Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

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.

Choose, Sancha. Choose your fate .

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.

In mid-September, I returned to Rome, and Alfonso rode on northward to Spoleto, where his now very-pregnant Lucrezia awaited him. They spent a full month there, and I cannot blame them; they had a freedom and safety that they could not enjoy in Rome.

As soon as I had freshened up from my long journey, Jofre arrived, beaming, at my chamber. ‘Sancha! Each time I set eyes on you, I realize I have forgotten how beautiful you are!’

I smiled at him, grateful for his warm, loving welcome under such awkward circumstances, and embraced him. ‘I have missed you, husband.’

‘And I you-terribly. There is so much news to speak of, but we will save it for supper. Come, let me take you to Father and Cesare. I know they will be eager to see you.’

I smiled kindly and did not share with him my doubt.

He led me proudly on his arm, oblivious to the strained political situation my very person represented. As I walked with him from the Palazzo Santa Maria through Saint Peter’s Square, I realized I had missed the scope and grandeur of Rome. It was dusk, and the fading sunlight painted the white marble of the papal palace and Saint Peter’s a glowing pink; surrounding the great buildings were the glorious gardens, still in bloom. Even the broad curves of the winding Tiber, gleaming quicksilver, held a certain charm.

I clung tightly to Jofre’s arm as we entered the papal palace and its profusion of gilt and eye-dazzling paintings. This time, when I entered Pope Alexander’s throne room and bent to kiss his satin-slippered foot by way of greeting, I was received with far less enthusiasm than I had been upon my first arrival in Rome. Cesare, standing beside his father dressed in the uniform of the Captain-General, watched the gesture with hawk-like intensity.

‘Welcome, my dear,’ Alexander said, with a forced little smile. ‘I trust your journey was an uneventful one. Forgive us if we cannot sup with you tonight; Cesare and I have much strategy to discuss. Jofre can share with you all the affairs of the family.’

He dismissed me with a little flick of his fingers. As I turned from him, Cesare stepped forward, took my hands, and planted a formal kiss upon my cheek. As he did so, he breathed into my ear: ‘You will learn from him that you made a mistake in rejecting my proposal, Madonna. Time will serve to underscore your foolishness.’

I showed no reaction, only smiled cursorily at him, and he back at me.

At supper, which I took with Jofre in his chambers, my husband was brimming with news, and spoke so excitedly and at such length that he scarcely touched his food.

‘Father and Cesare are making plans,’ he announced proudly. ‘It is all secret, of course. Cesare will lead our army into the Romagna. It is a good move not only for the papacy, but for the House of Borgia…’ He leaned forward across the table and whispered conspiratorially, The entire Romagna is to be made a duchy for Cesare. Father has issued a bull to those rulers who have failed to tithe regularly-almost all of them. Either they surrender their lands to the Church…or face its army.’

I set down my goblet, suddenly unable to eat or drink. Memory transported me back to the moment I lay naked on Cesare’s bed and watched him gesture sweepingly at an imaginary map on the ceiling, at the great area that lay northeast of Rome. ‘Imola,’ I said suddenly. ‘Faenza, Forli, Cesena.’

Jofre shot me a curious little glance. ‘Yes,’ he affirmed. ‘And Pesaro-especially since its lord, Giovanna Sforza, made such vile accusations against Lucrezia and Father during the divorce.’

‘They will all fall easily to Cesare and his army, no doubt,’ I said. My eyes narrowed slyly. ‘Especially now that King Louis has supplied him with troops.’

My husband swallowed his wine too suddenly, which provoked a fit of coughing. I watched in silence. I had come to rely on Donna Esmeralda and her network of servant-spies for a great deal of information; from her, I had recently gleaned a most unpleasant truth: Cesare had been planning, ever since his marriage to Charlotte d’Albret, to trade his military services in Milan for French help in achieving his long-dreamed-of conquest of Italy. He had said, on the night he traced the map on the ceiling, that all he needed to fulfil his goal was an army strong enough to defeat France; perhaps he had realized that such an army would never materialize, for he had turned to the enemy itself for help.