Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

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 flux have stopped, and he was able to take some broth this morning. At the party, he took his wine neat-Trebbia wine, very strong-but Cesare poured some of his out after I brought it to him, and mixed it with water. He is sick as well, too weak to leave his bed-but not so bad as Father. He begged me to sit with him. He will recover, I know it…I finally excused myself, saying that I had to rest.’ He reached out and clutched my arms suddenly for purchase as his knees buckled; I dropped the velvet cape in my hands and helped him over to the bed, where he sat.

He covered his face with cupped hands. ‘I have failed you, Sancha. Now we will have to poison ourselves…’

In the face of his weakness, I might have grown angered, but instead I felt unnaturally calm. A conviction as unreasoning and mysterious as faith gripped me; I knew beyond doubt that Jofre had helped me take the first steps towards fulfilling my destiny. It remained for me to complete it.

‘No,’ I proclaimed forcefully. ‘No harm will come to us. I require only a little more of your help. Tell me their situation. Are they guarded?’

Jofre shook his head. ‘The only guards remaining now circle the Vatican. The rest have fled, as have most of the servants…But if they hear that Father and Cesare are improving, they might return.’

‘Then we must work swiftly,’ I said. ‘Who is with them now?’

‘Don Micheletto Corella was sitting with Cesare…’ Jofre grimaced with hatred. ‘Not out of loyalty. He waits like a hawk, ready to strike the moment Alexander dies, or Cesare worsens…and then he will steal whatever treasure and power he can. Father is alone except for the chamberlain, Gasparre, who truly grieves.’

For an instant, I was perplexed. Destiny required that the fatal blow be delivered by my hand-but Jofre could hardly take me past the guards as a visitor to the Borgia apartments without arousing suspicion.

I stared beyond the unshuttered window, at the tiny, distant bodies moving out in Saint Peter’s square, at the dark waves of heat rising from the cobblestones. It was summer, the time of Carnival, and I found myself suddenly transported to another vineyard, another party, where I had sat between Juan and Cesare, and had been intrigued by the appearance of a costumed guest.

I moved over to the black velvet cape I had dropped on the floor, and lifted it from the marble. It was hooded; it would hide my hair. I turned to my husband.

‘I need a mask,’ I said. ‘One that will cover my face completely, and a courtesan’s gown. The gaudier, the better.’

Jofre stared, uncomprehending.

My tone grew impatient. ‘You know such women. You can find such things. Hurry; we have until the sun sets.’

The mask Jofre brought was beautiful: leather cut and tooled to resemble butterfly wings, bronzed along the edges, and painted deep purple and blue green. It covered but half my face, revealing my lips and chin, so my resourceful husband had found a matching fan made from peacock feathers. The satin gown was bright, dazzling scarlet, cut immodestly low-nothing I ever would have worn. I asked Esmeralda to take a bit of fabric from the hem and create a small pocket-‘as you did for my stiletto.’ She complied without question; nor did she say a word as she helped me into the courtesan’s gown, then watched me tie the mask in place, and cover myself with the black cape. Once I drew the hood over my hair, and spread open the peacock fan to hide my lips and chin, my disguise was complete. Only one thing remained: I slipped the vial containing the rest of the canterella into my gown.