“No giggles this time?” he whispered against her neck, warm breath and the edge of his teeth.
“No, my lord,” she whispered, hating the way that she sounded, the breathy note in her voice that reminded her of the painted women stretched out in men’s laps.
“A shame. The sound makes me wish to devour you.” His mouth was tracing a path down her neck. “You have aroused my curiosity, little Betta.” His other hand found her hip.
“My lord?”
There was the wet brush of his tongue, dancing along the skin where her heartbeat drummed. “You take no man to your bed, not even my Micheletto, who has pursued you for years. And you care for my sister so tenderly. At first, I thought you must be one of the daughters of Sappho.”
His words made no sense, but she could not respond. His mouth whispering against her neck and his hand, finding and then caressing the taunt skin stretched over her stomach, captured her attention so utterly that she was aware of nothing else.
“Perhaps I was mistaken.”
Abruptly, he rolled, the arm around her waist keeping them pressed together. His cock was pressed tight against his belly, and he slid her back and forth against it. In the light of the candle, he was almost unbearably beautiful, long hair fanned out across the pillow and the diamond light blazing from between his slitted eyelids. His fingers drifted down, seeking and finding that place between her legs. Plucking, rubbing, his fingers arched and danced as his hips shifted beneath, drawing her closer to something she could not imagine, the pressure building and building until it enveloped her mind in heat. They moved together like dancers, faster and faster.
For the first time, Betta discovered an emptiness existing inside of her, a hungry place, desiring to be filled. There was nothing for her hands to hold, so she placed them on top of his, teaching him the movements of her pleasure, drawing it out until her thighs were clenched together in protest, aching and straining.
His hips flexed, lifting her. The need was growing in him, the careful control that held him immobile shredding beneath their movements. The knowledge of her effect on him was another pleasure. Her knees came up, resting on the feather mattress to either side of his chest; she sat astride him, feeling his involuntary shudder.
Her blunt nails dug into his chest, painting red lines from his neck to his stomach. Borgia cursed, his hand gripping her shoulder and then pulling her onto the bed beneath him.
“This will not be over soon,” he promised, hands catching her ankles and drawing them up to rest on his shoulders. “And there is no one between us. Who am I?”
“Cesare,” she murmured. There would be no barrier, no pain, Betta thought, lifting her hips to accommodate the head of his shaft as it found the slit between her legs. She was wet, like a spring, and he would slide inside, filling her…
The door swung open with a deafening crack. Betta’s eyes flew open, her mind returning from the place of heat and pleasure where Cesare had led her, back to the bed, and the danger that was staring at them from the open passage. She trembled. Without her knives, she was naked.
Her eyes found Borgia’s, and she knew that although she had utterly forgotten their purpose during the moments when they had tangled together on the bed, he had not, even for a moment. He winked, the quick twitch of one eyelid, before pulling back to look over his shoulder. Her feet were still balanced there, and he laid his teeth along the edge of her instep as he spoke in a voice heavy with passion.
“What?”
There were men at the door, more than one from the sound, struck to silence by the sight of them. In her mind’s eye, Betta could see how they appeared- the woman, shoulders caught between the large bolster pillows, concealing her in shadow. The young man, shoulders and legs turned to gold by the candle, bending over the woman spread open to receive him. The scent of it was heavy in the room, lust and oil and sweat, something she had never experienced before but would be unable to forget now that she had.
The silence continued on for a moment, then was broken.
"Brother!" The shout rang out, drowning out the slamming of the door against the opposite wall. "Fine work for a cleric, in bed with a whore at the noon hour."
The voice was beautiful, Betta thought, full and golden, like…she recognized it, the same tone as the one who had whispered to the Holy Father that terrible night at the Palazzo so many years before. Still poised above her, Borgia’s face twisted as their eyes met; she nodded, the confirmation needing no words. There was no surprise on his face; he had already guessed the identity of the man who had attempted to see Lucrezia raped.
“Juan,” he said, looking over his shoulder, and his smile was equal parts mocking and sensual. “I am…occupied.”
“Indeed. What do you must think of our family, Giovanni! I bring you to council with my brother about the troubles with Lucrezia, and we find him in bed with a whore. Let us see her, Brother, this woman that you are sampling. She may provide a diversion from our troubles."
“Why?” The Cardinal let go of her ankles, allowing Betta to scoot back on the bed, hiding from view in the curtain.
“Perhaps we wish to sample her as well.”
"When have I ever shared that which is mine with you?" Positioned as she was beneath him, Betta could feel the rigid lines of muscles that flexed, reflecting the strain of the tense conversation. “Or do you seek to create another scandal for our family?”
Another scandal, the emphasis on the word a message. Betta had been a part of the story from the beginning and could see the intersecting lines of the tapestry as they came together, painting the scene into sudden bright focus. This was the reason that Lady Lucrezia had been followed, the careful crafting of a scandal that could destroy the standing of the children of the pope. If Gandia had surprised his siblings in a delicate situation, the tumult could be avoided. If the Lord of Pesaro had found his wife in bed with her brother, however, the resulting furor would have forced the Pope to banish them from Rome, perhaps forever.
