The Scarlet Contessa (25 page)

As the lad cried out in pain, della Rovere snapped, “Laggard! Maybe this will help you to remember to watch!”

In the next instant, as his cup was being filled by the trembling servant, della Rovere turned smoothly to Caterina and said, “Really, it takes some time to train them properly. If he makes another mistake, I’d recommend a thrashing for him.”

Caterina responded with a small smile and a question about the cardinal’s education in France. By this time, della Rovere was tucking into the roast pig.

“I was trained in science,” he answered, “but what I loved most was the military training. I would have preferred a soldier’s life, but my uncle had already decided on a different destiny for me.”

“A warrior!” This time, Caterina’s grin was genuine; she leaned a bit closer over the table. “Had I not been born a woman— Well, I must admit, I am never happier than when I am practicing with my sword.”

Della Rovere frowned. “A woman with a sword? That is unnatural, surely!”

The contessa glanced down. “It’s just that I admire warriors so. It is a noble aspiration . . . for men, of course.”

At this, the cardinal bloomed; a faint smile played on his lips. “Yes. At times, I dream that I am a general, fighting against the Turk. We must never forget that the Crusade failed. It is high time we began another.”

“Absolutely,” Caterina said, with starry-eyed eagerness she did not feel. “You are a man of true mettle; if anyone could succeed against the sultan, you could.”

Della Rovere took her worshipful attitude at face value and grinned, then picked up his cup with greasy fingers and took a long drink. This time, the servant attending him refilled it the instant he set it down.

After a pause, the contessa changed the subject. “I have heard tell that Rodrigo Borgia is not a man to be trusted. Yet he seeks my friendship, and I am eager for advice that might help my husband to secure his position in the world.”

“Borgia!” Della Rovere sneered as he picked up his meat and began to chew on it again. His voice was partially muffled by food as he continued, “You’d be wise to have nothing to do with him. He is a dangerous man, not to be trusted.”

Caterina’s dark blue eyes widened in feigned innocence. “But why, Holiness? I’ve heard he’s the wealthiest, most powerful man after Sixtus. He has been vice-chancellor of the Curia for so long that he has amassed a fortune, as well as a great deal of influence over the other cardinals.”

Della Rovere’s lip curled. “He has no influence over
me
. You must understand, Caterina, that as a lovely young woman, you are a target for his flattery; he would tell you anything in order to seduce you.”

The contessa pretended to be shocked. “But surely he’s not lying about his wealth.”

The cardinal shook his head at the very thought of Borgia. “He is wealthy, true, and his position as vice-chancellor has put him in the perfect position to accept bribes. But . . .” He paused to take a long drink of wine, and looked at Caterina with a smug, arrogant smile.

“I do not boast,” he said, “but merely state the truth. I receive more income from my benefices in one year than Borgia could ever hope to make in five. And as for power . . . Because Borgia is an able administrator and politician, those of us in the Curia support his remaining in that position. But would we support his election as pope? Never!” He lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “You must know, Caterina, that while he can get along well with his colleagues, all of us know that he is given to schemes and criminal behavior. He is too corruptible and dangerous to be entrusted with the papacy.”

“Dangerous?” Caterina was listening earnestly now. “How exactly so?”

By this time, della Rovere had set down his food and stopped chewing. “He has murdered men who stood in his way.”

“Who?”

The cardinal lifted his eyebrows. “I know, but I will not say.”

Caterina persisted. “How did he kill them?”

“This is hardly an appropriate topic for the dinner table,” della Rovere answered disapprovingly, “nor for a sheltered young lady such as yourself.”

Caterina again dropped her gaze so that the cardinal could not see her irritation. “Cardinal Borgia has been a frequent guest at our dinner table. I thought it would be wise for my husband to learn what he could from him. But if His Illustriousness is in any danger . . . or if
I
am . . .”

“You are in no danger,” della Rovere replied flatly. “Borgia would never harm a woman or child. But had he a reason, he would not hesitate to kill your husband.”

Caterina looked so stricken that della Rovere reached across the table and patted her hand.

“Forgive me. I did not come here to upset you,” he said with faint affection. “We will change the subject to happier things.”

Caterina nodded. “Of course, we all pray for the Holy Father’s health and wish that he could live forever. But I have heard that, should the throne of Peter become vacant, you are well positioned. And with good reason. You bring wisdom, experience, superlative judgment, and a steady temper . . .”

At this last, I had to restrain myself from rolling my eyes, given the cardinal’s quick use of his walking stick.

Caterina continued, “Clearly, you have learned much from your uncle over the years. In any case, I would encourage my husband to support you fully in a bid for the papacy.”

