘Of course, my son will not accompany me to Ferrara,’ she tells one of the envoys as she shows him around the Vatican one afternoon, the golden-haired child pulling and playing at her skirts as they go. ‘He is to be given into the guardianship of my father’s nephew, Cardinal Costenza.’

  ‘The duke will be most content to hear that. And I am sure your son will be excellently looked after.’ It is a relief to have the conversation out of the way; the instructions from Ferrara have been explicit on the matter.

  ‘Most certainly he will,’ she says, her eyes bright with the tears she refuses to shed as she ruffles the child’s hair.

  Some would call it fortune. Instead of a mother and father this two-year-old boy has a title – the Duke of Sermoneta – a private income of fifteen thousand ducats and all manner of lands; a few that the Pope has only just prised out of the hands of the Colonna family, as punishment for their support of Naples. The Borgias are settling old scores fast these days.

  As the wedding draws closer she must say goodbye to him herself. The house is already being packed up and it is better if he leaves before she does.

  ‘Mamma! Mamma!’ In the nursery the ritual of the running and the catching takes place, the little body wriggling on the floor in breathless squeals.

  ‘You must be a good boy, Rodrigo,’ she says when the fit is passed and she has pulled him to her. ‘Do everything your uncle and your teachers tell you. I will write to you every day, and as soon as you can write, you will reply, yes?’

  Around them, one of his nursemaids is crying silently.

  When he asks where she is going, Lucrezia says lightly, ‘Oh – just to another city for a while.’

  The reply seems to satisfy him, so that when she hugs him, tighter this time, he struggles to get free and starts careering round the room once more.

  ‘Again. Mamma. Catch again!’ he shouts to her.

  For the first time in many years, she thinks about her mother, Vannozza, and wonders how she had felt the day when she had kissed her own children goodbye. But still she does not cry.

  CHAPTER 59

  Leaving Sancia brings another kind of pain. The world has not been kind to her sister-in-law. Not only does she no longer have a brother, but also her beloved Naples is gone for ever. Unable to hide her feelings, she has annoyed the Pope so much that he has banished her from court. Lucrezia now begs that he reinstate her, and because he can deny his perfect daughter nothing, he complies.

  ‘It is not his nature to be cruel. You’ll be back in his affections soon enough if you grant him a smile now and then.’

  ‘People do not smile when they are in hell,’ she says sullenly. ‘It is easy for you. He adores you and now you are free to go. But that will never happen to me. I hate it here. I hate everything about it.’

  ‘Nevertheless it is where you live and you must bear it.’

  ‘I wish they were all dead. I know they are your family. But that is what I feel. I am not the only one who hates them. You have read the letter?’

  ‘What letter?’ With the wedding almost upon them she has been too busy for gossip. Or maybe she has chosen not to listen again.

  ‘Oh – it is all over Rome. It’s addressed to a member of the Savelli family who lost his lands last year. Jofré says it is a fraud, made up in Venice as propaganda against the papacy, but I think it is real.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘That your father and your brother share the perversion of the Turks, that the Vatican is full of prostitutes who dance naked and play games. And that Cesare Borgia murders anyone who disagrees with him.’

  ‘I don’t see how men who favour Turkish manners can keep a palace of prostitutes,’ she says mildly, but of course she is thinking about Burchard’s diary. ‘Jofré is right. It sounds like slander to me.’

  ‘Slander is when something isn’t true. It’s true enough about Cesare. The letter compares him to Caligula and Nero in his cruelty. Maybe you haven’t heard what he did to the man from Naples.’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘Oh, just someone who was repeating stories from the letter about town. Cesare had him arrested and his hand and his tongue cut out and stuck outside the prison window for all to see. And do not tell me he wouldn’t do such a thing. You know as well as I do that he is a monster.’

  Outrage. This way people will fear us when we are alive and never – ever – forget us when we are dead.

  ‘Oh, Sancia,’ she says softly. ‘Whatever I think of him, he is still my brother. Please. Let it not come between us. I want us to part as friends.’

  Sancia, whose passion always hurts herself most of all, bursts into tears. ‘I can’t bear it. What will I do without you?’

  ‘You will be fine. You are more beautiful than ever and you will find someone to love you, I promise.’ And if it is not Jofré, so be it, she thinks. Because she knows now that it is only fools who look for love within marriage. ‘I will pray for you every day.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother. God does not care about the House of Aragon any more.’

