The Borgia Bride (26 page)

His story was simple. On the night Juan went missing, the fisherman had been in his boat on the Tiber, close to the shore. Half-hidden by fog, he watched as a man riding a white horse approached the river from an alleyway. This was not in itself cause for interest, but what caught the fisherman’s eye was the body thrown across the horse, carefully held in place by two servants. As the rider reached the river and manoeuvred the horse sideways, the two servants took the body and slid it into the river.

‘Is it under?’ the man on horseback asked.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ one of the servants replied.

But the body failed to cooperate; the servant had scarcely answered before the corpse’s cloak ballooned with air, and pulled the body back up to the surface.

‘Do what must be done,’ the lord commanded. His servants pelted rocks at the body until it at last disappeared beneath the Tiber’s black surface.

I kept my arms wrapped tightly around Jofre as he listened, horrified. As for His Holiness, he heard all of it with a hardened expression.

When the tale was done, he demanded of the fisherman: ‘Why did you not report this at once?’

The man’s voice trembled. ‘Your Holiness, I have seen more than a hundred dead men thrown into the Tiber. Never has anyone shown any concern over one of them.’

As astonishing as this statement seemed, I did not doubt its veracity. At least two or three murders were committed each night in Rome, and the Tiber was the favourite repository for the victims.

‘Take him away,’ Alexander ordered heavily. The guard complied, escorting the fisherman off. When they were gone, the Pope again buried his face in his hands.

Jofre traversed the steps up to the throne. ‘Papa,’ he said, encircling his father with an arm. ‘We have heard of a murder. We still do not know if it involved Juan.’

None of us dared mention that Cesare’s favourite horse was a white stallion.

‘Perhaps not,’ Alexander muttered. He looked up at his youngest son with a flicker of hope. ‘Perhaps all our grieving is for naught.’ He gave a tremulous laugh. ‘If it is, we must think of a terrible punishment for Juan, for troubling us so!’

He vacillated between hope and despair. So we remained with him another hour, until a third papal guard appeared.

At the sight of this soldier’s expression, Alexander let go a howl. Jofre burst into tears; for the dread in the young soldier’s eyes revealed what he had come to announce. He waited until the sounds of grief subsided enough for him to be heard.

‘Your Holiness…The Duke of Gandia’s body has been found. They have taken it to the Castel Sant’Angelo, where it will be washed for burial.’

Alexander would not be restrained, would not listen to reason: he insisted on going to see Juan’s body, even though it had not been prepared for viewing, because he would not believe his son dead otherwise.

Jofre and I accompanied him. We flanked him as we entered the room where the women were gathering to wash the corpse; they bowed, astonished at the sight of His Holiness, and quickly left us alone.

Juan’s body had been draped with a cloth; Jofre drew it back reverently.

The stench assaulted us at once. The body had been in the river a night and a day, at the height of summer.

Juan was grotesquely recognizable. The water had bloated his body to twice its size; his clothes were torn, his belly bulged out from beneath his tunic. His fingers were thick as sausages. It was hard to see him thus: swollen tongue protruding from between his teeth, eyes open, covered with a milky film, hair plastered to his face with mud. He had been stabbed repeatedly, drained of blood, his skin the colour of marble. Worst of all, his throat had been slit from ear to ear, and the gaping wound had filled with mud, leaves, and bits of wood.

Alexander screamed and collapsed. The combined efforts of Jofre and myself could not restore him to his feet.

Because of the heat, Juan was buried as soon as he was washed and redressed. The coffin was carried by members of the Duke’s household and his closest men, followed by a contingent of priests. Jofre and I watched from the papal apartments as the torch lit procession headed for the cathedral at Santa Maria del Popolo, where Juan was interred beside the crypt of his long-dead brother, Pedro Luis.

The Pope did not attend—but he cried out so loudly that Jofre and I could not hear the other mourners. We stayed with him that night—unable to convince him to eat, drink, or sleep—and we never made any comment, then or later, about the conspicuous absence of Cesare.

