The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (8 page)

Without resentment, for he was ever a man who appreciated a clever stratagem, Borgia said, “It’s ingenious, don’t you think?”

“It
may
be. But we would be well advised to keep all the possibilities in mind and protect against them. However, we may also wish to consider an … unorthodox solution.”

I stopped there. As with most men of power, much of the art of managing Borgia had to do with planting a seed, then stepping back to let it take root. Fortunately, his mind was quick and agile. I did not have to wait long.

His smile was genuine, if a little chiding. “Francesca, you aren’t seriously proposing…?” His smile broadened. “Good Lord, you are.”

And I would make no apology for it. We both knew that I was in his employ not merely for my skill with poisons but because I was willing to consider what others, in their moral nicety, termed “unthinkable.” As though the mind of man—and woman—has not conceived of every cruelty and horror under the sun.

“I am merely saying that we might wish to act preemptively.”

“Ha!” Borgia slapped his big hand down on the desk so hard that the porcelain nymph on the corner shook so hard she almost fell off. “You mean it. You want to kill Herrera.”

It was true, I did. To my mind, that was the simplest and most effective response to the threat. There was everything to gain and virtually nothing to lose, provided that it was done right.

“Whether he is to be blamed for harming you or yours,” I said, “or you are to be blamed for harming him, either way he is a liability. Of course, it would have to be done properly, so as to give the appearance of a tragic accident.”

“And how would you manage that?”

He was indulging me, but I still hoped I could appeal to a mind that I knew to be at least as ruthless as my own.

“There are any number of ways. He could tumble off the side of a hill into the valley below us, which, it should be noted, is conveniently steep. Or he could drown in one of the many nearby lakes. Or take a bad spill from his horse. Any or all of those misfortunes can befall a man under the influence of certain substances that cause dizziness and disorientation while leaving no trace of themselves. In addition, there are numerous other ways to kill that are as undetectable. For example—”

Borgia held up a hand, stopping me. “Enough. I don’t know whether to applaud your ingenuity or be terrified of it. So kill Herrera. An accident … tragic … all of us overcome with grief … the promise of a brilliant life snuffed out, and so forth. It has a certain appeal, but—” Reluctantly, he concluded, “Unfortunately, this business with Juan changes things. We need the Spaniard.”

“With all respect, alive he will continue to be a target for anyone who seeks to undo you.”

His Holiness’s eyes narrowed on me. “It’s been a while since you killed anyone, hasn’t it? The last time was that fellow a few months ago at the Basilica di Santa Maria in Rome
,
am I right
?”

“That was self-defense,” I reminded him, which it had been, if only strictly speaking. Besides, that particular miscreant had died after a mere nick from a knife dipped in a contact poison that killed within minutes. When it came to releasing the darkness inside me, I preferred the knife alone. In such situations, the dread I had of blood was transformed into a kind of rapture that both terrified and exalted me.

“Of course it was, but our present situation can benefit from a show of restraint.”

“You could take him hostage,” I suggested. It was a poor alternative in my view but one that might serve Borgia all the same. “Demand Juan’s release in return for him.”

Borgia brushed that aside as unworthy of consideration. “Too crude by far, and even worse, a wasted opportunity. No, this is the perfect time to take the high road. Show that she-wolf and her gutless mate for the backstabbing ingrates they are and myself the better man.”

This was the side of Borgia that his adversaries missed, to their own peril. He could be in the grip of the most powerful emotions and yet remain relentlessly rational. It was as though he had the capacity to step apart even from himself, viewing the world with ruthless objectivity. Granted, everything he did was based on the assumption that only what he wanted mattered, but even so the conclusions he came to were more often right than wrong.

I sighed, sensing the inevitable but still driven to make one more attempt, however futile. “Surely, honor demands—”

“Honor is never a substitute for results, Francesca. Remember that. The beloved nephew lives, at least for now.” Borgia shot me a warning glance, as though to make sure that I understood him. Any lethal urges I felt would have to be restrained. Worse yet, it would not be enough for me to safeguard
la famiglia.
I would also have to extend my protection to Herrera, a man I already heartily disliked.

I had several hours to ponder the misfortune of that before the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard heralded Cesare and the Spaniards’ return. Their visit to the baths appeared to have restored them to good humor. They were all backslapping camaraderie and boisterous cheer as they disappeared up the wide stairs and into the palazzo.

