She looked, Betta thought, both older and younger than her 13 years. Her womanly flowering had granted her delicate curves, a fullness in breast and hip not entirely hidden by the simple gown. It was only in her expression that youth and innocence were allowed to flower. Guileless green and gold eyes touched on everything with wonder and adoration.
Lucrezia stood, carefully erect in the center of the courtyard, chin lifted.
"You know the steps," Vannozza called. "Take your brother's hand. No, not like that, as if you were grasping a grape from the vine. Slowly, as though your limbs were beneath the water. Remember, your hand is the only thing your partner will touch."
Lucrezia extended her hand, slowing until the grace of the motion and the long slender fingers inextricably drew every eye. She had never noticed how lovely the young madonna's hands were, the shape of the fingers perfect and elegant as a statue, the limbs sweetly formed, both soft and slender. The Archbishop noticed too, in a look of slowly dawning awareness. Every eye was on her, entranced, as she blossomed beneath it.
"Good. Now step forward, again, and again. Slowly, Lucrezia. You are wearing a gamurra adorned with pearls and gems, and the gold embroidery took a team of artisans weeks to complete. Allow the candles to bathe you in their light."
The Borgias were perfectly matched as they crept forward, feet leaving the tiles at the same moment, toes extended. Her head was level with his broad shoulder, and as he pointed his leg, the muscles firmed and played, visible beneath the tight hose. They moved together like mirror images, her light reflecting his shadow
"Now back. Remember, Lucrezia, at this moment, there is no one except for you, the feel of your hand in his, your body moving together. You will know how a man will make love to you from only the touch of his hand. Look at up him, yes, beneath your eyelashes. Shy, yes, but you long for his touch. Perfect. This is seduction, Lucrezia, and it happens with the eyes, the feel of his hand. With just such a dance, I captured the heart of the most handsome man in Rome. Do you see, Lucrezia, the art of it?"
She could see. Color had come flooding into her cheeks, as lovely as a rose rising slowly through the water. Her eyes were not cast down; instead, she looked at the man partnering her as if she had never seen him before, a warm, assessing glance that took in the whole of his splendid form, from the wavy dark hair and golden eyes to his athlete’s body.
They danced as though no one else watched or even existed save they two, and the soft notes of the lute, picking out the strands of their harmony. Vannozza paused in the midst of her lecture, the wine halfway to her lips.
The music stopped, and Betta gasped; until that moment, she had not realized she was holding her breath. As though the melody continued on, the dancers gazed at one another, then the Archbishop released his sister's hand with a small chuckle. "You will make a credible dancer, little sister."
Chapter 28
To His Eminence, Archbishop Borgia
Cesare,
The day of my wedding has arrived, and I take but a few moments away from the preparations of my ladies to put words to page in the hope that it will settle my nerves and bring with it the fullness of peace which this morn should contain
How strange the thought that I should be married before half the hours of this day have passed. For most of my life, I have waited and hoped for this moment, only to have its fruition be met with consternation and fears that I have difficulty in concealing.
My Lord Sforza has done little to allay them, and I feel no guilt in my heart of speaking of him thus, for many hours lack before he will be my wedded lord. Had our father asked for my counsel in selecting a husband with which to join our interest to that of Milan, I should not have picked Giovanni, with his gray hair and harsh demeanor. Although his countenance is pleasing during those occasions when he can be prevailed upon to smile, those are so few that they cannot be relied upon to change my opinion of him. Perhaps the gold in my dowry will lighten his mood; thirty-one thousand ducats could brighten the heart of the dourest creature.
When the sun again dawns, I shall no longer be Lucrezia Borgia, but instead the Countess of Pesaro. A peculiar thing, to change a name, as though it were a camicia, or a pair of sleeves that can be discarded at will. Often, I think of the words you spoke to me when you fought the bull. To be a Borgia, nothing more. Although I had wished for my marriage, I know now that the sweetest of consolations was to be Lucrezia Borgia and your well-loved sister.
