Betta yawned and felt herself slide into the welcoming embrace of sleep.
A liveried messenger clutching a letter arrived at Lucrezia's door the next day. From her bed, still wrapped in a thick layer of blankets and coverlets, Lucrezia ordered him sent away and refused to open the letter.
Dismayed by her charge’s refusal to emerge from her chamber, Adriana de Milla arrived the next day. In her black gown and veil, she appeared a sallow-faced crow that twisted her hands around one another and murmured of the Pope's concern.
"I don't wish to see her," Lucrezia said, and turned her face from the door.
Food arrived on trays from the kitchens and was sent away untouched. As she carried it back, Betta heard the rumblings from the other servants, saw their heads lean together as they whispered. A few of the bolder ones, those Betta had come to know in the last months, stopped her and inquired after the young mistress's health. An illness, Betta told them, consoling herself with the knowledge that it was not a lie. A sickness had taken hold of the young Madonna, one of the mind.
The only words Lady Lucrezia spoke were to send away the Pope's messengers. When those bore no fruit, he began to send gifts. Betta made sure to be in attendance during the noon hour, when the Pope sent his tokens, for they provoked spectacular reactions. A juggler was sent scurrying from the palazzo when Lucrezia hurled a water jug at his head. The precious book was torn in two, pages flying everywhere as Lucrezia screamed.
“I want nothing from him!”
At last, Catherina Spagnola came to the closed door, begging entrance. Surprising all of them, Lucrezia nodded her agreement. The Spaniard's eyes were downcast as she entered, falling into a graceful curtsy that left her skirts a magnificent, shimmering cloud of wine velvet on the tile floor.
From behind her back, Catherina produced an iron-bound box small enough to fit into her hand. Lucrezia lifted her head from the pillow and looked at it inquiringly.
"From your Holy Father, Lady Lucrezia," she said when Lucrezia opened her mouth to speak. "He begs that you will open the box, and he wishes you to know that the twin of what is inside is to be yours if you would but agree to see him this day." Reaching forward, Lucrezia opened the box.
She gasped, and Betta craned her neck, trying to see what had produced such a reaction. A pearl, nestled in a bed of dark velvet, of enormous size and so lustrous that all else in the room seemed to dim by comparison. The jewel was larger than the tip of her thumb, and it gleamed with an iridescent sheen.
"Your Holy Father said that of all women, you alone are worthy of this pearl, which was sent to him by Sultan Bayezid as a token of his esteem."
"I will see him," Lucrezia said, her face an expressionless mask as she crawled from the bed to stand, trembling, in the center of the room. "Pantasilea. The blue silk gown with silver trim."
Betta never heard what occurred at the meeting between Lucrezia and her father, but those servants who listened at the door said that His Holiness cried, weeping so loudly that the noise echoed through the council chamber. After an hour passed, he emerged, beaming with joy, smiling as he had not done for many days. At his side, Lucrezia smiled as well, but her cheeks remained pale despite the food and wine pressed on her. A jewel box rested in her hand, and before it was locked away by the steward, Lucrezia called her over and showed her the contents.
The second pearl was black, as large as the first. As Lucrezia turned it back and forth in the light, green and silver and deep blue sparked in its depths.
"A rich bribe for a few drunken caresses. Adriana said that the white pearl alone could pay the ransom of a king." Lucrezia said. "I doubt even Madonna Giulia has ever been given a jewel so fine. Perhaps you should have let him continue, Betta. Had he finished what he started, he would have set the crown of St. Peter upon my head, so great was his grief.”
"Lady Lucrezia!" Betta said, shocked.
Lucrezia smiled tightly. For a moment, she appeared ten years older and bitter; then, like cracks forming in plaster, her face crumbled and she looked a child again, one whose heart had been broken.
"I wish to visit my mother."
