Sins of the House of Borgia

by Sarah Bower

  A glint in Donna Lucrezia’s eyes conveyed the impression that she, like me, found it hard to believe Donna Isabella would wait to be asked her opinion before giving it freely.

  “I know it’s Lent,” Donna Isabella went on, her plump fingers scrabbling for a second mint leaf in the gold and enamel thread box hanging from her girdle, “but I can’t get the taste of that pike we had at the day meal out of my mouth. I’m sure it had gone off. You’ll have to take firm charge of the kitchens here, my dear. There has been nothing but men running the house for far too long.”

  “You should try cardamoms, Isabella. They have more power over the breath than mint, and no need of sugar to preserve them.”

  The coachman’s boy placed a step beside the carriage door and I carried Fonsi down into the courtyard to relieve himself before helping Donna Lucrezia from her seat while Catherinella arranged her train. She had had no appetite for two or three weeks and seemed weak. A chill, she insisted, brought on by the change of season, but we were all certain she must be pregnant. After all, Don Alfonso had not missed a night in her bed and, as Angela put it, her voice tinged with envy, they obviously weren’t whiling away the midnight hours playing cards. Bets had been laid and we ladies were counting the days until madonna’s next course was due as carefully as those who had lovers but no husbands counted their own.

  A novice led us to the nuns’ parlour, which was divided by a wrought iron screen. On our side were upholstered chairs, a jug of wine, and a plate of unsweetened oatcakes held for us by Catherinella, whose ability to stand perfectly still for hours at a time continued to amaze me, though Angela said it was in the blood of Africans, to help conceal them from lions and elephants in the jungle. Donna Isabella also seemed to marvel at Catherinella, for I noticed she kept touching the slave, on her cheek or hand, almost as though trying to provoke her into movement. On the other side of the grille, Sister Osanna perched on a stool and drank water from an earthenware beaker to dull the sharper edges of her Lenten hunger. She was accompanied by Sister Lucia da Narni, who also bore the stigmata and had been wooed from Viterbo by Duke Ercole with the promise of this grand new convent.

  “She looks peaky,” said Donna Isabella. At first I thought she was referring to Donna Lucrezia, and was astonished at her bluntness, then realised she was peering through the screen at Sister Osanna.

  “Do the wounds look infected? Can you see, Lucrezia?” Donna Isabella craned her neck to one side, her string of pearls disappearing into a gully of flesh between neck and shoulder. “Bandages look clean anyway. I would have expected no less. Sister Lucia sets the highest standards. Spends every night sweeping the church herself, you know, except when she has her trances. Don’t you, sister?” Donna Isabella raised her voice to ensure she could be heard through the screen; the effect was as if she were trying to make herself understood by an imbecile.

  I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck; my scalp prickled. I was certain that, somehow, Sister Lucia had looked into my heart and put there the image of Mariam sweeping out our house in preparation for Shabbat, and myself trimming the candles in the menorah, always with one eye on the square of dimming light beyond the open shutters where soon the evening star would appear to mark the beginning of our holy day.

  Donna Isabella, whose plump fingers had been creeping once more towards her box of mint leaves, redirected her hand to the oatcakes as Sister Osanna, fixing Donna Lucrezia with her gaze, said, in that loud, flat voice of hers, “You must look to the foundations, daughter. Fires may be set there. Do not give them air to breathe.”

  I was afraid of how madonna might react in her present frail state, but she merely frowned, as though presented with a puzzle to which she did not have the key.

  “Perhaps her words are meant for me,” said Donna Isabella hopefully, through a spray of crumbs which attracted close attention from the little dog in my lap. But Sister Osanna seemed scarcely aware of her existence. Her eyes, I noticed, were set very shallow in their sockets; they lay on the surface of her face like puddles of silvery water.

  A hectic flush appeared on Donna Lucrezia’s cheeks and an angry glitter in her eyes. “I think not,” she said, “for Sister Osanna prophesied in my presence in Rome.” Her phrasing was careful, but if she lost her temper she might reveal more than she intended.

