Cesare drew her out of doors to where two horses were waiting, a large chestnut stallion that pawed the ground, anxious to be off, and behind him...
Lucrezia gasped, hands flying to her cheeks. "What... Santa Maria…She's..." Shock and wonder stole her wits.
A warm hand touched her cheek, drawing her hand down and leading her forward. "Beautiful, is she not?" His free hand reached out and stroked down the mare's arching neck, making the gleaming white coat shiver, becoming a rippling fountain. "She was meant for the Doge of Venice, but the moment I saw her, I knew she could belong to none other than the most beautiful woman in all of Rome."
A warm glow filled her chest, expanding like a soap bubble. The horse was a gift for her, a princely gift. She reached out, letting the silvery mare sniff at her fingers. The whiskers tickled, making her smile, as velvety lips explored her palm, looking for a treat.
"Giulia Farnese."
The words slowly penetrated the delighted fog of Lucrezia's thoughts; her mouth fell open, and she turned to stare at him, stunned, only to see that he was watched her with an amused expression that turned his face into something so beautiful that it hurt to look on him. The beast, he was teasing her, as he had when they were children
"Does our Holy Father know?"
A line appeared in the space between his brows. "Know what?"
"That you harbor tender feelings for his mistress?" she asked, opening her eyes wide in the innocent expression that she had practiced in front of the mirror.
Reaching out, he flicked the end of her nose. “The only one I harbor tender feelings for is you.” When she would have responded, he continued. “And this horse, for in truth, she cost me a great deal of gold. But she is lovely, and her kind are known to be swift and daring. After she has fulfilled her purpose, she will be yours, and it will please me to know that of all the fair ladies in Rome, you possess the mount most fitting for your charms.” He wrapped his hands around her waist, placing her on the horse. The feel of his muscles bunching beneath her fingers…
"Her purpose?" Lucrezia asked, forcing herself to concentrate on the conversation they were engaged in and not the strange, fluttering sensations that being in his company were creating in her. “Where do we travel?”
"The arena.”
It was not the arena which had stood since Ancient times that Cesare directed them to, though it stood close enough by that imposing structure that the stone blocks which formed it provided one of that walls enclosing the wooden pen. Twice the height of a man, the adjoining arena was made of thick wooden slabs fastened together into a long rectangular enclosure that smelled of sawdust and the reek of newly felled trees. The wood had not even had the chance to discolor into the gray that painted all of Rome; bright yellow, it oozed sap and smelled bright and clean, like lemons.
As they neared it, Lucrezia looked about, trying to discern why Cesare had brought her here. A contest of some sort; perhaps he meant to sponsor a horse race or a historical pageant. There were few people about. The countryside in the crumbling heart of Rome was full of grass and horses in pastures and the small gardens and orchards kept by the townspeople to provide fruits and vegetables during the growing season. Little noise disturbed the tranquility of the place. Only some roughly clothed men whose skin had been tanned to the color of walnut were leaning against a separate enclosure, talking between themselves in voices so low their words could not be understood. When they saw Cesare, they stood to attention, doffing their caps and bowing in the same motion.
As they drew closer, a smell hung heavy in the air, ripe and overpowering even the aroma of the horses and the newly cut wood. It made Lucrezia’s nose crinkle.
“A bull?” she asked, her mind supplying the reason why Cesare had brought her here and the need for the distinctive enclosure. “Will you fight it?” excitement poured through her at the thought of watching him engage in the feat which had made the men of her homeland famous for daring.
Cesare pulled his mount to a stop, and Lucrezia followed suit.
“Indeed, dear sister. I shall celebrate the occasion of your wedding with a spectacle such as Rome has not seen since ancient times.”
