Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  Many days, Betta found her duties completed before the last mists of the morning had been burned off by the noonday sun and she was left watching for something do from the door of the dressing room, where row after row of coffers held a dazzling array of gowns.

  "Betta."

  She looked up from the painted chest she was polishing to see Lady Lucrezia framed by the doorway, her form still swathed in the voluminous camicia used for sleeping.

  "My lady."

  Lucrezia held a finger to lips. When Betta nodded, she held out a hand, motioning that she should follow her to the other chamber. Betta followed without a word, noticing as she did that the other servants who had been busy but a moment before were now absent. The room seemed eerily silent without them; the quiet noises usually overlooked in the bustle seemed louder. Beneath the muted thrumming from outside the windows, she heard the soft brush of Lucrezia's feet as she walked to the bed and the rustle of the cloth by the windows as they moved with the wind.

  Holding the hem of her camicia high, Lucrezia pulled back the blue brocaded velvet that swaddled the bed and crawled back amongst the disarray of pillows and comforters. Betta shifted her weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what was expected of her.

  Lucrezia beckoned her forward and patted the bed. "Come, I have sent the others away. They will not return for a quarter of an hour."

  Betta slipped out of her shoes and crawled onto the bed, careful to keep the damp portion of her skirt where a bucket had slopped from touching the fabric. She looked across the room to the door that was still ajar. "There will be someone listening," she said, keeping her voice soft so that it was less than a breath.

  Lucrezia nodded. In the gloom, her face was pale ivory, appearing almost colorless without the faint wash of rose paint that was applied to her cheeks each day. "I know," she whispered. Reaching up, she drew the bed curtain closed until they were surrounded on all sides by the fabric. Without the faint light from the windows, it was pitch dark inside, and Betta could hear each of Lucrezia's breaths. They were rapid, nervous little catches. A fragrance teased at her nostrils, different from the soap and powder and rose water scent of the rooms in the Palazzo. An exotic, slightly spicy scent, it reminded her of the hot sun beating down upon a garden.

  The quiet stretched on and on. Betta could feel the time slipping away and still, Lucrezia did not speak.

  "What is it you wish of me, my lady?"

  There was the sound of stifled laughter. "I tried to think of a way to ask this of you without it seeming...cruel, but I cannot. And I think you would prefer plain speech." At Betta's whispered yes, she continued. "You have to have wondered why I sent for you."

  The humor of it struck Betta, that the daughter of the Pope should be speaking to her as if afraid to offend. "For my bird-like singing voice," she teased, remembering the occasion that Lady Lucrezia had happened upon her humming and complained of the terrible noise.

  Lucrezia snorted out a laugh, the sound earthly, not the tinkling merriment she used in audience or with the other women present. Her natural laugh was the sound of afternoons spent together as shadows marched across the loggia and the longing for games which could never be played, girlish and true. "I have Lady Joanna for that. No, I wish for something else. I want you to be mine.'

  "My lady?"

  Fabric rustled, and Betta thought that Lucrezia must have drawn her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. "The servants here, the other maids. They were chosen by Adriana, and it is her they must please. My attendants, they were chosen by her and my Holy Father. They spy on me."

  The words were said baldly, without a hint of emotion.

  "They all do, each and every one. Elisabetha informs to Adriana each day, who I spoke with, and who I seem to favor. If a man looks at me too long when he comes to beg an audience with my father. Catherine Spagnola writes to her father of every word that is spoken here, and he, in turn, tells the king and queen of Spain. Alexandra is of the Orsini, and Camilla is..."

  "Colonna." Betta finished for her.

  "And they hate each other, which is amusing to watch. If I should express a liking for a particular scent or speak of a piece of jewelry that I fancy, not a day passes before I am presented with three of them, one from France, one from Navarre, and one from a lord of the Romagna."

  Without the room, there came the sound of whispering, the faint brush of kid slippers on the tile floor. "They will return soon," Betta cautioned.

