They are busy over the next few nights. Lucrezia is not the only one struck down. Two more of her ladies and one of the older doctors lie heaving and sweating on their beds in their rooms above. When the palace wakes he is stiff on his pallet, eyes glassy and staring, mouth wide open as if to let his soul slip out more easily. The servants shroud him up hurriedly and carry him away.
The ladies who are left take turns to be at the duchess’s bedside. But the nights are still reserved for Catrinella. She perches on the high bed, a cloth in each hand and a basin of water at her feet. With one she bathes her mistress’s face, with the other she dribbles water between her lips when they grow too dry. If she sleeps she seems to do so with her eyes open. They marvel at her, these doctors, her endurance and her ruddy health. The more empirical of them would like to see if she resists other common plagues, the measles or the skin pox, in the same way she resists the fever. If they could take the essence of this ferocious little negress and bottle it up, how they might cure the world, or at least those in it whom it is their job to heal. For they are not doing well with their patient.
Lucrezia seems to have taken her leave of Ferrara now. Occasionally she might return to smile at Catrinella or recognize one of the men in their black robes and exchange a word here or there, but mostly she is traveling beyond them, in time and in place. Though it is delirium brought on by the fever, it is not as mad as they have seen in others. Indeed often she is quiet; she lies staring at the wooden embossed ceiling, eyes open but seeing nothing, talking to a child, only not the one in her womb. She uses his name—Rodrigo—only once, but her ladies know him well enough: the way she talks of him running across the grass, or throwing himself down on the cushions in a room, waiting for her to catch him.
“My sweet boy…My handsome little Spaniard,” she calls. And then she laughs, oh, how she laughs, a full-throated sound, gurgling up from within her. It unsettles all those who hear it, for there is something about a fevered woman laughing in such a way that is more chilling than moans.
At other times, she keeps her eyes tightly closed as she tosses and turns, addressing dozens of people, none of whom are in the room. She talks about Lancelot and Guinevere and asks forgiveness over and over for something, while never saying what. There are urgent conversations with her father that no one can understand, bar a few words about a marriage bed and how she must tell the truth before God, and once she cries out: “Sancia, we must not leave him. Not for a moment!” And then she says the name Alfonso. Again and again and again.
“Hush, hush, dear duchess, calm yourself.”
Her ladies who have been with her from the beginning, Camilla and Nicola, know only too well where she is. And because so much of her life has been common gossip, Stilts and a few of the doctors know it too. But no one speaks of it. How can one chastise a woman for an infidelity of memory?
Halfway through the next night she stops talking altogether and falls into a heavy sleep. Catrinella is so worried that she welcomes the sudden hoarse labored breaths, for at least they show that she is alive. She has no intention of letting her die, though she has no idea how she will prevent it.
“Lucrezia. Lucrezia.”
Such a gentle sound. Like a breeze through summer leaves, or sprinkling of cool water onto hot sand.
“Lucrezia.”
Comforting. Inviting.
“Lucrezia Borgia! Speak to me.”
But so insistent. Not now. She does not have time now. Better not to listen.
“I know you can hear me. Come, open your eyes, Crezia. You remember how much darkness used to frighten you.”
She knows this voice. Or does she? It is all so far away. She sees a night lamp spitting as the oil runs low, shadows leaping like claws across the walls and floor, clutching at her bedclothes. She pulls a hand back to save herself from them.
“No. That won’t help. You must open your eyes. Come, welcome me.”
Dim, charcoal air, thick and hot. Somewhere between day and night. She turns her head and there he is, lying next to her on the bed, his black eyes looking straight into hers.
“Cesare?”
“Who else spent his childhood slaying dragons for you?”
Cesare? Can it really be him? Of course. Everyone else has been here. Crowding round to meet her. “And Papà? Where is Papà? And Juan. Have you brought Juan? Oh, I would like to see Juan.”
“No, no, don’t close your eyes again. Keep looking at me. Feel my hand in yours, yes, yes. Do I squeeze you too tight? Then open your eyes and I will stop. Come—speak to me again. Say it. Say my name.”
So much anger and cruelty, so many bodies. Who would believe the tenderness in this voice? “Cesare,” she whispers.
She looks beyond him to see the room, her room, empty. No crows, no ladies, not even Catrinella. She focuses on his face again: Cesare? How strange he looks, with his wild hair splayed out on the pillow and on his chest a great white cross embroidered on a black doublet. She puts out her hand to touch it. Cesare, a man of God again? How can that be?
“How long have you been here?” she asks, marveling at the sound of her own voice.
“I have just arrived,” he lies, smiling. “They said not to disturb you, but I could not wait. You looked so lovely. So how are you, sweet sister? Are you ready to dance with me?”
“I am…I am thirsty.”
He sits and reaches for the goblet, pulling her up, putting his hand behind her neck to support her head. Such a firm grip, as if he will never let go. She sips, and then leans back. Too much effort. “I have to sleep again.”
“No. No. You have slept long enough. You must talk to me. I have come a long way to see you.”