“Let us see her, brother. Or…is there a reason you do not wish her to be known? Some dark secret that you are concealing?”
Betta patted him on the waist, and he obligingly moved to the side. Sliding free of the coverlet, she rose to her feet, taking care that the motion was languid and slow. The smile that stretched her face was no pretense; Gandia's look of disappointment felt like gold tipped into her hand.
"Does my Lord wish aught from me?" she asked, cocking a hip out after placing a hand on it. Gandia's cold eyes rested on her breasts for a moment, a sneer curling his lips. Disappointment radiated from him.
"So dark, brother. I thought you preferred... fairer game." A cold smile twisted the narrow lips beneath the short beard. In his flamboyant Turkish garb and turban, he appeared like a mummer in a play, a less attractive reproduction of the man reclining lazily against the pillows.
"I take my pleasures where I can find them, brother. As our dear Sancia can attest. Now, unless you have a pressing need of me, I would return to my previous occupation." His hand emerged from the covers, a black pearl set in gold gleaming against his knuckle, and he beckoned to her.
"My lord," Betta bobbed a curtsy and then turned, adding an extra sway to her hips as she moved to the bed. Borgia opened his arms, and she snuggled close. The cold chill of fear made her grateful for his warmth.
He rolled, and she was beneath him again, feeling the insistent press against her center. Her breath gasped out and she did not muffle it, and there was a low, appreciative chuckle from the man poised above.
“This is not over,” the Duke of Gandia promised, perverse satisfaction in his voice. “I know the truth, and soon, we will resolve this.” Steel and cloth rustled as he spun, stalking from the room. From over Borgia’s shoulder, Betta could see the Count of Pesaro turning to follow him, then stopping, clutching at his head. He looked confused and so thoroughly drunk that it was a wonder he could stand upright. His mouth lifted in a smile as he waved.
“Foolishnes
s,” he muttered. “Did not think he was in earnest. Nasty…nasty mind.” His arm brushed the molding surrounding the door as he withdrew, swaying back and forth.
Breathless and silent, they stayed locked together on the bed as the sound of retreat echoed through the halls. When the snorting of horses and a shout from the street signaled their withdrawal from the Palazzo, Betta felt her chest relax.
“The Duke,” she whispered, feeling the words on her tongue. The younger son of her former mistress and the pope, plotting against his own family. “Why?”
The cardinal shifted on the bed, taking the weight which had been on her chest and moving it to his side. His arm bent, supporting his head while the other began to play with a strand of her hair.
“He is mad.” For the first time, a hint of sadness entered his expression. “An accident when we were children. From that moment on, he has been like a dog, snarling at his own tail, never content unless there was some mischief to be done.”
“But it was he that I heard outside my mistress’s room that night…” Borgia made no response. “You knew?”
He nodded. “I had guessed. He schemes to banish all from our father’s side. Lucrezia, myself, we are threats to him. Stories have been spread about Lucrezia and me from the moment our father took the tiara. Should the scandal grow too great, His Holiness would be forced to banish us from his side. And…”
“What?”
Borgia looked away, focusing on the panes of weak light as they shone through the shuttered window. “Someone near to His Holiness’s heart informs to the French. They knew too much of our plans and the strength of the city. Juan was seen in the company of a man known to all as a French spy many times before he left to Spain.”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
Borgia sat up from his reclining posture, balancing his head against the pillar that supported the enveloping bed curtains. “Why does anyone deal in betrayal? Gold, revenge, hatred. A woman. With Juan, it could be all of these or none of them, and he simply seeks my destruction for the amusement it brings him.”
When she made no replay, Borgia continued.
“I tell you these things because you have proven that you can be trusted, and so that you understand what forces are at work. It is a war between my brother and me.”
Something was niggling at the back of her mind. “How did he know so soon that we had left the palazzo?” Her mind supplied the answer to her own question. “Someone informs to him from the house.”
His smile was a reward for her cleverness. “Discover who it is for me, little Betta. Be my eyes and ears that we may keep my sister safe.”
“I will, your Eminence.” Betta paused. “Does she know?”
The Cardinal shook his head. “Some of it, though not all. I was telling her before we were interrupted. Tell her what we have discovered this day, that she may prepare herself.”
“Yes, Eminence.”
“You called me by another name a short time before.”
The memory of it heated her cheeks.
"Betta."
She looked up from the pile of garments and found him still lounging back in the bed. Color glazed a thin wash over his cheeks, whether from anger or some other emotion, she could not tell, and his smile contained equal parts invitation and warning.
He held out a hand.
She dropped her eyes and shook her head. The invitation did not frighten her, as perhaps it should have. At this moment, he was only a man, and he wanted her. And she desired him. There was nothing to stop them save her own fear and sense of obligation; she wished to say yes, her body hungered to say it, and that frightened her more than anything which had yet occurred that day.
“My lady would not approve.”
He shrugged. The look he gave her was slow, beginning at the top of her head and traveling down in a heated slow glide. "Someday, we will finish this."
"Perhaps," she allowed, and bent to retrieve her stockings from the discarded pile of garments.
The band she used to bind her breasts was left on the floor. She would need it no longer.
