The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  “Not yet. But it is your curse, a poison you carry inside. You and Cesare will be each other’s doom.”

  I couldn’t bear it. Not here. Not now. I had only just returned to Rome; I had not seen Cesare and had no idea where he might be. I had not asked Papa, deliberately. I had told my brother to leave me alone, and he had. Now here was our mother, reminding me again of the torturous pain I had inflicted on him, only she was twisting it into something evil, a curse and a poison, when I knew in my heart that while it was wrong, inconceivable, Cesare never meant to hurt me. He knew no other way to love; he knew no other way because of how she had raised us.

  “If it’s a curse we carry,” I whispered, trembling, “it’s because of you. Go. Leave and never come here again. I never want to see you as long as I live. I no longer have a mother.”

  She pulled her mantle about her shoulders. “Do as you will. Banishing me will not help you. If you do not put an end to it, the curse will prevail. Do not come to me when it does. Repentance is only for those who were never warned.” As she moved to the door, she said over her shoulder, “Oh, and lest you didn’t know, he too is here. In Rome. Cesare has returned,” and she walked out, leaving me standing there, frozen.

  My brother was in the city.

  And suddenly, desperately, I wished I were anywhere else.

  “Te Deum laudamus: Te Dominum confitemur. Te aeternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur. We praise Thee, O God: We acknowledge Thee to be our Lord. All the earth doth worship Thee, our Father everlasting…”

  The choir’s chant rose among gusts of incense, swirling into the bejeweled sunlight piercing the basilica’s stained-glass windows. The colored beams fell upon my father, draped in his golden fanon, flanked by youths in white lace, as he lifted the chalice containing the miracle of Christ’s blood before the high altar.

  Outside in the piazza, the faithful awaited his appearance, having congregated to celebrate our deliverance from the French, weary but defiant after braving disaster as only Romans could. I thought of my mother’s words as my father spread his arms and the choir lifted their voices, sending pigeons nesting in the rafters to swoop into the light, their fluttering silhouettes like a flock of shadows, until I fancied I could feel the unseen curse inside me, ensnaring me in its thrall.

  It is your curse, a poison you carry inside.

  I bowed my head in supplication: “Holy Spirit, come into my heart; draw it to Thee by Thy power, O God, and grant me succor, preserving me from evil….”

  Then, without warning, I felt him from across the crowded pews. I looked up, searching the vast space around me that his presence filled.

  And I found him; of course I found him. An unmistakable shadow behind the worshippers queuing to receive communion at our father’s hand—clad in his crimson robes and standing as if poised under the wing of a stone archangel.

  —

  AFTER MASS, AS Papa stepped onto the Benediction Loggia to bless the crowd, Cesare came beside me. “Are you still angry?” he asked quietly.

  I shook my head. “You know I could never stay angry with you.”

  “Then neither am I. I wanted to say goodbye, Lucia. I leave tomorrow for Naples.”

  My heart sank. He was leaving. I did not know if what I felt was relief or sorrow, only that the thought of him gone carved a hollow within me. When my mother had told me he was here, I’d wanted to flee anywhere to avoid him—but now that he stood before me, now that I saw him…

  “Are you going to fetch Gioffre and his wife?” I asked, a catch in my voice.

  “No, though I’ll no doubt see them on their way. Papa is sending me as his official legate, ostensibly to crown Ferrantino as king but in truth to ensure that Ferrantino signs our new alliance and abides by its terms. We have learned we must keep Naples on our side.”

  “Papa must trust you very much to honor you with such a task.”

  He sighed. “Or perhaps he’s begun to see that I will always put our interests first.”

  I heard the cardinals behind us muttering, impatient for the benediction to conclude so they could proceed to dinner. Past the archway leading onto the marble balcony, Papa lifted his hands, to the crowd’s roaring acclaim.

  “Mama told me she went to see you,” Cesare said. “She says you quarreled.”

  “Quarreled?” I glanced sharply at him. “Did she tell you what she said? She was vile, unforgivable.”

  “Pay her no mind.” His voice was tranquil. “Her words mean nothing.”

  “She knows,” I said, and I faltered as something furtive quickened in his eyes, something feral. I shouldn’t have admitted it. It only salted the wound still within him.

