“Dark hair and green eyes,” Lucrezia sighed. “He does sound handsome. My husband will be more handsome, though. And courtly, like the knight from The Romance of the Rose."
"The Sforza's are not known for their gentle disposition, lady."
"Only their arrogance," Another of the attendants muttered in a low voice.
"Is that him?" Lucrezia's voice was cast unnaturally low in a whisper that managed to carry out of the open doors onto the terrace of the palazzo of Santa Maria in Portico. "The tall, dark-haired one?”
Betta looked up from the stone she was wiping with a damp cloth and scanned to the crowded street below. "The Sforza's have reddish hair, lady," she reminded her mistress. "There's none like that which I have seen."
Air blew out in an exasperated sigh. "A shame. That man, he looked like... he looked handsome."
Turning her head to the side, Betta looked for the young man in question. There were half a dozen or more with their heads turned up…ah yes, that one, he was handsome, with the smooth, lithe grace of a fighter and an almost feminine face.
"Too young. Giovanni Sforza is six and twenty, mistress, a man in his prime."
"But he is supposed to be here today! Cesare told me that he planned to enter Rome in secret." Lucrezia sighed, and moved away from the passage, returning to the table where she wrote her letters.
The hours dripped by, sext becoming none. Another figure entered the square on horseback, and something about his looks caught her eye.
"Mistress."
Betta's urgent tone brought Lucrezia's head around, but at Betta's upturned hand, she waited. The man paused, looking up at the elaborate facade of the palazzo with an inscrutable expression on his face. The horse he sat upon was prancing, a spirited animal controlled with small movements of hip and thigh.
It was his face that had caught Betta's attention. Neither particularly handsome or young, it possessed a firm jaw thrust aggressively forward and a large Roman nose that jutted out from a face kept in shadow by a cap. Reddish hair fell in waves to his collar, which was dusty from the road. This was a man assured of his own place in the world, no matter that his doublet was threadbare. His manner was that of a prince.
A beggar clasped at the man's knees, only to be kicked aside without a downward glance. His rough treatment caused the other beggars to avoid him, skulking at the corners of the square.
Lucrezia's women had clustered about, offering opinions as to his identity.
"Is that him, do you think?"
"He's handsome enough, and looks strong."
"He'll be good for a ride."
Trepidation drained the color from Lucrezia's face. Reaching out, she steadied herself on the lintel, and a deep breath strained the tight lacings on her bodice. The gown had been well chosen. The blushing pink of a new dawn, it set off her pale looks to perfection, transforming her delicate features into angelic beauty. The heavy coils of honey blonde hair had been brushed until they shone and then caught in a net edged with pearls.
The light enveloped Lucrezia in a golden glow as she stepped out onto the terrace. A breeze that roared down the street caught a strand of hair, waving it like a banner, and a shout from one of the beggars caused the pigeons who loitered at the square to fly up, filling the air with the noise of a thousand flapping wings. Into all of this Lucrezia stepped, as fresh as a May blossom
The cheeky whistle of a young noble brought the man's head about, and Betta, still crouching by the railing, saw the moment that Lucrezia's identity was guessed. The glance the stranger spared her was thorough, moving from the top of her head and descending down. And his expression never changed; there was no pleasure in her beauty, her innocence. Without making a sign or acknowledgment, he nodded, then wheeled the horse and continued on into the Vatican.
Chapter 27
Lucrezia rushed into her rooms as the last chimes of the bell sounded Vespers. She threw herself upon the mattress of her bed, ruffling the brocade. The two ladies who had accompanied her to the feast cast significant glances, first at each other, then at the other women loitering throughout the chambers.
Lucrezia did not notice the interplay. She cried, harsh, ugly sounds that shook her shoulders. The women clustered around her, clucking like chickens and exchanging meaningful glances over her heaving back.
“Mistress!”
“Lady Lucrezia, what is the matter!”
Betta watched from the corner of the door, the narrow gap enough to see through to the outer room where the delicate, buttery shades of the gowns were clustered around the bed so that the occupant was obscured from view.
