The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (12 page)

Having that easily convinced myself of the rightness of my urges, I mixed a small quantity of powder with an ounce or so of wine and swallowed it quickly. Thus armored, I ventured forth. Uppermost in my mind was the fear that my weakness would be seen and seized upon. I felt myself surrounded by enemies only waiting to pounce. Cesare, David, Vittoro, and all the rest—any of them could conceal enmity behind false smiles and soft words. My hand flew to the knife beneath my bodice. Touching it gave me some faint comfort.

In the hall, everything appeared as normal. No one seemed to take more than passing notice of me. The bloody vision I had seen continued to dart through my mind again and again, but such was the effect of the powder that shortly I was able to observe it as though from a distance, almost as something that had happened to a stranger. By the time the dragée of spicy hypocrase accompanied by figs and oranges—intended to end the meal and promote digestion—was brought forth, I felt almost myself again.

Relief and elation filled me in equal measure. I struggled not to smile. Cesare, glancing in my direction, raised a brow. Beside him, seemingly attentive to whatever His Holiness was saying, Herrera smirked.

My thoughts raced. If the Spanish alliance were to shatter …

Borgia would need an army quickly. An army strong enough to convince his enemies to negotiate an accord that left him in possession of Peter’s Throne. Juan was a prisoner of the Spanish and an idiot in the bargain; he could be of no use to his father. But there was Cesare, the eldest son, who had dreamed all his life of leading men in battle.

Cui bono?
Who benefits? That is always the question in any great matter.

The handsome jester leaned close to whisper a joke in the ear of the beloved nephew, who had no sense of how close he trod to eternity. Beside him, the red prince laughed and raised his cup. I watched them all as the false comfort of the powder dissolved, leaving me marooned on the inhospitable shores of reality.

12

In the two days that followed, I had no further visions of my mother, but—despite my increased use of Sofia’s powder—the nightmare came again and again, plunging me into blood-soaked darkness, from which I woke in terror, sobbing and gasping for breath.

The second night, Cesare was with me and roused when I did. Experienced as he was with my often fractured sleep, he did not bother with questions but simply offered me the comfort of his arms. Shorn of pride, I clung to him until dawn finally crept up over the horizon.

Waking, I did not speak but turned to him in mindless frenzy, driven by the desperate need to escape my demons. He was young and virile, and he responded as he always did, but plunging into release, I had no thought of him. At that moment, he was merely a means to an end.

As we rose to dress, he asked, “Are you angry with me?”

A fragment of memory: a summer afternoon. We were in the courtyard at the center of Il Cardinale’s palazzo. Borgia and his eldest son were arguing, something about Cesare’s being sent off to the university at Firenze when what he really wanted was to go into the army. Ugly words were said. Afterward, I followed Cesare around a corner of the loggia and waited while he vomited.

I dropped a shift over my head and said, “Of course not. Why would I be?”

“Ben Eliezer is your friend.” Neither of us had mentioned his suspicions about David before now, but they had remained uppermost in my mind, along with what they led me to wonder about Cesare himself.

“True,” I said, “but do you really think that he could be the assassin?”

“I think you don’t want him to be.”

He sat down on the bed to pull on his boots. I went to help him. Straddling his leg, I said, “Suppose for a moment that it isn’t David. Who else could benefit from the loss of the Spanish alliance?”

“Any of my father’s enemies.”

“I mean someone here, close enough to do harm.”

“Why do you ask?”

Over my shoulder, I said, “There have been two unexplained deaths. A kitchen boy while we were on the way here and a laundress a few days ago.”

“Were they poisoned?”

“I don’t know. Their deaths could have been natural. But if they weren’t, the poison used would have had to be very sophisticated.”

I finished pulling up one boot and turned to the other.

“Why would anyone bother to do that?” Cesare asked. “They were just ordinary people, weren’t they?”

“So far as I can tell.”

“Then it makes no sense that anyone would take the trouble to kill them in such a way.” More gently, he added, “People do just die, Francesca. You know that.”

“Of course I do, but—”

He patted my bottom and stood. Tucking in his shirt, he said, “Better you concentrate on real dangers rather than conjure them where they don’t exist.”

I knew that he meant that kindly, but it still stung. If the kitchen boy and the laundress had been poisoned, it was because I had failed to protect them. Not that I was expected to. Examining every item meant for
la famiglia
was time-consuming enough; to do so for the entire papal household was impossible. The assumption had always been, as Cesare said, that no one would trouble to kill ordinary people by such means. I could not imagine why that would suddenly have changed, but neither could I shake the sense that the deaths were not natural.

