Giovanni sipped from his goblet. “What I think has no bearing. If His Holiness does not, then King Charles has no recourse other than to turn his impressive cannon on Rome.”
I loathed him in that instant, more than I ever had. He was enjoying it, reveling in our impending devastation. “I suppose what your cousin Il Moro thinks has no bearing, either,” I said. “I suppose none of your family is to blame, even though the French king and his impressive cannon are here only because the Sforza invited them.”
He lifted his eyes to me. I couldn’t tell if it was disdain or relish I saw in his expression.
“We invited them,” he said, “because His Holiness, your father, has behaved with utter disregard for the sanctity of his throne. He seized the Holy See by corruption and has turned it into his private trough, which he will drink dry if we do not stop him.”
“Your cousin Cardinal Sforza did not complain,” I retorted, enraged by his brazen contempt for my father. “Nor, Signore, did you, when offered my hand in marriage.”
His face darkened. “You’d be wise to watch yourself. His Holiness has no power over me anymore. He has no power over anyone. In Florence, the Medici have lost. Savonarola has thrown open the city to the French, while the Romagna barons, whose wheat fields so concern you, welcome them with castles and retainers. As for the anointed head in Naples—well, King Alfonso must now defend his kingdom. The Borgia have no allies; your family is doomed.”
It took all of my self-control to not spit in his face.
“But perhaps His Holiness believes he can still prevail.” Giovanni’s laugh was hoarse, cold. He did not laugh often; the raw satisfaction behind the sound made me realize that my family must indeed be in grave danger. “I hear Spaniards are stubborn that way, and his most recent letter does not indicate any fear. All he seems to care about is his whore.”
He reached down into his satchel and retrieved a folded parchment, broken seals dangling. I had to clench my hands about my goblet, lest I yank it from his hand.
“From His Holiness, your father.” He dropped the letter on my lap. “You will see that, despite his travails, he is enraged over Giulia. The French captured her when she tried to return to Rome, after she went to Capodimonte and your father threatened her with excommunication. He paid her ransom—indeed, the French should have asked for double—and went to greet her at the gates. Alas, she left him only days afterward, to flee to her husband’s castle in Basanello. His Holiness now accuses us of not doing everything we could to keep her here, indeed of forcing her to leave. I suggest you write a response assuring him that we tried everything to persuade her of her folly.”
I sagged on my chair, overwhelmed by relief as I looked down at the letter. Giulia had lied. If what she claimed were true, she’d never have attempted to return to Papa. He would never have paid her ransom or expressed fury that her departure from Pesaro had endangered her. He did love her. What had transpired between her, Juan, and my husband—Papa had no part in it.
I almost didn’t notice Giovanni rise to his feet. As I belatedly brought my gaze up, I thought he was ready to depart. He’d said what he had come to say. As soon as he walked out, I would read Papa’s letter and then compose a reply to give him comfort. Giulia had deserted him, as she’d said she would; Papa must only read now of how much I loved him, as his family were the only ones upon whom he could rely in this time of tribulation.
“I will write my letter at once,” I said. “If you like, when it is ready you can—”
“You will write it later.” As I sat frozen on my chair, he added, “Or did you think I would forgive you?” He pulled a pouch from his jerkin, emptying its contents into his palm. “Afterward, if you please me, I’ll let you have these set in a bracelet. It would be a shame not to display them, considering how much they cost.”
He stood, waiting, the rubies like fragments of bloodied teeth in his hand. Then he threw the gems aside. “I will have what is mine. Go to your bed.”
I was so stunned, I couldn’t move. He stood over me with the same expression he had shown in the cortile before he ordered his secretary’s hands cut off.
“Thieving Marrana,” he snarled. “Get up this instant.”
Staggering to my feet, I whispered, “The clause—in our nuptial treaty…”
“Do you think anyone cares about that now?” His smile was cruel. “Your father and brother are about to be crushed under France’s heel. There is no clause. There is nothing to impede me from taking my due.” He took a step toward me. “Must I drag you by your hair?”