"He scarce looked at me once. All of his conversation was for my father or the Sforza's that had accompanied him. As though any of them was to be his wife!"
"What did you expect?" Caterina, the oldest of her women, said.
"I expected him to look at me as though I had more import than... than a prize mare he was purchasing!"
Geronima leaned against the bed and patted her back until Lucrezia sat up and began drying her tears. "It’s your dowry he's after, true enough, but it'll be up to you to show him that he's gaining a treasure besides."
"How do I do that?"
"Think we’d still be unmarried if we knew that?" Caterina chuckled. “It's not as though I have had lessons in the art of men.”
"The art of men.” Lucrezia sat up, wrapping her arms around bent knees. “The art of men.” She murmured again, tapping her finger against her lips. "That is exactly what I need, lessons in the art of men.”
The following day, Lucrezia dismissed her ladies, giving them leave to visit the market or their families as it best suited them. She planned to visit her mother for the day, she told them, accompanied by a single maid. When Adriana de Milla objected to the impropriety, fluttering her hands and protesting that the Holy Father had not given his permission, Lucrezia silenced her with a look.
"Would you bother my Holy Father as the weight of the world sits upon his shoulders for something so trivial as a visit to the one who gave birth to me? If it troubles you, then by all means, summon him from his negotiations with the French, the deputation from Naples and the Sforza’s as they count the coins which will shortly be my bride's price. Come, let me summon a page."
Adriana's trembling hand was held up. "No, that will not be necessary."
The litter was summoned. Betta walked behind, forced to maintain a brisk trot to keep up with the horses.
Little had changed in the months of absence from the Villa, and the knowledge made something which had been tight and anxious in Betta's chest loosen. Donna Maria greeted her with a tight hug, nearly smothering Betta in the weight of her bosom and surrounding her with a familiar fragrance. When she was allowed to emerge, still brushing happy tears from her cheeks, it shocked her to see how much the other woman had aged in the months since she had been gone to the other house. Circles ringed the dark brown eyes, and each time she breathed, it was with a whistle.
Something of her worry must have shown, for Donna Maria straightened, waving her concerns away as though they were flies. “Don’t fuss now, I’m an old woman, forced to work from dawn to dusk less these pack of sluts…” she glanced around at the serving girls who had gathered to exclaim after Betta’s clothes, her position, “run off with the silver. You were ever the only one who worked as hard as I.”
Rolling eyes greeted her words; Betta pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh.
“I have missed you, Donna,” she said, surprised to realize that it was the truth. Though the workload was light at the Palazzo, she was surrounded by strangers, save the Lady Lucrezia. She must try to come more often, she thought, on the days when she had no duties.
“Tell us what it is like!” A new girl had been added to the maids, a thin, long-faced girl whose large eyes seemed to swallow up her face. Her replacement.
“It is much the same as any other house…” Betta began, taking the stool near the cooking fire when it was offered and th
e cup of small beer. The trip through the town had been dusty.
Though the cooks began the preparations for pranzo, they listened together with all the other servants in the household, entranced by the tales she was spinning, of banquets and audiences, the movement of silk upon marble floors. Soon, however, the pleasant interlude in the kitchens was interrupted by a summons. The heat of the day had grown uncomfortable, and the Signora wished a fan.
"I'll go," Betta offered, rising from the table where she had been regaling the servants with details of the lives of the pope's servants, from the cook who had been found sodomizing a spit boy and had his ears cropped off as punishment to the girls found lifting their skirts for coin.
Clarita, Vannozza's maid, offered a grateful smile. "These arms of mine can't take it. Fan's kept behind the door."
Though the day was sweltering, the stone walls of the villa afforded relief from the heat. More, in fact, than the Palazzo. Cool shadows caressed her face as she hurried toward the inner chamber. When she opened the door, the Signora signaled her to enter without interrupting her questions.
"And what manner of man is he, this Sforza that your father has promised you to?"
“A crude one,” Lucrezia said, her voice flat. “One loathe to pay heed to his bride.”
"And has your father not taken your feelings into account, Princessa?" Vannozza mocked.
