Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  “Maybe he’s a taste for it, that tight blonde slit.” Pedro licked his lips. “I tell you, what I’ve said is God’s truth. I was leaving his chambers after delivering a message to his secretary, and the passage through his rooms to the Palazzo of Santa Maria was open. Why not, says I, only a peek. I look inside and far in the distance I can see the Holy Father’s white robes a’tremble and those blonde curls dancing as she wrapped those sweet lips of hers…”

  “There you have it! It was La Bella, servicing him as she has done these past years, and with a good will, besides.” Martin crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  “Fool! As though anyone would mistake one for the other. It was the daughter, I say, taking him on her knees like any back-alley whore, and no mistake about it. Haven’t you seen how he is with her? Always on his lap, kissing her? And the other one, the Archbishop. I’d lay odds he’s taken her, too. Hanging on each other, dancing as though there were no one about? I’ve heard it from one of the guards that serves at MonteGiodono that he’s seen them together like they shouldn’t be, and I’d believe it.” Color flooded Pedro’s face. Reaching down, he adjusted his hose, trying to cover a massive erection.

  Martin noticed the gesture. “Like as not, that’s your own thoughts. Fancy his Holiness’s pretty young daughter, do you? You’d best be served finding yourself a whore, rather than spreading stories that will see you clapped in the Castel San’ Angelo. His own daughter, when half the women in Rome would shove their husbands from their beds to make room? I think not, an’ I’ll hear no more of it.” Martin shoved up from the table, the wine he had consumed making the motion unsteady.

  The wine shop quieted as he passed, an impressive figure in the papal livery. Pedro watched him go. Martin was too old for the task he had been set, he could see that now. Service with the last three popes had been bred into his bones, and he had learned that to keep his mouth shut was to see the dawn of another sunrise. Paolo, however, fulfilled all of his purposes; the boy was young, lusty, and a gossip. He was perfect.

  Pedro drank, assuming a somber expression. Wait, his master had taught him. The silence is a friend, one that the other will seek to fill.

  As though the boy could hear the tenor of his thoughts, Paolo leaned closer. “On her knees, you say?”

  Pedro smiled and cupped the engorged front of his codpiece. “Taking him to the root down her sweet throat.”

  The conversation grew more heated after that, the jug of wine followed by another, and then another. They took leave of the shop as the first stars had appeared in the night sky, and spent the next hours sharing a whore, fucking her one after the other until an exhausted slumber had claimed the girl and they had stumbled from her bed. The memories of the whore were fuzzy. The memory of the page was not, his eagerness, his longing to hear every detail of Lucrezia Borgia, the pope’s lusty daughter.

  It was the third time he had spent the night in that manner, drinking and spreading tales. The grooms, in particular, had been particularly easy to manipulate. The rumors were everywhere, incest and abandon and sin stalking the halls of St. Peter’s.

  No sooner had he crossed the threshold into the house where he served than his master summoned him. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he entered the chamber, bowed, and reported the events of the evening. He lingered over the details, seeing the flush of pleasure spread across his master’s face.

  “Well done,” he breathed. “And the other task I set you… the girl?”

  “She’s a sly one, but I’ve watched her, and I know she’ll be brought about. She’s hungry for it. It is only a matter of time, my lord.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter 21

  Lucrezia leaned forward, resting her arms on the table that looked out over a window. Through the opening, the clash of arms and the shouts of men could be heard, echoing out from the Castel San'Angelo. Her fingers were stained with splotches of ink as she bent over a piece of parchment, inscribing each letter in her elegant hand, the form perfect, loops and swirls, the measured timber of her words like poetry.

  In the corner, Lady Joanna resumed speaking.

  "The God of Love, who had maintained his constant watch over me and had followed me with drawn bow, stopped near a fig tree, and when he saw that I had singled out the bud that pleased me more than any of the others, he immediately took an arrow, and..."

