Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 26



In the Vatican, business goes on as normal. Having made the decision to stand by his son, Alexander does not waver. If Burchard has views on the incident he keeps them to himself. In the Papal Consistory the attack is not referred to, though there are loud murmurings about the further favouring of the Duke of Gandia with what should have been papal lands in Naples. Alexander, now as sensitive to criticism as his son, tells them if it were not for him Rome would be half French by now and most of them poisoned or dead in a ditch somewhere to make room for new blood. He will do what he pleases with the land that has been recaptured. The session ends in angry silence.

Juan keeps to his apartments until things have calmed. When he does go out a few days later, no one comes near him. Even the fake compliments have stopped. The lesson has been learned, I am respected now, he thinks. His swagger and his appetite for erotic adventure return.

Alexander might have found time to urge a little caution on his son’s behalf, but he is consumed now by the vexed question of his daughter’s marriage. Despite his bullying, the Church lawyers are finding no credible reason why the union was not valid in the first place. If it cannot be done one way, it will be done another. Lucrezia must now lodge an appeal directly to him, the Pope.

The Latin text that Burchard draws up is formal but explicit: Lucrezia, Duchess of Pesaro, attests that she has been in the keeping of the family for over three years and that the union is still without any sexual relation, without nuptial intercourse or any carnal knowledge. She swears to this fact and is prepared to submit herself to the examination of a midwife.

All it needs is Lucrezia’s signature. Thank goodness for the loving obedience of his daughter.

‘Papà, I cannot sign this.’ She looks up from the paper, her eyes awash with tears. Ever since she has learned from Adriana that an examination will be called for she has been in dread of this moment, but seeing it here now in black and white the terror is even worse. ‘How can I swear before God to such things when they are not true?’

‘Don’t think of it as true or untrue,’ he murmurs. ‘It is simply a way to help the Church lawyers, who like me care greatly for your welfare, to find a solution to this… knotty puzzle. Here, here – take the pen.’

She stares at him, swallowing hard, but even as she reaches out her hand the floodgates open and soon she is crying so much that he has to rescue the parchment lest it soak up the salty rain. Oh, there is nothing he hates more than to see a woman cry…

‘Very well, very well,’ he counters patiently, ‘it does not need to be done today. I shall leave it here so you may think more on it. The Lord God will help you with the decision. But do not take too long: these Sforzas are slimy vermin and they will use any hesitation in their defence. Shall I send Adriana to you? Or Sancia? Or Giulia perhaps? They are women who know a thing or two about marriage and may be able to soothe your fears.’

But Lucrezia, now inconsolable, wants no one. Infected by undercurrents of sexual jealousy and intrigue, life at court has lost its shine and since the flight of her husband she has retreated into the company of her own entourage, led by her lady-in-waiting, Pantisilea. The more she frets the faster her embroidery grows. The flecks of blood are overstitched with scarlet thread and new flowers emerge under her fingers, bursting with life and colour. Days pass and she starts to feel calmer. The declaration, however, remains unsigned.

Alexander, growing impatient, calls for Cesare. He understands that his son is angry with him, and it is beginning to cross his mind that he might have been a little hasty in defence of Juan’s reputation. Still, what is done is done. Cesare above all others knows that he is not a man to apologise – unless he doesn’t mean it – and for that there has to be something to be gained from the pretence. Instead they will make their peace by putting family business first.

‘You have a way with her. You always have had. She loves no man better than she loves you. If you explain it to her again, I am sure she will agree. I don’t think I can suffer another storm of tears. Women! They do feel such things so deeply. When I think of Christ’s crucifixion, sometimes I cannot help but be moved as much by the grief of Our Virgin Lady Maria herself. Ah, the power of love for one’s children.’

Cesare, who has little time to dwell on the Lord’s death – or even much on his life, for that matter – bows his head in acceptance of the task.

‘I am sure you know that you are a great support and source of strength to me and I depend on you for many things.’

‘Yes, Father,’ he replies, with no evident sense of rancour. ‘I do know that.’

Despite herself, Lucrezia is pleased to see him. They begin with gossip, for even in distress she has not lost her appetite for that. Rumours of Juan’s bad behaviour have seeped under the firmest-closed doors, but in her isolation she has missed the colour of detail. Cesare is a fine storyteller and before he is finished she is cowering in the Vice-Chancellor’s palace, watching in horror as the young unfortunate is pulled screaming from under her skirts to his fate.

‘Oh, Cesare. He is my brother and I would not see him insulted for the world, but as you tell it I feel sorry for the man.’

‘You and half of Rome.’

‘So people will be angry with Papà now as well as Juan.’

