She looked up, and for a moment, her expression caught, grief plain and as sharp as glass. Cesare rested a hand on her shoulder, a subtle reminder of the words which could never be spoken again.
Vannozza shook herself and fixed a smile upon her face. “I know, my son. It is only…”
“I am like him.”
“Yes.” Vannozza placed her taza on the table, fingers caressing the linen. “Your sister, she is well?”
Cesare took the seat at her side, reaching over his shoulder for the wine offered by a faceless servant. He took a small sip, letting the coolness drift down his throat. Only a taste for now, then watered. It would not do for him to become sodden. “As well as we might hope, until that fool of a husband is cast from her life. His Holiness now moves openly for the dissolution of their marriage.”
“On what grounds?” Vannozza cocked her head. A smile played at her lips. He thought she must have heard the story; even separate as she was from Vatican affairs, Rome was abuzz with the news.
“Non-consummation.”
The wine that Vannozza had begun to sip again turned into a wet cough as she choked. Pressing a linen square to her lips, she sought to expel the liquid from her lungs, the effort hampered by laughter.
“Non.n.n. consummation? Oh, Rodrigo, you scoundrel! Sforza will be utterly humiliated. Can he prove that it is untrue?”
A sly grin curved Cesare’s lip. “Lucrezia says that he is impotent. An injury before they returned to Rome.”
“A masterstroke. He cannot prove his vigor and were it to be demanded, a virgin could be found to take Lucrezia’s place in an examination.” Cesare took another drink of the wine, hiding his smile.
At the head of the table, a servant girl with neatly bound hair pulled at the linen, smoothing a fold. The girl turned her head, and Cesare caught a glimpse of wide blue eyes and full lips, a wisp of red hair escaping from beneath her coif. Instantly, she captured his interest. A beautiful girl, one that exuded a fragile innocence different from the jaded beauties of Rome.
“No,” his mother scolded, tapping his arm, drawing his attention away.
“No?”
“No,” she agreed. “That one is scarcely more than a child, and she is to be married soon.”
“Marriage vows have seldom proved a hindrance to me.”
“Or your brother either. The scandal of Rome, you and he are, bedding sweet Joffre’s wife by turns. But this one you are not to touch.”
“A pity,” Cesare murmured.
From down the path, the sounds of more horses emerged, galloping hooves echoing over the tiles. “Juan approaches. Try and be civil, Cesare.”
Cesare smoothed the leather over his chest and stretched his legs long, crossing them one on top of the other. “I have never sought quarrels with him, Mother. No matter what His Holiness believes.”
A sigh slumped Vannozza’s shoulders. “I know it. Do you remember when you were boys together, running and fighting and teasing your nurses? I wish those days would return.” Drawing herself up, she touched the hair at her temples and turned, anticipating Juan’s arrival.
“As do I.”
The horses rounded the final curve approaching the Villa, and Cesare felt the muscles in his back tighten. Although his horse was limping, Juan wore a triumphant smile the way that others wore armor. The Turkish garb he favored had been discarded again in favor of a velvet doublet. At his side, riding a jennet, another figure cantered, face obscured by a black mask.
Tension danced icy fingers up Cesare’s spine. The way the man in the mask held himself, the smooth motion of his legs as he threw them over the jennet’s saddle, were familiar to him, as though he had watched the action many times before. Cesare’s thoughts sharpened, searching back through the scores of faces that had crossed his path in the last dozen years. He only needed to remember.
For a moment, he considered sending a message to Micheletto, calling a halt to his plan. But it was too late. By the time a page could traverse the distance back to Rome, a critical step would have been accomplished. Micheletto was not one to linger over a task, especially one he had desired for years.
Cesare took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. The triumph that Juan had planned would play out, and he would counter, moves to the game they had played for years. Only this time, the game would reach its inevitable conclusion.
Juan dismounted, throwing the reins in the boy’s face. “Care for his leg, or I shall see you whipped.”
The boy’s face whitened; he cringed back, avoiding the stallion’s nipping teeth. “My lord. Is he injured?”
