The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  My revelation thickened the air. Then she breathed, “Puttana. Whose is it? Which lowly stable groom or page did you lure into your bed?”

  I detected anxiety in her insult, an unvoiced trepidation. Much as I welcomed it—for it betrayed that she was fully cognizant of how complicated the situation was, which only suited my designs—I said, “It is not Cesare’s, if that’s what you fear.”

  She swept her goblet aside. Half-rising from her chair—“Whose ever it is, I will feed the bastardo to my dogs!”—she flung up her hand.

  Before she could strike me, I said, “Juan,” and she staggered back, her hand flying instead to her chest, as if I had dealt her a mortal blow.

  “He brought me to his rooms,” I told her, surprised by how emotionless I sounded, as though I recounted an event that had happened to someone else. “He took me there so Giovanni could violate me. But when my husband failed to manage it, Juan did it for him.” I watched the color seep from her face. “He did it to avenge himself on Cesare, to make sure that we all bear the shame of it. Will you still feed the child to the dogs now—your own grandchild, twice over?”

  Vannozza collapsed back onto her chair. For a fleeting moment, I almost pitied her. I had never seen her look so devastated, so wretched or old. Every line in her face came to the surface, like cracks in brittle parchment.

  “No,” she whispered. “It cannot be.”

  “If you do not believe me, ask Juan yourself, though you should consider that he threatened to see both Cesare and me dead if I dared reveal it. He also said Papa would keep me in a convent until the day I die, which I presume would not suit whatever plans he’s made for me once this annulment is granted?”

  She regarded me as if she couldn’t decide whether to scream or kill me herself. “Why should I believe any of this? I know well that Cesare concocted that plot to rid us of Giulia; he told me himself how he enlisted you to do his deed. Why shouldn’t I believe that now you and he seek to cast aside a husband you detest? This child you carry: It might not be Juan’s at all but rather some other by-blow you got yourself with to ruin Juan and see Cesare reap glory in his place.”

  I smiled, reclining in my chair even as I resisted a rise of fear. This was the gambit I must win. I had only my word. There was no proof that I’d been taken by force, other than testimony from Pantalisea, who’d seen my bruises—and she could be silenced. Vannozza could make it seem I was deluded, mad even. God knew, she would do anything to safeguard Juan over me.

  “Juan has done nothing glorious. He cast asunder Papa’s favor and has proved his unworthiness,” I told her. “Cesare doesn’t need to seek revenge. All he needs to do is give Juan enough time to hang himself.”

  Vannozza went quiet, glowering like a basilisk.

  “And even if this were a plot, as you say,” I continued, “are you willing to risk it? Are you willing to risk having Papa’s wrath fall upon us? For that is what will happen if I tell him the truth.” My hands went to my belly, where I did not feel the slightest swell. Doubt made me hesitate. I shoved it aside. “But I could be mistaken. My monthly course may be late. Or, if I am not mistaken, perhaps I’ll lose it. Many women miscarry, yes? But until then, I am in Rome and so is Juan. And wherever he dwells, it is too near for me.”

  “What do you want of me?” she growled. “He is my son. I’ll not see him defamed because of you.” Her voice turned vicious. “You forget that I know how you and Cesare circle each other like curs in heat. You forget I know of the poison you both carry; if you couldn’t have Cesare, for whatever reason, why not Juan? Perhaps you enticed him. Perhaps you did this to yourself.”

  “If I did,” I replied coldly, “surely you are the last person I would trust. No,” I said, as her shoulders crept about her neck, as if she were fighting the urge to lunge at me again. “What I want of you is simple: You shall see to it that Juan leaves Italy. Tell Papa he must return to Spain and his wife and son, where he belongs.”

  An incredulous burst of laughter escaped her. “You think I have the power to persuade the pope to send his cherished son away?”

