The Borgia Bride

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  But no one had counted on the depth of Giovanni’s fear: and he wisely feared the Borgias—especially since his native state of Milan, which his powerful family ruled, had been unwise enough to support the French King, Charles, during the invasion. At least, his unease was officially attributed to this.

  For three months, Sforza played the role of Lucrezia’s husband—rather skittishly, for, according to his servants, His Holiness had given him the choice between coming to his bride…or an uncertain and unspecified fate. The married couple were polite to each other in public, and were seen together only as often as circumstance demanded. But if any affection existed between them, I did not see it. Lucrezia played her role as wife with great dignity, though Giovanni’s obvious desire to be elsewhere must have shamed her greatly. I did my best to distract Lucrezia from this pain with small adventures, just as she had done for me.

  But no harm ever came to Giovanni. If anything, the Pope and his children did everything to make Sforza feel welcome and honoured; in all ceremonies, his rank was just below that of Juan and Cesare. In fact, on Palm Sunday, Giovanni was one of those very few allowed to receive the sacred palm blessed by His Holiness.

  But on the morning of Good Friday, Sforza set out at dawn on horseback, and fled back to his native Pesaro, from whence he could not be coaxed.

  Rumours abounded. One said that Sforza’s servant had overheard Lucrezia and Cesare plotting his murder by poison; this was the most persistent.

  But the cruellest words came not from the whispers of talebearers, but from Giovanni himself—charges he dared make only from the safety of his fortress in Pesaro. His wife had been ‘immodest’, he said, in rambling public letters explaining his situation. There were hints that this lack of modesty was barbarous in the extreme, something that no normal husband could ever be persuaded to tolerate.

  I understood at once: Sforza had seen what I had seen between the Pope and Lucrezia. He knew what I knew—apparently had known about their illicit affair very soon after his marriage to the Pope’s daughter. And his nerves had never permitted him to live under such a strain.

  I could not fault the man. But my heart ached for Lucrezia. She had seemed relieved to have him back—and now, the act of his fleeing caused a swirl of gossip to envelop her. No one dared speak ill of His Holiness, or accuse him of initiating incest; but Lucrezia was not spared. Whore, they called her, the Pope’s wife and daughter.

  In Florence, Savonarola railed with uncommon fervour against the sins of Rome, going so far as to call for violence against the Pope and his Church. The reformer-priest wrote to the rulers of nations, urging them to seize Alexander’s tiara; he called on the French King, Charles, to swoop down upon Italy and once again ‘render judgment’.

  The Pope immediately set to work on an annulment for Lucrezia…and excommunicated Savonarola in May.

  Lucrezia bore it all as long as she could; and then, in June, without the knowledge or consent of His Holiness, she gathered up a select few ladies and retreated to the nearby Dominican convent of San Sisto. She would, she told her father, become a nun. She had finished with marriage, and men.

  Alexander was furious. A marriageable daughter was a useful political tool, one he would not surrender. Days after Lucrezia’s arrival at the convent, he sent an armed contingent of men, demanding that the nuns turn Lucrezia over, ‘as it was best she be in the care of her father’.

  This set Roman tongues wagging even faster. See? He cannot bear to be without her for a day.

  The prioress of the convent, one Sister Girolama, confronted the men alone. No doubt, she was a brave and consummately eloquent woman, for the soldiers left San Sisto without their prize, much to Alexander’s outrage.

  Lucrezia would not return. I began to believe that she had been coerced into the incestuous relationship with her father. I felt deep, honest pity for the woman.

  In time, Alexander cooled, and let Lucrezia remain at San Sisto. He thought that she would grow bored with monastic life, and yearn for her parties once more.

  But there was one thing he did not know, which I was soon to learn.

  I went incognita to visit Lucrezia at San Sisto, and was escorted silently to her suite by one of the white-robed sisters. Lucrezia’s quarters were hardly spartan; they were lavishly-appointed, large chambers which had been constructed especially for visiting nobility, and Lucrezia had arranged for much of her own furniture to be brought, that she might be less homesick.