Della Rovere eyed her carefully; in the end, his boastfulness overcame his desire to be cautious. He smiled smugly. “I would be a liar to say I was not ambitious. And I would appreciate the support very much. But unless my dear uncle lives at least another ten years—and we all pray he will, of course—I have little chance of being elected.”

“Why?” Tired of pretending to eat, Caterina folded her arms and looked across the table with an expression of convincing guilelessness.

The cardinal gave an annoyed shrug and reached for a pigeon pie. “The older cardinals feel they have more right than I, as they have served longer in the Curia. They are jealous of those who are younger yet also wealthier and more powerful than they have managed to become.”

“You are such a brilliant man,” Caterina responded, “that I am not surprised that they’re jealous.”

Squaring his shoulders with pride, della Rovere confessed, “I
do
have the backing of the King of France. And many of the French nobles.”

I stood at an angle so that I could see Caterina’s expression; it remained slavishly admiring, but her eyes narrowed at this important fact.

“How wonderful!” she breathed. “I am honored to be sitting in the presence of a man who will one day ascend the throne of Peter.” Her tone became confidential. “I know that my husband is sometimes a difficult man, and I appreciate your tolerant attitude toward him. I shall do everything in my power to influence his attitude, so that he comes to realize how fortunate he is to have you as a cousin.”

Della Rovere beamed at her. “You are sweet, Caterina, and very observant for a woman. Girolamo is lucky to have you on his side.”

A messenger came from Girolamo’s traveling party to say that he would be gone longer than originally intended. Caterina took advantage of her husband’s absence by inviting Borgia and della Rovere on different days to the Palazzo Riario. I was allowed to be present for her discussions with Cardinal della Rovere, which were all directed toward learning about the political machinations of the Holy College. But I was barred from the after-dinner discussions with Borgia.

Other respected cardinals were invited, one at a time, to dine with Caterina. Two Spanish cardinals paid their respects, as well as a Greek named Cibo, and a distinguished Frenchman by the name of Charles de Bourbon. I was able to overhear some of the conversation, which generally centered around Borgia’s and della Rovere’s rivalry and chances for the papacy. While Borgia was well respected for his administrative skills and intelligence, he was not trusted; della Rovere was also regarded as highly intelligent and capable, and more likely, thanks to his political connections and his wealth, to become pope. But all agreed that his arrogance grated.

In addition to these guests, over the course of three weeks, della Rovere dined at the Palazzo Riario thrice; Borgia, no fewer than six times. With each successive visit, Borgia and Caterina grew more familiar with each other, until, upon the sixth visit, Caterina inadvertently called the cardinal “Rodrigo” in my presence.

Borgia’s seventh visit took place in the midafternoon, when Caterina invited him to a late luncheon, despite the fact that the cardinal had already dined with Sixtus at the Vatican. The table was set in the private dining quarters in the contessa’s apartments, and Caterina asked that the sword Borgia had given her be placed in the room.

Borgia arrived in fine spirits, freshly shaved and exuding aromas of lavender and orange blossom. Caterina awaited him in the dining chamber, and when he was ushered in, she rose and hurried to him as if he had been a long-lost friend. He took her hands and bent low to kiss them.

I turned my face away, sickened.

“Come, my friend, and sit with me,” the contessa said, holding on to the cardinal’s hand and leading him to the chair across from hers. I followed my mistress and moved to take my place behind her, but Caterina gestured to me.

“Send all the servants away,” she ordered in a low voice, her gaze still on the smiling Borgia. “But first, see that we are left carafes of water and wine, and the first three courses.”

“But who will serve you?” I asked, puzzled.

The contessa favored Borgia with a cryptic smile. “We will serve ourselves,” she said, lifting her arm to give a sharp flick of her hand, the signal that I was dismissed and disagreement would not be tolerated.

I directed the servants so that all was done in accordance with Her Illustriousness’s wishes; the serving maids were all sent back into the kitchen, with instructions that they were not to return until Madonna rang for them. I exited through the main doorway, out into the corridor.

“Close the doors, please, and make sure that we are not disturbed,” she called after me.

I did so, and began to pace nervously in the corridor. After twenty minutes of unhappy deliberation, I stopped in front of the door and pressed my ear to the wood to hear what sounded like normal, muted conversation. Vaguely relieved, I continued my pacing, more slowly this time, nodding at a chambermaid as she passed by, soiled linen in her arms. Another ten minutes, and I heard a soft clatter beyond the door as the platters were being rearranged on the table.

A few minutes later, there came a loud crash and the sharp ring of metal against marble.

