The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  “No,” I said, but my denial came too fast. I knew at once that I had betrayed myself.

  “No?” she echoed. “Oh, I think yes. You asked it of him. The question is, why would you deprive him of his bedmate? I know you do not like her—no woman could—but he will be miserable without her. The French rattle their swords; the Sforza conspire; half the Roman barons hate him. He has a thousand troubles, so why be so cruel as to take her all the way to Pesaro, when you know how much it’ll hurt—” She stopped abruptly. An expression of incredulity came over her face. Throwing back her head, she let loose a raucous caw. “Ma, naturalmente! You do it on purpose. You want your husband to fuck her instead.”

  I dropped the towel in my haste to vacate the tub. Slipping on the wet floor in my bare feet, I seized her by the arm, my fingers closing about its fleshy circumference. I had to do something, anything, to mollify her suspicions.

  “If he does,” I breathed, “then I will be safe. I will remain intacta.”

  She pulled her arm from me. “Dio mio, you are too naïve to play such games.” She flicked her disparagement at me, just as she’d done in my childhood whenever I went to her with a scraped knee or stubbed toe, until I learned how little she cared. I did not mind. Let her insult me, as long as she believed I plotted to create a situation rather than realizing how far it had gone. “You think that slut will keep him from your bed?” she said. “If so, you know nothing of the world. Husbands have plenty of seed to sow.” Her mirth ebbed; with a careless shrug, she went on, “But I approve. It is time. That woman will not ruin her figure by giving your father another child, nor would we want her to; I would have to strangle her spawn myself. She must be disposed of—she and that foolish Adriana, who has let la Farnese have her way when she should have locked her up in Basanello with her husband.”

  Her contempt took me aback. I’d always surmised she had grudging respect for Adriana, if only because Adriana had done Vannozza the favor of taking me off her hands.

  She made an exasperated sound as she lifted my robe from a peg on the wall. “Another extravagance: Who needs an entire chamber in which to bathe, with indoor piping no less? La Farnese must have bells in her cunt for your father to have expended so much on this temple for her.”

  As I tied the robe about my waist, she added, “You mean to put an end to her, I presume. He won’t abide being made a cuckold. All pontification aside, he’s like every man: He thinks he can stick it wherever he pleases, but heaven forbid one of us should do the same.”

  “Yes,” I said weakly. “That is what I want.” It was true, though her perceptiveness so unhinged me that I felt the sudden urge to confess everything. I had to remind myself that, despite our uneasy rapport, I could never trust her. If she found out Cesare had also set me to spy on Giovanni, she would tell Papa. Women’s intrigues were fine, but not those of men.

  She abruptly wrenched my chin up. “You best know what you are about. Because once it is over and she is disgraced, you must submit. Do you hear me? You cannot remain a virgin. Let him play with la Farnese until you have your evidence, then make him suffer for it. Stamp your feet and shout; throw things and slam your door in his face. But once you have, you will forgive. You will forgive and invite him to your bed. You will spread your legs, shut your eyes, and let him plow you as often as needed until he gets you with child. Only then can you let him loose to wander, because you will be mother to his heir, above all others till death do you part. And who cares where he goes to satiate his lust, providing he does not rub your face in it?”

  She dug her fingers under my jaw, her icy-blue eyes so like mine I might have been looking at my reflection, yet also terrifying in their lack of compassion, corrupted by deeds I could not imagine, by sacrifice and compromise and the loss of any innocence.

  “A son, born of his seed. Only that will see you safe. Forget everything you may have heard of politics or war; it is not our concern. It has never been. We must endure. Better the man you are married to now than the stranger yet to come.” She left the indent of her blunt nails under my jaw as she turned to the door. “Do not make the mistake of thinking you’re unique,” she suddenly said. “When we are young, we believe we can wrap life around our little finger, but life has a way of teaching us who is stronger. In the end, you are but a woman. If you fail, no one will give you a second chance. Go to Pesaro and be a wife; birth your babies, grow old, and die in your own bed. You never know when Fortuna will turn her back on you. Those who are wise know when to accept while we still can.”