I waited long enough for Cesare to reach his own quarters before seeking him out. He was in his bedchamber, having thrown off his cloak but still wearing his mud-splattered boots and breeches. When I entered, he was in close conversation with one of his secretaries, who, I supposed, was telling him the news from Spain. I could not help but admire how well the newly fledged cardinal controlled himself. Not until the man departed and we were alone did Cesare burst out laughing.

“Juan arrested!” He sketched a deep bow. “My heartfelt apologies to Their Most Catholic Majesties. I freely admit that I have not had the best opinion of them, but clearly I was wrong.”

“No doubt your brother deserves what has happened to him,” I said. “But it still presents a problem.”

He nodded, his quick mind leaping ahead. Of all
la famiglia,
Cesare was consistently the most intelligent, only one of the reasons why he would also prove to be the most dangerous.

“As you have already discussed with Il Papa,” he said.

I suppressed a sigh. The Borgias would vie over anything—a pretty jewel, a swift horse, the loyalty of a privileged servant; for that was what I was when all was said and done, and I would be a fool to ever forget it. Yet I was fool enough to be Cesare’s lover, a complication a wiser woman would have avoided.

“Had you been here when the news arrived,” I said as diplomatically as I could manage, “I am certain that His Holiness would have sought your counsel before all others.”

Cesare sat on a curved wooden stool and began pulling off his boots. In public, the son of Jove played the prince to perfection. But in private, he eschewed ceremony, performing tasks for himself that others of lesser standing than his own would never have dreamed of doing. He had told me with relish of nights spent sleeping on the ground on the extended hunting trips he took with the men of his personal guard, who were as close to him as a band of brothers. For a fortnight and more, they would range over rough terrain in exercises that bore an uncanny resemblance to training for war, even though Cesare insisted that they were mere amusement.

Borgia knew of the deception and disliked it, but so far at least he had not insisted that his eldest son pursue more sedentary activities both better suited to his new position as cardinal and less alarming to his fellow prelates. The Spaniards, however, had managed to accomplish what Il Papa had not. Since their arrival, Cesare had been forced to rein in his natural impulses and give their amusements preference over his own.

The effort had left him more impatient than he would otherwise have been, and chafing for action. He tossed the second boot aside and stood.

“You should know that there is something else in addition to the problem of your brother,” I said. “David ben Eliezer has brought word that an assassin is on the way to Viterbo.” I hesitated before adding, “Obviously, you, your father, and Lucrezia are all at risk, but it also occurred to me that the target could be Herrera.”

Cesare showed no particular concern that he or either of the others might be marked for death. He had grown up understanding the danger inherent in seeking to scale the heights of power. Fortuna was a capricious goddess who might at any moment withdraw her favor and send the most ambitious plunging into the deepest abyss.

Still, the mention of Herrera surprised him, if only for a moment. “An interesting notion. Should I be concerned for the Spaniard?” At my raised brow, he laughed. “Really, Francesca, you didn’t make a bid for removing him in some seemingly innocent way before the assassin can strike?”

A little stiffly, I said, “His Holiness does not think that useful, at the moment.” Surely I could not be so obvious to everyone as I apparently was to Borgia
padre e figlio
or I would not have survived even a year in my present occupation.

Cesare laughed. He slipped an arm around my waist and drew me to him. “I am profoundly relieved that Il Papa is acting with his usual wisdom. And yet, so much tension remains.” He bent closer, nuzzling the curve of my neck. “I missed you yesterday morning. You slipped away before I was awake.”

“You could have sought me out last night.”

He drew back enough to look at me. “The Spaniards—”

“Require constant tending. Yes, I know.” If Cesare was to be believed, everything he did was for the sake of his father’s ambitions, having set aside his own as a good and faithful son. Indulging the Spaniards had nothing whatsoever to do with his own intensely sensual nature or his need to vent the frustration that had been growing in him daily since his ascension to the cardinalate.

“How was your visit to the baths?” I inquired pleasantly.

“Purifying. After a sweat and a good soak in the mud, they scrub you down. I don’t know what they use exactly, but—”

I bent a little closer, the better to inhale his scent. “Eucalyptus, sea salt, and a bit of citron. Did you enjoy yourself?”

He laughed, understanding my meaning full well, and pressed me closer. “Do you think I did?”

“I am always impressed by your stamina.” That was as close as I would come to admitting that I was pleased by his unmistakable arousal, and aroused in turn by it. “How is it that you are not more … relaxed?”

The principal attraction of the baths being the pretty girls and boys who attended the patrons, I had assumed that Cesare would have partaken of such pleasures as were to his taste. But perhaps I was mistaken.

