“My head aches,” I muttered, feeling my guilt like a rash on my face, the memory of his hand on my thigh like a brand. This time, Giovanni didn’t fail to notice my discomfiture when my brother drawled, “Headaches at your age? Young wives should never suffer such affliction; if they do, it is due to an imbalance of humors, which only a dose of affection can remedy.” He let his innuendo charge the air; I could not fathom his incredible boldness. Did he actually want everyone to know that he desired me in his bed?
“By all means.” Giovanni’s voice was tight as a fist. “And therefore she should retire and wait until her husband can provide said affection.”
Cesare turned to him. Though nothing in his manner changed, he suddenly exuded menace. “And I believe His Holiness would prefer if her husband did not.”
I did not wait to hear the rest of their exchange. As I hastened out with my women, I saw in Pantalisea’s horrified expression that she’d seen and heard enough to deduce what I refused to disclose. As soon as I reached my rooms, I debated whether to bolt my doors. Giovanni would make good on his threat, and when he arrived after midnight, swaying from too much wine, I greeted him with my chin raised. This time, whatever he did, he would do it while I looked him in the eye.
To my surprise, he did not step over the threshold. Instead he said, with a slur in his voice, “You—you humiliate me. You let him…touch you.”
“Who?” I asked, even as fear leapt in my veins. When he blinked, searching his wine-sodden brain for a response, I added, “You should be advised, Signore, that regardless of who you think has touched me, if you ever do so again, I shall inform my father that you broke our nuptial agreement. I daresay humiliation will be the least of your concerns.”
His reddened gaze flared, fury burning off his intemperance. “And lest there be a mistake, let me likewise assure that should I discover you gave yourself to another, all Italy will hear of it. Everyone will learn about Lucrezia Borgia’s unnatural lust. I should never have consented to our marriage, knowing now what you are, but I will not be made a cuckold. Defy me and I’ll see your family defamed. Do not try me any more than you already have.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and staggered away.
I shut the door and bolted it. He shouldn’t frighten me. Fortuna had turned once more in my family’s favor. Giovanni might detest me, wish we had never married, but he was beholden to the Borgia hand that fed him, if he wanted to survive.
But I knew what he had witnessed. I knew what he thought he had seen and what he was capable of when cornered; I had watched him order the savage execution of his own secretary. And I found myself fearing what he might yet do to avenge himself.
It now fell upon me to ensure that he did not.
After that evening, I avoided time alone with Cesare, which fortunately did not prove difficult once the summons came from my father, ordering us to Perugia. But now, as I cantered through the countryside toward those distant city walls, I sensed my respite coming to an end. Cesare reached me easily on his black charger, seizing hold of my reins and forcing me to a halt.
“Enough,” I cried at him. “Have you gone insane to behave thus?”
His face flushed with color and his brow damp with sweat, he looked fully recovered from his ordeal. Having not lived in such close quarters with him since childhood, I was astounded by his inexhaustible strength. Pantalisea had told me the servants in Pesaro whispered that Cesare Borgia was not like other men, for he ate only once a day and never finished his wine. He slept when the mood took him, as a cat does, and he’d been seen prowling the galleries at night, as if he stalked prey in the moonlight.
“Yes,” he said. “I am insane. You are making me insane. Would you avoid me forever because of that insipid fool?”
“That fool is my husband.”
“He is not worthy of the honor.” His voice coiled suddenly. “Or have you had him? Has he already claimed your first blood with his measly Sforza cazzo?”
I regarded him steadily, biting back my retort that he had no idea what I had suffered or was prepared to suffer for our family’s sake; that I’d already experienced a taste of what bedding my husband involved and would gladly submit to it and more, to protect my brother from calumny. Instinct held me back. If I told him what Giovanni had threatened, Cesare might seek revenge. I had to rely on the fact that I’d always been able to placate him, to coax his rare smile and make him do my bidding. He must heed me now; he must understand how impossible this situation had become.
“You mustn’t speak of him thus. He may be a Sforza fool, but I am wed to him. You also know that what happened between us was a moment of weakness. Nothing more.”
