Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

Instead, I paid my respects to His Holiness and most of the cardinals in the consistory, as well as all the nobles. Vannozza Cattanei was also there, to my surprise, for I had never before encountered her at any functions in the papal residence. We greeted each other warmly, as if we were old friends.

When the time was right, I took my leave of Alexander and hurried for the door, grateful that I had managed to make an escape without confronting the guest of honour. I signalled for Donna Esmeralda and my other ladies to attend me, and summon guards to escort us home through the crowded piazza.

But once I stepped out into the corridor, my wrist was grasped, gently but insistently. I glanced up to see Cesare, just as he gestured for Esmeralda and the others to give us a moment alone.

My heartbeat quickened. No longer did I thrill to the touch of his flesh against my own; now I felt only loathing-and concern that my overwhelmed emotions might cause me to lash out harshly, which would further imperil Alfonso and Naples.

Cesare led me further down the corridor, away from the noise and the guests. When he was certain we could not be heard, he said in his customary self-possessed tone, ‘Perhaps you realize now the life you have rejected.’ He eyed me carefully. ‘It is not too late for that to be changed.’

I gasped aloud; the sound ended in a short laugh of disbelief. ‘Are you propositioning me?’

Immediately, his voice and expression grew even more guarded. ‘And if I am…?’

I pulled my hand free from his grasp; my lips twisted so that I could give no reply. There might have been a time, before he murdered Juan, when I would have been overjoyed to know that he still possessed affection for me. Now I felt only disgust.

He made note of my reaction; when he spoke again, his tone was mocking. ‘But of course, you are still loyal to Jofre. I see that, like a good wife, you have ignored the fact that he has already left in the arms of a courtesan.’

I smiled coldly, refusing to respond to his barbs. ‘I hear you have come, more and more, to take after your brother Juan. No woman in the Romagna is safe from your unwanted affections-least of all Caterina Sforza.’

He gave a small, cruel grin. ‘Are you jealous, Madonna?’

A part of me was, indeed-yet the greater part of me knew only revulsion. I could not hold my tongue. ‘Jealous, Captain-General? Of the pox you have tried to hide beneath your beard? Of the souvenir the French whores have bestowed on you? I am sure your new wife will be delighted when she learns you have brought her a gift from your travels.’

For I was close enough to notice the scars and fresh red sores upon his cheeks. We Neapolitans called it ‘the French curse’ the French tried, naturally, to blame it on the prostitutes they had encountered in Naples. I took small comfort in knowing the disease would shorten his life; in later years, it might well drive him to madness.

Anger sparked in his eyes; I had managed to land a successful blow. I turned away, satisfied, and headed back towards my ladies.

From behind me came soft, but in no way tender, words: ‘I had to try one last time, Madonna. Now I know where I stand; now I know what course to take.’

I did not bother to respond.

Miraculously, we moved safely from spring into summer without incident; King Louis made no move towards Naples, and life within the Borgia household was uneventful.

Using the pressing concerns of the army and political affairs as his excuse, Cesare absented himself from all our suppers with the Pope. I did not speak to him again after that first evening he returned, and scarcely saw him, save in passing; the looks we exchanged were cold. Donna Esmeralda relayed that when he was not with his father or French representatives, hatching plots, Cesare spent his nights with courtesans or the much-abused Caterina Sforza, smuggling her from her cell at the Castel Sant’Angelo to his quarters. Her guards said that she was beautiful, Esmeralda whispered, with hair paler than straw, and skin so milky it glowed at night like opals. She had been plump before her capture, but Cesare’s abuse had left her drawn and thin.

I never saw the woman myself, but there were times when I thought I sensed her sorrowful, outraged presence in the same corridors I had once wandered on my way to Cesare’s private chambers. I felt some jealousy towards her, true; but my overriding emotion was one of kinship. I knew what it was to be violated, helpless, bitter.

Nor did Cesare make any pretence, in public or private, of showing Alfonso or the baby any regard. Yet for all of Cesare’s contempt for the House of Aragon, His Holiness continued to show us great warmth personally, and took care to give Alfonso a prominent place in all ceremonies. I believed that Alexander, in his heart, truly supported Naples and Spain, and detested the French, despite his apparent joy at his eldest son’s marriage to Charlotte d’Albret. But I remembered too, how Lucrezia, pregnant with her brother’s child, had wept with horror as she confessed how even the Pope feared Cesare. The question was whether His Holiness had the strength of will to continue in his averred role as Naples’ champion.

In early summer, Alexander fell victim to a mild attack of apoplexy, which left him weak and abed for several days.

For the first time, I considered the fates of those of us who remained after Rodrigo Borgia perished. All depended on whether Cesare had the chance to establish himself firmly as Italy’s secular ruler first. If he did, then Alfonso and I would be banished at the least, murdered at worst; if not, then all depended on who emerged from the consistory of cardinals as the new pope. If he was sympathetic to Naples and Spain-and all indications were that he would be-then Alfonso could retire with Lucrezia to Naples without fear, while Jofre and I could return to the principality of Squillace. This latter scenario seemed far more desirable than our current circumstances.

And Cesare would find himself persona non grata in Italy. He would have to rely on King Louis’ graciousness in allowing him to return to his long-suffering bride.

I confess, I found myself addressing God for the first time in years during the week of the Pope’s illness; my prayers that week were dark and tainted.

Please, if this will save Alfonso and the baby, then take His Holiness now .

Alexander, of course, recovered quite handily.

God had disappointed me once again; but He soon spoke out vehemently, in an unexpected fashion.

On the next-to-last day of June-Saint Peter’s day, commemorating the Church’s first pope-Alexander invited all of us, including his little namesake Rodrigo, to visit him in his apartments.

It was an unusually warm day, and the sky had filled with fast-sailing black clouds that swiftly blotted out all trace of blue. The wind began to gust. As we-Lucrezia, Alfonso, Jofre and I-walked with our attendants from the palazzo toward the Vatican, a sudden cool rush of air caused the skin on my arms and neck to prick; with it came a loud clap of thunder.

Little Rodrigo-then eight months old, of good size and strength-wailed in terror at the sound, and struggled so vigorously in his nurse’s arms that Alfonso took him. We hurried our pace, but did not manage to escape the downpour; a cold, sharp rain, complete with stinging hailstones, began to pelt us as we hastened up the Vatican steps. Alfonso tucked the baby’s head beneath his arms and crouched, protecting his son as best he could.

Wet and dishevelled, we passed the guards and made it through the great doors into the shelter of the entrance hall. As Alfonso held his whimpering child, Lucrezia and I both fussed over the baby, using our sleeves and hems of our gowns to dry him.