“All right,” she says, but her eyes are already closing.
“Lucrezia Borgia!” He has her in his arms and he is shaking her now. “No more sleeping, do you hear me?” There is urgency, even anger, now in his voice. “Come—sit up with me.”
There is shuffling behind the door. Their ears must be pressed hard against the wood. It cracks open. The Bishop of Venosa, the Pope’s own doctor, clears his throat noisily. “Your Excellency?”
“What?” he says, never taking his eyes off her.
“The lady Lucrezia is very weak. We must—”
“The lady Lucrezia is alive and talking,” he says icily. “Which is more than all you have achieved with your bleedings and potions. Look at her. She is skin and bones. Bring some food.”
The men behind the door exchange glances. Amid the bickering and medical negotiations, there has been acknowledgment of the problems that come with doctoring powerful patients: when to insist, when to give way.
“If I may—”
“No. You may not!” Cesare yells. “Leave us alone. Though someone can open the poxy shutters and let in some fresh air. It is a charnel house in here.”
Catrinella, who has stood sentinel outside for hours, slips in between the doctors’ robes, a dancing step and a grin on her face.
An early evening light floods in, fat with apricot and gold. Its flattery does little to disguise the gray tinge of Lucrezia’s skin and the sunken eyes. But they are open now.
She puts out a hand to touch his caked beard. “It is really you. But…where have you come from?”
“Ha! Urbino, via Rome, via Milan.” He laughs. “You could cut steaks off my flanks they are so roasted from weeks in the saddle. But it is worth it to see your face. Always. Always.” He cups a hand to her cheek, and then brings it up to her forehead. Her skin is hot but not burning. “Everything, everything I have ever done has been to bring you security and happiness, Lucrezia,” he whispers.
“I…I have the fever, Cesare,” she says weakly.
“Not anymore. I sucked the contagion from your lips while you were sleeping.”
She lets out a little moan. Little sister. Big brother. Always. However old they grow. From the beginning, from her earliest night terrors and his proud strutting protection, something in this most natural of affec
tions has alchemically fused to make them both, in the end, its victim. He, in the intensity and jealousy it engenders, she in her inability to hate him, even when the damage done should allow no forgiveness. Always, always, this consuming connection. What chance does she stand now, when she is crawling her way back from the dead?
“If you took it from my lips then you will suffer it now.” She smiles.
“No. I am protected. See?” And he leans back to show her the fat white cross across his black chest. “It was a bribe, a pact with God. I agreed to join the Knights of St. John if He would make you well.”
Afterward, when her ladies talk about it, they can barely contain their excitement, for it is a most chivalric tale: how he and his men disguised as knights of God have crisscrossed half of Italy to reach her bedside. And when they arrived they were covered in filth and stinking to high heaven, ordering and threatening the guards at the city gates, then trampling in and pushing aside any who tried to stop them. If the duke’s own doctor, Torella, hadn’t recognized them, it might have ended at sword point. Instead, Duke Valentine had ordered everyone from her room and thrown himself onto the bed—by any standards a man who has not slept for forty-eight hours must be a little crazy—taking her semiconscious body in his arms and crushing her to him, calling her name, over and over again.
“He was crying, crying!” Angela would interject at this point. Though the others would be scornful. In such stories a hero like Cesare Borgia does not cry, or if he does the tears are made of blood. The fact that the door had been closed by now makes no difference to their imaginations. The violence of romance: it quickens the hearts of all who encounter it, rousing any self-respecting duchess from fever and restoring her to life.
Except later, when Lucrezia is a little recovered, and he has eaten and washed—though still not slept—his own story is equally extravagant in its detail.
—
A certain subterfuge had been imperative. Unless he travels with an army, the most hated man in Italy must disguise himself in some way. He and his men had slid into Rome dressed as tradesmen and left again as warriors of God. Who would dare to question half a dozen Knights of the Cross on a vital assignment sanctioned by the Pope himself? Their costume and the legends of their exploits had been their own guarantee of safe passage; even the slashed canvas of Michelotto’s face now spoke of glory, each scar gained in the service of the Lord. The pace had been that of the hunt: first as far as the court in Milan, and then, when the news of her worsening illness arrived, thundering down to Ferrara. There is no gang of brigands they cannot outrun, no tavern or staging post that does not welcome their trade. Except that when they do stop, God’s warriors swear like sailors, piss in the fireplace and grope the women who serve them. If further proof was needed that Italy is going to hell in a handbasket, this is it. The size of the purses they leave when they ride out before dawn covers the costs but not their reputations. Later, when their real identity is revealed, it will simply add to the legend of Borgia outrage.
He is in too much of a hurry to let such things concern him. This is who he is, who he has always been, pressing onward, thinking on his feet, delighting in being three steps ahead of the next man. If there is any other way of living, then Cesare Borgia does not know it. In Milan he had secured the ear of the French king, and having hammered out an audacious deal under the noses of his enemies, he is now come to save his sister.
