The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  Sudden understanding twisted my gut. Adriana had not wanted to move. This magnificent palazzo—it belonged to Giulia, Papa’s gift to her. She was mistress here, not me.

  “And leave the child to you?” said Adriana. “Heaven forbid.”

  Giulia glared. Before she could speak, I said quickly, “Let us not argue. I’m sure we’ll soon find ourselves at home. It’s what Papa wants, isn’t it?”

  Adriana lowered her eyes. “Indeed.”

  Giulia arched a triumphant brow. Turning away, Adriana said, “At least these rooms seem to be in order. But wherever is that maid of yours? I specifically instructed her to—”

  As if on cue, Pantalisea raced in, red-cheeked from climbing the stairs, her arms full of enameled coffers containing my jewelry and toiletries. “Forgive me, Donna.” She curtsied clumsily. “I got lost. This palazzo is so big and…” She glanced at the open cage. “Oh, no. I left him here for a moment to go fetch your coffers— Donna, forgive me. I’m afraid he got out.”

  “No. He’s under the bed.”

  As I retrieved some of the coffers from her, Pantalisea sighed. “I should have watched him more closely, but I didn’t want these coffers to go missing.”

  “Do not worry,” I reassured her. “He’s a cat. He’ll do as he pleases.”

  Giulia yawned. “Fascinating as this is, I’m exhausted. I must nap awhile.” She pecked my cheek. “I’m so happy you like our palazzo. Do tell Rodrigo when you see him tonight.”

  Her use of my father’s name hovered in the air as she walked out. Adriana stared after her. “God save us,” she muttered. “Our palazzo. And every tongue in Rome wags.” She shook her head. “Enough. You too must rest before tonight. Have Pantalisea prepare your gown for the evening. And you”—she jabbed her finger at my maid—“best not get lost again. You are not irreplaceable; we’ve a hundred noble girls in Rome desperate to serve His Holiness’s daughter.”

  Adriana marched out. As soon as she left, Pantalisea said anxiously, “You’ll not see me replaced, my lady?”

  “Of course not. Pay her no mind. You know how she hates disorder.” I smiled. I was fond of Pantalisea. She served me alone, and loyalty was a quality I must value, as it seemed we were indeed about to live under Giulia Farnese’s roof.

  “Oh, thank you, my lady. Shall I air out your gown?”

  “If you can find it,” I said, as we turned to regard the travel chests piled in the corners. We began to unpack, arranging my clothing in the cedar and walnut cassones, which protected delicate items from night moths and damp. Little Murilla arrived as we were wrestling with my bed hangings. Together, we managed to heave the damask over the tester, Murilla balanced precariously on a footstool until she tipped it over and tumbled off. Laughing, we leapt onto the bed and threw the pillows at one another until we lay tangled in a heap.

  “I’m hungry,” I said absently, gazing up at the lopsided canopy. Murilla ran off to fetch food from the kitchens, while Pantalisea and I finished sorting through my belongings, searching for the right sleeves for tonight’s gown.

  Yet even as I reveled in my surroundings, I did not forget Giulia’s offhanded remark about my betrothal or the disquieting sensation that, once again, she knew more about my future than I did.

  How long was I supposed to dwell in her shadow?

  The Sala Reale, the Vatican’s great reception hall, was crowded with guests who had gathered for Papa’s celebratory feast. Serene lute music drifted over the assembly, and hundreds of golden candelabra made everything shimmer. This saffron-drenched dream was dominated by my father in his white robes, seated on the dais and accepting congratulations from ambassadors sent by Venice, Florence, Naples, and Milan, as well as the various kingdoms of Europe. At the edges of the hall stood the papal guard, their stony eyes seeming not to see the conniving nobility with their families. Linen-draped tables offered succulent roast boar with applesauce and rosemary; poached pheasant eggs in sweet cream; pickled venison with spicy cloves; and peacock baked with truffles. Pages carrying large silver ewers poured wines from Lombardy and Tuscany into painted majolica goblets; I saw several noblewomen stashing these goblets in their skirts with unabashed cupidity, as keepsakes.

