Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 38



A great household on the move is like an army without weapons. It is still night when the Vatican gates open. After the first bodyguards rides Duke Cesare himself, surrounded by nobles, Spanish and Roman, his doctor, his secretaries and all his household officers. Then come cohorts of grooms and servants like foot soldiers, then the pack mules, heads down as if in resigned despondency at the hardships to come, and bringing up the rear an endless line of loaded baggage carts thundering over uneven cobbles. Those few Romans who are up, or woken by the noise, watch amazed; it looks as if half the Vatican is on its way to France. The hour is deliberately unsocial: the throwing off of his vows and this ‘affair’ with the French King is not to everyone’s liking and it is best not to draw too much attention to it. The stealth suits Cesare as well, for his face is still in full bloom. It is a shame, since his natural colouring goes well with the red and gold of his new livery, and with his nobles and pages all dressed the same, once the sun comes up they will be on fire against the dirt and drab of the streets.

Cesare’s going brings an immediate change of atmosphere in the Vatican. Without his restless dynamism the Borgia apartments feel heavy, almost sleepy; as if the air itself has to readjust to the lack of him. The Pope finds it hard to propel himself into business and there are moments, reading dispatches or preparing to quiz ambassadors, when he misses the certainty of his son’s quick mind, the instinctive cat-pounce onto unsuspecting prey.

But the feeling passes and as he relaxes so do others around him: churchmen, palace officials, servants, even the indefatigable Burchard all feel a little less harried, more appreciated and therefore more appreciating.

The change is most noticeable inside the family. With less male strut and banter, the hush of silk skirts and the sweetness of women’s laughter expand to fill the Pope’s private rooms. His two darling daughters (for that is how he also sees Sancia since her return) both let go of the breath they are not even aware they have been holding, and take advantage of their position in the court. Together they arrange dinners, entertainments, music, concerts and dancing, fussing around their father like handmaidens, delighting in his delight. Giulia, who has never been at ease with the Pope’s eldest son, joins them sometimes, with young Laura and the baby at her side; because of course she is family too. Jofré, always in awe of Cesare, finds his own voice again, and Alfonso, who has had no option but to match his brother-in-law’s aggressive good humour towards him, is allowed to be more himself. Despite the onset of winter, the Vatican seems a warmer place than it has done for years. Without naming or in many cases even knowing it, they come to feel how much tension there is inside Cesare’s insistent energy and how their world is a gentler place without him.

Lucrezia in particular, though she shed tears at his departure, is soon dancing on air. But then Lucrezia is a happy woman. She is also a lucky one, for she is that rare thing in a world of arranged marriages: a bride who loves her husband.

In the end it was quite simple: a young woman yearning for love marries a handsome, lively young man with a proclivity for pleasure and a soft spot for women with pale skin and fair hair. Any fear this Adonis might have had about penetrating a pope’s daughter had been allayed the minute he set eyes on her. The mind behind those startling blue eyes has little interest in politics or even malicious rumour. He simply likes what he sees. The attraction is immediate, and though he does his best to be chivalrous, in the weeks leading up to the wedding he cannot help but let it show.

Lucrezia, still nursing guilt that it is she who led Pedro Calderón on, is excited and nervous by degrees. She is not used to men outside the family being so open and at ease with her. For the first few days she watches him as closely as he does her, so that often they can’t help but catch each other’s eye and have to laugh to avoid embarrassment.

Alfonso laughs a lot. She likes that; likes how easily he enjoys himself, how he and Sancia are so relaxed and playful together. It reminds her of how it used to be between her and Cesare. Cesare: he is her other fear, of course, though she will not let herself admit it. His bonhomie towards Alfonso feels real enough. And yet… it is almost as if she cannot allow herself to become too fond in case Cesare will then become less so.

But as France beckons, Cesare has his own life to lead and even he cannot be in all places at once. With Sancia and Jofré as their unofficial chaperons, the courting couple is given enough space to let the attraction flower and the anticipation grow.