  But she was not in; I was greeted by Pantsilea, who was scarcely older than Lucrezia herself, but had the air of a much more mature woman. Pantsilea was pretty, a warm, indulgent creature, slender and beautiful. Her black hair was smoothed back from her face revealing a severe, attractive widow’s peak; and on this day, her normally-unlined brow was furrowed with worry over her charge.

  ‘How is she?’ I asked, with some alarm at Donna Pantsilea’s expression.

  ‘Madonna Sancha,’ she said unhappily, and kissed the back of my hand. She spoke frankly, as we two were alone; Lucrezia’s other two attendants had gone with her to chapel, and Perotto had been dismissed to the kitchen. ‘I am so glad you have come. I have never seen her this distraught over anything. She does not eat, she does not sleep. I fear…Madonna, I truly fear that she will do something drastic.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘I mean that she…’ Pantsilea’s voice dropped to a whisper ‘…she may try to end her own life.’

  The statement so shocked me that I found no words for a reply—which was as well, since at that moment, we heard footsteps approaching. The chamber door soon opened, and Lucrezia appeared, flanked by her other ladies.

  Dressed entirely in black, she was paler than I had ever seen her, with shadows beneath her eyes; any hint of her former gaiety had completely disappeared, replaced now with a sombreness that was heartbreaking to see.

  ‘Donna Sancha!’ she said, and gave me a ghostly smile. We embraced, and I felt her bones easily through the flesh; she had lost a great deal of weight. ‘How good to see you!’

  ‘I have missed you,’ I said honestly. ‘I wanted to see how you were.’

  Lucrezia gave a wave of her hand, dismissing her ladies into the other chamber, so that we could converse in private. ‘Well,’ she said, still smiling her unhappy little smile, ‘so you can see.’

  She sat down upon a large floor pillow; I settled beside her and took her hand earnestly. ‘Lucrezia, please. I am worried for your sake. Even Pantsilea is terribly concerned. You have shown me such kindness, and I cannot bear to see the vicious words of others harm you so.’

  She startled me completely by erupting into tears. I held her for a time and let her sob into my shoulder, trying to imagine myself in her position—what a strange and horrible place, indeed!

  And then she startled me even more thoroughly, when she raised her face and said, ‘It is even worse than you think, Sancha. I think I am pregnant.’

  I could not find my tongue.

  ‘Giovanni is not the father,’ she continued, in a wavering voice. ‘If I were to tell you—’

  I held up my hand. ‘I know who the father is.’

  She stared at me in amazement.

  ‘But we shall not speak his name,’ I said. ‘For to do so might cost me my life. So let us agree that I can sympathize with your situation—but let us also agree that I have never uttered the father’s name aloud. So it cannot be said for certain that I know the truth.’

  ‘Sancha, how do you—?’

  ‘I blame you for nothing, Lucrezia. My heart grieves to see you in such difficult circumstances. I can only offer my friendship and help.’

  I watched her expression as curiosity melted away to sorrow again. I held her, thankful my own life was not so filled with misery.

  At last she managed to contain herself, and drew back to study my face. ‘Will you do one favour for me?’ she asked, in a manner that sounded disturbingly akin to a request for a deathbed promise. ‘Wil
l you forgive Cesare for how he has wronged you?’

  I stiffened. I was at once hurt and angered by the thought that Cesare had confided in anyone about our affair, and certainly about my horrific encounter with Juan—even if that person was his own sister.

  ‘You must understand that Cesare has been miserable without you,’ she persisted. ‘He was a fool, because he has been betrayed by women many times…and your beauty makes him impossibly jealous. But I have never seen him so in love as he is with you. Have pity on him, Sancha.’

  ‘Let Cesare speak for himself,’ I responded coldly. ‘Only then will I answer him.’

  I returned that evening to the palace of Santa Maria. I did not for an instant believe that Cesare had experienced a change of heart; I felt Lucrezia was only being kind, trying out of a sense of loyalty to smooth things between us.

