The Scarlet Contessa (41 page)

In the end, Ottaviano agreed to make the funeral arrangements, although Giovanni wound up doing all that was necessary, and paid for the priest and burial.

Ser Giovanni kept his promise and did not leave immediately for Florence; he postponed a good deal of business and remained with us a fortnight.

On the night before he finally left, he presented Caterina with another present: all the jewels and silverware she had sent, years before, to the pawnbroker in Milan.

Nor had he forgotten his conversations with me. On the morning of his departure, while his men were loading up their horses, he handed me a leather-bound tome. I opened it to find a collection of Marsilio Ficino’s writings on the soul of man.

Chapter Thirty-one

Ser Giovanni was true to his word, and returned within six months for a much longer visit—a good thing, since Caterina was bereft and moody without him; whenever a letter arrived from Florence, she would snatch it from the messenger and run to her bedchamber to savor it. While I never approved of her affairs outside marriage—were Caterina to become pregnant again, the scandal could cost her her lands—I was glad that this time she had chosen the kindest of men.

When Ser Giovanni returned again after New Year’s, all his belongings were taken to the lavish apartment directly next to Caterina’s, and this time, neither he nor Caterina bothered to hide their relationship from anyone at Ravaldino, although the servants were all sworn to secrecy. The Forlivese would be scandalized, and there was always the chance a cleric might write a letter of complaint to Rome.

Pope Alexander would never allow a Medici to take control of any property outside of Florence, and if Caterina married outside the Riario–della Rovere lineage, it would cost her her regency.

Despite this, Giovanni and Caterina lived as man and wife, and there was no happier time in Paradise. Giovanni was naturally cheerful and slow to take offense, and his sweet temperament influenced Caterina greatly. She learned from him that it appeared magnanimous to make requests of an underling rather than to demand, and that a kind tone brought better results than a harsh one. He also taught her how to consider the opinions and feelings of others before reacting, and that it was no shame to show genuine affection, in private or in public.

He was good with her sons as well. Rather than scold Ottaviano for his gluttony and laziness, he praised the lad when he drilled harder, rode longer, and hiked more “as it is excellent preparation for military service.” Cesare, who, like his mother, was lean and agile, received incentives to read more and study harder, and was generously rewarded for the slightest improvement. Both boys adored Ser Giovanni—as, frankly, did I, for he dealt with me as an equal. Never was a master more beloved in a household, and never the mistress and children and servants happier.

Months passed, however, and the inevitable happened. Early one morning, just as I had finished dressing, Giovanni opened the door at the top of the staircase leading up to Caterina’s bedchamber. He was in his nightshirt, a look of panic on his face.

“Dea,” he called down softly. “I am worried; Caterina is ill.”

I shoved my feet into my slippers and hurried up the steps. Frightfully pale, Caterina was sitting on the floor beside the bed, the front of her lawn chemise streaked with yellow bile. She had pulled the chamber pot from beneath the mattress, and was doubled over it. Just as I stepped up beside her, she obligingly vomited up a bit of foam.

As she wiped the stringy remnants from her lips, she met my knowing gaze, and I met hers. We did not speak; we had been in this situation far too many times to need words. I brought a clean chemise and a towel from the closet, dipped the latter in the basin and wiped her face as she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. Only then did I speak to Ser Giovanni, who hovered anxiously over us.

“I am going downstairs to the kitchen,” I said briskly, “to fetch salt and bread, and will be back soon.” I rose, and handed the clean chemise to Giovanni. “If she feels better before I return, she might need some help changing into this. But no sudden movements. And . . .” I frowned at the chamber pot, which, though unused, smelled vaguely unsavory. “Perhaps she would be better off using towels than this.” I replaced the porcelain lid, and pushed it back beneath the bed.

Giovanni’s concern increased as I began to stride off. With an air of helplessness, he called after me, “Is it serious? Will you fetch the doctor?”

I had crossed the threshold, and did not turn, but I heard Caterina’s low, muttered reply behind me: “I’m pregnant, fool.”

Caterina Sforza and Giovanni de’ Medici were wed in late September, in Ravaldino’s chapel. The bride wore a wreath of white silk flowers and diamonds upon her hair; her dress was made from one of Giovanni’s first gifts, an elegant gold damask trimmed with indigo satin. Giovanni wore black and silver and a look of profound panic. His older brother, Lorenzo—a thick-limbed, pudgy man with long golden curls, a round, handsome face, and startling green eyes—came from Florence bearing gifts. Such was the love between the two brothers that Lorenzo did not care that the marriage was politically dangerous and needed to remain a secret; he was happy simply because Giovanni was happy, and saw no reason not to celebrate.