  She yanked open the door, startling Murilla and Pantalisea, who jumped back, caught eavesdropping at the keyhole. Pushing past them, Vannozza started to tromp away.

  “Mama,” I called out, and I surprised myself with what I was about to request.

  She halted. When she glanced at me, I saw something I had never seen before in her eyes—reluctant admiration.

  “My Arancino,” I said. “I must leave him behind. Would you…?”

  She gave a curt nod. “I will—providing the creature stays out of my larder.”

  We left Rome in a gusting May wind, escorted by men-at-arms and a train of mule-drawn baggage carts piled high with furnishings and leather chests of belongings.

  Papa accompanied us to the Porta del Popolo, the city gate leading onto the Via Flaminia. Surrounded by his officials, he dismounted from his white mule with tears in his eyes and hugged me close, insisting that I must write to him every week, as he’d arranged a special courier service for our correspondence. A knot clogged my throat when Cesare then kissed my cheek; with his breath against my skin, he whispered, “Trust me, it will not be for long.”

  I returned to my mare beside Giulia. My father seemed to age visibly as he watched us pass under the gate. I kept looking over my shoulder at him, doubting my resolve, almost spurring back when he lifted his hand in a forlorn farewell.

  I whispered a prayer for his safety. Then I focused ahead, riding in silence until Giulia said, “I hope we can put all the silliness behind us. I do so want us to be friends again. Your father wants it, too; he is worried that we grow estranged.”

  “Is he? Well, we mustn’t have that. Papa has too much to worry about.” I made myself reach out to clasp her hand, to prove I harbored no ill feelings.

  At my other side, Giovanni muttered about checking on the vanguard and turned away.

  Giulia sighed. “Your husband is trying his best; I was pleased that you asked to go with him to his city. He wants you to be happy, even if he faces this vexing task of having to please two masters.”

  I resisted the fury her words roused in me; she spoke as if she knew everything there was to know about my husband—which evidently she did. “We must make his house in Pesaro one of gaiety, then,” I managed to say, “so he can find respite from his obligations.”

  “Yes! We must make Pesaro worthy of your presence.” She leaned to me with a confidential air that reminded me with a pang of our early days in Adriana’s palazzo, when we had truly been like sisters. “Vannozza tried to steal whatever she could from your trousseau, but Adriana put most of it back. We have enough furs, brocades, and silk to clothe an army.” She laughed. “We’ll make a pageant of it, a new gown for every night and new entertainment every day. You shall earn the envy of Isabella d’Este herself.”

  Her cheeks flushed. She didn’t appear to recall that an army was precisely the threat we faced, should the French actually invade, or that she’d left behind her year-old daughter in the care of servants. All she could think about was diversion. I wanted to remind her of it, but that would spoil the illusion. Instead, I laughed, as well, joining in her lavish plans, even as I anticipated the hour when I would seal her fate.

  —

  CESARE MAY HAVE been able to cover the distance to Pesaro in a day, but for us it took two miserable weeks. The roads were in a terrible state of disrepair, pitted with holes, catching the cart wheels and laming our mules. Mercenaries roamed the Apennine passes, making tr
avel perilous at night. We had to reach the safety of walls before dark, causing disorder among eager townsfolk ill equipped to receive us. Finally, on the afternoon of June 8, we reached Pesaro under a downpour that drenched us to our skin, thereby confirming to me that contrary to Giovanni’s earlier assertion, there must be mosquitoes in his city.

  I rode beside Giovanni. Around us, sodden banners hung like limp rags from balconies; the avenue leading to Giovanni’s palazzo was thronged with cheering, mud-spattered crowds. I could hardly find fault with the enthusiasm of my reception, though by the time we entered my quarters on the second floor of his palazzo, I was chilled to the bone. My teeth chattered as my women stripped me of my sopping velvets and Pantalisea tried to arrange for hot water to be brought from the kitchens.

  “No,” I said weakly, swathed in a fur robe as I clambered into the upholstered bed. The sheets had been freshened with sprigs of rosemary, but the herb barely disguised the pervasive smell of mold and, as I suspected, my other women went about waving cloths in the air, swatting away the mosquitoes perched in the chamber’s corners. “This house feels as if it hasn’t been attended to in years,” I said. “A bath now would be my death. I just want to rest awhile.”