“You can thank the Spaniards for that,” he said. “The sight of them at the trough is enough to steal any man’s appetite.”

“Their company palls?”

He laughed and slipped his hand down my back to cup me. “It palled before we ever got to Viterbo.” His lips moved to the exact spot behind my ear where I was most exquisitely sensitive. “I have even,” he whispered, “wondered if there might not be some good in the celibate state after all.”

“I can tell you that there is not,” I said and reached for him.

“Why is it,” he asked as he eased my skirts up, “that we prefer each other as we do?”

My fingers were at work on the laces of his breeches as I answered, “Because our natures are so well attuned? We were friends before we were lovers.”

His hands stroked my thighs, slipping between them. “Are you still my friend, Francesca? Can I truly trust you?”

I gasped softly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because,” he said as he grasped my leg and bent it up over his hip, “there are times when the weight of this mask I must wear becomes unbearable. I have to believe that there is one person in this world with whom I can be myself.”

I bit my lip to keep from crying out when he stroked me, my fingers digging into his broad shoulders. With difficulty, I managed to answer.

“You must know that I feel the same.” And yet there was much I had never told Cesare, most particularly not about my feelings for Rocco, the man who stirred me to dreams of a better self and a better life. Of that, Cesare knew nothing at all, nor should he, for I had no wish to either hurt or anger him. And besides, what point would there be? Rocco lived in the light that I did not believe I could ever reach. He was as unattainable by one of my dark nature as was Heaven itself.

How fortunate then that there were still the pleasures of this earth to be savored.

Cesare slipped into me with a groan, his mouth hot against my own. At another time, I would have preferred the comfort of a bed, but just then nothing mattered except the quick release of the passion swiftly building to intolerable heights within us both. I felt the coolness of the stucco wall against my back as he lifted me higher, plunging deeper. The world with all its trials and woes spiraled away into nothingness. I sank my teeth into the tender flesh at the base of his throat, tasted the salt tang of his blood on my tongue, and let the fire he lit scorch away all fear and dread.

8

Cesare was still asleep when I left his bed. In my own rooms, I bathed and changed, then set out to find David and tell him that I had arranged his entry into the palazzo. A light drizzle had begun to fall as I made my way along the winding streets toward the town gate. Once there, I saw that Borgia had wasted no time deploying his personal guard. Vittoro himself was on hand, directing his men as they moved to take command of the area surrounding the gate. Men from the garrison were standing aside, clearly uncertain of how or even whether to respond. By the time their officers decided what to do, it would be too late. Effectively, Borgia had taken control of the single, vital point in and out of Viterbo.

Instead of a steady stream of traffic passing through the gates, every man and woman seeking to enter the town was being stopped and scrutinized with care. The crowd waiting to be admitted was growing by the moment. The murmur of angry voices could be heard coming from outside the walls.

By dint of pushing and shoving, I managed to get closer to the gate. A party of pilgrims, their travel cloaks marked by the crossed-arm patches signifying their intent to pray at the tomb of blessed Saint Francis of Assisi, was being held up by the guards. Their leader, a portly, red-faced merchant, protested vehemently, but to no effect. As I watched, each of the dozen or so men and women in the group was subjected to the same scrutiny as the most common peddler. To be fair, with the exception of their leader, they appeared to take it with good grace, although I did hear one woman mutter that it was not enough to be delayed by problems on the road north, they had to put up at a town that clearly had no idea how to treat respectable people.

I was about to move on when my attention was caught by a member of the pilgrim party. A nun in the undyed wool habit of a Poor Clare was staring at me. The pale oval of her face, framed by her wimple and veil, had the unlined beauty of those whose holy lives seem to protect them from the depredations of time that mark the rest of us. I could not tell her age, but by the gravity of her manner I guessed that she was in her middle years. The heavy wooden cross at her waist also indicated that she had a position of authority in her order. As our eyes met, she hesitated and then, quite unmistakably, smiled.

A moment later, the press of the crowd took her from my view. As she vanished, I was left to wonder if I had imagined her.

The thought was fleeting. Quickly enough, I returned to my study of those newly arrived in Viterbo. If David was right, somewhere amid the motley throng of merchants, lawyers, emissaries, soldiers, mercenaries, peddlers, gypsies, entertainers, and the like, all having business in the town now that the Pope was in residence, could be the secret enemy bent on destroying Borgia. I had only to find him before he could strike.

