The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (9 page)

“Do you think Cesare will ever accept the life our father has chosen for him?” she asked.

I hesitated. Any suggestion of a conflict between father and son was inherently dangerous. Surrounded by enemies as they were, it was essential that
la famiglia
stand as one.

“He will do what he must,” I said.

“But how does he feel about it?”

“He … accepts what cannot be changed, at least for now.”

She nodded, seemingly satisfied, but she was not done. “What of you, Francesca? What life do you envision for yourself?”

I finished the last of the wine and rose to go. “I find it best not to dwell on such matters. Are you coming down to dinner?”

She took my refusal to answer with good grace and said, “Would I miss an opportunity to enjoy the wit of surly Spaniards and pompous prelates?”

I smiled despite myself. “There is a new jester.”

She brightened at that. “Really? Well, then I will come. Perhaps he will show us for the fools we are.”

“Or perhaps he will merely make you laugh.” I hoped that David could. Indeed, I hoped that he would make her laugh enough to forget, for some little time, Sforza, his vile accusations, and the price she was paying—indeed, we were all paying—for Borgia’s ambitions.

For myself, I had no interest in totaling up the cost, nor could I have done so even if I had been inclined to try. I could only hope that there would be room, as David had said, for other men to breathe.

All the same, Lucrezia’s question lingered in my mind. I could not tell her that it was not the future that weighed on me but the past. Until I found some way to put that to rest, I was trapped in a nightmare that had no end.

9

Renaldo found me in the great hall early the next morning. Despite the threat hanging over us, he looked better than he had the night before. A merchant venture he had invested in had paid off nicely, and he was beginning to dream of his retirement.

“A villa in Capri, perhaps,” he said as we both drew our cloaks closer against the dank weather. Rain dripped from the palazzo eaves, splattering in puddles across the piazza. Rain, rain, endless rain. I was beginning to long for winter and at least the chance of snow. “A place to sit in the sun, doves cooing, a nice, plump wife…”

“Sounds lovely,” I allowed. “But what would we do without you?”

“Nothing lasts forever,” he said with a shrug. “Change is the only constant. Heraclitus said that, didn’t he? That Greek fellow who dreamed up the idea of Logos, the source and order of the cosmos. Scripture says the same: ‘In the beginning was the Word.’ But the ‘word’ is Logos. What are we to make of that?”

There had been a time when I assumed that Renaldo kept his nose securely in his ledgers. I had since learned otherwise, and therefore was unsurprised by such erudition.

“Heraclitus also said that the cosmos was not created by God or man but simply is,” I replied. “Which, I suppose, helps to explain why Holy Mother Church does not fully embrace the rebirth of ancient learning.”

Renaldo nodded gravely. “That is so. By the way, there is a nun looking for you.”

“A nun? Did she say what she wanted?”

“Not that I know of. I have to admit that I was surprised when the doorkeeper told me. Not that a nun looking for you is odd. We all know nuns, but—”

“I don’t.”

Renaldo’s eyes were watery and bulged a little, the result of too many hours bent over his accounts. He blinked slowly. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know any nuns and I have no idea why one would be looking for me. When was she here?”

Renaldo looked uncertain. “A few minutes ago, perhaps a little more.”

I looked around the hall, hoping to catch sight of her. When I did not, I took my leave of the steward and moved toward the wide double doors giving out onto the piazza. Despite the spitting rain, priests, merchants, petitioners, and hangers-on jostled for space as they tried to make their way toward the palazzo or simply stood about watching the gloriously attired prelates and their entourages coming and going.

No, not quite everyone. A nun was crossing the square in the opposite direction toward the nearby church of Santa Maria della Salute. As I watched, she glanced back over her shoulder toward the palazzo. In that moment, I recognized the pale face of the woman who had smiled at me near the town gates.

Without pausing to think, I hurried down the wide stone steps to the piazza. The nun was disappearing into the church. I followed quickly, sloshing through puddles that had collected between the cobblestones. Stepping inside, I looked in all directions, but saw no sign of her. By the time I had walked halfway down the nave, I was beginning to wonder if my imagination had been playing tricks on me. But a moment later, I caught sight of the nun kneeling at prayer before an altar dedicated to blessed Saint Clare.