"Not one bit," Lucrezia said flatly. A smile devoid of humor twisted her lips, and she stretched out her hand in appeal, resting it lightly on her mother’s arm. "Mother. Of all those in Rome, you are the best able to impart the wisdom of how I may deal with this man. Teach me, I beseech you."
Betta wondered how long it had been since Vannozza had been addressed thus, with a flattering note of pleading. Certainly not since the children had been removed from her custody.
Vannozza settled back in her chair. "Refill my cup then, child, and come to see me more oft in the days to follow, for such knowledge as I have gained cannot be imparted in a single afternoon."
The weeks leading up to Lady Lucrezia’s wedding were filled with visits to the villa, small handfuls of hours spent away from banquets and gown fittings, time spent at her mother's feet.
Betta tried to absorb the knowledge she shared, not because she wished to emulate the arts of seduction, but because the stories she told were so fascinating, hinting at a past of unmatched pageantry and sensual pleasures.
"And your father, such a man as he was then. As virile as the bull upon his standard. He'd been used to having every woman fall over themselves for the pleasure of his company, first as old Calixtus's nephew then as the Vice-Chancellor. But for him, that first night, I knew the road to take. Knowledge, that was what your father needed. How to bend other men to his will. Women he had in plenty, and I never stopped him from taking his pleasures where he would. But Rodrigo had no more knowledge than a babe on how to find the hearts of men, what they desired most, what would shape them. Without that, he would never have taken the throne of St. Peter. And he was a handsome devil. Your brother bears him to mind when I think back on those days."
"Cesare is very handsome."
"Not Cesare, Lucrezia. Juan. Rodrigo was Juan without the arrogance of assurance, though he had more reason for it. Cesare, for all that your father has stuck him in the scarlet, is a warrior to the core. My own father was such, though he wielded the brush later in life, never content without a blade in his hand. But Cesare, he knows men, the way I have always done.
"And you taught him that in that first night?"
Vannozza snorted, and wine sloshed out of her cup. "That night? When he still had wet robes from running aground on the barque from Aragon? No, that night, he needed an ear and a soft place to rest his head. But before that first rush had passed, he knew that I would be more use to him than any common woman on the streets."
Lucrezia absorbed her mother's words, leaning forward, eyes never leaving her face.
"And how do you make a man...desire you?"
"Lust is the work of a moment. Animals lust, and rut in the fields. Desire, though," Vannozza tapped her temple. "That is slipping your fingers around the soul of a man and burrowing deep. And each one is different, and so must your strategy be."
"You sound as though you were a general, planning a campaign."
"It is the same, or very nearly. A timid man secretly wishes to be bold. One that has spent his life absorbed by books and words wishes the pleasures of the flesh, to dive deeply into that place where there are no thoughts, only feelings."
"And a conqueror?"
"Ahh..." Vannozza drew the word out. "The most dangerous kind, and yet the most delicious to tame. The conqueror wishes the chase. Nothing else exists for him."
As the days of the betrothal drew to a close and the nuptial feast approached, Vannozza's advice grew ever more practical in nature.
"You are not to be bedded yet, your father has spared you that though you've bled. You've some time to accustom yourself to the idea of taking a man to bed. Do you desire yet? Is there a stirring in your loins?
"Sometimes, though not...with him. Giovanni... he is loud, and food clings to his beard! He is nothing like…," Lucrezia looked down, blushing.
"Ahh, but there is another that has caught your eye? You'll hear no words from me that you do from the priests. There are ways to make a man think he's the first that has been between your thighs, and ways to keep from getting with child if you don't wish it." Vannozza looked up and grinned at Betta. "Put the fan down girl, though you've scarce moved it in an hour, and I'll tell you how such things are done."
The music spilled across the tiles, light and golden, teased from the strings of a lute by a thin, spotted youth in sweat-soaked linen. Damp clung to his lank, light brown hair, already thinning on top, visible only because he kept his head bent over the instrument; his presence invisible to the family gathered around the table inlaid with precious woods imported from the east. An assortment of fruits and cheeses were spread across the surface; beneath the rind, a warm puddle of cheese was dripping onto the white cloth.
