Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 10



The little girl bites her lip to avoid shouting out. Her white teeth shine fiercely against the pomegranate red of the inside of her mouth and her ebony skin. Pinturicchio, who attended yesterday’s rehearsals, already has artistic designs upon her. But she is struggling now. The dress they are squeezing her into is too tight around her chest, and she squirms, unable to breathe properly.

‘Hold still!’ Adriana yells.

The child stops, staring at Lucrezia, who stands with her back to her, a river of embroidered white silk falling down from her shoulders along the ground towards the girl’s feet. It is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen.

‘Right. Now, pick it up. Bend, girl. There, hold it. Yes, two hands. Further apart. This high up. See. Feel the weight of it.’ Adriana’s voice slips between exasperation and irascibility. ‘Remember, this is your job. You hold this train and you walk behind Madonna Lucrezia. At the speed we practised yesterday. No faster, no slower. Don’t look at anything or anybody else. When she stops, you stop. When she walks, you walk. And you never, never let it go. Never. Not until I myself tell you to. You understand?’

The girl’s fingernails are pale at the edges with the ferocity of her grip on the material. She looks up at Adriana’s blotchy face, the white powder eaten away by stress to reveal a forest of broken veins stretching from the trunk of her nose out across her cheeks.

‘Do you understand?’ Adriana throws up her hands in frustration. ‘The child is useless. She’s black enough but completely deaf and dumb. I asked for one that was not a savage.’

‘I think she hears every word, aunt.’ When others flap, Lucrezia finds it easier to be calm. ‘I spoke to her yesterday and her Italian was as good as yours or mine.’

She comes closer, the movement wrapped in a rustle of silk, bends down and rests her own hand lightly over the girl’s. ‘Do you understand what my aunt says?’

The girl nods. Lucrezia’s fingers, naked and pale, give way to a half-glove, looped over her middle finger, the silk stretching over the back of her hand and into the wrist of her gown, its entire surface encrusted with small pearls, as luminous as the black sheen of the girl’s own skin underneath. They both stare, equally entranced at the wonder of the contrast.

The girl looks up. ‘I walk when you walk. I stop when you stop. I hold on to it until she tells me to let it go.’

‘See!’ Lucrezia beams. ‘Perfect. You look most pretty,’ she whispers.

The girl stares. And stares. ‘So do you.’

‘Aah!’ Adriana, if possible, is even more exasperated.

The great room at the top of the palace is a madhouse. It is as if a wandering theatre troupe has billeted itself there, late for a king’s performance of a chivalric spectacle. Except all these players are young women. Dozens and dozens of them from Rome’s great families, to act as maids of honour for the arrival of the bridegroom and the marriage ceremony. By now they are mildly hysterical, chattering and screeching like starlings in the twilight hour. Adriana, in contrast, is a general who has lost control of her troops.

A woman enters the room and whispers something in her ear and she stops, clapping her hands and letting out a great bellow.

‘Silence! Silence!’

The room comes to a standstill amid a hushing and shushing of silk across marble floors.

‘We are ready. The moment is come. Listen. Listen.’ She motions to the open loggia at the end of the room.

They stand listening, and there, in the distance, they hear it: the blast of a trumpet, then the curl of pipes and flutes and drums weaving in behind.

‘They are on the other side of the river. Crossing the Sant’ Angelo Bridge. They will be here within the half-hour.’

Adriana rushes out into the loggia, ducking her head over the open balustrade, then ducking back again, her face lit up, younger suddenly than her years.

‘Oh, the piazza is full already. Oh my. Oh my. Everyone to their places. Ladies. To the end wall in your ranks. I shall tell you when to come forward. Lucrezia, you go out on to the loggia now. But not so as they can see you yet.’

The room clears, the young women scurrying to their places, so the space is empty save for Lucrezia. And her eager little train bearer, who does not budge an inch.

Adriana turns on her. ‘What? What? Didn’t you hear what I said? Get over there with the others.’

The child looks up at Lucrezia, but she does not budge.

Lucrezia nods. ‘What she means is that she wants you to put down the train now.’

The girl, biting her lower lip in a gesture of deep concentration, curtsies, bringing the river of fabric to the ground in a slow movement of such grace that both the women cannot take their eyes off her. Then, head high, she marches like a small soldier to the back of the room.