“And infuriate our brother, who would never risk the sacrosanct person of the Duke of Gandia in something so fraught with peril.” Her hands found Cesare’s shoulders as he reached up and grasped her around the waist, plucking her from the saddle as effortlessly as he had when she was a child, and he was teaching her to ride in the rolling hills near Spoleto. He held her close for a moment, arms full of her gown, faces only inches apart. The bright sunlight had caused the green and gold of his eyes to expand, swallowing the black. Strands of his hair were beneath her fingers, and the leather of his doublet pressed hard against her chest. She was surrounded by him, and the anxiety which had stalked her every waking moment since she had moved to the Palazzo of Santa Maria began to dissipate.
“My Cesare,” she murmured; acting on impulse, she stretched up and pressed a quick kiss against his lips, lingering there for the briefest of moments. Beneath her own, she felt his lips quirk up into a smile at the spontaneous caress.
“Little sister.” He set her on the ground but did not release his hold on her waist, binding them together. Her head reached the middle of his chest, and she nestled there, letting the buckles dig into her cheek. He sighed again, and she felt his lips against her hair. “Though you are not so little as I might wish.”
The words brought back the memory of her humiliation, and she turned from Cesare, digging the toe of her slipper into the dust of the road. “Hmmm.”
A finger lifted her chin, but she would not face him, not let him see all that troubled her.
“What?”
Lucrezia shook her head, unwilling to confess, to reopen the wound of her humiliation.
“Then I must guess if you refuse to speak the words. Is it the new shipment of woolen goods from the market in Florence which were snatched up before you had a chance to select from their stock? Or perhaps you have heard the rumors about our beloved brother prowling the streets like a bravo, slaughtering…”
“None of that, goose. It is merely that I have not…” Lucrezia interrupted him, then paused, searching for a manner to delicately express her inadequacy. “And all of Rome talks of it.”
“Ahh.” Cesare’s reply was a long sigh. Stretching his neck, he nodded at the men leaning against the wall and then continued on until they had passed through into the empty arena. “Rome always finds something to talk about, my sweet. Blood, fornication, scandal, these are the lifeblood of our city. But you refer to our father’s indelicate words of the day before?”
Lucrezia kept her eyes firmly trained on the ground before her, the sand sprinkled with small rocks and broken shards of pottery, anything to avoid seeing his pitying gaze.
“It pains you?” There was amusement in his tone. It stung that Cesare, who was never cruel to her, should find humor in her suffering. She stared at him, incredulous, until he continued, all the while bringing his hand up and down her back in a soothing gesture she remembered from her earliest years. “I see that it does. Though I was aware of our father’s feelings on the matter, I confess that it does not concern me overmuch. I would as soon keep you as you are for months and years and always have you close by my side rather than lose my beloved sister when she becomes a wife.”
If anything, the understanding caused her embarrassment to deepen. She shrugged, trying to conceal the hurt. "And Papa, my women report to him each day. My marriage seems the only thing that he cares about, except for Madonna Giulia. He never wishes to see me anymore, and those few times when he does, I can feel his impatience with me. Since he came to the throne, it is all that he thinks of, when I am to be married and to whom. It is such a change from how it was before. Why is this so important to him, Cesare? More important than I am?”
"Many reasons, dear sister. Forces seek the Holy Father's downfall, or at least his containment. Orsini battles Colonna in the
streets, and the lords of the Romagna refuse to acknowledge his suzerainty. The king of Naples leaves off his daily communication with the devil only to curse our father and plot against Milan and Venice. When he dies, France will seek to reclaim the throne, and there will be trouble there. King Charles, young though he is, already fancies himself a conqueror."
"Is it true, what they say, that he is the ugliest man that has ever lived?"
Cesare shrugged a shoulder.
"I do not know. But alliances are often drawn in marriage contracts, Lucrezia, and you know this. Your fate will be no different than a thousand other maids."
"But he will choose someone comely, surely. A handsome knight who will honor me?"
"There is a lack of such paragons among the great families."
A weight settled in her chest. "Our mother was right."
"She very often is," he said, voice gentle.
