Sins of the House of Borgia

by Sarah Bower

  “He was a great favourite of Cesar’s. ‘Nature loves concealment,’ he said, which might have been written for Cesar. He also speaks of a logos which gives order to chaos but is comprehensible only to a very few. Well, at Nepi, for a kind of philosophical second, I understood it. I saw what we had to do with absolute clarity. I wrote two letters, one to Cesar, begging him to come to me at Nepi and ask my forgiveness for I felt my grief so severely I feared I would not live. He was not the only one who could tell pretty lies, you see, or make them believed.

  “The other letter was to Ercole d’Este, proposing myself as a wife for Don Alfonso. I know. Breathtaking boldness, but I knew my father had already opened tentative negotiations, and the stakes were very high for me. And Giovanni. My father was old and enfeebled by his accident and my brother apparently unhinged with jealousy where I was concerned even if the things he did in the rest of his life made sense. Who else had I to rely on but myself? And a marriage into a family as distinguished as the Este would make me safe, part of the establishment. Regardless of Cesar, that was the best way open to me of securing Giovanni’s future.”

  We were interrupted by a discreet scratching on the door.

  “What is it?” madonna snapped.

  “The cardinal sends to know if you will dine with him tonight,” replied a disembodied voice.

  “Please thank the cardinal and tell him I do not yet feel well enough. I will dine in my room.”

  We waited in silence as soft footsteps padded away. “This is not a conversation I would wish overheard,” said madonna.

  “I should like to have seen Duke Ercole’s face when he received your letter.”

  “His reply was very prompt and courteous. I had written to him at length about my religion, and my interest in the stigmata, as well as reminding him I had proved my ability to produce a healthy son,” an ironic laugh here, “and to administer my property in my own name. Oh, and I might have touched on my brother’s territorial ambitions and his recent military successes. He could not help but listen to what I had to say.”

  “And Cesare?”

  “He came, as you know. He was on his way to join his troops for an autumn campaign, and stopped a night with me. Yes,” she said, intercepting my glance, “a night.

  “How strange it is that secretive people are often also histrionic. He entered the hall of my castle in full armour, with his head bare, looking for all the world like a figure from a novel of chivalry, and without saying a word, fell to his knees at my feet and kissed the hem of my dress. D’you know, Violante,” her voice became remote, “I have asked myself over and over if that is the last sound he heard.”

  “What?”

  “That clash of his armour as he fell from his horse. And if it reminded him, if he was thinking of…well, never mind, that is idle speculation. One part of me knew it was an act. Clearly he had not ridden all the way from Rome in full armour. He must have stopped just outside Nepi to put it on. But the other part, the part that was his, could think of nothing but that he was here, alone with me, with all his beautiful hair spread out around my feet like a lake of fire. I knelt and put my arms around him, and for a moment that could have cost us everything; I believed we could just stay that way forever, locked up in the old fort, hidden from the world, living on love.”

  I was suddenly, strangely, moved to take her hands in mine, to show her it was not just our looks we shared, but our wild dreams as well.

  “I led him to my own chamber and helped him out of his armour myself so we wouldn’t be disturbed. He thought…what men always think, but I told him no, I had important things to say to him. He prevaricated, insisted he wanted a bath, told me I could talk to him while he bathed, and I could wash his hair because I always washed it better than anyone else. The bath was filled. He undressed in front of me as if he were a whore and I his client, and his beauty there, in the firelight and the steam from the water, nearly broke my heart. As he knew it would.

  “But he had underestimated me this time. So he bided his time and took his bath quite meekly and I washed his hair, and told him what I had brought him there to tell him. That he had gone too far by murdering Alfonso and that, however much we loved each other, we must never again allow ourselves to be driven by our passion. Because we had to think of Giovanni, always Giovanni.

  “I told him I knew he and Papa had discussed the possibility of marrying me next to Alfonso d’Este, so I had written to the duke myself and assured him he would find in me an eager, pious, and loyal daughter-in-law who would always put her husband’s will ahead of that of her father or her brother. I had hinted that my presence in Ferrara would curb any designs my brother might have upon that state, for surely Ferrara would become his ally in the circumstances. I told him he must carry on building his state and that my presence in Ferrara would secure his northern border and keep Venice out of his affairs until he was strong enough to take her on. One day, I said, our son would be King of Italy.