Juan’s death prompted an investigation directed by Alexander’s most prominent cardinals, including Cesare, who made a great show of verbally attacking those suspected. The first investigated was Ascanio Sforza, the cardinal whose party guest had insulted Juan and been hanged for the crime. Cesare vilified Sforza, but the cardinal was wise: he did not bristle at the accusations, but cooperated utterly, insisting he had nothing to hide—a fact soon confirmed. Cesare grudgingly apologized.

Other enemies—Juan had earned many—were investigated, but time and persistence revealed no clues.

Or perhaps they revealed too much; less than three weeks after the crime, Alexander halted the search for the murderer. I believe he knew the identity of the culprit in his heart, and had finally given up trying to convince himself otherwise.

Wisely, Cesare had left Rome by that time on official business, presiding as cardinal legate at the coronation of my Uncle Federico as the new King of Naples. Under different circumstances, I would have seized the opportunity to visit Alfonso and Madonna Trusia; but Pope Alexander was not the only one immersed in mourning. Jofre was deeply saddened by Juan’s murder, despite any jealousy he felt over his father’s favouritism. I felt obliged to remain with him.

Jofre did not consider only his own sorrow; he asked me to visit Lucrezia. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘She is all alone at San Sisto, and I am too stricken to comfort her. She needs the sympathy of another woman.’

I did not trust Lucrezia; her kindly disposition towards me had not stopped her affair with Cesare, though she knew I loved him. She knew, too, of his ambition to become Captain-General, and may have approved of Juan’s death—or had a hand in it.

Nevertheless, I went to the convent out of respect for my husband’s wishes. Once again, I greeted young Pantsilea at the door to Lucrezia’s suite; once again, the maidservant’s beautiful olive-skinned features were taut with despair. ‘Taking the canterella away has done no good, Madonna,’ she whispered. ‘Do not look so surprised—I know you took it, for Lucrezia has been near madness searching for it, and cannot find it. So now she is starving herself. She has taken no food for a week, no water for two days.’

Pantsilea led me back to the inner room, where, dressed only in a chemise although it was midday, Lucrezia sat propped up on the bed, her legs and stomach draped with fine linens. She was paler than I had ever seen her, her eyes and cheeks sunken, her expression one of complete listlessness. She looked over at me with disinterest, then turned her face towards the wall.

I went to her and sat at her side. ‘Lucrezia! Pantsilea says you will take no food or drink—but you must! I know you are sad over the loss of your brother—but he would not want you to hurt yourself or your child.’

‘To Hell with me,’ Lucrezia murmured. ‘And to Hell with the child. It’s already cursed.’ She directed a sharp glance at Pantsilea. ‘Leave—and do not skulk at the door listening. You already know far too much: I’m surprised you’ve lived this long.’

Pantsilea listened, her hand over her mouth—not in shock at her mistress’ words, but in sorrow over Lucrezia’s air of hopelessness. She turned, shoulders slumped with the weight of her concern, and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

When she had gone, Lucrezia turned and spoke to me with deathbed candour. ‘You say you know who the child’s father is. I assure you, Sancha, you do not. You do not know how you have been cruelly deceived…’

I did not hesitate. If she was willing to be dangerously honest, then I would be, too. ‘It is Cesare’s.’

She looked at me a long moment, during which time her eyes grew wide, then stricken; her face crumpled into a mask of grief, rage, and terror combined. She seized my hands with the sudden ferocity of a woman in childbirth, then released wrenching, guttural sounds that I at first did not recognize as sobs.

‘My life…is all lies,’ she gasped, when she could draw a breath. ‘At first I lived in fear of Rodrigo’—she did not say,
my father—
‘and now we all live in terror of Cesare.’ She nodded down at her unborn child. ‘Do not think I did this for love.’

‘He forced you?’ I asked. Her misery was too abject to be feigned.

Lucrezia looked beyond me at a distant wall. ‘My father had a daughter before me,’ she said absently. ‘She died many, many years ago, because she did not accept his advances with good grace.’ She released an abrupt, bitter laugh. ‘I have pretended for so long now, I no longer know the truth of my own feelings. I was jealous of you as a rival when you first came to Rome.’

‘But
I
rejected your father, yet I am alive,’ I blurted, then paused, realizing my admission would add to her pain.