Unsure of what I hoped to gain by following her, I hesitated. Irreligious as I was, even I knew that it wasn’t right to interrupt a nun at her prayers. Besides, what would I say to her? As it happened, I need not have been concerned. Even as I debated what to do, she crossed herself and rose. Turning, with her hands clasped together at her waist, she caught sight of me. Her lovely, serene face lit up with a smile.

“How astounding is the way of our Lord,” she said. “You were just now in my thoughts, and here you are before me.”

At a loss as to how to respond, I could only ask, “You came to the palazzo?”

She nodded. “To inquire about you, but alas, the doorkeeper was not very forthcoming.”

That did not surprise me. Few members of Borgia’s household would want to speak of me at all, much less involve themselves in any matter having to do with me.

“What was your purpose?” I asked. “Why do you seek me?”

She hesitated. We were both speaking softly in deference to our surroundings, but the nun glanced around as though to be sure that we could not be overheard.

“You are Francesca Giordano, are you not?”

When I nodded, she clasped her hands more tightly, as though to contain her excitement.

“I thought as much yesterday when I saw you by the town gate,” she said. “Forgive me, but the shock was so unsettling that I really didn’t know what to do. I prayed for guidance and woke this morning certain that I had to speak with you.”

“I don’t understand…” My profession was shocking, to be sure, but there was nothing particularly remarkable about my appearance. Certainly nothing that required praying over.

Without warning, the nun reached out and took my hands in hers. I stiffened in surprise but did not attempt to pull away. Looking into my eyes, she said, “Has no one ever told you? You are the very image of your mother. The moment I saw you, I knew that you had to be dear Adriana’s daughter.”

*   *   *

We sat on a stone bench near the altar to Saint Clare. The nun was silent, her fingers working the plain wooden beads of her rosary. When the tightness in my chest eased, I was able to speak.

“Other than my father, I have never met anyone who knew my mother.”

She lowered her beads and looked at me. Once again, I was struck by the smooth serenity of her features; testament, I assumed, to her sanctity, which protected her from the trials of ordinary life.

“I am sorry to hear that,” she said softly. “Please forgive me for taking you by surprise. My name is Mother Benedette. I am abbess of a religious house in Anzio. Adriana and I were friends when we were both girls in Milan. Our lives took very different paths, but I have never forgotten her.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I am … glad to have a chance to speak of her.” In fact, I was overwhelmed. My long-dead mother was an imagined ideal for whom I yearned with all the desperation of a child’s wounded heart. On occasion, I even fancied that I could remember her singing to me. Given that she had died at my birth, I could only conclude that my grip on sanity was even more precarious than I wanted to admit.

Hesitantly, because this was all so new and fraught, I asked, “Do I really look like her?” My father had spoken of my mother very little, I supposed because of the lingering pain of her loss. And I, a deeply troubled child with a disturbing talent for the art of death, had never wanted to burden him with questions.

“For a moment when I saw you near the gate,” the abbess said, “I thought that time had rolled back and I was seeing Adriana. The resemblance is that uncanny.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Your mother and I were so close; like sisters, really. It is the blessing of God that has guided me to you.”

She would not think so when she knew the truth about me. It could not be very long before some well-intentioned soul whispered in her ear that I was the pope’s poisoner and a witch in the bargain. Oh, yes, and a
puttana
who took a prince of Holy Mother Church to my bed. Before that happened, I was determined to seize the opportunity to learn everything from her that I could.

“What was my mother like?” I asked.

As though she understood my hunger, the abbess said, “Adriana was the kindest, most caring person I have ever known. She was also very high-spirited. She always preferred to run anywhere rather than walk. She loved music and played the lute very well. As for her needlework—”

“She wasn’t good at it?” My heart leaped at the thought that my mother and I might be alike in some way, however small. Such a possibility had never occurred to me.

Mother Benedette chuckled. “It was her bane. Her threads were always tangled, her stitches uneven. Once, I remember, we were both set samplers to do. I sped through mine while Adriana labored, pricking her fingers over and over until the linen was stained with her blood. I could not bear that and offered to do the work for her, but she knew that such duplicity was wrong and would not allow me to fall into sin. Fortunately, the embroidery mistress was a sensible woman who, seeing what Adriana had produced despite so great an effort, suggested that she pursue drawing instead.”