Such thoughts fill me and have done so for the past days when it has been difficult to conceal the darkness of my mood even as guests for the occasion arrive from all parts of the empire over which our father reigns as a prince. It is not to be undone. The match to the Sforza, the binding of Milan against our common enemies, it is a worthy goal, and I know that in time, my maidenly fears will be quenched by the fires of motherhood and duty. The gown commissioned for the occasion by our father is truly beautiful, gold and lace and embroidery from the finest craftsmen in all of Rome. It waits for me after I have finished my ablutions. If I should approach the beauty of those women who will attend me, Giulia and Giana Orsini, I shall account this a blessed day.
That our marriage is not to be consummated for some time is a blessing, and one that I have no doubt is due to your intercession. The fate of Caterina Sforza, whose marriage was consummated when she was but ten years of age, is not to be mine, and I thank God for it. When I think of the man that is my husband taking what is to be his due by right, I can only remember that day which has been burned into my memory and recall that you wished us to stay as we were for months and days and years without count. Too late, I have come to desire that as well.
Lucrezia
Chapter 29
Another banquet had ended, another day filled with the rousing cheers of festivals and parties as disaster grew closer. Wine flowed like water in the streets and flowers danced as the winds of autumn blew, stirring up clouds of dust with their dry breath.
War was coming; the Papal States were braced for blood. King Ferrante of Naples had died, and Alfonso waited to be invested with his father’s throne by the pope. He had offered the marriage of his daughter, Sancia, to Joffre, the youngest of the Borgia siblings, to sweeten the deal. But he was not the only one who sought the crown. Citing his Angevian claim, King Charles of France, twisted in body but burning with the desire to spark a crusade, had also claimed the throne. When the marriage of Sancia and Joffre was celebrated by proxy, the French king began preparing for an invasion.
There was singing from the empty halls of the palazzo, growing closer. Lady Lucrezia had retired from the feast when the wine-sodden humor of the guests had turned licentious, groping hands and whispered words leading to assignations in the hallways. Her new gamurra, one of the unending stream of pale, costly garments in the colors of spring, had been removed, but the smells of the feast clung to her, the herb roasted richness of the boar, fruits and cheeses imported from all corners of Italy. The wine poured in an unending stream, sweet vintages brought from Rhodes and Cyprus, heady wine from the lands of the Emperor, and Hippocras, flavored with spices.
Lucrezia stood on a small stool as they unlaced her giornea, her body swaying with exhaustion and the numbing effects of the wine.
"A wonderful feast," she said, yawning. “And my husband, he spoke to me several times although he was seated opposite."
"That is good, mistress." Pantasilea murmured, sliding one sleeve down and draping it over her arm. The pearls adorning the edge alone would have kept a Roman family in bread for years, and Betta saw the maid run a finger over the small glowing orbs. Her nose pinched. Some used counterfeit pearls in their embroidery, glass beads made in Venice and covered in white paint that soon chipped, exposing the falsehood. There were no false pearls on the gowns worn by the pope's daughter; only the most luxurious silks from Venice, woolens and velvets from Florence. The trousseau His Holiness commissioned had transformed Lucrezia into the most beautifully gowned woman in all of Rome; to handl
e her gowns, to powder and cleanse each of them after they were worn was a sensual pleasure, and Betta added the duty of assisting Pantasilea with dressing and undressing their mistress without complaint. Velvets softer than anything Betta had ever felt were present in glorious profusion. The thinnest, most transparent linen for her camicias, embroidered so that even the flash of her skirt would be cause for envy.
And jewels. The Steward appointed to oversee the Lady of Pesaro's household cared for her precious ornaments, presenting those that would be worn each day before returning them to heavy, ironclad boxes at night. Gold glittered at her hands and wrists, crucifixes studded with gems and rings that caught the light with each elegant movement.
From her spot on the upper terrace, Betta had enjoyed the sight, spending long minutes watching in rapt delight as the candlelight diffused a soft haze over the festivities, making everything appear colored by a golden glow. Each day, the Lady Lucrezia's happiness grew as the net she wove around her husband deepened, the strands tightening around his heart.