  Then his fingers touched mine. “She only suspects. And I accept your decision. I would never wish to cause you any shame or dishonor. I would rather die a thousand deaths.”

  My throat tightened as he echoed the closing words from the letter he’d written me months before. “You must stay safe on your journey,” I finally said, and I removed my hand from his, shutting my eyes. I let the sounds of the crowd wash over me, forcing his pain deep inside me, into the vault I had made of my heart, to protect us both.

  When I opened my eyes again, Cesare had slipped away.

  Pools of rainwater speckled the road, muddying the reflection of our company as we waited at the city gate to greet our guests. Two hundred men-at-arms, my pages and twenty women, and the cardinals and ambassadors in their bright silks posed behind me as I sat upon a sure-footed mule, its crimson caparison matching my gown. Nervously, I gauged the procession coming toward us, a glamour of courtiers in cloaks and feathered caps standing out among a sea of colored banners snapping in the breeze, distracting me from the central attraction.

  My brother Gioffre rode a white gelding. As he neared, I saw that his features were more angular, though he retained a stubborn spattering of freckles across his nose. His cheeks were wind-chaffed, his grayish eyes lighting up as he shouted, “Lucrezia!” and spurred to me with an effortless control over his mount that I could only envy.

  He kissed my cheek. “I missed you, sister,” he said, breathless. “But such excitement we had in Naples! The French came and we had to flee to the isle of Ischia, where we hid in the fortress. King Alfonso went mad with grief and abdicated, but his son Ferrantino, our new king, befriended me and had me trained in arms. See?” He reached to his waist, where an elaborate scabbard was buckled, sprouting a gem-inlaid sword hilt. “I am a knight now, as well as a prince. I even killed a Frenchman.”

  Despite the fact that he was almost fourteen and a husband, I could hear familiar anxiety underscoring his bravado, the eagerness to be seen as one of us. I started to smile and respond when a woman said, “Gioffre, per favore. Can’t your tales of bloodshed wait? Or must we sit here and risk getting rained upon?”

  I looked past Gioffre to his wife, Sancia of Aragon.

  As I had surmised when Gioffre first showed me her portrait, the Neapolitan princess was not beautiful. Yet she bore herself as if she was, erect on her saddle, her voluptuous figure hugged by a rich black-and-silver gown. Her eyes were her most arresting feature, fringed in thick lashes and of a startling gray-green hue, like that of a restless sea. As those eyes met mine, she made me think, if only for a moment, that she was the most bewitching creature I’d ever seen. But then I moved past her eyes, taking in the tumble of dark hair escaping the jeweled net at her nape, the hooked nose and wide-lipped mouth, the sallow skin that hugged an oval but square-jawed face, on which the marks of a childhood fever could be discerned. No, Sancia was not beautiful. But she possessed undeniable allure.

  “Welcome to Rome, Principessa,” I said, with a dip of my head. “Your reputation for beauty does you justice.”

  She gave a satisfied smile. “Donna Lucrezia, you do me too much honor.” Leaning from the saddle on her mare to kiss my cheek, she left upon me the scent of her rose attar.

  Then she motioned to the retinue behind her, calling out, “Amato fratello, vie
ni. Come greet our sister-in-law Donna Lucrezia,” and from among her accompanying nobles appeared a man of such unexpected beauty that several of my women could not control their gasps.

  He was like a centaur, his person molded to his horse, the tasseled reins held loosely in his large hands and the musculature of his thighs clenching beneath his black hose as he guided the steed with his legs. His shoulders and chest strained his doublet, emblazoned with the double crowns of Naples. Dark-gold hair spilled from under his jewel-rimmed cap, framing a face bronzed from the sun. Despite his fairness, I marked the resemblance to Sancia in his broad cheekbones and wide-lipped mouth, the prominent nose and deep-set eyes—only his were light amber, a hue akin to honey. And whereas his sister clearly relied on her appeal, he projected only a careless indifference, as though he had no awareness of his impact on others.

  Sancia said, “Allow me to present my brother, Alfonso of Aragon, Prince of Naples.”

  “Donna Lucrezia.” He bowed his head, his voice hoarse from the dust of the road. He towered over me on his enormous roan; I had to grapple with my reins as my mule shied away. Alfonso made a clucking sound. His destrier immediately stepped back, picking up its hooves with a precision I’d seen only Juan command from a mount.