I had called myself Borgia’s pawn and had no illusions otherwise. But a pawn who advances deep enough into the fray and survives is promoted under the arcane rules of the game into a queen, wielding the lethal power of that high estate. To that end, I would dare all.

But first, I sought out David, finding him in the same taverna we had frequented the day before. He was finishing a bowl of potato soup as I slipped onto the bench across from him.

“Borgia has agreed that you should come to the palazzo,” I said after making sure we would not be overheard. “He is taking your warning seriously.”

“I am glad to hear it. You still want me to keep a particular eye on the Spaniards?”

I nodded and briefly explained to him why I thought Herrera might be the target. Of course, I didn’t trouble David with my idea of dealing with the beloved nephew before the assassin could do so. Borgia had ruled that out … at least for the moment.

After David had collected his belongings, I accompanied him back to the palazzo. Together, we sought out Renaldo in the small office he had commandeered off the main hall. The steward looked even more harried and preoccupied than usual.

“Who is this, Francesca?” Implicit in the question was why I would bother him with so lowly a creature as a jester.

“A friend,” I said. Quickly, I explained about the assassin.

“Another one,” Renaldo moaned when I was done. “And this one more skilled than those who have come before. Is there to be no end?”

“Borgia is being tested,” David replied before I could. “He’s managed to plant his posterior in Saint Peter’s Chair, but now he has to prove that he can keep it there.”

Renaldo looked at him more closely, beyond the spangled hat and parti-colored costume. “Do I know you?”

“David has been helpful in the past,” I said. “That’s why he’s here.”

The steward nodded in comprehension. “All right, then. We’ll slip you in among the entertainers. But if there is going to be any sort of general mayhem, I would appreciate a little advance warning.”

I left as David was assuring him that his intentions were entirely peaceful and Renaldo had nothing whatsoever to worry about. He lied almost as well as I did.

Speaking of lies …

Given both the weather and the hour, I looked for Lucrezia in the solar on the uppermost floor of the palazzo. I needed to alert her to the possibility of danger, but at the same time, I was curious to see how she was coping with her sham marriage.

Several of her ladies were there, working on the altar cloth that Cesare had mentioned, but there was no sign of Lucrezia herself. At sight of me, they startled like so many pretty birds discovering a hungry and rather mangy cat among them. I withdrew quickly, murmuring my apologies for having disturbed them, and sought Lucrezia elsewhere.

The bedchamber she occupied alone was near Borgia’s and Cesare’s apartments. Her husband, the hapless Sforza, had been assigned quarters in a separate wing of the palazzo, as far removed from her as it was possible to be while still remaining under the same expansive roof. Yet it was his voice I heard as I approached Lucrezia’s door. Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro and a scion of the powerful House of Sforza, did not sound pleased.

“I am telling you,” he said, loudly enough for me to hear him through the solid oak door, “we should be gone from this place! You are my wife, and you belong at my side, in Pesaro!”

Lucrezia replied more softly but with such firmness that I had no difficulty making out her words. That and the fact that by then my ear was pressed up against the door.

“My father says otherwise. You may be willing to defy him, but I am not. If you wish to return to Pesaro, by all means do so, but do not expect me to go with you.”

For a thirteen-year-old confronted by an angry man twice her age who had at least nominal authority over her as her husband, Lucrezia sounded remarkably calm and self-possessed. But then she had grown up under the tutelage of a father who believed that any show of uncertainty was a confession of weakness deserving of the crushing response that it inevitably received in a harsh world.

“Of course,” Sforza replied. “Why would you? We are only married, after all, in the sight of God and man. That counts for nothing when compared to the will of your exalted father!”

“You are speaking of His Holiness the Pope. He decides what is pleasing to God, not you.” On a more conciliatory note, Lucrezia added, “Is it so hard to remain here in Viterbo? The town is charming, and we have a chance to get to know each other away from the intrigues of Rome.”

“But not away from your father, who is curiously possessive of you. He does not accept our marriage. Indeed, I have begun to wonder if he would accept your being truly married to anyone.”

“What do you mean?” Young as she was, Lucrezia was far from ignorant. She knew the depths to which Borgia’s enemies went in their efforts to defame him, even dragging his relationship with his young daughter through the vilest muck. I sucked in my breath as I realized what a mistake it was for Sforza to remind her of that, and an even worse one for him to entertain any such suspicions himself.

But the Lord of Pesaro seemed to have no sense of that. To the contrary, he seemed to have no sense at all. “I merely wonder whether if we were allowed to live together as husband and wife, I would find that you—”

Find what? That she was not a virgin because of the disgusting slander against her and her father? I slammed a hand over my mouth to contain my gasp. How could Sforza be so foolish? And so cruel?

