Sins of the House of Borgia (16 page)

“I don’t know, madonna. Perhaps that you must do your best to make sure your marriage is established on strong foundations.”

“I fear it was both less simple and more perspicacious,” she said, looking away into the darkness beyond the intersecting circles of light cast by our candles. Snapping the lid of the casket shut, she turned back to me with the air of someone who has come to a decision. “And if I am right, then she is right; I must always have regard to the foundations. It is what…it is…Violante…” Still clutching the box to her breast with one hand, she reached out to me with the other and grasped the sleeve of my nightgown. “Whatever happens in the future, we must remember that underneath all this, the new decorations, the fine furniture, the music and what have you, in that dungeon, there are those two lovers.”

I shivered.

“No, no, no, I don’t mean it that way. Not ghosts. Love. The power of love. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I understood nothing; when I look back now, I can scarcely credit my ignorance, nor imagine what I would have done with the burden of understanding. My head ached with cold and bewilderment. All I wanted was for this interview to be over so I could climb into bed beside Angela and warm my feet between her smooth calves. “Let me help you back to bed, madonna.”

“Very well, but blow out the candles. In case he’s having me watched.”

“Shall I take this? Where would you like me to put it?” I placed a hand on the casket, but she merely tightened her grip upon it.

“It’s all right; I’ll see to it myself. But Violante?”

“Yes, madonna.”

“If anything should happen to me, you must be sure and give this to Cesare. He will know why.” She paused, her mouth working as if she could not decide whether to speak or keep the words dammed up inside. “My whole life is in this little box,” she said eventually, then yawned as though saying these words had cost her all the energy she had left. I did not know how to reply, so blew out the candles as she had insisted, and led her back to her bed chamber, barking my shins and elbows on door jambs, chair legs, the corners of tables. It was as though the room had completely rearranged itself under cover of darkness.

Suddenly she let go of my hand and said, “Catherinella will take care of me now. She can see in the dark.” Only then was I aware of the slave’s presence, her steady, regular breathing, the whites of her eyes gleaming in some light whose source I could not determine, the whisper of her bare feet as she moved across the room towards her mistress, sure as a cat.

Unable even to find my candle where I had left it in the dressing room, I blundered back to bed. I did not get into Angela’s bed because I did not want to wake her and have to tell her about my conversation with Donna Lucrezia. Instead, I lay shivering, wondering if she had fallen prey to some sickness of the mind, yet even more afraid that she had not. I never mentioned our exchange to anyone, and when we went in to dress her next morning, and, over our wine and hot water and fresh white rolls, to gossip about the day to come, we both behaved as though it had never taken place.

***

Just before the beginning of Holy Week, Ippolito arrived from Rome with a baggage train almost as long as that which had accompanied us to Ferrara. Watching with me from the balcony of the Camera Dal Pozzolo where we were accustomed to sew and gossip when Donna Lucrezia had no official function to perform, Angela sprang up and down on the balls of her feet like a little girl, clapping her hands and squealing with delight at the prospect of presents from Ippolito. It took nearly an hour for his procession of mules, carriages, ox-carts, and boxes balanced like tabernacles on carrying poles, to make its way through the piazza.

By this time, Ippolito had joined us on our balcony, having been told his father was out hunting in the Barco, and preferring our company to that of his brothers. Angela rushed across the room with the force of a small tornado as he was announced, flinging herself into his arms so he staggered a little, a dazed smile spreading across his face. Angela had obviously decided that, having survived the latest cull of madonna’s household, which had seen both Cousin Geronima and Donna Adriana return to Rome in the company of Cesare’s gentlemen, her position in Ferrara was now strong enough to throw discretion to the winds.

Or perhaps she had some other reason for her display of affection. Her silence on the subject of Giulio was not, I was certain, a result of any lack of interest on his part. Though I had never seen them alone together, I had noticed how often he contrived to sit near her at Mass, how he always seemed to be on hand to tighten a girth for her, or pick up a dropped book, or re-string her lute when she complained her fingers were too sore from playing. Their conversation was never more than ordinarily polite, but the discourse between their two bodies struck a different note entirely. But if they had not reached any understanding, Angela would not want to forfeit her cardinal’s affection.

