The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  “I did not know,” I whispered. “If I had, I would have done anything, everything, to safeguard our…our—”

  I could not say it. I could not believe I had miscarried something so precious, so easily, when I had carried Juan’s seed to fruition. I desperately wanted to tell Alfonso everything in that moment, as I felt his chest convulse and knew he too struggled to keep grief at bay. I wanted to reassure him that I had brought a babe into the world before and had felt, almost from the moment of conception, the sacredness of the life inside me.

  Yet when I summoned the courage, all that came out was an admission I did not realize I also carried, like an incurable canker: “Maybe I am to blame.”

  Alfonso cupped my chin. “Blessed saints, why would you say that?”

  “Because of my family…God has cursed me.”

  “Their sins are not yours.” He drew me back to him. “Do you hear me? You have been wronged. God must look upon you with great compassion for everything you have endured.”

  Had he finally learned the truth? For a terrible instant, I thought Sancia had told him out of vengeance for what Cesare had done to her. She must suspect who had sired my child, though she’d not mentioned it again since the night of the murders. I felt ashamed to doubt her, but I did. And as I sought Alfonso’s gaze, I dreaded something else I could not admit: the fact that, while I had known I carried my brother’s child, I had not felt Alfonso’s. I had not sensed new life in me at all. Sancia had breathlessly reassured me in those chaotic moments as my women cleaned the blood from the floor: She said I could not have known, for it was too early; there wasn’t anything recognizable as a child at all. But I averted my face as she left to fetch Alfonso, who waited anxiously outside the door. I heard her murmuring to him before he came in, and I wondered that I could have been so oblivious, that I failed to heed any signs.

  Had I ignored his child because a new life would supplant the one I had forsaken?

  Now, as he regarded me tenderly, dabbing my tears with his fingertips, I searched his face for signs of that first corrosive doubt he would surely feel upon learning I had deceived him by bearing a child out of wedlock. I couldn’t endure the thought, the questions that would follow, which would only lead to more tangled lies, until he took it upon himself to find out the entire truth.

  To my relief, I saw nothing but sorrow and worry for me. I knew then the real reason I could not bring myself to tell him: I could not risk him trying to forgive me and failing, could not risk that in time he’d grow to hate me for it, turn against me and never look at me like this again. I would die before I could bear to see loathing for me in his eyes.

  “We will make others.” He pressed his lips to my brow. “We are still young. You will bear our children, I promise you. A first miscarriage is horrible, yes, but not unusual, sweet wife. Many women suffer the same yet go on to have healthy broods.”

  Laying my head on his chest, I absorbed his words like absolution.

  I needed to believe them. I had no choice.

  I had to believe his love could make me pure again.

  My hopes were not in vain.

  In early March, less than a month after my miscarriage, to our joy I discovered I was pregnant again. I resolved to not do anything to endanger the child this time and sequestered myself in my palazzo, refusing all social invitations and insulating my apartments from the daily foibles and scheming of the world outside.

  However, this turned out to be more difficult than I imagined. News came almost by the hour of Cesare’s troubles in France, where he endured King Louis’s quest to find him a wife; several suitable candidates, like Carlotta before them, had refused, causing Cesare to threaten to depart—though he could not do so without the king’s leave. Finally, Louis found a willing bride: Charlotte d’Albert of Navarre, princess of that small Pyrenees-riven realm between France and Spain, which acted as a bulwark against its neighbors’ mutual aggression. Spain lifted immediate protest, sending a volley of rebuke to Rome, citing Papa’s unholy treaty with their ancient foe and menacing an alliance with Milan, Naples, and Venice against us—to no avail. Cesare wed Charlotte in a grand spring ceremony, with word of his prowess at the subsequent consummation dispatched to the Vatican with such urgency that the courier rode six separate horses to death in the process. When the news arrived, the Spanish ambassador confronted my father before the entire court, to Papa’s outrage, advising him to seek reconciliation with Their Majesties of Spain before it was too late.