  I promptly fell into dreamless sleep. When I awoke, the entire night had passed and bright sunlight speared through my chamber windows. It was a welcome sight after the dreary rain, as were my women awaiting me.

  “Donna Giulia has been here twice,” Pantalisea informed me as I winced and climbed stiffly out of bed. “She is eager to plan tonight’s festa.”

  “A party, tonight? Is she mad? I’m so sore I cannot even think of dancing.” I moved to the table where my women had set out fresh brown bread, a hunk of white cheese, watered wine, and a bowl of cherries. I was famished. Once I ate my fill, I felt much improved, though my legs remained wobbly and my thighs were chafed from days in the saddle.

  Insistent knocking came at the door. As one of my newest ladies, pretty blond Nicola, went to open it, Giulia pushed past her, radiant in carnation-colored silk, her sleeves slashed and primped with ribbons, her hair done up in pearls and a lawn caul, as though she were about to pay a visit to the Vatican. Rings winked on her fingers; from her earlobes dangled the pair of diamond-and-topaz pendants she had finagled from me.

  “So, you are awake,” she declared. “I thought you might spend the entire day abed like Adriana. Poor dear. Travel is not healthy at her age. She should have stayed in Rome.” Giulia passed her critical gaze over me. “Are you planning on dressing? Your household waits to receive you. Giovanni is with his councillors. We have the entire house to settle. From what I have seen thus far, it’s rather gloomy and neglected, but once we set up your things, it will do, at least until we can hire proper artisans to beautify the walls. Your ladies can assist us.”

  “I think my lady should probably—” Pantalisea started to protest, but I stopped her with a lift of my hand.

  “Donna Giulia is right. I am the signora and this is my home. Fetch me a gown.” It occurred to me as I spoke that while I had been sleeping, Giulia had been about my new court, alone with Giovanni, but I pushed aside the troubling thought. Even she would not dare, not so soon after our arrival.

  Once my women had plaited my hair and helped me into a rose velvet gown with fitted sleeves, Giulia swept me through the two-story palazzo constructed by my husband’s grandfather, a fierce condottiere who’d made his fortune fighting Milan’s enemies. Compared to Santa Maria in Portico, the house was depressingly provincial, my husband’s perennial poverty displayed on its unadorned walls, which lacked any tapestries to cover the chipped plaster. But the sala grande had a lovely, if faded, gilt-wood ceiling, and the exterior boasted a handsome portico and upper loggia, with actual glass-paned windows to let in the light. There was also an interior cortile and garden with fountains and passable copies of ancient statues.

  Giulia sighed. “I am afraid the town itself is not much better. Besides the main piazza and cathedral, Pesaro hasn’t had any renovations in a hundred years at least.”

  “At least it’s not raining,” I replied, and I marshaled the servants to arrange the furnishings in the sala to complement what I had brought. When Giovanni emerged bleary-eyed from his council, it was to find fresh tapers in my golden candelabrum, my silk and wool tapestries with scenes from the Old Testament gracing the walls, my Turkey carpets underfoot, and fringed cloths draped over the scarred tables and sideboards.

  He said warily, “Do we expect company?”

  I took his hand in mine. He flinched. It was the first time since our wedding that I had touched him. “We will,” I said. “You must send word to your nobles that you wish to present your wife. We can hire musicians and hold a feast, with wine and dancing.”

  He drew me toward the fireplace, out of earshot of my women. “I cannot possibly afford it. My council has just informed me that my treasury is empty. All those months in Rome have bled me dry. And my cousin Il Moro refuses to pay a single ducat on my condotta.” He imparted this last with a hint of accusation, as if I was somehow to blame for his impoverished circumstances.

  I sighed. “That is indeed troubling. But Il Moro and Papa are at odds over Naples and the French, so we can hardly expect payment whilst you are pledged to both their service.”

  “What am I to do?” He raked a hand through his hair. “I can scarcely afford servants, and now you are here….” He shook his head in dejection. “I did wrong in bringing you all this way. I had to leave Rome, but I failed to consider your comfort.”