  Lady Lucrezia scooted forward until their knees were touching. Her hand found Betta’s, and she had to restrain a start of astonishment, the skin was so soft and cold, like marble, or something that had recently died. When she spoke, her voice was low and urgent. "I wish for you to be my servant, and mine alone. Not my father's, or my cousin's, or my father's…Giulia. If one of them hates me...I wish to know, or if one of my ladies is fornicating with the ambassador from France..."

  "They all wish to fornicate with him, lady. It’s all they speak of."

  "True, he is a lovely man, but I wish to know the truth of it. Find out their secrets for me. Be my messenger and deliver letters that I do not wish seen by another's eyes. And should I wish for a meat pie from Ponte or a sweet from one of the markets..." her voice trailed off suggestively.

  There was a lightening of the weight in Betta's chest as she finally understood her place in the household of the new Pope. She was to be the shadow, Lucrezia’s watcher from the dark. As she had been able to purchase the choicest eels from the fish market or to creep into the bedchamber of Signora Vannozza without disturbing her, she would become the eyes and ears of the Pope’s daughter, allowing her to peer into the darker places. "I will bring it to you."

  Lucrezia drew back the curtains, flooding the bed with light. From the recesses of the door, shadows hastily withdrew.

  Lucrezia raised her eyebrows and then flopped back on the bed. "I said bring me wine!" Her tone was that of a petulant child.

  "Yes, my lady," Betta said, her feet already in motion.

  Chapter 19

  Trumpets sounded from the Ponte Sant’ Angelo, the shrill klaxon sending an answering ripple through the women assembled at the windows, leaning like shop keeper’s daughters against the thick metal grates.

  Unconcerned at the spectacle, Lucrezia unfastened the latch holding the grate in place and levered her body out so that the heat from the streets bathed her face. The sun was bright and hot today, battering against her skin, but the brilliant rays would spark on her hair, and he would be able to find her, even in the host of women anxiously watching for his arrival.

  She leaned out, trying to catch a glimpse of scarlet in the milling sea of brown and yellow and blue, the colors of the poor of Rome, ever anxious for a spectacle. They were nothing to her, not even those who pointed upward and shouted “Bella!”, hoping for a smile. He was coming. Within the hour, the herald had said. Soon, he would return, freed from Pisa, from Perugia where he had studied, the miles upon miles that separated them for the last four years. He was coming, and her heart would be whole again.

  She could hear the beat of it, loud in her ears. Blood pounded at her fingertips and feet, nervous prickles of sensation that seemed to echo the same thought, the one that had followed her from waking to sleeping, every moment since she had heard the news that he was coming back to her at last.

  There was the sound of a trumpet; the crowd parted, and he was there, her Cesare, purple robes gleaming in the sunshine against a dark horse. Though he was yet too far away to see clearly, she thought that he smiled as the people reached for him, men in rough trade garb offering cheers and pretty girls holding up flowers, their smiles tinged with flirtation.

  Next to her, leaning even farther out than she, Camilla de Orsini gasped.

  "What?" Lucrezia asked, looking back over her shoulder.

  Camilla had the grace to look abashed. She was 12, months younger than Lucrezia, and already rumor said that she had allowed one of her suitors beneath her ski
rts. For the girl's sake, Lucrezia hoped the stories were not true. Her father, Aurelio de Orsini, was a hard man, as apt to drown a disgraced daughter in the Tiber as conceal her indiscretion.

  "It's only, he is a most handsome man." The girl’s blush blazed scarlet.

  Lucrezia sniffed. "Hmmm. My head is aching, Camilla. Fetch me wine from the steward."

  "Could not the maid..." Camilla began, looking behind her to where Betta stood in the shadow of the doorway leading to the room where her gowns were kept. As always, the maid was a blur of motion accomplished in absolute silence, taking the opportunity of a moment where they were distracted to sweep the dust from the embroidered cushions off into a pan. There were smudges beneath her eyes, Lucrezia noted, a drawing in upon herself, blending into the shadows. Not for the first time, Lucrezia wondered if she might be ill.

  "I asked you," Lucrezia said, setting her chin, and Camilla skulked from the window, lips pursed. Immediately, her place was taken up by another, Catherina Spagnola, her cousin from Spain.