  “Cesar began to shiver. I held a towel for him as he climbed out of the bath and wrapped it around him as if he were a child and told myself the feel of his body beneath the cloth meant nothing to me. I tried to make my heart as hard as the old stones sheltering us, but I failed. I had intended to make him leave straight away, but I couldn’t resist him with his skin all scrubbed and smelling of soap. So we…and then I combed his hair while it dried by the fire and the night drew in.

  “When I awoke next morning, he was gone, so I knew he had understood. That was our last time. From now on we could not think of ourselves, only of Giovanni and the state we would build him.

  “Now do you understand why I was so furious about Urbino? It was a rash act; it jeopardised what we had given up so much for. It betrayed our love. It made a mockery of everything I had sacrificed for him.”

  I stared at her. I no longer knew what to think. There was something of the cosmic jest in the revelation that the great Valentino, scourge alike of Italy’s tyrants and Italy’s women, had given his heart and his obedience all along to his little sister. Yet at the same time, her power over him put me in awe of her. I fiddled with the letters, unsure if I should feel honoured by her confidence or hurt by her utter disregard for my own feelings.

  And picked up a rough square of what appeared to be bed linen, on which were scrawled, in blotchy ink the colour of brick dust, the words which made up my mind: Pio tells me Girolamo shows spirit and a sharp intelligence. Keep him close, Lucia, and do not let him forget Giovanni is my heir. My son was all I had left now, all that was made of Cesare and me and what had been between us, just us, not mediated or manipulated by Donna Lucrezia. Why should he, like me, pass his life as second best? I would take him from Don Alberto and go away, far away, where the name of Borgia meant nothing. Angela would help me, and in the end Donna Lucrezia would see it was for the best. It would ensure Giovanni had no rival for his father’s inheritance.

  I found Angela in our old room with her maid, packing for her return to Sassuolo. As I came in she turned to me, holding the black and white striped bodice I had taken from Nepi up to her chest.

  “Darling, can I take this? It would look so nice if…” Her words died away as she saw my face. Dismissing the maid, she said, “You know, don’t you? She’s told you. I wondered if she might…now. Come and sit down. This is terrible for you.”

  I shook off the hand which pawed at my sleeve. “I haven’t time. She’s waiting for me to fetch Giovanni, before his bedtime.”

  Angela looked aghast, her face pale and sharp in the candlelight which still shivered a little in the draught of my arrival. I looked away, at the open chests and boxes strewn about the room and the emptiness beneath.

  “She’s not going to tell him, is she?”

  “Of course not. He’s just another excuse for her to go on about Cesare.”

  “You’re upset. Take a little time. I’m sure Giovanni’s bedtime can wait, in the circumstances.”

  “Oh stop trying to be kind. It’s a
bit late for that now. You knew about…them, Cesare and…,” but I could not bring myself to link their names out loud, “all the time. Why didn’t you tell me? What sort of friend are you?” The image of Giulio, his bright hair blowing across his scarred face, seemed to give me my answer.

  “I tried,” she shouted, “I tried a thousand times but you would never listen. You were as blind as that revolting old dog of his where Cesare was concerned.”

  “Well I’m listening now. Help me get Girolamo back. Tell me how I do that and I’ll never trouble any of you again.”

  I might as well have asked her to steal madonna’s jewellery or seduce Duke Alfonso. “She’d kill you before she’d let you have him. It’s impossible. You don’t think just because Cesare’s dead she’s given up her ambitions for him? She’ll keep those two boys closer than ever now. Your only hope of seeing Girolamo is to carry on here as if nothing had changed.”

  “No. How can I? I’ll take him away. It’s Giovanni she’s interested in anyway. Girolamo and I can just…disappear.” I thought of Gideon’s letter, and suddenly knew why I had kept it despite its insolence, despite the risk. “I know how. I have a plan.”

  Angela made a great play of covering her ears with her hands. “Don’t tell me. I really can’t be part of this.”