To explain Lorenzo’s visit, and the score of gift-laden carts that rolled into Forlì—not to mention Ravaldino’s sudden, urgent demand upon the locals for flowers, decorations, and high-quality food and drink—the bride-to-be intentionally started a rumor that Lorenzo had come to speak to Ottaviano about a possible marriage to the former’s daughter.

In fact, Ottaviano was not considering marriage at all, but his first
condotta—
a paying military post—in Florence, thanks to his new relatives.

The ceremony was short, to accommodate Caterina’s passing spells of queasiness, but it was far from solemn. After the priest had declared the deed done and the new couple turned to face the group gathered in the pews, Ottaviano, who had been drinking the entire day, belched loudly. An air of uncertainty hovered over the assembly—should we acknowledge such rudeness?—until Ser Lorenzo let go an explosive, high-pitched giggle, which proved dangerously contagious. Even the priest left the chapel laughing.

On the fifth of April 1498, baby Giovanni was born after a short, easy labor. Like his father, he was dark-haired; time would slowly color his eyes a matching brown-black. Secret documents were signed, stating the name of the child’s sire, so that the boy would be recognized as a Medici and heir to his father’s fortune. A more public document, which Caterina would file with Forlì’s Hall of Justice sometime later, listed no father, and gave the infant’s name as “Ludovico Riario,” supposedly after Caterina’s uncle in Milan, who would be livid when he finally learned the truth.

Caterina and Ser Giovanni doted on the baby. Whereas all of Caterina’s older children had remained confined to the company of their nurses or tutors unless on display, little Giovanni and his nurse always accompanied Caterina during the day, when she was in her apartments and not off drilling Ravaldino’s small contingent of soldiers or hunting in the countryside. Ser Giovanni often joined her, and sometimes worked on his business correspondence while his son played at his feet.

Late that month, Caterina received a letter from the Bishop of Volterra announcing that he was already on his way from Tuscany to visit her at the request of Pope Alexander, “concerning a personal matter which shall certainly please Your Illustriousness.”

The cheery tone of the bishop’s letter left her unconvinced. Panicked, she sent Ser Giovanni back to Florence for a month, and everyone else in the household, including the soldiers, was instructed to say that the infant was Lucia’s. The servants and I worked feverishly to move Ser Giovanni’s belongings from Caterina’s bedchamber and the adjacent apartment downstairs to storage. All this preparation did nothing to ease our anxiety. When the bishop’s carriage finally pulled up alongside the moat, my knees were unsteady.

Waiting just inside Ravaldino’s main entrance, Caterina hid her terror behind a smile as the bishop walked across the drawbridge to greet her. I knew that his name was Francesco Soderini, that he had been born a Florentine but detested the Medici, and that Rodrigo Borgia—Pope Alexander—was so impressed by his acumen that a cardinal’s hat was in his future. But I had not expected him to be only twenty-five, or freckled, or so terribly thin. His black priest’s frock hung limply on his bony frame.

“Welcome, Your Excellency!” Caterina greeted him as he set foot inside the fortress proper, but she did not step back or gesture for him to follow her; instead she moved to block his way. Soderini could not see the armed guards that waited around the first corner, nor did he realize that his next few answers would seal his fate.

Soderini bowed. “Your Illustriousness! I bring greetings from His Holiness Pope Alexander in Rome.”

Caterina’s smile never wavered, but a faint hardness crept into her gaze. “And pray tell, Bishop Soderini, what business brings you here? Your letter was rather vague.”

Soderini suddenly grinned. “Business of the happiest sort, Your Illustriousness. I guarantee that you will be jubilant! But . . .” He looked uncertainly at the gatehouse’s mildewed walls. “It would be wrong of me to dilute the impact of such a joyous announcement here. Is there a place where my attendants and I might retire and refresh ourselves after a long journey?”

I stood to one side just behind Caterina, and saw the hidden guards watching her keenly for a signal. She folded her hands carefully behind her back as she considered Soderini’s question. A lift of one finger, and Soderini would be cut to pieces and sent back to Alexander in reply.

Caterina laughed quietly. “Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I am known for my impatience. I am eager to hear of this happy thing. Can you not give me one hint?”