  Catherina had learned her lesson. "A beautiful day for the journey, yes?" she asked in Catalan, their native tongue exotic when spoken by her. Catherina's skin was the purest white Lucrezia had ever seen, its pallor owing nothing to the use of ceruse; she was the most exotic looking woman at their court, the black of hair and eyes emphasizing pale skin and deep mauve lips.

  Lucrezia nodded, smiling brightly as she turned her head, meaning to reply, but at that moment, Cesare's searching eyes found her across the square and his smile, which had been teasing and joyful before, blazed. He rose up on the stirrups, raising a hand in greeting

  Beautiful. The word whispered in her mind, placed there by the attendant’s thoughtless words. Of course, Cesare was beautiful, she had known that for years. Even before he had left, men and women had been known to point him out, marveling at his face. But where he had once been a beautiful boy, Cesare had become a man, with a short beard tracing the line of his jaw and breadth to his shoulders. His body was not imposing; even from the distance that separated them, she could see that he had not surpassed their father in height, yet his form was so splendidly balanced and lithe that he appeared equally able to swing a sword or run through the streets of Rome without tiring. Lucrezia found her eyes tracing his legs where they gripped the sides of the horse and had to look away, afraid that the color of her cheeks revealed her thoughts.

  An ocean of time passed, decades spent waiting in the hot sun as her brother was honored and embraced by their father and the gathered Holy College before he was allowed to continue his journey. To her, to her, her heart sang, and she could allow no food or drink to pass her lips because her stomach was too full of butterflies, that their long absence was to be ended at last. Each step of the horse brought him closer, only it was too slow; a winged horse could keep up with the pace she would have set, the one that her heart demanded.

  Then he was over the bridge, near enough at last, and she flew from her place at the window. Before his horse had ceased its movement, the door was opened, and she became a blur of gold and blue as her feet tumbled over themselves and she flew down the stairs and onto the street. The archbishop laughed, vaulting from his horse and gathering her into his arms.

  Muffled gasps sounded from the attendants still gathered at the second story window as the whirl that was Lucrezia was embraced by the archbishop.

  Elisabetha of Siena sniffed, the sound laden with disapproval. She shook her head from side to side, making long golden earrings dance and brush against the pearls scattered through the embroidery of her giornea. Beneath her jeweled hood, her hair was a dark brown that fooled no one into believing it her natural shade. It was an unfortunate vanity, for the severity of the color aged her, adding lines to a face remarkably smooth for a woman with a daughter of marriageable age

  Under her breath, she muttered something that sounded like "Marrano," making her daughter of the same name, though she was called of Perugia to differentiate her from her mother, stifle a giggle.

  “Mama!” she cautioned. Her eyes cast a significant glance to Catherina Spagnola, who still leaned against the grate. “You know that is untrue. The Borgia are free of that taint.”

  The sides of Elizabetha’s nose pinched, making her look as though she had smelled something foul. “Of course,” she agreed, the heavy sarcasm making a lie of the words. “A scurrilous lie, one impossible to believe. The throne of St. Peter is always subject to such things. One only has to look at the stories concerning the death of Pope Paul to see the truth of it.”

  Catherina yawned and detached herself from the position by the window. “Say what you will, catty bitches. You would serve her had she the blood of Judas.” With that parting remark, she strolled from the room, the smooth undulations of her purple skirts holding the attention of the women until she was no longer within hearing distance.

  “Slut!” Alessandra Orsini hissed.

  Camilla Colonna nodded in agreement. “Doubtless, she is Marrano as well.” Though the two women hated one another, they were united in their greater loathing of the Spaniard.

  Elisabetha of Perugia stifled another giggle before reaching down to take a pastry from the credenza. “What scandal did you speak of, Mother? About Pope Paul?”

  Elisabetha of Siena strode across the room and slapped the treat from her daughter’s hand. It sprayed across the floor, forming a trail of crumbs. “Continue eating like a hog being fattened for market and you will never make a match!” she hissed. That her own waistline was ample did not stop her from trying to curb her daughter’s appetites. “And the doings of that Venetian are no concern of yours.”

