The Borgia Bride (27 page)

Perotto gurgled, spasmed violently for a long, terrible moment, then lay still, sprawled across the entire span of the steps to the throne.

Cesare watched, jaw twitching, with grim pleasure. When Perotto fell eternally silent, Cesare said at last, ‘Lucrezia.
He
is the father. As her brother, I could not permit him to live. I was morally bound to seek vengeance.’

Alexander seemed less concerned with explanations than he did with the blood dripping from his cheeks. ‘Bring a cloth at once,’ he ordered, to no one in particular, and then he looked down in disgust at Perotto’s corpse. ‘And take this mess away.’

The following morning, Perotto’s body was found in the Tiber, with hand and feet bound. Custom demanded a symbolic display showing what would become of those who violated the Pope’s daughter.

Floating nearby was the body of Pantsilea. Her limbs were unbound; she had been strangled, and a gag stuffed into her now-silent mouth, a clear sign to other Borgia servants of what became of those who knew and told too much.

Lucrezia gave birth in early spring. Before her delivery, she was spirited away from Santa Maria, lest her screams during labour reveal to Rome the ‘secret’ it already knew. Fuelled by the rumours, Savonarola’s attacks on the papacy grew vicious: he called for an international council to be formed to depose Alexander.

The child was a boy—named Giovanni, at Lucrezia’s insistence. I could not help wondering what Giovanni Sforza, now a disgraced, divorced man held in fatal contempt by the Borgias, thought of the infant being named for him, as if it were his own get.

The child was returned to the palazzo in the care of a wet nurse. It was kept in a distant wing, that its cries might not disturb the adult occupants. Lucrezia visited the infant as frequently as she was permitted, which was not often enough to suit her. When we were alone, she often confided in me about her heartbreak that she was not allowed to act as the boy’s mother. At times, she wept, inconsolable with grief.

Once she was delivered suitors lined up for her hand, either disbelieving the charges brought by Sforza, or totally unconcerned by them. The political advantage was, after all, great.

The Pope and Cesare conferred at length about these men; some names they shared with Lucrezia, and she in turn shared them with me. There was Francesco Orsini, the Duke of Gravina, and a count, Ottaviano Riario. The most favoured one was Antonello Sanseverino, a Neapolitan—but an Angevin, a supporter of France. Such a match would put me at a grave political disadvantage within the family.

I was troubled as well by my role as Lucrezia’s friend and confidante. I had seen the innocent Perotto’s fate, and Pantsilea’s, and knew the Borgias would not let years of loyalty interfere with their plans. If someone needed to be silenced—no matter how beloved, how trusted—then they were silenced.

Pantsilea’s death left me with nightmares. I had never seen the corpse, only heard it described in great detail by Esmeralda, who by then had assembled a most impressive network of informants and spies. I often woke gasping to the image of Pantsilea’s body rising like a cork from the depths of the dark Tiber, and her dead eyes slowly opening to regard me. Her bloated arm rose to point an accusatory finger:
You. You are the cause of my death…

For I had taken the canterella, the poison, hidden in Lucrezia’s gown. And I could not help thinking that the poor maidservant had been murdered because the poison had been missed. I assumed that Cesare had forced the poison on Lucrezia, with instructions. And when Cesare asked for it, Lucrezia would have been forced to explain that it was missing.

Pantsilea, of course, would have been first to be blamed.

In my less guilty moments, I convinced myself the young lady-in-waiting had died for the very reason symbolized by the gag found in her mouth: she had known too much, and needed to be silenced. Had she not, after all, pushed me into the armoire as a way of sharing what she could not say: the truth of the relationship between Lucrezia and Cesare?

Lucrezia was not the only one, that spring and summer, whose thoughts turned to marriage.

One day, I was summoned to the Vatican—to Cesare’s office. The notice was signed ‘Cesare Borgia, Cardinal of Valencia’.

I sat on my bed with the parchment in my hand. The moment I most dreaded had come. Cesare would demand to know the extent of my love and loyalty; he would accept no further excuses.

In the vain hope of preventing a private confrontation, I took Esmeralda and two of my younger ladies with me; we made our way on foot through the piazza to the Vatican. There we were escorted by two guards to the cardinal’s office; at the entry, a single soldier waved my ladies away. ‘His Holiness has requested that he meet with the Princess of Squillace alone.’