In the marriage bed that first night, he is so full of desire that he asks if they might keep the lamp burning as she removes her embroidered nightshift so that he might see her properly. She blushes deeply, fumbling with the ties, until he takes her hands away and undoes them himself. Her nerves act as their own aphrodisiac.

‘You are very lovely,’ he says thickly, laying his hand on the pale rise of her stomach.

She laughs. ‘Am I?’

‘Oh yes… yes you are.’

‘So are you,’ she replies.

Because he is. She has long been smitten by the wonder of his leg – such a test of a man and in him the perfect union of strength and line. Naked, however, his beauty is more shocking: the tension of muscles running through his calves, the long powerful pull of the thigh reaching high into the torso, framing his rising penis. Above, his chest is a thicket of curls. Nervously, she slides her fingers in among them: rich and dark. As dark as she is fair. The flesh beneath is firm, almost hard. As hard as she is soft. He smiles down at her and in the lamplight his eyelashes are as full as a girl’s.

‘Don’t worry,’ he murmurs, moving his hand skilfully downwards. ‘It is more fun even than dancing.’

At nineteen, blessed by blood and beauty, Alfonso is a young man overflowing with optimism and confidence. After Giovanni Sforza, it is like being loved by a god.

Later that night, the guard whose job it is to keep watch over the stores and cellars is disturbed by strange noises coming from the kitchen (vermin in great houses often come human-sized). He picks up his staff, fat enough to counter kitchen knives, and, carefully lifting the iron latch, pushes open the heavy door.

The shadows of hanging pots and pans flap like heavy bats around the room, their dance set off by flickering candles. At the great table in the centre of the room an impromptu banquet is taking place: the Duke and Duchess of Bisceglie sit side by side in their nightrobes, hunks of bread, cheese, dishes of preserve and a bottle of cellar wine and metal cups laid out in front of them.

It is hard to know who is more taken aback.

‘Woah. Did we wake you?’ The duke, his bare feet curled over the rungs of the rough stool, is first to recover. ‘We were trying to be quiet, but I dropped the carving knife.’

He waves it in the air and beside him Lucrezia gives an impish smile, her face framed by a cloud of pale, tousled hair.

‘Marriage is a hungry business.’ Alfonso laughs, raising his glass to the man’s stunned look. And she laughs too. So that now the guard can do the same, only nervously; the loss of the cheese and wine will be noticed immediately.

‘Don’t worry. We will wipe away the evidence. And keep a note of everything we eat so that you are not blamed for the loss.’

The man nods, embarrassed but satisfied as he backs his way out of the room and closes the door. What a story. Who will ever believe him?

‘I’d like to see his face when he tells the cook tomorrow,’ Alfonso says. ‘When we were children, Sancia and I did things like this all the time in the palace.’

‘You were allowed?’

‘No allowance needed. We did as we pleased. The cooks grew so used to us they would leave out pickings for “the royal mice”… Ah, what games we played.’

In the half-light she smiles at him. ‘You get on with everyone, don’t you?’

He shrugs. ‘Why make enemies? Life is too short. My God, wife, you have given me an appetite.’ And he slices off another sliver of cheese, covering it with fruit preserve.

‘I wish Cesare felt the same way about people,’ she says.

‘Oh, your brother is a fine man.’

‘You like each other.’

‘Why should we not? We both care for you and want to see you happy.’

She nods, and her heart feels fit to explode with happiness.

They sit watching the shadows jump, enjoying the transgression of the moment. He eats the cheese and licks his fingers, sticky with the preserve, and then he dips them back into the jam and offers them to her. She slides them in and out of her mouth, all the time watching him watching her. Oh yes, she is eager to learn about love, this sweet young bride of his.

‘We will be content together, don’t you think, Alfonso?’ she says at last, looking fondly at him.

He yawns and stretches out his handsome arms. ‘I don’t see why not.’

By the end of the year she is sick to her stomach and happy as a lark. There will be a grandchild in Italy by the summer. Alfonso d’Aragon and Lucrezia Borgia. Man and woman. Husband and wife. Family and dynasty. As simple as that. In Rome, at least.