"I thought that papa would allow me to marry as my heart would desire. Now I find that I am to be bartered off like a prize calf and can count myself lucky not to be married to a man of age to be our grandfather."
"There is a benefit," he said, placing an arm around her shoulder and drawing her in close. At her raised eyebrows, he continued. "At least old Ferrante is safely wed.”
This time her shudder was in earnest. "I would sooner enter a nunnery than be trapped with that man and his banquet hall of corpses."
"That he mummified his enemies did more to keep him on the throne than any number of alliances. There is a lesson in old King Ferrante, sister. Fear is a weapon and can do as much as to keep you on a throne as armies. Use what weapons are at your disposal, sister, if you wish to wield any sort of power."
Lucrezia's turned pensive. "Our mother said that beauty is a weapon."
"And there is no one with more knowledge of that weapon than our mother." His hand reached out, stroking her hair. "Could you not ask her about your...delay?"
Lucrezia looked away, concentrating on the piles of wood and hay. “I have not visited her in many months. She... we quarreled."
"Perhaps you should beg her pardon.”
There was no answer she could give to that, none that would satisfy him. “If you wish it.”
“It would set my mind at ease.”
She nodded, thoughts already drifting to his earlier words. “And you are very silly if you think to lose me when I make an alliance. That will not happen.”
He squeezed her again, crushing her to his side. “If heaven wills it so, for I could never forgive the man that tore you from my side.” With another squeeze, he brought her closer until she was forced to match her stride to his much longer ones. “If you would listen to the counsel of one much more advanced in years than yourself…”
“Four years only!” she protested.
“Those four years have taught me that it matters little what others think of you. You can either be as the world expects, or you can forge your own path and be the person that you choose to be.”
“And what do you choose to be?”
“A Borgia, and nothing more.” Cesare reached down and patted the cross hung about his neck, the only sign of his clerical duties. “Though I must don the robes of a churchman from time to time because our Holy Father demands it, that is but the shell, the outer covering, not who I am. Within, I am no churchman, I am Borgia. You as well. Though our father may value you as the means by which to forge an alliance with one of the powerful families in Rome and hasten you to mature because of it and your women may see you as nothing more than a girl, you are Lucrezia Borgia. You are a match for any of them. Let the weakness of others be your strength.”
Together, they passed through the archway that separated the arena from the outside, exposing rows and rows of seats constructed from the same raw, unseasoned wood. Solid timbers twice the height of a man provided a wall separating the viewing area from the inner ring.
His words banished the dark cloud that had swirled about her thoughts. “I have begun to make it so.” She confided, telling him about the maid that she had brought from her mother’s home, and the errands she had begun to send the girl on.
He nodded, and approval lit his eyes. “A clever idea. My congratulations, sister. A loyal servant is to be valued, and we will take steps to ensure that she remains so.”
He looked over her shoulder again, and when Lucrezia turned to see the direction of his gaze, she recognized the dark hair and deeply sunken eyes of the henchmen, Micheletto, who scowled at the men who made to follow them through the archway and closed the door behind their retreating backs.
A cushion waited on the row of seats closest to the gate. Cesare escorted her there, the hand holding hers already beginning to tremble with excitement. His eyes were shining brightly, and color blazed on his cheeks. The sun beat strongly overhead, and he drank in it, the heat loosening his muscles until his posture changed, the carefully upright carriage of a churchman becoming something looser and touched with danger.
With only the slightest pause to ensure that she was comfortably ensconced, he left the ring, making for a separate door at the other side. When he opened it, a noise emerged from the outside, a muffled bellow followed by an impact against the wall that shook the arena.
Excitement at the spectacle edged away, replaced by another emotion: fear. The bulls brought into the ring for fighting were different from the docile animals that littered the pastures and pens of Rome, slow-moving, placid beasts that allowed children to play beneath their hooves. Easily as large as the carts used to haul grain to the market, they were huge, muscled animals with ferocious eyes that seemed the stuff of legends. Wild and untamed, they injured the men they fought and sometimes killed them outright.