  As Donna Isabella’s brows rose in interrogative arches, I felt compelled to speak, whatever the consequences. “She assured my lady that her marriage to Don Alfonso would be happy and fruitful, madonna.” Well, it was done now, and what would follow, would follow, but at least Cesare would be safe from any divulgence of the curious scene I had witnessed between him and Sister Osanna in Rome. Though I had no idea of its meaning, some instinct told me he would not welcome its being bandied around the salons and dining halls and bathhouses of the fashionable set in the Veneto.

  After waiting for Donna Lucrezia to reproach me for my boldness, which she failed to do, Donna Isabella arched her eyebrows a notch higher and said, with a scornful snort, “You could scarcely call that a prophecy.”

  “Given your family’s antipathy to the match I would call it little short of miraculous,” Donna Lucrezia came back, as fast and hard as if she were hitting a French tennis ball.

  Donna Isabella retreated. “All the same, I am surprised you allow your ladies so much liberty. You should not have spoken for your mistress that way, girl.”

  “Monna Violante and I are of a single mind in this and many other matters.” Donna Lucrezia turned the full force of her gaze on me, the candour of her wide, grey eyes having the effect of letting daylight into a long darkened room. Of course she had understood from the beginning about Cesare and me. How could she not? If she had said nothing it was because nothing needed to be said.

  That night, though she dined with Don Alfonso as usual, Donna Lucrezia slept alone. There was much speculation among us ladies as to what excuse she had made to her husband, and whether or not it might be the truth. Certainly, said Elisabetta Senese, he was smiling as he called for a torch bearer to accompany him into the town.

  In the depths of the night I awoke, thinking at first I had been disturbed by the ringing of the Matins bell from one of the city’s monasteries. Then the sound of a woman’s anguished weeping reached my ears, so heartbroken it had pierced my dreams. Parisina, I thought, and held my breath. My lungs shrivelled and froze in my chest. I dare not wake Angela because if I moved, Parisina would hear me and come looking for me, cradling her weeping head in her arms. I do not know how long I remained listening, rigid as a corpse under my bedclothes, before nature compelled me to take a deep breath and with air came common sense. The sound was coming from the direction of Donna Lucrezia’s dressing room, which was separated from the chamber I shared with Angela only by a set of double doors.

  I wrapped myself in my robe, lit a candle from the embers of our fire, and went to attend my mistress. She was sitting at the table where she normally kept her cosmetics and perfumes, but all these had been swept to the floor. Glass vials with their stoppers dislodged released scents of rose and lavender, bergamot and clove oil into the chilly night air; the marble tiles were patterned with lead powder and cochineal. Her head was in her hands, her elbows either side of a small, ornate casket worked in gold filigree and velvet lined, which might once have contained a piece of jewellery. So intently did she seem to be peering into it, I wondered if she had lost something, or feared it stolen.

  “Madonna?”

  She did not appear surprised to see me. “I was dreaming,” she said, turning to me. Her eyes were puffy and snot trickled unheeded from her nose. “About Ugo and Parisina.” Her teeth chattered, her words squeezed between cold stiffened jaws. I removed my robe and put it around her shoulders.

  “When I heard you crying, I thought for a minute it was Parisina’s ghost.” I gave a sheepish smile but she did not seem to notice.

  “I can’t do this, Violante. I thought I could but I can’t.” Dropping her head into her hand
s once again, she clenched her fists around hanks of loose hair and let her tears fall into the empty box. “Everywhere I am watched. D’you know why I came in here? Because I have discovered there is a loose panel in my bedroom ceiling.”

  “Just something in need of repair, I expect, madonna.”

  She recovered herself slightly, more indignant now than distressed. “And what is above my bedroom? The roof. Where my husband has his lenses set up for looking at the stars. Or so I thought.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. I began to pick up some of the bottles and jars from the floor. I was cold and needed to do something to warm myself. But when I tried to move the casket to one side she grabbed it fiercely and held it to her chest, though it contained nothing more precious than her tears. I wondered what made her so fearful of being seen with it, yet so reluctant to give it up. Had it contained a gift from Don Alfonso?

