‘I am in your debt,’ I told him, then realized that courtesy had required him to stand in the bright sun, while I sat comfortably in the cooler shade. ‘Please…’ I motioned for him to sit beside me, then added, ‘I have thus far impressed your family less than favourably.’
Before I could continue my thought, he countered swiftly, ‘You have duly impressed at least one.’
I smiled at the compliment, but persisted, ‘Your sister does not care for me. I do not understand it, and would like to remedy it.’
Cesare looked away for a moment, at distant green hills. ‘She is jealous of anyone who directs my father’s attentions away from her.’ He turned to face me, his expression earnest. ‘Understand, Donna Sancha, that her own husband, Giovanni, does not wish to reside with her. This is a source of great embarrassment, which my father has tried repeatedly to remedy by begging Giovanni to return to Rome. Besides, my father has always doted on her, and she on him; but when she sees you are no real rival for his affections, she will come to trust you.’ He paused. ‘She was the same way with Donna Giulia; it took her a long time to realize a father’s love for another woman and that for his daughter are not one and the same. I do not mean to imply, of course, that you would ever become involved in such a way with His Holiness…’
‘No,’ I stated firmly. ‘I would not. I appreciate your insight, Cardinal.’
‘Please.’ He flashed a smile; the teeth beneath his moustache were small and even. ‘Cesare. I am a cardinal not by calling, but at my father’s insistence.’
‘Cesare,’ I repeated.
‘Lucrezia can be very affectionate,’ he said fondly, ‘and quite passionate in her loyalties. Most of all, she loves to have fun, to play like a child. She has had few opportunities to do so, given the responsibilities of her position. She has a man’s intellect, you know. My father relies on her as an advisor, more so than he does on me.’
I listened, nodding, straining to keep my focus on his words and not on the movement of his lips, on the high, sculpted angle of his cheekbone, on the glints of red in his beard, caused by the play of dappled light. But sitting beside him, I felt my lap growing warmer, as though the very muscles and bones and organs of my lower-half were melting and spreading outward into a pool, like snow in bright sun.
He finished his statement; my internal sensations must have been revealed in my expression, for an odd look of vulnerability, of tenderness, came over him. He leaned toward me and rested his palm gently against my cheek.
‘You look like a queen this morning,’ he murmured. ‘The world’s most beautiful queen, with the world’s most exquisite eyes. They make the emeralds look common.’
I thrilled to the words; I leaned closer into his hand, like a cat seeking a caress. What I felt for Cesare was so powerful that I easily forgot my marriage vows.
At once, he pulled his hand back as if scalded, and jumped to his feet. ‘I am a dog!’ he proclaimed. ‘The son of a whore, the greatest scoundrel among men! You have relied on me for protection from my father’s lewd behaviour-and now I am no better than he!’
‘There is a difference,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice from shaking.
He whirled back toward me, distraught. ‘How so? You are my brother’s wife!’
‘I am your brother’s wife,’ I whispered.
‘Then how is my behaviour different from my father’s?’
‘I am not in love with your father.’ I flushed, startled by my own words, by their brazenness; I seemed to have no control over myself or my actions. I was, as my mother had been, quite helpless.
Yet I did not regret my words. When I saw longing and joy rise together in his eyes, I proffered my hand. He took it, and sat beside me.
‘I dared not hope-’ he stammered, then began again, ‘Since first I saw you, Sancha-’
He fell silent. Which of us initiated the kiss, I cannot say. He was holding himself back; he pressed me against him, kissing me repeatedly, at times gently nipping my lips with his teeth. I caught hold of his hand and laid it upon one of my breasts.
‘Not here,’ he breathed, though he did not remove his hand. ‘Not now. There is too great a risk of being seen.’
‘Tonight, then,’ I said, trembling at my own audacity. ‘You know the safest hour and place.’
‘Here. Two hours past midnight.’
Thus our complicity was effected. Those words sounded sweet as music to me then; I had entirely forgotten the prediction of the Strega, years ago, that my heart could destroy all I loved. Even if I had remembered her prophecy at that sunny moment in the garden with Cesare, I would not have understood it, would not have had the prescience to see how our passion for each other could, over the years, so horribly, inexorably, unwind.
When at last Jofre rose and dressed, the time came for him to escort me to Saint Peter’s for Whitsunday Mass. This he did, squinting painfully at the bright Roman light, as the two of us processed with our attendants to the venerable cathedral next to the Vatican.
Fortunately, an excess of drink and strange women had left Jofre dulled and silent; while he cast a single curious glance at the magnificence of my dress, he did not press me as to the cause of my sudden shift in sartorial tactic. Nor did he seem to notice my new ebullience.
I could not repress my smiles. I felt overwhelmed each time I recalled Cesare’s kiss. I no longer felt concern over what either His Holiness or Lucrezia thought of me. I cared not whether the Pope remembered my refusing him or not, or whether he intended revenge: so long as I lived long enough to meet Cesare in the garden, my joy was complete. All my thoughts, my emotions, were focused blithely on that one moment to come, when my love and I would be alone.
We entered the cathedral. Saint Peter’s had been constructed a dozen centuries before, and its interior reflected its age. I had expected grandeur and glory, but the stone walls within were cracked and crumbling, the floor so worn and uneven I had to take care lest I stumble. Neither the hundreds of candles which had been lit, nor the gilded purple vestments on the altar, could ease the gloom; the wafting incense intensified the sense of closeness, the lack of fresh air. It was like walking into an immense crypt. This was appropriate, I suppose, since Saint Peter was reportedly buried beneath the altar.
Yet none of it could dampen my cheer. I separated from my husband, and went to take my place with the women of the Borgia household. Lucrezia had not arrived, but the delicate, ethereal Giulia was already there, beside the keen-eyed Adriana and their ladies-in-waiting. We women stood in the front centre of the church, facing the altar while off to one side, a great throne had been erected for His Holiness, and beside it seats for the high-ranking cardinals and Borgia men. Many cardinals had already taken their places, but I found myself searching anxiously for only one: Cesare.
He had yet to come. Some time passed before we heard the sound of fanfare; at last, His Holiness appeared, clad in.white satin robes and matching cap, and his long gold mantle. He nodded to me with a beneficent smile; if he held any rancour toward me, he failed to show it-and as for myself, I bowed most respectfully. Behind him came Cesare, who took the seat flanking the throne; Jofre sat beside him, and the rest of the seats were quickly filled with cardinals.
Behind Cesare came Lucrezia, with a dozen attendants. She was dressed in a blue-grey silk gown that made the best of her eyes. So expansive was my mood, so glad my heart, that I smiled brightly in welcome as she came to stand beside me, and embraced her with such enthusiasm that she was taken aback.
It being Pentecost, a visiting Spanish prelate had been invited to give the sermon. He was desperate to impress his distinguished audience with his erudition, for he droned on for an intolerable time. I had never realized that the fire of God, which caused supernatural wisdom to flow from the tongues of men, could be a dry and utterly boring topic.
He spoke for more than an hour-an unforgivable length, during which time His Holiness suffered two coughing fits and numerous cardinals fidgeted openly in their seats. One old Borgia dropped his head back, and, mouth agape, began to snore quite loudly.
I could not help myself. I began to giggle. I was able to suppress the sound sufficiently so that I did not catch the Pope’s attention, but my entire body shook with the effort. My encounter with Cesare had left me in a strange and childlike mood; normally, I would never have permitted myself to behave with such indignity.
Yet my giggles were so utterly helpless that Lucrezia, that cautious creature, became infected herself. I gasped in a breath, met her gaze…and the two of us had to grasp each other’s arms for support, lest we collapse upon the
