Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  The flap of the tent rustled in invitation. Betta’s eyes found it; her muscles tensed, anticipating the flight through the city.

  A clawed hand reached out and caught her shoulder; the fingers were stiff, and Betta felt a press of nails digging into her skin. Nuca had crossed the tent, the movement without noise.

  “Sit down, girl. I mean them no ill will. Him that wears white gives us shelter when their most Catholic majesties drove us out. For that alone, I would aid them.” Seeing Betta relax, the woman settled back into her stool. “As to the rest…” her eyes closed, face relaxing as she thought, smoothing the myriad lines and wrinkles. It struck Betta that for all the woman’s gray hair and haggard appearance, she was not as old as her tresses made her seem; her face retained a trace of harsh beauty. “No potions will bring on first blood. It comes in its own time. But…” she tapped a finger against her temple, “Blood is blood. Open a vein in a street urchin and it looks much the same as the noblest lord. You know this, don’t you, girl?”

  Betta nodded, and Nuca’s mouth twisted, her expression growing darker as they stared at one another for moments that seemed to last for a long time. Obviously reaching some sort of decision, the woman stood, crossing the tent in two strides. From a basket at the side of her pallet, she withdrew cloth-wrapped bundles, murmuring under her breath. “And now…for those who are cruel, oh yes, this will suit them very well, three days spent clutching their innards over a pot. That will serve… And potions to bring about the monthly blood, if it should be late. Those who take to the sport are often not as careful as they might be, and soon find themselves with swelling bellies…This for sleep, endless if too much is slipped into the cup.” The woman let loose with a low cackle that raised little hairs on the back of Betta’s arms.

  “What nonsense is this?” Fear left her voice high and fragile. A whiff of scent entered her nostrils- smoke from the fire where they burned witches or those who trafficked with them.

  Nuca turned on her, robes and gray hair swirling into a single long tangle. “Don’t play the fool. You knew what to do before you came here. Anyone with a drop of sense would know. You came for these.” She shook her hand, releasing the pungent aroma of herbs and spices into the smoky air.

  The instant denial on the tip of her tongue refused to emerge, and Betta realized the woman spoke the truth. She had known what could be done to alleviate the Lady Lucrezia’s plight- a bit of her own blood, smeared on the other’s thighs would have provided months of respite from the constant inquiries. The thought had been there, lurking in the hidden corners of her mind. The other things that the old woman could offer would prove of greater use to her lady, the potions and cures she could not seek out for herself. Betta was the link that could bring the two together.

  Betta felt her head tip forward as she observed the shape of her shadow on the hard-packed dirt floor; for a moment, it appeared so much like the fading memory of her mother that Betta felt a swift lance of pain. If her mother had been here…no, she could not think of such things. Her mother was dead. The girl that she had been when her mother was alive was also dead, buried in the same grave. A harder, darker creature had come to take her place, one that would traffic with evil to provide what the daughter of the pope required.

  She raised her eyes and met the old woman’s knowing stare. “Teach me.”

  Chapter 22

  Berenger de Gany fitted a finger between the upright collar of his doublet and the linen shirt beneath, pulling it away from the skin of his throat. Sweat was beginning to dampen the fabric, lending to his disheveled appearance; he was uncomfortably aware that he smelled foul. A trip through the slums that clustered around the walls that circuited Rome in pursuit of an elusive quarry had left him out of breath, muddy, and in a bad temper.

  He hated Rome. The city disgusted him. So dirty, so poor, so ugly. Even the gleaming white ruins of the glorious past, the pillars, and temples, the statues and monuments were buried beneath a level of filth. Longingly, he remembered his time in the north; the mountains there had brought cooling breezes down the streets and dim memories of his homeland.

  “You are certain?”

  The hood of the cloak nodded; beneath it, there was the flash of white. It amused Berenger that even after the years of meetings in places such as these, populated by rabble and criminals, the Duke continued to keep his face concealed. As though the turban he wore beneath the cloak was not enough to identify him. Even if the duke had announced his title upon entering the tavern, it would not have mattered. Those who came to wine shops such as this did not care who spoke in darkened corners. Plots were as native to Rome as the twisting, top-heavy pines that dotted the city. All they cared about was gold, what they could earn or what they could steal.

  “Yes. The Holy Father seeks alliances to use against France. When Ferrante dies, he will pass the crown of Naples to the Duke of Calabria, and not to your liege as you had hoped.”

  A prickling of sweat dampened the hair at Berenger’s forehead, which had grown sparse during the past years. The years spent in Italy had sapped his youth. When he looked in the glass now, all he could see was an aging copy of the powerful man he had been before the king’s regent had sent him to Rome. But soon, the decades of work would come into fruition. The king had reached his majority and was itching to begin the glorious campaign.

  “Even though it will mean war?”

  One long white finger reached out and began tracing a pattern in the rough wood of the bench that rested between them. “Perhaps he is counting on it.”

  “Explain, if you please.”

