I handed the document back to Alfonso with a sense of dread. I knew, from the lovesick hope in his eyes, that he had already made up his mind to return. It had only been a matter of time.
My brother rolled the parchment back up. ‘I appreciate your bringing this to our attention, Captain. Please thank the King for all his efforts on our behalf; but at this time, I require some time to consider His Holiness’ offer.’
‘Of course.’ De Cervillon snapped his heels together smartly and again bowed. When he rose, he said, ‘I wish to convey to both Your Highnesses the depth of loyalty and respect I possess for both of you. Please know that I would gladly surrender my life to protect you. I would not bring you such an offer were I myself not entirely convinced of its genuineness.’ There was an integrity, a humble goodness in his eyes and tone, that convinced me that he meant from his heart every word he uttered. He was too kind, I thought, too excellent a human being to have to serve the likes of the Borgias.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ I replied.
‘You are an uncommonly fine man,’ Alfonso told him, ‘and we have and will always hold you in the highest esteem.’ He rose, indicating that the meeting was at an end. ‘I will notify King Federico and His Holiness of my decision within a few days’ time. And I will remark to them both, Captain, on the excellence of your attitude and your service.’
‘Thank you.’ De Cervillon bowed again. ‘May God be with you.’
‘And with you,’ we echoed.
Alfonso could not bear to wait even the few days he had mentioned to de Cervillon. That night, he composed three letters-one to King Federico, one to His Holiness, and one to his wife-saying that he would rejoin Lucrezia as soon as the Pope gave him leave.
I went riding again the following morning-this time alone, intentionally slipping away from Donna Esmeralda and my servants and guards. I had a task to perform, and was in no mood for company.
I rode inland, away from the harbour and the smell of the sea, to where the land was dotted with foliage and orchards. I rode toward Vesuvio, the now-stilled volcano, dark and massive against the blue sky.
Twice, I took wrong turns; the landscape had changed over the years. But instinct eventually guided me back to the ramshackle cottage built into the hillside. There was no donkey braying now, but a silent mule, and even more chickens, wandering freely in and out of the open doorway.
I stood on the threshold and called: ‘Strega! Strega!’
There was no answer. I stepped inside, ducking my head at the low ceiling; sun streamed in through the unshuttered windows. I tried to ignore the spider webs in every corner, and the chickens perched atop the crude dining-table; chicken dung covered everything, including the straw mattress in the corner.
‘Strega!’ I called again, but all was silence; disappointed, I decided that she had probably died years ago.
I turned to leave; but before I did, instinct bade me try one last time. ‘Strega, please! A noblewoman has dire need of your services. I will pay handsomely!’
Someone stirred in the inner chamber built into the hillside. I drew my breath and waited until the Strega appeared.
She stood in the dark portal leading back to the cavern, still dressed entirely in black and veiled. In the streaming sunshine of the outer room, I could see she had grown gaunt. Her hair had gone silver, and though one eye remained amber, the other was opaque, milky white.
The woman regarded me with her good eye. ‘I have no need of your money, Madonna.’ She held an oil lamp in her hand; without further comment, she turned and retreated back into the chamber hewn from the cavern. I followed. Once again, we passed a feather bed-still clean and grandly appointed-and a large shrine to the Virgin, the altar covered in thorny roses.
She motioned, and I sat at the table covered in black silk. The Strega set the lamp down beside us.
‘Madonna Sancha,’ she said. ‘Long ago, you were told your fate. Has it come to pass?’
‘I do not know,’ I replied. I was dumbfounded by the fact that she recognized me-but I decided that she had probably never entertained a royal of the realm until the day I came to her. Certainly she would have remembered a visit by a princess as easily as I had remembered her.
‘And you have…concerns.’
‘Yes,’ I answered. I was terrified of returning to Rome, terrified of the fate that might await me and my brother there.
‘I will not read your palm,’ she said. ‘I learned all I could from it when I last took your hand.’
Instead, she silently produced her cards and fanned them out face down upon the black silk. She spoke not a word, merely gazed at me with her one good eye from behind her veil of gauze, the other, clouded eye staring at a point far beyond, at the future.
The cards had grown even more weathered and dirty. I took in a breath, held it, and tapped the back of the card farthest from me, as if by choosing it, I could somehow distance myself from what was to come.
The Strega held my gaze fast and turned the card over without looking at it.
It was a heart, pierced by a single sword.
I cringed at the keenness, the deadly length, of the blade.
She smiled faintly. ‘So. You have already fulfilled half your destiny. Only one weapon remains to be wielded now.’
‘No,’ I whispered, stricken. A vivid memory returned: the sensation of my hand upon the stiletto, as it tore into the throat of Ferrandino’s would-be assassin. I recalled the shudder of the handle as the narrow blade bit into bone and gristle, the warmth of the blood that rained down upon my brow and cheeks. If that deed had been the first part of my fate, what second horrific act was required of me?
Kindly, she caught my hands in hers; her grip was strong and warm. ‘Do not be afraid,’ she said. ‘You possess all that you need to accomplish your task. But you are torn. You must seek clarity of mind and heart.’
I pulled away from her. I rose and slapped a gold ducat on the table, which she stared at as though it were some odd curiosity; she made no move to touch it. Meantime, I swept out of the cottage without another word, and rode home at a furious gallop.
I was a fool that day; or perhaps my mind was simply overwhelmed by fear, but I remained outraged by the Strega’s suggestion that I was anything other than helpless in the hands of the Borgias. I retired to my bed early that night, but I spent hours staring up into the darkness, in the grip of a cold panic that would not ease.
I closed my eyes and saw the image of my own heart, red and beating, skewered now by a single sword. I saw myself stepping forward and hoisting the sword above my head, with a surge of pure hatred: hatred for Cesare Borgia.
‘No…’ I whispered, too softly for the sleeping Esmeralda and my other ladies to hear. ‘I cannot, must not, commit murder, or I will become as Ferrante, as my father…I will go mad. There must be another way.’
I had another reason to be reluctant to commit such a crime. What I had not wanted to admit to myself, even then, was that my heart still belonged to Cesare. I abhorred him fiercely…yet a part of me still cared for him and could do him no harm. Like my mother, I was cursed: I could not altogether stop loving the cruellest of men.
I lulled myself to sleep by telling myself lies: that Cesare had no cause to hurt me or my brother, that the Pope would abide by his agreement.
Autumn-Winter 1499
XXIX
In mid-September, I returned to Rome, and Alfonso rode on northward to Spoleto, where his now very-