  “No, of course you can’t. You never could. Have a safe journey. I shall probably sleep in the nursery tonight so I don’t expect I shall see you before you go.”

  You follow love. Even if the path leads to shoddy compromises, secrets, and lies. Yet how can you follow it beyond the point where you cease to be the person to whom that love means something? What Mariam had never understood, living meekly in her servant’s room with its earth floor and poor furniture, was that love requires you to be true to yourself first.

  EPILOGUE

  CACHIQUIN, ON THE DAY OF ATONEMENT, 5281

  This morning my captors finally decided it was safe to unchain me. I have been fastened to the wall by my wrists and ankles since being brought here—five or six days, I think. I have kept myself from going mad with pain and inertia by thinking about the Christmas I spent at Cesena, when I was most alive, touring around the mountain villages incognito, wrestling and dancing and drinking too much of their fearsome spirit and fucking their plump women. I was happy, Lucia, just plain, heedless happy. You know why? Because no one knew who I was.

  There is little more to tell now about the time and the ways in which I served Donna Lucrezia Borgia, the Duchess of Ferrara. My life since I left Italy is part of another story, one in which I am no one’s mother or daughter, servant or concubine or double, but just myself. It has no place in this tale of masks and pretences, so I will not tell it here.

  ***

  A requiem Mass was sung for the most noble and illustrious Duke of Romagna and Valentinois, Seigneur of France, in the cathedral of Ferrara on a Wednesday in May. The Este family, preceded by their clergy and followed by their households, processed across the square in bright sunlight which already carried within itself the ferocity of summer. All wore deep mourning and black banners decked the house fronts; even old Borso and the cuckold Niccolo were swathed in black ribbons. The shops were shut and the bell tolled mournfully in Alberti’s campanile and a few townspeople stood about in resigned and sceptical silence. Had it not been for his sister’s deep distress, her scarred face and hands hidden by gloves and a thick veil, Cesare would have laughed his head off.

  Donna Lucrezia had insisted his children attend the Mass, so Camilla was there with two sisters from Corpus Domini, her face a small, grave oval, her red hair hidden by a white novice’s veil. Don Alberto Pio and his wife had brought Girolamo in person rather than entrusting him to his tutors, and he sat between them on a bench, a perfectly solemn expression on his face as all the while he tickled Don Alberto’s elder daughter and she squirmed beside him in an agony of mirth. I had made sure of a place for myself where I could watch him and reflect, not on his father, who was my past, but on the future which would begin the moment this service ended and we emerged once more into the light.

  As soon as madonna had told me Girolamo would be coming to Ferrara for the Mass I had laid my plans. I had discovered Gideon’s whereabouts from Fidelma and had written to him, though I doubted he would receive my letter before my son and I reached the shores of New Spain ourselves. I had booked passage from Venice anonymously, through agents of my family’s business. I had sent on what little luggage I proposed to take with me into my new life, and had arranged post horses for a speedy journey to Venice. All this had been done without drawing the least suspicion; not for nothing had I been Valentino’s mistress. All that now remained was to watch for the opportunity to take possession of my son and get him away from Ferrara before anyone noticed he had gone. The Corte and castle were in the usual chaos caused by guests descending on us, jostling for space and precedence, losing themselves in our warren of rooms and passages. It was worse than ever now much of the Torre Leone was out of use and Duke Alfonso had given Don Giulio’s spacious palace to his favourite, Niccolo da Correggio. I had no doubt my opportunity would quickly present itself as long as I remained alert.

  Just as the congregation fell silent to listen to Ippolito’s eulogy, Don Alberto’s daughter retaliated and kicked Girolamo’s shin. He let out a howl of pain and pulled her hair. As Ippolito cleared his throat and shuffled his papers, and the adults turned looks of varying amusement and disapproval on the two children, Don Alberto’s wife leaned across and reproved them gently. I saw her smile at her daughter and stroke Girolamo’s curls. He shuffled closer to her and laid his head against her side, his cheek fitted into the curve of her waist. She continued smoothing his hair and in seconds his eyes closed and he was asleep, a soft little moue of contentment playing about his mouth.