  From the hall, the distinctive laugh of Nicolla Orsini floated, followed by the buzzing of whispered conversation. The other attendants looked up from their looms; Catherina la Negra ceased picking out a tune on her lute, and in the sudden silence, Nicolla's voice could plainly be heard.

  "And then he said...."

  "No!" The word was both shout and laugh, followed by a high-pitched, malicious giggle.

  Lucrezia placed her quill to the side and turned, facing the room once again. "Someone should invite Madonna Orsini to cease skulking around in the halls and join us rather than waiting for Giulia to complete her bath."

  Alexandra rose and bowed, her skirts forming a puddle of violet on the snowy tile. Within moments she returned, Nicolla Orsini following behind her.

  There was something avid on the girl's face, an emotion that Betta could not immediately place as she watched from the open door of the dressing room. She was not an attractive girl, Betta thought, staring out from the darkened chamber where she waited to clear away the remnants of another afternoon revels, wine glasses and trays of food left on the credenza, but there was something appealing about her humor, and she was always surrounded by a large circle of friends. Nicolla laughed her way through life, a loud, brash sound, like the amusement of common women though her blood was among the noblest in Rome. Rumor said that she had laughed when her father had married her to an aged merchant last year, and laughed harder when the old man had died, leaving her without the heir that would have ensured her independence. Instead, she had been sent to the Palazzo of Santa Maria to wait in attendance upon the daughter of the pope in the hope that it would garner special treatment for her family.

  "Lady Lucrezia," Nicolla dropped into a deep curtsey and took her place on one of the cushioned stools that littered the chamber.

  Lucrezia inclined her head. In the months since her father had become pope, she had gained a new air of gravity, a quiet regalness that must have pleased his Holiness very much.

  "We heard you laughing just now. Is there news from the court?" Hope led the last syllable up, higher than the rest. The negotiations to arrange Lucrezia's marriage had dragged on through the fall as it ripened, swelling the grapes on the vine as the leaves turned to gold. Winter brought cooler temperatures and another round of talks. The Sforza family had proved the most receptive to the pope's blandishments, and there were rumors of an alliance shortly to be announced.

  "Nothing of note, Lady."

  "Nonsense," Lucrezia replied. “We heard you speak of something from across the hall.”

  Nicolla shrugged her shoulders and squirmed in her seat before raising her hands in acceptance. "In truth...I hardly dare speak of it..." she looked around, drawing out the suspense until all the women in the room were leaning forward. "Your father is meeting with Jacopo d'Atri, the Mantuan envoy and he said..."

  "What?" Lucrezia demanded, rising a finger’s width from her seat.

  "He said that if only his daughter would bleed, they could get on with it."

  Silence greeted Nicolla's words, the lack of noise pregnant with feeling. None of the assembled women dared to laugh, though the desire showed in their tightly clenched lips and dancing eyes that sliced to the left and right, taking in the reaction of the others.

  Lucrezia gasped in shock, and a white pallor crept over her face. Rather than reach out to help her, the attendants watched. All that was needed to add to the scandal was word that the Lady Lucrezia had fainted dead away upon hearing of it.

  Every muscle in Betta's body clenched, and she edged closer to the door, preparing to hurtle across the room to catch Lucrezia befor
e her head could strike the floor. It was several seconds before she realized that it would not be necessary. Instead of fainting, Lucrezia raised her chin.

  "How amusing."

  There was the sound of silk rustling as she turned and settled herself at the table, resuming her letters as though her father had not publicly humiliated her.

  The palpable disappointment was replaced by boredom as no further gossip of note was forthcoming. Joanna began reading again, and the quiet music of the lute blending with her voice, drowning out the scratching of the quill.

  The letter was sanded and laid aside. Without turning her head, Lucrezia spoke, and it pleased Betta that her mistress's voice was without expression.

  "I desire to sleep for a time."