Chapter 30
The curtains on the litter remained closed during the trek through Rome; each bump and jostle, every momentary pause caused Lucrezia's heart to race, fear clawing at her stomach. Greasy nausea threatened to spill out of her stomach; she felt weak, as though she could not walk more than a few paces without aid. Days had passed since she had eaten more than a mouthful or taken wine without it calling to mind the stink of his breath, hot upon her shoulders.
They disgusted her. All of them. Men, her father most of all. She knew what they wanted now. The greasy breath, the moist, clutching hands. And her husband, his pitiful softening toward as she practiced the arts her mother had taught. Lord Sforza had begun to want her. The way he leaned toward her when they talked, the sly, searching looks he had thrown at her bodice and hips. And she had encouraged him, imagining that instead of her husband, it had been someone else looking at her with dawning interest. Someone young and handsome, someone who loved her. Someone….
Cesare.
The deepest cut of all was the knowledge that what her father had done had not been his fault. That sin could only be laid at her door. Like a harlot, she had looked on her beautiful brother with lust in her heart, had allowed the longing for things that could never be to poison her mind. God had called down vengeance upon her, in the form of her father. She had deserved it.
And Cesare’s words that terrible night- “Myself most of all.” That had been a lie, for he was not as other men were. Cesare was the only one that she loved now. The only one she could ever love. Resolution sat like a stone in her chest. She was already damned. The only happiness that could be found for her was here, and she would claim it, no matter the cost.
The gate was opened at the villa; Lucrezia bolted through, not pausing to moderate her pace, to safeguard her dress against the stains and mud. The sun blazed overhead, the heat of it on her skin; she no longer cared. Her mother was here. Her mother, not her father's mistress, who welcomed his foul caresses. Not the cousin he had brought to replace the woman who was fit to bear his touch and his children but not to raise them, no, for they were better than she. Though the words had never crossed his lips, she had understood them- the delicate flaring of his nostrils when they had dined together, when Mother had taken too much wine or laughed too heartily. The crumbs that would spill on the table, or how she would sing under her breath when the mood took her, no matter that her voice was not pleasant to the ears.
Common. Vannozza had come from peasant stock, and he had disdained her for it.
It was another reason to hate him. That he had torn them from their mother, used his gold to show them in every way that they were superior to her, the woman who had given the Borgia children life. The thousand times she had scorned her mother, pitied her drinking, the fat layered upon her body, increasing every year. The emotions were acid now, for she had learned the truth. Her mother had known what she had been too innocent and too spoiled to see. Cesare had been right about it as well. Their mother had knowledge. She knew men, knew how they thought, and how to control and anticipate their actions. As a mistress, it made her useful, but the knowledge that could not be passed onto the daughter they had created, for the Pope did not need his daughter to be proud or ambitious or manipulative. All of those qualities could be passed onto sons. A daughter could be nothing but pretty and malleable.
Lucrezia raced to the chamber on the second floor and pushed open the door. Vannozza sat in the darkened room, a wine bottle and tazza close at hand next to a tray of sweetmeats.
The smell of the wine was heavy in the room; her hair was undone, streaming down past her knees in brittle cobweb strands as insubstantial as dust. None of it mattered. There was a moment of shame on her mother's face, embarrassment in being caught with feet lolling on the floor, the paint and powder and jewels that she had used to fill the empty spaces left b
y her children stripped away, leaving the bones and heartache plain to see. And then her arms were open, and Lucrezia rushed into them.
This was what she needed, what she had forgotten in the years of being shamed by her mother's humble origins, her wine. The softness of her breasts, the way she pressed Lucrezia's head against them. The almond scent of her breath, and the way she moved from side to side, rocking her.
"You were right." The words were choked. "About everything."
There was a deep exhalation of breath and a tremble. The weight of her hand fell on Lucrezia's back tentatively, and then harder, the touch becoming a stroke.
"My poor child. What has happened?"
Chapter 31
Cesare,
Though I know that the preparations for your advancement to the College of Cardinals and the negotiations between our most holy father and the royal houses of our native land and France have combined to render you unable to travel as you might wish, it is my fervent desire that you might see fit to escape the oppressive heat of Rome and join me in a journey that I will soon undertake to the city of Caprarola, where our mother, along with her husband, has secured the use of a villa for a time.
