Futile Flame (8 page)

‘Would you like to leave, go somewhere quieter?’ I ask.

She blinks, looking around as though she has only just noticed the noise and the bustle. I narrow my eyes at the waiter who placed us here. Another time I would have killed him just for looking at me in the wrong way. He’s arrogant and shifty and of mixed race, though I can’t tell what mix. He finally brings the drinks we ordered, slamming them down on the table before us.

‘Eleven pounds fifty,’ he demands. I hand him the exact money. I feel no urge to reward his attitude.

As he snatches the money from my hand, clearly annoyed that I haven’t tipped him, I notice he has a small tattoo on his knuckle. It is some form of Celtic symbol. It looks like a fish on a hook. Strange.

We are in a corner, not quite a booth, but out of the way and it does afford us some privacy. Lucrezia glances down at her shaking hands. She clasps the large glass of red wine she ordered. She is silent.

On the stage a Christina Aguilera wannabe takes up the mike before the intro for Beautiful pours from the speakers around the room. The girl sings; she’s good. I feel Lucrezia move beside me and I look to her again. She sips her wine; her fingers aren’t trembling anymore. Her composure seems to have returned.

‘I never saw my son again,’ she continues. ‘One glimpse they allowed me, and then they took him. I have no idea what happened to him after that. Guila assured me he would be raised by a loving family. At first I didn’t believe her, but then she pointed out that Father’s religion would never allow him to murder a child.’

‘Yes. Not surprising really. You couldn’t keep him because your father could hardly have you acknowledge the child’s existence. I suspect you would have, wouldn’t you?’

She nods. ‘Of course, Guila tried to reassure me that it was the best thing. She said that there would be something wrong with the baby. Modern science would probably hold to that anyway, that my relationship was too close to Caesare. Our child would likely be retarded or deformed. He didn’t though, he looked perfect, Gabi. He was beautiful. If I close my eyes I can still see him, wrapped in a white sheet. He had green eyes. Just like mine.’

I take her hand, stroke my thumb over her cold fingers and note with interest that her aura does not provoke the reaction in me that Lilly’s does. She feels like my sister, not a lover. I ache for her loss because it is so relative to my own. Yet Lilly’s love has helped me so much to come to terms with the past. Maybe I can help Lucrezia now.

‘Life returned to normal for a while,’ she begins again. ‘Of course, when my family refused to give me over to Giovanni a year later, he grew angry. His accusations of incest were so accurate. Even though he didn’t know for certain. He suspected Father, and then later, when he’d barged into St Peter’s and found me in the Library with both my brother and Father, he assumed we were a den of iniquity.’

I ask her to explain ‘found with’ and she laughs. They had merely been talking and planning to extricate her from the marriage. Constant refusal to bed Giovanni gave him just cause to insist on an annulment. This meant of course that he could also keep the ducats he received as dowry. The Pope and his family had failed to keep their part of the agreement. Therefore Giovanni Sforza’s grievance was justified. Naturally that was all part of Pope Alexander’s plan.

‘And Caesare?’

Lucrezia’s eyes are raw as she meets my gaze. Her hand reaches up, pushing back an invisible strand of hair from her face.

‘Caesare had changed beyond recognition. I had felt some loyalty to him after he defended me. I don’t know what punishment befell him in my absence. He became crueller; darker and more brooding. His expression was a continual sneer, especially when I was in the room. He came to my room the first night of my return to Rome to find himself locked out. He just couldn’t accept my refusal. Of course, Giovanni was right; he could see it in my brother’s eyes that day. Caesare was obsessed with me; it wasn’t love anymore. He believed I belonged to him, and he wouldn’t leave me alone.’

‘He stalked you?’

Lucrezia nods. ‘In a way. But my Father’s influence protected me from him and any further contact for several years. He married me off again as soon as possible. Of course that didn’t help, because Caesare’s fury grew and the love he had once borne for me became twisted and warped beyond all recognition.’

‘A futile flame,’ I say.

‘Yes. And it never burnt out.’

Chapter 12 – Lucrezia’s Story

There were further marriages of course. Further lives that I lived in my attempts to avoid Caesare. My brother became influential and feared. No one ever went against him. Those that did, disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Father used his madness to control him.

Soon after the death of my second husband, Father quickly arranged my re-marriage. I believe he feared for me alone, with Caesare constantly in the background, trying to gain access to me at every opportunity. Maybe he knew his own life was coming to an end and he wished for me to be safe. Away from the Vatican I tried to live a pious and respectable life with my final husband, Alfonso D’Este.

Alfonso was kind, though always unfaithful. It didn’t worry me. As his duchess, I had gained social acceptance and the respectability that I had never thought I would achieve, as the scandal from my first marriage had always seemed to follow me. This of course was aided by Caesare’s presence and his drunken rants about the lust he had for me to seemingly close friends. So the rumours about us never fully died. People remembered our escapades, my shocking urge to dress as a boy, and stories and gossip were exaggerated way beyond the truth. It was even attributed to me that I once shot at servants with bow and arrow from a window of the palazzo. Of course this was all nonsense. The wild life I’d led had died the day I gave birth to my brother’s child.