  The finger dipped into the wine and allowed red droplets to spill onto the wooden table. After a moment, they soaked into the wood, leaving crimson stains. “The papal states are like plums, dangling from a branch, so tasty to the eye. Bologna, Rimini, Pisa, Siena… and the greatest of these, Naples. Should the king choose to invade, they will fall before the armies of the French king and his cannon, that much is certain, but if they will be kept, that is another matter. A conqueror must stay in the land he takes, and Charles wants nothing so much as to use Naples as a place with which to begin a war against the Turks. A state so newly acquired will be easy pickings. That is what Ludovico Sforza hopes, I think, to gather close to himself those lands that will be taken by the French.”

  “To whose benefit would this be?” Though he tried to control his voice, Berenger's rose, anger lending volume to his typically restrained speech. “The Holy Father’s is not a kingdom that can be passed to his sons.”

  “Could it not? Perhaps such matters can be changed,” the smile had returned, mysterious and sinister. “But we travel far afield. Put not your faith in the Holy Father giving the crown of Naples to Charles. The Tiber will freeze to the banks first.”

  A worm of suspicion began to dance along the edges of Berenger’s mind. Who would it benefit from him being led astray? None more than the young man lounging before him, collecting gold coins in a steady stream that had become a flood during the past years. Who would it benefit from giving him false information?

  “Something else had entered your mind.” The figure in the cloak chuckled. “You think perhaps I am dealing in lies?” Lazy amusement saturated his words.

  Berenger froze. He had forgotten, in all of his dealings with courtesans and bravos that this young man was no fool. “Never, your gr…”

  “No names,” the Duke barked out, the sudden loudness making heads turn in their direction. “You are right to question why I would do this; you serve your master well.”

  At the compliment, Berenger nodded, his posture relaxing.

  “It will be as I said, and war will come. I must have a war, you see. Without a war, there can be no heroes. Who was Hector without the armies of Agamemnon coming across the sea to rescue Helen? Or Hannibal without the generals of Rome falling before him, one after another? Names, nothing more. It will be the name of Borgia they speak of when this war is over. Not Sforza or Ferrante or even my fa
ther, who is forever chained by the robes of his office. Borgia”

  As he spoke, the hood had fallen back, revealing more of the man’s young face and strange burning eyes. Fever and eagerness poured off him in waves. The excitement in his face was impossible to feign. This young man was hungry for war, not knowing that the conflict would destroy his family.

  “If it is as you say, there will be war.” Berenger nodded. “My thanks for your candor.” Beneath the table, a purse of gold was passed, heavy with coins.

  A smile creased the exposed lips of the young man who kept the remainder of his face carefully concealed in shadow. “Until the next time,” he said, gathering his cloak closer about his body.

  Berenger held up a hand. “One thing more.”

  Although he had begun to rise, the young man settled back into his seat and raised an eyebrow.

  “Certain rumors have begun to reach my ears.”

  “Rumors?”

  “About the noble Lady Lucrezia…and the Holy Father and her brother, the archbishop. Rumors of a scandalous nature.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “It must pain you to contemplate it, but my master wishes to know the truth.”

  Silence greeted his words. Berenger waited, stomach clenching in anticipation. His master had not directed him to discover the truth about the rumors; it was only his curiosity to know the truth about the scandal that was on the lips of every gossip in Rome.

  The cloaked figure sighed, shoulders clenching as his hand reached down to play with the dagger at his waist. Another fine blade, Berenger noted, the hilt set with a polished green stone. “Lucrezia and his Holiness…one has only to see them together to know that he loves her only as is proper. He has ever been wont to dote on her, the daughter that is the flower of his old age. But I would caution you to leave Lady Lucrezia free to pursue her marriage in peace unless you wish to incur the archbishop’s wrath, and he is known to deal in blood. Tell your master that he will be dealt with when the time is ripe.”

  “By whom?”

  “By me.”

  Chapter 23

  Dusty boots interrupted Betta’s vision. Betta worked around them for a time, conscious that the possessor of the boots had been quietly observing her, neither shifting nor moving as he waited for the scrubbing to bring her closer. The smell had alerted her long since, the distinctly masculine odor of man unadorned with expensive perfume save those that lingered about him, sweat and leather and steel.

  "You again.”

  "Move," she muttered, dunking her scrubbing brush into the bucket and swirling it to dislodge the dirt.

  A low chuckle rumbled its way from the man's chest. "Move, she says. As if I were a pot-boy, fit for her to order about." The dusty boot rose, hovering near her bucket of water. Betta held her breath. If he spilled it, the water would add another hour to her labors. "If you ask with a smile."

  Betta looked up, acknowledging that she had lost the battle of wills. Though the archbishop's henchmen did not speak often, the gruff, rumbling tones of his voice reached her ears like an approaching storm whenever he dined at the Palazzo. As he took his meals in the kitchens, Betta sometimes found his eyes on her, though they had not spoken face to face. Once, a week ago, she had thought he might intervene when the cellarer had tried to slide a greasy palm up her skirt. She had responded to the familiarity with a slap which resounded through the cavernous kitchens buzzing with servants who had quieted, thinking a fight would ensue. Seeing her reaction, Micheletto had sat down, intent upon his meal once more. There might have been a smile on his face, however.

  "Move," she repeated, matching him stare for stare. "If you please."

