“That is not fair,” I said, stung by the truth in his words. “Papa sent me here to oversee the city, because we face imminent war. It is an honored post and I must fulfill my obligations.”
I had indeed done that, accepting Papa’s appointment to be governor of this Umbrian city and spend the last days of summer within the impressive fortress perched above the cluster of houses and streets at its skirts, overlooking fields of wilted poppies and chestnut woodlands. Here I exercised power authorized by my father, delivering his papal briefs to the city notables, arbitrating complaints, and hearing petitions, all the while ensuring Spoleto’s position in Rome’s defense. I held audiences in the great court under its portico, was regaled by speeches, compliments, and banquets; I heard deference in the aldermen’s greetings and saw awe in their plump wives’ enthusiasm to serve me, and none of it mattered.
Gioffre rolled his eyes and slid his bishop over to take my queen. He knew as well as I did that we’d been dispatched here as privileged pawns in the struggle between Naples and Rome—a struggle that had escalated as soon as Sancia arrived at King Federico’s court, breathing fire.
Initially, I refused to heed my father’s explanations. I shut myself in Santa Maria in Portico and tore up his notes, sending away his placating secretaries with his appeals. I knew every doorway was watched; I could not even sneak out to visit my son at my mother’s house, though I longed to, as the sight of him might bring me some solace amid the excruciating tumult.
And as my belly enlarged and reality sank in—that I was a wife abandoned, locked up in the sumptuous cage of my palazzo—my anger was such that when Papa sent me the decree to act as the governor of Spoleto, conferring upon me both the title and means of escape, I did not hesitate. Papa had Gioffre accompany me, along with a cortège. I departed in silence, hiding my fear that Cesare might indeed get his way, despite Papa’s assurances to the contrary and my devastation that Alfonso had fled from me without a word. I’d wept in my rooms, railed and cursed my husband, accusing him before my women of playing me for a fool, of using me to cajole my father even as he slipped out the back door. Still, I clung to hope. Spoleto was just a two-day ride from Rome, far enough away to ease my humiliation but not so much that, should the situation change, I could not quickly return to the Eternal City. It had crossed my mind to simply ride to Naples and demand an explanation from Alfonso, but, of course, the notion was as foolish as it was impossible. Even here, Papa had set spies on me. If I set foot outside the fortress, his informants would be on my heels.
Nor, I thought now, would the situation ever change. Every evening after our repast, if not required for some provincial event in the hall, we repaired to this tower room, the highest point in the castle, where I could brood at the window, looking out in vain for a messenger, while my brother yawned and griped about how dull everything was. Unlike me, he seemed oblivious to his spouse’s absence, though he did express pining for his horses and hounds, his new falcon, and the rabble of rogues he had taken to roistering about with in Rome, drinking too much and throwing rocks at the sentinels on the castel, which had precipitated his brief arrest.
“Just admit it,” he now said, stretching back in his chair and propping his booted feet on the table. “You hate it here as much as I do. Why don’t we ask Papa to let us return home?”
“No.” I paced again to the window. “I was sent here to act as his representative, and I will not have it said that I shirked my duty.”
“No one thinks you shirk your duty. Your husband has shirked his—but not you.”
I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Do you not miss Sancia at all?”
He shrugged. “Why should I? She doesn’t miss me, I can assure you.” I saw fleeting pain cross his face, but before I could probe deeper, sudden movement caught my eye. Swerving back to the window, I strained to see through its warped panes.
Dusk hung over the road winding to the castle. When I saw the approaching shape on a horse, I let out a cry that nearly sent Gioffre tumbling off his seat.
“Come!” Grasping his hand, I hauled him down the steep stone staircase, ignoring his breathless warning—“Be careful!”—and pulling him through the hall into the garrison forecourt before the massive main gate. A moment later, the messenger appeared, just as I’d prayed he would—exhausted, coated in dust, the colors of our Borgia livery barely visible as he dismounted, dropped to one knee, and removed an oilskin packet from his satchel.
