The Borgia Bride

and withdraw a box. Within rested the jewels from my suite in the Palazzo Santa Maria, as well as the vial of canterella. I had previously emptied a tiny container of clear glass which had held precious Turkish attar of roses, a gift Jofre had given me years ago.

I took a single ruby and the two vials, then returned the box to its hiding place, soundlessly shut the armoire doors, and retreated. Throughout the entire transaction, Donna Esmeralda never glanced up.

Out in the antechamber, Jofre was pacing. He had already poured himself more wine and had drunk most of it.

‘You will have to contain yourself better,’ I chided, ‘if we are to succeed.’

‘I will, I will,’ he promised, then threw his head back and finished off the contents of his goblet.

I eyed him uncertainly, but said nothing. Instead, I handed him the ruby. ‘In case a bribe is required.’

Then I went over to the oil lamp and held both the emerald and clear vials up to the flame.

At the proper time, the strega had said. I was never more convinced that this was finally the moment.

The green glass glittered with reflected flame. I thought of sunlight dancing off the waters of the Bay of Naples; I thought of freedom.

Inside, the powder was dull, silvery blue. Beautiful, beautiful canterella, I addressed it silently. Canterella, rescue me…

I thought of the moment I had killed the young soldier who had threatened Ferrandino’s life. I had felt no guilt then; I felt no guilt now-only a cold, hard joy.

Keeping my hands steady, I unstoppered first the empty vial…then, with exquisite care, the one containing the poison. Jofre peered over my shoulder, his breath coming in short, nervous gasps, and craned forward.

‘Stand back,’ I warned. ‘If I spill it, I do not know whether it will kill if inhaled.’

He obeyed, watching silently as I poured the powder from the larger container into the smaller. Only a few grains, Lucrezia had said; I never asked how she had acquired such experience. I gave Jofre hundreds, thousands-a third of the vial, enough to decimate the papal army.

I sealed both vials then, and handed him the smaller-half clear now, half greyish blue. He pocketed it in an invisible hiding place in his tunic.

‘Why not give me all of it?’ His voice held a trace of wounded petulance.

‘Because if we are discovered,’ I replied evenly, ‘we will need some for ourselves.’

He blanched at that, but recovered himself and nodded.

I slid the emerald vial into the hiding place beneath my bodice. ‘In the meantime, I shall keep this on my person, at all times, so that if we are captured…’

He nodded again, this time emphatically, to indicate I need not finish the thought.

We both turned to stare out at the balcony, where supper beckoned.

‘I haven’t the stomach for it,’ Jofre said.

‘Nor have I. I’ll call for the servants to take it away.’

He turned to go; I caught his hand and said, ‘I have little faith in God. But I will pray for you.’

He smiled faintly at that, then of a sudden seized and kissed me. It was not the requisite, habitual kiss of a husband long married to his wife, but that of a young man for the woman he passionately loved.

I drew back, overwhelmed, still in his arms; in his eyes, his face, I saw the shy, apologetic young boy of our wedding night.

‘I am sorry to have disappointed you, Sancha,’ he whispered. ‘I will do so no more.’

In that way, we parted. I kept my promise; I prayed for him throughout that sleepless night, with my hand pressed to my heart.

The following day-that of Cesare’s luncheon-passed with torturous slowness. I did not hear from Jofre that night; I had not expected to, for the canterella needed time to do its work.

But on the second evening, when Jofre failed to appear and give his report, I began to grow distraught. By the third evening, I was shaken. Had he betrayed me? Had he been detected, and captured?

I sat up the entire night in my antechamber, contemplating whether to make use of the green glass vial clenched in my fist.

In the hour before dawn, exhaustion finally overcame me. I staggered off to bed and dozed restlessly.

I woke in my bed to the most improbable sight: at first, I thought I was dreaming. Beside me, Donna Esmeralda lay motionless; Rodrigo slept quietly in his crib.

Leaning over me stood Dorotea de la Crema and Caterina Sforza, both in their nightgowns.

I blinked, but neither apparition disappeared.

‘The Pope has been poisoned,’ Dorotea hissed. ‘Cesare, too.’

I sat up grinning, revived by a wave of jubilation. ‘Are they dead?’

‘No,’ Caterina said; her pale face was radiant with joy. My heart almost stopped as she uttered that solitary word; she continued, ‘But they are most seriously ill, and fearful of further attacks. Our guards have left.’

‘Giacomo is gone?’ I calmed myself. Rumour said the canterella sometimes took days to do its work. If the guards had left, this was an excellent sign that they did not expect His Holiness to survive.

‘Gone,’ Dorotea gloated.

I hurried to my closet and slipped on a tabard.

‘They attended a party,’ Dorotea said happily. ‘The following evening, Alexander was stricken by a fever. No one thought anything of it-it is, after all, the hottest part of the summer, with everyone suffering from such illnesses-but then, yesterday morning, he showed all the symptoms of the canterella. And Cesare is sick, too. My guard said it was poisoned jam. But no one else at the party has fallen ill yet. It’s possible the poisoning didn’t even occur there.’

‘Come look,’ Caterina urged, gleeful as a child, and clasped my hand. She led me downstairs to the loggia-the building deserted, without a jailer in sight-and we looked across the piazza and down the street, at the Vatican.

The gates were closed, barred by a row of armed soldiers.

Caterina leaned so far forward over the balcony’s edge that I feared she would fall, and caught her arm. She brushed me away impatiently. ‘Let me be.’

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded, and she, with the sweetest, purest smile I have ever seen, replied:

‘Listening for the bells.’

The following midday, as Donna Esmeralda tended Rodrigo while I packed my things in the bedchamber-trying to soothe myself through this hopeful act-Jofre appeared in the doorway. His shoulders were bowed by an invisible weight, his face haggard. He bore no good tidings; my grip on the folded velvet cape in my hands, which I had been about to place in my trunk, tightened.

‘Donna Esmeralda,’ he said. ‘I need a word with my wife, alone.’ His words sounded thick as a drunkard’s-but it was not wine that slurred his words, but fear. His mouth was so dry, his tongue cleaved to his palate and teeth.

She nodded and took little Rodrigo’s hand. As she moved by us, she cast a glance my way. She was no fool, my old nurse: on her round, wrinkled face was an expression of perfect understanding. She had no doubt noted Jofre’s anxiety and my restlessness, and related them to the poisonings at the Vatican.

Her shrewd gaze held not reproach, but approval.

As soon as she had left with the child, I stepped up to Jofre and ran my hands over his shoulders, down his arms. His tunic was damp; he trembled faintly. His brown eyes were red from lack of sleep and slightly wild; upon his moustache, drops of sweat glistened.

‘Speak, husband.’

Distractedly, he ran his fingers through his curls. ‘They are not dead. I fear they are getting better.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nerves,’ he replied, so ashamed he could not look at me. ‘I-I spilled the powder. Almost all of it. I took the glasses of wine behind a tree, but I could not manage them and the vial… Only a trace was left.’

‘How sick are they now?’ My questions were terse, urgent; there was no time to comfort him.

‘Father is worst off. Sometimes he doesn’t know where he is, or who is with him. But the retching, the bloody