Adriana, who has the vague sense that she has just been upstaged in some way, shakes her head, then throws her entire attention and anxiety on to her niece.

‘It’s all right, aunt. I can walk myself. I am ready.’

She has been ready for the best part of seven hours. She had woken before dawn without the need of any bell, and lain awake, saying her prayers and asking for guidance in this, the most challenging moment of her life: the first meeting with her husband. By the bed, underneath The Imitation of Christ and The Book of Hours, lies a small, well-thumbed volume of chivalric tales, deemed uplifting enough for girls of her age and class. Within its pages, pure-born princesses, tricked or betrayed by evil half-brothers or usurping kings, fight their way through wild landscapes and grisly combat to find their thrones and their true love. While she has no illusions that that is what is on offer here, she cannot help but feel a little dizzy with all the thrills and frills, the heat of so much attention directed at her.

The day outside her shutters had arrived pristine, perfect: Rome in early summer is a sweet season, blue skies and a sun that kisses rather than crushes. On such a day D’Artu might have married his Ginevara. And for a while at least they would be happy.

She turns to her aunt. ‘How do I look?’

Adriana opens her mouth, closes it again, and then bursts into tears. She too has read her romances. Or perhaps she just has a reason to be upset by arranged marriages.

‘Well, it is too late to do anything about it now,’ Lucrezia says, squeezing her aunt’s hand. She lifts up her arms and the encrusted pearls glimmer in the sun. ‘Oh, my gown feels so heavy.’

‘Wait until you see Juan,’ she says. ‘He’s wearing half a jeweller’s shop.’

Lucrezia smiles at the unexpected wit, gives her a hug, and then walks out on to the loggia. Though she is careful not to show herself yet to the crowd, someone catches a glimpse and a great roar goes up. It has been almost a year since the public celebrations of the Pope’s coronation. Other cities of Italy have great dynastic weddings all the time. Now Rome has its own royal family. The Pope’s lovely young daughter. Ripe fruit. Free wine. Time for another Borgia party.

The sound of the music is growing closer. The drumbeat registers in her stomach. This is happening to me, here, now, she thinks. I am nearly fourteen years old and I am meeting the man I will marry. Dear, sweet Jesus, let him like me. Let me love him. With Your help I can do it. She tries to take hold of the feeling, still it, freeze it, pickle it, preserve it in some manner so that she can return to it at will, whatever happens from here on.

Below, the atmosphere is carnival rather than procession: this colourful knot of squires, knights, page boys and musicians attended by fools and jesters turning cartwheels, or gibbering and playing with the crowds, one decked out as a priest offering blessings to anyone and everyone. And in the middle somewhere, the bridegroom.

As the first drummers and flag wavers enter the little piazza in front of the palace, Lucrezia moves forward to the balustrade and every head goes up to look at her. For many it is the first sight they have had of her, this tender young woman emblazoned in silk and pearls, her virgin long hair under a jewelled net falling on to her shoulders. And they are, of course, enthralled. The Pope adores her, it is said. And why not? At this moment she is everyone’s daughter. The new blossom on the tree. The spring that promises a great harvest. The kiss of romance. The thrust of lust. Rome is hungry for it all. God preserve the family that brings them so much theatre.

The main group of horsemen moves into the square, then peels away to leave one horse and one rider.

He spurs his mount in a slow trot towards the loggia. He comes to a halt underneath. Man on horse: woman on balcony. A chorus of lovely young women can now be glimpsed behind her. He takes off his hat and bows low to the side, his thighs clasping tight to the saddle to balance the move. The reins clink, the horse whinnies slightly.

In response, Lucrezia drops into a deep curtsey, disappearing from view before rising up again. The moment is held. Then he replaces his hat and flicks the reins and his horse joins the others as the procession moves off towards the opening doors of the Vatican palace, where he will pay obeisance to her father.

The crowd howls its approval at a ritual well executed.

She turns back into the room. Her aunt stands, eyes still brimming.

‘I had the sun in my eyes.’ Lucrezia shrugs slightly, her heart still hammering out the drumbeat of excitement. ‘All I could see was a flash of gold on his chest.’

Everybody finds it wonderfully funny.