“Get out!” Lucrezia screamed, her self-control finally shattering, if only for a moment. Or perhaps, like her father, she understood the selective use of rage. “Get out and do not come back!”

“You cannot order me about! I am your husband—”

“If you do not leave now, I will tell my father what you just said. Papa believes me too sheltered to know about the filth his enemies spread. I will let him think that was so until
you
put them in my mind. Do you have any idea how enraged he will be or what he will do to you in turn?”

Weakly, Sforza said, “He needs my family’s support—”

“He did need it in order to gain the papacy, but he is pope now and unless you are very careful, he will come to see all you Sforzas as a liability. Instead of making him regret that he ever agreed to our marriage, you should be seeking ways to win his favor.”

“I don’t know how.” A hard confession on the part of a member of one of the wiliest and most guileful families in all of Italy, but then no one had ever claimed that Giovanni Sforza was overly endowed with either intelligence or daring. Lucrezia possessed far more of both, as she did not hesitate to demonstrate.

“You may start by doing as I said—leave.”

A long moment of silence followed. I imagined the two of them staring at each other—golden-haired Lucrezia with her angelic face and dark, brooding Sforza, who was, to be fair, a handsome man. Under other circumstances, they might actually have been happy with each other. But the world was as it was, and it left very little room for matters of the heart.

Caught up in the drama happening just out of sight, I barely had the presence of mind to dart behind a nearby column before the door to Lucrezia’s apartment banged open and Sforza stomped out in a fury. I waited until he had vanished down the far end of the corridor before approaching tentatively. Half expecting to find Borgia’s daughter in tears, I was surprised to discover her in a window seat, reading calmly.

As I entered, she looked up and smiled. “Francesca, how good to see you. Come, sit down.” She patted the stool beside her. “I hope you have gossip to share. I am most dreadfully bored.”

The strain around her eyes suggested she was in the grip of far more turbulent feelings, but I understood her determination to conceal them. From a tender age, Lucrezia and I had both recognized the perils of revealing too much to the world.

“Let me see…,” I began as I settled onto the stool. A servant brought goblets of warmed wine. I sipped mine gladly, remembering only then that I had not yet eaten. Intent on diverting her, I embarked on a fanciful rendition of recent events in Viterbo.

“If rumor is to be believed, two housewives almost came to blows in the market over a particularly nice round of cheese. A pig got loose as a result, creating havoc. Someone took advantage of the uproar to steal several apples. While the thief was being pursued, a vat of wine was upended, its contents spilling all over the road. To the dismay of those who tried to sop it up, the wine was found to be sour. Now the winemaker is blaming the cooper who made the vat; the cooper says it was the fault of the fellow who hauled it to market, who says in turn that the problem lies in the winemaker using dregs fit only for vinegar. Several lawyers newly arrived from Rome have inserted themselves into the matter, so Heaven only knows when or how it will end.”

Lucrezia laughed, her altercation with Sforza seemingly forgotten. “Never, provided there are enough lawyers involved. Centuries from now no one will remember where the town of Viterbo stood, but they will know that the matter of its sour wine remains unresolved.”

I smiled at her whimsy, but I was not fooled by it. What Sforza had suggested truly was unforgivable. She would bide her time, but I was certain that in the end, she would exact a price for the insult he had done her and her father both. She was, after all, a Borgia.

“I need to speak with you about a matter of some seriousness,” I said. As young as she was, Lucrezia had a right to know why her security was being increased, if only so that she could be more vigilant about her own safety. I still did not believe that she or Cesare was a likely target, but precautions had to be taken in any case.

When I told her of the assassin, she showed no surprise but merely sighed. “Sometimes I wonder what it is like to live an entirely normal life, far from any such turmoil.”

As I wondered the same on occasion, I sympathized with her. However, I also pointed out, “Such a life may seem enviable, but it offers little opportunity to influence one’s own destiny. Ordinary people are always being surprised by events, usually unpleasantly.”

“Perhaps,” Lucrezia allowed. “But as I have no control over my own destiny under any circumstances, I still think that I would prefer such a life.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she might have more control than she knew, provided that she acted with care and circumspection, but I suspected that she would find that out for herself in time.

We nibbled almonds and sipped more wine, talking of Rome, fashion, and her vapid ladies, whose company she was happy to do without. At length, she fell silent. I perceived that something weighed on her mind and thought it must be Sforza, but she surprised me.