Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  Lucrezia’s eyes closed; her head fell back, inviting his touch, the sweetness of his lips caressing the skin of her throat as his hands delved inside her skirts, finding the bare skin beneath. His mouth opened hers, and his tongue swept inside, hungrily mating with her own. There was a moment of adjustment, a parting of the cloth that separated them. Lucrezia cried out to feel him, the strength of his hands trembling as he separated her legs to receive him.

  “Look at me,” he commanded. Her eyes opened as he surged forward. The feel of him was fire burning through her like heaven, like home, tumbling into madness. “Marry a dozen times,” he whispered, and his hands left her throat to roam downwards, cupping her breasts, the heat of his palms making her moan. “Take a score of men to your bed. Fuck them and lie and cheat and steal.”

  Her nails sank into his scalp, urging him onward. Cesare responded with a flurry of movements even as his fingers clenched, returning to her neck and tightening the band around her throat.

  “But if you ever love another, I will kill him for it.”

  Chapter 48

  The summons came at the noon hour as Cesare finished his meal. A page hesitated in the door, twisting his fingers through the fabric of his livery. White showed at the edges of his eyes and sweat glistened on his temples. Cesare raised his eyebrows and motioned him forward. The page gasped and bowed low, refusing to meet his eyes.

  "The Holy Father bids you attend him."

  Cesare nodded, letting his gaze wander over the page in idle speculation as he thought. There was no need for the fear pouring off the young man in waves. If he had been Juan, there would have been reason for the terror. Juan loved nothing better than to harm those weaker than him, often with no provocation. But he did not think it was he that the page was frightened of. His activities were well concealed; only Micheletto knew the extent of them, and as much as was possible, he trusted the man. No, the page was not afraid of him. The boy was one of the Colonna, he decided, noting the tilt to the nose and the sallow complexion which had distinguished the looks of the family for generations.

  No, this boy had recently learned something that had scared him so thoroughly he was unable to conceal it. A pity. If the news he brought were portentous, this youth would need to be dealt with. From his seat, Cesare watched as the boy shifted his weight from one leg to the other, twisting his head to glance out of the window and measure the position of the sun. From the relentless fidgeting, Cesare guessed that the pope would not be pleased that he had been kept waiting.

  Cesare looked down at the meal arranged on silver plate and took another bite. The meat had been well prepared, spiced with pepper and cooked until it melted on his tongue; he could have eaten more, but the edge of hunger kept him sharp, as did the water he added to his wine. Let others drink until their wits were as soft as pottage and eat until the strength of their bodies was buried beneath a layer of fat. He would not suffer the price of overindulgence.

  Finally, he took pity on the sweating page. He rose from the chair and walked through the Vatican until he entered the papal apartments. The smell of paint assaulted his nose, dissipating as he crossed into one of the older chambers.

  The pope waited in the sala next to his bedchamber, silhouetted against the window as he watched the approach of another envoy across the Via Flaminia. A twitch of thick shoulders beneath the white robes told Cesare that his presence had been noted.

  He wishes me to speak, Cesare thought, to enquire after the summons and ask in what manner I can serve the Holy Father. Cesare remained quiet. The pope would make his wishes known in time. This game was one that they had been engaged in for years. Perhaps if he had been able to swallow his pride, to speak the words that the Holy Father had wished to hear, he would have been the favored son. No, he decided. Even then, Juan would have been the beloved prodigal.

  Words that his mother had spoken years before came into his mind. "There has never been a man with a greater need to be adored than Rodrigo Borgia." It was a truth, and it had taken one of the few people who had never surrendered to his formidable charm to see it. For all of his intelligence, his boundless energy and deft handling of complicated political problems that would have left average men blubbering with frustration, inside Rodrigo Borgia there remained the heart of a young child, needing to be loved.

  The side of Cesare's mouth lifted. As failings went, it was not a crippling one, and he allowed the Pope this weakness without despising him for it. The need for love and the pleasures of the flesh were a heady temptation.