  “What do you think Sister Osanna meant by her words this afternoon?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know, madonna. Perhaps that you must do your best to make sure your marriage is established on strong foundations.”

  “I fear it was both less simple and more perspicacious,” she said, looking away into the darkness beyond the intersecting circles of light cast by our candles. Snapping the lid of the casket shut, she turned back to me with the air of someone who has come to a decision. “And if I am right, then she is right; I must always have regard to the foundations. It is what…it is…Violante…” Still clutching the box to her breast with one hand, she reached out to me with the other and grasped the sleeve of my nightgown. “Whatever happens in the future, we must remember that underneath all this, the new decorations, the fine furniture, the music and what have you, in that dungeon, there are those two lovers.”

  I shivered.

  “No, no, no, I don’t mean it that way. Not ghosts. Love. The power of love. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. I understood nothing; when I look back now, I can scarcely credit my ignorance, nor imagine what I would have done with the burden of understanding. My head ached with cold and bewilderment. All I wanted was for this interview to be over so I could climb into bed beside Angela and warm my feet between her smooth calves. “Let me help you back to bed, madonna.”

  “Very well, but blow out the candles. In case he’s having me watched.”

  “Shall I take this? Where would you like me to put it?” I placed a hand on the casket, but she merely tightened her grip upon it.

  “It’s all right; I’ll see to it myself. But Violante?”

  “Yes, madonna.”

  “If anything should happen to me, you must be sure and give this to Cesare. He will know why.” She paused, her mouth working as if she could not decide whether to speak or keep the words dammed up inside. “My whole life is in this little box,” she said eventually, then yawned as though saying these words had cost her all the energy she had left. I did not know how to reply, so blew out the candles as she had insisted, and led her back to her bed chamber, barking my shins and elbows on door jambs, chair legs, the corners of tables. It was as though the room had completely rearranged itself under cover of darkness.

  Suddenly she let go of my hand and said, “Catherinella will take care of me now. She can see in the dark.” Only then was I aware of the slave’s presence, her steady, regular breathing, the whites of her eyes gleaming in some light whose source I could not determine, the whisper of her bare feet as she moved across the room towards her mistress, sure as a cat.

  Unable even to find my candle where I had left it in the dressing room, I blundered back to bed. I did not get into Angela’s bed because I did not want to wake her and have to tell her about my conversation with Donna Lucrezia. Instead, I lay shivering, wondering if she had fallen prey to some sickness of the mind, yet even more afraid that she had not. I never mentioned our exchange to anyone, and when we went in to dress her next morning, and, over our wine and hot water and fresh white rolls, to gossip about the day to come, we both behaved as though it had never taken place.

  ***

  Just before the beginning of Holy Week, Ippolito arrived from Rome with a baggage train almost as long as that which had accompanied us to Ferrara. Watching with me from the balcony of the Camera Dal Pozzolo where we were accustomed to sew and gossip when Donna Lucrezia had no official function to perform, Angela sprang up and down on the balls of her feet like a little girl, clapping her hands and squealing with delight at the prospect of presents from Ippolito. It took nearly an hour for his procession of mules, carriages, ox-carts, and boxes balanced like tabernacles on carrying poles, to make its way through the piazza.

  By this time, Ippolito had joined us on our balcony, having been told his father was out hunting in the Barco, and preferring our company to that of his brothers. Angela rushed across the room with the force of a small tornado as he was announced, flinging herself into his arms so he staggered a little, a dazed smile spreading across his face. Angela had obviously decided that, having survived the latest cull of madonna’s household, which had seen both Cousin Geronima and Donna Adriana return to Rome in the company of Cesare’s gentlemen, her position in Ferrara was now strong enough to throw discretion to the winds.

  Or perhaps she had some other reason for her display of affection. Her silence on the subject of Giulio was not, I was certain, a result of any lack of interest on his part. Though I had never seen them alone together, I had noticed how often he contrived to sit near her at Mass, how he always seemed to be on hand to tighten a girth for her, or pick up a dropped book, or re-string her lute when she complained her fingers were too sore from playing. Their conversation was never more than ordinarily polite, but the discourse between their two bodies struck a different note entirely. But if they had not reached any understanding, Angela would not want to forfeit her cardinal’s affection.