  Women rose at the dismissal, hurrying from the chamber. Through the open passage, the sound of their whispers came, indistinct, and full of laughter as they moved to the stairs. Only one remained behind: Alexandra, who paused and concealed herself in the shadow of a door. At the table, Lucrezia's shoulders slumped; she leaned forward, resting her head on the wooden surface. When her body began to shake, Betta sprang forward, crossing the room to lay a cautionary finger on Lucrezia's hand.

  Lucrezia looked up. Betta placed a finger against her lips and pointed to the passage. After receiving a nod, Betta walked toward the door.

  "Shall I call for Pantasilea, mistress?" she paused, hand on the door, and glared at the lingering attendant until she sniffed and joined the others making their way to the first floor.

  By the time that Betta had turned back around, Lucrezia had risen from the chair and thrown herself across the bed, muffling the sound of her tears in the Florentine velvet coverlet.

  Betta shifted from side to side, feeling the raw place on her heel where the new shoes had worn a spot. Indecision tied her tongue in knots.

  As she wrestled with herself, words came from the bed in a rush.

  "I hate it. I hate it here. Everything has changed. I thought that when Papa became Pope that everything would be like one of the French tales but instead there is nothing but spies and gossip and Papa hardly speaks to me and when he does...”

  Tears came again, and before she made the conscious decision to do so, Betta found herself kneeling alongside her on the bed, patting her back and making soothing noises in the back of her throat. It was, she reflected, like when she had comforted Ginevra as a very young child and all the cares in the world had been reduced to a denied treat or a plaything destroyed.

  The sobs became sniffles after a time, and Betta began to speak.

  “Nicolla Orsini is a malicious cow.”

  A watery laugh emerged from beneath tousled curls. “A bony, ugly cow on the way to the butcher’s pens,” she agreed. “Not one of the nice ones with long eyelashes that they brought to the Palazzo.”

  Betta nodded solemnly, though the image of Nicolla Orsini with a yoke across her neck was one that made her chuckle. “And she would kiss the bottom of your feet after you had trodden through the market without shoes if she thought it would grant her your favor.”

  “Perhaps I shall do just that.” Already Lucrezia had lost the tremulous note of grief and loss in her voice. “But that will not change what she has said, what they all say.” The tears began again. “Why must this happen? I have longed to be the wife to a great lord from my earliest times. And now, when all those around me have long since flowered…” she looked in askance at Betta, who glanced down, unwilling to admit that she had come into her womanhood long since, though it had been an occasion of little joy.

  “I don’t know why, lady, but there are women that know of such matters. Your mother, for one.”

  “I don’t wish to speak with my mother.” The line of Lucrezia’s jaw firmed. “Is there no one else?”

  Betta hesitated. “Physicians, or the midwives. Perhaps one of the herb women in the market… or those that live at the very gates of Rome.”

  Lucrezia lifted her eyes from the pillow; they were still swollen from tears, red-veined and miserable.

  “Jews,” she whispered, a superstitious shiver moving through her shoulders as she crossed herself.

  Betta nodded. “I know of one that lives in a tent beneath a pine that blew over in a storm. She is very…wise. For coin…”

  Lucrezia was already nodding. “You could say that it was you…or that you served some other family. And you could ask her…”

  Betta nodded, seeing the bright interest in the other girl’s gaze. Caution alone had her hesitating. “Some whisper that she practices the dark arts. People go to her for love charms and curses and to rid themselves of unwanted children. Are you certain you wish this, lady? Would it not be better to speak to your mother? Such things follow from mother to daughter, or so mine said…”

  Lucrezia cut off the flow of her words with an impatient gesture. “I do not wish to speak to her. She is a fool who knows nothing.” Her chin firmed, and Lucrezia rolled off the bed and hurried over to the table where she wrote her letters. From an iron-bound chest, she retrieved a leather pouch. There was a gleam of gold. “A ducat? Or more?”

  With difficulty, Betta tore her eyes away from more gold then she would ever make in a lifetime, a treasure left in an unlocked box. “Scuddi only, my lady, or else my throat would be cut before I stepped foot in the quarter. The bravos can smell gold.”

