worn stone.
At that instant, a wicked thought seized me. Here we poor women were forced to stand upon unforgiving rock, our feet tiring during the endless sermon, while the men had the comfort of their chairs. But to my left was a flight of narrow stairs leading up to the wooden stalls built for the canons who sang the gospel. On this particular Sunday, the benches were empty.
I gave Lucrezia’s sleeve a gentle tug, and gestured with my eyes at the stalls above and behind us. Her own eyes widened-at first with mild horror at the thought of impropriety. Reverence required us to keep our places during the sermon, and remain utterly still; such was especially important for a relative of the Pope. But as she considered the misdeed, horror transformed to evil gaiety.
I moved past the other ladies, and, unable to mask my mirth, scurried up the stairs like a girl, then dropped down onto the bench with an utter lack of decorum.
Lucrezia followed-though she moved up the stairs with exaggerated noise and difficulty, drawing more attention to herself and increasing the outrageousness of the act. She sat, emitting such a large, gusting sigh that the prelate giving the sermon paused and frowned, scandalized at the disruption. My ladies and hers were obliged to follow us up, a production which caused no small amount of noise for the prelate, who lost his train of thought and repeated the same sentence three times before regaining his composure.
I glanced over at the Pope; he was grinning openly, delighted at the playfulness of his women. I glanced at Cesare; he did not smile, but his dark eyes shone with humour.
Without looking at her, I leaned sideways towards Lucrezia and whispered, ‘Please believe me: I have no designs on your father. I wish to be nothing more than your brother’s wife.’
She pretended not to hear. Yet after a few moments had passed, I glanced over at her to find her gazing back at me, merry with approval. I had won another friend in the Vatican.
XIV
That night, I sent my closest ladies away from my bedchamber, saying I wished to sleep alone. They were used to my whims and did not question me, resigning themselves to sleeping in a nearby room. Before they left, I insisted my youngest maid, Felicia, set out a black silk gown and veil for me, saying that I missed Naples greatly and wished to wear nothing but mourning for the rest of the week.
I knew I should have consulted Donna Esmeralda-who had no doubt already found sources and gleaned as much information as possible about the members of the Borgia household. But so strong was my infatuation that I asked no questions; if Cesare was a rake, as lascivious and fickle as his father, I did not want to know. Even had I been told, I would have rejected such news.
I scarcely had time to blow out the oil lamp on my table when a swift knock came at the chamber door-one that made my heart sink, for I recognized it as Jofre’s. Without waiting for a reply, he entered; in the yellowish light, I saw the sheepish leer on his face.
‘Sancha, my darling,’ he said. ‘Is there a place in your bed for me tonight?’ He shut the door behind him. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, and his eyes half-lidded; he was drunk, a condition I found him in often since we had come to live with his family.
I paled. ‘I…I am feeling unwell,’ I stammered, and as though I were a virgin, I clutched my chemise round my neck, lest he see too much flesh.
Jofre seemed not to hear the words. Fuelled by wine, he stumbled over to where I sat upon the bed, and laid his hands upon my breasts. ‘I have the most beautiful wife in the world,’ he slurred, ‘and I shall take her now.’
I felt two things: pity for him, that I did not return his feelings, and fear, that the wine would cause him to fall asleep in my bed on the very night I had planned my first act of infidelity.
Had he been any drunker, he would have been incapable of the deed. I lay obediently on the bed and parted my legs for him. He, in turn, pulled down his leggings and hiked my underskirts up to my waist, crawled on top of me, and inserted himself.
What followed would not have inspired even the overwrought Petrarch. Jofre lay atop me, unable to support himself with his arms, his face buried in my breasts. For a moment, he thrust madly, clumsily-then, having worn himself out, stopped and gasped for air.
‘Can you ever love me?’ he asked, his voice pregnant with tears. ‘My Sancha, will you ever come to love me?’
‘You are my prince,’ I told him. I might deceive him with Cesare, but I could not lie to his face. ‘I grow fonder of you with every passing day.’
His head lolled; sleep threatened.
I used a womanly trick explained to me before my wedding: I used the muscles that surrounded Jofre’s organ to squeeze tightly, thus arousing him enough to continue his thrusting, and, at last, yield to pleasure and collapse.
He sighed and rolled over onto his back; I sensed that he was again on the verge of slumber, so I pulled up his leggings, then pushed him upright.
‘You must hurry to your chamber,’ I said, with no other explanation. ‘Here. Let me help you.’
Weary with wine and sexual release, Jofre was too confused to argue. I half-supported him as he staggered back to the door.
As was our custom, I gave him a little kiss. ‘Good night, my sweet.’
I returned to my bed. If all I had learned of God was true, then I was damned, and rightly so; guilt overwhelmed me. I did not want to betray my husband, yet my heart would let me do no else.
I cleansed myself with a cloth. At last the time came; I rose, and struggled in the darkness to dress myself.
The other ladies were all sleeping, and undisturbed-but Donna Esmeralda had not been fooled. As I fought to lace my bodice with unskilled fingers, the stout old matron, dressed only in her white linen nightgown, came into my chamber.
She said nothing. Given the lack of light, I could not see her expression, but I could sense her disapproval, imagine her baleful stare.
‘I could not sleep,’ I said haughtily. At Esmeralda’s continued silence, I demanded, ‘At least help me with my bodice.’
Esmeralda obeyed, tugging on the gown not at all gently. ‘This will only lead to more trouble, Madonna.’
I was too impetuous, too giddy with love to tolerate the truth. ‘I told you, I cannot sleep! I will take some fresh air.’
‘It is not seemly for a young woman to go out alone at this hour. Let me go with you, or call one of the guards.’ Her tone was insistent.
‘Lace my bodice, then leave me! I left the party last night alone, and arrived in my chamber safely, did I not? I can protect myself.’
For a time, she did not reply, merely finished her work, then stepped back. At last, she drew a breath; she knew me too well not to speak her mind.
‘That is not quite the case, is it, Madonna? You required a good deal of help last night.’
I was too astounded to answer. How could anyone, besides myself and Cesare, know of His Holiness’ indiscretion? If Donna Esmeralda was already party to the secret, then I had no hope of hiding an affair with Cesare from anyone at the papal court.
I told myself I did not care.
‘I shall not speak of this to you again,’ Esmeralda said finally. ‘I know you are wilful and impervious to reason. But hear, if you can: this will only lead to greater danger than you faced last night, my Sancha. Not less. You are Eve in the Garden-and the serpent himself confronts you.’
