The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (23 page)

“Dreadful man,” she said. “Absolutely dreadful.”

Her anger in the aftermath of her calm reproach of Herrera left me at a loss for words. “Indeed.” A bit lamely, I added, “There is more to him than may appear. For instance, I have it on good report that he is a gifted architect.”

The abbess looked at me as though I were daft. “How could that possibly matter? He wants to do you harm, and I, for one, am not inclined to let him. All the same, I will fast in repentance for my wicked thoughts. But you must eat; you will need all your strength to deal with him.”

I realized just then that I was hungry, but I had no wish to eat alone. After a bit of cajoling, Mother Benedette agreed to postpone her fast and join me. We breakfasted in my rooms, sharing a loaf of still-warm semolina, a soft Ligurian cheese, and a handful of hard-cooked eggs sliced and seasoned with thyme. I also enjoyed a few slices of
culatello,
the ham that is soaked in wine until it emerges rosy red, but the abbess refrained from eating meat. With the servants come and gone, we were free to speak.

Nibbling on a slice of egg, Mother Benedette said, “I had no real understanding of what you are facing here until this morning. How do you bear it?”

The question took me unawares. I had not thought in terms of having a choice.

“His Holiness must be protected. I do what I can.”

“But that man, Herrera, is doing everything he can to undermine you. To think that he is the nephew of Their Most Catholic Majesties. Are they blind to the vileness of his character?”

“They must think well enough of him, since he is their emissary. The unfortunate fact is that without his support, the Spanish alliance might well collapse.”

“Surely that does not matter now with the French—”

“I would not put too much store in that.”

Mother Benedette’s gaze sharpened. “Would you not? Well, then, what if the alliance with the Spaniards did come to an end? What would happen?”

I hesitated. The temptation to unburden myself to my mother’s friend—now mine—was very great, but so, too, was the habit of silence.

When I did not answer at once, she took a bit more cheese and said, “You do not have to discuss such matters with me, of course. I understand completely. The problem is that you don’t know whom to trust, and whom can blame you for that, given the world that you live in? Only know that you can speak to me in perfect confidence. I will never share what you say with anyone, and even though I am only a simple abbess, it is possible that fresh ears and eyes might help you see more clearly.”

She was right, of course. And I was in desperate need of sage counsel. Slowly, I said, “Herrera may be the target of an assassin who has been sent to Viterbo.”

Mother Benedette laid down her knife. She looked at me closely. “And you are charged with protecting him? What a conundrum for you. You must preserve the life of a man who would be happy to take yours.”

I nodded. “It doesn’t help that I killed two of his men, no matter how provoked I was. Or that when I tried to investigate the death of his servant, the only witness to that killing also died.”

The abbess shook her head slowly. “Truly, you are beset with difficulties. But this is not the time to lose faith. On the contrary, you must cling to it as never before.”

“In all honesty, my faith has never been that strong.”

“I am sorry to hear that, but I do understand it. You were forced to confront evil at a very young age. It is no wonder that you are filled with doubt regarding spiritual matters.”

“It is true that I have struggled to understand why a loving God who is all powerful permits such cruelties to afflict us,” I admitted. Indeed, I had studied the matter at some length, seeking wisdom in learned texts. Unfortunately, I had yet to find it. “Saint Augustine claimed that evil is nothing more than the absence of good, but to be very frank, that seems too convenient an explanation.”

The abbess did not appear to be offended by my candor, but neither did she seem impressed by the saint’s conclusions. “Augustine was a clever man,” she said. “There is no doubt of that. But there is another explanation. This world of physical existence and material obsession is inherently evil. Goodness is to be found solely in the spiritual realm. From there comes the divine light that exists in all of us and gives us our only hope of redemption.”

The notion was provocative, but it also seemed somehow familiar. I had encountered a similar idea—no, exactly that idea—elsewhere. Yet within Holy Mother Church, Augustine was regarded as the absolute authority on the nature of evil. His teachings left no room for different interpretations, much less one that suggested that God’s Creation was evil in and of itself. Where then had I…?

Abruptly, I remembered. The Mysterium Mundi beneath the Vatican, that secret repository of forbidden knowledge to which Borgia had reluctantly given me access when I had threatened to leave his employ a few months before. I had barely begun to explore the richness of what it contained, but though my interests lay primarily in the realm of natural philosophy and alchemy, documents touching on entirely different matters had compelled my attention. Although I was well aware of the great schism that had torn the Church apart for decades, and from which our Holy Mother was still healing, I had known nothing of earlier challenges to the rule of Rome. Most particularly, I had never heard of the Cathars until I encountered their sacred texts preserved in the hidden chamber beneath the papal palace.