“And did she?” I had never so much as picked up a piece of charcoal, although I enjoyed watching others, especially Rocco’s young son, Nando, draw. The process fascinated me.

“Oh, yes, quite successfully. Her best drawings were of animals. She truly loved them and was forever bringing home strays.”

My father and I had used stray animals to test new poisons on, a practice he accepted only reluctantly as a regrettable necessity. Seeing how it troubled him, I suggested using humans instead. When he recovered from his shock that I would think of such a thing, I was able to persuade him that it was an act of mercy to grant a quicker, less painful death to those otherwise condemned to torturous execution. Such had been my practice ever since. That the results are more accurate, and therefore more useful, surely does not make the act of compassion any less.

“Do you know how she met my father?”

Mother Benedette nodded. “Adriana’s mother was stung by a wasp. The injury became infected and the poor woman was suffering horribly. The physicians were useless, as usual, but Giovanni, who was earning a reputation for himself as an apothecary, devised a poultice that drew the poison out and allowed her to heal.”

“I suppose the family was grateful?”

“They certainly should have been, but like so many others, they preferred not to deal with Jews. They had turned to Giovanni only as a last resort. Adriana thought their behavior was unkind. She sought your father out privately to tell him that.”

I had only recently come to terms with the fact that my father had been born a Jew, a fact he had concealed from me all my life. Granted, he had converted to Christianity and, so far as I knew, had been sincere in his faith. But my mother had known him before that happened. I wondered how she had possessed the courage to seek him out.

“I would like to tell you more,” Mother Benedette said as she stood. “But it is almost time for vespers. Perhaps we can meet again?”

I rose reluctantly. “Yes, of course. I would like that very much. You know I am at the palazzo?”

That was as close as I could come to asking what she knew of me. Her smile did not falter.

“I am aware that you serve His Holiness.”

“I should perhaps tell you—”

The abbess held up a hand. “Francesca, I did not seek you out in order to judge you. From what I understand, you protect the life of Christ’s Vicar on Earth and do so very ably. That is enough for me to know.”

I looked away quickly before she could see how nearly her words undid me. Such generosity of spirit was almost unknown in my experience. I was accustomed to being viewed with a mixture of fear and revulsion, if not outright hatred, by all but the very small number of people I could call friends.

The abbess and I parted a short time later, having made plans to meet again the following morning. As I crossed the square to the palazzo, my thoughts were of my mother and what I had learned of her. For the first time, I allowed myself to wonder what my life would have been like if she had lived. What I would have been like.

Most probably, I would be married, with children of my own. My experience with normal women was very limited, but I did know a few. Would that other self be like Vittoro’s daughters, all good girls well married and busy presenting him with grandchildren? Would she spend her days keeping house, tending her growing brood, and pleasing her husband, as every proper woman surely lived to do? Without the nightmare to plague her, what would she dream of? What would she think, feel, desire? My imagination faltered. Sadly, I recognized that she was as great a stranger to me as anyone I might pass in the street.

The rain had lessened, but even so I felt its chill through my wet cloak. As I entered the palazzo, I was thinking of nothing other than a warm fire in my rooms and dry clothes. I almost missed Herrera, who was lounging just inside the entrance, where he had a clear view of the piazza. Had he not spoken, I likely would not have noticed him at all.

“I am astounded that you dare to enter a church,” he said. “Has it occurred to you that you offend God by doing so?”

Good sense dictated that I ignore the insult and keep going. But under the circumstances, I had scant patience for the man I remained convinced would better serve us dead.

“Indeed,” I said. “I live in expectation that the ground will open under me and I will fall through a fiery chasm into Hades. And yet, curiously enough, that has yet to happen.”

Clearly, the beloved nephew was not accustomed to being addressed in such a manner by one he regarded as an inferior. His face darkened as he straightened away from the wall and glared at me. “You blaspheme.”

“Do I? No doubt your depravity makes you an expert on the subject.”

The words were out before I could think better of them, as well I should have. It was not in my nature to provoke anyone. I much preferred the single, deadly blow delivered without warning. Even so, I was surprised by the violence of Herrera’s reaction.

“How dare you!” His hand shot out, grasping my arm. Abruptly, it occurred to me that I had pushed the vainglorious scion of the Spanish royal family too far. Worse yet, I could not manage to care.