The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (22 page)

Seeing me, he paused. I kept my head high and met his scrutiny without flinching. I had no doubt that he was looking for any sign of weakness in the aftermath of what had happened. If I showed the smallest glimmer of self-doubt, his confidence in me would be weakened and my own fate made all the more uncertain for that. Truly, it helped to have a friend at my side.

At last, his gaze shifted to Mother Benedette. “Who would this be?” he inquired.

“Your Holiness, may I have the honor to present to you Mother Benedette, abbess of the Convent of Saint Clare in Anzio.”

Borgia extended his hand. With a look of reverence, Mother Benedette took it and pressed her lips to the papal ring. “Your Holiness,” she murmured.

Staring over her bent head at me, the Vicar of Christ raised a brow in inquiry.

“Mother Benedette and my mother were dear friends.”

I watched him as I spoke, curious to see how he would react. It defied credulity that he would have hired my father in the ultrasensitive post of poisoner without investigating him thoroughly first. I wondered how long he had known the truth about my mother’s fate and whether he had ever intended to tell me.

“I remember Francesca so well from when she was very small,” the abbess said. “It is the blessing of God that I have found her again.”

Before Borgia could reply, I added, “I hope you will not mind, Your Holiness, but I have asked Mother Benedette to stay with me here in the palazzo for a time so that she and I may become better acquainted.”

His look of surprise was gratifying, so rarely did it occur, but I knew it would not last. Quickly enough, he assessed the situation and came to his own conclusions regarding the abbess.

“You are more than welcome, Mother Benedette,” Il Papa said with a warmth rarely seen in him. “I am certain that Francesca will benefit from your presence here.” Belatedly, he added, “So shall we all.”

As the abbess murmured something about His Holiness’s great kindness and generosity, Borgia bent closer. Softly, so that only I could hear him, he said, “Nicely played. It appears that you have Herrera in check.”

By which I concluded that I was still in His Holiness’s good graces.

When he had passed on, Mother Benedette smiled, apparently not at all overwhelmed by her sudden encounter with Christ’s Vicar. “Quite an impressive man. I can see that you have your hands full protecting him.”

“It can be challenging,” I allowed. “Perhaps you would like to see the kitchens next?” The more people who saw us out and about together, the more quickly news of my warm relationship with the abbess would spread. And the more quickly Herrera’s campaign to slander me would be undone.

“I would like nothing better,” Mother Benedette said, and took my arm.

22

Renaldo leaned back in his chair, folded his arms behind his head, and gazed up at the ceiling. Deep in thought, he asked, “Mother Benedette has been here how long? Two days?”

Seated across from him in his office, sipping a very decent burgundy he had offered with no apology for its being French, I replied, “About that.”

He nodded. “Thus far all of the following is being said with great authority: She received a visitation from Saint Clare, who told her to come to you. Alternatively, His Holiness sent for her because he fears for the state of your soul. Or you sent for her because you fear for the state of His Holiness’s soul. Or you received a visitation from Saint Clare or Saint Mary Magdalene or the Devil—there is some disagreement about which—and you sent for her for the sake of your own soul.”

I swallowed half the burgundy and said, “The rumormongers have been even busier than usual.” I strongly suspected that I was speaking to one of them, but I didn’t fault Renaldo’s intentions.

“They have,” he agreed. “The best part is that Herrera and the other Spaniards are enraged but stymied. They’re convinced this is a trick of some sort, but they can’t decide how you’ve managed it.”

“I’m surprised they aren’t suggesting that, as a servant of the Devil, I didn’t just conjure Mother Benedette.”

“They would if they could, but she is just so … genuine. That homespun habit of hers, the wooden rosary, the aura of sanctity that shines all around her…”

“Really? Aura of sanctity?” I liked Mother Benedette well enough, but I saw no halo on her.

“Oh, yes, definitely. I think we should make frequent references to that whenever we speak of her.”

“You’re seriously suggesting that we—?”

“Look at the facts, Donna Francesca. She arrives in Viterbo, seemingly from nowhere, in the midst of great danger and upheaval. She appeals to you directly, and really, who has more power to preserve the life of His Holiness than you?”

“Vittoro … the pope’s personal army … all the mercenaries he has hired … his own incessant but usually brilliant scheming…”

Renaldo brushed all that aside as though it was of no consequence. “I am speaking in a more spiritual sense, touching on the eternal battle between good and evil, which surely you personify. She arrives, but she doesn’t seek out the Spaniards or His Holiness or anyone except you, a woman like Mary Magdalene herself, tainted by all sorts of aspersions on her character. And what do you do? Like Lot in Sodom, you take her in. You give her refuge and you listen to her wise counsel.”

“Lot’s wife ended up a pillar of salt, didn’t she? And isn’t there something about him lying with his own daughters?”

