Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 40



The truth is, Alexander would like nothing better than to bring the duke home and find him another wife. But Louis has no intention of letting him go. He has given away a prime piece of French real estate to unite the houses of Orléans and Borgia in this great enterprise of Italy, and the last thing he wants is for his dear cousin to return to Rome, where who knows what political pressure might be brought to bear on the Pope to make him question his support for the invasion?

As the courtship staggers from bad to worse, Cesare, caught like a fly in a dish of preserve, curses himself for not seeing it sooner. He is reliant on Louis, not only for a large slab of money (yet to come), but also for the troops he will need when they return to Italy. He can hardly spurn the King’s hospitality and march his whole household out of France. But neither can he leave without it. There is no slipping out of the tent leaving empty baggage chests this time. The guest is more a hostage than the hostage ever was. It is a mistake he will not make again.

At the beginning of March the King tries once more, organising an intimate meal between the reluctant lovebirds with just Their Majesties as chaperons. It is an excruciating affair: Carlotta does not speak unless spoken to and Cesare stares across the table at her flat face, imagining it as the wall of a fortress town, more suited to cannonballs than compliments. It doesn’t help that his humiliation is so public that the law students of Paris, always an irreverent bunch, are presenting an entertainment on how the son of God cannot find any woman to marry him, poor thing.

‘Lawyers! In any language they smell of other people’s shit.’ Michelotto, never at his best at court, is itching to take it out on someone. ‘Let me take some men into the streets of Paris and every one of them will have higher voices when it comes to pleading their cases.’

If only, Cesare thinks. If only…

Next morning, the King orders the Neapolitan ambassador for an emergency audience. Voices are raised and it does not last long. That afternoon Cesare vents his frustration on the hunt. With his own pack of bay and catch hounds, he breaks ranks from the main party and moves off alone further into the forest.

The dogs plough through the winter undergrowth, tails in the air, noses to the ground for the first good scent. They have travelled all the way from Italy with him and he knows each and every one of them by name. A few of them, the bull-mastiffs and the boxers, he has watched being whelped from bitches that were catching boars when he, Cesare, was still a boy in the saddle. His hunting master says that he has never worked for a man who had such a way with them: that what is skill in some, in him is instinct. Cesare, who has an advanced nose for the odour of flattery, is not so sure. But what he does know is that when his head feels fit to burst with the intransigence and stupidity of men there is always room to breathe out here, where his horse and his dogs, like the best fighters, anticipate the next command almost before he gives it.

Away from the body of the hunt, the only noise is the rustle and snap of the scrub underfoot. The late-winter sun slices in through the canopy of trees, so there are moments when it feels as if he is riding through the nave of a French cathedral, the soaring space lit by arched windows halfway to the sky. Some say God enters a man’s heart differently in such churches; that because the light is so precious the very architecture pulls your head up towards Him. Cesare has spent the winter freezing his balls off inside such places and longs for the comfort of Rome. The Vatican chapel may be big but its walls are alive with battles and stories, most of them so realistic that you might think you could climb into them. He has done some of his best strategic thinking in there.

God’s blood, he thinks, I am tired of this country. I want to go home.

The dogs are howling. The bays have picked something up. With a fresh enough scent, they can outrun the swiftest deer. Boars move more slowly, but their battering-ram bodies can smash through smaller openings and into deeper undergrowth. The chase runs for two, maybe three, miles. He hears the royal bugle calling from somewhere in the distance. The main hunt is nearer than he’d realised, maybe they have picked up the same scent. But this is his kill. He urges his horse on, flattening himself against the saddle as they jump fallen trees and speed under low branches.

The bay dogs are further ahead now, throwing themselves deep into a thicket and suddenly there it is, breaking cover: a full-grown male boar, fat head, stumpy legs and thick bristling body. It is big; 150 pounds at least, with fully grown sabre-curved tusks thrusting out and up from its bottom jaw.

It hurtles faster into the forest, driven by panic, but not fast enough for the bays; within minutes they have it surrounded, harrying and corralling it towards a patch of open ground, the catch dogs ready, straining and howling but holding back until they are called.