  If outrage is the intention, then there are ways other than sexual games or violence to achieve it, the flaunting of wealth is the most colourful one. First there had been Juan’s departure for Spain. Then Cesare’s leaving for France. But all this is as nothing when compared to Lucrezia’s marriage to Ferrara.

  Some of it is one-upmanship: if the d’Este think themselves superior to the Borgias, then it is time they saw what real power looks like.

  Some of it is love: who would not want to deck his only daughter in the most beautiful fabrics – gold, damasks, brocades – with diamonds, rubies and sapphires sewn into every sleeve, every bodice, every veil and net over the sunshine of her hair?

  Some of it is tradition: it is a bride’s role to dazzle all who see her, and with so many ceremonies and parties there must always be another costume, more lovely than the last. What young woman could not take a little pleasure in such a thing? Rich cloth and jewels are not inherently immoral. They speak of man’s ability to value and create beauty. A young bride walking towards her future husband in a cascade of white silk and pearls would do the world a disservice if she didn’t hold her head high, making those who watch catch their breath in wonder as she goes.

  And some of it is not the Borgias’ fault.

  A daughter always costs more to marry than a son because of the dowry she must bring. And this particular dowry – its details fought over as hard as any war – nudges outrage towards obscenity. After all the clothing, the jewels, the household wealth, the reduction of papal taxes from Ferrara, the benefices and the transfer of lands and castles, there remains the sum of one hundred thousand ducats in hard cash.

  January 1, 1502. A room is set out in the Vatican palace for the business to take place. On one side sit full Borgia chests, on the other empty Ferrarese ones, and in the middle a table with counters and witnesses. The ducats must be considered one by one, and none of the ‘chamber’ sort – where the gold content is less – will be accepted. When this final stipulation is put to Alexander the day before they are due to begin, he goes puce with fury.

  ‘I think he will pay with whatever kind of ducats he wants,’ the Ferrarese ambassador reports back as diplomatically as he can. One can push a pope too far.

  Two, five, ten, one hundred, five hundred, one thousand… whatever the insult, they cannot stop now. As of twenty-four hours ago, Lucrezia and Alfonso are man and wife, at least by proxy. The Ferrarese wedding party arrived ten days before, and barely had time to unpack their wardrobe chests before the festivities began. In place of the bridegroom (Alfonso and his father do not budge from Ferrara), Lucrezia says her vows and receives the ring from his younger brother,
Don Ferrante Siena – more personable in all manner of ways – while the other brothers, Sigismundo and the flamboyant Cardinal Ippolito, bear witness.

  One thousand five hundred, two thousand, three, four, five… the air grows warm with the clink and shuffle. The counters take their meals at the table and the wine, though good, is rationed. Clear heads are essential.

  That night, the wedding parties listen to orations to the bride and groom and their prestigious families, and then a comedy is performed – or rather half performed, as the Pope pronounces it ‘Boring!’ halfway through and the floor is cleared for the dancing to begin. Lucrezia, sitting on a silken cushion at her place of honour at her father’s feet, is somewhat hampered by the weight of family jewellery she is wearing.

  By the middle of the next day twenty thousand ducats have moved across the table. The work goes so well that they overfill the first chest. Too heavy to be carried, its iron bindings scratch tracks into the tiles on the floor. Twenty-five, twenty-seven, thirty thousand.

  Outside, in the piazza in front of the basilica, there is a staged bullfight; Cesare renounces black in favour of gold, so that he contrasts better with the animals. Everyone has heard of his feats of strength and now they madly cheer him on as he skewers two bulls from his horse, then finishes them off on foot. His new brothers-in-law are most impressed. Whatever the gossip, these Borgias are to be taken notice of. Don Ferrante, who having stood in for his brother at the wedding is already half in love, turns to Lucrezia. ‘Such blood and beauty in one family,’ he says, and he waves his feathered cap like a perfect courtier. She smiles happily. He is a professional charmer, of course. They all are. And not only to her. Cardinal Ippolito, who has grown up a great deal since Alexander gave him his scarlet hat at the age of fifteen, has been paying unexpected attention to Sancia, whose eyes flash a little fire now she is brought back into the fold. She waves to Lucrezia across the crowd. It is impossible not to wish her well.