“Details, nothing more. My point is—
the
point is—our Lord has reached out to succor and protect His Holiness despite Borgia’s personal weaknesses and in the face of all his enemies. Moreover, He has chosen you as the instrument of His divine will.”

“You’re drunk.” And rather adorably so. Renaldo and I had retired to his office after dinner in the great hall, which we had both observed from the sidelines in our respective roles as steward and poisoner. Mother Benedette, on the other hand, had dined in good company, having been invited to sit next to Lucrezia, who showed her much kind attention. She had since retired, leaving the court agog over her presence.

“I am inspired,” Renaldo corrected. “And I am also drunk, but that is only because I don’t normally drink enough to not be drunk now.”

“I see. Did you really say that I personify the struggle between good and evil?”

“I did, and you do. Whatever the Spaniards are putting about, we both know that you are a fundamentally good person. Yet you have chosen an occupation that assures you will be called upon to kill.”

“I did not choose it. It chose me. My father’s death left me no alternative.” So did I justify my actions to myself and anyone else who cared to listen, including God.

“Yes, I know. As a lone woman, you had no means of avenging his murder, but as Borgia’s poisoner—” He shrugged, leaving unsaid what we both knew: that I had so far failed to bring his murderer to justice precisely because of the responsibilities that came with the power that I had gone to such pains to acquire.

“Was not Joan of Arc sent by Almighty God to make Charles the Seventh king of all France?” Renaldo asked.

With no idea why we were suddenly discussing the Maid of Orleans, I countered, “Was she not burned at the stake for her pains?”

“Only because she fell into the hands of Charles’s enemies. I am not suggesting for a moment that we let the same happen to Mother Benedette; although, frankly, having a martyr on our side wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

I didn’t take him seriously … at least not entirely. “Just so long as it isn’t me. Can you imagine centuries from now, good Christians praying to Saint Francesca of the Poisoned Chalice or some such? Truly, I fear for the fate of our Holy Mother were that ever to come to pass.”

Renaldo choked on his wine, spewed a quantity out his nose, and fell back in his chair. “You don’t worry about Hell at all, do you?”

I thought of what I had seen in Tanners Lane. “Has it ever occurred to you that we are already there?”

He considered the possibility. “That would explain quite a lot. So what do you think? We put it about that Mother Benedette—maybe we should hint that she’s actually an angel disguised as a humble abbess—that her presence is proof that God loves Borgia. Give him a cloak of sanctity, as it were, over his nakedness. Heaven knows he could use it.”

“And people say I’m evil.” I meant it as a compliment, as I was sure he would know.

“People have only ever said that I’m a little man obsessed with his ledgers. I wouldn’t mind being thought of as rather more than that.”

“All right, then; but no martyring. When this is all said and done, Mother Benedette goes back to her abbey in Anzio without ever being the wiser as to how we have used her.”

“Fair enough. I’ll put a word in the right ears. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt if you showed yourself at Mass with her. The weather is bidding fair, so we shouldn’t have to worry about any lightning strikes.”

I thought of what had happened to Borgia’s office in the Vatican and grinned. “If I must be damned, Renaldo, I am grateful to be in such good company.”

He was fairly beaming when I departed a short time later. It was by then the deep part of the night, when all the world seems hushed and expectant. Holy Mother Church is said to spend such hours in vigil, awaiting the return of her bridegroom, Christ. Accordingly, the monks were at prayer in the chapel as I walked by. The flowing cadence of their voices as they chanted the office of matins was a balm to the jagged edges of my spirit. I paused for a few moments to listen before going on to my rooms.

Having had almost no sleep now for a second night, I forced myself to lie down on the bed. Sofia’s powder beckoned, and—after wrestling briefly with my better sense—I took most of what remained of it. When next I opened my eyes, it was morning.

Having dressed hurriedly, I went in search of Mother Benedette, finding her about to depart for morning services.

“There you are, dear,” she said. “I hope you slept well?”

“I did, yes.” Remembering Renaldo’s suggestion, I added, “Would you mind if I accompany you?”

“On the contrary; I would be delighted.”

We proceeded to the chapel, where, to my surprise, there was a far larger crowd than was usual. Seeing the steward, who appeared no worse for his excesses of the night before, I asked, “Isn’t it early for so many to be up and about, much less in the mood for prayer?”

Renaldo inclined his head to Mother Benedette, bestowed a smile on me, and said, “His Holiness has sent word that he will conduct Mass this morning.”

