Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

‘It is merely a trade,’ Jofre said at last, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Cesare helped them in Milan; now they are helping him in the Romagna. But they have made it clear they no longer have any designs on Naples. Even if they did, Cesare would never permit it.’

‘Of course,’ I replied, not even trying to sound as though I believed a single word.

This dampened Jofre’s enthusiasm; our supper continued quietly, and we took care to speak of things other than politics.

By the time Alfonso and Lucrezia made their way back to Rome in mid-October, the bull had been promulgated-and Cesare moved into the Romagna with his army, which now included almost six thousand men given him by King Louis.

All of us in the household-Lucrezia and Alfonso, Jofre and I-were forced to listen every night at the supper table to Cesare’s most recent exploits. Unlike his predecessor, Juan, Cesare had a keen mind for strategy and was a brilliant commander, and Alexander was unceasingly vocal in his praise of his eldest son. He could scarcely contain his joy on those days when the news from the front was good, and could not contain his irritability and temper on those days when it was bad.

In the beginning, the word was good. The first ruler to fall was Caterina Sforza, a Frenchwoman, regent of Imola and Forli, and niece of the vanquished Ludovico. The city of Imola surrendered immediately without a struggle, overwhelmed by the size of Cesare’s army. Forli, where Caterina ensconced herself in the fortress, held out for three weeks. In the end, Cesare’s soldiers stormed over the walls; Caterina’s attempt at suicide failed, and she was taken prisoner.

His Holiness left out part of the tale of Caterina’s capture, the part that I learned from the lips of Donna Esmeralda.

‘She is a brave woman, the Countess of Forli, even though she is of French blood,’ Esmeralda proclaimed later that evening, when we two were alone in my bedchamber. ‘Braver by far than the bastard who captured her.’ Her lips thinned briefly at the thought of Cesare, then she returned to her tale. ‘Bravest in all the Romagna. When her husband was murdered by rebels, she led her own soldiers on horseback to the killers, and watched as every member of the group was slain.

‘And she is beautiful, with hair of gold and hands they say are soft as ermine. So courageous was she that, when Cesare and the French came, she stood on the city walls of Forli, undaunted by the smoke and the flames, and directed the defence herself. She tried to take her life before she could be captured-but Cesare’s men were too fast for her. She demanded to be turned over to King Louis…and the French soldiers so admired her, they wanted to set her free. But Don Cesare…’ She grimaced with disgust, and stared hard at me. ‘Did I not try to warn you, Madonna, that he would bring only evil? He is possessed by the Devil, that man.’

‘You did,’ I replied softly. ‘You were right, Esmeralda. Not a day passes that I do not wish I had heeded your words.’

Mollified, she continued her tale. ‘The swine wanted her for himself. She travels with him everywhere, Madonna. During the day, she is held prisoner, then at night, he has her brought to his tent. He treats her like a common whore, coercing her into the most depraved acts, forcing himself upon her whenever it pleases him. And she a woman of noble blood…They say that even King Louis is upset, and personally scolded Cesare for such despicable behaviour towards a female captive.’

I turned my face away, trying to hide from Esmeralda my fury and pain. Cesare had proven himself to be as brutal a soul as the brother he had murdered. I closed my eyes and recalled that horrible moment of helpless rage when Juan thrust himself inside me, and wished suddenly to weep for Caterina. Towards Cesare, I felt unspeakable contempt, and anger towards myself, that I should also feel stirrings of jealousy.

‘Pesaro is next,’ Esmeralda continued. ‘And there is no hope for its people, since that coward Giovanni Sforza abandoned them long ago. Cesare will take the city easily.’ She shook her head. ‘There is nothing to stop him, Donna. He and the French will march through all of Italy, until there is nothing left. I fear for the honour of every woman who lives in the Romagna.’

There was, however, one cause for happiness in our strained household: Lucrezia was due to give birth any moment, and both she and the child-who kicked vigorously in her belly-were robustly healthy. Alfonso and I clung to this solitary source of joy and hope, for a grandchild of both Borgia and Aragonese blood would predispose 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 here!’

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. ‘ He is here,’ the older woman announced proudly, as if she were somehow responsible for the fact herself. ‘You have a son, Madonna.’

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.