“My lady.” His voice was coarse with grit from the road. “Word from His Holiness.”
Gioffre groused, “You might have killed us on those stairs, and for what? More papers from Papa.”
Disappointed, I reached for the packet. I was glad of the darkness settling over the forecourt, even as the servants raced to light the torches now that I was present. I did not care for my father’s servant to see my dejection.
Then he pushed back his hood. With a start, I recognized his strong-featured face, the long, pointed nose, and the salty brows over deep-set Spanish eyes—Juan Cervillon, captain of the papal guard, a man so highly regarded by my father that he’d had the honor of holding the ceremonial sword over Alfonso and me at our wedding.
“Captain Cervillon,” I said in surprise. “What reason would His Holiness have to send you from Rome at this late hour, when a common messenger would have sufficed?”
“I do not come from Rome.” His smile shone on his dirty face. “I come all the way from Naples, my lady, where I spent some time visiting my family.”
“Naples?” I clutched the packet to my chest. “Did…did you see my husband?”
“I did, indeed. His Holiness sent me there to negotiate terms for my lord the duke of Bisceglie to return. That folder you hold contains his letters to you.”
I WAITED IN the courtyard, dressed in my most resplendent gown—emerald green, the color of constancy—with jewels threaded in my hair. I had decided to wear it loose, though I was married and six months’ gone with child; it shimmered like a golden veil, floating past my waist, my afternoon strolls on the parapets without a coif having polished it to a sheen.
At last, I heard the clip-clop of hooves coming up the road. Rising from the chair under the canopy, I waved aside Nicola and the linen parasol she held to protect my skin. September’s sun pressed on me like an anvil as I stepped forth. The approaching company resolved itself—a small group in unlaced doublets, loose shirtsleeves pushed up to forearms. It might have been a company of local merchants or men-for-hire, certainly not the escort of a prince.
My heart quickened.
At the gate, the men stopped. I heard ribald laughter, a catcall such as between men in a tavern—then he dismounted, handed the reins of his horse to one of his companions, and strode to me, his compact, muscular legs moving with incredible swiftness. All of a sudden he stood before me, exuding that pungent scent I had missed so much, and raised my hand to his lips.
“You have no beard,” I said. As overjoyed as I was to see him, I wasn’t about to admit it.
“Yes. I was told my wife does not like it.” His complexion was bronzed from his travels, highlighting the amber in his eyes and tousled mane.
I wanted to touch his cheek, knowing it would feel as smooth as it looked. Instead, I said with asperity, “Your wife would have preferred the beard to your absence.”
He let out a soft exhale. “About that…”
Before he launched into what was certain to be an uncomfortable explanation, I said, “There is no need to give me your apology. I read your letters. All of them.”
“All?”
“Yes. It seems your previous correspondence did not reach me.” I gave a biting laugh. “I should have known. But Captain Cervillon gallantly brought not only your letter from Naples but also stopped in Rome on his way here to obtain the others. My Murilla gave them to him.”
His jaw tightened. Without having to say it, we both understood it had been my father’s command that I should not receive any of the let
ters he had sent.
“I came back because I was promised restitution,” he said, “including full dominion over my household and wife, and the city of Nepi as recompense, to be deeded in our name. His Holiness assures me we can live where we please, once our child is born, and that Naples will not be overrun by the French, but—” He stepped so close, only a drift of air could have passed between us. “Lucrezia, I do not trust them. Not anymore. You must understand that, if we are—if our marriage is to…” He faltered. “I could not bear it. God help me, I could not endure another hour without you.”
“Nor I without you,” I whispered. I melted into his arms, felt them close around me in a protective circle that I vowed nothing from that day forth would ever break.
WE SPENT THE end of summer in Spoleto, until the leaves of the oaks turned brown and the Umbrian wind began to stir. In mid-October, we returned to Rome with Gioffre, riding into the city to the music of pipes and the antics of jugglers, who greeted us at the gates and accompanied us to our palazzo. Here, Papa himself greeted us, arrayed in his secular dress of black Spanish velvet, looking trimmer than the last time I’d seen him, less florid about the face; when I espied a striking young woman among his entourage, sheathed in carnation satin and ostentatious jewelry, I held back a smile. She resembled la Farnese, which explained the improvement in my father’s appearance.