  Ippolito began to speak, and in his elegant, meaningless phrases, in the silence of listening but not hearing, in which his audience wondered how long he was likely to go on and what they would be having for dinner after the service, I heard my heart crack. It sounded loud to me, as loud as breaking ice or burning glass, so I thought it best to leave the cathedral before it broke completely and distracted the congregation. Or woke my child. I did not mean to run. I knew it was disrespectful but less so, surely, than splintering in pieces in front of the great ladies and gentlemen, the scholars and merchants, all the assembled ranks of society to which I did not belong, had never belonged, though Girolamo did. Donna Lucrezia had made sure of it.

  ***

  I sailed from Venice with nothing in my mind but a swirl of broken memories cast off from the sinking ship of my heart. For several days I lay sick of the sea, tortured by the perfume of oranges and the blind gaze of the Madonna of Strangers, by cages that turned into food baskets, black flesh and white bread, white bones silted in black mud, dark eyes and white teeth and red rivers of hair. I think I hoped to die.

  But Death is perverse; he rarely comes when you court him. I recovered; I found my sea legs and began to set my mind to how I would live, a woman alone in the raw, new world whose very newness made everything possible. It had no rules; it had not yet learned its limitations. When we put in at the Azores on the voyage out, one of our junior officers received word his wife had given birth to their first child. He wanted to send her a letter but was not sufficiently schooled in writing to be able to express himself as he wished. He asked if I could help him; the only other women on board were the captain’s wife, whom he dared not approach, and the women who lived below decks and did laundry and other services for the crew, though not of the kind that extended to writing letters to their wives. His sentiments, he felt, were too delicate to share with another man.

  I helped him. I found in myself a certain skill in ordering and articulating other people’s feelings, and one way or another, I knew a lot about letters and the power of written words. By the time we docked in Villa Rica, I had already acquired quite a reputation among my shipmates. I took a room in a bustling house, part t
avern, part rooming house, part brothel, just back from the city’s main square, and with the money I had left after paying a month’s rent I bought quills and pen-knives, a sand caster, a quantity of ink, and some clean parchments. My landlady’s brother made me a sign, a flamboyant quill painted on a piece of silvery driftwood, and hung it in a mesquite tree that shaded the patch of red dust she had fenced off and called her terrace. There I sat, mornings and evenings, at a rickety table propped up with stones, writing other people’s letters for money. My landlady took her tithe and blossomed in the aura of respectability I conferred on her house like the strange, bright, blowsy flowers that grew in the bush all around us. As she learned what little I was prepared to divulge about my past, she had her brother add a rough approximation of the arms of Este to my sign.

  I dare say that is how Gideon found me. Queues formed quickly. Sometimes I would have several clients waiting for me as I set out my tools in the benign, deceitful light of early morning, in the sharp, blue shade of the mesquite. They would ask me to fashion requests for money or news from home, marriage proposals, accounts of successes or setbacks, letters full of passion or frozen with rejection. Light fell on my clients’ lives the way it fell through the tavern’s palm roof, in spots and slices, surrounded by shadow. I wrote prayers on small parchments to be left, tightly rolled, in the crevasses of holy rocks or church doors which had cracked in the hot, salty air. I wrote in Spanish or Latin or Italian or French with equal ease, as though the freedom of the new world had unfettered my tongue.

  Best of all, though, were my love letters. I acquired some fame for my ability to mould the inarticulate urges of people in love into elegant, passionate phrases. Of course, many of those phrases were not my own. I have wept so much I look like a man with snow blindness. I beg you to kiss my eyes, to soothe them one last time with the balm of your lips. If the phrase had been my own, I doubt I would have remembered it. As I added the final flourish to the tail of the “s,” I looked up and smiled. Because I knew the man who had wept away the night at Nepi had had no one to kiss his eyes, and I hoped the young lover standing in front of me, with his future glowing in his ruddy cheeks, would fare better. My client bowed to me and there, behind him, towering over his short, sturdy frame was Gideon, dressed like an Indian in a white cotton tunic with a parrot-bright woven belt. I waited while my client put his mark on the letter and handed over his money. Gideon watched as I set aside the tithe and pocketed the rest.