“A hole,” Juan said shortly, dismissing the servant and the horse with the same thought. “Mother,” he greeted Vannozza as she hurried forward, light silk skirts billowing in the dust still clogging the air. He allowed a kiss, then shrugged out from beneath her arms. “Be still,” he hissed, sidestepping when she would have taken his hand. He looked to the terrace and smiled when he saw Cesare’s relaxed posture. “I am no puling cleric, to be treated so.”
“No, you are a soldier,” Cesare said, keeping any inflection from his voice. “The bane of the Orsini.”
Juan missed the subtle mockery. “I am, and soon to be the bane of others.” Lifting an arm, he waved his companion forward. “An acquaintance of yours, brother.”
The man in the mask bowed, sweeping one hand back in a dramatic, distinctly foreign gesture that Cesare instantly placed although he had seen it only once in a smoky tavern. The pieces fit together in Cesare’s mind. Berenger de Gany. Somehow, Juan had discovered the ruse with the Frenchman and now sought to use it against him. He kept his body relaxed as thoughts raced furiously through his mind, planning, considering. It had been a trifling matter for him, a way to cause Juan embarrassment while providing certain information advantageous to their cause to the French king. The effort had been abandoned when Juan had journeyed to Spain and he had discovered a more direct route to communicate the small tidbits that he wished. It could mean nothing, it could mean everything. But it could not impact his plans unless… He looked up as another idea struck him. Sarifye.
Juan read the thoughts from his face and grinned, the sharp points of his ruined teeth like those of a predator. Strangely, he felt an urge to congratulate Juan. It was a more elaborate plan than he could have imagined from his impulsive, half-mad brother. Lifting his taza, he inclined his head. “Well met, brother.”
Taking the accolade as his due, Juan turned to the man that had taken a seat at Cesare’s side and remained without speaking, as was his habit. Cardinal Juan Borja-Llancol was everything that his cousin bearing the same name was not: silent, studious, and able to keep secrets. Though his eyes had danced around the terrace during their conversation, he kept his expression blank as he selected an orange from the display of fresh fruit and began to peel it.
“Cousin,” he said, moving his eyes to the man waiting a pace behind Juan. “And honored guest.”
Juan took the chair opposite of Cesare across the table. He sat in a jangle of metal, the sword he wore stretched out behind. With one hand, he unlaced the front of his doublet, displaying a sweat-stained linen shirt yellowed with grime.
“Cousin. I am surprised that you keep company with this scoundrel.” Juan smirked.
Juan Borja-Llancol shrugged his shoulders. He had the long face and dark eyes of the Spaniard, the cynical indifference of one who had lived as a stranger in Rome for decades. Unlike Cesare, he seemed to prefer his red cardinal’s robes; they formed a pool around him, a spot of blood in the darkening sky.
“We are clerics, after all. And he is family, Juan. As are you.” He cut his eyes between the two of them; there was gentle remonstrance in his tone.
Juan’s smile grew until it was blinding. “There are only two Borgia here, cousin.”
Chapter 59
A mouse was scurrying through the uppermost rooms in the convent, and Betta could not kill it.
The battle had been raging for weeks, from t
he moment they had entered the convent. Opening a chest, Betta had seen the small pellets of mouse dropping scattered upon the costly silks of the countess’s gowns, the lace chewed from the bodice of a mulberry silk garment hastily repaired by Pantasilea before the mistress could notice the damage. From that moment on, it had been war, advance, and retreat. Pantasilea had constructed a trap of boards propped onto sticks, but the mouse had taken the bits of bread from beneath the board and left the stick undisturbed. Small pieces of sponge had been mixed with aconite, pork fat, flour, and eggs, fashioned into balls which were scattered through the room while the Countess was at Chapel. Again, the mouse had proved more cunning than the chambermaids, leaving the poisoned balls behind while feasting on the morello cherries and Neopolitan mostaccioli that the Lady Lucrezia had consumed after she had returned from the sparse pranzo that were the Dominican’s meals.