“Yet you admit there was a moment, though you think us sinners for it.”
“Cesare.” My voice ruptured. “I beg of you. You were ill. I was so worried for you. We did not know what we were doing. We…we erred out of love for each other.”
“Erred?” he echoed. Visible hurt scored his face. I ached that I should be the cause of it, but harshness crept into my tone. “Yes. It was a mistake. We never should have done it.”
“You do not believe that. I know in my heart that you love me.”
“Yes. I do love you—as a sister loves her brother. Cesare, you go too far.”
My unwitting echo of Papa’s rebuke to him on the night of their argument over Juan had immediate effect. His face took on an ashen hue. “I bare my heart to you after all this time; I offer you my truest self, and you would forsake me as if I were of no account?”
“I do not forsake you!” I cried. But as we faced each other, I realized that I had forsaken him: I denied his heart. It terrified me, his unquenchable longing that gave me no means to escape other than surrender.
And that I could never do.
I glanced over my shoulder. Our company approached; they would be upon us in moments. “I would never wish to cause you any pain,” I said, and the anguish inside me came pouring out. “I love you as I love no other—but we are flesh of the same flesh; we share the same blood. Cesare, I cannot be more to you. I will not give you what you desire. If you cannot accept it, then you must leave me. Now.”
Above us, a cloud drifted over the sun, casting shadow on his face.
“We must never speak of this again,” I said. “You must forget it, as I already have.”
Desolation overcame him. I saw the collapse within, so that he resembled less a man in that moment than a boy, my protector and companion who had reveled in our intimacy, in our twin souls that seemed as one, yet had now been torn apart. Tears burned in my eyes; I would have done anything to soothe him, except what he most needed, and as I started to reach out, unable to bear the haunted loss in his eyes, he recoiled from me. With a savage stab of his spurs, he yanked at his horse and cantered off, his departure pounding like invisible nails into my heart.
My women reached me first. Pantalisea gazed at the cloud of dust kicked up by my brother’s horse. “Where is my lord going?” she asked, in a nervous tone that betrayed she knew a confrontation had taken place.
I shook my head. I had no words. Giovanni drew to a halt a distance away and stared at me, impassive. I took my place at his side, and we wound our way up the hillside to Perugia.
My father waited on the fortress balcony, clad in white, with his officials about him. Our arrival elicited cheers from the townspeople gathered to welcome us, but I ceased to hear their joyous cries as I gazed upward.
Papa abandoned the balcony even before I started to dismount; I had barely caught my breath before he was sweeping out of the doorway with a fervent “Farfallina!” and engulfing me in his sweat and silk. Cushioned in his arms, the travails of Pesaro, the torment of Cesare, slipped from me like a discarded garment. But my throat knotted when I beheld my father’s face.
He had aged years. The flesh hung loose on his cheeks and at his neck; stark new lines etched his mouth, and the pouches under his eyes betrayed an eternity of sleepless nights as h
e’d sought a way to oust the French and save us from ruin. But they were still his eyes, still filled with adoration for me, and my voice quavered. “Papa, I have missed you so.”
“And I missed you, my sweet Lucrezia.” He hugged me close. “How I missed you! Never again shall we be parted; by all the saints, I swear it.”
He did not seem to notice Giovanni standing only paces away. As Papa guided me into the fortress—“Come, you must be exhausted. I’ve prepared a suite for you”—my husband lurched forth. In his haste, he barely performed obeisance before he blurted out, “Holiness, I am overjoyed to see you safe. I am here to assume my condotta with the league, providing I can consult with my cousin in Milan to—”
Papa came to a halt, regarding Giovanni as if he could not understand how my husband had the temerity to address him. “You are late, Signore. The forces of our league, under the command of the marquis of Mantua, defeated the French days ago at the battle of Fornovo. As we speak, Charles and his army flee across the Alps. So, by all means, consult with your cousin in Milan. We do not need you here.”