  “No. But Juan made a disaster of the Orsini campaign. He now has mortal enemies in the Romagna barons, who will not take lightly his incursion into their domains, no matter what truce Papa proposes. Juan’s life could be in danger; the barons have killed men for less. And while you might not have power to see him gone, you are still his mother. Papa must heed your concerns if you present them as such. The alternative, of course, is the truth. But no matter which punishment I reap, it’s still a grave dishonor on our name. The pope’s own daughter, violated by his cherished son…” My threat hung between us. “I will not lie. I will tell Papa everything. I have nothing to lose. I have already lost everything.”

  The bones of her jaw protruded as she clenched her teeth. “I see,” she said at length. “You think you can blackmail me. You are mistaken, however, if you believe Rodrigo will capitulate so easily. He adores Juan. He plans to send for Doña Maria and their son so they can live here together. He told me so himself.”

  “Plans change,” I said.

  “Indeed. But not because of you. You overestimate your father’s affection for you. This is not the first time a daughter has strayed. There are other ways to see dishonor averted.”

  I pretended to consider this. “Then it seems I must appeal to someone else,” I said, and I did not flinch as she bolted to her feet in a fury of black skirts, rounding the table to seize my wrist, nearly yanking me from my chair. I heard as if from a distance the clang of the decanter tipping over as my knee hit the table, then she was snarling: “You dare threaten me? You dare? Because if you do, let me warn you that I will win. I always win. I will cut that bastard out of your insides, grandchild or not, if you dare breathe a word of this shame to Cesare.”

  I wanted to laugh aloud, bellow my own rage back in her face. She had taken my bait. She did not think for a moment that my rape by Juan was something I’d devised or that Cesare had any knowledge of it. Her threats could no longer hide her terror; she exuded it like a stench. I had gambled to perfection. Cesare was the key. He had always been the key. She knew as well as I did that if Cesare discovered the truth, Juan’s safety, indeed his very life, would be forfeit. Cesare would never forgive him. He would avenge me. He would disembowel Juan with his bare hands.

  I pulled my wrist from her. “Do as I say and Cesare will never know. I swear it.”

  “And if I do not?” Her breath came in shallow bursts. “What if I refuse?”

  “Then let it be on your conscience. All I want is to never set eyes on Juan again. I leave it to you as to how you go about ensuring that. Because if you do not, I will.”

  She took a step back, her hands bunched at her sides. “Even if I agree to persuade your father and he complies, I promise you, when the time comes, there will be a reckoning. Juan is the future of his dynasty, the glory of his family. Rodrigo will not forsake him for a mistake.”

  Her callous declaration twisted my gut. “Be that as it may, I cannot imagine any glory will be found in an accusation of incest. And my mistake could be a son. If so, I will give him over to be reared as Papa sees fit, a new Borgia prince to exalt our name—providing he never knows who his father is.”

  She snorted. “You think to hang this sword over our heads? A game like this—it has no end. You will never know a moment’s peace. You can still escape it. There is still a chance, if you will only do what is required.”

  “Are you suggesting I dispose of the child and pretend it never happened? Is that my escape?” I shook my head. “Never. I will not bear the sin of having killed my own flesh.”

  “Then you are forever cursed! I warned you. I told you you would be each other’s—”

  “Enough.” The anger in my voice was like a whip cracked between us, silencing her. “Do not say another word. I want Juan and Giovanni gone from my life. If I’m never happy again, if I never know a moment’s peace, at least I’ll not have to endure the
ir presence. As for my child, should it survive, it must never carry the taint of my sin.” I lifted a hand, cutting her off. “We have nothing more to say. I am prepared to send word to Cesare, so I suggest you do what I ask.”

  Whirling about, Vannozza seized her shawl. She marched off, her heavy footsteps fading away into the tense silence.

  I looked down at my hands, saw I was trembling. Leaving the table in disarray, I returned to my rooms, where Pantalisea sat by the narrow window, her dark head bent over her sewing. She looked so serene, engrossed in her task, as if we still dwelled in Santa Maria in Portico and she repaired a rip in one of my sleeves. I wanted to embrace her, reassured by her presence as I’d never been before. She’d already breached the rules, going out to my palazzo to fetch luxuries—quilted pillows for the chairs and narrow bed; extra counterpanes, blankets, and cotton sheets; carpets for the table and floor; a candelabrum and braziers. When the prioress lifted protest, she snapped, “She is to bear His Holiness’s grandchild. Unlike our Blessed Virgin, she need not give birth in a manger.”