  The canvas side of the tent flapped open, and a long-fingered hand beckoned Betta inside. Narrowing her eyes against the sudden influx of smells and smoke, she ducked her head. Although Betta was the height of most women, the one that inhabited the tent came only to her chin, and the canvas enclosure was fashioned in such a way that all who entered felt tall and ungainly by comparison. The stool where the woman sat was sized for a child, the table, fashioned from rough cuts of mismatched wood and crowded with pots and jars, was on a level with her knees.

  The woman who resided in the tent was not a dwarf. That distinction would have allowed her to earn coin begging or performing in one of the pageants that sent tumbling lights and silken draperies wheeling through the streets every holy day or celebration. Mother Nuca was merely a tiny woman with bright, gleaming eyes that seemed too large for her face. The dim rays filtering in through the patched fabric walls of the tent threw soft light over her, crouched before the fire in the battered brazier, softening the hawkish face and messy tangle of graying hair.

  The scent of pine was thick, and smoke tickled Betta’s nostrils. The soft sides of the tent moved in the wind, the rustling muting the noises from the other tents that crowded close around.

  The cold wind blew across the sweat that had begun the moment that Betta had seen the tent, felt the painful grip of memory hold her in an embrace that threatened to pull her into a place dark and filled with pain.

  “You.”

  The word was said without a trace of doubt, and Betta knew that she had been recognized despite the attempt to disguise her appearance by wearing a coif and a cloak she had borrowed from one of the other servants.

  Though she waited, tensed at the entrance to the tent, the woman said not another word, choosing instead to stir the coals, making sparks dance in the wind.

  Betta bit her lip. “Mother Nuca…” she began, only to have her words interrupted.

  “What you wish?” A malicious tone entered the woman’s voice; turning, she looked over her shoulder surveyed Betta with a leer. “A potion?” she sneered. “To bring your man about?”

  A shudder rattled through Betta’s body, one she was unable to control. “No. Only your wisdom, Grandmother.” When no further words emerged from the bent head, Betta continued, taking first one step and then another inside the tent and allowing the flap to close. Though they could be overheard from those outside, it felt safer, somehow, as though they had entered into the world made of only women, and women’s cares. “A friend…a cousin, has yet to reach her flowering, and it grieves her. She sent me to inquire as to the reason.”

  The woman’s spine wa
s a bony ridge of pearls pressing out against the dress; they moved as she laughed. “Your cousin could not come herself?” With no warning, she turned, allowing Betta to see that her lap was full to overflowing with cones of pine that she was separating into pieces, looking for the meat within.

  “No.” Betta squirmed, feeling herself the subject of an intense, merciless stare that threatened to expose her deepest secrets. She could not meet the woman’s eyes. From a slash in the skirt of her dress, she withdrew a purse, allowing the copper coins to clink together.

  “Huummph. Your cousin, she must be very wealthy, to pay for advice found from any old grandmother. She dark?”

  The rapid change in the conversation left Betta’s head spinning. “No, she is very fair.”

  The woman raised her eyebrow and grinned, pink gums showing through the gaps in her smile. She placed the last of the pine cones into a bucket and stood, dusting off her skirts so that the floor became littered with the splintery remains. “How many years has she?”

  “Ten and three.”

  There was another snort as the woman bent back to her task. “Time enough. Those fair of skin who hale from the north flower later. No herbs can quicken it, though should you wish, I can send along a brew that will bring juice to her marrow. Only the best for HIS daughter.”

  Blood iced in Betta’s veins. She could not know, there was no way that she could have guessed the identity of the family she served.

  “W…what do you mean?”

  The woman cackled. “Think I am a fool? I know who you serve, girl, though the one who brought you here first took care to conceal it. But people talk, oh yes they do, when they come seeking Nuca’s favor, and sometimes it’s what they don’t say that’s the most important. You have the stink of rosewater about you, and hot Spanish blood. I was born in that land, though I had there another name, and I know the taste of it against the tongue.”