But not Cesare, she consoled herself, trying to calm her breathing. Warmth touched her hair. She savored the feeling, the heady caress of the rays against her scalp before lifting the dark veil which trailed down her back over to shade her face. It would not do to meet her future husband covered in freckles.
The door at the other side of the ring opened, and Cesare galloped through. Mounted on the white horse, the silver buckles on his saddle gleamed, the tip of his spear alight. Heels pressing into the animal's side, it dipped, executing a bow.
“Brava!“ Lucrezia called.
Cesare tugged on the reins, executing a series of swift turns that brought him and his mount across the arena. The mare reared, pawing the air, and Cesare’s laugh rang out.
It dazzled her, Cesare high and confident upon the white horse. Even the sight of the bull, released from a door into the arena, could not tear her eyes from him. She watched as he began the dance, spurring the mare into quick charges past the enraged animal, sinking his spear into its sides and then pulling back until blood began to flow, staining the dun-colored coat.
Soon, all of Rome would gather here, and they would watch as she was watching, marveling at the strength of him, how he became one with the horse, bending low and urging it forward. The spear was a flash of silver in his hand, but she could not see it, the careful precision in the way that he took aim and balanced himself, thighs clamped around the straining back.
Soon, she would marry. Let it be a man like Cesare, she prayed, watching him and feeling something warm and insistent stirring inside her, a heat different than the warmth of the day. That would be a husband that she could love. Someone with dark curling hair that would feel like silk beneath her fingers, and the traces of red in his beard. A man with hollows beneath his cheekbones, and a way of lifting one side of his mouth for a moment when he found something amusing but could not permit himself to smile.
A roar shook the arena as the bull whipped out, shattering the spear sunk deeply into his shoulder against the opposite wall. Only the quickness of the mare and Cesare’s consummate skill kept them moving as a horn sliced, drawing a narrow line of red into a white flank. Sweat had begun to dampen Cesare’s hair, and as he urged the horse into a quicker gallop, outstripping the bull; safely on the other si
de of the arena, he flung off the leather doublet, dropping it on the ground as he reached out and grasped one of the other spears that had been left buried in the sand.
Let him be a man with Cesare’s fierce protective spirit. Someone that would love her, and only her, that was what she desired. Men, oh she knew that men took their pleasure where they would, in that act which all her women seemed to find so fascinating, but love such as she had read about in Abelard and Heloise or the Romance of the Rose, that was a different matter. A man who would cease any endeavor if she needed him, or ride day and night to come to her, if he knew that she was ill.
The side of the bull was awash in red, and even as it charged, Lucrezia could tell that it was weakening, stumbling and nearly falling to the sand. It no longer chased the white horse and rider about; like a colossus, it waited near the door where it had emerged, head lowered, ribs sporting three spears that shifted with each movement, driving the barbed edges deeper.
In the arena, Cesare leaned far to the side, bending down to grasp the handle of another of the spears. The motion made his shirt flare about, billowing in the wind, and Lucrezia caught a glimpse of long muscles and a tight stomach.
Someone lovely, as Cesare was. Someone whose face mirrored her own when they laughed or shared a secret thought without needing to speak a word.
Someone who smelled as he did, oranges and leather and bright sunshine, with strong arms that enclosed her in an embrace that seemed as though home and love and longing bound up in his very person. Someone…
Cesare.
Beautiful, she thought, her eyes finding his arms as the wind whipped his sleeves about, and his thighs, stretched wide across the back of the horse, bulging and then lengthening with each contraction of the muscle. Her lips were tingling, as though the wind had kissed them. Her tongue reached out, swiping across; the salt stung her. She cried, watching him, knowing that the man she married would never be like Cesare, for there was but one of him, and he belonged to God. No, that was wrong as well, for if there was but one Cesare, there was only one Lucrezia, and they belonged to each other.
Servant to the Borgia Page 13