The collapse of the house of Borgia began the day our father was buried. Scandal once again returned to my household. Caesare no longer had someone holding him back (although I never knew how Father had managed it). One week after Father’s death, my brother’s real reign of terror began.

Caesare turned up at my palazzo and took my husband out riding one day. Alfonso never entered my bedchamber again. He changed his suite of rooms. Caesare moved into our household and into Alfonso’s bedroom, which linked to mine, the next evening.

In a state of confusion I watched the servants bring in his possessions and unpack.

‘Why are you here?’ I asked Caesare.

‘Why, sister. Your dear husband has offered me a home for the time being. He did not want me out on the streets after Father’s death.’

‘I want you to leave.’

Cold, dark green eyes studied me. ‘How uncharitable of you.’

Caesare turned to the servants as they removed his expensive clothing from trunks and hung them in the wardrobes my husband’s clothing had once occupied.

‘Leave us.’

The servants scurried away. They recognised the violence in him, even more than I did at that time.

‘Luci, I thought you’d be pleased to have a real man return to your bed.’

‘Is that what you think? That I would let you near me again, Caesare? I hate you and all you stand for. You have debauched your life, escalating the scandal of our family. I have a respectable life with Alfonso and I won’t give that up. So, I’m asking you once more to leave here. I won’t do as you wish and my door will remain locked to you.’

His eyes were molten rage as he grabbed me, dragging me by the hair across the room. He flung me down in the centre, hit and punched me. Blood burst from my lips, splattering the lampshade by the four-poster bed. I screamed and he fell on me, his blows matched by kisses as he ripped at my bodice. I fought free, raking my nails down his arm. He hit me once more with the back of his hand, sending me crashing back against the bedpost.

My head smashed into the frame and I slipped stunned to the floor.

His hands grabbed viciously at my breasts bruising my flesh. There was none of the old tenderness between us. Those days were gone. My brother was not the same. The things we had endured had changed him irrevocably. He held me down, making no attempt to stifle my screams. He knew that no help would come from my husband or the servants. All the gossip I’d heard about his treatment of women was confirmed that night as he ripped my clothing from me and brutally raped me, forcing unwanted kisses on my bleeding lips. My strength gave out and I lay in a stupor.

‘You will never refuse me again,’ he told me. ‘I am the power now in this household, and your children will suffer unless you please me.’

Despite my screams and cries at his door, Alfonso refused to see me and my attempts to gain his help only resulted in further and more violent beatings. I knew that Alfonso was afraid too, though I did not know why or what had occurred between him and Caesare on that ride. This fear was so elevated that I knew Caesare would make good any threats he had made. Though I screamed and called for help night after night, no one came to my rescue.

Caesare dismissed the nursery staff and brought in his own loyal servants. I was a mother and I feared for my children. So, battered, bruised and afraid, I learnt to please him. I learnt to be his whore whenever and however he wanted and the cruelty of his sex games began. Even so, I adapted. I survived. That’s what women do in these circumstances.

‘Get the robe off,’ he ordered one night after staggering in drunk.

I hated him, but did as he said and I lay on my bed as he took me.

‘Kiss me.’

Even though I complied he beat me because I hadn’t kissed him like I meant it.

‘Tell me you love me,’ he slurred. I willingly accepted the blows. No amount of torture could make me say those words to him. I hated him so much.

It wasn’t long before I fell pregnant with my final child. Needless to say, the baby was not my husband’s. At first Caesare was angry, a pregnancy might spoil his pleasure; but as the months wore on, he softened a little to me. The beatings stopped. He gave instructions for the servants to ensure I ate properly at all times.

‘Why do you care?’ I asked once, risking his wrath.

‘It’s my child in there. Don’t delude yourself that I’m being kind to you for your sake.’ He sneered. ‘I’m thinking only of my child.’

His possessive interest in the baby frightened me. As my belly grew, sometimes he lay in bed with his head resting on me feeling the movement of the child inside. He made me lie naked as he gazed in wonder at my stomach as it twitched. Often in the night he curled up beside me and slept, a contented expression curling his lips. The contempt and rage disappeared from his face. I was reminded of our teenage years and the love that I had briefly experienced with him.

‘Pregnancy softens you,’ Caesare commented. ‘You have been more loving towards me. More genuine in your affection.’

It appeared to be true. It was easier to pretend when he was kind. Even so I dreaded the birth; I feared the return of the violent side of his nature.

During the final days of my confinement, Caesare, now certain of his ultimate control over us, left to go to Rome on business. The household had not been free of him for almost a year. It was a huge relief. Even the servants changed. Within an hour of him leaving I acted. Calling my loyal servants to me I made immediate arrangements for the removal of my children. I feared for them constantly and reasoned that the new baby might be a little safer as Caesare was, at least, the father. His behaviour so far made me believe there was a chance that he would be a good father to it.

