Instead of answering, Lucrezia turned and looked at Micheletto. “Bring her forward.”
The absurdity of it roused the Holy Father from his stupor. “What is this?” He spared a glance for Betta as she was brought, limping, across the room. “This girl was found in his rooms and brought for questioning. We do not even know why she is here to witness this. We certainly did not order it.”
Lucrezia laid her arm on his, lightly touching the soft fabric. “Because I ordered it, Holy Father. She is my servant and goes where I bid her. In truth, she is more than that. She is my friend. For ten years, she had served our family, and when I discovered what was done to her, I could not help but act.”
Betta could not contain a sob, and covered her face with her hands.
Lucrezia’s voice was a throaty whisper. “She cries during the night. For hours, each time she would return after the Sabbath, I could hear her crying. And then, only a fortnight past, she offered to sell herself into bondage to me to provide a dowry for her sister, who faced a danger she would not name. How old were you, Betta, the first time that your father raped you?"
Betta felt her body folding in, arms crossed tightly across her middle as she slid to the floor. The shame of it was burning, curdling through her skin.
“How old were you?” Lucrezia’s tone was harsh, demanding an answer.
“Ten and one, my lady.”
“And yet you returned there, every Sabbath, to give him your wages and allow him to lie with you? Why? Did you enjoy what he did to you?”
“Never, my lady,” Betta hissed. “I returned for my sister. She is all that I have left. He would have done the same to her, had I allowed it.” Betta cried freely now, the sobs wracking her body.
“Why did you offer to sell yourself to me that night?”
Betta wrapped arms around her waist. Micheletto was a solid presence at her side, lending her strength. “For a dowry. That night, I found him forcing her. We fought, and I hid her in the city, but without a dowry, she will never be wed. If he finds her…”
Lucrezia turned and faced the Holy Father. “Micheletto went to Trastevere that night. Justice was done. Should you wish to ascertain the truth of my words, I sent a guard there this morning to bear witness to what was done on my orders.”
“How was he killed?”
Micheletto spoke then, answering the Holy Father’s question. “Choked him to death on his own cock.”
The Pope’s face went white; he reared back, placing a hand protectively over his immaculate robes.
“I avenged the injury done to my servant. My honor as a Borgia demanded it.” Lucrezia lifted her chin.
Instead of answering her, the Pope looked to Betta for the first time. When he spoke, it was not unkindly. “What have you to say, girl? You were found in this man’s bed. Did you know that he killed your father?”
They all were looking at her, the clerics in their dusty black robes, the silent figure in the corner that she had failed to notice before though he wore the church’s deep scarlet; Cardinal Borgia stood with his sister, an arm wrapped around her shoulders. Micheletto was an immovable dark presence at her side, eyes screaming a warning her to be silent, to choose her words with care. She was at the center of all things, the eye of a whirlwind whose strength had been building for years past memory. But Micheletto’s silent warning was too late; she was past fear, the need to watch every word that she said, to be the perfect servant, quiet and meek. She was no Borgia, to plan each moment ahead, no churchman who could rely on the strength of her faith to guide her, no henchman to trust to her strength in arms. All that she possessed was instinct, and the voice of her thoughts said that this was the moment to speak.
“I did not.” The words were ragged, and she stopped, pausing for a moment to gain her breath, that her words would emerge clear. “Holy Father, I wish to make my confession.”
There was a muffled gasp behind her. The Pope waved her forward; she crawled, past the silken skirts of Lady Lucrezia and the scarlet robes of the Cardinal, to the white. Though he offered her his hand, she grasped his foot, resting her forehead against his shoes.
“I confess to you, Holy Father, that I wished my father dead a thousand times over, for every time that he raped me. When he said that he would do the same to my sister if I did not submit to his lusts, and I knew that he spoke the truth.” Her words ran together with tears, bathing the leather of his shoes. “He killed my baby, holiness. He waited too long to take me to the Jewish woman, and the herbs she gave me would not take. It was too close to the birth so he held me down when she cut the child into pieces with a wire. A girl, she was, a tiny, perfect little girl cut to mush on the linen. The woman said that I would never have another because of what she did to me. For him, it only meant that he could take me without fear! That was my life outside the palazzo where I served your daughter, Holiness. A hell, and one that I endured to save my sister from harm. The man that was the author of this misfortune I wanted dead a thousand times and I thank God that my mistress sent Micheletto to him. I weep only that I could not have killed him myself!”
Betta cried as she had not done in years, aching with pain, longing for the strong arms of her mother to comfort her. Her throat was raw, and her cheeks felt swollen and bathed with salt. Awareness returned slowly; she discovered that the Pope was stroking her hair, whispering words of comfort.
“Even in this dark hour, there is light, child. The beauty of your sacrifice shines like a beacon in a dark sky. You have shown me the error of my ways in failing to trust those who have shown me nothing but loyalty. My daughter did right to see to your freedom. Pray to the Blessed Mother, that she may have mercy on you and on your child. Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”
The Pope’s eyes were wet as he leaned down, embracing her shoulders; he had cried, hearing her confession, and at that moment, she loved him, that he could find pity for one such as her.