In an effort to rein in my anxious thoughts, I took a little time after breakfast to catch up on correspondence. To Sofia, I sent assurances that I was sleeping better than ever and thanked her again for the powder. I did not mention that I was taking more than she had intended, nor that I had not entirely stopped drinking wine.

“You may be interested to hear,” I wrote, “that I have met a friend of my mother’s, an abbess who knew her when they were both girls growing up in Milan. She has told me how my parents came to fall in love and that my mother was a wonderful cook who also showed great skill at drawing. I hope to learn much more from her.”

I said nothing of the bloody vision of my mother that still haunted me. It would only worry Sofia to no good purpose.

When I had finished the letter, sealing it and setting it aside to give to the dispatch riders later in the day, I took a fresh sheet of paper and spread it out before me with the intention of writing to Rocco. Several times, I raised my pen to begin, but the words would not come. I wanted to thank him for Nando’s sketch, congratulate him on acquiring an undoubtedly fine dog, and ask how he was, but instead all I could think of was that he had said nothing of Carlotta. Was she still in the city or had her family left to avoid the plague? Were she and Rocco making plans for their wedding? Had a date been set? Did he love her?

The quill snapped between my fingers. Cursing, I tossed the pieces aside and stood. This was not the time to be mooning over Rocco and what could never be. Impatient with myself, I sought distraction in work. As I entered the kitchens, the usual chatter of conversation stopped abruptly. Being resigned to such behavior, I thought nothing of it at first. But when, after a few minutes, the mood did not return to normal, I realized that I was the target of sullen, fearful stares. Apparently, the personal risk I had taken only a few days before to assure Borgia’s safety—and thereby their own—no longer mattered. Perhaps they were upset by the laundress’s death coming so quickly after that of the kitchen boy, whom many of them must have known. Yet they had no reason to blame me for either.

Unless they thought, as Vittoro had warned, that the deaths were evidence of Satan’s handiwork. Who better to do his bidding than a witch with a talent for killing?

Resolved to see to my duties regardless of the circumstances, I worked steadily through newly arrived crates of cheeses, apples, mushrooms, and asparagus meant for
la famiglia
and their noble guests, as well as several barrels of cider, a half-dozen sacks of flour, the split carcasses of a cow, and a hundred oysters packed in seaweed. No one attempted to hinder me, but I was aware of being constantly watched. Several of the cooks went so far as to make the horned sign against the evil eye when they thought I wasn’t looking.

Though I kept my composure, my mood was grim by the time I finished and left the kitchens. At the top of the short flight of steps leading up toward the palazzo’s main floor, I stopped and slumped against the wall. Whether because I had been thinking about my parents and what they had shared or because Rocco had crept into my mind as though he had never left it, the strain of being so isolated from normal human life seemed unbearable. I squeezed my eyes shut and drew a ragged breath. I could not risk being seen in such a state. Above all, I had to hide my weakness from any who might take advantage of it.

A little of the powder would calm me. But if I kept taking it as I had been doing, I risked exhausting my supply before I could return to Rome and cajole Sofia into giving me more. Or find a different source. I would have to deal with that problem when I came to it. For the moment, I seized on the fact that I could resist the urge for the powder, if only temporarily, as evidence that Sofia’s concerns were overblown. Clearly, I had nothing to fear from it.

Reluctant still to encounter anyone, I slipped into a narrow-walled
passetto
that wrapped around the outer wall of the palazzo. Such discrete passageways are common in noble residences. As a child, I had made good use of them within Borgia’s palace on the Corso. I hoped to do the same right then, but I had not gotten very far when a sudden flicker of movement up ahead stopped me. Instinctively, I pulled back into the shadows.

A door opened, revealing a young man. He was about my age, well built, with reddish-brown hair and strong features. As I watched, he bounced a handful of coins in his palm, grinned, and hurried off in the opposite direction. Relieved not to have been seen, I was about to continue on when the door opened again. Herrera stepped into the corridor.

The Spaniard looked in both directions and then, having failed to notice me, came toward where I stood. There was no opportunity to conceal myself and no possibility of retreat. With no alternative, I stepped forward quickly, as though I were hurrying on my way with no thought other than for my destination.

Abruptly, the beloved nephew stopped. He looked first shocked, then enraged.

