The Borgia Bride (36 page)

For I was close enough to notice the scars and fresh red sores upon his cheeks. We Neapolitans called it ‘the French curse’ the French tried, naturally, to blame it on the prostitutes they had encountered in Naples. I took small comfort in knowing the disease would shorten his life; in later years, it might well drive him to madness.

Anger sparked in his eyes; I had managed to land a successful blow. I turned away, satisfied, and headed back towards my ladies.

From behind me came soft, but in no way tender, words: ‘I had to try one last time, Madonna. Now I know where I stand; now I know what course to take.’

I did not bother to respond.

Miraculously, we moved safely from spring into summer without incident; King Louis made no move towards Naples, and life within the Borgia household was uneventful.

Using the pressing concerns of the army and political affairs as his excuse, Cesare absented himself from all our suppers with the Pope. I did not speak to him again after that first evening he returned, and scarcely saw him, save in passing; the looks we exchanged were cold. Donna Esmeralda relayed that when he was not with his father or French representatives, hatching plots, Cesare spent his nights with courtesans or the much-abused Caterina Sforza, smuggling her from her cell at the Castel Sant’Angelo to his quarters. Her guards said that she was beautiful, Esmeralda whispered, with hair paler than straw, and skin so milky it glowed at night like opals. She had been plump before her capture, but Cesare’s abuse had left her drawn and thin.

I never saw the woman myself, but there were times when I thought I sensed her sorrowful, outraged presence in the same corridors I had once wandered on my way to Cesare’s private chambers. I felt some jealousy towards her, true; but my overriding emotion was one of kinship. I knew what it was to be violated, helpless, bitter.

Nor did Cesare make any pretence, in public or private, of showing Alfonso or the baby any regard. Yet for all of Cesare’s contempt for the House of Aragon, His Holiness continued to show us great warmth personally, and took care to give Alfonso a prominent place in all ceremonies. I believed that Alexander, in his heart, truly supported Naples and Spain, and detested the French, despite his apparent joy at his eldest son’s marriage to Charlotte d’Albret. But I remembered too, how Lucrezia, pregnant with her brother’s child, had wept with horror as she confessed how even the Pope feared Cesare. The question was whether His Holiness had the strength of will to continue in his averred role as Naples’ champion.

In early summer, Alexander fell victim to a mild attack of apoplexy, which left him weak and abed for several days.

For the first time, I considered the fates of those of us who remained after Rodrigo Borgia perished. All depended on whether Cesare had the chance to establish himself firmly as Italy’s secular ruler first. If he did, then Alfonso and I would be banished at the least, murdered at worst; if not, then all depended on who emerged from the consistory of cardinals as the new pope. If he was sympathetic to Naples and Spain—and all indications were that he would be—then Alfonso could retire with Lucrezia to Naples without fear, while Jofre and I could return to the principality of Squillace. This latter scenario seemed far more desirable than our current circumstances.

And Cesare would find himself
persona non grata
in Italy. He would have to rely on King Louis’ graciousness in allowing him to return to his long-suffering bride.

I confess, I found myself addressing God for the first time in years during the week of the Pope’s illness; my prayers that week were dark and tainted.

Please, if this will save Alfonso and the baby, then take His Holiness now
.

Alexander, of course, recovered quite handily.

God had disappointed me once again; but He soon spoke out vehemently, in an unexpected fashion.

On the next-to-last day of June—Saint Peter’s day, commemorating the Church’s first pope—Alexander invited all of us, including his little namesake Rodrigo, to visit him in his apartments.

It was an unusually warm day, and the sky had filled with fast-sailing black clouds that swiftly blotted out all trace of blue. The wind began to gust. As we—Lucrezia, Alfonso, Jofre and I—walked with our attendants from the palazzo toward the Vatican, a sudden cool rush of air caused the skin on my arms and neck to prick; with it came a loud clap of thunder.

Little Rodrigo—then eight months old, of good size and strength—wailed in terror at the sound, and struggled so vigorously in his nurse’s arms that Alfonso took him. We hurried our pace, but did not manage to escape the downpour; a cold, sharp rain, complete with stinging hailstones, began to pelt us as we hastened up the Vatican steps. Alfonso tucked the baby’s head beneath his arms and crouched, protecting his son as best he could.