  But it was my own husband’s reaction that took me by surprise. He arrived one morning in July as I basked in the gallery, my eyelids at half-mast and hands about the bulge of my stomach. His clearing of his throat startled me. “Amore, you are back from your hunting so soon,” I said, and then my delight extinguished as I recognized the slim scarlet figure at Alfonso’s side.

  “Madonna.” Cardinal Ascanio Sforza inclined his head. He always wore his sanctity like armor, behaving as if my separation from Giovanni were of no account to him, though it had cast aspersion upon his family.

  My greeting was icy. “Eminence. You were not expected.”

  “No, I should think not,” he said, as Alfonso looked to where my women sat nearby, occupied with sewing, while Arancino batted dangling threads from their hoops.

  “Wife, let us go into your antechamber,” said Alfonso. “We have important news.”

  We? Since when had he and Cardinal Sforza become familiar? I bit back my immediate retort, gesturing at my women to stay put. “Shall I have Murilla bring us refreshments?” I asked Alfonso, and his hesitation increased my concern. Then he nodded and I imparted my order before following them into the stifling antechamber. Though it was only midmorning, the heat was insupportable. Had I not already been in my fifth month, I would have insisted on departing for the countryside, away from the stink and fever-infested swamps of the city.

  Murilla delivered a decanter of cool cider; I shut the door and turned to see Alfonso and the cardinal regarding me with such gravity that my heart clenched.

  “Dear God, what is it? Has someone died?”

  “If only it were that simple,” said Cardinal Sforza, reaching to pour himself a cup.

  Alfonso said, “Cesare. He is coming back.”

  “Is that all?” I was bewildered. “But surely it is to be expected. He is all anyone has talked about for weeks, and now that he’s married, why would he stay in France?”

  The cardinal sipped from his cup, his delicate mannerism at odds with the steel in his eyes.

  Alfonso said quietly, “You do not understand. With King Louis’s own marriage to Anne of Brittany now secure, he and Cesare found accord. They have declared they shall join together to bring another army into Italy, this time with Cesare at its head. They intend to take Milan.”

  “I see,” I said, resisting my dread as I looked pointedly to the cardinal. “You cannot ask me to feign concern for the Sforza cause.”

  He had the presence of mind to avert his gaze as Alfonso claimed my attention, urgency imbuing his voice: “It is not only Milan that is at risk. Naples cannot withstand another invasion; it would be our doom. Your father keeps saying he’ll never give the French leave to loot the south, but he’s ordered festivities to celebrate Cesare’s return. He flaunts caskets of jewels before the Spanish envoy and declares he will use them to finance Valentino’s enterprise, intimating that he will not stand in either your brother’s or Louis’s path. Even Sancia had bitter words with him recently, after Gioffre was arrested by the Vatican guard for brawling.”

  “Gioffre was arrested?” I said. “When?”

  “A few days ago; it was nothing. He was drunk. Lucrezia, listen to me: When Sancia went to see His Holiness to demand he punish his guards for arresting her husband—who is also his son—do you know what your father replied?”

  I shook my head, a knot in my throat.

  “He said Gioffre might be her husband but was no son of his, and if she did not like how he treated those
beneath him, she could return to Naples. He also said that Cesare would be here soon enough to set matters right. Sancia says it sounded like a threat.”

  I could imagine it did. Indeed, none of this boded well, and I regretted that I’d elected to remain ensconced in my palazzo, for I knew how easily disharmony in our family could turn dangerous. All the hopes I had nursed crumbled around me, as I once again faced the unthinkable possibility of my father and brother arming themselves against my husband.

  “Sancia is beside herself,” Alfonso went on. “She insists that we leave before Cesare returns and takes our heads for King Louis to gloat over. She believes he will wreak vengeance on our uncle for not allowing him to marry Carlotta and will invade Naples, no matter the cost.”

  “What do you want of me?” I asked, with as much calm as I could muster. I felt the cardinal’s stare and knew they had come here with a purpose. “I cannot stop Cesare—”

  “Not Cesare,” interrupted Cardinal Sforza, as if he corrected an inept child. “We are all aware no one can stop him once he decides upon a course, but His Holiness may yet be persuaded. If you plead our case, he might reconsider this ill-advised alliance with France.”