Turning blindly, biting back a scream that threatened to erupt from the core of my being, I moved into my bedchamber. My hands felt numb as I fumbled at the lacings of my sleeves. “I must summon my women,” I said, as he came up behind me. “I cannot undress without them, and—”
“I don’t want you to undress.” He pushed me onto the bed. “On your knees.”
Crawling onto the mattress with my back to him, my heart pounding in my throat, I waited. A convulsive sob escaped me as he flung up my skirts, wrenching apart my legs to search roughly. He stabbed with his finger. My strangled yelp sounded like that of a bewildered animal.
“Did you think you could escape?” he said, jabbing his finger again and again into me, the pain sharp, piercing, like a talon in my flesh. “That you could humiliate me and laugh about me with your family? You will not speak. You will not move. You will take it as you deserve.”
I heard the agitated tugging of laces and cloth as his hose fell, the chill of the tips of his codpiece on my lower back as, with shocking suddenness, he rammed his hips against me.
I closed my eyes, trying not to tremble, even as shudders raced under my skin. I expected a lance of pain, a fiery invasive thrust, but I felt nothing but his groin grinding against me. He cursed, pulling back, one hand pressed upon me while he did something to himself with the other. He was panting through his teeth.
Looking warily over my shoulder, I saw him roughly fondling his cazzo, rubbing its limp shaft. He kept rubbing and rubbing before he spat on his hand and said, “You are not ready.” Again, he pushed his finger inside me. I clenched my teeth, biting back the sudden urge to ask him if he needed Juan present to rouse his manhood. He wrenched his hand out, wiping something warm on my thigh. “But you will be. When I decide to have you, you will be ready whenever I say.” To my disconcertion, he yanked up his hose and strode out.
Moments later, I heard the chamber door slam shut.
I remained immobile, crouched on my knees, waiting for the thundering in my ears and chest to subside. Then I heard Pantalisea venture from outside the door, “My lady?”
Her voice roused me. I righted myself on my elbows, pushing my disheveled hair from my face as she stepped past the spill of rubies on the carpet. “The door,” I said. “Lock it.”
She came to me, holding me as I retched up watery bile that reeked of wine; I had not eaten any food. My groin hurt. I could already feel how much more it would hurt later.
Pantalisea caressed me. “There, now. It is over.”
Not until I looked down did I realize what she believed had occurred. Giovanni had smeared my thighs with my blood.
“Immacolata no more,” I whispered, and I pressed a hand to my mouth to stem the burst of desperate laughter threatening to engulf me.
“He has not returned?” Pantalisea asked. “Not since that night?”
I shook my head, glancing at Nicola and Murilla, who tossed a ball of yarn for a kitten one of the stable grooms had brought me. On the walls, the sconces flickered; there was no hearth in the upstairs apartments of the Villa Imperiale, but we had various braziers scattered about the room to keep us warm. “Not once,” I murmured.
It was the sole thing for which I could be grateful; it had been a dismal end to the year. Giovanni had shunned my company as if I had the plague, though we had no choice but to sit like effigies in the sala grande during the Epiphany feast for our vassals. Following the dis
tribution of gifts and visit to the manger in the piazza, where children in peeling gilt wings serenaded us, I retreated here to the Villa Imperiale. Though the villa overlooking Pesaro was only a hunting lodge and not meant for winter residence, as January came and went in downpours of freezing rain, I sequestered myself in the tapestry-hung rooms to await any word from Rome.
I had received only one letter from Cesare, given to me by Giovanni just before I departed. It was mud-stained and undated, but I assumed it had reached us weeks after its dispatch. Giovanni had kept it from me, no doubt out of spite, until I mounted my litter. “See what the Borgia pride has reaped,” he sneered, thrusting it into my hands.
Every night before bed, I reread its terrifying lines:
My beloved Lucia,
I write to you from the Castel Sant’Angelo, where Papa and I stand our ground. As you may know, Papa refused the French passage through our states, condemning King Charles’s invasion and claim on Naples. But now the French are here. They have turned on us like a scourge. We had to flee to the castel for our lives, but I do not know how long we can hold out. I can hear their infernal cannon even from behind these walls; they are everywhere, clamoring for Rome’s blood. I do not know if this missive will ever reach you, but if it does, know that my every thought turns on you and I would gladly die a thousand deaths to see you safe.
