Juan paused, arm raised to throw the dagger in his hand. If Perrolto had not proved so useful in the past, willing to do anything that Juan might require, he would have killed the man long since. His flapping tongue was like shards of glass, pressing against his mind. He took another long drink of the wine, savoring the taste. The vintage his sister had sent him was robust; he could feel the burn swimming through his thoughts. Her gift to him had been a thoughtful one; there were times that he almost liked his sister, enjoying the gentleness she exhibited, the elegance of her person. It would not be enough to save her, however. Lucrezia Borgia would end her days in a nunnery, the disgraced sister of the King of Naples.
“What did the guards say when they took you? What were their orders?”
“No order so that I heard, your Grace. They seized me by both arms and dragged me off as though I were a criminal fit to be hanged. Laughed a fair bit about it, the pair of them, said it was the easiest coin they ever had.”
“And no one has seen her since? Did you ask the beggars in the street? The whores? A woman with her beauty is difficult to forget.”
“None saw her, my lord, or even one that could have been her, masked and cloaked.”
Juan pressed his fists hard against his temples, needing to think, to plan. If he could not secure the woman, he had nothing to offer the French. Berenger had a group of men set to take charge of the woman as soon as she showed signs of the pregnancy. Together, they had planned how the change in her captivity was to be accomplished. Men would storm the Palazzo, killing every servant they encountered until they reached the rooms where Sarifye was kept. One woman would be left alive to tell His Holiness that his lover had been taken by men speaking the French tongue. This would give his new ally, King Charles, sufficient leverage to ensure that Federigo was not invested with the throne of Naples. Juan would lead the armies of the Papacy and claim it for himself, eventually wedding his cause to that of the French with a bride of Charles’s choosing.
But all of their plans were wasted without the girl. She alone could ensure his father’s cooperation. The capture of her was Cesare’s doing, he knew it. Somehow, he had discovered Juan’s plans for Sarifye and her spawn and snatched her for himself, as Cesare took everything that Juan needed. No longer. Though he had planned an ending for his brother years in the future after his eventual disgrace and banishment, he would alter his plans. Cardinal Borgia would commune with the Almighty as soon as he could arrange it. He would speak to Berenger this very night.
“Send men out. My brother and his henchman are to be followed every moment. I wish to know where they are in the morning, what whores find their beds, what food they eat for cena. The spies we have in his household. Tell them I will pay in gold if they can discover her location.”
“How much in gold?” Perrolto asked, a hopeful tone in his voice.
“Say any amount you would like. The ones that find her will have to die. All of them will have to die, no one can know what we are doing.”
“No one, my lord?”
At the page’s suspicious tone, Juan waved his hand. “Not you, fool. You are too valuable to me.”
“My thanks, your Grace,” Perrolto said, cheer returning. “Should I cozy up to that little piece in the convent? Mayhap your sister knows something, maybe his Eminence whispered it into her ear.”
Juan rubbed his chin. “While he was fucking her, you mean? Yes, get word to her. Perhaps she knows something. There will be gold to the one who finds where my brother has hidden my little prize.”
Chapter 56
Betta returned to the convent as the last rays of light were fading from the sky, leaving it the soft purple of amethysts. Crickets chirped from the gardens, and frogs thrummed their songs from the puddles left by a rain-soaked fortnight.
The guard she knew was gone, replaced by the lay brother who slept in the shed, ready to attend to any emergencies. Only after Betta had threatened to wake the Countess did he agree to let her through the gate, and she felt his eyes boring into her back with fierce intensity.
The maids who had accompanied the Countess to the convent occupied one long room on the ground floor of the lodge, a long, narrow building that served to house the pilgrims that flooded Rome, seeking miracles or intercession. After taking a moment to wash and change her mud-spattered gown, Betta went to the tower in search of her mistress. Dread was a leaden weight in her stomach; she had thought she would never prey on the favor that the Countess had shown her, but there was no other way. Pride would be sacrificed to save her sister.
The Countess had already retired for the night. The bed in the cavernous convent chamber was small, the curtains enclosed a space ample enough for one. Added to it, the feather mattresses and embroidered coverlets were touches of luxury in the small chamber. Other beds had been made along the wall with downy mattresses and blankets, comfortable resting places for the attendants who had chosen to share in her retreat from the world. Behind the door, there was a straw mattress for Pantasilea, that she could attend her mistress at all hours.
Shadows showed like bruises beneath light eyes as Lucrezia smiled in welcome. The maids said she had not been sleeping; something preyed on her mind, more than the scandal of her crumbling marriage or her brother’s failed campaign to punish the Orsini. Her fingers plucked at the ties of her camicia as her head tossed and turned on the pillow. A statue of the Virgin stood in an alcove, blue eyes staring at the room.
Betta paused, hand extended, almost touching Lucrezia’s where it rested on the coverlet. The words caught in her throat, and she had to force them out.
“My lady.”
Lucrezia looked up from the rosary in her hand. Her smile was distant. “Yes?”