Wet and dishevelled, we passed the guards and made it through the great doors into the shelter of the entrance hall. As Alfonso held his whimpering child, Lucrezia and I both fussed over the baby, using our sleeves and hems of our gowns to dry him.

As we stood near the entrance, a loud
boom
rattled the heavy doors and the very floor beneath our feet; all of us were startled, and the baby shrieked with abandon.

Alfonso and I looked at each other in alarm, remembering the horrors we had witnessed in Naples, and simultaneously whispered: ‘Cannon.’

For an instant, I entertained the wild notion that the French were attacking the city; but that was madness. We would have had warning; there would have been reports of their army marching.

Then, from deeper inside the building, we heard the frenzied shouts of men. I could not make out their words, but their hysteria was clear enough.

Lucrezia turned towards the sound; her eyes widened suddenly. ‘Father!’ she screamed, then picked up her skirts and ran.

I followed, as did Jofre and Alfonso, who first handed his child to the nurse. We ran up the stairs full tilt—the men quickly passing us, as they were unencumbered by long gowns.

On the corridor leading to the Borgia apartments, we were greeted by a dark haze that stung eyes and lungs; as I followed behind Alfonso and Jofre, I, too, stopped in horrified amazement at the archway that led into the Hall of the Faith, where His Holiness supposedly sat on his throne, expecting us.

The place where the throne had rested was now a great dust-clouded pile of wooden beams, shattered stone, and masonry: the ceiling above had collapsed, bringing down with it the carpeting and furniture housed on the floor above.

The carpeting and furniture I recognized, for I had seen them many a night in Cesare’s chamber. I felt a pang of wicked hope: if both Cesare and the Pope were dead, my fears for my family and Naples could be laid to rest with them.

‘Holy Father!’ ‘Your Holiness!’ The Pope’s two attendants, the chamberlain Gasparre and the Bishop of Cadua, cried out desperately for him as they bent over the rubble and tried to peer beneath it for signs of life. It had been their shouts we had heard—and now Lucrezia and Jofre added their voices as well.

‘Father! Father, speak to us! Are you injured?’

No sound came from the daunting heap. Alfonso went in search of help, and soon returned with half-a-dozen workmen bearing shovels. I held Lucrezia as she stared aghast at the pile, certain that her father was dead; I, too, was certain of the same, and struggled between guilt and elation.

It soon became clear that Cesare had not been in his apartment, for there was no sign of him. But no fewer than three floors had collapsed upon the pontiff. The amount of rubble was formidable; we stood for the space of an hour while the men worked vigorously under Alfonso’s direction.

At last, Jofre, who had been growing increasingly distraught, could no longer contain himself. ‘He is dead!’ he cried out. ‘There can be no hope! Father is dead!’

The chamberlain, Gasparre, also a man of emotion, took up the phrase as he wrung his hands in despair. ‘The Holy Father is dead! The Pope is dead!’

‘Quiet!’ Alfonso commanded, with a harshness I had never before seen in him. ‘Quiet, both of you, or you will plunge all of Rome into chaos!’

Indeed, beneath us we could hear the sound of footfall as the papal guards rushed to surround the entrance to the Vatican; we could also hear the voices of servants and cardinals as they echoed the cry.

‘The Pope is dead!’ ‘His Holiness is dead!’

‘Come,’ I coaxed Jofre, luring him away from the rubble to my side. ‘Jofre, Lucrezia, you must be strong now and not add to each other’s anguish.’

‘That is true,’ Jofre said, with a feeble attempt at courage; he took his sister’s hand. ‘We must trust in God and the workers now.’

The three of us linked arms and forced ourselves to wait calmly for the outcome, despite the frenzied sounds on the floor beneath us.

From time to time, the men would cease their digging, and call out to the Pope: no response ever came. He had certainly expired, I assured myself. In my own mind, I was already back in Squillace.

After an hour, they managed to work through the masonry deeply enough to discover an edge of Alexander’s golden mantle.

‘Holy Father! Your Holiness!’

Still no sound.