  “I hope I did not frighten you.” His smile revealed ivory-hued teeth. His nose was slightly askew. I found this imperfection as arresting as the rest of him.

  I realized I did not want him, a skilled equestrian, to think I had any fear of horses, and I belatedly regretted not having taken a mare or gelding myself. Then, as I wondered why I should even care what he thought, he said, “I meant, frighten your mule. I can see my lady is not easily frightened.” His smile deepened. “Or easily flattered,” he added softly.

  Somewhat flustered, I replied, “Shall we proceed to San Giovanni? We will hear holy service there in honor of your arrival.” As I spoke, I turned to Sancia.

  “Why, yes, dear Lucrezia,” she said. “We must do as you please. We are in your realm.”

  I dismounted with the aid of a footstool and took my position next to her, with Gioffre on my other side. When Alfonso leapt from his horse and moved to my brother’s left side, I discovered he was no taller than me. Much like his flawed nose, his lack of stature only made him more appealing.

  After we heard Mass in the Byzantine-inspired chapel of the Bishop of Rome, with its fire-scarred pilasters, we took the Via Laterna along a route hung with banners, where the people shouted their welcome, happy at last after the hardships of the occupation. We rode past the Coliseum and ruins of the Forum, through the Campo de’ Fiori to the Via Recta, which brought us past the Castel Sant’Angelo and into the Vatican. As we rode, I sensed rivalry already brewing with Sancia. She tossed her head, bestowing her brilliant smile on the waving crowds. Many seemed unsure of whom to look at first: the vivacious Neapolitan princess, in her sumptuous dark velvets, or me, Pope Alexander VI’s daughter, in my costly crimson. I heard calls of “Bella signora! Bella principessa!” but to which beautiful lady did they refer? Sancia evidently took it for granted that it must be her, for she ordered her women to toss handfuls of coins from the satin purses at their belts, laughing as she watched children diving for the money.

  Of one thing I was certain: As we traversed the newly repaired Pont Sant’Angelo to enter St. Peter’s Piazza, where a riot of bells clanged, I felt Alfonso of Naples’s gaze intent on me, and I had to resist looking back at him—though I secretly longed to.

  It was improbable, impossible even, but I had the impression that a man like him could make me forget my painful, complicated feelings for Cesare.

  SANCIA’S ARRIVAL IN Rome roused immediate scandal.

  From the moment she strode into the Sala dei Pontefici with her head held high and went with brazen confidence to the papal dais, where my father sat enthroned in his regalia, she captivated the Vatican court and our salacious appetite for gossip.

  Papa expanded in her presence, his jowls reddening and his embrace effusive after she knelt to kiss his foot. He scarcely acknowledged Gioffre as he bade her to assume a seat on a special cushion beside him, opposite the one appointed for me. He joked and pinched her cheek during the ensuing reception and hours-long feast, offering her the first taste of every platter. By the time she and Gioffre took up residence in a palazzo, recently vacated by a disgruntled cardinal at Papa’s request, Sancia had garnered widespread acclaim and poisonous envy; her ability to seduce by setting her fingers just so on a sleeve turned men into gaping fools and their courtesans or catamites into avowed foes. Effervescent and sharp-tongued when she had a mind to be, she had my father doting on her every word, so that he even abandoned his habit of eating ham with each of his meals in order to indulge her appetite for variety. At her request, he also crammed her new palazzo—a musty affair—with enough furnishings, antique busts, and statues to turn the stolid place into an abode worthy of her presence. I thought Gioffre might resent all this attention lavished on his wife, but when I saw them together at banquets or receptions, my little brother was always preening as if he took pride in being the husband of such a coveted woman. Still, I suspected that, much as with my own marriage, their union was in name alone. Was Gioffre not mature enough to provide much in the way of bed sport for a woman of Sancia’s evident experience?

  I should have despised her, in truth, for she reminded me in a way of Giulia. Yet it was difficult to hate someone who lacked any malice. As competitive as Sancia was—and there was no denying this trait, for no sooner had she cast an eye over one of my gowns than a day later she appeared in a similar creation—she was generous to a fault. When I admired a strand of black pearls she wore one afternoon, she removed it from her throat and gave it at me. “No, no,” she laughed when I tried to refuse. “They will look far better on your lovely white skin. On me, they just disappear, dark as a Saracen that I am.”