  Papa radiated goodwill. With his enthronement behind him—a tedious ritual, which had turned so protracted that he fainted, prompting panic among the faithful—he was now surrounded by those things in life he loved best: rich wine and food, music, laughter, and good company.

  Giulia, in turn, looked as though she might never smile again. She had spent hours at her glass, debating her choice of attire before she settled on mauve silk and rubies. Yet as stunning as she looked, she was relegated to the background, charged to act as my chaperone while Adriana entertained the noble matrons. Not that Giulia paid me any mind; she couldn’t take her gaze off my father. When he left the hall, she paced until he returned dressed in a black Castilian doublet with a gored skirt, which enhanced his stature and minimized his girth; her eyes stalked him as he roamed the hall with Juan, clapping cardinals on the back and greeting guests by name, showing off his astonishing memory for personal details.

  “Look at him,” she seethed. “Strutting about in his Spanish velvets while those sows of Rome shove their daughters at him as though he were in need of a harem.”

  “He must be attentive,” I said, watching Papa nod indulgently as each blushing offering was pushed forward to drop in a puddle of silk at his feet. Resplendent in azure damask at his side, Juan also assessed the girls with a practiced eye. Behind him, his companion Prince Djem ran his tongue over his lips as if he were considering devouring the girls for supper.

  “Attentive?” Giulia’s laughter was brittle. “Honestly, Lucrezia, not even you can be so naïve.”

  I frowned at her, unsure of her meaning. I’d seen my father and brother charm their way through a crowded hall countless times before. Women invariably reacted to them; how could they not? Giulia, however, interpreted it differently, for without warning she let out a burst of high-pitched laughter and cried, “Why, Lucrezia, how very amusing of you!”

  I gaped. I had said nothing, and her outburst was so shrill, she made everyone around us stare. A murmur rippled through the crowd, moving like the invisible crest of a wave, past the bishops and nobles and condottiere, all the way to where Papa stood.

  He raised his eyes. Juan scowled as Giulia feigned surprise when Papa crooked his finger. I whispered, “I think he heard you,” and with a false gesture of startled delight, she clasped my hand and brought us to my father. By this time, I had to clench my teeth to stop myself from laughing at her absurdity. Papa beamed, kissing my cheek and exuding a heady aroma of wine. Giulia rested a bejeweled hand on his arm, whispering in his ear as he led her forth, while I tarried a short distance behind with Juan.

  “He should have ordered that bitch to stay in her kennel,” my brother growled. “Must we suffer her on the very night of our family’s greatest triumph?”

  I glanced at Djem, who returned my stare with baleful eyes. “Some might say the same of your Turk,” I remarked, not caring if his servant overheard.

  “Djem is my companion,” he retorted. “He goes wherever I do.”

  I was about to reply that no doubt Papa thought the same of Giulia, when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of an unexpected figure leaning against a frescoed far wall, so still he might have emerged from the mural itself, clothed in smoke-darkened pigments.

  My heart leapt.

  Laughter crashed around me, drowning out the minstrels in the gallery. The hall was full to overflowing, guests spilling into the courtyard. I heard everything as if through a shell, staring at quicksilver flashes of skirts and robes, thinking I must have imagined it. Then I caught sight of the figure again, still at the wall, a large cap shading his features. Even before he reached up to tilt the cap back, his name was on my lips: “Cesare.”

  He turned heel, moving swiftly away.

  Juan paused. “Did you say somethin
g?”

  “No. I thought…it was nothing.” I made myself swipe a hand across my brow. “It is so hot in here. I think I’ll go into the gardens for a moment. Will you accompany me?”

  “Now?” he scoffed. “I’m not leaving Papa alone with that she-wolf.”

  “Then I’ll return soon, yes?” Before he could detain me, I plunged into the crowd.

  I could barely see my way as I weaved past clusters of gossiping officials and inebriated nobles, out of the sala’s double doors into the torchlit passageway. I quickened my steps, seeing the slim figure in black ahead; he moved as he always did, with single-minded purpose, so that I practically had to run to keep up with him, kicking against the weight of my skirts.

  He traversed the gardens, sidestepping the lichen-stained statues of long-dead emperors scattered about like bones. The horseshoe spread of the Apostolic Palace reverberated behind me, its clamor growing fainter as I followed his striding figure down the pebbled path.