I threw open the door and ran inside.

Caterina lay lengthwise on a cleared section of the dining table, her bare buttocks upon the table’s edge, her bare legs dangling down, her slippered feet a hand’s breadth above the floor. Her blue brocade skirt and petticoat were bunched up around her waist, pooling out over the table’s surface. Her arms stretched out over her head as if she were clawing for purchase; at the instant I entered the room, her face was slack with ecstasy. She had accidentally knocked one of the platters from the table in her excitement; a stuffed, roasted capon lay upon its side atop a scattering of broken shards and braised mushrooms.

Her large white breasts, newly swollen by pregnancy, the nipples darker and larger than before, had been pulled up out of her flattening bodice, which now pushed them up so that they looked even fuller.

Borgia’s large hands cupped them reverently. He had unclasped the front of his scarlet gown and pulled down his matching leggings to expose pale, muscular thighs; now he stood at the edge of the table, his hips pressed fast against Caterina’s as he thrust between her dangling legs. So powerfully did he strain against her that, with each thrust, he pushed her farther up the table and was obliged to slip his hands beneath her shoulders and pull her back down to him.

I stood in the doorway just long enough to take in the scene, and for Caterina to turn her head languidly in my direction.

I shut the door and retreated into the corridor again. This time, I sat down upon the cool marble, folded my arms atop my bent knees, and lowered my face into the void.

Chapter Nineteen

I kept my head buried in my lap until the muffled groans of pleasure on the other side of the door eventually gave way to silence. Some thirty minutes after the plate was shattered, the door to the dining chamber finally opened. Caterina emerged first, looking far less disheveled than I expected; Borgia followed, his skullcap neatly in place, his scarlet robe scarcely wrinkled. Both were flushed and smiling.

I got to my feet immediately, but my disgust would not permit me to meet the eyes of either lover. I followed dutifully as Caterina led her guest downstairs to the front entrance; he kissed her hand in parting.

As soon as we were back in Caterina’s chamber and I had shut the door behind us, I whispered, “I cannot believe what you have done, Madonna! What are you thinking, engaging in such vile, insane behavior?”

Her lips pursed into an angry bud, but she composed herself. “Vile, perhaps. But far from insane.”

No longer hiding my agitation, I countered, “I did not approve of your affair with Gerard de Montagne, but I at least understood it. But
Borgia,
of all men . . . The thought of him makes my skin crawl! I will never be able to protect you from your husband if any man in Rome can seduce you!”

“He is a talented lover,” Caterina said slyly. “And very discreet. You never would have caught us if I hadn’t lost my mind today.”

Aghast, I stared at her. “Today is not the first time?”

She smirked. “Only the sixth.”

I shuddered. “I am not angry, Madonna . . . I am
afraid.
How can you not be? Your husband poisoned Gerard; was that not enough of a warning for you? Why put yourself in such a dangerous situation?”

“Far more dangerous than you realize,” she said, studying me. “Girolamo did not kill Gerard.”

“Then who—” I gaped at her a long moment before finally whispering,
“Borgia?”

Caterina nodded. “I don’t love him, but I admire his cunning. And I will learn what I can from him. He thinks he is smarter than I. I intend to prove otherwise.”

“My God,” I said softly. “You know him to be the killer for a fact, Madonna? Why, then, do you invite him here, and lie with him? Why do you look for danger?”

“I am looking out for myself,” Caterina answered defiantly, “and for my son.” She rested a hand upon her still-flat stomach. “Because if I do not, my husband will soon fall from power. I will
not
return in disgrace to that boring little pasture called Imola, to rule over a score of peasants.”

“You’re barely more than a child,” I protested, “and you think to outsmart Borgia? He has far more experience at treachery! How does sleeping with him protect you? And what sort of—”

Caterina put up her hand.
“Stop,”
she said fiercely. “I can tell you no more.”

“Why not? I’ve seen the worst.”

She put a gentle hand upon my forearm. “Because,” she admitted shyly, without meeting my gaze, “of all the souls on earth, you’re the one I want most to protect. You’re the only person I trust.”

My expression softened at this unexpected show of affection; Caterina saw it, withdrew her hand, and shrugged.

“Besides,” she added offhandedly, “you’re my talisman. If anything should happen to you, I am lost.”

In the morning, two gifts were delivered from the Palazzo Borgia directly to my mistress’s chambers: a large ruby pendant, encircled by tiny diamonds, and a small silver perfume vial inlaid with shimmering mother-of-pearl. Borgia’s messenger refused to hand over the items to anyone other than Caterina herself; and when she arrived in her study to accept them, the messenger went down on both knees and bowed so low, his nose grazed the floor.

