my Uncle Federico as the new King of Naples. Under different circumstances, I would have seized the opportunity to visit Alfonso and Madonna Trusia; but Pope Alexander was not the only one immersed in mourning. Jofre was deeply saddened by Juan’s murder, despite any jealousy he felt over his father’s favouritism. I felt obliged to remain with him.
Jofre did not consider only his own sorrow; he asked me to visit Lucrezia. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘She is all alone at San Sisto, and I am too stricken to comfort her. She needs the sympathy of another woman.’
I did not trust Lucrezia; her kindly disposition towards me had not stopped her affair with Cesare, though she knew I loved him. She knew, too, of his ambition to become Captain-General, and may have approved of Juan’s death-or had a hand in it.
Nevertheless, I went to the convent out of respect for my husband’s wishes. Once again, I greeted young Pantsilea at the door to Lucrezia’s suite; once again, the maidservant’s beautiful olive-skinned features were taut with despair. ‘Taking the canterella away has done no good, Madonna,’ she whispered. ‘Do not look so surprised-I know you took it, for Lucrezia has been near madness searching for it, and cannot find it. So now she is starving herself. She has taken no food for a week, no water for two days.’
Pantsilea led me back to the inner room, where, dressed only in a chemise although it was midday, Lucrezia sat propped up on the bed, her legs and stomach draped with fine linens. She was paler than I had ever seen her, her eyes and cheeks sunken, her expression one of complete listlessness. She looked over at me with disinterest, then turned her face towards the wall.
I went to her and sat at her side. ‘Lucrezia! Pantsilea says you will take no food or drink-but you must! I know you are sad over the loss of your brother-but he would not want you to hurt yourself or your child.’
‘To Hell with me,’ Lucrezia murmured. ‘And to Hell with the child. It’s already cursed.’ She directed a sharp glance at Pantsilea. ‘Leave-and do not skulk at the door listening. You already know far too much: I’m surprised you’ve lived this long.’
Pantsilea listened, her hand over her mouth-not in shock at her mistress’ words, but in sorrow over Lucrezia’s air of hopelessness. She turned, shoulders slumped with the weight of her concern, and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
When she had gone, Lucrezia turned and spoke to me with deathbed candour. ‘You say you know who the child’s father is. I assure you, Sancha, you do not. You do not know how you have been cruelly deceived…’
I did not hesitate. If she was willing to be dangerously honest, then I would be, too. ‘It is Cesare’s.’
She looked at me a long moment, during which time her eyes grew wide, then stricken; her face crumpled into a mask of grief, rage, and terror combined. She seized my hands with the sudden ferocity of a woman in childbirth, then released wrenching, guttural sounds that I at first did not recognize as sobs.
‘My life…is all lies,’ she gasped, when she could draw a breath. ‘At first I lived in fear of Rodrigo’-she did not say,
‘He forced you?’ I asked. Her misery was too abject to be feigned.
Lucrezia looked beyond me at a distant wall. ‘My father had a daughter before me,’ she said absently. ‘She died many, many years ago, because she did not accept his advances with good grace.’ She released an abrupt, bitter laugh. ‘I have pretended for so long now, I no longer know the truth of my own feelings. I was jealous of you as a rival when you first came to Rome.’
‘But
Lucrezia’s expression grew composed, her eyes cold at this revelation. ‘You are alive because, had Alexander tried to seduce you again or harm you, Cesare would have killed him. If not immediately, then at some point, when it was to Cesare’s advantage. You live because my brother loves you.’ Her face contorted briefly again. ‘But he wanted Juan’s position…and Juan harmed you, so Juan is dead. Even Father will never dare accuse Cesare, though he knows the truth.
‘And I am safe because I can always make a politically advantageous marriage. I have no cause to live.’ Her expression grew piteous; she closed her eyes. ‘Just let me die, Sancha. It would be a great kindness. Let me die, and flee to Squillace with Jofre, if you can.’
