The Borgia Bride (19 page)

I smiled at that—in part, at his adoration, in part, out of my own vanity. I was still young then, and had never suckled a child; my breasts had been called perfect by Onorato, neither too large nor too small, with a firm, pleasing shape. I knew, too, that the curve of my hips was womanly, and that I was not too thin.

He stepped up behind me and began to unfasten my hair, done up in a single fat braid to keep it out of my way while sleeping. When it was free, I shook my head and let it fall unhindered to my waist; he drew his fingers through it once, twice, sighing, then moved again to stand in front of me and study me as a painter might assess his own work.

Once again, he surprised me. As I stood there for his regard, he walked up to me, knelt again with the reverence of a pilgrim at a shrine, and kissed the dark mound of Venus between my legs. I started slightly—then started even more when he parted my nether lips with his thumbs and began to massage the region with his tongue.

Embarrassment warred with delight. I twitched, I shifted my weight from leg to leg, I tried, overwhelmed by the sensation at one point, to pull away from him, but he cupped his hands round my backside and held me fast.

‘Stop,’ I begged him, for I was swaying backward, near falling. In response, he half-lifted me and pressed me hard against the nearest wall. ‘Stop,’ I begged again, for the feeling was too intense to bear…

Only when I ceased begging and began moaning did he at last lift his face, wearing a self-satisfied, wicked little smile, and say, ‘Now to the bed.’

He did not, as I had hoped, continue licking; instead, he kissed me full on the lips, his beard and tongue covered with my scent. For the first time, I experienced the warmth of flesh pressed against flesh, from head to breast to sex to legs to toe, and shivered: how could this be sinful, and not divine?

We wrestled. I could not, as I had with Onorato, lie back and let myself be the object of attention, a passive creature to be won: I fought, in the midst of Cesare’s pleasuring me, to do the same for him. I
craved
to do the same for him. Some never-before tapped force within me rose, something at once bestial and holy. I felt consumed by flame—not bestowed by an external God, but arising from within, internal and intense, filling me and then bursting forth from the crown of my head, like an apostle at Pentecost, like one of the tapers flickering in the wall sconce near Cesare’s bed.

He would not enter me: he made me wait, made me demand, made me plead. Only when I had crossed over into madness did he at last oblige me, and I clung fast to him, legs and arms grasping him so tightly they ached, but I did not care; I had him now, and would permit no escape. He laughed slightly, softly, at the ferocity with which I held him, but there was no detachment in it. I could see reflected in his dark eyes the wildness in my own: we were lost to each other. I was no more an ordinary lover to him than he to me. We were possessed of a passion that not all men and women have the grace to experience in their lifetimes.

He rode me—or I him, I cannot tell, for we moved of a singular accord—with alternating savagery and delicacy. During the latter times, as he moved inside me slowly, his eyes narrowed, his breathing slow and tortured, I tried to thrash, to force him back to more brutal love-making, but he held me fast, pinning my arms above my head, whispering, ‘Patience, Princess…’

Once again, he drove me to begging—something I would do for no other man. I ached to be spent, to be done away with; but Cesare was determined to take me to the precipice of the greatest desperation I had ever known.

How much time passed since I had entered his chamber, I could not say. It might have been hours.

When I could bear no more, he tore himself away. This provoked the worst horror in me—such a thing could not be allowed. Yet he was stronger than I, and with that strength, gently applied, and calm words one might use to soothe an anxious beast, he coaxed me to lie back, and applied tongue and fingers to the delta between my legs.

I thought I had experienced pleasure before; I thought I had experienced passionate heat. But the sensation Cesare induced in me that night began slowly, building like an ember coaxed into raging flames. It seemed to begin outside myself, somewhere in the heavens above my head, and I felt it descend on me, an unspeakable, sacred force, inescapable, all-consuming. The room before me: the bed, my own naked skin, the walls and ceiling, the flickering light—even Cesare’s face over mine, his eyes wide, burning with anticipation—disappeared.

I shall certainly go to Hell for saying it, but there seemed nothing in all the world but God, but bliss, whatever one must call the extreme sensation where all boundaries between self and the world disappear. Even I was gone…

Yet despite my absence from reality, I sensed union with Cesare again. He had mounted me in the midst of my ecstasy, merging with it, riding it until our voices joined.

I was quite used to repressing my moans of delight in the past, to reducing them to whispers, lest others hear. This experience tore from me a scream, one I was quite helpless to control. But it was not only my voice; Cesare joined in. Yet I could not have differentiated one of us from the other; the two of us made one sound—which surely was heard in every corner of the papal apartments.

We lay for a time on the bed. Neither of us spoke; I certainly could not, for my throat was rendered quite hoarse, and I was exhausted, my long hair stuck to my arms, my back, my breasts, with perspiration. At long last, Cesare turned to me and smoothed tendrils back from my forehead and cheek.