  Camilla Orsini placed her taza on the credenza. Her eyes were shining brightly, whether from the wine or the scandal was impossible to tell. “Oh, but you must tell us!” she demanded, “I have not heard that tale.”

  Elizabetha arched an eyebrow, her daughter’s gluttony temporarily forgotten. “It is said… oh, I should not. It is too foul for words.”

  As expected, there was an immediate chorus of pleas that she should continue. Lady Joanna, who had just entered the room, immediately crossed to the window and stood looking down at the courtyard where the faint noises of greeting and celebration were still rising, rolled her eyes and added her voice to the entreaties.

  “Tell us!”

  “If you must hear…” With a pleased smile, Elisabetha of Siena sank into the chair that Lucrezia had recently occupied and began neatening the folds of her skirts.

  “As you know, the Venetian was excessively fond of handsome young pages. There was never any concern that children of his would come forward to be granted estates and titles while he wore the tiara, I assure you. Never looked at a woman save the Blessed Virgin from the time he was weaned.”

  “But…” Camilla’s mouth opened, displaying teeth which were as uneven as the tiles of rooftops.

  “Hush now. For a Venetian, he wore the crown of St. Peter’s reasonably well, though not for long. The physician who attended him put it about that he died suddenly of apoplexy, but my father heard in strictest secrecy that his Holiness died while being serviced in the manner of Sodom by one of those handsome young pages.”

  “No!”

  “Truly?”

  Elisabetha nodded, setting her earrings to jangling once more. “The palace guards drowned the page in the Tiber, but the tale still got about. To this day there is a stain upon the floor in the papal apartments where the pope voided his last.”

  Though she continued to look confused, Camilla crossed herself.

  “The sin of Sodom is not one that can be laid at this Pope’s door,” Elisabetha continued. “He has bedded half of the women in Rome. And what sins shall be laid at his children, it is not for me to say. The tales that I have heard…”

  "They look like lovers." The younger Elisabetha turned her head and whispered to Geronima, who nodded.

  "No wonder there are rumors about them."

  A quiet murmuring greeted the
words, shock, and delight at the scandal expressed in low whispers. Fingers tightening on the dustpan at her side, Betta felt her gorge rise, threatening to spill over. What they spoke of, that terrible sin, that was not what they witnessed, not pressing and hurting, not the stink of seed running down legs and the unremitting need to scream. What she had seen between the two Borgia children… they were light and beauty, like a fire on the hillside during a cold day.

  As silent as the breezes that played around the edges of the room, Betta crept forward and shifted the wine jug so that the curved handle rested a finger's breadth from Geronima's amber colored sleeve. Before she had traversed the distance back to the dressing room, she was rewarded by the crash, the splintering of pottery and a low curse. A shame. The velvet had been magnificent, and wine, like blood, could never wash out.

  Chapter 20

  “Truly? Her own father?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes.” Pedro Calderon answered, leaning back against the wall and stretching his feet wide. Though Pedro was short in stature, his pronounced musculature and habit of spreading his bulk made him seem more substantial, a giant among the pages who prowled the Vatican halls carrying messages.

  The two other pages exchanged a look. The older of the two, Martin, shook his head, a sour expression replaced the cheer of a moment before.

  “I have seen nothing of the sort,” he mumbled, bringing a taza to his lips and drinking. The last dregs in the cup were sour, and his face twisted; he was not customarily a drinking man, content as he was with his wife, a small woman who smiled when he returned to their home tucked under the city wall, and three children. But Pedro had offered to treat him to a jug of wine and the day was a hot one. “And he’s La Bella to damp his wick.”

  “An others, besides. Most of the noblewomen in Rome have found themselves in this pope’s bed. Remember that story they told about him from years back? Innocent, the one who came after Calixtus, had to order him to stop having orgies out of doors. Didn’t tell him to stop having them in, mind, no, that would have been too much to ask. But to stop where they would be seen. My uncle served then, and the tales that he told…” Paolo, the younger page, shook his head. “But if you say that he’s tupping his own daughter, why, I’d ask you? Risk that, when he’d any woman he could want?”