Though the place is strange to me, I have been assured that it is renowned for the wild beauty where the pestilences and plagues of Rome can find no shelter. Our father, acting out of contrition for an act of which you are aware, has graciously given his permission for my removal until the month of November when my Lord Sforza returns from Pesaro to claim me in all ways as his wife.
I pray that you will join me, though it be for a short time.
Lucrezia
Chapter 32
They traveled north to the mountains, climbing and then descending through jagged peaks until the stench of Rome no longer hung in the air, and the buzz of mosquitoes was replaced by breezes that grew colder with every step.
From atop her cream-colored mare, Lucrezia drank it in, savoring every new sight, every unique experience. She had never traveled so far. When the heat grew more oppressive than even the hot-blooded Adriana could stand, their destination had been the orchards outside the city, where the jagged skyline of Rome remained close enough to touch. This journey to the mountains, this was another world.
There were new flowers to see, peeking out from beneath stone blocks, ancient ruins dotting the road, hinting at a grandeur that had passed, and poverty. Hungry faces peered out from around huts that lined the edges of the small towns. It was not the hopeless poverty of Rome that was hidden from her eyes, this was the grinding poverty of those who raced in a headlong flight each day against starvation.
Traveling with so little accompaniment was strange, Lucrezia thought, setting heel to the horse's side, urging it to a trot. She savored the smooth gait. Feeling the wind stirring her hair, she rode past the horse-drawn litter where her mother lay, her husband Croce astride a placid mule only a few paces to the side. Four guards rode at the front and another four at the back, each heavily armed. Lucrezia felt their eyes on her as she advanced, and one leaned forward, speaking through the leather curtains.
"Don't wander off," her mother called, and Lucrezia reined in her horse.
As though anyone would touch her. She was Lucrezia Borgia, the Pope's daughter, the only one who would dare to touch her...
Unbidden, the memory of it swept through her mind; she closed her eyes, trying to think of something, anything else. The gift her father had given her to assuage his guilt which was even now being set into a ring of gold, the gown she was to wear for the feast when Lord Sforza returned from Pesaro, mulberry velvet adorned with cloth of gold, the home where they were to spend weeks, high up in the mountains.
Sweet little breasts, so...tight.
"My lady?" Betta's voice broke through, high and thin with worry.
Vannozza’s head emerged from the curtains of the litter. Her eyes sharpened, and her face went rigid. "You've gone pale. Get down from that horse before you faint. I'll not have your father..." her voice broke off at the flinch which shook Lucrezia’s body.
No, they could not have the Pope's daughter becoming injured. What would happen to his grand plans for alliances, his careful maneuvering of events to bring himself to the pinnacle of spiritual and temporal power?
The horse's coat shivered beneath her fingers; she patted the sweat-darkened mare. No, she would not ride in the wagons, not for one single minute. On these, the last days of her freedom, she would live every moment, savoring it.
Three days crept by at a snail’s pace as they journeyed to Caprarola, and the small villa let from the Farnese. Lucrezia was the first to spy the place, nestled like a white jewel in the center of a dark range of mountains that stretched up to an overcast sky. After the sweat-soaked days of Rome, full of heat and fear, the air felt bitingly clear and cold, brushing across her cheeks like a caress.
They inched along the road, every turn of the wagon wheel causing a groan of complaint from the maids and a muffled grunt from her mother. Work in the fields ceased as they drew closer, and a young, slim figure detached himself from a cart and ran ahead, disappearing into the villa.
Seen closer, it was larger than Lucrezia first thought, a spreading building of stone in the old style, with narrow windows and an attached structure that resembled the towers still seen in Rome that generations before had been the marks of family prosperity. No trees surrounded it, only a smooth expanse of deep green interrupted by stables and a smaller building that must have been the kitchens, for smoke was pouring out of the cupola.