‘I have never had such an incredible experience with a woman. I think I have never known love before now, Sancha.’

I coughed, then managed to whisper, ‘My heart is yours, Cesare. And we are both damned for it.’

He rose to fetch me wine. A sudden playfulness overtook me—the same sort of silliness that had come over me in Saint Peter’s—perhaps because of the sense of freedom provoked by ecstatic release. I would not, I told myself merrily, be deprived of the finest lover I had ever known, at least not so soon after being conquered by him. As he attempted to rise from the bed, I wrapped both my arms about his thigh.

He laughed—dignified Cesare, always in control, snickered in helpless surprise at the unexpectedness of the act. Nonetheless, he continued onward, struggling toward the carafe of wine, certainly thinking that I would not persist in such childlike behaviour.

Chuckling, I strengthened my grasp; he, in turn, would not be dissuaded from his task.

I held on even as he rose, clinging to his leg despite the fact that doing so pulled me from the bed onto the fur-carpeted floor. He gasped with hilarity and astonishment at the fact, and took one step, two; all the while, I held on firmly, forcing him to drag me along.

At last, he yielded, collapsing on top of me, and the two of us giggled on the floor like children.

When I returned to my own bed, I lay for a time listening to Esmeralda’s soft wheezing breath, and stared up at the darkness. At first I dwelled in drowsy euphoria, reliving the moments of bliss with Cesare…and then guilt returned once more, bringing me to full, agitated consciousness.

I was, like my forebears, far too capable of cruelty and deception—especially when away from my brother’s good and gentle influence. Only two days among the Borgias, and I was already an adulteress. What was to become of me, if I spent the rest of my life in Rome?

As pleasant as the month of May was in Rome, June turned warm, and July even warmer; August was intolerably hot compared to the temperate coastal cities I had lived in. It was the custom for His Holiness and his family, as well as everyone else of wealth, to retreat to cooler climes for the month. But this particular August marked the return of the Pope’s son, Juan, from the court of Spain—and so, despite the heat, the occasion was marked grandly, with feasting and parties.

Despite my fears, I suffered no further advances from Alexander; I could not help thinking that Cesare had somehow convinced his father to let me be. But Cesare would say nothing to me of the situation; he only advised that I avoid, whenever possible, sitting next to His Holiness at festive occasions when there was much wine, that I behave and dress modestly around him, that when I sensed Alexander was becoming drunk, I distance myself from him.

All these things I did. However, I still sat across from Lucrezia, each of us on our velvet cushions on either side of the papal throne, at many of His Holiness’ audiences. I believe Alexander liked the pair of us, one dark, one golden, as fitting feminine adornments to his throne.

Lucrezia was, as Cesare had said, her father’s most respected advisor; often, she would interrupt a petitioner to whisper advice in Alexander’s ear. She had her own little throne where she heard petitions as well. I listened to her a few times, and was impressed by her intelligence. Both she and her father were skilled diplomats; regardless of how Rodrigo Borgia had come to the papacy, he fulfilled its duties admirably.

My affair with Cesare continued, always with our passion consummated in his private chambers. I brimmed with happiness; it was difficult to hide such joy from others, to keep from showing Cesare affection in public. He, meanwhile, kept speaking of how he intended to leave the priesthood.

One night, after we had collapsed, exhausted after lovemaking, he turned towards me and gently brushed a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. ‘I want to marry you, Sancha.’

Such words thrilled me; yet I could not deny the facts. ‘You are a cardinal,’ I said. ‘And I am already married.’

He touched my cheek. ‘I want to give you children. I would let you go to Naples—I know how you miss it. We could live there, if it would make you happy. I would only need to return to Rome a few times a year.’

I was near weeping; Cesare had read my heart and mind. He was right—nothing would make me happier. But such a thing seemed, at the time, quite impossible. And so I silenced him each time he broached the subject, for I did not want to nurse false hopes; nor did I want rumours to hurt Jofre. Cesare soon learned not to press. But it was clear that his frustration with his role as a cardinal was growing.

On the tenth of August, Juan, the Pope’s second eldest son, at last arrived in Rome, leaving behind a pregnant wife and small son in Spain. After the French invasion, Alexander had often spoken of his longing to have all his children live with him, since he claimed to have become increasingly aware of his own mortality, and the fragility of life. It was for this ostensible reason Jofre and I had been summoned to Rome—and now, with Juan’s appearance, Alexander’s wish was finally accomplished. All four of his children were home. It struck me as odd that Juan did not bring his family with him, though none of the Borgias seemed to think this remarkable.

There was another reason for his arrival: Juan, Duke of Gandia, was also Captain-General of the Church, commander of the papal army, and his father had called him home to punish the House of Orsini, who had supported the French during the war. Juan’s army was to attack and subdue every rebellious noble house in Rome, to make of each an example of Borgia vengeance. So long as Alexander was Pope, there would be peace in the Papal States.