“May I speak to you, my lady? Alone?”
Lucrezia’s eyes sharpened. She looked over her shoulder to the place where Pantasilea’s cot was placed against the wall; the maid was bent over a piece of mending while Catherina Spagnola stood over her and frowned, inspecting the work. “Leave us,” she called. Grumbling, Pantasilea rose from her bed and shuffled over to the door, which Betta had left open. Catherina followed close behind. “Go to the chapel,” she commanded. “Pray for a happy resolution to my troubles.”
Betta stayed silent as the two women left the room, her ears attuned to the sounds of their feet as they crept down the halls, the whispers between them gradually fading. The words she needed to speak were lead weights in her mouth, impossible to dislodge.
Lucrezia sat up, the covers falling to her waist as she moved back. Her hand indicated the empty place on the bed. “Join me,” she asked, not a command, a simple request, and Betta felt tears start in her eyes. She shook her head, trying to conceal her tears.
A hand touched her shoulder. “What has happened?” The kindness in Lucrezia’s voice made the tears start again. Reaching down, Betta used the edges of her apron to wipe them away. The fingers clenched. “Tell me what has happened. Has someone hurt you again? Did Micheletto…”
Betta shook her head. “No, my lady. Not that.”
“Then speak the words. Are you with child? Did you poison the cook? What?!”
“Did the Holy Father buy you a slave?” Betta hunched her shoulders, the shame overwhelming. She could not bring her eyes to lift above the coverlet.
Lucrezia’s head jerked back. “What nonsense is this?”
“A slave.” Betta’s words came fast, tripping out from her tongue. “The first time we spoke, you said that your father would purchase you a slave to carry your packages. Did he?”
Lucrezia shook her head. “No, and you know that full well.”
Betta reached forward and took Lucrezia’s hands into hers. “You can still have one, my lady. I will sell myself to you.”
Lucrezia wrenched her fingers back. “Are you in jest…?”
The anger was more than she could bear. Betta pressed fists against her eyes and crumpled, sagging to the bed. To speak the words, knives and swords and fists, anything but the
words she had to speak, to feel the last remnants of her pride draining away. It was no longer possible to contain her tears, they fell to the coverlet, a warm rain of them darkening the velvet.
“Why?” The rage had fled, leaving Lucrezia’s voice gentle.
“I must have twenty ducats, my lady. I must.”
“For what purpose? Twenty is no small sum.”
“My sister. To see her wed.”
Lucrezia’s eyebrows rose, pale and blending with the curls streamed down her back. “You have a sister?”
The words flooded out, uncontrollable. “Ginevra, my lady. She is the only one of my family that is left. Your mother’s house has given her shelter for a time, but I must see her wed, now, this very moment, then she will be safe. Fifteen for the dowry, the rest, to see her clothed. I will place my mark on…”
“Shelter, you say. Shelter from what?”
She could not say the words. Even then, the truth of what she had endured, what her sister had suffered, was too foul to be breathed into life by placing it into words. Betta looked up, feeling the wetness of her cheeks, the burn of her eyelids where tears trapped for years were beginning to escape.
“Please.”
Lucrezia’s head cocked to the side. Without speaking, she slid from beneath the covers and crossed to the window, the shutters barred against the night air. Cold air flooded the room when she pushed them open, ruffling the edges of her camicia. Her feet were white and bloodless against the tile.
“Twenty ducats,” she said, lingering over the words. “Twenty ducats.” Tap, tap, her finger struck the metal grating. “Thirty would have served as well, the price of a soul.” She turned. “I have no need for slaves.” When Betta would have sunk to the floor, all hope gone, she raised a hand. “But a promise, that I will buy for twenty ducats.”
Joy flooded her, honey sweet, lighter than wine, than air. She sprang to her feet and rushed forward, catching the camicia’s hem and raising it to her lips. Cold stones lay beneath her feet. “Bless you, my lady. Bless you.”
“Stop it,” Lucrezia hissed, raising Betta up to stand next to her. “Stop crying.”
The apron was still in Betta’s hands; she used it to cover her face. The tears were coming, she could not contain them, the joy and pain of lifetime washing away.
“Will you not even ask the nature of the promise?”
The joy finally shone through the tears. “Anything, my lady. Whatever you might desire.”
A laugh sounded from the back of Lucrezia’s throat. “I shall remember that. Someday, I will set you a task. When that day arrives, even if you wish to refuse, you will not, for I have bought your sister’s happiness for twenty ducats.” Lucrezia crossed to the table where she wrote her letters. “Light the candles.” As she moved to obey, Lucrezia’s voice sounded from the shadows behind her.
“Your father must die, you know. No matter that you provide a dowry, a daughter is nothing but a vessel for her father’s wishes.”
Betta had thought of it. She nodded.
“Then it will be done.” Lucrezia sat on the stool and withdraw a sheet of parchment. Dipping her quill into the well of ink, she wrote a single line on the paper and then held out the feather to Betta. “A promise bought for 20 ducats. Come read what it says, and then make your mark if you agree.”