But God was merely playing a trick on us all. In the end, after they pulled away timbers and gilded tapestries, they discovered Alexander—covered in dust, terrified into muteness, sitting staff-straight upon his throne, his huge hands tightly gripping the carved armrests.

The cuts and bruises were so small, we could not even see them then.

Gasparre led him to his bed while Lucrezia summoned the doctor. Alexander was bled and developed a slight fever; he would see no one save his daughter and Cesare.

An investigation commenced. It was at first speculated that a rebellious noble had launched a cannonball—but in fact, a lightning strike, combined with a fierce gale, brought the roof down. It was mere chance that Cesare had left his chambers only moments before.

This was a divine warning, many whispered, that the Borgias should repent of their sins, lest God bring about their downfall. Savonarola had spoken from beyond the grave.

But for Cesare, it was a warning that he should commence sinning with a vengeance, to secure his place in history while his father still breathed.

Given his strong constitution, Alexander recovered quite swiftly. The thunderbolt from God gave His Holiness a sense of mortality and a renewed appreciation of life; he began to spend less time with Cesare contemplating strategies for conquest and more time in the company of his family—which consisted of the swiftly-growing baby Rodrigo, Lucrezia, Alfonso, Jofre, and me. Once more, we supped nightly at the Pope’s table, where he discussed domestic matters instead of politics. A chasm was growing between Cesare and Alexander in terms of loyalty; I only hoped that the Pope was powerful enough to emerge the victor.

My private apocalypse began on the fifteenth day of July, barely two weeks after the ominous collapse of the ceiling upon the papal throne. We dined that night with His Holiness, and Lucrezia and I struck up a comfortable conversation with her father, one that we were reluctant to abandon when Alfonso stood up and announced:

‘With your leave, Your Holiness, I am tired this evening and wish to retire early.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Caught up in the discussion, Alexander dismissed him cursorily but civilly, with a wave of his hand. ‘May God grant you a good night’s rest.’

‘Thank you.’ Alfonso bowed, kissed Lucrezia’s hand and mine, then was off. I do not remember what we were chatting about, but I remember looking up at him, and being touched by the weariness in his face. Rome and its wicked intrigues had aged him; the sight prompted a distant memory: I was a mischievous eleven-year-old in Ferrante’s palace, taunting my little brother about our grandfather’s museum of the dead.

How can you
stand
it, Alfonso? Don’t you want to know if it is true?

No. Because it might be
.

There were many things I wished I had never discovered; many things I wished I had been able to protect my brother from in Rome, allowing him to live in ignorant bliss. But such had been impossible.

I felt an odd desire to leave my conversation with Lucrezia at that moment and see Alfonso home—but to do so would have been rude. In retrospect, I cannot help but wonder how our lives would have changed had I accompanied him. Instead, I smiled up at him as he planted a kiss upon my hand; when he was gone, I dismissed all previous thoughts as useless worry.

An hour or two later, Lucrezia, the Pope and I had moved our talk out into the Hall of the Saints; our voices echoed off the walls of the vast, near-empty chamber. I had grown tired and was thinking of departing when we heard thunderous footfall and the alarmed voices of men headed towards us. Before I had time to realize what was occurring, soldiers had entered the room.

I looked up swiftly.

A uniformed papal guard, accompanied by five from his battalion, walked up to Alexander. He was a youth, no more than eighteen, his expression dazed, his complexion ashen with fright. Protocol demanded that he bow and ask permission to address His Holiness; the boy opened his mouth, but could not bring himself to speak.

In his arms, limp and pale as death, was my brother. I thought at once of the image of the Virgin, cradling the pierced and perished Christ.

Blood streamed from Alfonso’s forehead, painting his golden curls crimson, obscuring half of his face. The mantle he had worn earlier that night was gone—torn away—and his shirt slit in those areas where it was not stuck to his flesh with blood. One leg of his breeches was likewise soaked scarlet.

His eyes were closed; his head lolled back in the soldier’s arms. I thought that he was dead. I could not speak, could not breathe; my greatest fear had come true at last. My brother had perished before me; I no longer had reason to live, no longer had reason to abide by the morals of decent men.

At the same time, I saw the depth of my foolishness in a flash: I had always known, deep in my heart, that Cesare would try to kill my brother, had I not? It was the greatest possible revenge he could possibly take on me for rejecting him—greater, certainly, than taking my own life.