“
You!
What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to … it doesn’t matter where.” I tried to move around him, but he blocked the way forward.

“You are following me! Spying on me!”

I could understand his concern. He was taking a chance trysting with the young man. Borgia wouldn’t care, nor would many others at the court. But if word got back to Their Most Catholic Majesties …

“I am doing no such thing.” Again I tried to go around. Again he stopped me.

Herrera’s fists clenched at his sides. He took a step forward. I resisted the urge to reach for the leather sheath under my bodice.

As calmly as I could manage, I said, “There is no reason for trouble between us, senor.”

He looked at me as though I truly were a madwoman. “Have you forgotten that you put a knife to my throat?”

“Yes … well, you were trying to break my arm at the time.” Reluctantly, I reminded myself that however I felt about him, nothing could be gained from another confrontation between us. “But I went too far. I apologize for doing so.”

It wasn’t enough. Still glaring, Herrera said, “You humiliated me in front of him.”

Silently, I railed against Cesare for trampling on the Spaniard’s vanity even as I sought to soothe it.

“I assure you, His Eminence reprimanded me in the sternest possible terms.”

Herrera brushed that off. Furiously, he said, “He doesn’t love you, not really, no matter how he acts.”

Ah, so that was it, was it? Why hadn’t I seen it sooner? Resistant as I was to Cupid’s dart, I should at least be able to recognize the pain it caused.

“Of course he doesn’t,” I said.

“Then let him go! Stop imperiling his soul!”

“You mistake my purpose. I wish only to protect—”

“Enough! You lie with every foul breath. And now you will tell lies about me! But I will not allow it. By God and all the saints, I will not!”

He came at me. I had an instant to decide: go for the knife and hope Borgia believed I spoke the truth when I swore that I had killed the Spaniard in self-defense or …

Deep within, the darkness stirred. Before it could awaken, I turned and ran. Behind me, I heard Herrera follow, cursing. Spurred by fear of myself far more than by fear of him, I raced ahead. Plunging through a door in the
passetto,
I came out into a busy part of the palazzo. Surrounded by servants and hangers-on, I stopped abruptly. So, too, did Herrera, who stumbled out a moment later.

As unwilling to draw attention as I was, he could only watch as I walked away. I don’t know where I intended to go—anywhere so long as I put distance between myself and the furious Spaniard. I could have told Herrera that I understood all too well the cost of having to conceal one’s true self from the world, but he would not have heard me. It was a pity, really; we actually had something in common in addition to our concern for Cesare.

Before I got very far, a page sidled up and thrust a note into my hand, fleeing immediately as though he feared that any contact with me would contaminate him. I opened the paper and scanned it quickly. At once, my spirits rose. Mother Benedette had managed to slip away from the convent where she was staying and hoped that I could meet her at Santa Maria della Salute.

The abbess was seated in her usual place when I arrived. This time, she had brought a small basket of
torrone,
a confection of honey, sugar, egg whites, and almonds that I accepted gladly but declined to try just then, promising her that I would when my stomach was more settled. The encounter with Herrera coming after so much else made me disinclined to eat anything just then.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

“I’m perfectly fine. It’s just that I’ve been inspecting food all day and that has robbed me of my appetite.”

She seemed content with that, and quickly we fell to talking of my mother. “Adriana loved to sing. I do myself, but my voice was never the equal of hers.”

A memory stirred in me. A woman’s voice singing softly …

Firefly, firefly, yellow and bright,
Bridle the filly under your light,
The child of my heart is ready to ride,
Firefly, firefly, fly by her side.
“Again, Mamma. Sing it again.”

But that was impossible. My mother had died when I was born. How often had I been told that? I might have heard her groan or even scream, but most assuredly I could never have heard her sing. Not that it mattered, for I could not possibly remember anything to do with her.

“Did she … ever sing about a firefly?”

Mother Benedette frowned. “A firefly? I don’t recall.” Suddenly she said, “Wait, there is an old folk song. How does it go … ‘Firefly, firefly, yellow and bright’? Yes, that’s it! ‘Bridle the filly under your light.’ I haven’t thought of that song in years, but your mother loved it. She sang it when she was pregnant with you.”

What was I to make of that? That somehow, against all belief, I had heard and remembered a song my mother sang while I was still in her womb? The practical side of my nature, that part of me that seeks the light of reason, knew that could not be true. Yet how I longed for it to be so. Because the alternative …