“I cannot read my lady.”
Lucrezia raised an eyebrow. “Truly? I never thought…Then you must trust me as to the contents.”
“I do, my lady.” Taking the quill, Betta made two slashes that crossed. The feather was alive in her hand, she could feel the texture of the parchment as she signed, the thin flexibility of the feather trembling in her hand.
“It is a bargain, then, though I would council against such blind faith in the future. I am a Borgia. What that means, you may someday discover for yourself.”
The words made little impact. The relief was a golden wave swirling inside of her. She had the coin to see her sister wed. All that remained was for her to return to the bodega and put an end to her stepfather’s crimes. She had thought to visit Micheletto instead, to remind him of the bargain he had once offered, but then she discarded the idea. This task would belong to no one but herself. The pleasure of it was one that she deserved.
The Countess could read her thoughts. “You must wait. There are other matters afoot, ones that cannot be disturbed. You say that your sister is safely housed with my mother? That is well, leave her there for now. Trust in this promise: in three days, we will see that your sister is safe.”
Chapter 57
“Micheletto?” Cesare called to the next room, tapping his fingers against the planks of the table. Impatience raced through his veins; he felt a tightening, a readying similar to the need for a woman as the fruition of his plans neared. Soon, soon. The anticipation was a fire in his blood; his body hummed with it, vitality despite the multitude of sleepless nights he had spent to bring him to this place.
Micheletto’s tread whispered from the next room, his stride slow, nearly silent despite the heavy leather boots he wore. His henchman could move a thousand different ways, all of them deadly. Cesare permitted himself a smile. Rare fortune had delivered to him a servant such as he needed, one that was capable of performing any act that he might require without question. The days ahead would test his loyalty, the strength of their connection, but he had no doubt the man would fulfill his role with the usual diligence, even though the exact nature of what lay ahead had been kept hidden. Both of their lives would depend on it.
Micheletto stopped in front of the desk and inclined his head. “My lord.” Shaggy dark hair fell in front of his eyes, concealing their expression. Though his posture was relaxed, feet slightly apart, hands resting on sword and belt, Cesare knew that his man could explode into violence in the time it would take him to form the command on his lips.
“Send for the old woman. It is to be the 14th of June.” Cesare crumpled the letter in his hand before throwing it into the flames.
Micheletto allowed himself a smile. The hand resting on his sword tightened.
“As you wish. And that other matter. I am to see to that as well?”
“Of course. Exactly as I commanded.”
Chapter 58
June 14th, 1497
Cesare galloped into the vineyard near the Monte San Martino dei Monti. Cesare patted the horse’s lathered neck and smiled; his muscles were pliant after the exertion, blood pumping rapidly through his veins.
At his side, Juan de Borja-Llancol drew on the reigns sharply, making the horse toss his head with displeasure. The mount was one of the Spanish horses favored by the mercenaries who had followed Calixtus and then Rodrigo Borgia across the sea to a new life in Rome, a jennet with a gleaming dark coat. A troop of men halted behind them. Though he had wished for privacy during the feast, he was not foolish enough to risk his life and that of his cousin by riding unattended. The half dozen men were sufficient to ensure their safety while traveling through hills infested with robbers.
The villa was small, modest by comparison to the palazzos on the Borgo and the home on the Piazza that his mother occupied, but the stillness of the greenery-scented air and the mists descending from the hills made it a pleasant respite from the city. Shutters covered the window in the second story of the small, thickly walled tower, a remnant of a time long past when the residence had served other purposes, but those in the main level were thrown open, food smells and smoke emerging from the kitchens. An arbor-covered terrace stood a short distance from the home, beyond which the vineyards began.
Already, the plants hung heavy with the small green globes that would mature in the coming months. The leaves of the vines were vibrant and glossy, ruffling in the slight breeze that spilled the scent of them over the tables that had been laid out on the terrace.
Sliding from his saddle, Cesare tossed the reigns to a boy that stood nearby and walked toward the villa. The terrace was a wash of light in the gathering dusk, the torches set into
the ground at even intervals, enough to ensure that it would be as bright as midday. Food was heaped high on the tables, apricots, and oranges gathered in silver bowls, soft cheeses glistening in the heat, small basins of water and dishes of salt and mounds of bread, crusts browned and shiny from the ovens.
Vannozza sat in a chair under the arbor, directing the servants as they positioned the dishes on the table. The golden veil she wore tucked into the graying loops and braids of her hair painted the illusion of youth over her more gracefully than the paint and colored hair had ever done. Pain struck as he recognized the likeness she shared with her daughter. Someday, Lucrezia would look the same, an aging woman surrounded by her children.
Cesare walked across the terrace and greeted his mother with a kiss. The skin of her cheek was velvet against his lips, powder and softness instead of the cloying grease of heavy paint.
“Mother,” he whispered, holding her tightly for a moment, regret and fondness at war within him.
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