  “You’re asking me to advise His Holiness?” I was incredulous.

  “We would not ask if there were any other way,” replied Alfonso, though I could see he was as discomfited by the request as I was. “But we need someone whom he will heed. His Holiness has always trusted his family above all others.”

  Not always, I wanted to say. He had rarely heeded me. And I was a woman with child, not yet twenty years old. How could I presume to advise my father on matters of political expedience, particularly when it pertained to Cesare?

  “You must try, Lucrezia,” Alfonso urged. “For us and the future of our child.” For the first time, I heard actual fear in his voice—a fear he must have harbored all this time but had kept to himself. Before, he had only expressed determination, to fight back if necessary, but now I realized he must truly believe Naples and his kin were in peril. The revelation jolted me to my core. I had defended my family. I had evaded Alfonso’s suspicion, done my utmost to demonstrate we were not everything said of us. Now, by their own actions, Cesare and Papa refuted me. They proved that when it came to their interests, everything, and everyone, was secondary. I could not allow it. I had to put a halt to this constant strife that now threatened my very marriage.

  “Yes.” I lifted my chin. “I will speak to him.”

  —

  I HAD TO wait a few days until Papa finished his obligations with the Curia and sent word that he could receive me. I went to see him at supper time, finding him quartering his favorite smoked ham with his fingers, layering it on chunks of thick peasant bread. He expressed delight at my arrival.

  “It’s been too long since you spent some time alone with your old Papa,” he chortled. “So busy have you been with that gallant husband of yours, eh? He must make you happy and I’m glad of it. My farfallina deserves every happiness.”

  I swiveled my Venetian-glass goblet, the watered wine within banking at its sides like a tiny red sea. It angered me that he would pretend my happiness was all that concerned him, when I knew he plotted mayhem with Cesare. Yet now, as he sat in his linen robe, his sparse hair askew on his liver-spotted pate, and his fleshy cheeks rubicund with drink and relaxation after a long day, I felt like a child again and had to brace myself to dispel his good humor.

  My very silence, however, gave me away. He abruptly said, “Well? Are you just going to sit there biting your tongue?” He took a swig from his goblet. “If,” he added, “you’re here at your husband’s behest to talk me out of the French alliance, I’ll not hear a word against it.” His affability vanished. “I’ll not hear Cesare disparaged, not when your husband sees fit to slink about in the company of that viper Cardinal Sforza.”

  My fingers clutched about my goblet.

  Papa went on, “I have a mind to throw the cardinal in the castel until he learns his place. I might feign reconciliation with him but only because, as a famous emperor once said, ‘He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not will be victorious.’ And much as it pains me, your husband has been anything but prudent.”

  I widened my eyes, as if in surprise, even as I suppressed a rush of icy doubt. Had Alfonso not told me everything?

  Papa eyed me. “You look bewildered. Can it be your husband keeps secrets from you? It is common knowledge among my informants that, since word came of Cesare’s return, Alfonso has been running around in a panic, listening to—indeed, one might say encouraging—every poisonous word the cardinal spews in his ear. By now he and his sister, Sancia, must be of the firm belief that Cesare’s sole purpose is to raze their beloved Naples to the ground.”

  “Is it?” I asked.

  Silence ensued. When Papa tried to look away, I said angrily, “Then it is true! You plan to strike at Naples because King Federico denied Cesare his daughter.”

  “I never said that. Nor is it my intent, no matter what Cesare might desire. Milan, yes: The Sforza must pay. Il Moro will not hold his sword over me any longer. And those bloodthirsty wolves of the Romagna—we must see them brought low, too, which means a dungeon or the scaffold in most cases. But not Naples. Destroying it serves no purpose.”

  I set my goblet aside, placing my hands on my stomach. “Swear it to me, Papa. On this child’s life, swear to me that you will not allow Alfonso or his realm to be harmed.”

