‘A pity,’ I said.
He smiled very faintly, then left.
XIII
Donna Esmeralda and my other ladies waited an appropriate half-an-hour before returning from the festivities to my chamber, by which time the maids had undressed me to my shift and untangled the golden net from my hair. They undid the elaborate coils and had finished brushing them out by the time Esmeralda entered, but I think I was still shaking then-and my expression must have been haunted. Certainly, the maids knew from my disarray and torn gown that something alarming had happened, but they were also wise enough to see that I was of a mood, so they kept silent.
Likewise, I knew from the way old Esmeralda’s eyes narrowed when she saw me that she knew, as well-but she, too, asked no questions. There was no point in confiding in her; it would only serve to underscore her disapproval of the Pope, and belief in Savonarola-dangerous opinions to hold in the Vatican. Besides, she would learn what happened soon enough, given her talent for gathering information.
So long as my home was the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, I was no longer Sancha of Aragon, princess and natural daughter of the King of Naples. My domain was no longer my own to rule, my words no longer things to be carelessly tossed about without fear of reprisal, my actions no longer unguarded and free. I was Donna Sancha, wife of the youngest, least gifted bastard of the Pope, and I lived and breathed at His Holiness’ pleasure.
I said nothing to my women, but let myself be put into my sumptuous new bed, my head cradled by soft feather pillows.
It was a troubled head. If the Pope remembered our encounter, his rage might well be fathomless. Cesare had said no woman had ever denied him.
At the same time I reprimanded myself,
My worries over the Pope’s reaction were equally balanced by the memory, revisited a thousand times, of Cesare’s last words to me; of the small curve of a smile that played on his lips.
Ah, the thrill the image brought me, the joy, which made me quake; for I realized I was not alone in my feeling. He was as bewitched as I.
I rose early the following morning, Whitsunday.
Though I had taken care the day before to dress discreetly, even matronly, in deference to Lucrezia, that morning I was filled with a strange wildness. I ordered my ladies to fetch one of my finest gowns, a delectable creation of brilliant green satin, with a forest green velvet stomacher corseted with golden laces. The tied-on sleeves were of matching velvet-great wings with narrow under-sleeves of lighter green satin.
I watched Donna Esmeralda’s lips thin with suspicion as she watched all of this, but she said nothing. When she took my brush and began to plait my hair, preparing to put it up in a sedate coil, as she had done every morning since my wedding, I waved her away.
‘Just brush it out. I shall wear it down.’
She tucked her chin and drew back her head in disapproval. ‘Donna Sancha, you are a married woman.’
‘So is Lucrezia. She wears her hair down.’
She glared; without comment, she began brushing my hair, not at all gently. She was closer to me than my own mother, so I did not complain, or permit myself to yelp when she found a stubborn snarl and tugged without pity.
Once the brushing was accomplished, I demanded gems. Around my neck I wore one of the wedding gifts Jofre had brought me: an emerald the size of my thumb, heavy against my throat; and around my forehead was tied a headpiece of gold, with a smaller emerald that came to rest just beneath my hairline. The combined effect made my eyes glow greener than the jewels.
I might well have been on my way to a ball, not Mass.
Thus adorned, I went to my husband’s chamber-and in the corridor just outside his door, discovered one of the previous evening’s courtesans leaving his room. She had obviously spent the night there, then been shooed away by a servant, for her exit was less than ceremonious: her hair was down, her slippers in one hand, her gown so rapidly donned that her chemise had not been pulled through the openings in her sleeves and properly puffed. Her small breasts were on the verge of slipping from her loosely-laced bodice.
She was crouching, stealing away in such exaggerated fashion I found the effect comical. Her hair, falling in random tendrils, was a dubious shade of red, her eyes cerulean; they glanced up at me in alarm as I halted, blocking her path. Playing the role of injured spouse, I drew myself up quite straight, and stared down at her with a withering gaze worthy of Lucrezia.
‘Madonna!’ she whispered, beside herself; wither she did, then bowed very low. In such position she backed away from me, then turned and ran down the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the marble floor.
After a discreet moment’s wait, I entered the antechamber and was told by Jofre’s manservant that his master was still sleeping very soundly due to the effects of much wine.
I breakfasted alone in my suite, then became quite bored. The palace was very quiet; no doubt, Jofre was not the only one still clinging to his bed.
Mass was still hours away. It would be an occasion with more than the usual amount of fanfare, given the ecclesiastical significance of the date: Whitsunday, marking Pentecost, that rare event which occurred fifteen hundred years before, when the fire of God had so filled the apostles that they preached in tongues they had never learned.
Such a miracle seemed quite distant and meaningless to me that morning: I was alternately elated and terrified by what had happened my first day among the Borgias. Restless, I went downstairs through the marble-floored loggia and out into the beautiful courtyard garden that I had viewed the day before from my balcony. The day was sunny and warm, the garden delightfully fragrant: miniature orange trees in terracotta pots lined one walkway; the perfectly trimmed globes of greenery were redolent with white blossoms. On the other side were well-tended rose bushes, pushing forth delicate buds.
I walked alone, until I was out of sight of my balcony, out of sight of anyone-or so I thought-and at last, because of the increasing warmth, sat upon a carved bench placed beneath the shade of an olive tree, to fan myself.
‘Madonna,’ a man whispered, and I started, filled with the sudden conviction that Rodrigo had sent an assassin to accomplish his revenge on me. I gasped and put a hand to my heart.
Beside me stood a man dressed entirely in black-in what might have been a priest’s frock, save the collar and cuffs were fine velvet, and the body of the garment silk.
‘Forgive me; I have startled you,’ Cesare said. The austerity of his dress served to underscore the severe handsomeness of his features. He scarcely resembled his two siblings at all; his hair was black, straight, cut in a simple style that fell halfway between his chin and shoulders; a dark fringe partially hid a high forehead. His beard and moustache were carefully trimmed, his lips and hands fine, quite unlike his father’s; he had Rodrigo’s dark colouring but his mother Vannozza’s beauty. There was an elegance to him, a sense of presence and dignity that, despite all their jewels and finery, none in his family could match. In Lucrezia and Pope Alexander, I sensed connivance; in Cesare, I sensed breathtaking intelligence.
‘It is hardly your fault,’ I replied. ‘I am ill at ease after the events of last night.’
‘With good reason, Madonna. I swear that I will do everything in my power to prevent such a dreadful violation of decency from occurring again.’
I lowered my eyes, like a foolish girl glad that I was wearing one of my finest gowns. ‘I fear His Holiness-’
‘His Holiness still sleeps. I assure you, I consider it my duty to repair relations between the two of you. Now that he is older, too much drink makes him forgetful. But whatever he remembers of last night, I will lead him down the path that is to your best advantage.’