We had not been back a week when news arrived that Louis of France had crossed into Italy to join Cesare, who won singular victory over Lombardy and conquered Milan. That northern city, prize of the Sforza domain, flung open its gates to receive its invaders. Destitute and deprived of allies, Il Moro fled with Cardinal Ascanio Sforza over the border into Tyrol, to throw themselves upon the Habsburg emperor’s dubious mercy.
Milan was now French, and my brother rode beside King Louis through the cheering crowds of Il Moro’s conquered duchy.
Alfonso turned pale when he read the reports sent by Naples’s ambassadors. Representatives of nearby princelings rushed to do homage to Louis as their new overlord: “With a deplorable lack of dignity or foresight,” Alfonso remarked, bunching up the dispatches and tossing them into the fire. “Can they not see what ill wind this brings? What is to stop Cesare now from deciding that, as he liked the apple, why not take the entire tree?”
“Papa promised us he will not touch Naples,” I said from my chair, where I sat in an awkward splay-legged position, my stomach grown twice as large in the past month. I felt clumsy, heavy, and waterlogged; I was tired most of the time, preoccupied with my impending delivery. I wanted only for there to be peace, though I feared nothing could change Cesare’s ambitions.
“Italy must never fall to one power,” Alfonso expounded, causing me to cast an uneasy glance at our servants in the background. “It is craven, let alone unconscionable, to hand over city-states like prizes at a joust. Why will His Holiness not see that? At this rate, he will let your brother become a new emperor. Already he declares that since the overlords of the Romagna refuse to pay their papal tithes, the city-states of Imola, Forlì, Faenza, Urbino, and your own former husband’s Pesaro have forfeited their rights. Cesare marches there to deprive them of it.”
“Yes,” I muttered, despising this resurgence of tension in our marriage because of my family. “Yet perhaps he will not be so successful. Has not Il Moro’s niece Countess Caterina Sforza, who rules over Imola and Forlì, replied that it will take more than a Spanish by-blow to dislodge her?”
“At least she shows the courage others lack.” My husband paced the room. “The Romagna is the gateway to the Apennines and port of Ravenna. Does your father mean to carve out a kingdom for Cesare from St. Peter’s territories?”
This time, I could not restrain myself. “If, as you say, the Romagna is part of the territories of St. Peter, then it lies under papal authority, though the lords there fail to recognize it as such. Surely in this case Cesare only goes to claim what is already ours?”
As soon as I spoke, I regretted it. My husband paused, staring at me as if I had uttered an obscenity. “Ours? The Borgia are not heirs to the keys of the kingdom. His Holiness may grace the see as our appointed vicar on earth, but when he dies, may it be many years hence, he cannot bequeath God’s earthly possessions to his progeny.”
I frowned, disliking the righteousness underscoring his statement, though of course he was right. The Holy See was not hereditary. Still, Alfonso seemed so determined to expect betrayal from my family at every turn, though Papa had taken pains to reassure him, that in the moment I had to accept that the damage done between my husband and my family might be irreparable. Despite his newly granted deed to Nepi, Alfonso would not be placated. Nor, apparently, had he found any comfort in the return of his sister, Sancia, who’d taken residence with Gioffre in the palazzo vacated by the fugitive Cardinal Sforza.
I said nothing more. On November 1, the worries over my marriage were drowned by pangs that had me gasping on my birthing stool. The household plunged into panic, my women rushing about as though we had not prepared for this very moment for months—and all their panic was for naught. After only a few hours of labor, I delivered a son.
Alfonso came to see me; as he lifted our squalling infant in his arms, tears filled his eyes. “He is beautiful. As beautiful as you are.”
I sighed. While the labor had been brief, it had exhausted me and stirred unsettling recollections of another, far less heralded birth and a child whose absence I had begun to take for granted. Nearly a year had passed since I last visited my first son, and watching Alfonso, who appeared suffused with awe by our newborn child, I had to stop myself from finally telling him.