Lucrezia’s expression grew composed, her eyes cold at this revelation. ‘You are alive because, had Alexander tried to seduce you again or harm you, Cesare would have killed him. If not immediately, then at some point, when it was to Cesare’s advantage. You live because my brother loves you.’ Her face contorted briefly again. ‘But he wanted Juan’s position…and Juan harmed you, so Juan is dead. Even Father will never dare accuse Cesare, though he knows the truth.

‘And I am safe because I can always make a politically advantageous marriage. I have no cause to live.’ Her expression grew piteous; she closed her eyes. ‘Just let me die, Sancha. It would be a great kindness. Let me die, and flee to Squillace with Jofre, if you can.’

I studied her for an instant. I had never forgotten her unprompted remark to Cesare to be kind to me.

My worst fears about Cesare had just been confirmed. My life was in jeopardy; one false step, and the man who loved me might just as easily grow displeased and kill me. I lived or died at Cesare’s whim, and I would not be able to keep him at arm’s length forever.

But I was not the only one to be pitied; Lucrezia’s burden was far greater than mine. She had been manipulated by two unspeakably wicked men since her childhood, with no chance of escape. She was truly the unhappiest woman on earth, in sore need of a friend.

I held her tightly. As desperate as our different situations were, we could comfort one another. ‘I will neither let you die, nor will I leave you,’ I vowed. ‘In fact, I will not depart this room until you have had something to eat and drink.’

Slowly, with my repeated visits and encouragement, Lucrezia regained her appetite and improved in outlook and health. I promised repeatedly not to leave her, and she in turn swore to me that I would always have her friendship.

During my trips to San Sisto, Alexander received an epistle from the outspoken Savonarola, who still preached in defiance of the papal brief. The letter relayed sorrow over the loss of His Holiness’ son, while also castigating the Pope for the sinfulness of his lifestyle. If Alexander repented, the priest urged, the Apocalypse could be averted. Otherwise, God would visit more sorrows on him and his family.

For the first time, His Holiness took Savonarola’s words to heart. He sent away his women—and his children. Cesare and Lucrezia were already gone, so Jofre received the imperious decree that he and I were to return to Squillace, until it pleased Alexander for us to return.

Jofre was crushed by what he considered a punishment; I was sorry to leave Lucrezia during her most desperate hour, but felt guilty relief at the news. We packed and made the trip southward to the coast, where we spent two months—August and September—free from Rome’s crushing heat and scandals. Squillace was just as rocky, barren and provincial as I remembered; now that I had seen the glories of Rome, our palace seemed a pathetically rustic hovel, the food and wine atrocious. Nevertheless, I revelled in the absence of splendour; the bare whitewashed walls were refreshing, the lack of gilt soothing. I wandered the scraggly little gardens under the harsh sun, unafraid that an attacker might be hidden in the bushes; I roamed the corridors without concern that I might witness a horrific scene. I looked out upon the blue ocean—not caring that I had only a partial view from my balcony—and found it good, even if it was less beautiful than Naples’ Bay. I ate fish cooked simply, with local olives and lemons, and found it as delicious as any feast in the papal palace.

Best of all, Alfonso came to visit.

‘How you have changed!’ I laughed, holding him tightly at first, then drawing back, our hands clasped, to admire him. He had grown into a tall, handsome man of eighteen, with a neatly trimmed blond beard that glinted in the sun. ‘How is it possible that you have not married? You must be driving all the women in Naples mad!’

‘As best I can,’ he said, smiling. ‘But look at you, Sancha—you have changed so! So grand you look! Such a lady of wealth and stature!’

I looked down at myself. I had forgotten the southern custom of dressing starkly; here I was, weighed down with diamonds and rubies round my neck and in my hair, dressed in a silver velvet gown with burgundy trim—in Squillace, of all places. This unnatural splendour seemed a reflection of the degree I had been corrupted by the Borgias; I yearned for Alfonso’s presence to purify me, to bring out the goodness that had become hidden. I forced a smile. ‘In Rome, we do not wear much black.’

‘Because of the heat, no doubt,’ he countered playfully, and I realized how terribly I had missed him. It was divine to be in the presence of a loving, guileless soul once more, and I enjoyed his company each day for as long as he was able to grant it. I knew we would not be allowed to remain in Squillace forever; this was a temporary respite. I lived as though these were my last days, for my final encounter with Cesare could not be delayed forever.