The shift in Lucrezia's behavior toward him had been subtle, the fragile innocence that had so bored him being replaced by flattering attention that seldom wavered even when her father or other brothers were in attendances; the Count swelled beneath the fawning, lavishing her in return with the adulation she craved.
The singing outside the room grew louder, and Betta looked to the passage. No one was allowed to enter here. Guards were posted at every entrance. They patrolled the palazzo at night, silent figures with harsh faces, each chosen by the Archbishop and trained by his henchman. What were they singing of? Betta placed the candle on the credenza and moved to the door that connected to the hallway. There, the sounds were clearer, the notes beautiful, like the sound of an angel singing.
"Santa Maria, strela do dia..." the voice broke off in mid-note, and there was the sound of muffled laughter. It was a lovely voice, Betta noted, full and resonate despite the drunkenness which rounded the syllables.
"Shhh," another voice said, this one much quieter, and Betta leaned close, trying to hear through the heavy paneling. The men were right outside the door, directly opposite her ear.
In the center of the room, Lucrezia and Pantasilea paused, giornea pulled down over her hips. Betta waved them on. The voices had quieted, the men moving on; there was no reason for her to be frightened, but she could feel the blood pumping in her veins. Pantasilea quickly finished unlacing the gown, leaving Lucrezia in her diaphanous camicia. Through the gown, her curves were on full display, the small, tight breasts with rosy nipples, the bare cleft between her legs.
Noises came again, the sound of shuffling footsteps. Fear tightened the muscles in Betta’s stomach; this was the last room in this part of the palazzo, Madonna Giulia's chamber occupied the other side. Perhaps one of the guests at the feast had become turned around and was stumbling, drunk through the palace. If that were so, they would soon be found by one of the guards and…
"She is waiting for you." A rough, sibilant voice sounded, so close and clear now that Betta jumped back. The trembling of her hands caused the candle to fall, extinguishing the tiny flame.
Inarticulate mumbling followed. Through the room farthest on, she could hear Pantasilea, mumbling under her breath at the lateness of the hour, oblivious to the danger.
The voice dropped even lower, the sound like velvet and spices. "She is waiting for you. Her bull. This is a game the two of you play. The trembling virgin, waiting to be ravished again. How hungry she is for it."
“Is she?”
“Always, though she feigns reluctance. Be her lusty Borgia stallion.”
The door burst open, the panel of wood almost crashing into Betta as she took a step back in shock. Though the room was dark, lit by a single candle, and the glowing white robe of the figure who strode into the room, bouncing a shoulder off the lintel, was both plainly visible and instantly recognizable although Betta had only seen the Holy Father from a distance.
"Giulia," he crooned, spreading his arms wide.
On top of the stool, Lucrezia gasped, one hand reaching up to cover her mouth. "Papa..." she mumbled, casting her eyes down. She lay an arm across her chest and placed the other lower, shielding her stomach.
"That is right. Call me Papa, my dear." The Pope righted himself. From her place hidden in the shadow of the open door, Betta observed him for the first time, seeing the breadth of his shoulders beneath the white robes, that his body was hard and large despite the softening roll of fat that clung to his middle.
He fumbled with the clasp at his throat, opening his gown to reveal a long shirt adorned with gold thread. Halfway through, he abandoned the fastening and began pulling at his robes with unsteady fingers, tearing the cloth.
"Come, help me, my dove. Your papa is hungry for you. The Borgia Bull..." he swayed, catching himself on the back of a chair. "Must be quenched."
Lucrezia's eyes were huge on her face, ghostly in the darkness.
"Papa?" she said, holding out her hands to him.
The Pope was shedding his garments, the precious white cloth raining to the ground. All the while, his face maintained a dazed, hungry smile. Breath heaved in his lungs, and sweat was starting at his bottom lip.