Every cardinal in the city came out to greet the young Duke of Gandia as he arrived on horseback—on a steed bedecked with gold and silver bells. Yet Juan was not to be outdone by his mount: his red velvet cap and brown velvet tunic were heavy with gems and pearls; no doubt, beneath all the finery, he was melting in the August sun. I watched from a window in the Palazzo Santa Maria as Cesare met his brother and led him to his new home, the Apostolic Palace.

That night was cause for a great celebration—which required my attendance, along with the rest of the family. I dressed demurely, in black; Esmeralda was quick to mention all the rumours she had heard, that Juan was a scoundrel of the worst sort. Perhaps she feared I would ignore her warning concerning him, just as I had refused to listen to any of her unkind remarks about Cesare.

The feast came first at a private supper, with the papal family and related cardinals. I had learned to seat myself discreetly farther away from the Pope, that I might not summon unwanted attention; that night, he was flanked by Juan and, as always, Lucrezia. As for myself, I sat between Jofre and Cesare.

How shall I best describe Juan? A shooting star with a charm that dazzled, then faded as the man’s true personality revealed itself. He entered the room late—thinking nothing of making His Holiness wait, and Alexander said not a word about the inconvenience, whereas anyone else’s tardiness would be cause for insult.

Juan entered blazing: eyes bright with mirth (yet sly), smile wide (yet arrogant), laughter ringing through the halls. His lips were thick and crude, like his father’s, his hair neither light nor truly dark; he was clean-shaven, and neither as handsome as Cesare nor as plain as Lucrezia. He had with him a friend—a tall, dark-skinned Moor (I later learned this was Djem, the Turk, a royal hostage in the papal court)—and the two of them were similarly dressed in silk turbans, and bright red-and-yellow striped satin robes. Around his neck he wore gold necklaces, so many of such weight that I did not see how he held himself upright.

In the centre of Juan’s turban was a ruby twice the size of an eye, from which sprang a peacock feather.

Alexander trembled with delight, as though he had just been given a new virgin to deflower. ‘My child!’ he sighed. ‘My dearest, dearest son! Oh, how dark the days have been without you!’ And he clasped Juan to him, overwhelmed by happiness.

Juan pressed his cheek to the old man’s—eclipsing the Pope’s face, but allowing himself to study the reaction of his siblings from beneath half-lowered lids. All of us had risen when Juan entered, and I could not help noting the sudden tautness in Lucrezia’s expression, the fact that her smile was small and insincere.

I caught, too, the glance that passed between Juan and Cesare—saw the gloating look of triumph on Juan’s face, the look of calculated indifference on Cesare’s. But beside me, my lover closed one hand into a fist.

We sat. Dinner passed with His Holiness speaking not a single word to any person other than Juan, and Juan was quick to regale us all with humorous tales of life in Spain, and why he was glad to be back in Rome. Questions about his wife, Maria Henriques, cousin to the King of Spain, were answered with a shrug and the bored reply, ‘Pregnant. Always sick, that woman.’

‘I hope you are treating her well,’ Alexander said, in a tone of reproach mixed with indulgence. Juan’s escapades with courtesans were legend—and twice he had kidnapped and violated two young virgins of noble birth shortly before their weddings. Only the Borgia coffers saved him from death at the hands of the women’s male relatives.

‘
Very
well, Father. You know I always take your words to heart.’

If any sarcasm dwelled in those words, His Holiness chose not to hear them. He smiled, the indulgent father.

Throughout dinner, Juan held court; he addressed himself to each of us, in turn, inquiring as to the state of our lives. Of Jofre, he asked, ‘What now, brother? What did you do to win yourself such a magnificent bride?’

Before Jofre, blushing, could seize on a witty reply, Juan answered his own question.

‘Of course. It is because you are a Borgia, and therefore fortunate; just as all we Borgia children are fortunate.’

Jofre fell silent, and his expression darkened slightly; I remembered how Cesare had once let slip that my husband was not considered the Pope’s true son, which made Juan’s comment a veiled barb.

Juan laughed heartily at it—he was already quite drunk, being even more predisposed to wine than his father. Alexander chuckled, taking the comment as a compliment to himself, but Lucrezia, Cesare and I did not so much as smile. Beneath the table, I put my hand upon my husband’s thigh in support.

Lucrezia’s conversation with Juan was more pleasant and animated; Cesare’s discussion with his brother was curt but civil. Then the Duke of Gandia turned his attention to me.

‘How do you find Rome?’ he asked, eyes gleaming, his expression warm and enthusiastic. It was easy, at that moment, to see his father’s outgoing nature in him.