  Memory served up the image of Lucrezia standing before him, her hair turned to flame by the setting sun. Tightness gripped his chest. His need for love was bound up within the body of one woman; it fulfilled him, and he was done trying to pretend that he was a good man.

  The Vicar of Christ finally spoke. "The French envoy approaches."

  "As we expected, to offer congratulations to Juan for being named Gonfalonier." Cesare kept his face smooth. "Would not the Vice Chancellor be better suited..."

  The pope made a gesture with his hand. "No, I have summoned you on other matters." For the first time, His Holiness turned to face him, and Cesare felt his stomach clench with trepidation. Rodrigo Borgia appeared...anxious. The lines on either side of his hawk nose were deeply carved; beneath the splendor of his white robes, the muscles of his back were taut.

  Cesare switched to Catalan, the tongue affording them some privacy.

  "What is it, Holy Father?"

  The pope twisted the ring on his hand, shifting his eyes from left to right. "A problem has arisen. I require your assistance."

  The pope's obvious discomfiture increased his feelings of unease. Cesare held up a finger, then turned and walked across the room, closing the doors. The pope was silent until he returned to his original position, standing in front of the table.

  "We are to be blessed with another child." The words emerged in a rush, the pope’s face beaming with mingled pride and concern.

  Cesare was quiet for a moment before answering. "Madonna Giulia?"

  The pope shook his head. "No, we have parted ways. Her abandonment of us during the French invasion..." he bit his lips. "No, it is another."

  Cesare resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "That you are yet a virile man with another woman would surprise no one. To claim another bastard will do you little harm, in any case."

  The pope was already shaking his head. Looking past Cesare, he called out a single word in an unknown language. A creaking, the sound of shushing fabric followed, and the door to the papal bedchamber opened, allowing a shrouded form to emerge. She crossed the room to the Holy Father and sank to the floor, arranging her robes in a gleaming pool around her slender body. Dark eyes outlined in kohl stared up at him in silent appeal.

  Cesare felt a vein begin to pulse in his forehead.

  "A Moor?" he hissed. "Are you mad?"

  The pope had the grace to look abashed. "Though a nonbeliever, she is the sweetest creature ever to have graced our bed. In the months that she has been with us, not one request, not one reproach. She is a marvel of virtue, a source of constant comfort to me in my time of tribulation..."

  "And where did you find this paragon?" Cesare asked, mind frantically working. Not a season past, the pope had faced condemnation from his greatest allies, the Spanish king and queen, for refusing to banish the Jews flocking to Rome and camping outside the city gates. The scandal had invigorated those who called them Moroscos and questioned the purity of the Borgia’s Christian blood. And there had been other matters. The pope’s sheltering of Prince D'Jem and his tolerance of those accused of witchcraft had attracted widespread criticism. Should it be known that he kept a Moor as mistress…

  "Juan brought her back with him from Spain. Of course, Safiye informs to him, but when she realized that I spoke a few words of her tongue, she confessed all and only told enough that he would be satisfied."

  A pounding began behind Cesare’s eyes. "If she is Juan's gift to you, then
why have you sent for me?"

  The pope pulled the girl to her feet and ran a gentle hand down her stomach. The girl, Safiye, looked up into his eyes with melting tenderness. Either she was a master at concealing her emotions, or she had developed feelings for her lover, a man old enough to be her grandfather. If she had previously been one of Juan's lovers, her regard might not have been feigned; after his brutality, the kindness of an older man would have seemed a godsend.

  "Juan is ill-suited for a task of this nature. Conceal her for us, Cesare. Find a safe place where she may bear the child in secret. Later, we will manufacture a tale that will allow the child to be raised as one of my blood."

  The child of the Pope and a Moor. Cesare tightened his jaw, feeling a sharp pain behind his eyes. Were this to be known, it could give those calling for a Grand Council a reason to have him declared a heretic pope.

  "Does Juan know she is with child?"