For all that she is a girl, she has always been sharper than the others when it comes to understanding politics. ‘It is spilt milk and we will just have to lap it up. We have risen high in a city that never welcomed us, and it is not done by making friends.’

‘No,’ she says, ‘I think I have realised that now. And you? Are you angry with Juan as well?’

‘Ha! If he wasn’t my brother I’d strangle him with my own hands.’ He laughs as he sees the look on her face. ‘It’s all right. It is a thought, not a deed. Confession will handle it. We are family, remember.’

‘Yes, we are family,’ she sighs. ‘You are here to get me to sign the letter, aren’t you?’

‘I am here to do whatever it takes to make your future happier than your past. You deserve better than that… that fop.’

‘What happened when he was here, Cesare? He was very frightened. Did you threaten him?’

‘No need. He shits himself every time anyone looks at him.’ She winces slightly at the crudity. ‘Ah, sister. You know as well as I do that he has never been the right man for you. The sooner he is out of all of our lives the better.’

‘And it has to be this way?’

‘It has to be a way that works. And this is it.’

‘Even if it is not the truth? It is not a fair way to fight, Cesare.’

‘What, you think he fights fair? You are too kind. Your husband is a coward and a sniveller and he has betrayed you and the family a dozen times over.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

‘The man is a traitor, Lucrezia, a spy and a conspirator. We almost lost the war thanks to him. He betrayed us to Milan at every turn. We gave him a position in the army and he paid us back by giving details of our troop movements to Duke Ludovico, so that when the French headed for Rome they knew exactly where not to go. He carries the guilt for the occupation on his miserable little shoulders.’

‘No! No… He didn’t do that.’

‘You think not? What else was he doing all that time in Pesaro? He wasn’t in bed making love to you.’

He throws it out and immediately it hits home. He can see it in her face. ‘Think about it. Your letters to me were full of the visits he was making this way and that. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice anything?’

Except now, of course, she remembers. That night when she had gone to him and found him in his study, writing, the table strewn with letters and maps. The way he had flung his arms over the papers so that she could not see what he was studying.

‘Whatever is troubling you, you can tell me. Is it my family?’

And his voice, gruff with anxiety.

‘No, no. It is just politics. Affairs of state, nothing to worry yourself about. Go back to bed.’

Yes, she has known it somewhere. ‘Dear God, Cesare, I should have told you.’

‘You did. Your letters were as good as his confession. He doesn’t deserve any pity. If he had had his way, what do you think would have happened? We would have been strung up or poisoned by now. And a new pope would be dissolving your marriage on the grounds of your barrenness.’

‘Oh… oh.’ She closes her eyes, bringing her fists up to her chest in a gesture of angry helplessness. As the tears come, Cesare reaches out and takes one of her hands, pulling it down to rest within his. He says nothing, just lets her weep.

Except she doesn’t want to be crying. As in that night in Pesaro when she had confronted Giovanni, she is angry as much as she is sad, because none of these things are of her doing. He had understood that. He had got up from his chair and held her in his arms; held her and called her his wife, his lovely Borgia wife. Only the words had been like wormwood in his mouth. A lovely Borgia wife. That is what she will always be. A poisoned gift. Too difficult and too dangerous for any man.

She is crying not only for her past but for her future. ‘You don’t understand, Cesare. In his way he did love me. Or tried to. And if I sign this I will have to go before a court and lie. Lie! Before men of the Church. Before God.’

‘It is not so serious as you make out. Such things are a formality.’

‘On oath before the Church! A formality! And what about the examination? Because they will examine me. Is that a formality too?’

‘In its way, yes. It will take place behind closed doors. And the midwives will find whatever we tell them to.’

‘But they will examine me, yes? And how can they too lie? I am no longer a maid, Cesare.’

He flinches at the words, his eyes suddenly cold.

‘Oh sweet Jesus, I wish I still was.’ The words burst out and with them come sobs, gulps of self-pity and pain. He pulls her to him and holds her tight, and she gives in to him, burying her head into his chest as she weeps and weeps.

‘Ssshh. Hush,’ he murmurs, rocking her to and fro. ‘Don’t think about it. It will be all right. No one will hurt you in any way. I would never let that happen. You know that.’

But the more she tries to contain herself, the more she breaks down, as if the tears are all the things that she can never say; the humiliation of it, the strain of living so close to other people’s desire yet never feeling her own, of being a young woman who is adored but not loved. Whatever that word means. The tears soak into the velvet of his coat, her skin hot and clammy against the cloth. She has always felt safe inside his arms, this beautiful, powerful elder brother, whom so many fear but who has always been as tender as a lover with her.