“Will my babe find peace?” The secret questions, one she had not dared to ask herself.
His hand smoothed back the tangle of hair from her face. “We doubt it not. Rest easy, my child, believing in the infinite mercy of our precious savior.”
Hands picked her up and drew her back into the room. Micheletto’s hands, holding her tight as though she were precious to him, murmuring soothing words as she continued to cry, weeping out all of the fear and grief and loneliness she had kept inside.
The Pope subsided back into his chair with a groan. He stroked the cross in his lap, letting the sunlight play across the golden surface. When he spoke, it seemed that he addressed the words to the holy relic. “It seems we are to be confounded by tragedy. Though I would give a dozen kingdoms to know the truth, it has been denied to us. We are never to know who killed our precious son.” The Pope covered his face with his hands; softly, he began to cry. “Would that we had died in his place.”
“It seems that I must speak, though I wished to remain silent.” The words emerged from the man who had remained at the edges of the room, silent and watching.
The pope looked up from his hands, eyes red and swimming with tears. “Speak, cousin.”
Cardinal Juan Borja-Llancol stepped forward, robes brushing the floor. “I had hoped to spare you this news, Holiness. At your direction, I undertook to search the rooms of the Duke, seeking to understand the meaning of his foul murder. Letters were concealed in that chamber, and the sentiments they contain may provide the true reason he was attacked.”
The Pope waved the Cardinal forward, taking several pieces of parchment from his outstretched hand. With trembling fingers, he turned the script to the light and began reading. Seconds stretched into silent minutes.
“The French,” he moaned, covering his mouth with his hand. The Pope’s tears began again. “Our poor lost son.”
Chapter 72
The wedding was, it was agreed, one of the most lavish that Trastevere had hosted in living memory.
Tables groaned beneath the weight of dishes. Chickens and roast duc
k, fish who had been swimming in the river that morning and suckling pig, their skin crisped and brown from the fire. Tarts and pies and sweetmeats were fought over by children, and the scent of flowers filled the air.
Music from the minstrels circled the guests. The sound of the lute was high and sweet, the sound echoed by the notes of the singer. The wine had been flowing throughout the morning. Betta drank until her mind was a happy jumble of sights and sound, laughter and music.
The vibrant blue of Ginevra’s gown made her hair spark with red fire; Paulo, her husband, had the stunned face of a man who had been granted a precious treasure, which, Betta thought, he had been. The dowry provided, the wedding between the pair had been planned and brought to completion only a fortnight after the body of the Duke of Gandia had been laid to rest in the family crypt high in the hills.
“Thank you,” Ginevra said, hugging her sister around the neck before entering the bodega as a married woman, to sleep on clean new linens in a handsome bedstead which covered the blood stain on the floor.
Dancing began beneath the flowered garlands. For a time, Betta swayed by herself in a corner near the alley, holding her skirts high and feeling the rushing breeze catch at the strands of her hair. The weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders, and she moved as though wings had been placed on her feet. As she listened to the strains of music, it seemed as though hands caressed her in passing, the brothers who had taught her to run and to fight, and gloried in her freedom; her father, and for a moment, she caught the scent of tanned leather and waxed thread on the breeze and saw the glint of silver in his beard when he sat by the fire at night. And her Mother, dearest of all. No longer an idol to be worshipped, but a woman who had sinned and erred as Betta had, and thanked her in a silent brush for the safety of her daughter.
Strong hands encircled her waist, jerking her up against the lean strength of his body. She had looked for him through the day, knowing that when this, the last of her tasks were completed, that he would be there, waiting for her. Her life was her own now, to be governed as she wished. Micheletto would be a part of it, of that, she was certain.
“I do not dance,” she whispered.
“You dance today, and you dance with me,” he growled, and whisked her out into the crowd of revelers until their bodies were concealed from view.
Far off into the hills, two figures watched the festivities from the backs of their mounts. The man wore dark leathers and a mask covering his face, the woman a dark veil holding back her hair. The summer grass was long beneath their hooves, the strands tossing in the wind.
“A happy wedding. You did well, sister.” His voice caressed the Valencian words.
“It is no more than she deserves,” Lucrezia said, her hands twisting through the flowing mane of her horse. “Without her, all would have been lost. I do not think he believed us, until she spoke.”
“He did not.” Cesare agreed. “The girl convinced him, that and the letters brought forth by our cousin. That Juan would be so foolish as to keep communications from the French agreeing to trade the child for future title in Naples was only more evidence of his madness, and I thank God for it. Without the letters and her words, I would even now be rotting in the Castel.” Cesare shook his head.
Lucrezia moved her mount closer. There had been no time to talk in the weeks since the meeting in the Castel San’ Angelo. “How did you know that she would kill him?” she asked in a whisper.
Cesare looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. “Have you not guessed?”
Lucrezia shook her head.
“I had no idea that she would kill him. Another waited to wield the blade that night.”
Lucrezia cocked her head. “Then why instruct me send Micheletto off to kill Betta’s father?”
Cesare slid off of the horse and beckoned that she do the same. Free of the mounts, they walked together, their movements shielded by the trees arching over the path.