Giovanni’s face turned cold. In my mind, I heard again his threat, chilling in its remorselessness: Defy me and I’ll see your family defamed….
I squeezed my father’s arm. “Papa.”
His scowl softened as he took in my expression. “Are you certain?” he said. “It’s not your duty anymore to protect him. We have other means. We need not placate his kin any longer.”
“Be that as it may, he is still my husband. He must be accorded our respect.”
My father contemplated me. Then he nodded. “You are right. He is your husband. For now.” Without glancing over his shoulder, he barked at Giovanni, “See that you report to my secretary, Signore. I may have a task for you, after all.”
I saw firsthand evidence of the French occupation when we reached Rome in October—the streets strewn with fetid leavings, the churches stained by smoke and fire, and splashes of dried blood upon blade-gouged walls. Devastation had left its mark everywhere, from the torching of inns and taverns to the plundering of the grain mills and storage warehouses along the Ripa Grande and the slaughter of hundreds of livestock and people. The dead were being buried outside the walls, smothered in quicklime lest plague set in. Thieves and other villains who’d sought advantage during the occupation now hung in chains from the Castel Sant’Angelo’s walls, while Papa dispatched troops to restore order and arrest malefactors, even as he received the crushing report that more than ninety thousand ducats would be needed to address the repairs.
My palazzo had suffered only minor damage. The courtyard and first floor had been used as stables, the upstairs rooms as barracks. I set myself to putting the house in order, relieved by Giovanni’s departure in November: Now an official condottiere of the Holy League, he joined the marquis of Mantua to clear the papal territories of any remaining French-hired mercenaries.
With my husband gone for what I hoped would be a prolonged absence, I looked forward to reestablishing my Roman household and celebrating my sixteenth birthday in the spring.
Then Giovanni’s cousin, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, paid me an unannounced visit.
He appeared on my threshold in his perfumed scarlet, a smile on his face, as if he hadn’t fallen into disfavor over his family’s support of the French. He’d scarcely ingratiated himself anew in Papa’s esteem, and I welcomed him with distaste, watching him run his ringed fingers over my inlaid mother-of-pearl and oak sideboard, as if he were tallying its value.
“Giovanni worries you will be lonely,” he explained, when I inquired as to the reason for his visit. “He hopes you’ll consider turning to me for any guidance you require.”
It seemed my husband had set a spy on me. I kept contempt from my tone as I said, “I appreciate his concern, but I have a family. They have always seen to my comfort and guidance.”
“Ah, yes,” he assented, displaying the red satin cap on his tonsure. He reminded me of a ferret—sleek, well fed, and fanged. “But sometimes family can be so…demanding. I would be honored to act as your surrogate confessor. One can never have too much spiritual counsel, my lady, particularly when one is young and vulnerable to temptation.”
A sudden chill ran through me. What had Giovanni told him? Though in truth nothing had gone further than what he’d seen, had my husband dared confide his suspicions?
“You shall be the first to know should such an occasion arise.” I came to my feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my obligations. As you know, His Holiness has summoned my brother Gioffre, Prince of Squillace, and his wife, Princess Sancia, to Rome. They survived the chaos in Naples, praise God, and we look forward to welcoming them. I’ve much to prepare for their arrival.”
His visage hardened. Watching him leave with his hem swishing like an enraged tail, I shuddered. Henceforth, I must exercise caution and avoid any contact with him.
I found myself missing Adriana. I’d always depended on her for advice, though I knew better than to say a word about her. While in Perugia, I had asked Papa how she fared, only for him to snap, “Never mention her to me again. She is dead to me.”
I suspected that Adriana had abetted Giulia’s penitential return to her husband—a suspicion confirmed by none other than Vannozza, who came to deliver my cat.
As I lifted the lid of the woven basket, I expected to find a corpse. Instead, Arancino sprang out with hackles raised. He scampered under my bed and immediately began swatting at my women’s skirts with his claws as they hurried about my rooms.