Your brother always,
Cesare
I wept, clutching the worn paper to me, spotting its thin texture with my tears.
Fortuna’s wheel had already turned. The future I still saw as uncertain had become their past, leaving me in daily dread of the next courier, anticipating the news that we were now under French rule, my father and brother held captive, imprisoned, or worse.
I tried to distract myself with endless rounds of embroidery, recitals from Petrarch’s sonnets or Dante’s Divina Commedia, and meaningless gossip, that time-honored pastime of women to keep boredom or fear at bay. This evening, though, the gossip wasn’t so meaningless, reminding me of my husband’s persistent—and, to Pantalisea, inexplicable—absence from my bed.
“But why?” she now said. “Surely he does not think you’re with child already?”
“God forbid.” I threaded my needle. I tried to sound nonchalant. After Cesare’s letter, the brutality of Giovanni’s assault on me had waned. What I had undergone at my husband’s hands was nothing compared to what my father and brother might endure. “I do not care to ponder his reasons,” I said. “I’m simply grateful he has chosen to stay away.”
But when I thought of him with Juan in that bedroom, I couldn’t help but wonder. Giulia had been indiscreet when it came to Vatican scandals; she’d relished disclosing tales of cardinals caught in flagrante delicto with acolytes. Men, it seemed, did indeed have strange appetites. Perhaps Giovanni was one of them? Perhaps he was unable to perform with a woman unless he had another man with him? I shuddered at the thought, but it certainly fit with what I had seen. Still, I could not confide my suspicions to Pantalisea. Let her continue to assume the obvious, that I had undergone the usual if overly vehement marital experience—though I knew that what was expected of a wife had most certainly not happened to me.
“Maybe he has a mistress,” I remarked. “It’s common enough among husbands, yes?”
“Have you any evidence of it?” she replied, in wide-eyed indignation.
“No, but he could still have one.” I had to avert my eyes to hide my bitter amusement. I did not believe he had a mistress and prayed that whatever motivated him to keep his distance would continue, for when he did decide to assert his rights again, I would be at his mercy. I dreaded it, my entire life unspooling before me—an endless monotony, punctuated by bucolic celebrations of feast days and the occasional tawdry violation. And children: I must bear his children. God save me from that.
“Does my lady still…” Pantalisea said. We had striven to keep my monthly courses hidden for so long that we continued to speak of it in hushed tones, as if it were a permanent secret.
“Why do you ask?” I feigned curiosity to hide my sudden panic. I had bled afterward but hadn’t known if it was my menses or the result of his brutality.
“Because a woman can conceive,” she said, “if the moon is in its second cycle and—”
A knock at the door interrupted her. My household steward, Lucca, stood on the threshold. “Signora, forgive me, but there is a stranger outside the gates.”
“A stranger?” I set aside my embroidery. “Are the gates locked?”
“Yes, my lady. We always bolt them at dusk, as you commanded.”
“Then send him away. He could be a spy sent to ascertain my whereabouts.” It had been one of my most pressing fears; though I was Countess of Pesaro, a Sforza wife, if my father and brother were held captive, then apprehending me might fetch a hefty ransom. “Wait. Do you know who he is?” I asked, for it also seemed unlikely that a potential kidnapper would appear alone at this hour, without troops at his back.
“No, my lady, but he looks to have traveled a long way. He just sits there on his horse.”
Was this the courier at last? With equal hope and foreboding, I pulled on my mantle and gloves and hurried into the courtyard with my women. The black sky hung over us; snowflakes swirled in the frosted air. I could see my own breath as I ordered the unlocking of the postern door set within the massive gate portal. The mastiff kept chained here year-round as protection strained at its tether. Its keeper, a one-eyed veteran of some distant battle, had his hand at the dog’s collar, ready to release it. As the door swung open, I thought that no matter what news this man might bring, I would greet it as a Borgia.