Chapter 49
The walls of the tent flapped in the wind, scattering smoke and ashes from the brazier. The remnants of the dying fire flew through the enclosed space in a glowing whirlwind, touching the pots and dried herbs. Betta watched in horrified fascination as Mother Nuca sprang up and began beating at the embers with a broom.
From outside the tent, thunder rumbled. Betta drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, feeling a chill. Though the early summer rain had fallen soft and warm in the morning, as the day had worn on, the clouds overhead had grown darker with the storm. The journey through Rome during the rain had left her soaked to the skin
Grunting, muttering under her breath, Mother Nucca extinguished the last of the tiny flames before sinking back to the stool. Sweat drenched her forehead; her hands trembled. The backbone beneath the ragged gray gown was bent with exhaustion.
“It must be difficult, to live like this.”
Mother Nucca nodded, eyes bright with emotion behind the fall of gray hair. “Many of my people have sickened. My son has lost two of his children to the fever,” she nodded in the direction of the other tents clustered around the gates. “And his cough has grown worse.”
Betta leaned forward, clasping her hands around her knees. Always, the sight of this place left her sick with terror- the scent of cloves, the bitter tang of blood in the back of her throat. Betta swallowed past nausea.
“A house would be better. Something small, with a garden where you can grow herbs and worship without fear.”
Mother Nucca leaned forward and cocked her head. “It would,” she agreed. Though her voice was steady, Betta saw the bright flash of avarice.
“My mistress is a generous woman…”
A harsh laugh interrupted her words. “Spit it out, girl, less I die before you make the offer that brought you here.”
Betta bit her lip. “A man waits outside who wishes to speak with you. Help him, and my mistress will see that you are rewarded. Betray him, and you will burn. The Jews will be expelled from Rome, as they were from England and Spain. Your people, your family, will die.”
The old woman said nothing, only watched her with diamond bright eyes.
“Serving the Borgia brings rewards, but also risks. Should…”
The old woman made a violent gesture with her hand, chopping through the air.
“Bah, life is risk, child. You know that well enough. Bring your man in. For what they offer, I would nail your Christ back on his cross with my own two hands.”
Betta nodded. “But first, something for my mistress.”
“Something she does not wish the other to know about?” The old woman cocked an eyebrow at her. Outside, the wind howled again. Waiting beneath the fallen pine tree, Micheletto would be protected from some of the rain.
“Teach me about poisons, Mother Nuca. My mistress has need of them.”
Chapter 50
Cesare let his thoughts drift aimlessly even as he formed words on the page, each letter perfect, the formal language flowing effortlessly from the nib of his quill. A necessary part of his day, correspondence was a task that he undertook early, before the morning darkness had left the sky, allowing him time for other matters closer to his heart. A web, His Holiness had likened it to when explaining the importance of letters, of tokens of esteem and careful flattery. In this, as with other matters, Rodrigo Borgia was correct. Connections formed the links that had brought him to the throne of St. Peter’s.
The words of this letter flowed swiftly, even as he knew that each word contained therein would be passed along to the King to whom Juan Castellar de Borja owned his ultimate allegiance. Borgia he might be, but his cousin was a Spaniard first, perhaps the reason that his father had passed over him to be elevated to the cardinal’s biretti.
To his Grace the Archbishop of Trani,
Cousin,
May the peace of our Lord Jesus
Christ be fully bestowed upon your holy office and that by the blessing given by the shedding of Christ’s precious blood you may achieve the ultimate peace and tranquility of those nurtured within the bosom of the Holy Church
In answer to your recent inquiries as to the state of affairs in Rome since the removal of the invading army, our most Holy Father, though he has ever labored to increase the merit of the church, has felt it beholden to him to answer their recent incursions into his Papal domain and the aid rendered to that monarch by those who hold dominion over lands in Rome. Called by a command from on high, our most Holy Father, with the Lord’s help, undertook to subjugate the will of the Orsini, and to render them into a more fitting relationship with Christ’s representative on earth.
To serve as his captain, his Holiness selected the Duke of Gandia, our Brother, who was recently named Gonfalonier, together with Guidibaldo da Montefeltro, the Duke of Urbino.
Cesare rubbed a finger along his lips to keep from sighing at the idiocy of the appointments. The pair of Captains together could not boast of a single command between them, and possessed nothing to suggest that they were in any way suited to lead the armies of the papacy against skilled Orsini backed and funded by Charles of France. Their cause had been doomed from its inception, and he had watched the slow unwinding of their plans with resignation, expecting nothing less than a disaster.
It had begun well enough, with pennants floating in the wind and the smell of wildflowers thrown before the Papal Armies, girls in their best gowns come to see them off. Shiny and new, Juan’s armor had glittered like polished silver, never marred by the stench of battle or the advance of a blade. The Holy Father swelled with pride as they had marched from the city, confident of Juan’s ultimate triumph. Ten castles fell in two months, and even he had begun to hope that the Holy Father’s name alone would carry them to victory. Then the brave captains had come up against the stronghold of the Orsini, the fortress of Bracciano, which had repelled their attacks with laughable ease.
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