“As I bow before your beauty, my master bows, too,” he recited, “and begs you to accept these gifts, which cannot do you justice. He says, ‘The Illustrious Madonna Caterina is the bravest, the most amazing, woman I have ever met.’ ” As an aside, the messenger added, “He means it sincerely, Your Illustriousness; I have never seen him so enamored.”

As the servant lifted his face, Caterina favored him with a gracious smile. “Let one of my ladies escort you to the kitchen; tell them to give you a glass of our best wine. Wait there until I summon you. I am preparing a response for your master that you will take back to him.”

She signaled to Teodora, who led the messenger off, and then she turned to me. “There is no time for cipher. I will send a letter, written in your hand.”

I sat obligingly at the desk, and took up the quill as Caterina dictated:

To His most esteemed Holiness, Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia,

I have appreciated our talks and your candor, and shall always consider you a dear friend. However, I have recently discovered that I am with child. Political discourse no longer holds any attraction for me; my focus must now be on my heir, who will need his father and his mother, as well as the support of his relatives, including Cardinal della Rovere and, of course, the Holy Father, Pope Sixtus.

Forgive me for being too indisposed to continue our discussions. I am returning the ruby pendant herewith; as for the other gift, I will guard and treasure it always.

Respectfully,

Her Illustrious Highness, Contessa Caterina Sforza

The unhappy messenger returned to his master with the ruby and Caterina’s letter within the hour. Borgia would be angry, but he would not kill a woman, according to everyone in Rome. That night, I lay my head upon the pillow, greatly relieved that I should no longer have to be party to clandestine meetings with the Spanish cardinal.

My relief lasted only one day.

The following morning, I awoke before dawn to the sound of Caterina retching in the basin left for that specific purpose on her night table. I roused one of the chambermaids sleeping across the hall, and sent her to fetch bread and salt. Caterina continued to heave for a good half hour, by which time she was exhausted. I washed her face and hands and helped her change into a clean dressing gown, then propped her up in her bed, where she remained, nibbling tentatively on the salted bread.

The sun rose on a blistering, humid morning, one that Girolamo, who despised Roman summers, was still spending in the more forgiving clime of the Romagna countryside. Not an hour later, one of the guards at the door called at Caterina’s bedchamber door to announce that Cardinal Borgia had arrived and was quite determined to see her.

“Send him away,” Caterina groaned. “I’m ill. Tell him I will accept a letter from him, but I cannot meet him in person. And if he will not go, notify my bodyguards that he should be removed, forcibly if necessary, from the grounds.”

The effort of speaking made her queasy, and I laid a damp, cool washcloth upon her forehead as the servant replied, “Yes, Your Illustrious Highness.”

He had barely spoken before we heard a disturbance out in the corridor: The servant was arguing with another man; sounds of a slight physical scuffle entailed.

Suddenly, the door swung open and Rodrigo Borgia appeared upon the threshold. With his right hand, he held off the slighter, shorter servant with ease. As the smaller man vainly swung his fists at Borgia, the cardinal gazed intently at Caterina. His coldly composed features could not entirely hide his rage, revealed by the taut, faintly twitching skin just beneath his narrowed eyes.

“Forgive my rudeness,” he said to Caterina. “But this matter requires me to be bold.”

“Stop,” Caterina ordered the servant, who dropped his fists, at which point Borgia released his hold.

“You can go,” Caterina told the red-faced servant. “Only remember what I asked for.”

The servant bowed and ran off. Borgia entered the bedchamber and nodded at me. “She must leave, too.”

Caterina replied defiantly, “She will stay! You cannot barge into a lady’s bedchamber and insist on speaking to her alone. Besides, I told you I was ill.”

Borgia loomed over Caterina, and stooped to bring his face down to her level as his large hands clutched the edge of the mattress. I stayed beside my mistress and put my arms upon her shoulders.

“You have played me for a fool, Madonna,” he whispered hoarsely. “Such a deceitful little creature you are! I thought you actually cared for me.”

Caterina scowled obstinately at him, but her answer was unexpectedly soft.

“I
do
care for you, Rodrigo. I admire your brilliance and ambition. I thought you realized that you were dealing with someone like you.”

He straightened and moved a step back. “You do flatter yourself, my dear. How did you expect me to react to your flagrant deception?”

Caterina’s tone turned coy. “What deception?”

Borgia caught hold of Caterina’s forearm. “Give me the vial,” he warned.

“Let go of me,” she snarled.

“I trusted you with my greatest secret,” Borgia said, “and you have betrayed me.”

