Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (41 page)

He moved against me and I welcomed him, for in the back of my mind was the thought that if Morozzi succeeded, I was unlikely ever to enjoy such pleasure again. Or anything else, for that matter.

When next I woke, sunlight was pouring through my windows and Cesare was gone. I had just enough time to wash and dress before Vittoro arrived to inform me that Il Cardinale required my presence.

In the final hours before the beginning of the conclave, the palazzo swarmed with activity. Men-at-arms were everywhere, servants hurried to and fro, and a veritable plague of clerks and secretaries seemed to have descended on us. All this was predictable enough but still startling. I was almost glad to reach the relative quiet of Borgia’s offices.

He was busy when I arrived but I did not have long to wait before being ushered into his presence. Considering that he could not have had very much rest for days, he appeared remarkably robust. Crises always seemed to energize him, which was fortunate as there were so many throughout his life. When he saw me, he smiled and waved a hand, dismissing his secretaries, who went off with sullen glances in my direction.

“Francesca, you look very well. I must say that is a relief given what I had heard. You weren’t injured then?”

It did not surprise me that he knew all that had happened in the basilica. Cesare would have reported to him directly while I was occupied with preparations for the conclave. I could only hope that Il Cardinale recognized the threat that Morozzi still presented.

I took the seat he indicated. “Not at all, Eminence, but thank you for your concern.”

Borgia took his own chair and stared at me across the span of his desk. His scrutiny unnerved me but I hope I managed not to show it.

“Yes, well,” he said. “Morozzi has certainly proven himself to be resourceful.”

So did he acknowledge the plan to crucify a child and raise an enraged mob to destroy both Borgia and the Jews.

“And I fear he will continue to do so,” I said. “You have heard the rumor that he will be in the conclave?”

I thought there little chance that I knew something Borgia did not and I was not disappointed. He nodded but appeared unperturbed.

“So I understand. He still has your locket and the lozenge, does he not?”

The reminder of my folly in allowing Morozzi to gain such an advantage still rankled. “We must assume that is the case.”

“What then do you propose we do?”

“Everything that we possibly can to safeguard you, Eminence. But with Morozzi actually inside the conclave, I fear the precautions I have taken on your behalf will not be enough. He is, as you say, very resourceful. If he finds a way to substitute any item of food or drink intended for you—”

“Then we would have quite a problem, would we not?”

“Yes, Eminence,” I said, and took a breath, ready to launch into the speech I had prepared to convince Il Cardinale to commit an act of such audacity that even he might balk.

“I see only one solution,” Borgia declared.

I balked at cutting my hair. For all my relief that Borgia and I had turned out to be of the same mind on the matter of who should accompany him into the conclave, I drew the line there.

“I will braid it tightly and wind it around my head. So long as I keep a hat on, no one will be the wiser.”

“Are you going to sleep in a hat?” Borgia inquired as I emerged
from behind the screen where I had donned the mulberry red and gold livery worn by pages and other male servants in Il Cardinale’s household. The sight of me seemed to amuse him.

“Why so uncomfortable, Francesca? This is hardly the first time you have worn boys’ clothes.”

That he knew about my sometime habit of wearing male garb did not surprise me. I had already suspected that the notion of smuggling me into the conclave had not sprung out of empty air, but I still felt compelled to warn him.

“You do realize that Morozzi intends to kill you in such a way that I will be blamed for your murder? My presence in the conclave will make it all the easier for him to convince people of that and in the process, shield della Rovere.”

“All the more reason that he not succeed.”

In the acknowledgment that our fates were well and truly intertwined, Borgia reached across his desk and poured wine for us both.

“Be of good cheer, Francesca,” he said, handing me a goblet. “You are about to witness the awesome spectacle of God making his will known to the princes of his church. While it may appear less than edifying, I assure you that you will never forget it.”

I muttered something to the effect that I would be pleasantly surprised if I lived to remember it at all before I threw back the wine and drank deeply. My stomach was empty; the wine hit it hard, but after a moment it surrendered.