  The prioress had pursed her lips.

  Now Pantalisea stitched a new velvet hanging for the archway to my bedchamber, having torn down the old one, remarking it harbored lice; the smell of the lye used to wash down the cloisters had become a permanent stink in our nostrils.

  “Well?” she asked as I entered. “Did that harridan agree?”

  “She hates me more than ever, but she’ll tell Papa whatever she must to see Juan sent back to Spain. She has no choice; she’d prefer that Juan left, rather than expose us all to infamy.”

  Pantalisea looked doubtful. “And if she succeeds? What about the infamy to follow? Your marriage still must be annulled, while you are here, most likely with child. How are you going to explain it when they summon you before the Curia to testify to your virginity?”

  “I do not know. I cannot foresee the future. I did not ask for any of this!” My voice ruptured. Without warning, my pain burst forth in a deluge that startled me almost as much as it did Pantalisea. Until this moment I had not cried, not a tear, not even when I was alone. It was as if the savagery of Juan’s assault had calcified inside me, a fetid pearl, but as I heard my own anguish, all I could do was crumple into Pantalisea’s arms and weep like a disconsolate soul.

  I had lied to my mother. I did want to pretend this had never happened. I wanted to believe that if I refused to accept it, I could leave this self-imposed exile and begin my life anew.

  Instead, I kept hearing her voice in my head: You will be each other’s doom.

  I had thought she meant Cesare and me.

  Now I feared that her malediction would engulf our entire family.

  “Madonna, wake up. My lady, you must wake up!”

  I groaned, shoving my head farther under my pillow. Only weeks after my mother’s departure, I began to suffer nausea that sent me hurtling to the porcelain pail in my room, until my stomach heaved and my head pounded; all I could manage was to stagger back to bed as Pantalisea set compresses on my brow and forced chamomile infusions past my lips.

  “There can be no doubt now,” she declared drily. “You are most certainly with child.”

  The confirmation turned me into a cowering thing. Once I knew I indeed nurtured Juan’s seed, dark lassitude overcame me. I huddled under my covers, barely stirring even when the prioress summoned Suora Paulina, the herbalist, who prescribed various remedies along with moderate exercise—though I could barely keep her drafts down, much less make the circumscribed circle around the cloisters in my exhausted state.

  “Nine months,” I moaned. “How will I endure it?”

  “You will endure it because you must,” said Pantalisea. “Because for you, the alternative is unthinkable. Besides, we dare not risk ridding you of it now, not when you are showing signs. The cure for what ails you could also kill you.”

  I cursed her then, because she spoke the bitter truth. I cursed her, my mother, and Giovanni—but, most of all, I cursed Juan. I wished for death to befall him; I cursed him to hell, before I doubled over and retched again.

  Now, only hours after Vespers, just as slumber finally claimed me, here was Pantalisea, shaking my shoulder and uttering inconceivable demands.

  “I tell you, you must rise.” Her urgency pierced my misery. “Someone is here. You must see him.”

  I opened my eyes. Cesare. He had defied the rules of my exile and come to me. I did not care that his arrival and discovery of why I was immured would be catastrophic, did not think of anything except that he was here at last and I could seek comfort in him, as I had so many times.

  Cesare would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

  Yet as I righted myself, blinking away the grit of sleep, Pantalisea said, “It is Perotto. He came knocking at the gates. The prioress refused him admittance at first, but he insists he has news you must hear. She gave him entry into the courtyard. He will speak to only you.”

  Perotto was Papa’s favorite servant; I threw off the sheets, wincing as my feet hit the cold floor. “Quickly,” I told Pantalisea. “Fetch my slippers and cloak.”

  —

  THE CONVENT WAS dark, quiet. Torches in brackets crackled on the walls; our shadows leapt before us as we hurried to the courtyard—a small flagstone space right inside the gates, with a fountain and trough for horses, where merchants could deliver supplies. It was a sliver of the outside world that never penetrated the heart of San Sisto.