  “I don’t believe Naples is his realm. He does not rule there,” Papa retorted, “while I sit on St. Peter’s throne. Would you doubt my word as Supreme Pontiff?”

  I made a move, as if to slip from the chair to my knees. “Swear to me, anyway, for my child’s sake, as he—”

  I was halted by a rapping at the doors, followed immediately by the arrival of an anxious chamberlain: “Holiness, forgive me, but Her Highness Princess Sancia insists she must be seen and…” He blanched, backing away as Papa stood in fury.

  Behind the chamberlain, Sancia swept in, her hair disheveled about her face. Without a glance at me, she said to Papa, “Does she know what you and Cesare will cost her?”

  In a dizzying haze, I struggled to my feet.

  My father glared. “You interrupt a private audience with my daughter. Remove yourself at once and we shall speak later, at an appointed time—”

  “Later?” Sancia’s wild laughter pealed. “There is no later, as far as Lucrezia is concerned. He is gone already, because of you and that demon you call a son.”

  “Gone?” About me, the room began to recede. “Who is gone…?” But I already knew; I could see it on her face and I turned, trembling, to my father. “It cannot be….”

  Papa said through his teeth, “Am I to understand that my son-in-law, your brother Alfonso, has left my city, forsaking his own wife when she carries his child?”

  “And are you saying you did not know?” Sancia countered. “Mother of God, how devious can you be? It is what you desire. Everyone in Italy has heard by now that Cesare marches from Asti with over forty thousand Frenchmen and mercenaries, not to mention enough cannon to bring down the walls of Jerusalem. Louis of France has proclaimed that as neither Rome nor any other city-state will defend Milan, the conquest of Il Moro’s domain will be a minor task, at best. So,” she said, thrusting out her chin, “what does Cesare intend to do with his army after such a minor task is concluded? Where will he take his army next, if not to the very gates of Naples?”

  “You dare come into my holy presence, into my very rooms, to utter such blasphemy?” he bellowed. “Get from my sight. Go! Run after your brother. Run to Naples and hide with him under the stairs, and pray to God that your uncle Federico is not caught off guard like Il Moro.”

  “Papa, no!” I cried as Sancia recoiled, but when I moved toward her, he flung out an arm, detaining me. “Go,” he ordered her. “You will never connive in Rome again. Go. Now.”

  “I will not,” she said, though he
r voice began to quaver.

  “Oh, but you will,” said Papa. “You will depart this very hour, for if you do not, I will see you thrown into the piazza in your chemise to walk barefoot to Naples.”

  She cast a defiant look in my direction and swung around to the doors, where the chamberlain stood petrified to his spot. “See that Her Highness has the appropriate escort,” Papa called out to his servant as Sancia neared. “Under no circumstances is Gioffre to go with her. If Naples does not care to leave its kin with me, then neither will I send any of mine to it.”

  Sancia did not turn back. After the doors closed on her, Papa muttered to me, “I did not know. Alfonso is a villain and a coward to have believed such lies of us—”

  “Not me,” I whispered. “He did not believe them of me.” I pushed past him, walking to the doors, which seemed to loom an eternity away.

  Behind me, my father shouted, “I will not have it. You will not go after him. I forbid it. Do you hear me? I forbid it!”

  Like Sancia before me, I did not turn back.

  “LUCREZIA, IT IS your turn. Are you going to play or not?”

  Reluctantly, I turned from the mullioned window to the table and the ivory-and-gemstone chessboard. Gioffre slumped in his chair, tugging at his lower lip as he waited. My hand hovered over my white queen; as I started to move it, he exclaimed, “Not there. Look at my bishop; he’ll take her and you will lose the game.” He pouted, emphasizing the sparse beard he was trying to grow, no doubt to hide the eruption of pimples on his chin. Though he neared his eighteenth year, he still had the gangly appearance of a pubescent youth, not like Cesare or Juan had been at his age. “You do not care. You’re not paying any attention. I thought this was supposed to be a fun excursion for us, coming here to Spoleto, but all you do is sigh and look out that window.”