Vannozza loosened the mantle she wore over her mud-spattered skirts. As usual, she had not taken a palanquin or litter to travel across Rome, despite the recent ravages. Donning an oiled cloak, she walked the streets like a charwoman, trudging through muck with only a manservant as protection. Despite her soiled attire, she did not look any worse for the occupation, and my relief unnerved me, as if I had harbored some unknown concern for her safety.
“Insolent creature,” she remarked, “as everything loved by a Borgia tends to be. I suggest you keep him indoors. With the lack of grain, any beast left alive will be skinned for soup.”
I rose from my crouch by the basket. “Thank you for caring for him.”
“I would hardly have heard the end of it if I hadn’t.” She looked about my room, newly hung with my tapestries and velvet bed curtains (I had ordered anything touched by the French given away to the poor), my polished braziers heaped with scented coals. “I see you are settling in. You must be pleased to be back home. Not that Rome is what it was. It will never be the same again, after everything we have suffered.”
“Yes. I was sorry to hear of your misfortune.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Whatever for? I am still alive.”
“I meant your palazzo. I heard it was looted.”
“Bah. Houses can be rebuilt, objects replaced. People,” she said, fixing her stare on me. “People cannot. Once they are gone, they are gone forever, as you must have learned during your time in Pesaro.” She paused, letting her implication sink in. “Do not think I kept your cat alive because I cared. I only did it because we had an agreement. You fulfilled your end of it. Indeed, you exceeded my expectations, for as you have seen, la Farnese is nowhere to be found.”
Uneasily, I glanced to where my women stood, lining my coffers with linen. My mother gave an unpleasant chuckle. “Still playing the innocent, are we?” She lowered her voice. “Oh, you did us proud. If there was ever any doubt as to what you are capable of, you disproved it. You rid us of that Farnese puttana without him ever realizing you had a hand in it.”
“I was told she departed Rome of her own accord,” I said, resisting the urge to shove Vannozza out of my chamber. Instead, I motioned to my women to leave. I did not want them overhearing us discuss Papa’s former mistress.
As they filed out, Vannozza chuckled again. “There is no need for secrecy. Everyone knows by now of how she stole away in the night, though Rodrigo had made
himself a laughingstock, ransoming her from the French and going out to welcome her like a besotted suitor, even as King Charles marched on the city. St. Peter himself must have turned in his tomb to hear them frolic in the apostolic bedchamber that night. Ah, but she did not share his joy in their reunion, it seems, for she fled as soon as the French were sighted on the horizon, taking Adriana with her and leaving your father to face the savage hordes alone. Now she refuses to return to Rome. She implored his forgiveness but insists she must remain with her husband, redeem herself as a wife and mother.” She guffawed. “I suppose repentance comes better late than never, eh? As for your father, we can only hope he too has learned that even holy passions have a price.”
I avoided her gloating smile. I had no wish to bask in Giulia’s disgrace. Though I was happy to no longer contend with her, relieved she’d elected to stay far from us, I could afford to pity her; for my mother, I felt only revulsion toward that stone she had in place of a heart.
“I did not do it for you,” I said coldly. “I did it for Papa.”
“Naturally. You are nothing if not his devoted daughter. You never think of yourself—which must explain why you failed to heed my warning. Did I not tell you to make your life in Pesaro and be a good wife? Yet here you are, insolent as ever, and apparently unbroken by your husband, who has gone and left you like Eve in the garden to take a bite of the forbidden apple.”
I went still, meeting her stare. “You have no idea what I have endured,” I said.
“Oh? I suppose you think you’re the only woman married to a man she does not love? Let me assure you, what you’ve endured is nothing compared to what is yet to come.” She made a lunge at me, as if to grasp my arm. As I recoiled, she said fervently, “I saw your future in the cards. I know what lies ahead. In the end, you shall bear the shame. Is that what you want, a life of pain and regret? For that is what you will reap if you let your Borgia blood have its way.”
“I—I have done nothing!” I protested, but I knew what she alluded to, and it horrified me. Somehow she’d divined that Cesare and I had had a falling out. And the reason why.
The Vatican Princess Page 20