Alfonso said, “Shall we name him Rodrigo in honor of your father? Would you like that, amore?” He was trying to make amends for our recent argument, so overjoyed that he offered me this peace offering.
I nodded, whispering, “Yes,” while I bit back my confession. It was not the time. Later, once we’d weathered these first months of having a babe of our own, I would tell him.
Papa was ecstatic. He had the child brought to him in the Vatican, where he walked the halls cradling his namesake, greeting envoys and bishops while baby Rodrigo burped up his midday meal. The christening he ordered was lavish, almost to the point of ludicrousness.
As a new mother, I had to wait forty days before I was blessed and released of the stain of childbirth, so I could not attend the ceremony in the Sistine. Alfonso told me of how Rodrigo, swathed in ermine, was borne by Captain Cervillon of the papal guard to the silver font, where my son remained unusually quiet until the baptismal water trickled over him. Then he let out a bellow, shattering the solemnity and sending Alfonso rushing toward him. But it was Papa, wearing nearly as much ermine and white silk as our child, who sailed forth to rescue his grandson, scooping him up in his arms. Immediately, Rodrigo quieted, as if he recognized the power of the man holding him.
Alfonso tried to sound amused—“Already he is more a Borgia than a son of mine”—but I heard the tightness in his voice, his unspoken regret that he’d named our child after my father. Again, I felt unease. Papa’s possessiveness should have reassured Alfonso; he had given my father a grandson, and to a Borgia, family meant everything.
Though Alfonso did not believe it, I was certain we were now safe from any harm.
—
A WEEK LATER, Cesare slipped into Rome like a lone wolf.
BECAUSE I’D NOT yet been officially churched, my appearance at an intimate Vatican dinner held in Papa’s apartments and attended by a select roster of guests was strictly private. We dined on roast pheasant, sugared hen, and smoked boar; halfway through the dessert course, the cardinals presented me with two chased silver dishes containing two hundred ducats, each coin ingeniously wrapped in colored foil to resemble a sweetmeat.
“We shall donate these in our son’s name to the orphanage of the Convent of San Sisto,” I declared.
At my side, Alfonso lifted his cup—“A toast to my wife!”—prompting
the others to follow suit and the cardinals to glower, as they’d not offered their largesse for me to turn it over to charity but rather, as I surmised, to put me in their debt for future favors.
Goblets were clinking in the candlelight when my brother materialized in the doorway—clothed in black, his dark-coppery hair cascading to his shoulders, wearing a face mask that could not disguise his identity. Uneasy recognition rippled through the assembly, the men turning pale, the women frightened yet also seeming to expand like petals under a midnight sun.
Papa behaved as if Cesare’s impromptu arrival were of no importance, ignoring my brother as he leaned by the sideboard, arms crossed at his chest. The servants tiptoed around him, clearing the platters and brushing the tablecloth of crumbs, while the guests hastily finished their desserts and scattered like deer that sense a predator in their midst.
I found myself turning to Cesare, taking in his lean form and insouciant stance, his covert smile as he watched the guests take their leave. He is satisfied, I thought. He has accomplished his every ambition, graduating from cardinal to Papa’s adviser to conqueror of Milan in little more than the two years since Juan’s death. Though he must have noticed me still seated there at the table, having learned by now that I’d given birth, he gave no indication of it.
Alfonso took me by the hand. As I kissed Papa’s cheek, he murmured, “Farfallina, you look tired. Tomorrow I shall order the forty-day rule suspended so you can be churched.”
I nodded. Still hand in hand with my husband, I stepped to the threshold, where I paused inches away from where my brother stood. He finally turned to me, his cat eyes gleaming within the mask. Dipping his head, he made as if to bow. I started to open my mouth, to welcome him back and offer congratulations on his marriage, his victory over Milan, and his impending success in the Romagna. But Alfonso’s grip on me tightened, propelling me out the door.
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