Yet in the presence of Alfonso’s kindness, my heart, so scarred by Juan’s brutality and Cesare’s duplicity, began to heal; I thought often of Lucrezia, and wrote her many letters of encouragement.

Sadly, Alexander grew bored with his newfound love of piety, and soon called for us to rejoin him in Rome.

We returned to Rome in the late autumn, just before winter settled in. Cesare had already come home—still a cardinal, though he had convinced Alexander to begin the manipulations of Church law necessary to free him of his scarlet robes. Fortunately, he was distracted by the legal arrangements and dispensed with appearing at family suppers. I saw little of him during those weeks.

Lucrezia, meanwhile, remained at San Sisto until the days before Christmas, when she was commanded to appear at the Vatican by the cardinals who were to grant her divorce.

I visited Lucrezia in her chambers as Pantsilea tried to dress her—but she was several months gone with child, and even the fullest ermine-trimmed tabard worn over her gown could not hide the fact. We embraced and I kissed her; she smiled, but her lips trembled slightly.

‘They will do whatever your father tells them,’ I reminded her, but her voice wavered nonetheless.

‘I know.’ Her tone was uncertain.

‘Things will improve,’ I continued. ‘Soon your confinement will be over, and we will be able to go out together. You have been very brave, Lucrezia. Your courage will be rewarded.’

She steadied herself and put a hand on my cheek. ‘I was right to trust you, Sancha. You have been a good friend.’

I was told she conducted herself admirably in front of the consistory, and did not flinch when it was announced that the midwives had found her to be
virgo intacta
. Not one of the cardinals dared to mention the fact that, for the second time in history, God had seen fit to make a virgin pregnant.

From that moment on, Lucrezia remained at home in the Palazzo Santa Maria as a recluse. It was inappropriate for her to sit, heavy with child, beside her father’s throne while he held audience, so she remained in her chambers.

In his daughter’s absence, Alexander requested that I occasionally sit, not on Lucrezia’s velvet cushion, but on the one he had once reserved for me; I could not refuse what was in essence a command.

One February morning I sat dutifully, listening to the plea a particular noble brought before His Holiness concerning an annulment he wished for his eldest daughter. I was quite bored and so was Alexander, who yawned several times, and kept adjusting his ermine wrap about his shoulders for warmth against the winter cold. Ancient cardinals stood in the room, shivering despite the fire blazing in the hearth.

Suddenly, shouts came from several rooms away.

‘Bastard! Son of a whore! How dare you touch her!’

The tone was one of raw, unrestrained fury; the voice was Cesare’s.

The nobleman who had been droning away stopped; all of us in the throne room stared, wide-eyed, in the direction of the commotion.

Rapid footsteps approached; Cesare was giving chase to someone headed directly towards us.

‘I will kill you, you bastard! Who do you think you are, to have touched her?’

A young man came running at full speed into the throne room; I recognized him as Perotto, the servant who had accompanied me to and from San Sisto, when Lucrezia was confined there.

Cesare followed, red-faced and waving a sword, displaying an utterly uncharacteristic rage.

‘Cesare…?’ the Pope asked, so startled his voice came out barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat and with greater authority, demanded, ‘What is this about?’

‘Help me, Your Holiness!’ the distraught Perotto cried. ‘He has gone mad, he is raving, spouting foolishness—and he will not be content until he has killed me!’ He ascended the steps to the throne, threw himself at Alexander’s feet, and grasped the hem of his white wool garment. I was so astonished that I rose without permission and scrambled down the steps, out of the way.

Cesare dashed at him with the sword.

‘Stop!’ the Pope commanded. ‘Cesare, explain yourself!’

Such explanation was required, as was the cessation of hostilities, since grasping the hem of the Pope’s garment was a sacred act, one that conferred greater protection than taking refuge inside a church.

In reply, Cesare lunged forward, turned the cringing, moaning Perotto over, and slashed his neck with the sword.

I recoiled and instinctively raised an arm to protect myself. Alexander gasped as blood sprayed up onto his white robes and ermine cape, spattering his face.