Betta stood in the shade, a welcome relief from the sun although the cooling breezes from the fan she plied could not reach her. It was a lazy, sun-drenched afternoon. June had arrived, bringing with it the sultry breezes from the south that swept across Rome, making the plants wilt in pots and the heat bake the stones of the street until they were painful to walk upon.
"Your Eminence," Vannozza teased, smiling up at the Archbishop as he arrived and patting his cheek. He had responded with a smile and then engulfed Lucrezia in a hug, as though he had been weeks away. "Come and partner your sister for the dance."
"It is too hot, Mother," Cesare said, falling back into a chair.
Vannozza made a face, then moved her eyes to scan across the piazza. "Betta," her voice lashed out. "Bring His Eminence some chilled wine, and be quick about it."
Betta rolled to her feet. Holding the fan, she ran to the kitchen and filled a goblet of wine from the jar kept in the cellars without troubling the cook, who snored in peaceful oblivion in the corner while his assistants set about preparing a light lunch for the family’s repast. She exchanged her soiled, damp apron for a clean article before emerging from the confines of the kitchen, the fresh linen covering the worst of the sweat stains dampening her gown.
The Archbishop had discarded his purple robes and sat in only a linen tunic and hose, his limbs in careless disarray, sprawled out from the chair. The purple biretta lay upended on the table, and Lucrezia was tossing cards into it, one by one, her efforts encouraged by her younger brother, who also sat at the table.
Betta crept closer, bobbing into a curtsy as she offered the wine, the chill of which had crept into her hands through the silver.
"Thank you," he murmured, always polite, and she had to restrain a shiver as his eyes held hers for a moment. Seen up close, they were more golden than hazel, like those of a hawk.
Betta retreated into the corner shadows.
Over her mother's shoulder, Lucrezia smiled at her impishly, then tossed the rest of the cards into the hat.
"I don't want to play anymore, Mother," she said, an unmistakable whine in her voice. "You promised to teach me something if I came to you this day."
"Indeed I did, my dear, and as soon as your brother has finished refreshing himself..."
The Archbishop leaned further back in his chair, a lazy smile playing around his lips as he looked from his mother to his sister. "Why am I required for this? There are other dancing masters to show her how to dance." Reaching over, he tugged at a loose golden curl escaping from a net, a tight spiral that wound tighter from the moisture in the air.
Lucrezia’s expression took on a melting, pleading aspect. "Please, Cesare? Juan is off again, and Joffre..." she cast a look down at her youngest brother, industriously picking his nose when his mother's back was turned.
He rolled his eyes. "I am unable to deny you anything."
Lucrezia clapped her hands and jumped to her feet.
With a small groan, Vannozza rose, ponderous in her heavy silks. "Move my chair closer to the lute player."
Betta hurried to obey, the chair of carved olive wood causing a sharp pain in her back as she struggled to move it closer to where the thrum of music had begun to gain in intensity. Placing the chair in the deep shadows, she waited by the arm as Vannozza made her way closer. The creak of the chair as the lady settled into the confines drowned out the music.
"Wine, Signora?" she asked. When the lady nodded her assent, she went to the central corridor, where the pitcher was in readiness. Vannozza accepted the cooled drink.
"Shall I fan you?" Betta asked. Vannozza nodded again, then waved her off. She clapped her hands together. "The Pavane!" she called, her voice loud enough that the pigeons nesting in the tiles of the roof scattered with a flutter of wings.
Even as she plied the fan, Betta stopped to appreciate the spectacle the Borgia children made. Their garments did not mark them as the nobility; Cesare's simple linen tunic and hose were only distinguishable from those of the common man by the fineness of the weave and the quality of the craftsmanship that had created them. Like her brother, Lucrezia wore linen, a plain gamurra of crisp blue the same blazing shade as the sky overhead; her arms were decently covered with modest gathered sleeves. The blond hair that her family so treasured was piled in a simple net beaded with seed pearls, the curls allowed to escape as they would.
Servant to the Borgia Page 15