Finally Alfonso helped. He too had been biding his time. He took the children away to stay with a distant relative. I did not even know where they were. Although I felt this was for the best; Caesare couldn’t beat it from me then. If I promised to stay with him, be his mistress, give him all that he wanted, then surely he would not feel the need to go after my children.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alfonso said as I stood beside the carriage. ‘I betrayed you. I’ve been such a coward. But I’ll be back with the right kind of help, once the children are safe.’

‘I know. Caesare is intimidating. Alfonso, please tell me. What did he do to you?’

Alfonso flushed, hung his head. It was so bad that my husband could not even bring himself to say. I reached out, lifted his chin and looked into his shame-filled eyes.

‘He did to you what men do to women sometimes,’ I said.

Alfonso’s eyes filled with tears as he nodded. ‘And he threatened to do the same to our children.’

‘Oh my God!’

I fell silent. It was bad enough to realise that my brother had raped my husband, but the thought that he had threatened the same for our children turned my stomach. A shooting pain rushed up through my body and my belly spasmed.

‘Why not come with us?’ Alfonso begged.

‘Because he will definitely hunt me down. This ends here. Besides, the pains have started. The baby is on the way.’

Alfonso hugged me. I pushed him away, into the carriage and watched with streaming eyes as it drove away. A terrible fear clutched at my heart; a premonition that this was the last time I would ever see my children. My handmaid, Lena, rushed forward to help me back into the house as the cramps doubled me up.

Halfway to the door a thumping pain shot through my groin, bringing me to my knees. My waters broke, flooding liquid down over my legs. My skirt, sodden, tangled around my ankles and feet and I found it impossible to stand. Lena called for help and two footmen rushed forward to lift me. They carried me, crying and screaming, inside and to my room.

Isabella Maria D’Este was born, yelling into the world on the fourteenth of June. In the absence of my other children I looked at this perfect, beautiful child, with her fluff of black hair, knowing she was my last. Like my first, she was born of incest. I loved her. I sent away the wet nurse, fed her from my own breast; unlike any child I had previously had.

‘Senora,’ the nurse said. ‘It’s just not done. It’s not dignified for a lady in your position.’

‘I’ve often wondered how peasant children can be so robust,’ I said to the nurse. ‘Surely a mother’s milk is the best for her child?’

The nurse didn’t know how to reply. She turned away as I uncovered my breast and placed it against Isabella’s small mouth. She floundered for a while opening and closing her lips with an almost audible smacking sound. Soon she was suckling. The sensation was both strange and soothing for me. The pain I’d experienced in ridding myself of milk after previous births was immediately relieved as my child fed. This is natural, I thought. This is how it should be. So, I had learnt something, finally: The value of my children. I had loved the others but not like this, not with this same intensity. Isabella must survive, must grow strong. Must have a better life than I had. With these revelations came the realisation that I didn’t want her life ruled by the evil legacy of my family. I didn’t want her at the mercy of my brother.

‘Nurse,’ I called and the woman came to me. ‘Help me.’

‘Of course, Duchess. What do you need?’

‘Take Isabella and leave.’

‘Duchess?’

‘Take her to the others. My husband will care for her now.’

‘I don’t understand.’ The nurse lifted the baby from my breast Isabella howled in protest. ‘Besides, your husband’s location is a secret.’

‘There is one here who knows, so he may convey news.’ I gave the nurse a huge purse. ‘Go to see Abenito, the groom. He’ll take you to my husband. Hurry. Caesare will be back any day now. I’m afraid for her.’

The nurse nodded. ‘I’m afraid for you when he learns the children have gone. Especially this one.’

‘He won’t kill me.’

When Caesare returned ten days after her birth, Isabella was safely removed and I was ready to defend her life with all the strength I had left in me. Even if I died in the process.

Chapter 13 – Lucrezia’s Story

Smoke from the candles sent trails up into the air, giving substance to the almost tangible force of power as the circle closed. I lay in the centre. I learnt later that the circle was supposed to provide protection. I never knew what Caesare was protecting himself from.

‘It’s a game,’ he said.

I always played his games, even though they often repulsed me but this one was different. He’d carved a symbol into the floor, a five pointed star. It was cut deep into the wood panels, grooved at least an inch wide. Caesare had spent a whole day alone with a set of carpenter’s chisels to achieve this, time that I was relieved he was not with me. At each point of the pattern a metal ring was embedded into the floor.

‘A pentagram,’ he told me as though I should know.

The word and the shape meant nothing to me. He spread my naked body within it, tying my hands and ankles to the rings. The thin rope bit into my wrists with burning intensity and the rough scarred wood under my back dug splinters into my soft white flesh. I was afraid, but didn’t object. Instead I forced my face to remain still and impassive with every rough pull and chafe even though my body tensed and winced in protest.

I was expecting punishment for my crime of sending the children away. So far he had said nothing. He barely noticed their absence, but he did ask me about the unborn baby.

‘A girl. It was stillborn,’ I said.

He grew strangely quiet at this information. His mouth drew into a sharp, stern line.

‘I see.’