As did I to whatever God intended for me.

Shortly after the sun rose on a new day, I—a mere woman, albeit in boys’ garb—walked in the procession of prelates and attendants across the piazza in front of Saint Peter’s into the Apostolic Palace and from there to the Sistine Chapel. The sweet, high voices of the
cantoretti
sang us on our way. The sun shone in brilliance as thousands
gathered to applaud our passage amid prayers that the Almighty’s will would be done.

Kneeling on the stone floor of the chapel, looked down upon by Moses, Jesus, the Apostles, and the Saints, I listened as the Mass of the Holy Spirit was celebrated. In his position as vice chancellor and dean of the College of Cardinals, Borgia should have led the Mass, but it was della Rovere who mounted the altar in red vestments. I was not alone in being taken aback. Several people near me exchanged startled glances and whispered comments. Did this disregard of protocol signal capitulation on Borgia’s part? Was he acknowledging that his rival was preeminent among the cardinals? Or was it a clever step on his part, a show of diplomacy and willingness to compromise that demonstrated his fitness to be pope?

In the face of all that, very little attention was paid to the service itself until we all rose to receive communion. I took that opportunity to glance around quickly on the chance that I might see Morozzi, but there was no sign of him. The effort distracted me a little from the usual difficulties I have at such moments.

I managed the body of our Lord well enough and avoided all but a drop of the wine changed through the miracle of transubstantiation into our Savior’s blood. Even so, my hands were clammy by the time I returned to my place and knelt once again. I was desperately worried that one of what I had come to think of as my “spells” might descend upon me but, mercy of God, none did.

The whispers were still going on when the Mass ended and the oration began. Tradition dictated that this be an address regarding the awesome responsibility entailed in the election of a new pope. Authority to select the speaker having rested with Borgia, necks craned to see whom he had chosen to honor. At the sight of Il Cardinale’s fellow
countryman, the Spanish ambassador, rising to mount the dais, a stir rippled through the crowd.

The ambassador did not disappoint. In the most forthright terms, he admonished the cardinals to put aside all personal considerations whether of ambition, personal rivalry, or ill will, and elect the man best suited by temperament and skill to lead Holy Mother Church. As it was well known that della Rovere’s opposition to Borgia was entirely personal, there could be no doubt to whom the ambassador directed his exhortations.

At long last, it was over and we were allowed to rise for the singing of the Te Deum. As the prayer of thanksgiving ended, all those who would not be remaining within the conclave exited. The sound of the heavy wooden doors being slammed shut still reverberated around the chamber when we heard the clang of chains securing them.

We were sealed in—twenty-three cardinals, almost seventy attendants, one madman bent on murder, and myself.

So we would remain until God’s will was done.

After the grandeur of the opening ceremony, the remainder of the first day of the conclave was devoted to the minutiae of an agreement limiting how many cardinals the new pope would be able to name over the course of his reign. This was exactly as tedious as it sounds. I paid very little attention to it.

Instead, I was occupied settling into our quarters. It has been given out that a dormitory of sorts was rigged up to accommodate the cardinals in Spartan circumstances during their deliberations. This is not strictly speaking true, at least not by my standards as to what constitutes Spartan.

As Vittoro and I had seen on our visit to the Sistine Chapel, a large adjacent hall had been converted into private apartments. Each comprised three rooms, the first providing the only access in or out of the apartment through a door that could be bolted. Here the attendants would sleep. Beyond was a larger and more gracious chamber
in which the cardinal could eat, sleep, pray—should he be so inclined—and, most important, conduct private conversations. A third, much smaller chamber connected to the two principle rooms and was intended to aid the discreet flow of visitors. I claimed it for my own.

I was inclined to do so under any circumstances but my need was heightened by the fact that within hours of being sealed in the conclave, I discovered that my dalliances with Cesare had not borne fruit. Fortunately, I had had the foresight to plan for that contingency and was well provided with the necessary cloths, but as I have resolved to be entirely truthful here, I will say that the inevitable discomfort did nothing to improve my mood.