It was the Cathars who believed that this world was evil by its very nature. According to them, we dwelled not in the creation of a loving God, as the Church taught, but in the kingdom of Satan. God existed, but He was entirely separate in a realm of purity and light vastly beyond the physical world. No priesthood was needed in order to reach Him; to the contrary, His truth was available to every man and woman with the grace to seek it. As for the Church, its material wealth and opulence was all the proof needed that it served not God, as it claimed, but Satan.

Not surprisingly, Holy Mother Church had repressed the Cathars with fire and sword. But their writings had been preserved against the day when the threat they represented might reappear. So far as I knew, all mention of them had been purged from the ordinary discourse of the faithful. Mother Benedette could not possibly know that she was repeating heresy.

“An interesting view,” I said carefully.

“Of no real consequence,” the abbess said. “My point is that evil is a potent force. We can sit around debating its nature or we can come to grips with preventing its worse effects.”

“And how,” I ventured, “might we do that?”

She was silent for a moment before she said, “Herrera will not let you protect him. To the contrary; he will do everything to hold you at bay. I, on the other hand, can win his confidence.”

“But you despise him. You said so yourself.”

“That is not important. I will put aside my personal feelings in the interest of helping you.”

As much as I hated to impose on her any more than I was already, the fact remained that I was stymied when it came to the Spaniard. His opinion of me—from whatever source it sprang—made it impossible for me to protect him adequately. Moreover, I was concerned that David might be unable, or unwilling, to do so.

“You actually think that you can get close enough to him to see a threat if it comes?”

“Do you have a better alternative?”

Honesty forced me to admit that I did not. But I did say, “If you intend to befriend him, he will expect you to repudiate me.”

“I will never do that,” the abbess said emphatically. “But he must have some chink, some weakness, that will help me to reach him.”

“He … admires Cesare. But he knows that His Eminence and I are—” I broke off, reluctant to shock her.

But apparently Mother Benedette understood me—and the ways of the world—better than I knew. “Then I will tell him that I am working to persuade you that your relationship with a prince of Holy Mother Church is wrong and that, for the sake of both your souls, you should withdraw to a convent.”

The notion of my poor self taking holy vows was ludicrous … and yet as a ploy it had much to recommend it. “Do you really think you can convince him of that?”

She shrugged as though the answer were self-evident. With certainty that I could only envy, she said, “People will always believe what they want to believe.”

23

Two days passed. In all my public encounters with the abbess, I endeavored to appear solemn and thoughtful as befitted someone coming to terms with her own sinfulness. Privately, I vacillated between concern and relief. On the one hand, Herrera seemed willing to grant her access to him. But on the other, I feared that she was putting herself in danger on my behalf.

“Nonsense,” she said on the second night, when we were alone in my rooms. By all evidence, the abbess was enjoying her new role. Her customary composure had given way to a sense of excitement that made her seem even more youthful and energetic.

“He has no notion that I am there to keep an eye on anything other than the welfare of his soul,” she said with confidence. “Which, by the way, needs much attending to.”

“He confides in you?”

“Not in the least, except to rant about you and Cesare. But his household priests have let drop that rumors of his behavior here have reached Spain. Word has come back that Their Most Catholic Majesties are not pleased. They may recall him. I suspect that is why he has allowed me to befriend him.”

David had not mentioned that to me in the one brief encounter we had managed since returning to Viterbo. He claimed to still be in the good graces of the Spaniards despite his instinctive move at the villa to help me, but I had my doubts. He had also expressed his concern about the wisdom of using Mother Benedette, but I put that down to his understandable suspicion of Christians and did not worry overly much about it.

Listening to her, I was reconfirmed in that decision. The news about the Spanish monarchs was important. I wondered if Borgia was aware of it. “Much good that would do the alliance,” I said.

“I don’t think it will come to that. Once your assassin makes his move and is caught, surely Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand will realize that they have no choice but to continue to support His Holiness, or risk the triumph of someone who is both his enemy and theirs?”

“That is to be hoped. Of course, it all hinges on catching the assassin before he can kill Herrera. I take it that you have encountered no one suspicious?”

“Regrettably not, but be assured that I will persevere.”

I nodded, grateful for her help even as I still regretted involving her in the matter.

*   *   *

Several hours after she had crossed the hall to her own quarters, I was awake and mulling over those regrets when my door suddenly opened. As a matter of routine, I kept it secured; but locks are made to be picked, and it seemed that someone had done just that. At once, I reached for the knife under my pillow, only to quickly slip it out of sight again when Cesare entered, pocketing a key I had not known he had.