  I found she could liven up even the most stultifying gathering with her irreverent wit, but once the guests departed and the candles guttered, she was boisterous and candid, unwilling to take herself or anyone else too seriously. She could also be unusually perceptive, though. It took her little time, in fact, to notice that under my own carefree exterior, I hid secrets.

  “What is the matter? I know something is bothering you,” she said one morning as we readied to attend High Mass. In the past week, we’d gone hawking on Monte Mario, despite the intermittent spring showers—all we caught were four doves and a chill—then into the city to meet with merchants on the Via dei Pettinari, who were so desperate to gain Sancia’s patronage that they gave away their wares, which she gleefully accepted. We even spent one tedious afternoon being sketched by an ugly Florentine artist named Michelangelo. Papa had commissioned him to sculpt a statue, and he had promised to use Sancia as inspiration for his Pietà.

  “Nothing is the matter,” I said, adjusting my veil. “Though I fear we shall be late if we don’t leave now, and you know how Master Burchard detests tardiness.”

  She grimaced. “What he needs is a woman, or a boy, if he prefers. Anything to warm his sour German bones.”

  “Sancia, per favore. It’s a holy day!” I had to stifle my laugher as my ladies stared at her in disbelief, unable to reconcile their inculcated notions of propriety with this princess who said exactly what she thought and didn’t care a fig for who heard it.

  “Well, holy day or not, I only state the obvious. Serving one’s master can only please so much.” Sancia looked straight at Pantalisea as she spoke, aware that my lady had taken an antipathy to her. In fact, Pantalisea had cautioned me that I must not be too familiar with someone of Sancia’s “loose morals,” lest her taint rub off on me like an indelible stain.

  “Come.” I hooked my arm in Sancia’s and drew her to the door, away from Pantalisea, before one of them said something she would regret. Pantalisea would stay behind to refresh my chambers, but Sancia could not resist another spiteful look over her shoulder as we left. Using the passage into the Si
stine, we hurried to the basilica, where the pews were already full, Papa on his dais with his court in attendance, while the preacher waited impatiently at the pulpit.

  Papa winked at me as we assumed our seats. Amid the rustling of our skirts, Sancia whispered in my ear, “Just look at Burchard. Now, does he not seem like someone who’s never tasted anything sweet?”

  I glanced at where the master of ceremonies stood rigid, with his wand of office in hand, his slightly protuberant gaze fixed ahead and his mouth puckered, as if he were trying to keep down a bout of indigestion. My mirth bubbled up. I clamped my lips, looking back at the preacher—a Spanish Dominican, judging by his ascetic features and white habit—who launched into a monotonous account of how the Holy Spirit had descended from heaven this day to fill our Lord and His apostles with God’s light.

  Sancia jabbed me with her elbow. “Well? Does he or does he not?”

  I shook my head. “I wouldn’t know,” I muttered, fearing that if I opened my mouth too much, I might burst out laughing. How would I know? I was still a virgin, as far as anyone knew. There was nothing I could possibly say about what such “sweetness” entailed.

  “You wouldn’t know?” Sancia was indignant. “Whatever does that mean? You would not know if he’s never tasted something sweet or would not know what something sweet is?”

  My embarrassed laughter was starting to choke me. I could feel it in the back of my throat and reached over to grip her hand. She went silent. The preacher droned on. Suddenly she leaned to me again. This time, her breath tickled my earlobe. “I think I know now what ails you. You too have never tasted anything sweet, have you, cara mia?”

  I could not restrain myself. Even as my hands flew up to cover my mouth, a gush of nervous release that had been pent up for months exploded from me with such force that it couldn’t have been more disruptive if I’d set every bell in the basilica to pealing. From his pulpit, the Dominican glared. Burchard shifted angrily in our direction. As I envisioned the congregation—the cardinals and bishops, ambassadors, courtiers, and assorted servants—craning their necks to see what on earth had possessed His Holiness’s daughter, I tried to stifle myself, because I knew how disrespectful, how irreverent, I was being.