  But before the sun was gone an hour from the sky, a knock came at my chamber door, and a young servant girl left a sealed letter with Donna Esmeralda.

  I took it from her greedily, and read it alone on the balcony overlooking the garden. It was written in Cesare’s precise, measured script:

  My dearest Sancha

  I have been the world’s greatest fool to doubt you, and am deserving of no less than the punishments of the innermost circle of Hell. These I shall certainly suffer in this life if you do not have mercy and come to meet me tonight…But they are no more than I deserve. I shall await you, with my heart in my hands as a gift. Yet should you decide not to come, I shall understand entirely, and remain yours, forever.

  Cesare

  I did not want to go. I wanted to punish him, to make him wait as I had, my hope slowly dying, then turning to pain.

  I wanted to go: to make his heart light up with joy at the sight of me, only to be wrenched in two when I spat in his face.

  I wanted to go: to throw my arms about him, to rejoice that he was once again mine, to whisper vows of undying love.

  In the end, I went.

  Cesare knew what to do to win someone to his side. At the sight of me, he dropped to his knees, then pressed his forehead to the gravel. ‘I shall not rise until you give me leave, Madonna.’

  I studied him for a moment, thinking of Juan, thinking of the imprints such pebbles had left on my own skin, thinking of the indignity and hurt I had experienced since that day. At last I said, ‘Rise.’

  And drew back my veil.

  XX

  That night, my affair with Cesare resumed with all its former passion. He swore vengeance against Juan—but ‘at a time and place where it will be appropriate.’ I hushed him. What possible action could we take against Juan, the apple of the Pope’s eye, without ourselves being endangered? All I wanted from Cesare was reassurance that I was forever protected from Juan’s touch, and this he swore with a vehemence that was frightening.

  The following morning, I rode back to San Sisto to visit Lucrezia. This time, I was armed with pastries and delicacies calculated to tempt her squeamish palate. It was early June, and the weather was extravagantly lovely; every fragrant flower was in bloom. I was ecstatic after the previous night’s encounter with Cesare—so much so that I felt guilt at going to see Lucrezia, whose own life was profoundly unhappy.

  I arrived at Lucrezia’s convent chambers only to discover she was again in chapel: Pantsilea greeted me, this time even more distraught. She dismissed the other servants so that we two were alone, and only then did she show me the official document resting on a table.

  I had a fair acquaintance with Latin, and read the document silently, with growing amazement. It stated that Lucrezia had been in Sforza’s family

  triennium et ultra translata absque alia exus permixtione steterat nulla nuptiali commixtione, nullave copula carnali conjuxione subsecuta, et quod erat parata jurara et indicio ostreticum se subiicere.

  Lucrezia’s timid signature followed.

  It was an appeal for a divorce, allowable under papal law, if, as the document stated, the marriage had not been consummated in three years. In addition, Lucrezia agreed to submit herself to a physical examination by midwives, to prove her virginity.

  Pantsilea’s great dark eyes were haunted. ‘His Holiness is already accepting bids from suitors. He is thinking of this only politically, without any concern for Lucrezia’s feelings. She has told me she will die before she marries again. She has been speaking strangely, Madonna, as if she is trying to say goodbye…’

  She drew closer and, in a low voice, said, ‘I could be killed for telling you this, Donna Sancha, but I accept such risk if it saves Lucrezia’s life. She possesses a store of the canterella, some of which she has brought with her—’

  I frowned, unfamiliar with the term. ‘Canterella?’

  She was surprised by my ignorance. ‘The poison for which the Borgias are famous. Very lethal. I fear Lucrezia intends to take it herself—very soon. She was weeping as she signed the document, Donna Sancha. I think she has gone now to make her peace with God.’

  I was aghast. ‘Why do you tell me such secrets? What can I do?’

  ‘I have been searching as quickly as I can for the canterella, to keep it from her, but I have been unable to find where she has hidden it. Can you help?’