Esmeralda frowned at the impropriety, but my ladies were led to a waiting area, and I entered the cardinal’s office unattended.

Cesare sat at a grand, gilded desk of inlaid ebony wood. Leather-bound tomes of canon law filled the shelves behind him; an oil lamp flickered on the desk. When the soldier escorted me in, Cesare rose, and gestured for me to take the padded velvet chair across from him.

I sat. The soldier was dismissed, and Cesare promptly vacated his desk and went down on one knee in front of me. He was wearing his official skullcap and scarlet robes; the silk hem rustled against the marble floor.

‘Donna Sancha,’ he said. Months had passed since he had bedded me, yet despite the formality of the situation, he spoke with the familiar affection of a lover. ‘I have received official word from my father that I am soon to be relieved of the burden of monastic life.’

I was not fool enough to show my trepidation; instead, I kept my tone cordial. ‘I am happy for you. This must certainly be a great relief.’

‘It is more than that,’ he said. ‘It is a great opportunity…for us.’ He took my hand gently, and held it in one of his; before I could react, he swiftly slipped a small gold ring onto my smallest finger.

The ring that had been my mother’s; the ring that Juan had stolen from me the day he raped me. I managed, through an act of supreme self-control, not to wince. ‘Where did you get this?’ I whispered.

‘Does it matter?’ he asked, smiling. ‘Donna Sancha, you know that you are, and have always been, the one great love of my life. Make my happiness complete. Say that you will marry me when I am free.’

I looked away, overwhelmed by disgust, but forced to convey a much different emotion. I remained silent a time, carefully searching for the proper words—but none existed that could save my life. ‘I am not myself free,’ I said at last. ‘I am bound to Jofre.’

He shrugged, as if this were something easily cast off. ‘We can offer Jofre the cardinalship; I have no doubt he would take it. It is easy enough to have the marriage annulled.’

‘Not so,’ I replied, my tone neutral. ‘Cardinal Borgia of Monreale himself witnessed our first marital act. There is no doubt the marriage was consummated.’

The first traces of irritation crept into his voice as he began to realize that his case was lost, and he had no real idea why, which annoyed him even more. ‘Cardinal Borgia is in our hands. He will say whatever we want. Do you not love me? Do you not wish to be my wife?’

‘It is not that,’ I said earnestly. ‘I do not wish to shame Jofre. Such an act would surely crush him.’

He stared at me as if I were a madwoman. ‘Jofre will recover. Again, there is the cardinalship, a position which will bring him power and riches to generously soothe his pain. We would send him to Valencia, to make the situation less awkward; you two would never need set eyes on each other again.’ He paused. ‘Madonna, you are not a fool. Quite the opposite: you are supremely intelligent. You realize I am to be Captain-General of my father’s army.’

‘I do,’ I answered softly.

‘I am not the ineffectual dolt Juan was. I see the opportunities such a position presents. I intend to extend the realm of the Papal States.’

‘I have always known you were a man of great ambition,’ I said, in the same uncritical tone.

‘I intend,’ he said, his voice hard, his expression intent as he leaned closer, ‘to unite Italy. I intend to be its ruler. And I am asking you to be my queen.’

I was obliged to feign an expression of surprise, to pretend I had not already heard similar words while hiding in Lucrezia’s closet.

‘Do you not love me?’ he demanded in frustration, letting the force of his emotions through. ‘Sancha, I had thought that—surely I was not mistaken as to the depth of the feelings we shared for each other.’

His words pierced my defences. I lowered my face. ‘I have never loved any man more,’ I confessed, with regret. I knew my own heart: I could easily be corrupted, and play the malevolent queen to Cesare’s king.

That gave him hope; he stroked my cheek with the back of his finger. ‘It is settled, then. We will be wed. You are too tender-hearted toward Jofre; trust me, he is a man. He will recover.’

I pulled my face away from his outstretched hand and said firmly, ‘You have not heard me, Cardinal. My answer is no. I am impressed and moved. But I am not the woman you seek for such a role.’

Red-faced, he dropped his hand and rose, his movements taut with repressed fury. ‘Clearly you are not, Madonna. You are dismissed.’

He spent no further time trying to convince me; his wounded sense of dignity would not permit it. Yet I could tell, as I rose and left to join my ladies, that he was utterly confused, even hurt, by my rejection. He could not believe my given reason—concern for Jofre—as the truth.