  The prioress was waiting, along with Suora Leocadia, the convent’s gatekeeper. Suora Leocadia’s beefy arms crossed at her chest as the prioress said, “I fear this is most irregular. Indeed, were you any other guest, it would be out of the question for you to receive a visitor at such an hour, and a male one, at that.”

  I should have murmured something appropriately repentant, but my gaze was already straining past her to the cloaked figure. He stopped his pacing near the mossy trough and swerved at the sound of my approach. My heart quickened. What news did he bring?

  “Yes,” I said, wanting to push the prioress aside. “I understand. I will hear what he has to say and send him out at once.”

  “See that you do,” said Suora Leocadia. “Because ever since my lady came to this house, we’ve been in a state of unrest, and now, with these ungodly rumors of—”

  “Hush, Sister.” The prioress kept her eyes on me. “He cannot stay,” she said. “No matter what the situation is, we have our reputation to consider.”

  I nodded, shivering as she motioned to Suora Leocadia; they moved into the cloisters, leaving me in the courtyard with Pantalisea and Perotto.

  He did not move; consternation froze me likewise where I stood. Then he suddenly came before me, bending as if to fall to one knee. “My lady Lucrezia, you must forgive me, but I had to come.”

  I set my hand on his shoulder, though I knew that if Suora Leocadia saw me make physical contact with a man within the sacred precinct, she would campaign mercilessly for my eviction. “Just tell me.” My voice sounded so thin, as though it were about to fail me.

  Perotto lifted his gentle brown eyes, which glistened with tears. My throat constricted. “Dio mio, what is the matter? Is it my father? Has something happened to him?”

  “It is his lordship the duke of Gandia. He…he is dead, my lady.”

  I blinked, confused. “Gandia?” Then, with the force of a hammer blow to my chest, I understood. Behind me, Pantalisea let out a stifled cry. I glanced over my shoulder to where she stood under the cloister archway, a hand pressed to her mouth. She did not need to say what was writ plain on her face. I had cursed Juan only days ago.

  I returned to Perotto. Tears slid down his cheeks. I should have felt the same grief. I should have felt the loss crack open inside me. Juan was still my brother; we were flesh and blood, no matter what brutalities he had inflicted. Yet I felt nothing. Until I thought of my father.

  “Where is Papa?” I said anxiously, knowing his grief for Juan would be terrible.


  “In his apartments in the Vatican: That is why I’m here.” Perotto’s voice quavered. “After the duke’s death was confirmed, His Holiness shut himself up in his rooms. He will not let any of us attend him, and his cries, my lady—he was heard all over the palace.”

  “And now?” I dreaded his response.

  “He has not made a sound in hours. We bang on the door, but he refuses to open it. My lord of Gandia now lies in state in the castel; he’s to be interred tomorrow in the chapel of Santa Maria del Popolo, if His Holiness allows it. They pulled your brother’s body from the Tiber, after an entire night of searching. It is feared that after being in the waters he cannot be kept above ground much longer and—”

  “Please, no more.” I pulled up the hood of my cloak. “I must go to Papa at once.”

  —

  They pulled your brother’s body from the Tiber….

  Perotto’s grim words tumbled in my head as we rode through sulfurous mist, a sickly scrim camouflaging the streets, muting the snarls of skulking dogs, the shouting of drunkards and laments of beggars, the scampering of emaciated children and rodents in the middens. Arid thunder rumbled overhead; when I heard the muted hiss of Perotto taking his dagger from its leather sheath, I began to think I should have waited in the convent. Pantalisea had stayed behind at my insistence; I needed her to keep to my rooms, in case it was necessary to defend my absence, though the prioress had lifted no protest when I informed her why I must go.

  As we neared the Apostolic Palace, which loomed out of the fog like the skeletal remains of a long-slain dragon, a flurry of unanswered questions overcame me. My brother Juan, esteemed child of privilege, favored son, and experienced man about Rome, found dead in the Tiber. Only those who perished of plague or violence were consigned to the river; only beasts, the poor, the criminal, the unwanted, or the unlucky ended up in those murky depths.