  The pope shook his head and sent the girl forward with a gentle pat on the hip. As the girl passed, she graced Cesare with a smile that he felt from the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his feet. As traps went, Juan's had been masterful. The girl was almost unbearably lovely, exuding an air of innocence despite her trade. She slid the door closed behind her.

  "Juan..." he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "He knows little of stealth, and I would not see the girl harmed. Cesare, make arrangements. When her condition becomes noticeable, take her through the passage in the chapel and find somewhere that she can be safe."

  Cesare thought. There was a home near the convent of San Sisto that he had used for one of his mistresses, discarded long ago though the property remained. Micheletto could find servants and guard them until her time came...And the timing. That, he thought, would be perfect.

  Even as he planned, he nodded. "As you wish."

  He left the papal apartments. The page who had summoned him waited outside, trying his best to blend into the shadows encroaching on the halls, turning the angles and saints into leering, devilish figures.

  Cesare stopped in front of the page. A shame. The boy was intelligent, or he would not have been aware of the peril. Had he seen the girl and realized what she was? Perhaps, which made him a danger that could not be allowed to remain. The time had come to eliminate the enemies of the Borgia. All of them. Even as the Holy Father had spoken to him, he had recognized it, the tingle of awareness up his spine, the knowledge that the time was finally ripe for his plans to come to fruition.

  "Come, I require you this day."

  The boy swallowed, the apple of his throat moving up and down with exaggerated slowness.

  "Will h.h.his holiness not..."

  Cesar reached forward and clasped the boy's shoulder, propelling him forward. "We must find my henchman. There is much to be done."

  Chapter 49

  Betta paused in the corridor outside of the dining hall as the last of the guests left, finding their way to the streets, where litters and horses waited. Some staggered as they walked, leaning against servants who had milled about in the corridors, waiting for the festivities to be over.

  It had been a magnificent feast, three days in preparing. Betta had stepped away from her duties to watch as the porters carried in the roasted suckling pigs and elaborately decorated tortes. The smells of roasted flesh and sweets wafted up to the second floor. Breathing deeply, she allowed the scents to fill her mind; her time in the scullery with Master Bartolomeo returned with fondness. None of the chefs in the Palazzo could equal him in skill. How it would have pleased the old man to hear it.

  Eyes looked at her from the halls, nervously whispering. As soon as the lord and lady retired, the maids could begin removing the platters of food and disjointed meats, the carafes of wine whose remnants never made it back to the large barrels in the cellar but were instead enjoyed by the servants.

  The Lord of Pesaro refused to leave the dining chamber. Even as his wife fidgeted in her seat, he slumped back, drinking wine until the fumes formed a miasma around his person.

  Lucrezia drummed her fingers on the table and glared across at him.

  Ignoring the thinly veiled hint, he poured more wine from the carafe and burped, patting his chest as the noise settled.

  Bright flags of color flamed on Lucrezia’s cheeks.

  “I shall retire, then,” she snapped, and rose. In less time than Betta would have credited, the Count pushed back his chair and crossed the hall, grasping Lucrezia’s arm as she turned to leave.

  “Not until I give you leave, wife. I may not be lord here, but I am Lord of you,” he growled.

  The Countess lifted her chin and pressed her lips together until they formed a thin line.

  "Come to bed with me." His fingers dug into the white linen pulled through the red slashes of the Countess’s gown. The Countess grimaced in pain before the expression smoothed away, replaced by a look of condescending indifference. The lack of response increased Sforza’s anger. Muttering a low curse, he yanked her closer, pulling the low neckline down so that the tops of her breasts were exposed. Bending forward, he began nuzzling at them, abrading the soft skin with his whiskers, leaving behind a red flush.

  There was a noise, a muffled gasp from one of the girls. Turning to them, Betta made a flapping motion with her hands. The girls obeyed, leaving the hall to the Count and his wife.

  "For what purpose, Giovanni? My womb has opened again." Boredom rather than anger colored her words.

  "A lie." The word came out hard and vicious, and he pushed her back so that the Countess stumbled. "You used the same excuse not ten days past."