Had he not threatened as much at our last private encounter?

Now I know where I stand; now I know what course to take
.

Lucrezia bolted to her feet, then fainted without a sound.

I left her on the floor and rushed to my brother. I put an ear to his gaping mouth, and nearly collapsed myself with tormented gratitude to hear the sound of his breath.
God
, I swore silently,
I will do whatever You require of me. I will run from my destiny no more
.

He was alive—alive, but terribly wounded, if not mortally so.

Behind me, Alexander had climbed down from his throne and was reviving his daughter.

I believe that determination and the realization that she was desperately needed returned Lucrezia almost at once to her senses. ‘I am well!’ she called, angry at herself for a show of weakness at such a time. ‘Let me see my husband! Let me go!’

She pulled away from her father’s embrace and stood beside me as both of us assessed Alfonso’s wounds. I wanted to scream, to faint as Lucrezia had. Most of all, I wanted to strangle His Holiness as he stood there, feigning innocence, for I had no doubt he had full knowledge of the planned attack.

I stared at Alfonso’s limp and beautiful form; like his wife, I forced myself into a state of preternatural calmness. In my mind, I heard my grandfather’s voice.
We strong must take care of the weak
.

‘We cannot move him,’ Lucrezia said.

I nodded. ‘We need a room here, in these apartments.’

Lucrezia glanced at her father—not with her usual adoration and solicitousness, but with an uncharacteristic strength. In her grey eyes lay a clear threat should her command not be carried out. Alexander buckled at once.

‘This way,’ he said, and gestured for the soldier carrying Alfonso to follow him.

He led us to the nearby Hall of the Sibyls, where the guard gently laid Alfonso down on a brocade-covered bench. Lucrezia and I followed so closely, we pressed against the soldier on either side.

‘I will summon my doctor,’ Alexander said, but his words were ignored as Alfonso suddenly coughed.

My brother’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. Gazing up at Lucrezia and me, hovering tightly over him, he whispered: ‘I saw my attackers. I saw who directed them.’

‘Who?’ Lucrezia urged. ‘I will kill the bastard with my own hands!’

I knew my brother’s next word even before he uttered it.

‘Cesare,’ he said, and fainted again.

I let go a curse.

Lucrezia winced, and clutched her midsection, buckling forward as though she herself felt the bite of a blade; I caught her elbow to steady her, thinking she might fall.

She did not. Instead, she gathered herself, and showing no surprise at this horrifying revelation, addressed her father in an even, businesslike tone, as if he were a servant.

‘You may call for your doctor. But in the meantime, I shall send for the King of Naples’ own doctor. And the Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors must be summoned at once.’

‘Send for water,’ I added, ‘and for bandages. We must do what we can before the doctor gets here.’ As my brother was still bleeding, I unfastened my sleeves at the shoulders and removed them, then pressed the heavy velvet fabric to the gushing wound on his brow. I called upon my father’s coldness, his lack of feeling, and for the first time, was grateful to find it in myself.

Lucrezia followed my example; she, too, removed one of her own sleeves and applied it to the wound on Alfonso’s thigh.

‘Send for Alfonso’s grooms—and my ladies!’ I demanded. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than the comforting presence of Donna Esmeralda, and the company of our most trusted people from Naples.

In our desperation, Lucrezia and I failed to realize that the Pope himself took note of most of our requests, and ran to relay them to servants. One or two of the papal guards attempted to leave to follow our orders, but I looked up at them sharply. ‘Stay here! We cannot be without your protection. This man’s life is at stake, and he has enemies within his own household.’

Lucrezia did not contradict me. When her breathless father returned, she said, ‘I must have a contingent of at least sixteen armed men at the entrance to these chambers at all times.’

‘Surely you do not believe—’ her father began.

She eyed him coldly, her expression showing she most surely
did
believe. ‘I
will
have them!’

‘Very well,’ Alexander said, in a voice oddly quieted—by guilt, perhaps, at seeing the grief he had allowed Cesare to inflict on Lucrezia. For the first time, the Pope demonstrated publicly the coward that he was: his inconstancy was not so much the result of political scheming as it was the result of being pulled in opposite directions by his advisors and his children.