  I stared at her. She was asking me to endanger my life—but, I reminded myself, it was for Lucrezia’s sake, Lucrezia who had been so kind when despair had overtaken me. I nodded assent.

  ‘It is in a small, stoppered vial of green Venetian glass,’ Pantsilea continued urgently. ‘I have been going through her trunk, her jewels—but there is also a chance she has put it in one of her gowns.’ She gestured at the great armoire.

  I went to it and opened its doors as Pantsilea re-opened a trunk and set to work. Lucrezia had brought only four drab gowns with her; she had not come to socialize or tarry long. I understood the noblewoman’s need for deception and protection: all my gowns had a small sheath in the bodice. Perhaps Lucrezia had designed something similar…

  In order to examine the gowns properly, I had to step up into the armoire itself. The sleeves were the most obvious place, and it was there I began my search.

  I had scarce started smoothing my hands over the fabric when I heard a man’s voice in the corridor—a very familiar one, calling for Lucrezia. Before I could react, Donna Pantsilea closed the armoire doors over me, hissing, ‘Do not move, do not say a word.’

  This seemed ridiculous. All I needed to do was step from the armoire, close the doors, and behave innocently—hiding in the closet would provoke enormous suspicion should I be discovered. Why would Pantsilea want to keep my presence secret?

  But the deed was done; I held still, staring through the small slit in the armoire doors as Cesare entered the chamber, then gave a cursory glance down at the divorce document.

  ‘Call for Lucrezia,’ he told Pantsilea curtly, ‘then see that we are left alone.’

  She nodded. Once she had left to obey, I almost emerged, thinking to tell Cesare that I had hidden as a joke to surprise him, since I had heard his voice in the corridor. But the more time that passed, the less like a joke my appearance would seem; and after all, we had been reconciled only recently. Both Cesare and Lucrezia would look askance at such a silly antic, so I stayed in my awkward position.

  Cesare paced the room, intense and humourless. Apparently, he was attending to his father’s business, but took no pleasure in the fact.

  Lucrezia and her ladies then appeared. At the sight of Cesare, her heretofore glum expression brightened; she dismissed her attendants at once, and clasped her brother’s hands.

  They both looked down at the divorce decree.

  ‘So, it is done,’ Cesare said.

  Lucrezia sighed unhappily—but certainly not fatally so, as Donna Pantsilea feared. Her tone was one of simple resignation. ‘It is done.’

  Comfortingly, Cesare stroked her cheek. ‘I will make sure you have an agreeable husband. Someone of higher rank than Sforza. Someone young this time; someone handsome and charming.’
>
  ‘There can be no one more charming than you.’ She put her hands upon his shoulders, and he caught her by the waist; they kissed.

  It was not an embrace between brother and sister.

  Motionless in the armoire, I took in a long, silent breath along with a realization that pierced like a sword. I swayed beneath a wave of unspeakable revulsion; dizzied, I reached out a hand cautiously, soundlessly, pressing against polished wood to keep from staggering.

  When they drew apart, Lucrezia said, ‘I want the child to stay within the family.’

  ‘The old bastard is convinced it’s his,’ Cesare replied. ‘I’ve already talked him into signing a secret bull. The child will be a Borgia, with full rights. You know I will make sure it’s always well cared for.’

  She smiled and took his hand; he kissed her open palm.

  ‘Poor Lucrezia,’ he said. ‘This isn’t easy for you.’

  She gave a sad little shrug. ‘You have your own difficulties.’

  ‘Juan is a buffoon. It’s only a matter of time before he creates an opportunity for us to be rid of him.’

  ‘You are too hard on him,’ she chided gently.

  ‘I am too honest,’ he replied. ‘And the only Borgia intelligent enough to be Captain-General.’

  ‘The only male Borgia,’ Lucrezia corrected him, and he smiled.

  ‘That is true. Were you male, I would have no chance at the position; you would outwit me before I dared try.’ He let go her hand, rolled the document into a scroll, then tied it carefully with a ribbon. ‘I will take this to His Holiness. Will I see you tomorrow?’