Silhouetted outside was a shapeless figure slumped on a horse whose head hung low, every one of its ribs poking out from under its hide. Neither figure moved, as if sketched upon the backdrop of the night. I started to step forward, but Pantalisea held me back. Lucca inched forth instead, brandishing his scythe. We were woefully unprepared, even though the man looked as if he was about to drop along with his horse. If this were indeed a French scout, he’d find nothing to deter him save for Lucca and our mastiff.
Lucca came within paces of him before the man keeled over. He hit the ground with a muted thump, cushioned by his cloak. Pulling from Pantalisea, I hastened to where Lucca bent over the fallen figure, reaching for the crusted scarf about his face. I took in the sprawled limbs under an ox-hide cloak. The man wore common garb—a coarse leather jerkin, wool hose, and squirrel-fur buskins—and his hands were swathed in ragged mittens with the tips cut off, his fingers blue with cold.
“He is dying!” I exclaimed. “He must be brought inside at once—” Then my words choked in my throat as Lucca unraveled the scarf, revealing long, pallid features, finely carved as an icon, a thick red-gold beard like rust upon a chiseled jaw, and heavy-lidded eyes at half-mast, which seemed to see but not recognize me.
I sank beside him to take his hand. “Cesare,” I whispered.
—
HE SLEPT FOR an entire night and day. When he finally woke, wintry sunlight drifted through the casement and across his pillow, the bleached linen only slightly whiter than his skin.
He made a jerking motion. From my stool at his bedside, I reached out to touch his hand, relieved to find warmth in his skin. “There is nothing to fear,” I soothed. “You are safe.”
His gaze widened. His green eyes were so vivid against his pallor, like shards of emerald in an alabaster mask. “Lucia.” His voice was barely audible. “How long have I…?”
“You arrived two nights ago. It’s nearly midafternoon.” I reached for a bottle on the side table, pouring a measure of thick white liquid into a cup. As I leaned over to place it to his lips, he seized my wrist. Despite his apparent fragility, he still had astonishing strength.
“What is that?”
“Milk thistle, distilled with honey and mint.” I met his suspicious stare. “Pantalisea brews it herself; it’s her remedy for fever and fatigue. Now, drink
.”
He coughed at the bitter taste. As I daubed his mouth, cleansing his chapped lips of the residue, he gave me a weak smile. “Foul as poison. You should give some to Giovanni.”
I went still.
“What is it? What is the matter?” he rasped. He knew me so well. Even now, after waking from near death, he sensed my turmoil.
“Nothing.” I forced out a smile, thinking of his letter as I set the cup aside. “I should be the one asking questions. You come in the night without prior word, refuse to give your name, and then drop from your horse, unconscious.” My voice caught. “I thought I had lost you.”
“I thought I had lost me, too. Is that nag still alive?”
I shook my head. “She was starved. She died within an hour of your arrival.”
“Poor beast.” He looked toward the window. The light limned his profile, catching stray threads of gold in his coppery beard. “She was a packhorse. I stole her and rode here without stop from Velletri. It took five days. It’s a miracle she held out for as long as she did.”
“Velletri? But that’s miles from Rome. I thought you were with Papa.”
His voice was somber. “I was.”
Sudden tears sprang to my eyes. “Dear God. Is Papa—is he still…?”
He struggled up against his pillows. “Yes. Do not worry. He is alive. I was scheduled to meet with him in Perugia; we agreed upon it before I departed Rome. I just had to see you first.”
I blinked back my sorrow. “I don’t understand.”
“There’s no reason you should.” He picked at the unlaced opening of his bed smock. It was a spare of Giovanni’s, unearthed from a cassone, for Cesare’s saddlebag had yielded nothing but soiled linens and crumbs. Lucca had undressed my brother, bathed him, and put him to bed; now, as the smock draped to reveal a dusting of fine hair on his chest, I averted my gaze. I still thought of him as the brother who was five years older than me, my childhood companion and protector. I had forgotten that Cesare was a man now, almost twenty.
The Vatican Princess Page 18