We were soon surrounded in our sanctuary by the Neapolitan and Spanish ambassadors, the Pope’s doctor and surgeon, Alfonso’s servants and mine, as well as a cadre of armed guards. I insisted that mattresses be brought in—I would not leave Alfonso’s side for an instant, nor would Lucrezia. I also called for a cook stove for the hearth. Conscious of the canterella, I intended to prepare every meal for my brother with my own hands.

Several hours later, Alfonso came to himself long enough to reveal the names of the men who had accompanied him when the attack occurred: his squire, Miguelito, and a gentleman-in-waiting, Tomaso Albanese.

Lucrezia summoned both men at once.

Albanese was still being tended to by the surgeon and could not be moved, but Miguelito, the squire, came almost immediately.

Alfonso’s favourite squire was still a youth, but tall and well-muscled. His shoulder was bandaged, and his right arm rested in a sling. He apologized for not having looked in after his master sooner, but his pallor and weakness made it clear his own wounds were serious. In fact, he was so unsteady on his feet that we insisted he sit, and he leaned back in the chair with a grateful sigh and rested his head against the wall.

Lucrezia had a glass of wine brought for him; he sipped it from time to time as he told the tale she and I insisted on hearing.

‘We three—the duke, Don Tomaso and I—were headed from the Vatican towards the Palazzo Santa Maria. This naturally required us to pass by Saint Peter’s—where many pilgrims were already sleeping on the steps.

‘We thought nothing of them, Madonna; perhaps I should have been more alert for the duke’s sake…’ Guilt crossed his plain, strong features. ‘But we passed by what seemed nothing more than a group of common beggars—six, I believe, all dressed in rags. I thought they had taken vows of poverty.

‘As I say, we gave them no notice; the duke and Don Tomaso were immersed in conversation and, I admit, I was not on my guard.

‘Suddenly, the beggars on the nearby steps leapt up—all of them brandishing swords. They had been lying in wait for the duke, for I heard one of them call out to the others just as we passed.

‘They surrounded us at once. It was clear they were trained soldiers; fortunately—as you well know, Donna Sancha—we were trained, too, in the Naples style of swordsmanship. Your brother—your husband, Donna Lucrezia—was the most skilled and the bravest of us all. Despite the fact that we were outnumbered, Don Alfonso fought so well that he held off his enemies for some time.

‘Don Tomaso, too, fought hard and well, and showed admirable courage in protecting the duke. As for me—I did my best, but it breaks my heart to see the noble duke lying there so pale and still.

‘Despite our best efforts to protect him, the duke was wounded. Still he kept fighting, even after he was bleeding terribly from the leg and shoulder. It was not until he received the final blow to his head that he at last fell.

‘At that time, his attackers converged on him. Other men—dark-clad, whose faces I did not recognize—had brought horses, and the attackers tried to pull Don Alfonso toward them.

‘Don Tomaso and I renewed our efforts, for we realized that if our master was taken from us, it would surely mean his end.

‘We began to shout for help, directing our cries first toward the Palazzo Santa Maria, and the guards stationed there. I gathered my master into my arms, and began to carry him in the direction of the palazzo, while Don Tomaso valiantly struck out with his sword against the attackers who remained standing—three by this time.

‘It was then that I saw two other men waiting in front of the palazzo, blocking access to the guards at the gate. One was an assassin on foot, his blade drawn and waiting, and the other sat on horseback…’

Here, young Miguelito’s voice dropped to a whisper, after which he fell silent. At first, I thought exhaustion and loss of blood had prompted a sudden weakness in him, especially after the effort of speech; I urged him to take more wine.

Then I caught the look in his eyes; it was not exhaustion, but fear that held his tongue.

I shot Lucrezia a glance, then turned back to the squire. ‘This horse,’ I said slowly. ‘Was it white, shod with silver?’

He stared up at me, stricken, then looked over at Lucrezia.

‘Your master has already named Cesare as his attacker,’ she said, with an evenness I admired. ‘You are among the friends of Naples here, and I am deeply indebted to you for saving my husband’s life. I swear that no harm will come to you for repeating the truth.’