I was relieved he appeared unable to divine the real cause—that I knew him to be a murderer.

I expected retaliation for my refusal. I kept my stiletto beneath my pillow, close at hand; even so, I slept fitfully that night. Every rustling breeze at the window, every creak in the corridor beyond seemed to me the sounds of an approaching assassin. I had rejected Cesare, and thought my life forfeit. I did not expect to live more than a matter of days afterward; I judged each morning I rose to be my last.

I told Lucrezia that I had turned down her brother’s proposal. I was not entirely comfortable confiding in her, given her apparent talent for duplicity—indeed, I had consulted Donna Esmeralda regarding her trustworthiness, but even Esmeralda’s gossips could not agree about Lucrezia’s true character. Even so, I had to try to learn the degree of retribution I should expect from Cesare.

She listened to my news solemnly. She was honest—she did not say that I would never receive retribution. But she reassured me on one account. ‘You must understand,’ she said. ‘I have spoken with my brother since. He nurses hope that you will come to your senses. I do not believe him capable of physically harming you; his heart is still hopelessly yours.’

This was of some comfort—yet I was troubled as I contemplated what retaliation Cesare
would
take, once he realized that I would never yield.

Lucrezia and I continued our friendship, and met almost daily. One morning in late spring, she came to my chambers with a request that I accompany her on a walk in the gardens, and I happily obliged.

When we were out of earshot of our ladies, who were walking several steps behind us, holding their own conversations, Lucrezia said coyly, ‘So. You have spoken of your brother, Alfonso, and you claim that he is one of the most handsome men in all Italy.’

‘It is no claim,’ I replied, with easy good humour. ‘It is God’s own truth. He is a golden god, Madonna. I saw him last summer in Squillace, and he has only grown more handsome.’

‘And he is kind?’

‘No sweeter man was ever born.’ I stopped in mid-stride and stared over at her, seized by a sudden wonderful conviction. ‘You know all this; I have spoken of him many times. Lucrezia—tell me—is he coming to visit us at Rome?’

‘Yes!’ she said, and clapped her hands like a gleeful child; I grabbed those hands, smiling with joy. ‘But Sancha, it is even better than that!’

‘What can be better than a visit from Alfonso?’ I demanded. What a fool I was; how ignorant!

‘He and I are to be married.’ She waited, smiling, for my exuberant reaction.

I gasped. I felt pulled down into a horrible black vortex, a suffocating Charybdis from which I could not extricate myself.

Yet extricate myself I did, through some involuntary grace. I did not—could not—smile, but managed to save the situation by pulling her to me solemnly in a tight embrace.

‘Sancha,’ she said, her voice muffled by my shoulder, ‘Sancha, you are so sweet. I have never seen you so emotional.’

Once I had control of myself, I drew back with a forced smile. ‘Have you kept this secret from me long?’

Silently, I damned Alfonso. He had said nothing to me of the marriage proposal. If he had, I might have had the chance to warn him, to explain the peculiar circle of Hell he was about to enter. But writing to him was out of the question; my letters would surely be taken aside and examined by Alexander and Cesare, given the political importance of this union. I was bound to wait until he arrived in Rome—as a bridegroom.

But had he not heard of Giovanni Sforza’s charges? Had he been fool enough to disbelieve them? And all of Italy knew Lucrezia had just given birth. No doubt Alfonso accepted the lie that Perotto had been the father, and was willing to overlook Lucrezia’s youthful indiscretion.

This was all my fault, I told myself, for sparing Alfonso the miserable truth of life in Rome.

I had wanted to protect him. And, like a good Borgia, I had learned to keep my mouth shut.

‘Not so long,’ Lucrezia replied in answer to my question. ‘Father and Cesare did not tell me until this morning. I am so happy! At last, I will have a husband my own age—one who is handsome and kind. I am the luckiest woman in Rome! And your brother has agreed to take up residence here. We will all live together in Santa Maria.’ She clasped my hand. ‘I was so full of despair only a few months ago that I wanted to take my own life. But you saved me, and for that I shall always be grateful. Now I have hope again.’

Cesare could have chosen no more perfect way to make me hold my tongue, to mind my manners, to behave in whatever way he wished. He knew of my love for Alfonso—I spoke often of him at family dinners, and at our private trysts. Cesare knew that I would do anything to protect my little brother.