The front door opened, and a man emerged, tall, slim of hip, and possessing a wealth of dark hair.
Her heels kicked her mount, and she galloped forward, heart beating a wild and frenzied pace that only ceased when she threw herself from the saddle and hurled herself at him.
"Cesare." Everything that had been clenched inside of her chest loosened. She gulped in the air when his arms closed around her.
They feasted on the boar he had downed and sipped glass after glass of the sweet red wine produced by the vines that hung outside the villa, heavy with fruit.
The bottom floor of the tower, as Cesare teasingly called it, had already been claimed, although he said that the uppermost floors would suit her needs. Like themselves, he traveled lightly, with only a single manservant and Micheletto in attendance besides the dozen guards that had accompanied him north.
Though it might have been a fancy, it seemed to Lucrezia that Micheletto’s stern visage brightened when he saw Betta, clinging to the shadows in the way that she had, trying to be inconspicuous. She caught Cesare’s eye and saw that they were glinting, full of wicked humor. A moment of silent communication passed between them; he had seen it, too, the keen interest his henchman had in her prickly serving maid who never looked at men, no matter how comely.
The next day they rode out alone together, Lucrezia mounted on Micheletto's stallion, her own horse deemed too wearied by travel. For a time, they savored the pleasure of the quiet, the solitude denied them in all the years since he had left for Pisa. It was only gradually that their tongues loosened, the words between them flowing like water.
"How were you able to escape the press of affairs in Rome?"
"The college is in a furor that our Holy Father had dared to nominate not only his natural son but also the brother of his mistress for a cardinal's hat. I think he hoped my absence would soothe della Rovere's temper."
"Did his uncle Sixtus not elevate him in much the same way?"
Cesare nodded. "At five and twenty. Perhaps he feels that eight years superiority gave him a wealth of understanding which I lack."
"No one is more capable than you, Cesare. No one."
Each day they traveled farther afield, ranging from the peaks of hills to the clear lake that nestled between them, the shape like that on an enormous horseshoe pressed into the ground. Recklessly, brazenly it felt, she left off the hats and gloves which shaded her skin. She saw with satisfaction the golden glow b
eginning to suffuse her face, the freckles like ghostly spots of ink.
The autumn sun caressed her lids; Lucrezia leaned back against the tree, letting the contrast between the crisp air and the warm sun soothe her mind. Her fingers stroked through Cesare’s silky dark hair, feeling the texture of the curls. Though her eyes were closed, her mind painted the colors: heavy earth lit with autumn leaves, lightening at the tips. The aroma of oranges clung to him. At times it seemed the scent was one that haunted her dreams, teasing at the forbidden.
"Cesare."
"Hmmm?" he answered, body relaxing into her lap. He slept in Caprarola, as it seemed he never did in Rome, long stretches of indolence, like a cat, or a warrior returned from battle after the demands of his body had been run dry. Lines were beginning to form at the corners of his eyes from long hours spent pouring over books and ledgers. His life was wasting away, his youth. As hers was. And he was so young yet, only ten and seven, yet he seemed much older, a man grown and seasoned. The flame of his life was a candle, burning so bright that it illuminated an entire chamber, not realizing the cost.
"What would make you happy?"
A low chuckle moved through his shoulders, and he pressed down against her legs. "I find myself quite unremittingly happy at the moment."
"Not here, goose." She reached down tested his jaw with her fingers, rubbing against the stubble. "When we return to Rome."
He cocked an eyebrow up at her. "How could I fail to be content, sitting at the right hand of God, as it were?"
"I think it has been a long time since you were truly happy."
Cesare’s face twisted; his body moved, angling his face and shoulders to the shore, where the deep blue of the lake reached across to the purple mountains, an endless expanse of tranquility. Only his hair was available to her, and she stroked it, petting the soft dark strands tinged with gold, the curls and loops as familiar to her as breathing. When he began speaking, his voice was thoughtful.
Servant to the Borgia Page 18