Despite my constant concern as to Morozzi’s whereabouts and intentions, far more mundane matters could not be ignored. Borgia was expected to be in meetings for most of the day, but eventually he would retire and then he would have to eat. Simple food of the kind designed to make a display of humility was being provided to the conclave from the Vatican kitchens—bread, a bit of fish, a lentil potage, all passed through a slot in an otherwise secured door. The few cardinals known for their sanctity, and with no reason to fear poisoning, would make do with that. The rest had, like Borgia, provided for themselves.

While I have very few domestic skills I can, when pressed, put a meal on the table. Learning how to poison food may not be the most orthodox means of learning how to prepare it, but in my case it served well enough. Besides, it was suitable occupation for a page and would draw no scrutiny.

Facilities were limited—I had only a small brazier to cook over—but I contrived what I thought was a decent enough lamb stew. I was tasting it and adjusting the seasonings when Borgia arrived.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He looked tired but satisfied, from which I concluded things were going well. His secretaries hovered behind him. I was certain that they knew who I was but, sensibly, kept their knowledge to themselves.

“Making sure that I haven’t poisoned you.”

He raised a brow. “Are you inclined to do so?”

“Not at the moment.” Hardly a politic answer, but my nerves were on edge. I was about to taste food that I was reasonably certain was safe in an effort to discover if I was wrong. Such circumstances do not make for good humor.

I will note in passing that while there may be poisoners who slough off the responsibility for tasting onto hapless servants, that is not the common practice. It is a matter of professional pride, and a show of professional confidence, to do one’s own tasting. A wealthy patron, entrusting his and his family’s life to the skills of a poisoner, will not long tolerate one who shows any hesitation in this matter.

I ladled a small amount of the stew into a bowl and began eating where I stood.

“How is it?” Borgia inquired after a few moments.

“Not bad. The meat is a little tough but it’s edible.”

More to the point, I felt fine. No burning of the mouth or throat, no sudden convulsion of the stomach, nothing to indicate there had been anything untoward in the ingredients I had used. I relaxed a little and even managed a slight smile.

Borgia said nothing about my willingness to die, if need be, to protect him, nor did I expect him to. He went on into his own quarters and, a short while later, called for his dinner. I brought it to him and, at his invitation, lingered as he ate.

“It’s not bad,” he said after he had taken several bites. “Clearly, we won’t starve.”

I inclined my head in thanks and refilled his goblet. “Just make sure that you don’t eat or drink anything outside these rooms. If Morozzi really is here, he will contrive to poison you as far from della Rovere’s quarters as possible. That being the case—”

“He is here,” Borgia interjected. At my startled look, he added, “I caught a glimpse of him several hours ago and I don’t think that was accidental. I believe he means for me to know that he is near.”

“To distract you and perhaps even frighten you?”

Il Cardinale snorted and took another swallow of his wine. “If that is what he intends, he will be disappointed. It takes a great deal more to frighten me than a pretty priest mad with self-glory.”

The description amused me enough that I almost smiled but, schooling myself to seriousness, said instead, “I pray you, Eminence, do not underestimate him. I have made that mistake and sorely regret it.”

He looked at me shrewdly over the rim of his goblet. “You blame yourself for what happened at the basilica.”

“How could I not?” I did not add that Rocco blamed me as well and that I deserved his condemnation.

“If you hadn’t reasoned your way through to see Morozzi’s plan, the boy would have died and we would all be dealing with chaos right now.”

“If I had seen more reasonably in the beginning, the boy would never have been in danger to start with and Morozzi would have ceased to be a threat before now.”

Borgia scraped up the last of his stew and leaned back in his chair. It was warm in the room despite the thick stone walls that kept much of the summer’s heat at bay. The air scarcely moved. A drop of sweat crept down my back.

“So far as I can see,” he said, “the only real mistake you made was
in not telling me when Morozzi approached you, and for that you can be forgiven.”