‘Leave me,’ I commanded, and drew the veil over my face.
The night air had cooled only slightly after the summer-warm day; I was accustomed to the mists and fog of a coastal clime, but Rome afforded no such cloak. I relied on the darkness and my veil for disguise on this, my first sally into deception.
Overhead, clouds half-hid a waxing moon. In such feeble light, my vision obstructed by a film of dark silk gauze, I moved haltingly, like one near blind. The garden seemed totally unfamiliar, the bright colours of the foliage reduced to shades of grey, the roses and orange trees sudden strangers. I hesitated along the path, fighting panic. Had I taken this turn, or the next? If I became lost, would Cesare think I had played him for a fool, and leave the garden in disgust?
Or had he played me for one?
I chided myself for entertaining such fears; I hated the intensity of my love for Cesare, because it made me weak.
I drew in a steadying breath, made my decision, and took the nearest turn. As I did, I caught sight of the stone bench beneath the shade tree, and something dark moving against the pale stone: the outline of a man.
He, too, was dressed in black, all but face and hands blending into the background of night.
He waited, tall and dignified, till I arrived beside him-then both of us dropped all restraint. I cannot say who moved first; perhaps we moved together, but I sensed no passage of time between the moment I stepped up to him and the moment my veil was thrown back and we were locked fast in an embrace, lips against lips, body against body, so intensely, so strongly I felt as though the edges of my flesh were dissolving into his. So great was the heat generated that, without our arms gripping each other, I would have fallen back, senseless.
To my dismay, he tore himself from me. ‘Not here,’ he said, in a voice hoarse and desperate. ‘You are not some kitchen maid to be taken casually upon the dirt. Trust me; I have made arrangements. We will be safe.’
I replaced my veil; he took my hand. His step was certain; he knew his way well. He led me along the back of the palace, to an unguarded entrance leading to an unfamiliar corridor. This led to a heavy wooden door, which opened to another corridor…one long and of recent construction, crudely finished and unappointed. Its existence was clearly to provide private access, and nothing more. Wall torches lit our way.
After a moment, we arrived again at a door, which Cesare opened with a flourish. I frowned in puzzlement. Before us lay a great chapel, ancient and ornate; votive lamps flickered on the altar, and a great papal throne sat to one side, with stalls nearby for cardinals.
Cesare’s lips curved. ‘The Sistine Chapel,’ he said, as he helped me through the doorway. ‘We are in Saint Peter’s.’
My veil brushed softly against my lips as they parted in astonishment. So
‘Come,’ Cesare said. We moved swiftly through the chapel, through the cathedral, and into the adjoining halls of the Vatican. Never did we encounter a guard; Cesare had taken pains to ensure our privacy.
He led me into the Borgia apartments, which I recognized from the previous night’s gala; it gave me little comfort to think I would be so close to the Pope. Happily, Cesare led me in a different direction, and upstairs; at last we arrived at an unguarded suite, and he flung open the doors with a flourish.
‘I have brought you to my own bed, and dismissed all the servants until morning,’ he said, closing the doors behind us. ‘How long you wish to stay is your own choice, Madonna.’
‘Forever,’ I murmured.
At once, he fell to his knees before me and embraced my skirts, his arms wrapped round my legs, his face tilted upwards. Utterly earnest, he proclaimed, ‘Only say you wish it, Sancha, and I will give up the priesthood. My father wants me Pope, and so I must be a cardinal-but I am not suited by nature for such a calling. His Holiness will do whatever I ask of him; he would annul your marriage to Jofre. Surely you know your husband is not truly his son…’
Jofre not the Pope’s son? The revelation startled some distant part of me, that small, detached and silent part not overwhelmed by Cesare’s proposal and desperate to accept it. ‘Then whose is he?’ I whispered.
‘The very legitimate offspring of my mother Vannozza and her husband.’ Cesare smiled.
I wavered, thinking of myself and Cesare, free to love as we willed, free to bear children together. But Jofre and I were married; my own father and a Borgia cardinal had witnessed the physical consummation. There could be no grounds for annulment.
I pressed my fingers firmly against Cesare’s lips to staunch the flow of his words. ‘The marriage act was witnessed and cannot be undone,’ I said. ‘But now is not the time to speak of the future: now is the time for you to take me to your bed.’
He accepted this. He rose and, facing me, his fingertips beneath mine, led me back into his bedchamber.
The shutters were closed, but the room glowed with the light of twenty candles, placed about the room on gold sconces. There was a half-finished mural on the wall, of a pagan theme, and on the bed, a coverlet of crimson velvet. Fur throws covered the floor, and on a beautifully carved bedside table rested a flagon of wine, and two golden goblets, inlaid with rubies. This was the bedchamber of a prince, not a priest.
I was prepared to throw myself down and hike up my skirts for a fleeting event, as I was accustomed to with Jofre. Yet as I neared the bed, Cesare arrested me with his voice.
‘May I see you, Sancha, as God made you?’
I removed my veil and turned to face him, surprised by this request. I was near trembling with desperation to consummate the affair; I saw the quiver in Cesare’s parted lips. The intensity in his eyes approached madness, yet in his tone, his manner, was delicate.
I lifted my chin, determined. ‘Only if you return the favour.’
In reply, he unfastened his priest’s robe and slipped it off, to reveal beneath a black tunic of alternating bands of black satin and velvet, and a sheathed dagger at his hip, and black leggings-the costume of a Roman gentleman. With swiftness and grace, he removed first slippers, then the tunic, revealing a high, well-muscled chest, with sparse, dark hairs at the hollow; he was lean, and his collarbone, hips and ribs showed prominently as he carefully pulled the leggings down over his sculpted thighs. When he finished, he rose and stood, humbly available for my scrutiny.
I stared in awe. I had never seen a fully naked man before. Even the pleasure-giving Onorato had never removed his tunic, and had only lowered his leggings as far as necessary during our dalliances. Jofre never removed his tunic, save for our wedding night, when custom required us to be naked, and I believe he removed his leggings completely only once. The closest I came to being unclad with Jofre were times such as this evening, when I had already removed my gown and wore only my shift. Even then, our relations took place under cover of clothing.
But here was Cesare, entirely revealed and glorious. I could not avoid staring at the place between his legs, where, emerging from a profusion of jet-black hair, his erect male organ pointed at me with a decidedly upward slant. It was larger than Jofre’s, and I began to move my hand toward it, wanting to touch it.
‘Not yet,’ Cesare whispered. Like a lady-in-waiting, he moved behind me, and with surprising skill, began untying my sleeves. I pulled them off, laughing at the sudden sense of freedom, then waited while he unlaced my bodice.
That done, I pulled my gown down and stepped out of it. Such a heavy weight to bear, clothes. I was in a hurry to pull my chemise over my head, but Cesare spoke again.
‘Stand in front of the candlelight-there.’ He tilted his head, dark eyes shining with admiration. ‘The effect is gossamer; like looking at an angel, through wisps of cloud.’
‘Bah!’ I pulled off the undergarment and flung it to the floor. ‘To the bed!’
‘
I smiled at that-in part, at his adoration, in part, out of my own vanity. I was still young then, and had never suckled a child; my breasts had been called perfect by Onorato, neither too large nor too small, with a firm, pleasing shape. I knew, too, that the curve of my hips was womanly, and that I was not too thin.
He stepped up behind me and began to unfasten my hair, done up in a single fat braid to keep it out of my way while sleeping. When it was free, I shook my head and let it fall unhindered to my waist; he drew his fingers