Now he gives the order and they pile in, snarling, snapping, jumping to catch a tail or an ear in their teeth, all the time dodging the tusks. There is a cacophony of sound, barking, squealing. The boar flings itself this way and that to throw off the dogs. Breaking free for an instant, it puts its head down and charges, a tusk catching the underbelly of one of the mastiffs, lifting it off the ground and hurling it to one side. The dog’s high-pitched screams are everywhere. Cesare launches the first spear while still mounted. It embeds itself deep and low in the animal’s back flank. There will be vital organs in there, but the pain will make it mad before it kills.

He flings himself off the horse, the second spear, with a crossbar a third of the way up, already poised as the boar twists and howls. There are twenty, maybe thirty, forty paces between them. He settles his feet into the ground and braces himself. His blood is pumping and he can hear a kind of singing in his ears. The best place will be the neck, but wherever it is, there will be no second chance.

The boar is charging now, moving at frenzied speed, head low so the tusks will get leverage on flesh. He has seen men half disembowelled by the goring if the spear doesn’t hold.

‘Come on!’ he roars at the top of his voice. Even braced against impact, he is thrown off centre as the whole weight of the animal rams on to the spear. For a second both man and beast are staggering. The man recovers first. All those hours of slamming, battering contact with battle swords have run rods of iron through his body and the spear has plunged in as far as the crossbar, so however hard it pushes the boar can get no closer. The tip has entered through the back of the head, deep into the body, and with Cesare at the other end holding firm, the beast can do nothing but squeal and squirm in furious agony. He calls in the dogs again and they hurl themselves upon the trapped body until finally the boar is brought to its knees. Only now does he let go of the spear and go in with the hunting dagger. The beast tries to rise, but it is too wounded. It is lying half on its side now, its great bulk juddering. This time he gets close enough to feel the brush-bristles of the hair. He picks his spot and slams in the long blade, hitting an artery so the blood whooshes up like a fountain into the air, soaking his clothes, spraying his face and hair: the gush-gush of a life extinguishing.

As it lies twitching heavily, its blood pumping out on the ground, he slits open the stomach. The dogs hold back, growling, muscle straining, impatient for their share of the kill. Even the injured one has pulled itself out of the bushes to try to join the pack, half its own innards trailing the ground. He cuts out some offal from the boar and throws it the first piece. As he stands aside to let them in, the dogs go mad with joy.

The chase and the kill. There is nothing in the world to compare to it. He has not felt so present, so filled with life, for months. Like any other man he has a yearning for the snug warm tunnels of women, but if heaven lets in men like him, then his eternity will be spent hunting, not copulating.

The first horses from the main hunt are galloping into the glade, the King, of course, in the lead. He reins in his mount, amazed by the sight of this beautiful young man, drenched in blood. The royal hunt dogs pour in, snapping at each other in territorial dispute over the kill. No one else moves.

Finally the King dismounts, motioning everyone else to stand back. ‘Valentinois,’ he shouts, striding up to Cesare. With the boar still twitching at their feet, he grabs his face between his hands and pulls it towards him as if they are going to kiss, then at the last moment embraces him, holding on until he too is thick with blood. But Cesare is still in communion with death and his laughter is more bestial than courtly. ‘Valentinois,’ the King says again, as if to remind him who and where he is. And now the shout is taken up, like a chant behind him. ‘Valentinois! Valentinois! Valentinois!’

‘Sweet Jesus, you look like a pagan. God help your wife on your wedding night,’ Louis laughs, throwing an arm around his shoulders and turning him towards the hunt, inviting his men to enjoy the spectacle of their bloodstained intimacy. ‘Come, leave the butchering to others. They will reward the dogs and bring you back your tusks and hooves. You and I have work to do.’

Back in the palace, Cesare, bathed and dressed, attends His Majesty for a private dinner in his bedroom. Thick brocade curtains cut out the draughts, and there is a healthy fire in the open grate, the apple wood spitting sparks into the room. As his servants pour the wine, black as boar’s blood in the candlelight, the King can barely take his eyes off his guest.

‘Like you, my great, dear duke, I am a man who does not admit failure lightly.’ Louis is bullish from the start; Cesare’s blood lust is still strong in the room and the King is energised by it. Such virility is wasted on court intrigue; only put him at the head of a cohort of cavalry and this fiery young warrior will shine brighter than any armour. ‘I have done everything I can, but it seems Naples does not want you as a son-in-law. What can I say? Believe me, it will be their loss. But you are our dear ally and even dearer cousin and I will not have you disappointed. I promised you a royal wife called Carlotta. And that is what you shall have. I offer you a toast: to marriage and war.’ He lifts his blood wine and their silver goblets clash together. ‘Now. There is someone I want you to meet.’