He must have caught a glimpse of the knife, for he smiled and said, “However did you restrain yourself from throwing that at me?”

I did my best to appear unruffled by his sudden appearance, but the truth is that my heart beat more rapidly than I would have liked. In the light from the glowing embers in the braziers, he looked disheveled, weary, and all too desirable.

“Alas, I’ve only ever used it close in,” I said. Perhaps it was not wise to remind him of what I had done with a knife such a short time before, but I felt an overwhelming need for candor between us.

Cesare stepped farther into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Have you tucked Herrera in for the night?” I asked.

A look of … regret?… flitted across his face. “He’s passed out drunk, as usual. If he keeps on this way, the assassin’s job will be done for him.” Taking a seat on the side of the bed, he asked, “What’s this I hear about you leaving me?”

Leaving him. Not Il Papa or my position in the household or anything else. Only him. I smiled despite myself. “Are you referring to my newfound conscience, which is prompting me to contemplate retirement to a nunnery?”

“Yes, I believe I am.”

“You find that plausible?”

“Not at all. The marvel is that anyone does. I take it you wanted the abbess to get close to Herrera?”

I nodded. “She offered, and I felt that I had no choice but to accept. He certainly will not let me near him.”

“And you don’t trust ben Eliezer to do the job?”

Cesare’s notion that David might be behind the threat still lingered in the back of my mind. I did not want to give it any credence, any more than I wanted to believe that David was right about Cesare’s motives. I certainly was not about to discuss either possibility.

“He may have compromised himself when he moved to stop Herrera from attacking me,” I said. “Besides, a second pair of eyes is always useful.”

“You think she can spot the danger to him better than, say, I could?” he asked.

Generally, I had a sensible regard for the pride of young men, particularly those raised to think of themselves as princes. But just then I answered more tartly than I usually would have.

“For once, look beyond your own vanity, I pray you. She is my best hope because no one would suspect her of being on watch for an assassin. But even with her assistance, I fear that I have little chance of success.”

The admission was wrenched from me, but Cesare seemed to think little of it. “It is not like you to give up so easily.”

I stared at him in mingled astonishment and fury. “Easily? You have no idea what you are talking about. No concept of what has been happening to me—”

“Of course I don’t,” he shot back. “You’ve barely told me anything. But I am not the insensitive clod you assume me to be—at least not entirely. I have enough sense to know that something is very wrong and to be worried about you.”

My anger staunched, at least a little, I relented. With a sigh, I said, “I am worried about me, too.”

He pulled his boots off before swinging his legs onto the bed. I had his mother to thank for that; the redoubtable Vannozza, as she was always called. He had left her roof for his father’s while still a very young child, yet her influence had never weakened.

“Tell me why,” he said and put an arm around my shoulders, drawing me to him.

I lay stiffly against him for a few moments, until the warmth of his body and my own need combined to drain away my resistance. Quietly, I said, “My mother didn’t die when I was born, as I have always believed. She was murdered three years later by her own family, who could not bear that she had married a Jew. Just before the attack, she hid me behind a wall, but there was a hole in it. I saw everything.”

“Bon déu.”
In his shock, Cesare lapsed into his native Catalan. Even so, I understood him well enough.

With my head against his shoulder, I added, “I’ve always known that there was something wrong with me. A darkness that sets me apart and threatens to consume my soul. At least now I know why it exists.”

His arms tightened around me. “That is what you were running from the other night?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Dimly, I remembered the shadowy figure who had seemed to be pursuing me. One of the men I had seen kill my mother? Perhaps her brother? Or an amorphous image of Death conjured by my frenzied brain?

He turned over onto his side, drawing me beneath him. Engulfed in my own concerns as I was, I remained stiff and unyielding until the slow stroking of his hand along my thigh distracted me. He was, after all, still the boy I had exchanged glances with when we were both just trembling on the edge of understanding what it was that we were. The wounded youth who had come to me the first time in pain yet still had given me such pleasure. And, too, the dark lover before whom I could drop the mask I felt compelled to maintain with all others—even Rocco, whom I refused to think about just then.

Very shortly I could not think at all. Our time apart had heightened my need for Cesare and his for me. We came together hotly, ravenous for each other. I clasped him tightly, savoring the beauty of his body and his perfectly honed strength. He groaned deeply when he entered me, and threw his head back. I arched upward, pressing my lips to the pulse beating in his throat, savoring the power of his life’s blood. Moonlight, flooding through the high windows, bathed our bodies in silver. We swayed together, locked in ecstasy, until the world dissolved and we with it. Still entwined, we fell across the bed. With what little strength I had left, I pulled the covers over us both.