  He came to a halt near the outer walls, under a copse of wind-sculpted cypress. Whipping off his cap, he turned to face me. He did not speak, staring at me as if I were a stranger. He looked too thin in his unadorned clothes, but, still, I reveled at the sight of his startling feline-green eyes under his red-gold brows, his supple mouth and long nose, his pale skin stretched over his angular cheekbones like hollowed silk. But where once his wealth of copper curls had sprung in disarray, shorn stubble now delineated his skull.

  “You cut off all your beautiful hair,” I exclaimed.

  “We have lice in Pisa.” His voice was soft, his gaze scouring. I’d opted for blue satin with a gold stomacher. At Giulia’s insistence, I even forwent the discreet under-camicia favored by adolescent girls and adorned my bare throat with a pearl necklace. I had thought I looked sophisticated when I admired myself in the glass, taking covert pleasure in the slight hint of breast accentuated by my bodice, but now, before my brother’s scrutiny, I had to curb the impulse to yank my bulky sleeves higher onto my shoulders.

  “I hardly recognized you. Where has petita meva Lucia gone?” He used the Catalan nickname he’d given me when we were children, making me sigh in relief. He had looked so angry that I thought he meant to chastise me.

  “Don’t be silly. You knew me at once, just as I did you. It hasn’t been that long, Cesare.”

  He took a step closer. “It’s been long enough. I waited for a letter from you. When nothing came, I feared the worst. I now see that I had every reason.”

  I laughed. “What did you fear?”

  “That Papa had seen you married and sent away to Spain.”

  “You thought I’d leave without telling you?” I was incredulous.

  “Why not? When it comes to our family, it seems I’m the last to be invited—if I’m invited at all.”

  I gazed into his eyes. I expected to find hurt there, genuine sorrow that he’d been ignored, left to glean the news in Pisa. Instead, I found them shining with his habitual mischief.

  “You’re teasing me!”

  He could not curb that special smile he reserved only for me. He’d rarely smiled even as a boy; Papa often grumbled he was more like a changeling than any son of his, but with me, he smiled often, and it was warm, inviting. It transformed his face from one of austerity to boyish appeal, making him look younger than his seventeen years. Cesare had been my lodestone growing up, the one I always turned to after my mother harangued me for some offense or Juan yanked my braid until my scalp burned.

  “Did you actually believe I’d let them marry you without my knowledge?” he now said. “I may be ignored, but I’m not without my resources.”

  “Yes, Mama no doubt being first among them.” But I was smiling, too, overjoyed that we were together again. “I’m sorry I didn’t write, but Papa forbade it. He said I had to let you be until he summoned you.”

  “I forgive you,” he said, and he reached into his doublet, withdrawing a package. “But if you cannot do what is forbidden, then I suppose that means I mustn’t give you this?”

  I gasped. “What is it? Let me see! Is it more poems by Petrarch?”

  “Better,” he replied, but as I reached for the package, he leapt backward in an elegant motion, dangling the book above me. “First you must earn it. Remember how we used to barter when we were children? I gave you a book and you gave me…?”

  I burst out laughing. “A dance!”

  “Indeed. In Pisa, all we have besides lice is stale bread and prayer—lots and lots of prayer. I rarely enjoy life anymore, much less with my pretty sister.” He clasped his hands at his chest, adopting a forlorn stance. “Will you dance with me, my Lucia?”

  “Here?” I said, but I was already looking over my shoulder, determining if we were far enough from the palace to not be overseen. “If I do, will you give me that book?”

  “Yes!” He grabbed my hand. “I will, though you and everyone else saw fit to ignore me.” His arms snaked about my waist, gliding me farther under the trees, our feet crunching over old rubble embedded in the earth as he guided me into the steps of a pavane. “No one spared a thought for me,” he said, “forced to live in a seminary and share my cell with a farting Medici roommate, nor”—he lifted his voice as I laughed again—“did anyone consider that our father would give Alessandro Farnese a cardinal’s hat because of the favors of his wanton sister, while I, a Borgia born, am forbidden to even set foot in Rome?”

  I came to an abrupt halt. “You know…about Papa and Giulia?”