Charlotte d’Albret is young and lovely, and the blood in her veins runs as blue as that of her unlovely namesake. She is the sister of the King of Navarre, with a claim on the French throne itself. She has high, melon-ripe breasts, a smile to melt ice, a quietly religious sense of duty and a father whose only concern is the need for some extra cash. Maybe the King has had her waiting in the wings all the time. Who knows?

‘What is Naples anyway but a hellhole of deceit and disease, eh? This way you will have not only French lands but also a royal French wife.’ They walk together through the royal garden, the air growing milder with each passing day. ‘Once married, there will be nothing to stop us marching together and subduing the renegade Milan. With the city taken, my army will be your own to do with as you wish. God help the fortresses you march on, Cesare,’ he says, seeing again the boar’s insides bloody and steaming in his hands. ‘As for Naples… well, there is always our own French claim on it. Revenge, dear cousin, can be taken in many forms.’

Cesare, who has looked in the mouths of many gift horses, knows a good enough mount when he sees it. Back in Rome, Alexander, who has been suffering his son’s humiliation as if it was his own, is jubilant. The marriage is negotiated, signed and celebrated in the Queen’s own chapel at Blois on May 12, barely six weeks after their first meeting.

Cesare’s envoy gallops out when it is still dark. Seven hundred miles and a mountain range separate father and son. He reaches the Vatican four days later. Before he can open his mouth his knees buckle under him and Alexander gives a mere servant permission to sit in his presence. When he starts to talk his larynx is so coated with dust that his voice cracks. Food and wine are brought to help him recover.

Four hours later, when the man is still answering questions, the Pope joins him at the table. No detail is too small, no triumph uncelebrated. His new daughter-in-law is a vision of beauty, her new wardrobe overflowing with Borgia gowns and jewels. Cesare is the most handsome bridegroom the court has ever seen, the marriage breakfast the most sumptuous, and the King of France so enamoured of his cousin that he showers him with even more titles and gifts. As for the wedding night – oh, the wedding night… No sooner has the messenger staggered home to sleep than Alexander invites others in to hear the news all over again. And so it is that Cesare’s sexual prowess enters history: twice before dinner and six times afterwards.

‘My son. My son! Eight lances broken in a single night,’ he reiterates gleefully with each retelling. ‘He has bettered his own father in that!’

It is a family triumph and everyone must rejoice with him.

In the forecourt of the palace of Santa Maria in Portico, the Duchess of Bisceglie orders a bonfire to be lit to commemorate the event. Inside, however, the celebration is muted.

When the Pope visits, the couple receive him in Lucrezia’s bedchamber, a bowl for sickness discreetly stowed close by. As with her brother, family duty is pleasure for Lucrezia these days and the new baby she is carrying will be born in late autumn. Halfway through the story of Cesare’s triumph, her smile starts to tremble and tears slip down her cheeks. She tries to laugh them away, but they will not stop.

‘It is the baby,’ Alfonso says, squeezing her hand. ‘She feels everything most acutely these last weeks.’

Alexander nods understandingly.

But it is not the baby. Cesare is married into France, and Naples is no one’s ally any more.

‘Whatever happens, Alfonso and Sancia will still be family, won’t they, Father?’

‘You are not to worry about such things, Lucrezia.’

The words, exchanged lightly only a few months ago, now sit accusingly between them. The Pope, who cannot bear to have his joy interrupted by the problems to come, kisses her on the forehead, before making his excuses to leave on further business.

As the door closes, Alfonso puts his arms around her. ‘It is all right. You are the Pope’s daughter and everything will be all right.’

‘No. Don’t you understand? This marriage makes your family our enemy. And that exposes you and Sancia.’

‘What? Will he try and divorce us both? I think not. I may not have performed as publicly as Cesare, but no one can doubt we are married. In a few months I will be the father of the Pope’s grandchild. However angry he might be with my uncle, he will not take it out on me. He loves you too much for that.’

She stares at him: such eyes, like cut sapphires. One would think that they could see through anything.

‘I am sure you are right,’ she murmurs. ‘I am being foolish.’

She holds him tighter. There is no point in telling him that it is not her father she is worried about.