The Borgia Bride

I coughed, hurling spittle on him; I choked as he forced his tongue upon me, into me. And then he raised my wrists overhead, taking one of his great paws to pin them both against the wall. With his other hand, he reached to lift my skirts, bending down as he did. Given his intoxication, the movement made him dizzy, and he swayed.

I used the opportunity to tear one hand free. In a flash, I reached for my stiletto, hidden just beneath my stomacher. I was thinking to discourage him, not to wield it. But when he realized I had broken away and reached up to correct the matter, his hand found the tip of the blade.

He shrieked, and at once recoiled. My eyes had adjusted quite well to the dim light by then, and I could see the hand he held aloft, thick fingers fanned out tautly. We both stared up at it in amazement. The stiletto had nicked the palm, a perfect stigmata, and blood already trickled down to his wrist. The injury was minor, the effect dramatic.

He directed his gaze at me. I saw there, in full hellishness, the hatred that had only glinted in Lucrezia’s eyes. He let go a long hiss. Yet despite his fury, a second emotion played upon his features: Fear.

He is a bully but also a coward, I thought swiftly, just as Father was. I took advantage of this knowledge and advanced toward him, holding the stiletto threateningly aloft.

Rodrigo suddenly smiled, the intoxicated diplomat; his tone turned wheedling as he clasped his wounded hand in the other. ‘So. It is true what they say: you are fearless. I had heard that you saved the King of Naples by killing a man.’

‘With this very weapon,’ I averred flatly. ‘I slit his throat.’

‘All the more reason to love you,’ he proclaimed, with false good humour. ‘Surely, Sancha, you are not so foolish a woman as to turn down such an opportunity…’

‘I am, Holiness. Each time you come to me, you will receive the same response.’ I glared at him. ‘You are a father who claims to love his children. How would Jofre feel, to see us like this?’

Rodrigo bowed his head at my words, and stood in silence a time, swaying slightly. To my astonishment, he burst into tears and knelt. ‘I am an evil man,’ he said, his tone maudlin. ‘Old and drunk and foolish. I am helpless around women; it is the curse of my life. Donna Sancha, you do not understand-your great beauty has made me lose my senses. But now you have won my respect, for you are not only comely, but brave. Forgive me.’ His weeping intensified. ‘Forgive me for dishonouring you, and my poor son so…’

His remorse, though abrupt, seemed sincere. I lowered the stiletto and took a step towards him. ‘I forgive you, Holiness. I will never speak of this incident. Only let it never happen again.’

He shook his great head. ‘I swear it will not, Madonna. I swear…’

I drew closer, thinking to extend a hand, to lift him to his feet.

He reared upwards suddenly, his head and shoulders delivering a blow that knocked me to the cold tile floor and sent the weapon flying. Where it went, I could not see; tangled in my skirts, I struggled to rise, realizing my vulnerability.

Yet my heavy skirts and velvet slippers allowed me no purchase. Rodrigo’s bullish figure loomed before me and reached out…

In the same instant, a second figure appeared, equally tall but leaner, more proportionately built, and caught one of the Pope’s arms.

‘Father,’ Cesare said, his manner easy and calm, as if he were rousing the old man from sleep rather than interrupting a rape.

Disoriented, Rodrigo whirled on his son, still ready to fight. He struck out-but Cesare, with a strength much greater than his father’s, caught Rodrigo’s arm, then laughed, as if it were all a splendid joke. ‘Father! You have had too much wine-you know that if you wished to beat me, you could do so handily when sober. Come, Giulia has been asking for you.’

‘Giulia?’ The Pope looked back at me uncertainly. He had been all too sure of himself when accosting me, but suddenly he seemed no more than a confused old man.

Cesare jerked his head cursorily in my direction. ‘You have no need of this one. But Giulia will grow jealous if you do not go to see her soon.’

The Pope scowled at me, then turned and began ambling down the corridor. Cesare watched him for a heartbeat-then, certain his father was well on his way, hurried over and knelt by my side.

‘Madonna Sancha, are you injured?’ His concern was urgent.

I shook my head. My shoulder and ribs ached, and my wrists were bruised, but I had not been seriously damaged.

‘I will go and make sure His Holiness arrives at the correct destination. I must apologize for him, Madonna; he is drunk.’ He extended both his hands, and helped me to my feet. ‘With your indulgence, I will call upon you shortly, to make a better apology. Now I must tend to him.’

And he was gone.

I found the stiletto on the marble floor and replaced it; once more, my brother’s gift had proved its worth. When I arrived at my chambers, the maids met me, wide-eyed and silent; only when I glanced in my mirror did I realize that my breasts had almost fallen out of my bodice, my skirt was torn, and my hair had spilled halfway out of its gold netting onto my shoulders.

Cesare made good his promise. Within moments after disappearing after his father-not even time enough for my maids to remove the golden net and completely brush out my tousled hair-a discreet knock came at my antechamber door.

I righted my bodice, dismissed my maids to their rooms and went to the door myself. I was still shaking from the physical exertion of the struggle, a fact I found highly annoying.

Cesare, sober, yet troubled after a controlled, dignified fashion, stood waiting. I bade him enter, and he stood, refusing an offer to sit.

‘Madonna Sancha, are you quite certain you are unhurt?’

‘I am certain.’ I did my best to reflect his own dignity back to him. In truth, I cared not so much about the violation his father had just committed against my person as I did about what Cesare thought of me.

‘I implore your forgiveness,’ Cesare said, with a hint of passion in his otherwise cautious tone. ‘His Holiness too often tries to forget the enormous concerns of state by immersing himself in wine. He is already fast asleep. I suspect he will have forgotten this entire incident come morning.’

And you are suggesting that I forget it as well, I wanted to say, but such would be impolitic. I had no choice but to do so; the Pope had full power over my destiny. He could banish me, if he wished, to the prison in the Castle Sant’Angelo, on a mythical charge of treason; he could even have me murdered by one of his henchmen. I was grateful for Cesare’s concern, for it meant I had more than the ineffectual Jofre as an ally in the Borgia household.

Instead I replied, ‘There is physical evidence of the event. I pierced him…with a stiletto. His hand is injured.’

‘It must not be a serious wound,’ Cesare replied. ‘I failed to notice it, and he did not complain of it.’

‘It is not. But it left a mark, nonetheless.’

Cesare considered this a time; his expression reminded me of the surface of a lake when the water is very, very still. At last he offered, ‘Then if my father does not recall the event, you and I shall both agree here and now that the wound was the result of an encounter with one of the courtesans. I shall tell him I witnessed this myself, and that the woman was dealt with harshly.’

I nodded.

Cesare returned the gesture in acknowledgment of our complicity, then bowed. ‘I take my leave, Madonna.’

He turned to go-then stopped, and regarded me over his shoulder, again with that intense, dark-eyed stare that left me uncomfortable and thrilled at the same time. ‘You are the only woman I know of who has refused him, Madonna. That requires great courage and conviction.’

I lowered my gaze. ‘I am married to his son.’ I was not simply replying to Cesare; I was reminding myself of the fact as well.

He fell silent a time. And then: ‘A pity, Madonna, that you met the youngest before the eldest.’ He ventured another glance at me; this time, I returned it boldly.