  Lucrezia placed her hand on the table. "I thought to spare your feelings. I tire of attempting to build a tower out of wet clay. Or perhaps your visits to whores with my brother has revived your vigor?" The cold snap brought a flush and a glance around the room to see that they were unobserved. Betta hid behind a pillar.

  "Before our marriage, there was none to complain about my vigor."

  "Before our marriage, you had not been kicked by an unbroken stallion! If my father had known that he was tying me to one unable to perform his husbandly duties..."

  Before her words had ceased echoing, Giovanni Sforza delivered a slap to her cheek that snapped Lucrezia’s head back. In the corner, the page, the only servant remaining, gasped and fled.

  "That's stopped your mouth." Giovanni panted. "Perhaps I could...take you to bed if I did not have to fight for my place against your bastard family."

  "Fine words from another bastard." Lucrezia did not cower, even when her husband raised his hand and slapped her smartly again, the force of the blow jerking her head roughly to the side.

  Giovanni glared. "No more from you, incestuous bitch! That's stopped your mouth at last. Oh yes, I know your little secret. That you hid behind a virgin blue cloak at our wedding, but you've been rutting with your own brother all the while. Or do you fuck your father too?" His chuckle was obscene, low and wet. He began shaking her, snapping her head back and forth. "Little matter that I can't bed you, with your family waiting to do the deed."

  A laugh that sounded of broken glass escaped as Lucrezia wrenched her arms free. "Is that the poison Juan has been spewing in your ear? You fool, Juan has never said a word in his life that isn't to his own advantage. Think of what that means, that my own brother would say such things to you." She stepped closer, their chests touching, and Betta edged closer to the pair as Lucrezia's voice dropped into a harsh whisper. "And if what he says of us is true, what will Cesare do when he sees the marks you have left on my face, the one he loves more than any other? Or my Holy Father, when he knows what I have suffered? What words would you have said at your funeral oration, Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro? Perhaps I will even shed a tear when I think of the pain you suffered."

  A quick, indrawn breath was her only answer.

  "Let me be, you fool, for I swear to Almighty God that you will never touch me again."

  Footsteps sounded on the tile floor. When they had receded
to the distance, Betta stepped from the shadow and met her mistress's eyes, hard and bright with rage.

  "Fetch my mask and cloak."

  The guard outside of Cardinal Borgia's Palazzo on the Borgo appeared ill at ease as they approached, two hooded figures, and his hand gripped the sword at his waist.

  "What ye want?" He barked, looking past the serviceable brown cloak concealing her gown to the hooded and masked figure behind.

  There was no time for such foolishness, and His Eminence would not be summoned to attend anonymous figures. "Bring Micheletto."

  The guard's head jerked back, and he worked his jaw, attempting a winning smile. "Now see here, I can't go calling for him, he's important..." His voice trailed off as Betta took another step closer and laid her hand against his chest. This close, she could see that the guard had an unfortunate complexion, pitted with angry red pustules capped with white.

  "I must speak to Micheletto, he expects me," she breathed and ran her hand down his chest. Beneath his doublet, the guard's breathing began to heave. Nervously, he licked his lips. "If my …words… are not to his liking, perhaps I will stay here with you. My time has already been purchased."

  "I...I.." A bead of sweat ran down his temple.

  Opening her mouth, Betta trailed the edge of her tongue over her teeth and watched as the guard swayed. "Be quick about it, or I’ve others to attend to."

  The sound of heavy boots pounded out a rapid beat as the man ran across the courtyard.

  "A clever strategy, making us seem summoned harlots. I doubt anyone would believe I would seek entry under such pretense."

  Betta nodded, not trusting her voice. Her nerves were stretched taut, a headache pounding behind her eyes. Their trek through Rome had been fraught with danger, half of which Lady Lucrezia had not realized. A pickpocket had attempted to cut the leather purse dangling from her waist, and a man in a sky-blue tunic had jostled her Lady, allowing one long blonde curl to escape the confines of the hood. Every noise, from the screeches of the sellers and the crying of babies at the breast wound her tighter, like a coiled spring.