  “Well,” said Ippolito, “what a welcome. Tell me, where is your lady? I must chide her instantly for the lack of decorum among her women.” His voice trembled slightly with surprise and delight, and I was sorry for him. More than that, I felt a sense of foreboding, an urge to warn him of something though I had no idea what. It was as though time stopped for a second, and the way certain things become visible at dawn or dusk, in unaccustomed guises, I saw behind the decorated walls, below the rich rugs and polished floor, the savagery of this old castle. Trapped in its red stones was the pain of all the tortured prisoners, abused slaves, humiliated opponents, discarded lovers, the wives dead in childbirth, infants taken by fevers, the soldiers and fratricides and faithful retainers whose bodies bent to the service of the Este as a tree bends to the prevailing wind.

  “My dear goddaughter. Are you well? You look a little…absent. Not the wine again, I trust?” I was condemned to be embarrassed afresh every time Ippolito and I met, but I concealed my irritation. He meant no unkindness by it; on the contrary, he made a joke of it so I would understand I was pardoned.

  “Oh, it is her heart that is sick, not her stomach,” teased Angela, her arm through Ippolito’s, her skirt entwined in the folds of his soutane.

  “Still? Well, I may have a remedy for that,” he said, patting a leather scrip which hung from his belt, “but first, I must see my sister, Donna Lucrezia. Where is she? Don’t tell me she’s out hunting too.”

  “No this morning, she’s in bed. She could not keep her breakfast down. We think she’s…” Angela made a little dome over her belly with her free hand and, putting her mouth close to Ippolito’s ear, whispered, “enceinte.”

  “Well, that is good news. And so quickly. Clearly my brother has been assiduous in his duty.”

  “Oh, assiduous,” Angela repeated, spinning out the vowels and sibilants as though the word were Eve’s serpent uncoiling from her lovely mouth.

  A remedy, I thought, staring at Ippolito’s scrip. A letter, it must be, a letter from Cesare. But why not give it to me? Why must he see Lucrezia first? I could not bear to wait while he loitered with his mistress, sharing he
r lascivious jokes and teasing me about my poor head for wine.

  “I will go and see if she is fit to receive you,” I said, rising in such haste the collar I was embroidering slipped from my lap in a tangle of needles and different coloured threads. I could hear Angela laughing as I hurried towards the door.

  There was something instantly calming about the bed chamber, despite the faint odour of vomit and stale bedlinen hanging in the air. The bed curtains had been drawn back, though the windows remained covered, giving the light which filtered through the green silk drapery a cool, underwater quality. I thought Donna Lucrezia, her hair unbound and spread over her pillows, looked like a mermaid. Catherinella stood at the bedside, fanning her mistress with slow sweeps of a paddle-shaped palm fan. Fonsi lay in the crook of Donna Lucrezia’s arm, snoring gently.

  “How are you feeling, madonna?”

  She waved a limp hand and Catherinella stopped fanning.

  “Would you like me to uncover the windows? The air is rather stale in here and it’s a lovely morning outside.”

  Frowning, she shook her head. “I have such a headache, Violante.” Her voice was plaintive and girlish.

  “Madam is sick so often it strains her here.” Catherinella put her free hand to the back of her neck.

  I made a sympathetic hum in the back of my throat, but persisted. “I have news I hope may cheer you, madonna. Cardinal Ippolito has arrived with letters from Rome. He would like to see you.” My hearty tone reminded me of Sister Beatrice who used to supervise us playing ball games at Santa Clara.

  “I wondered what the commotion was.” Donna Lucrezia smiled, and I fancied her cheeks began to show a little better colour. “I suppose he has travelled as light as ever?”

  “I imagine the end of his train is not yet through the city gate, madonna.” We laughed. Fonsi awoke and began to wag his tiny plume of a tail.

  “Well,” said Donna Lucrezia, pulling herself up a little against the pillows, “I’m sure I cannot be sick again this morning. There is not even a drop of water left in my stomach, I’m certain.”