He shoved me backward; I lost my hold of Caterina, and struck the wall with my back. With the other arm, he jerked Caterina from the bed. Her bare feet became tangled in the bedding; she fell to the floor on her knees, vomiting on the way down, and splattering the front of his garment.

Borgia recoiled, startled but not squeamish. He made way as I rushed to the kneeling Caterina’s side and held her hair back as she retched again, this time onto a fine Persian carpet she had brought from Milan.

“She
is
pregnant, isn’t she?” he asked in wonder, his tone suddenly gentle.

I nodded. To my amazement, he fetched the basin from her night table, and brought a towel so that I could clean her face.

Angered, Caterina pushed away the towel. “I did not lie about that!” she gasped, and pushed herself into a sitting position. “Or about my admiration for you. I swear I will not harm you—but I must protect myself. I’m going to have a child, who may or may not be yours.”

Together, Borgia and I helped her back onto her bed.

She sighed as she closed her eyes and lay back upon the pillows. “I thought at first I had eaten something that disagreed with me. But now there is no doubt that I am with child. I cannot carry out our plan now. I cannot jeopardize the baby. He will need a father to take care of him.”

“If it is mine,” Borgia responded urgently, “then we will know when he is born and grows old enough to favor his sire. And if it
is
mine, Caterina, I will find a way to raise him as my own.”

The sound of rapid, heavy footfall on the distant stairs made him lift his face to listen; the guards were coming. Quickly, he added, “I will not harm you, and if you give birth to my child, we will talk again, most seriously. But if it is
not
my child, hear my promise: the day will come when I seek recompense for what you have taken from me. And should you ever share it with another . . . You will deeply regret what you have done.”

The guards arrived and knocked upon the door; Caterina called for them to enter. A trio of armed men escorted Borgia out of the palazzo, “with full courtesy,” as Caterina demanded.

Once more, I was relieved to be rid of Rodrigo Borgia—but again, the respite would be only temporary.

Summer gave way to a temperate autumn, followed by a winter so sunny and mild that I swore I would never spend another winter in Milan. Girolamo returned from “military business” in the Romagna just in time to enjoy the improved weather. Caterina’s morning sickness eased after another month, by which time her pregnancy showed, and she demurely announced to Girolamo that, God willing, she would give birth to his son in the spring. He received the news with only a bit of suspicion, which soon wore off as he considered the advantages of having an heir to pursue the family interests. Eventually he became quite indulgent of Caterina, for she wisely gave up her social life and stayed at home, entertaining no one save those pertinent to Girolamo’s political interests, which included Girolamo’s disapproving cousin, the powerful and wealthy Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere.

As for me, I spent my days attending my increasingly cross and bored mistress. Over the months, as the trauma of Matteo’s violent death eased again, I found it easier to smile and speak briefly to Luca, the scribe, when he went out of his way to encounter me.

Our first Christmas in Rome passed with such pageantry and pomp that Caterina survived the gloominess that overtook her with the season, as her father had been murdered only one year ago during the holidays.

At last, the New Year, 1478, arrived. In March, Caterina’s first child was born: a daughter, whom she named Bianca after Duke Galeazzo’s iron-willed mother. Fortunately, Bianca arrived a month late by our calculations, enough to convince Girolamo (and Caterina) that she was his daughter.

Caterina had borne the pains of labor with amazing courage for a first-time mother; to everyone’s relief, the child was well-positioned and the birth an easy one. In the moments after Bianca emerged from the womb, the midwife cleaned the baby, swaddled it, and laid it on the chest of its exhausted mother, in hopes that it would suckle.

Caterina stared down at it. “It
is
a boy, isn’t it?” she demanded of the midwife, who shook her head.

“It’s a girl, Madonna, but such a beautiful girl! Ser Girolamo will still be pleased.”

Caterina turned her face away from the baby. “Take it to the nursemaid,” she said flatly.

I reached for the baby first, and scooped her up. She was beet-faced and misshapen from the trauma of birth, so that her features gave no hint as to her paternity. She had been born with a surprisingly thick tuft of hair, dark gold like her mother’s, although, to my and Caterina’s giddy relief, it was wavy, not tightly curly.

After an initial fit of squawling, she quieted in my arms. It was I who took her to the nursemaid, at Caterina’s insistence, and I who visited the nursery three times a day to hold her and coo to her in the months that followed. Unlike her mother, the child had a sweet, quiet disposition.

Caterina’s total lack of interest in the child disgusted me, especially when I considered that, although he had been unable to attend the christening, Rodrigo Borgia sent the baby a pair of tiny ruby earrings and a beautifully engraved silver rattle.