  Yes, he certainly had, I thought, just as he had lied about Pesaro’s salubrious climate. But I merely said, “Look about you. Are we not comfortable?” I leaned to him, pecking his cheek. It was my second spontaneous gesture of affection, and he went still, as if he was uncertain of my intent. “Let me see to it,” I reassured. “I’ll write to Papa to request the funds we need. In the meantime, I brought some money of my own. And what is mine is now yours, my lord.” I refrained from asking what he had done with the pouch Cesare threw at him in my father’s chamber or the most recent installment of my dowry, which he must have received. Papa would never have sent me away to fend for myself, but again I curbed my tongue. Giovanni’s penury would keep him in our debt—which only suited Cesare’s design. With my husband busy scraping to the hand that fed him, he might be less inclined to re-ingratiate himself with Il Moro.

  “Sit.” I poured wine from a decanter. “Let me have Giulia order a meal prepared for you, and then you must take your rest.” Leaving him by the fire with a dumbfounded expression on his face and the goblet in his hand, I returned to my women.

  Giulia regarded me suspiciously, betraying that she had overheard. “You just contended with him as if you had been married for ages. Perhaps you do not require my company, after all.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Nonsense. How would I manage without you? I don’t even know the names of the servants in this house yet. Could you see to his meal and attend to him? I must write to Papa.” I lowered my voice to a confidential whisper. “It seems we require funds.”

  She gave a cautious nod, stepping past me toward where Giovanni sat. He looked up, his eyes widening. Even from across the hall I saw a blush spot his cheeks.

  I smiled. Cesare would be proud of me.

  —

  A WEEK LATER, after a round of festivities at my expense that kept our guests satiated on quail and claret (and decimated my limited money), the reply from Rome arrived along with a packet of letters from my father, conveyed by his secretary, Don Antonio Gacet. As he bowed before me, his deep-set Catalan eyes appraising my surroundings, I noticed an unexpected figure among his escort. With an insouciant nod, Michelotto acknowledged my recognition.

  “His Holiness feels your absence keenly,” Gacet said. “He is beside himself that you and my ladies Giulia and Adriana are not accommodated in the manner to which you are accustomed.” He extended a heavy leather pouch, along with a sealed envelope. “This is a
ll I could bring for now, but the envelope contains letters of credit. Given the current unrest, our situation with the Medici bank is not as reliable as we would like, but His Holiness has other investments. If necessary, you may exchange those letters to draw on his funds.”

  “I appreciate it.” I handed the articles to Adriana, who stood vigil beside my chair. She had woken from her two-day torpor to pounce like a tigress, only to find I had managed perfectly well without her. Unable to find fault with my household arrangements, she took to shadowing my every move—an irritating circumstance, as I could hardly go about uncovering Giovanni’s secret dealings with her treading on my hem, but now the need to be rid of her, at least for a short while, took on significant urgency.

  “I trust we have not caused His Holiness undue worry?” I said. “I fear I may have misled him into thinking matters here are more dire than they truly are. Zia, perhaps we should compose a letter, thanking His Holiness for his generosity and assuring him we are quite well, though we do miss him terribly?”

  She brightened at my suggestion that she might be of some use other than as a guard dog. “A splendid idea. But first we must read his letters to you and—”

  “Oh, no!” I cut her off with a gesture of dismay. “I completely forgot that I promised to see to the arrangements for our upcoming visitors.” I smiled apologetically at Gacet. “My lord husband has invited the illustrious Caterina Gonzaga and her husband, Count Ottaviano, and I want everything to be perfect. I fear this house has suffered from a lack of feminine oversight. Might you have any business with Donna Adriana that I need not be present for?”

  Gacet assented, as I hoped he would. “Indeed.” He said to Adriana, “His Holiness has important recommendations for you, my lady.”

  “Does he?” Adriana looked as if she might clap in delight. “Well, then, we must hear them at once. Come with me into the study. Lucrezia, we shall attend to that letter later—”

  “Yes, yes. As soon as you’re finished with Don Gacet, send word to me.” I was already rising from my chair, beckoning my women. As we passed the men idling near the casement, I glanced at Michelotto. Tucking his hat under his arm, he followed me out.