The Borgia Bride

conversations with Alfonso, my father, and most of all, with the deceitful strega.

The heart pierced by one sword: this was what I possessed now, but my efforts to wield it against Cesare had failed. I felt that sword within me as one feels a thorn; it pricked and rankled me. ‘Why was I not permitted to kill him?’ I asked the strega, and the only answer I received, again and again, was:

At the proper time…

At night-despite the doctor’s potion-I dreamed: nightmares of Alfonso’s white, slashed body being carried away from me by laughing soldiers.

Months passed. The miserable summer turned from autumn to winter. Jofre sent over some of my finest gowns for me to choose from, and I attended Christmas Mass with him at Saint Peter’s, as if I were not a prisoner of the House of Borgia. I passed both the Pope and Cesare, though neither met my challenging gaze or acknowledged my presence. After the Mass, I was not invited to the family dinner, which Jofre was obliged to attend, but banished back to my apartment at the Castel Sant’Angelo.

It was as though I were neither living nor dead, but in a sort of purgatory: as a member of the House of Aragon, I was considered too dangerous to live among the Borgias and be privy to their secrets; at the same time, being the wife of Jofre, who knew so few of those secrets, I was not deemed enough of a threat to kill.

Spring came. I lived numbly, without meaning, the boredom of my days broken only by my conversations with the dead and visits from my husband. Jofre tried his best to lift my spirits, but the moments without the distraction of his presence were dark indeed.

I continued to walk the gardens for hours at a time, trying to exhaust myself so that sleep would come more easily and with it, oblivion. One afternoon, walking along a gravel path flanked by a hedge of roses in full, fragrant bloom, I spied another noblewoman walking towards me, followed at a respectful distance by a guard.

I thought to turn and run. I was in no mood for company or light-hearted chatter; but before I could make my escape, the woman neared and greeted me with a nod and a beckoning smile. She turned to her guard and called, ‘We will walk together a little way.’

Her young soldier nodded and mine seemed not to care; the two men apparently knew each other and were content to walk behind us, conversing quietly.

The woman bowed. She was perhaps twenty-five years of age, with lustrous black hair and the classic, handsome face of an ancient Roman statue. ‘I am the Countess Dorotea de la Crema.’

‘I am the madwoman Sancha of Aragon,’ I said.

She was not at all shocked; her smile filled with irony. ‘We are all Cesare’s madwomen here. I, too, am one of his prisoners.’ Her voice softened with sadness. ‘When he marched his army between Cervia and Ravenna, he killed my husband and seized our estate.’ She fixed her great dark eyes on me. ‘It is said you were his lover.’

After living so many years in the Borgia household, I appreciated her bluntness. ‘I was at one time,’ I answered. ‘But I could not love a man who proved to be a murderer. I despise him now with my entire soul.’

She nodded, approving. ‘Then we have something in common. After he killed my husband, he took me as his prisoner. Like Caterina Sforza, who is also here, he treated me lavishly, but each night, he raped me. I think, had I been willing, it would not have pleased him as much.’ She looked away, at the muddy Tiber. ‘Now that I am here, he has grown bored with me and leaves me alone, for which I am grateful. But until he is defeated-or until the Pope dies-I am trapped here.’

‘So it is for me,’ I said gently. ‘I am sorry for your husband.’

‘And I for your brother,’ she said. Apparently, Dorotea was privy to all the news concerning me.

We walked quite a distance that first day; over the weeks that passed, we began to confide more in each other. Like me, Donna Dorotea was outspoken, driven to the edge of sanity by the crimes committed against her, and no longer interested in her fate. We spoke openly about the Borgias’ crimes, and our lives. It was a relief to unburden myself of terrible secrets-and amusing to discover Dorotea already knew almost everything that I revealed.

In her, I found a respite from my solitary madness during the days; but away from her company, especially at night, the spectres returned: the mummified Robert, Alfonso, my father, the enigmatic strega. Each day, I struggled to find the strength to face the canterella; each night, I found it lacking.

During this time I received a letter from Lucrezia at Nepi. The wax seal had been broken; I sat in my antechamber for a long time with the letter in my lap, trying to decide whether to feed it to the flame of a nearby taper.

At last I unfolded it and read:

Dearest Sancha,

First, I must beg forgiveness for being a dreadful correspondent and not writing to you earlier; I confess, in the first dark days here, I had not the heart to pick up a quill. But time has had a slight healing effect, and I wanted to tell you, as soon as I was able, how terribly I have missed your company. Without your loyal friendship and good heart, the days are long and lonely.

Little Rodrigo misses you, too; he asks constantly for his Tia Sancha. You would not recognize him: he has grown so! Each day he comes to resemble his father more and more.

There is little news to tell: the days are all the same, and blur together. But I must report that, not long after my arrival, Cesare and his army came and made camp here one night. I was obliged to entertain him, and the more outstanding members of his company.

He travels now with the artist and inventor, Leonardo da Vinci. Don Leonardo came to supper that night. He is a kindly old man, eccentric-looking, with a crooked nose, large, startling eyes, and long white hair and beard which are both unkempt. Despite his age, his mind is exceptionally keen. Cesare says he is an engineering genius, and has proven of great use in terms of using explosives for the demolition of bridges. I only know that he was very gentle and possessed of a fine sense of humour. While we sat at dinner, he called for parchment, and produced a quill and ink which he keeps on his person at all times; while Cesare spoke at length about the military campaign, Don Leonardo proceeded to draw. Rodrigo appeared, and showed quite an interest: I was about to take the child back to the nursery and chide him for bothering a guest, but Don Leonardo was very sweet, and let Rodrigo sit on his knee and watch while he made his sketch.

Back to Cesare, and his campaign. I must mention here another member of his company, a certain Niccolo Machiavelli-a tight-lipped, unpleasant man-who scarcely touched his supper because he was recording furiously in a diary while my brother spoke, as though Cesare’s words were pearls.

My brother told me he took the properties surrounding Bologna and Florence easily; the great cities signed over fortresses and estates out of fear of his army, since it has been strengthened by a gift of ten thousand men from King Louis. Cesare now says he is invincible, and can march through Italy and seize whatever lands he wishes.

Once my brother was done speaking, at the end of the supper, Don Leonardo presented me with a completed sketch. I was very flattered, for it was a rendering of me as I had appeared at the table; yet I was surprised to see how very sad my own expression was, for I had been making an effort to seem bright and lively for my guests.

Beneath my portrait, Don Leonardo had written a line from the poet Sannazaro:

Per pianto la mia carne si distilla.

My flesh melts away with my tears.

He is very wise, Don Leonardo. He sees through outward appearances to the very soul of the person, and has the magical talent of conveying what is in a heart using mere parchment and ink. There are many other things I could tell you, but a letter is not the best means for conveying what I wish to say. I shall have to wait until I can see you again in person.

I pray for you each night, sister, and think of you with great fondness. Never did I find a better or more trustworthy friend. May God keep you well.

Affectionately,

Lucrezia

I folded the letter back up and put it for safekeeping inside my little copy of Petrarch. I understood that Lucrezia could not fully share her thoughts with me; I understood her allusions to her great sorrow, her hints that she was overwhelmed by guilt, her statement that she was ‘obliged’ to entertain her brother-which meant she had done so