Catherina Spagnola and the youthful Angela Borgia, who had recently entered her cousin’s service, found humor in their efforts to dispose of a single mouse; they had christened the mouse Giuliano after the cardinal who had still not returned to Rome after his humiliating defeat, and begun to wager about how long he would survive.
Annoyed at the continued battle, Betta decided on a more direct approach; from the convent garden, she had retrieved a stout stick, half again as long as her arm. She waited in a darkened corner, body concealed behind a tapestry that hung on the wall near the Countess’s bed. Though the wool and silk fibers of the hanging tickled her nose, she did not move. She controlled her breathing, the inhale and exhale soft, nearly silent, and allowed her mind to roam while she listened for the rustling of tiny paws over the stone floor.
There was much to occupy her thoughts. It was the last day. Her mistress had asked for three days to see another matter accomplished before she could begin the preparations for her sister’s marriage, and she had done as her benefactor had asked. A message had arrived from the Piazza that alleviated some of her fear. Showing characteristic kindness, Clarita had sent a page along to tell Betta that her sister was to journey with the mistress to the vineyard and that the girl remained safe and undiscovered by any that would do her harm.
A rustling sounded, and every muscle in Betta’s body clenched. Too soon. She must wait for the moment to strike. She paused then, every sense attuned to the sounds and smells of the chamber. The shuffling noise was too loud for a mouse, and beneath it, there was the pant of labored breathing. Strange. The other servants joined the nuns in prayer at Vespers, even the chambermaids. Betta alone avoided Mass. One of them must have returned on some errand
Betta was about to reveal her place behind the chamber door when a muffled curse stopped her. She paused, one hand on the door, the other still clutching the stick. Through and around the panes of the door, the riffling of paper sounded.
Betta edged from beneath the tapestry. The shadowed area behind the door was narrow, but she had no need to move the squeaky hinges to clear the space. Taking another step, she stepped out from the shadows.
A woman stood at the table where the Countess wrote her letters; the orangewood box of correspondence was open, and pages littering the surface of the wood. She turned, bringing the page close to her face and the candle she held, squinting as she deciphered the words.
Pantasilea. Of course, it was her, Betta thought, watching the woman’s eyes shift across the page as her mouth formed the words.
Betta’s hand tightened on the club. “You.”
Pantasilea jerked, the letter falling from her hand to settle on the table. She put a hand against the place where her heart beat, and Betta saw that it trembled.
“Betta, what are you…” her words were breathless, then she caught herself. “Why are you here?” she asked, the words sharp. “You should be at prayers. The Countess wished me to…”
Betta took a step closer to Pantasilea, out of the shadows; the room at the top of the convent was generously sized, the door equally distant between them, and she did not wish the other woman to flee. Not before the conversation was finished. “The Countess wished you to read her letters?”
Hand on her hip, Pantasilea sneered. She was a pretty woman, but one unable to control her expression, to assume the imperturbable blankness that was a servant’s greatest defense. Perhaps it was because she did not consider herself to be a servant. Countless times Betta had watched her glower at the Countess, the women that surrounded her, the discontent of her life written plainly on her features.
“They were scattered over the table. I was straightening it.” The words were said in a tone of challenge. “Perhaps you were reading them.”
Betta took another step forward. Her fingers had gone numb, clutching the club, and her muscles shook with the strain. “I cannot read. But you can. I saw your mouth forming the words. You have been spying on her.”
Pantasilea lifted her chin. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
They were close enough now that Betta could see the shuttering pulse in Pantasilea’s neck. Her hand still held clutched a letter, the parchment a wrinkled mass.
“No, you do not. Let us call for the Countess.” Betta half turned, gesturing toward the open door. At that moment, Pantasilea leaped forward, clearing the space between them. Betta was ready; she had been poised for action from the moment that she had seen the woman at the table and discovered the traitor at last. Whipping the club around, she knocked Pantasilea in the stomach and heard the exhalation of air as the wood was driven home.
