The Borgia Bride

As he searched, with lips and tongue, for the candy, Lucrezia turned her face towards mine, her eyes narrowed, filled with both challenge and triumph.

I turned about, skirts swirling, and left.

XII

Esmeralda and a trio of guards followed me as far as the door, but I whirled on them. ‘I will be alone!’ I demanded, in a voice that silenced even the formidable Donna Esmeralda. Normally, she would have refused to allow me to walk unaccompanied at night, but she was shrewd enough to know that I had reached a level of determination which allowed no argument. Besides, I had no fear; I always carried Alfonso’s stiletto.

I stepped alone into the Roman night. The air was slightly chill, the piazza before me dark; the only light came from the moon, gleaming off the marble rooftops, and the flickering golden windows of the Borgia apartments behind me. I lifted my skirts and, as carefully as I could, made my way down the high stairs to the level of the street, and from there, turned and used the dull glow coming from the ground floor of the Palazzo Santa Maria to guide me to my new home.

I was hardly a prude. I had been witness to a certain amount of debauchery at the court of my father-and at that of my own husband. Party games with courtesans were not unheard of. But they were conducted discreetly, in the presence of only a trusted few.

Apparently, this Pope trusted many. Or perhaps no one dared speak. Either way, it was clear that the man who had so scandalized Italian society by accosting several married women in a cathedral garden had not changed a whit since ascending to the papacy.

I could overlook such a thing, though I had expected more discretion. And I had convinced myself, after His Holiness so easily gave up his attempts to pursue me that afternoon, that all I had to do was refuse him a few times and I would be left alone.

I had even been warmed by how Alexander doted on his children; I had longed for such paternal affection, and imagined how my life might have been had my own father been kindly disposed towards me.

But the oddly triumphant look in Lucrezia’s eyes, as she pressed the Pope’s face to her bosom, made me yearn instead for the home I had known. I could not hide my revulsion toward such a scene between parent and child-for an instant, in my imagination, my own father took Alexander’s place, and I Lucrezia’s. I could only shudder at the thought of pressing my own breasts to Alfonso Il’s lips, of my father groping me drunkenly. So repellent was the notion that I suppressed it immediately.

I now understood, too well, the cause of Lucrezia’s jealousy…and it had nothing to do with my outshining her at social functions.

Her love for Alexander went beyond that of a daughter for her father. The gaze she had directed at me was that of a woman possessive of a lover, and challenging a rival: Leave him; he is mine.

The image of her, her young, white flesh unclothed, pressed against the aged, sagging body of the pontiff, made me ill; I stumbled along the edge of the piazza, drawing in the night air, laden with the marshy smell of the nearby Tiber, as if I could somehow cleanse myself of the memory of what I had just seen.

My instincts said that Lucrezia was a depraved, despicable creature. Her brazen behaviour with the chocolates hinted at a monstrous notion: that she granted her own father-the Pope-sexual favours.

I took a breath and steadied myself. I was a cynic, swift to judge. Away from my brother only a short while, I was already thinking the worst of everyone. How could I be more like Alfonso? I wondered. How would my brother react?

Surely I was wrong, I told myself. The two could not be physically involved; such an idea was too horrible to entertain. Lucrezia had a crush on her father, as some young girls do-and a fierce temper. She was jealous of sharing his affection, and was already forced to do so with Giulia; here was I, another woman who diverted Alexander’s attentions from her. And Lucrezia had been so angered by my harsh response to her during our dance that she had lost control of her temper and wanted badly to shock me.

That is it, I told myself. And perhaps she had drunk more wine than I realized. Perhaps she was not as sober as she seemed.

This thought calmed me to a degree; by the time I arrived at the Palazzo Santa Maria, I was convinced that Lucrezia had resorted to outlandish behaviour out of childishness, and that Alexander had certainly been too intoxicated to realize he nuzzled at his own daughter’s bosom.

The guards recognized me at once and permitted me entry. The ground floor loggia was well-lit, but the upstairs corridors were another matter, and I wandered in confusion until at last I found the entry to my suite.

I extended my hand to open the antechamber door. At once, my wrist was seized with brutal force.

I whirled. Beside me in the shadows loomed Rodrigo Borgia. Even the dim light could not hide the crudeness of his features-the receding chin that disappeared into folds of aging flesh, the prominent, slightly bulbous, irregular nose, the thick lips stretched now in a leer. His eyes were heavy-lidded with drink. The golden mantle was gone; he wore only his red satin robes and a velvet skullcap.

It is true, then, I thought with an odd detachment. A secret passage between Santa Maria and the Vatican exists. How else could His Holiness have left the celebration so quickly and be waiting here for me?

Standing next to him, I could not deny his physical advantage: I was not a large woman, and unlike his son Jofre, Rodrigo was a tall man, still powerful at sixty. My head did not come as high as his broad shoulders. His bones were large and thick, mine fine: his great hands together could encircle my waist, and he could easily snap my neck if he chose.

‘Sancha, my darling, my dream,’ he whispered, dragging me to him; the pressure on my wrist increased to the point of great pain, but I did not cry out. His words were slurred. ‘I have waited all day for this encounter, all evening-nay, for years, since the first instant you were described to me. But the war kept us apart…until now.’

I opened my mouth to rebuke him. Yet before I could utter a word, he encircled me with an arm, placed a palm against the back of my skull, and forced my face to his. I struggled, but to no use. He kissed me, lips pressed to my teeth; the smell of foetid meat, mixed with wine, made me gag.

He let go my wrist and drew back, his expression that of the young lover hopeful for a reaction. I gave him one: with all my strength, I landed a blow on his cheek.

He took a staggering step back before regaining his uncertain balance. His eyes narrowed with surprise and rage; he touched the offended area, then dropped his hand and laughed derisively. ‘You are too confident of your own worth, darling Sancha. You may be a princess-but do not forget, I am the Pope.’

‘I will call for my servants!’ I hissed. ‘They are just beyond the door.’

‘Call for them.’ He smiled. ‘And I will dismiss them. Do you truly think they will refuse to obey me?’

‘They are loyal to me.’

‘If they are, they will suffer for it.’ He said this with surprising pleasantness and ease.

‘How can you not be ashamed?’ I demanded. ‘I am the wife of your son!’

‘You are a woman.’ On his face, in his voice, was a sudden hardness, a meanness I had seen before only in his daughter’s eyes. ‘And I rule here. So long as you live in my household, you are my property, to do with as I please.’

To prove his words, he moved with surprising swiftness for one so full of wine, slipped a hand inside my bodice, and took my breast in his palm.

‘Sancha, my darling,’ he said, with pure petulance, ‘am I so old, so hideous, that you cannot imagine loving me? I would adore you beyond words; there is nothing I would deny you. Only name what you would have. Only name it! I am forever good to those who love me.’

Before he could finish his utterance, I seized his hand and pulled it from my bosom. He, in turn, grasped both my arms and, with a movement so powerful the wind was knocked from my lungs, shoved me backwards against the wall. His bulk pinned me; I flailed, I kicked, but his strength held me fast. In each fist, he held my wrists, forcing my arms out and against the wall at shoulder height-in a barbarous parody of the crucified Christ-then smothered my face with his.