I studied her for an instant. I had never forgotten her unprompted remark to Cesare to be kind to me.
My worst fears about Cesare had just been confirmed. My life was in jeopardy; one false step, and the man who loved me might just as easily grow displeased and kill me. I lived or died at Cesare’s whim, and I would not be able to keep him at arm’s length forever.
But I was not the only one to be pitied; Lucrezia’s burden was far greater than mine. She had been manipulated by two unspeakably wicked men since her childhood, with no chance of escape. She was truly the unhappiest woman on earth, in sore need of a friend.
I held her tightly. As desperate as our different situations were, we could comfort one another. ‘I will neither let you die, nor will I leave you,’ I vowed. ‘In fact, I will not depart this room until you have had something to eat and drink.’
Slowly, with my repeated visits and encouragement, Lucrezia regained her appetite and improved in outlook and health. I promised repeatedly not to leave her, and she in turn swore to me that I would always have her friendship.
During my trips to San Sisto, Alexander received an epistle from the outspoken Savonarola, who still preached in defiance of the papal brief. The letter relayed sorrow over the loss of His Holiness’ son, while also castigating the Pope for the sinfulness of his lifestyle. If Alexander repented, the priest urged, the Apocalypse could be averted. Otherwise, God would visit more sorrows on him and his family.
For the first time, His Holiness took Savonarola’s words to heart. He sent away his women-and his children. Cesare and Lucrezia were already gone, so Jofre received the imperious decree that he and I were to return to Squillace, until it pleased Alexander for us to return.
Jofre was crushed by what he considered a punishment; I was sorry to leave Lucrezia during her most desperate hour, but felt guilty relief at the news. We packed and made the trip southward to the coast, where we spent two months-August and September-free from Rome’s crushing heat and scandals. Squillace was just as rocky, barren and provincial as I remembered; now that I had seen the glories of Rome, our palace seemed a pathetically rustic hovel, the food and wine atrocious. Nevertheless, I revelled in the absence of splendour; the bare whitewashed walls were refreshing, the lack of gilt soothing. I wandered the scraggly little gardens under the harsh sun, unafraid that an attacker might be hidden in the bushes; I roamed the corridors without concern that I might witness a horrific scene. I looked out upon the blue ocean-not caring that I had only a partial view from my balcony-and found it good, even if it was less beautiful than Naples’ Bay. I ate fish cooked simply, with local olives and lemons, and found it as delicious as any feast in the papal palace.
Best of all, Alfonso came to visit.
‘How you have changed!’ I laughed, holding him tightly at first, then drawing back, our hands clasped, to admire him. He had grown into a tall, handsome man of eighteen, with a neatly trimmed blond beard that glinted in the sun. ‘How is it possible that you have not married? You must be driving all the women in Naples mad!’
‘As best I can,’ he said, smiling. ‘But look at you, Sancha-you have changed so! So grand you look! Such a lady of wealth and stature!’
I looked down at myself. I had forgotten the southern custom of dressing starkly; here I was, weighed down with diamonds and rubies round my neck and in my hair, dressed in a silver velvet gown with burgundy trim-in Squillace, of all places. This unnatural splendour seemed a reflection of the degree I had been corrupted by the Borgias; I yearned for Alfonso’s presence to purify me, to bring out the goodness that had become hidden. I forced a smile. ‘In Rome, we do not wear much black.’
‘Because of the heat, no doubt,’ he countered playfully, and I realized how terribly I had missed him. It was divine to be in the presence of a loving, guileless soul once more, and I enjoyed his company each day for as long as he was able to grant it. I knew we would not be allowed to remain in Squillace forever; this was a temporary respite. I lived as though these were my last days, for my final encounter with Cesare could not be delayed forever.
Yet in the presence of Alfonso’s kindness, my heart, so scarred by Juan’s brutality and Cesare’s duplicity, began to heal; I thought often of Lucrezia, and wrote her many letters of encouragement.