  Her tart response seemed to please him, for he chuckled and obediently moved to the side, allowing her to continue wiping down the walls.

  “Watching you… it pleases me.”

  The words were so similar to the coarse words men whispered in her ears that Betta stiffened, preparing to escape. From the moment that she had emerged from under Donna Maria’s protective wing, she had been beset by the men who served at the Palazzo, from those only recently bearded to aging servants with twisted bodies whose thoughts should have been past such matters. At times it seemed a game to them, who would be the first to get beneath her skirts. Though she had grown accustomed to it, their behavior never failed to send a spurt of anger racing through her veins.

  He continued, leaning close. “You’ve a quickness about you. The way you step…like a cat. A dark, slant-eyed cat in an alley.”

  Fear locked her muscles in place at the idea of him watching her so closely that he had noticed the way that she moved.

  “How old are you, girl? Old enough to bed?”

  “Or to wed, though neither interests me.” There was something wrong with her voice. It was too high, too tight. And her words were not strictly true. At ten and three, she had reached the age that the church allowed for marriage, but only the wealthy formed unions so young.

  “Tongue like that, you’ll find yourself with neither.”

  Her response was at the ready. “Which would please me very well.” The floor was finished, the last tile polished until it sparkled. Rising, she shook out the brush over the bucket of water and wiped her hands on her apron, conscious that Micheletto still watched her, his foot clicking back and forth as he brushed it against the tiles. He tucked his chin close against his chest, allowing his hair to fall and obscure his eyes. Red stubble furred his cheeks, emphasizing the lean edges. The way he looked then, he might have been any bravo. His garments were well made, but so stained and worn as to be undistinguishable from the young toughs that roamed the city. Except for the sword at his hip, none of his weapons were visible, but Betta knew they were there. With an acuity she could not have explained, she felt them, secreted around his garments, all within easy access. The sword was for show, for display. The knives…the knives he loved.

  "My master dines this night with the envoy from Milan."

  Betta nodded. "I'll tell my mistress not to expect him, then." She made to turn her back only to stop when he reached out, trying to catch her arm. She skittered away, moving sideways to avoid his touch.

  The quirk of his eyebrows acknowledged the gesture, but he said nothing. "He asks that she be prepared for riding before the noon hour tomorrow."

  "Signore de Milla seldom allows her to..."

  Micheletto Corella cut off her words with a slice of his arm. In the exposed folds of his doublet, metal gleamed. She was correct, daggers were scattered throughout the folds of his garments.

  "My master wasn't planning on asking her."

  Chapter 24

  Lucrezia strode back and forth in front of the double door which opened onto the street. On either side of the entrance, guards stood, watching her as they had done for the last half of an hour, observing her from the corner of their eyes as she paced. Cesare was late. In another hour, Adriana would rise from her noonday rest, forcing Lucrezia to explain where she was going.

  Perhaps the time would allow her to change her gown. Looking down, she frowned at the offending article, noticing that the hem of her dark green gamurra was trailing on the marble floor, dust plainly visible on the dark cloth. Though she had chosen the gown as suitable for riding, the color was not one that she favored, the hue of pine trees making her appear even more colorless instead of lending its color to her eyes, making them green, as she had hoped. Internally she cursed the bright, vivid beauty of Giulia, the girl who had once been a friend and was now also her father's lover. She appeared dazzling in any color, and any combination of gamurra and giornea was flattering to her bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and stunning golden hair that never seemed to contain the darkening strands of brown that she had begun to notice in her own.

  Lucrezia picked at an itchy spot on her chin, then forced her hand away although the urge to continue remained like a splinter of wood under her nail. Her skin was breaking out in spots, deviling her ladies as they employed herbs and paints to disgu
ise the unsightly marks. One had suggested ceruse, and for a moment she had been tempted, imagining herself with flawless, perfect skin… no, she would not use the white powder her mother had favored.

  Still, thoughts of her shortcomings continued to swirl around her head like birds. Her looks needed constant attention, as Adriana often told her. A moment without diligence, a careless movement or lack of proper attire, and the beauty granted to her for a fleeting instant would fade, as her mother’s had. Gowns in only the lightest hues must be chosen, rose and sunshine and the sky blue of the Virgin's cloak that her father so favored. Her skin must be guarded against the sun, bathed twice a day with a concoction of rosewater and bran to whiten it. Lead to darken her eyebrows, the harsh line of black making her face unrecognizable in a glass, and dots of sandalwood and grappa to put roses on her cheeks. What had been a game only months before, the changing of gowns, the attention to her face in the glass, had become the pole around which her days turned. Already, she was tired of it.

  She would change the gown, she decided, remembering Camilla's reaction to her brother's appearance weeks before. Cesare was the handsomest man in Rome. All the women said as much; she had even seen Giulia giving him sidelong glances of appreciation. And she would not be the wan, child-like...

  Strong arms encircled her, the smell of oranges and leather causing a painful contraction in her stomach.

  "Cesare," she breathed, relaxing into the embrace.

  "Little sister," his arms tightened. It was one of the things that she loved about him, that each time he greeted her, it was as if they had spent many months apart.