The rarity of that event and the curiosity it naturally provoked explained the crowd. But it gave no hint of what Borgia was thinking. Although technically he had taken holy orders decades before—a dozen years after becoming a cardinal—and was therefore required to say Mass daily, he had not done so in several months. Indeed, I wasn’t entirely sure when he had last attended Mass. In Rome, he enjoyed visiting the Sistine Chapel, adorned with magnificent frescoes by Ghirlandaio, Botticelli, Perugino, and Cosimo Rosselli depicting the lives of Moses and of Christ, but he went there at odd hours, when no services were under way. Rumor had it that he had his eye on the vast ceiling with the thought of commissioning a great work for it. However, the funding to do so continued to elude him. As for the adjacent Saint Peter’s Basilica with its overall air of dilapidation, to the best of my knowledge His Holiness had not set foot there since the roof had almost quite literally come down on his head a few months before.

“Someone will be on hand in case his memory is rusty?” I asked.

Renaldo rolled his eyes. “We can only hope. Come, let’s get a good seat.”

In honor of His Holiness’s presence and to accommodate all the dignitaries, benches were set up in the chapel. Renaldo had secured us places not far from the altar. We had an excellent view of Borgia as he processed to it, resplendent in his red and gold vestments, with the magnificent three-tiered jeweled crown that symbolized the papacy on his head. It was well understood that Il Papa had brought an immense amount of portable wealth from the papal treasury with him to Viterbo, but the sight of the triple crown sent a ripple through the crowd. Everyone loves a show, and Borgia seemed intent on providing one.

He got down to business forthwith and proceeded fluidly, never once pausing or tripping. So expert was his performance that an uninformed observer could have been forgiven for believing that he said Mass daily. The Latin rolled smoothly from his tongue, but, it must be said, it lacked grace. I had heard Renaldo read lines of figures with more feeling than Borgia brought to the mystical transformation of bread and wine into the body and blood of our Savior.

Never mind; he got through it well enough. Steeling myself, I joined the others in the line wending toward the altar. Despite my occasional tendency to shed blood with wanton abandon, I have a strong aversion to it, no doubt the result of what I had experienced as a child. Until recently, the taking of Communion had been a trial for me, but I had decided in the privacy of my own mind that wine was wine and no amount of prayer would ever make it blood. That is heresy, of course, but it was also a comfort to me. Naturally, I can understand why the Church punishes such thinking. The moment people begin to decide for themselves what they believe, it will not be merely Saint Peter’s roof that crumbles.

With the Mass over, we exited the chapel. I was about to ask Mother Benedette if she would like to accompany me on my rounds when I became aware of nervous glances being thrown in our direction. A quick look over my shoulder told me why. Herrera, somber in the black velvet and silver that the Spaniards seemed to favor, was cutting a path toward us. Mindful of my last encounter with him, I resolved to restrain myself.

Coming to a halt in front of me, he ignored the abbess and said, “Do not think for a moment that you are fooling anyone,
bruja.
I know what you did, God knows, and soon everyone will know.”

At once, I flinched. “Witch” was “witch,” regardless of what language it was uttered in, Italian or Castilian. It required no great leap of imagination to understand that he was accusing me of killing his servant, as was rumored in the town. If I failed to respond, I would be acceding to my own guilt. A movement to the side momentarily distracted me. Cesare stood a little apart, watching us. I had not noticed him in the chapel, but that was no surprise. He had even less love for the trappings of faith than did his father, and less tolerance for them.

Because I had no other choice, I said, “Be so good as to enlighten me, signore. What exactly is it that you think I have done?”

“You have surrendered your soul to the Devil himself! You do his bidding in a frenzy, like the ancient Bacchae who tore men apart in their madness. And like them you will descend into Hell and be condemned through all eternity.”

Herrera’s tirade did not surprise me; I understood full well that fear of what I could reveal about him was added to his genuine dislike for me, creating a vitriolic mixture. But he had managed to shock Mother Benedette.

Before I could even think to stop her, she blurted out, “Signore, you abuse a young woman who desires only to preserve the safety and well-being of Our Holy Father. Surely you wish the same?”

Her audacity took me aback, but no one was more astonished than Herrera himself. He stared at her down the long blade of his nose. “If you are a woman of faith, as you claim, you should separate yourself from this … this
thing
with all speed.”

I waited, thinking that she would be cowed by him. He was, after all, a powerful man, well accustomed to intimidating lesser mortals. But Mother Benedette did not so much as flinch. With perfect calm, she said, “God does not send us into the fire to warm our bones. He sends us there to test us. I will not abandon a soul in need.”

The Spaniard stared at her in bewilderment. Clearly, he had no notion of how to deal with a woman of genuine sanctity. Cesare took advantage of his confusion and stepped up smoothly. A word in Herrera’s ear, a hand on his arm, and he was drawing him away.

Mother Benedette and I continued on. Very shortly, I became aware that she was muttering under her breath. At first I thought she was praying, but it quickly became obvious that she was not.