  “Alas. As I said, I have my resources.”

  I reached out to caress the subtle growth of beard on his cheek. “Does it upset you?”

  He gave me a contemplative look. “Should it?”

  “I suppose not,” I replied, though I’d hoped for a different reaction. If it had upset me, how could it not upset him?

  Cesare extended the package. “Open your gift. I brought it all the way from Pisa and kept it hidden from Mama when I arrived. She went through my baggage, as she always does, insisting on washing my dirty hose herself.”

  I immediately tore open the package, scattering its plain paper wrapping to peer at a book cover made of red-tooled leather. Opening it to the frontispiece, I breathed, “The Decameron.” I looked up. “This is forbidden at the convent. The nuns say Boccaccio is a pagan who extols the pleasures of the flesh over the virtues of the spirit.”

  Cesare grimaced. “We call her Mother Church for a reason. Just like Vannozza, she likes nothing more than to forbid us knowledge. Best hide it from Adriana, too. She won’t approve.”

  I embraced him. “Thank you, Cesare. I’ll treasure it.” Although his clothing made him appear gaunt, I felt a lean body underneath, forged of sinew and muscle. Despite his alleged boredom in Pisa, he clearly had not been neglecting his athletic pursuits.

  He thawed in my arms. Then he said, “You do realize nothing that has happened can change my fate? Even though Papa now sits on the throne of St. Peter, he’d still grant Juan everything that should by right belong to me.”

  My stomach sank. I drew back. “Is this why you have come?” When he did not answer, I said, “Cesare, you mustn’t make trouble for Papa. You know what he’s said—”

  “Yes, yes. The Spanish duchy of Gandia is not mine. Queen Isabella and King Fernando bestowed it on our older brother for his valor, but Pedro was killed during their crusade against the Moors, and Gandia belongs to whomever Papa sees fit. I know. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “Have you? Because you’ve never said you agree.”

  “I don’t. But Mama told me Papa has petitioned Queen Isabella to give the title to Juan.” His voice tightened. “Five years I have waited, ever since Pedro perished. Five years for Papa to heed reason and acknowledge that what was once his primogeniture’s must now go to me, as his second eldest. He does not accept how undeserving Juan is, how unworthy to become a grandee of Spain. All he sees is that Juan must be indulged, while I must sacrifice myself to the Church.”

  “
So you are here to fight Juan for the duchy,” I said in dismay.

  If I’d never been close to Juan, my brothers had always been like foes, their incessant squabbles marring our childhood. Cesare had been an exemplary student, while Juan, keenly aware of his deficiencies when it came to books, dedicated himself to mastering the sword and the bow. But Cesare also excelled in physical feats, so that they were forever challenging each other, wielding staves or wrestling, until it escalated into fighting and blackened eyes. Our mother had been forced to separate them many times, while I did my best to restore an uneasy stalemate by begging them to play with me instead. I had thought it was my fault. I hated to see them at odds, thinking it was because Juan knew I loved Cesare more. But as I grew older, I came to understand that their hostility ran deeper. They were strangers to each other, antithetical in every way, rivals who did not seem to have come from the same womb.

  Cesare’s smile was bitter. “Fighting him will avail me nothing. Juan has no ambition for himself; he couldn’t care less about that duchy. If he had his way, he’d do nothing but tumble wenches and drink himself into a stupor. He only does as Papa tells him.”

  “Then you won’t cause trouble?” I watched his expression. He had perfected the ability to disguise his thoughts; of the three of us, Cesare had been the first to learn that the less he revealed, the less vulnerable he was. “You know how Papa hates it when you and Juan are at each other’s throats. And he’s our Supreme Pontiff now. He can’t afford a scandal.”

  “No, not more than the one he already has,” replied Cesare, startling me. “And while we’re on the subject, do you enjoy sharing a palazzo with la Farnese? Are you as eager as Papa to welcome her babe into our family?”

  He also knew about Giulia’s pregnancy. Of course he did. Vannozza had told him. I couldn’t keep the bite from my tone. “Papa says he loves her. He wants me to think of her as a sister.”

  “Ah. And do you?”

  “I did. Only in the past weeks…Cesare, there’s something about her I do not trust.”