The last shirt fell away, leaving His Holiness in white hose and shoes, parted at the center. Jutting out from the garments, his member was massive, the engorged rod belying the pontiff's advanced age. It wobbled obscenely as he walked forward, catching hold of his daughter's camicia.
"Come, my dove, why so shy?" With a hand, he reached down and encircled his rod with his fingers, thrusting his hips in a parody of the act. "You know this fellow. On your knees then, and... commune with our holy person."
Over her father's shoulder, Lucrezia's horrified eyes met Betta’s. She was crying, not as she had cried when he had humiliated her, but with silent, fearful tears.
Betta was rigid, straining with terror that demanded she run, find shelter in some dim little corner where the scene playing out could never touch her. There was a noise from the dressing room, a light extinguished, and she knew that Pantasilea had observed what was occurring, and had decided to find her own shelter. Betta could not fault her. This night smelled of death.
Lucrezia tried again. "Papa, Papa, it is Lucrezia, not Giulia. Papa, look..."
With a swift motion, the Pope reached up and tore the camicia from her shoulders. In an instant, her breasts were exposed, trembling with every heaving breath, transfixing the Pope's gaze.
"Yes," he murmured, reaching out to fondle them roughly. “Sweet little breasts. So tight.”
All of the colors drained from Lucrezia's face; her eyes had grown dark, the pupils huge, obscuring any trace of color. Instead of focusing on her father's face, leaning in and caressing her nipple with his mouth, slobbering wetly as he gasped with pleasure, she looked straight ahead, as still as a monument carved from pale stone.
She would see nothing, Betta knew. She would feel nothing, nothing until that first pinch of invasion, the press of his body, grinding into hers, the stink of his wet, wine-sodden breath gasping into her ear. Bile was filling her throat, and she bit her lips, trying to keep it in.
The Pope jerked her off the stool; Lucrezia allowed it, following him blindly, her face going slack.
"Down, down," he mumbled, stripping the ruined camicia until it slid to the floor. Pressing on her neck, he forced Lucrezia into a kneeling position.
"Communion..." then he seemed to think the better of it. With another sharp movement, he flipped her around, kneeling like a dog on all fours, white buttocks in the air.
The Pope's face had gone deep red, and he appeared demonic in the firelight, his breath panted in and out as he moved into position.
"Papa, please."
The whispered words, full of numb despair, goaded Betta from her shock. She darted forward, snatching the ornate silver tray from the credenza and hurling it so that it crashed into the mirrored table which occupied the center of the
room. It exploded, glass shards scattering down like the water droplets distributed at holy days.
The Pope reared back, his face falling slack. Betta used his distraction to run forward, sliding Lucrezia from his grasp, into the shadow of the open door. In a moment, they could run, fleeing into the safety of the night.
The Pope shook his head. He pressed a hand against his temples as his mind seemed to clear. Blinking rapidly, he focused on the shattered mirror and then on the two girls. Confusion shone on his face.
"Lucrezia... que..." his eyes widened as he looked down, taking in Lucrezia’s naked state and blotchy, tear-streaked cheeks. He put out a hand, only to have his daughter shrink back, cowering.
Rodrigo Borgia looked across the room again, the torn camicia on the floor, the discarded robes, then down, to the virile member deflating to flap absurdly against his legs. The last of the wine haze drained away, replaced by horror; Betta saw the exact moment when understanding dawned. With a trembling hand, he reached up to wipe sweat from his face. Without a word, he ran from the room, disregarding his nakedness.
There was a movement beside her; Betta reached out in time to catch her mistress as she collapsed. Hand around her waist, they made their way slowly across the room until Lucrezia could fall on the bed. All the while, she made gentle, soothing noises, hushes, and gentle pats. Lucrezia was silent under the ministrations, making no noise when Betta filled a basin with water from the ewer and used a linen cloth to wipe down her limbs, cleansing them of any trace of the Pope's scent. There was no sign of Pantasilea as she retrieved a clean camicia from the dressing room to slip over Lucrezia's shoulders, leaving her decently clad.
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