She crumpled to the floor in a heap, a weak, helpless thing, her shoulders beginning to shake with harsh sobs. The coif on her head was knocked aside; for the first time, Betta saw that the maid had pale, honey-colored hair which cascaded down her back in luxurious waves. She looked up, brown eyes swimming with tears. The surprise of the moment was complete. Though they had served together for years, the maid was beautiful, and Betta had never noticed.
The shock of it must have been plain on her face; Pantasilea laughed, tears drying, and tossed the fair waves over her shoulder as she straightened. “You never saw. No one does. That skinny little fool takes all for herself, leaving none for anyone else. And I, the granddaughter of another pope, am made to serve her, even though I am more beautiful and more intelligent.”
“Not so intelligent,” Betta said, taking a step forward. “I have seen how you hate her.”
“Not everyone loves the Borgia as you do. I know what you are, little sneak. You cower in corners watching for her as she ruts in the gutter with her brother. As though anything else could have been expected of the Marrano pope and his brood of bastard children.”
The words dripped from her lips, hate-filled. Pantasilea took a step back toward the oil lamp sitting on the corner of the table, and her expression grew sly.
“But my friends are going to see that she gets what she deserves. Her reign in Rome will end tonight. She will be banished as the whore that she is and you…you will burn.”
Pantasilea swept the oil lamp up and threw it against the tapestry hanging on the wall. The pottery exploded in a shower of flames, filling the room with orange flames that danced, hungrily devouring the silk threads.
Betta stood transfixed as Pantasilea rushed past her and down the stairs.
Chapter 60
Cesare relaxed back in the chair. “You defame our mother, Juan.”
Juan matched his posture, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. Though he appeared unconcerned, his body was stiff, alive with nerves that showed in his darting eyes, the relentless tapping of his feet. “All of Rome knows that she is a whore.”
At the word, Vannozza’s shoulders stiffened. “Fine talk from my bastard son,” she hissed. Looking across the table, she spoke to the serving girl and page standing behind the arbor, their shoulders hunched as they sought to make themselves small. “Leave us,” she commanded. “This is a discussion best suited for family.”
They waited in silence until the two servants had crossed the terrace
and disappeared through the open door to the kitchens, past the leaping fire where the blackened carcass of pig waited to be served.
As he waited, Cesare leaned forward and took the wine, offering it and pouring for his mother and cousin. The masked man held up a hand, refusing the wine with a gesture.
“Wine, Juan?” he offered, tilting the jug invitingly. “Something to cure your evil humor.”
Juan nodded, watching as the stream of liquid filled his taza. Taking the cup, he drank deeply, smacking his lips in appreciation. “My humor has never been better, brother. Soon, I will have all that I require for happiness. The same can not be said of you, however.”
“Oh? I have no doubt that my time will come. As yours has, brother,” he said. Selecting a pastry from the table, he nibbled a corner, then placed it on the majolica dish that had been set on the table. “Have you made your preparations to depart for Naples? Terracina and Pontecorvo must eagerly await their new lord.”
Obviously pleased at the turn in the conversation, Vannozza clasped her hands in front of her bosom and smiled. “And the Duchy of Benevento! How pleased I was to hear of it.”
“It is no less then I deserve. I will depart for Rome once another matter has been resolved.”
Ignoring the pastry, Cesare selected a ciambelle stuffed with pistachio nuts; he bit into it and sighed in appreciation. “Delicious, mother. The table that his Holiness sets is too abstentious for my palate. And what matter needs to be resolved, brother? I thought we were to travel together.”
Discarding the wine on the table, Juan leaned forward. “You know what matter.” He snapped. “You have taken something that belongs to me. If she is not returned…”
“Juan,” Vannozza interrupted, slapping her hand flat down on the table, making the cups rattle. “Guard your tongue.”
Juan turned to look at her, and there was undisguised hatred in his eyes. “Be silent, woman. This does not concern you.” He turned to Cesare. “Surrender to me what was stolen or I will go to my father and tell him all that I have discovered.”
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