Soderini gave a gaunt grin. “Very well,
one
hint. It has to do with a wedding!”

Kill him,
I thought, and looked at Caterina’s now-clenched fists. She studied the bishop and his attendants carefully, and curiosity crept over her features. The signal was never given.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly, and turned to lead her guests up to her apartments.

Soderini and his group of priests and lay brothers were treated to a small but adequate banquet and plied with wine. Ottaviano’s presence was requested and he, uncomfortable with unguided conversation and social niceties, spoke not a word unless pressed, in which case, he offered up monosyllables. Only those of us who passed in and out of the adjacent kitchen saw our lady’s armed guards waiting, lest she call.

When the meat course was finished and the kitchen maid carried away the dirty plates, the tipsy bishop turned to his tense but faintly smiling hostess, and announced: “You and your family are privileged indeed, Madonna Caterina! His Holiness has entrusted me with a happy invitation. Ser Ottaviano, Pope Alexander is offering the hand of his beautiful daughter, Lucrezia, to you!”

Caterina drew in a sharp breath. It was not the judgment she feared, but certainly not what she expected. With the eyes of Soderini and his entourage upon her, she said, dazed, “I never expected this! We are so . . . honored.”

What that, she glanced pointedly at Ottaviano, who could only repeat his mother’s words. He looked to her, uncertain whether he should be fearful or rejoicing.

For Soderini’s sake, Caterina forced a smile. “You must forgive us, Excellency. Such incredible news has left us stunned and overwhelmed. And as a mother, I am obliged to put at least a day’s consideration into the matter. But here! Let us celebrate the honor itself! Let us drink to the health of His Holiness!”

She lifted her cup, and the others followed suit. At that point, she ordered several bottles of finer wine to be brought up from the cellar, and saw to it that the bishop and his companions drank their fill. By the time Caterina left, Soderini was incoherent and his head was starting to droop toward his plate.

Caterina, however, was fully sober and her mood was growing fouler by the moment as the implications began to occur to her. I half ran to keep up with her as she headed for the desk in her sitting room, and hurriedly supplied her with paper, quill, ink.

“To Florence,” she dictated, “and Giovanni . . .”

My love,

The Bishop of Volterra, Soderini, has come from Pope Alexander, who has offered Ottaviano the hand of his daughter, Lucrezia.

Some would see this as an advantage; Ottaviano, after all, would have an indirect influence upon the papacy, and Forlì would at last have powerful military backing, no less than the might of Rome.

But I tell you that I know the mind of Rodrigo Borgia better than most. My time in Rome taught me that he can never be trusted. In fact, he tried to convince me to murder my own husband—which, of course, I would not consider—as part of his scheme to steal the papacy.

Because I refused him, he would not hesitate to strike back at me, even now.

My cousin Giovanni Sforza of Pesaro married Lucrezia, though, as you know, the marriage was annulled. He wrote to me about the Borgia household and the insults and threats he was forced to endure. I thought he was crazy at first because of the unbelievable, revolting charges he made—that Lucrezia was having affairs with both her father and eldest brother. I never doubted him, though, when he said he feared for his life. He was convinced that Borgia meant to poison him and seize Pesaro.

If I say yes to Borgia, my poor, unwitting Ottaviano will descend into that viper’s pit in Rome. Borgia would claim his property, and Ottaviano would put up no defense. Imola and Forlì—and, I have no doubt, my poor son—would be lost.

If I say no, Borgia will find another cause to strip my lands from me.

Either way, this invitation strikes me as an omen that Borgia’s lustful eye has finally taken notice of my possessions. It can only be a matter of time before he takes his revenge.

If you have other information, or are certain that my reasoning is faulty in some respect, send a messenger at once. Otherwise, I shall write a letter for His Holiness’s eyes only and send it with the bishop.

So now you must come home. You know how terribly I love and miss you. Little Giovanni yearns for his papa’s knee.

Your loving wife,

Caterina

Giovanni apparently concurred with his wife, for over the next week of entertaining Bishop Soderini and his entourage, Caterina received no urgent messages from Florence. On the last day of Soderini’s stay, he again pressed the Lady of Forlì for an answer; she demurred, but gave him a sealed letter to deliver personally to Borgia. I wrote the text of the letter as Caterina dictated, and agreed with her logic: regardless of whether Ottaviano married Lucrezia or not, Forlì and Imola were in danger. Why risk the life of her son unnecessarily?