Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

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.

Alfonso , I thought fondly, little Alfonso . It was the custom to name sons after their fathers, and I carefully delivered the child into Lucrezia’s arms and waited for the pronouncement that would bring me such pride and delight.

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.

On the afternoon Cesare appeared, we women were, as happens when infants come, exhausted and resting. Lucrezia sat sleeping in her bed, propped up on pillows; I sat nearby in a cushioned chair, my chin dipped toward my chest, dozing. The wet nurse lay on the floor, snoring, and Rodrigo was silent in his cradle.

A very soft sound, that of cautious footfall, woke me-but even half-asleep, I recognized the owner of the step: Cesare. I did not lift my head or change the rhythm of my breathing, but instead peered through the veil of my eyelashes to study the man.

He still wore black-no longer a priest’s frock, but a tailored velvet suit that showed off his muscular form. During his time in battle, he had grown leaner and tanned; his beard was fuller, his black hair longer, falling straight onto his shoulders.

Thinking himself unseen, he stole catlike into the chamber and did not dissemble, but let his expression be frank, natural. I was astonished at its hardness, at the coldness in his eyes.

Stealthily, he moved over to the cradle, where the baby slept. Now , I thought, his face will soften; even a soldier, even a murderer, cannot look on that child and be unmoved .

He tilted his head to one side and studied the infant.

I had thought, when I first met Lucrezia, that I could never have seen a gaze more filled with jealousy and hatred; I was wrong.

In Cesare’s gaze was naught but pure murder. He leaned down, hands resting on his knees, over the little cradle, one lip twisted cruelly.

Fear seized me. I had no doubt that in the next instant, he would strangle the child, or press his hand tightly over its tiny nose and mouth. I bolted upright, hand upon my hidden stiletto, ready to draw it, and cried out:

‘Cesare!’

His nerves were so steely, his manner so smooth, that he did not stir, did not flinch; instead, his expression transformed itself instantly into one of affection and kindliness. He smiled down at the infant, as if he had always been doing so, then calmly, slowly turned his head towards me, and straightened.

‘Sancha! How good to see you! I was just admiring our new nephew. Amazing, how much he looks like Lucrezia when she was a baby.’

‘Cesare?’ Lucrezia stirred sleepily. At the sight of her brother, she came alive. ‘Cesare!’ she called out, with happy excitement. There was no reservation in her tone or expression, no sign of her hurt over Cesare’s snub.