‘There. See. It’s passing already.’ He is moving his hand over her hair now, long gentle strokes. As the storm subsides he moves her away from him a little, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Remember how when you were little and you used to get frightened at night,’ he wipes away a few soggy strands of hair that have become plastered to her face, ‘you would run across the room and get into my bed? Remember what I told you then. No one will hurt you, Lucrezia. I will never let them. Remember that?’

And she nods, a half-smile breaking through her distress. ‘You said you had a sword and that even if it was the devil under my bed, you would skewer him. Then you would light the candle and we would go and look together. But there was never anything there. Because you said they knew you were coming and had run away.’

‘So they had.’

‘And in the morning the servant would find us asleep together and tell Aunt Adriana and she would be cross.’

‘But we would take no notice.’ He laughs; lifting another wet strand and smoothing it back into place. ‘See. I am here and it is the same. No devils anywhere. Nothing to be frightened of at all. I won’t let them hurt you. Not ever.’

She takes a breath, the tears finally stilled now. ‘I love you, brother.’

‘And I love you, little sister.’ He lifts her right hand and brings the palm to his lips to kiss.

‘Aha!’ She laughs a little, and then returns the gesture. He uses both his hands to hold her head, bending it slightly to kiss her on the forehead, almost like a father to a child. Then on both cheeks. Then he brushes her lips. He breaks away to look to her. Her face is flushed, naked, and she is utterly still, though whether it is because of how firmly he is holding her is not clear.

‘Cesare?’ she says, on a half-breath, just before he kisses her again. Only now the kiss continues. His tongue moves around the edge of her lips, then slips softly inside. She lets out a tiny breathless moan but does not resist. Her eyes are tightly closed and her hand hovers close to him, as if not knowing where to go. He lifts his mouth from hers. ‘It’s all right,’ he says and his voice is very gentle. ‘There is nothing to fear. My beautiful sister, my love.’

But as his lips come back, she flinches, as if jolting herself awake from a difficult dream. ‘No, Cesare!’

The protest starts as a flutter, bird wings against glass, becoming fiercer when he does not respond, so that now she is pushing, trying to get her hands between them. ‘No, no – we can’t… ’

Abruptly, he lets her go and she jumps up and away from him. He leans back against the side of the window seat, a strange half-smile on his face. She stands staring down at him, her breath coming in fits and starts. He lifts his hands in mock-surrender. It is a gesture she knows well from when they were young: a way of swallowing feelings so they are hidden from anyone watching.

‘You have the sweetest lips, Lucrezia,’ he says lightly. ‘So sweet, they deserve kissing. And only a brother who loves you…’ he hesitates, ‘as deeply as I do, has the right.’

‘I… You should go now. I… Sancia will be here any moment. We have agreed to do some sewing together and it is better at present if you two do not meet.’

He stares at her, because of course he does not believe her and she knows it.

‘Very well.’ His eyes fall on the declaration that lies crumpled on the small wooden table before them. ‘But you must sign this for me before I do.’

She stares at the paper, a dense forest of letters in a perfectly inscribed hand. Then she picks up the pen and quickly, without thought, dips it into the ink and signs her name. Lucrezia Borgia Sforza. An elegant flourish. She takes the sand from the container, sprinkles it on to the words and waves the parchment in the air for it to dry. It is done. It is done. It is done.

‘See, I said you would feel better.’ He reaches out for it, but she does not respond, putting it back instead on the table.

‘Take it. Give it to Papà straight away. He will be pleased. I… I need to be alone now,’ she says, the excuse of Sancia already forgotten. ‘I want you to go.’ And the break in her voice tells him the urgency.

He stands up. ‘Nothing happened, Lucrezia. It was a moment of love, that’s all.’ But though the words are light, there is something in him that is not. He moves to the door, like a man in a semi-trance. Before he leaves he turns. ‘You will be all right if I leave you?’

She nods, but with her head down so as not to meet his eyes.

With the door closed she sits, hands clasped in her lap, staring at the floor. She lifts her fingers to her mouth, holding them there as if to feel the burn mark that he might have left. Then she slides a finger inside.

‘Pantisilea!’ She is on her feet. ‘Pantisilea!’

The lady-in-waiting is there fast. ‘What? What is it, my lady? What’s happened?’

‘It is done. The declaration is signed,’ she says. ‘The Cardinal of Valencia—’ She breaks off, shaking her head. ‘I want you to pack some things for the household. And tell the head groom that we need horses and a carriage ready to drive as soon as it grows dark. But that he is to tell no one.’

‘To drive? Drive where?’

‘Close to the southern gate of the city.’

‘But where are we going, my lady?’

‘To San Sisto. I am no longer to be a married woman. We are going to the convent.’