I was settled again in the crook of Cesare’s arm, my head against his shoulder, when he said, “Does this mean you’ll forego the nunnery?”

I laughed and swatted at him lightly. We turned on our sides, spooning together. I was all but asleep when I heard—or imagined I heard—Cesare whisper: “I need you to be the woman you are, Francesca. Not whoever it is that you think you should be.”

He slept then, and I did as well, soothed as I was by all that had passed between us. But hours later, in the depths of the night, I awoke, driven by the hunger for Sofia’s powder that still gnawed at me. Too restless to sleep, I sat for a time beside the window, but before dawn I was up and dressed.

I stood beside the bed, looking down at Cesare. As though sensing my gaze, he opened one eye and stared back at me quizzically.

“I am going to the chapel to pray,” I said in answer to his silent question.

He snorted, turned over, and buried his head in the pillow. Even so, I could just make out his reply. “Watch out for lightning bolts.”

The monks had finished their prayers and were gone by the time I appeared, which suited me well enough. Contrary to Cesare’s assumption, I was not going merely to be seen; I truly did mean to pray. Or, failing that, at least to try to bring my unruly mind to some semblance of order.

Clearly, the stress of protecting Borgia combined with learning of my mother’s fate had undone me. Nightmares, hallucinations, visions, and now strange fears and doubts were all signals that I was closer to outright madness than I had ever been before. Perhaps I had already crossed that line and didn’t realize it. Whatever the case, I had to find some way to continue functioning, and I had to do it quickly.

And so I prayed. Not well, for I was never good at doing so, but I did make a wholehearted try.

“God,” I began, only to quickly correct myself. “Almighty God, Father in Heaven.” Flattery never hurt with Borgia; I had to assume that it would not in this case either. “I beseech your help. Your servant, Christ’s Vicar on Earth, is in mortal danger. Sustain me so that I may protect him. Do not let me be undone by delusions born of darkness but give me the light to see true danger and defeat it.

“And also, please, explain why You allow so much cruelty to exist in Your Creation. Why You leave Your children to suffer so much pain and suffering. Why You let monsters kill my mother.”

As I said, I had never been any good at praying.

Nor did I expect a response, although I did wait a few minutes as a simple courtesy. The stale scent of incense hung in the air. I inhaled, coughed a little, and rose to go. Turning, I observed a priest staring at me in blank confusion. Dropping my eyes in a show of humility, I crossed myself.

The poor man stood frozen as I passed him on my way out of the chapel. He would recover quickly enough and hasten to tell what he had seen—the
strega
at prayer in God’s house, apparently unscathed. Either the Almighty was proving unexpectedly lax or I was not what others claimed. Under other circumstances, I would have been amused.

As it was, my thoughts were grim as I walked through the great hall. The nature of evil and its presence in this world weighed heavily on me. For all that Augustine’s explanation was accepted Church doctrine, it appeared to be more the contrivance of an elegant mind than an insight into reality. Yet the Cathars’ view—that the material world was evil by its very nature—seemed to pass over the question rather than even attempt to resolve it.

In the Mysterium Mundi, I had read sacred Cathar texts in which the sole purpose of human existence was to become
perfecti
, individuals of such spiritual enlightenment as to be able to free themselves forever from the bounds of this world. Those who could not do so in a single lifetime—the vast majority—were condemned to be reborn again and again until they at last proved their worthiness. In its time, the doctrine had attracted peasants, merchants, and even members of the nobility, all united by the conviction that there was not even the potential for good in this realm of existence.

If I were not careful, I could find myself thinking the same. I needed sunlight and fresh air, but even more I needed to be reminded that there was a world in which every thought and every breath did not hang on the will of men for whom nothing mattered except the raw exercise of power, no matter how much pain it inflicted. A world in which women cooked mutton shanks, children cut new teeth, babies were born and lived, and people were—against all odds—happy, if only briefly.

Perhaps my effort at prayer, poor though it had been, had succeeded at least in clearing my head, for I set off about my duties with renewed vigor. No one attempted to impede me, but neither did I see any sign that Mother Benedette’s championing of me was having an effect. I continued to be met with hostile, hastily averted stares and cold silence.

Several hours later, as I pressed my ring into a drop of soft wax on what I hoped was the last item to be inspected that day, I glanced up and saw David, hovering just outside the kitchens. He caught my eye, then turned and walked away.