“Well,” said Ippolito, “what a welcome. Tell me, where is your lady? I must chide her instantly for the lack of decorum among her women.” His voice trembled slightly with surprise and delight, and I was sorry for him. More than that, I felt a sense of foreboding, an urge to warn him of something though I had no idea what. It was as though time stopped for a second, and the way certain things become visible at dawn or dusk, in unaccustomed guises, I saw behind the decorated walls, below the rich rugs and polished floor, the savagery of this old castle. Trapped in its red stones was the pain of all the tortured prisoners, abused slaves, humiliated opponents, discarded lovers, the wives dead in childbirth, infants taken by fevers, the soldiers and fratricides and faithful retainers whose bodies bent to the service of the Este as a tree bends to the prevailing wind.

“My dear goddaughter. Are you well? You look a little…absent. Not the wine again, I trust?” I was condemned to be embarrassed afresh every time Ippolito and I met, but I concealed my irritation. He meant no unkindness by it; on the contrary, he made a joke of it so I would understand I was pardoned.

“Oh, it is her heart that is sick, not her stomach,” teased Angela, her arm through Ippolito’s, her skirt entwined in the folds of his soutane.

“Still? Well, I may have a remedy for that,” he said, patting a leather scrip which hung from his belt, “but first, I must see my sister, Donna Lucrezia. Where is she? Don’t tell me she’s out hunting too.”

“No this morning, she’s in bed. She could not keep her breakfast down. We think she’s…” Angela made a little dome over her belly with her free hand and, putting her mouth close to Ippolito’s ear, whispered, “
enceinte.
”

“Well, that is good news. And so quickly. Clearly my brother has been assiduous in his duty.”

“Oh, assiduous,” Angela repeated, spinning out the vowels and sibilants as though the word were Eve’s serpent uncoiling from her lovely mouth.

A remedy, I thought, staring at Ippolito’s scrip. A letter, it must be, a letter from Cesare. But why not give it to me? Why must he see Lucrezia first? I could not bear to wait while he loitered with his mistress, sharing her lascivious jokes and teasing me about my poor head for wine.

“I will go and see if she is fit to receive you,” I said, rising in such haste the collar I was embroidering slipped from my lap in a tangle of needles and different coloured threads. I could hear Angela laughing as I hurried towards the door.

There was something instantly calming about the bed chamber, despite the faint odour of vomit and stale bedlinen hanging in the air. The bed curtains had been drawn back, though the windows remained covered, giving the light which filtered through the green silk drapery a cool, underwater quality. I thought Donna Lucrezia, her hair unbound and spread over her pillows, looked like a mermaid. Catherinella stood at the bedside, fanning her mistress with slow sweeps of a paddle-shaped palm fan. Fonsi lay in the crook of Donna Lucrezia’s arm, snoring gently.

“How are you feeling, madonna?”

She waved a limp hand and Catherinella stopped fanning.

“Would you like me to uncover the windows? The air is rather stale in here and it’s a lovely morning outside.”

Frowning, she shook her head. “I have such a headache, Violante.” Her voice was plaintive and girlish.

“Madam is sick so often it strains her here.” Catherinella put her free hand to the back of her neck.

I made a sympathetic hum in the back of my throat, but persisted. “I have news I hope may cheer you, madonna. Cardinal Ippolito has arrived with letters from Rome. He would like to see you.” My hearty tone reminded me of Sister Beatrice who used to supervise us playing ball games at Santa Clara.

“I wondered what the commotion was.” Donna Lucrezia smiled, and I fancied her cheeks began to show a little better colour. “I suppose he has travelled as light as ever?”

“I imagine the end of his train is not yet through the city gate, madonna.” We laughed. Fonsi awoke and began to wag his tiny plume of a tail.

“Well,” said Donna Lucrezia, pulling herself up a little against the pillows, “I’m sure I cannot be sick again this morning. There is not even a drop of water left in my stomach, I’m certain.”

