Alexander more kindly towards Naples.
The time came on the last night of October. I was preparing for bed. My ladies had already removed my gown and headdress, and were brushing out my hair when a call came at the antechamber door. I recognized the voice at once as that of Donna Maria, Lucrezia’s head lady-in-waiting.
‘Donna Sancha! My mistress’s time has come, and she has asked for you!’
Esmeralda at once fetched a tabard for me; I fumbled into it and hurried off with Donna Maria.
In the Duchess of Bisciglie’s bedchamber, an empty cradle had already been filled with a cushion, awaiting the arrival of a new young noble.
In one corner of the room, an old, ornately-carved birthing chair which had been used by Rodrigo Borgia’s own mother had been brought in. There Lucrezia sat, her cheeks flushed, her brow glistening with sweat. A fire roared in the hearth, but she also wore a heavy robe to ward off the cold; it had been pulled up to the level of her hips, above the opening in the seat of the birthing chair, so that her femaleness was exposed for the midwife’s examination. A fur throw rested near her bare legs, so that she could cover herself either for comfort or modesty’s sake.
Beside her knelt the same midwife who had attended her a year earlier, during her miscarriage. The old woman was smiling; at the sight, I felt enormous relief.
As for Lucrezia, her eyes held some of the panic and fear experienced by all young mothers in labour; but there was a joy there, too-for this time, she knew, her suffering would bring about a happy ending.
‘Sancha!’ she gasped. ‘Sancha, you are soon to be an aunt!’
‘Lucrezia,’ I countered gaily, ‘you are soon to be a mother!’
‘Here!’ she called. She let go of her tenacious grip on the arms of the chair and held out her hands to me. Once again, I took them. This time, there was no guilt, no sorrow, only whispers of anticipation, of the wondrous end that was to come.
Her labour lasted well past midnight, into the hours before dawn. The labour pangs were intense, but not brutal; the midwife reported that the babe was well-placed, and that, since Lucrezia had had a successful delivery once before, its entry into this world would be easier.
Before the sun rose on the first day of November, Lucrezia let go a mighty shriek and bore down with all her might-and my brother’s only child came forth squalling, caught by the strong, weathered arms of the grinning midwife.
‘Lucrezia!’ I cried, as she gasped and bore down again, for the afterbirth was coming. ‘The child is here! It is
Her head lolled back against the chair with exhaustion; she gave a deep sigh, then smiled, while Donna Maria sent for the wet nurse.
And then the midwife, who was already bathing the child, corrected me. ‘
Lucrezia and I looked at each other and laughed aloud with delight.
‘Alfonso will be so proud,’ I said. In truth, I was as proud and filled with adoration for the child as if it had been my own, perhaps because I had long ago realized that I would never have one.
Once the infant was washed, the midwife swaddled it tightly in a soft woollen blanket. She lifted it, ready to present it to its mother, but I jealously intervened, snatching the child from her and cradling it in my arms.
Its features were still flattened from the trauma of birth, its little eyes squeezed tightly shut; on its scalp was a damp fringe of golden down. It certainly could have resembled no one so early in its life, but I looked down at its curled fists, laughed softly as it opened its tiny mouth in a yawn, and saw nothing but Alfonso. I had already convinced myself that the little heart beating within its chest would be just as kind and good.
A love washed over me, of an intensity I would have thought impossible-for at that instant, I realized I loved that infant more fiercely than my own life, more than even my own dear brother. For its sake, I would gladly have committed any act.
Lucrezia gazed down at her new son with beatific love and joy; there was no question that she would be the world’s most affectionate mother. With infinite contentment, she looked up at those of us surrounding her expectantly, and stated: ‘His name is Rodrigo, for his grandfather.’
And she immediately directed her full attention back to her child.
I was glad she did so, so that she could not see my indignant expression: she might as well have slapped my face. So it was that I learned my darling nephew’s own mother considered him more a member of the House of Borgia than of Aragon.
My brother was overjoyed, and took the news of the child’s name with a great deal more aplomb than I did. ‘Sancha,’ he told me privately, ‘it is not the case for every child that his grandfather is the Pope.’
The child’s birth seemed to restore Alfonso’s and my status completely: baby Rodrigo’s arrival was celebrated in a manner befitting a prince. Alexander doted on the infant completely, and described him to all visitors with the same enthusiasm and pride he had formerly reserved for Cesare’s exploits; he visited the child often, and cuddled him in his arms like an experienced father. There could be no doubt his affection was utterly genuine, and so he, Alfonso and I suddenly enjoyed lengthy conversations about the wonders of little Rodrigo. I began to feel safe in Rome again.
Only ten days after the baby’s birth the baptism was held, with great pomp and ceremony: Lucrezia was ensconced in the Palazzo Santa Maria, in a bed with red satin appointments, trimmed in gold, and greeted scores of prominent guests who filed past her bed to give their regards.
Afterwards, little Rodrigo-wrapped in gold brocade trimmed with ermine-was carried in the strong, dedicated arms of Captain Juan de Cervillon into the Sistine Chapel. I realized how deeply my brother had suffered in Naples: no doubt he had feared he would never be able to set his eyes upon his own child.
Now, thanks to de Cervillon, we were both able to witness the baptism, a beautiful and solemn ceremony. Following the captain in the procession were the Governor of Rome, the Imperial Governor, and the ambassadors from Spain and Naples; Alexander could have put on no greater show of support for the House of Aragon.
Baby Rodrigo behaved himself perfectly, remaining somnolent during the entire ceremony. The omens were all good: Alfonso and I were joyful, once again relaxed, and deeply relieved.
Relieved, that is, until the day Cesare Borgia left his army outside Pesaro’s walls and chose to return to Rome incognito, with the Borgia men’s favourite attendant, Don Morades, as his sole companion.
I did not set eyes on either him or his father for the space of two days after his arrival; they remained ensconced in a private chamber in the Vatican, discussing war strategy and politics. No one was trusted-even servants who had been with the Pope for years were dismissed from the room, lest they overhear a word of the discussion.
Lucrezia said nothing, but I know that Cesare’s failure to make so much as a perfunctory visit to her chamber or to acknowledge the birth of her child pained her as much as it relieved her. Despite their cruel misuse of her, she still seemed to love her brother and father, and yearned to please them. I suppose I understood; after all, as much as I had despised my own father, I had always secretly desired his love.
Since little Rodrigo’s birth, Alexander had seen the child daily, and invited us to family suppers where the child was the main topic of discussion. Now, we were shunned.
It was not until late on the third day of Cesare’s visit that he appeared.
Lucrezia was a doting mother. Rather than consign the child to the nursery in the care of the wet nurse, as most noble mothers did, she insisted on keeping the child’s crib in her bedchamber, where the nurse also slept. Perhaps she feared harm might come to the child if it remained out of her sight overlong-but at least part of the reason was pure affection. The child was, for her, like Alfonso: a creature that wanted nothing more than to love her, unlike the other men in her life.
I spent my days-and sometimes my nights-in Lucrezia’s chamber, holding little Rodrigo and helping tend to him, even though such was the business of servants.