“I was the first that the Holy Father would look to blame when Juan was killed. It was necessary that my time be occupied for the whole of the night, from the time that I left our mother’s villa until I spoke to the Holy Father in his chambers. The Moorish girl provided a suitable means to ensure that my every moment was noted. Micheletto needed to be similarly occupied, though I suspect he took more enjoyment from his task that night than I.”
“The guard said the body was missing each of his fingers and his toes, and his expression was most frightful.”
“Undoubtedly. Micheletto had sought leave to end the man for years, from the time he first suspected what had been done to the girl.”
“He cares for her,” Lucrezia mused.
“Perhaps,” Cesare shrugged. “That night, had Juan continued on his usual course, he would have been met by an Orsini blade as he entered the home of Madonna Damiatta, his mistress. But plans, I have come to discover, are smoke and flames, and change with each passing wind. Juan followed his own path that night, and it led him to the river, and a dagger wielded by another’s hand. Were it not for the girl, all would have been ruined.”
“It was a well thought out plan, brother. And certainly, a knife in the dark was a kinder end than the one I planned for him,” Lucrezia smiled slyly, stroking the flank of her horse.
Cesare lifted his eyebrows.
Lucrezia looked at her gloves and flexed the fingers, each adorned with a ring that sparkled in the light.
“Did you think I would fail to act? Juan threatened my happiness as well. The wine which I brought back from Pesaro found favor with our brother during his last months. He drank it often with my fool of a husband, and asked that more be sent to him. The sublimate it contained rotted his teeth and destroyed his mind. He would have been dead within the month by my hand, had you chosen not to act.”
The Cardinal looked at her blankly for a long moment before he exploded in laughter. “You were poisoning Juan? Why?”
“I am a Borgia, brother. He would never be allowed to harm me again.”
Cesare caught her hand and drew it up for a kiss. Although the gesture was innocent, his eyes were lit with molten fire. “A Borgia, indeed.”
Lucrezia looked from his face to the scene in the hills below. “Betta is very brave, and she has suffered. I would not wish to risk her again.” Lines gathered between Lucrezia’s eyes, wrinkling the smooth forehead.
“Should you wish it, though I make no promises. Kingdoms are not won with kindness, Lucrezia, only great deeds. The girl risks no more than you or I, if she remains with us.”
“And what of us, Cardinal Borgia?” The soft brown line of her eyebrow lifted. “These last days without you have been long.”
His hand found hers. “You are mine,” he said simply. “As I am yours. I will not be parted from you again. No other shall ever come between us.”
“Aut Caesare, aut nihil?” she teased, fitting herself next to his body and lifting her face for a kiss.
“No,” he corrected. “Not Caesare. Borgia.”
Acknowledgments
This work would have been impossible without the help and encouragement of my dear friends- Becky, Wanda, and Sandy, I and my characters are forever in your debt.
Keep Reading for an excerpt from
The Borgia Secret
Available 2020.
Chapter 1
June 16, 1519
“Bring them in.”
The page bowed as he retreated back through the doorway, leather-soled shoes creating a whisping sound against the tiles as he turned. The boy in the distinctive blue d’Este livery had a mop of shining dark hair, carefully brushed and arranged beneath his hat; his eyes were red-rimmed from crying. As he had shown them through the halls of the castle, Betta had attempted to determine his age. Though he came up to her shoulder and the long bones of his arms and legs suggested that he would one day be a man of impressive strength, there was a softness to his face which made her think that he had not served the noble family for very long.
&nb
sp; The impression was confirmed when the page bit his lip, hesitating at the door. He made a furtive movement with his hands; Betta leaned down.
“The Duchess…” he murmured, voice trembling over the words, “She fades with each hour, more since the babe…” The boy looked down and wiped at his eyes with a sleeve. “The Duke wishes to speak to you before you are allowed to see her.”
Betta nodded, feeling the squeeze on her arm as the young woman at her side sought to provide a measure of comfort.
The page took another step closer and stretched up so that his mouth was level with her ear. “He is distraught. Mind your words.” Straightening, he took a step back as his face regained the smooth, impersonal mask that Betta remembered from her years at the palazzo. “This way.” Opening the corridor, he ushered them inside.
The sudden influx of light made Betta blink. The late afternoon sun had been swallowed by the bulk of the Castillio Estense when they arrived, the enormous red-brick edifice allowing only glimpses of a fading blue sky, but the duke’s studiolo possessed mullioned windows as tall as a man that flooded the room with light. And as though the illumination from the windows was not sufficient, candles had been scattered throughout, fat wax tapers as thick as her wrist dripping onto the ornate braces.
The man sitting at the table wore a red leather doublet left unlaced down the front, the linen shirt beneath was stained with sweat. Betta studied him with interest- the Duke of Ferrara, the head of the ancient d’Este family. And, for almost two decades, her lady’s husband. His body was massive, thick of shoulder and thigh, and the backs of his hands were crossed by the twisting white lines of old scars.. Graying dark hair stood up in tufts, as though the Duke had run his hands through it. The carefully sculpted lines of his beard were marred by stubble crawling up his cheeks. Bronze spectacles hinged at the top were kept close at hand.
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