I answered honestly. ‘I miss the sea. But Rome has an allure of its own. The buildings are magnificent, the gardens beautiful, and the sun…’ I hesitated, searching for the right words to capture the essence of the light, which painted everything golden so that it seemed to glow from within.

‘…is beastly hot in August,’ Juan finished, with a short laugh.

I gave a small smile. ‘It
is
beastly hot in August. I am used to the coast, where the weather is more temperate in summer. But the light here is beautiful. I am not surprised it has inspired so much art.’

This pleased everyone at the table, especially Alexander.

‘Are you homesick?’ Juan asked pointedly.

I wound my arm around Jofre’s. ‘Where my husband dwells, that is my home: and he is here, so how can I be homesick?’

This drew even more approval. My gesture was partly born of defiance: I disliked this man for insulting Jofre in front of his family. My love for Cesare filled me with guilt; I knew my words were pure hypocrisy. But though I did not love my husband, I still felt allegiance toward him.

The ever-present smirk of arrogance left Juan’s lips: a surprisingly sincere wistfulness overtook his expression. ‘God has smiled on you, brother,’ he told Jofre quietly, ‘to have given you such a wife. I can see that she is a great source of happiness to you.’

The Pope beamed, pleased with everyone’s response. The conversation moved on to other topics, and at last, when we were all sated, Alexander called for the dishes to be removed. We moved out into the Hall of Faith, where more wine was served. On the wall was an almost-completed mural by Pinturicchio and his students, of the Pope himself kneeling in prayer, worshipping the risen Christ.

Alexander sat on the throne provided and gestured for the musicians to begin playing. That evening, it pleased him to see Juan and Lucrezia dance. As the tune was sprightly, Juan led Lucrezia onto the floor, she on his right, and the two began a fast
piva
: a short step to the left, one half-hop to the right, another left, then a pause. Both were exceptionally graceful, and Juan soon grew bored with simple movements. After the third step, he whirled about to face his partner, and, placing his palm against hers, led her in a
voltatonda
, a counter-clockwise circle consisting of the same basic
piva
. Alexander clapped in approval.

By the time the two dancers returned, both were flushed and perspiring.

‘And now,’ Juan told me, ‘it is your turn to be my partner.’ He bowed low, sweeping off his turban in a grand gesture, then tossing it aside as if it were made of rags, not silk and gems. His short, dark hair was plastered to his forehead and scalp with sweat.

The musicians played a languid, almost mournful melody; Juan chose a slower
bassadanza
, and we moved deliberately about the hall in a solemn four-step processional. For a time, we did not speak, merely performed as prettily as we could for the amusement of His Holiness.

After a pause, Juan remarked, ‘I was most sincere when I said my little brother was lucky enough to have such a wife.’

I averted my eyes demurely. ‘You are kind.’

He laughed. ‘That accusation is rarely brought against me. I am far from kind; but I
am
honest, when it suits me. And you, Donna Sancha, are the loveliest woman I have ever seen.’

I said nothing.

‘You are also bold enough to defend your husband in public—when he is too weak to do so himself. You are aware that His Holiness does not believe Jofre to be his son, but has accepted the word of his mistress out of kindness?’

I was too angry to meet Juan’s insolent gaze. ‘I have heard as much. It matters not.’

‘Ah, but it does. Jofre, you see, will have his little principality in Squillace, and that will be the end of it. He has been accorded as many honours as he can ever hope to achieve in this life—and as I am sure a lady with your keen insight has guessed, he does not possess the intelligence of a true Borgia.’

Our hands were pressed together tightly as we danced; I wanted nothing better than to pull away from him, to upbraid him for his slurs. But the Pope was watching and nodding in time to the music.

‘You, sir,’ I replied, my voice trembling with anger, ‘have just shown by your arrogant comments that you possess little of that intelligence yourself. If you had any sense at all, you would appreciate your brother, as I do, for his sincerity and his good heart.’

He laughed as if I had just said something remarkably charming. ‘I cannot help but adore you, Sancha. You say what you mean and care not whom you offend. Honesty and beauty are an irresistible combination.’ He paused. ‘Come, come. I can understand why you pity Jofre and don’t wish to hurt him. But there
is
such a thing as discretion.

‘I am not one to hold back my words either, Sancha. I want you. You would be wise to ally yourself with me—for I am the favourite of all the Pope’s children. I am the captain of his army—and some day I shall be secular ruler of all the Papal States.’

I could restrain my temper no longer, but lowered my hand and ceased dancing. ‘I could never love someone so contemptible as you.’

The sarcastic smirk returned; his upward-slanting eyes narrowed as he replied, ‘Do not play at self-righteousness with me, Madonna. You have already slept with two brothers.’ Jealousy flickered across his features; I realized this had less to do with me and more to do with his rivalry with Cesare. ‘What does it matter if you sleep with the third?’