“It is a good sign, though.” I took my cue from her hint that her sickness was confined to mornings.

“Let us hope so, my dear.” Clearly that was all she would have to say on the matter for now. “Catherinella, fetch me fresh water for washing, and inform Monsignor the cardinal I will be ready to see him in half an hour.” I raised my eyebrows; madonna was notoriously slow about her toilette.

“Make that an hour, Catherinella. I’m sure he can find enough to occupy himself until then.”

An hour, another hour. “Shall I take the dog out, madonna?”

“No, stay with me and help me get ready. Let in some light. I shall need more than this to make myself respectable. And read my letters.”

It was easier to speak frankly with my back to her. As I tied back the drapery, letting my gaze follow the swoop and dart of a swallow in the clear, pale sky above the glitter of the moat in the light breeze, I said, “His Eminence gave me to believe he might have a letter for me also.” I heard the rustle of linen and the swish of silk, and a soft thud as madonna shifted her position and the dog jumped to the floor.

“From Duke Valentino?” Her voice was warm with affection, whether for him or me I could not tell. Donna Lucrezia pushed back the bedclothes and swung her legs to the floor. Her calves, I noticed, were in need of depilation, but I doubted she would be able to stand the pain of the hot wax in her present condition. Besides, if she truly were pregnant, Don Alfonso would be obliged to seek his pleasures elsewhere until his wife was delivered and churched, so her intimate appearance would not matter so much.

“Yes.” My father and brothers did not write to me, my father believing I could only hope for complete assimilation into a Christian household by severing all my ties with my origins. My friends, Battista and Isotta, had promised to write in the extravagant grief of parting, and perhaps they would.

“I hope he has written,” said Donna Lucrezia, patting my hand as I approached her to help her to her feet.

She decided she had not the energy to dress, but received Ippolito sitting in a chair in a wrap of violet velvet, her bare feet thrust into matching slippers in the Turkish style, her hair arranged in a loose plait over one shoulder. I waited in such tension while they exchanged pleasantries about madonna’s health and Ippolito’s journey I could hardly keep my feet still. What a waste of time the high art of conversation can sometimes seem.

Finally, madonna had mercy on me and said, “You have letters for me?”

“Yes.” Ippolito unfastened his satchel and withdrew a bundle of parchments, their seals dangling like clusters of bright, wax fruit. “From His Holiness, who is still prone to weep every time your name is mentioned and chides you for not writing to him every day. And this from Madonna Giulia. From your noble mother.”

Madonna frowned at her mother’s letter and put it down on the floor beside her chair.

“And these from your illustrious brother.”

The bundle contained three letters. Donna Lucrezia fanned them out as if they were a hand at cards, withdrew one, and held it out to me. “I think this is what you have been waiting for, Violante.”

“Thank you, madonna.” It took all my will to prevent myself from snatching it up and running from the room. I slipped it into a pocket in my skirt where one stiff corner of the parchment grazed my leg each time I moved.

“You may read it,” said madonna.

“Thank you, madonna, but I…I would like to wait.”

“I think Fonsi would like to be taken out now.” The dog was indeed snuffling about the edges of the room as though looking for somewhere to relieve itself. “Perhaps you had better take him before he disgraces himself in front of the cardinal. Send Donna Angela to me on your way out.”

“Thank you, madonna.” Gathering Fonsi in my arms and forgetting to curtsey, I fairly flew from the room, feet slipping on the stair edges as I whirled down to the floor below, stuck my head through the door of the Camera Dal Pozzolo to summon Angela to wait on madonna, then continued down to the garden.

Even here, however, there was little peace to be had. Don Alfonso had begun a renovation of the bathhouse originally built for his mother, and everywhere there were workmen, whistling and calling to one another as they barrowed loads of stone along catwalks or mixed their sharp smelling quicklime in great leather buckets. Ignoring their teasing, I hurried on to the vine walk, where I sat on one of the marble benches arranged at intervals along it.