The next morning finds her propped up against bolstered pillows, hair brushed, sweet scent behind her ears, eyes watery with the leftover fever, but no further delirium; the very force of his will appears to have pulled her back from the edge.
“Milan? You are really come from Milan?” she says as he coaxes her to take another spoonful of broth. “Duke Ercole and the Marquis of Mantua are there. I hope they did not speak ill of you to the king.”
“It wouldn’t matter if they had. King Louis and I have an understanding. I will help him take Naples, he will give me free rein elsewhere. So…it seems my little sister does care about what happens to me, after all.” He laughs. “No, we will never speak of it again. There has never been anything between us but love.”
She frowns. These are things she has tried so hard not to think about. Not now, not ever. “How long will you stay?”
He shakes his head. “I must go within a day. There will be trouble now and I need to be in the Romagna as it unfolds. What is it?”
“When such things happen…I mean like Urbino, I should know,” she says quietly.
“No one knew. That was how it had to be. But you have nothing to fear. You are the Borgia-born Duchess of Ferrara; your power is boundless on both sides.”
She gives a weak smile. “It is not that easy, you know, being a Borgia in the House of Este.”
“What—do they treat you badly? Alfonso—?”
“No…no. Alfonso…my husband, is an honest man. He does me no harm.”
He has been gone almost two months now, she thinks. He will not appreciate this change in her, he who enjoys his women big as dairy cows.
“What about the pious old miser?”
She gives a little shrug.
“And his viper daughter in Mantua?”
“Isabella! Ah, yes, she is the one who really cannot abide me. At the wedding I think she would have stuck a knife in me herself if she could.”
“Of course!” He laughs, a big and guffawing laugh that reminds her of their father. “She is a jealous cow and your beauty will have driven her mad. But you are revenged. The only knife being wielded now is mine, and she will smile through the pain. She is already groveling with gratitude toward me.”
And he tells the story of the statues asked for from the palace at Urbino.
“But the duchess Elisabetta is her greatest friend!” Ah, the tonic of gossip and revenge. Lucrezia is almost ashamed of the pleasure it brings her. “How could she do such a thing?”
“The gorgon prefers stone to living flesh. Ask her husband, he is in every bed but her own,” Cesare adds coarsely. “This time though she has got herself a fake. You remember it, yes? The stone Cupid lying asleep on the bed. It was in my house in Rome. You were most impressed, till I told you it had been carved in Florence the year before, then dirtied up and buried in the ruins of Rome to fool some gullible collector. I bought it for a song, and then sold it on to Urbino later. Made a handsome profit on the deal.”
Yes, yes she does remember. Their father was newly Pope and Cesare called back from university. She was thirteen, growing up fast, already being groomed for marriage. He had teased her about her womanly wardrobe, this sophisticated brother of hers, and she had been a little embarrassed by the statue, with its beautiful, boyish nakedness. So lifelike…
“But I have even better news for you, Sister. For I am taking a purer revenge on Isabella for you.” He stops, noting a slight glaze in her eyes. “This doesn’t tire you too much? No?”
“Oh no…no,” she says, though she is indeed tired. “It is an elixir having you here. Tell me.”
“Mantua and the Gonzaga-Este family will make a marriage alliance with me.”
“Marriage? Between whom?”
“Their son and my daughter.”
“But…but they are still babies.”
“They will grow up.”
Isabella’s only son, Federico, the guarantee of the Gonzaga lineage, and Cesare’s daughter, who has never seen her father, since he had left France before she was born, now betrothed in the crib as substitutes for armies. How long before there is a wife for the heir she carries? Lucrezia slips her hands over her stomach. She has felt so little movement since the fever deepened. Perhaps now the worst is past…“But—Isabella and Francesco will never agree.”
“They already have. Though the marauding Duke Valentine may have no respect for in-laws of in-laws, he would not attack cities with direct family inside. You are the proof of that. Look at you! See how this news brings color to your cheeks.”
The door opens and
Castello, Duke Ercole’s doctor, pads in and stands square in front of them. He is a touch deaf and thus able to withstand Cesare’s shouts when the couple are disturbed. This time, however, he is met with better humor.
“You do not need to tend to her now. I will be gone in a few hours and you may have the patient back. Though there had better be no relapse or I will have you all strangled with your own guts.”
Lucrezia hushes him slightly, and the doctor gives a tight smile. He still has his own ideas concerning the journey of this “illness,” but no one gainsays the new ruler of Italy.
“My lady duchess,” he says stiffly. “Your husband, Don Alfonso, has returned.”
CHAPTER 19
During long hours in the saddle Alfonso has found himself thinking about his life and what might await him when he arrives home, for this second marriage of his has affected him in ways he does not fully understand.
Such thoughts, however, always move to the one person he would prefer to ignore: his father. Ercole d’Este may have been a great ruler, but in Alfonso’s eyes he was a miserable father. His childhood memories are of an irascible distant figure, who was somehow always disappointed in him, as if whatever he did, he could never be as clever or as charming as his older sisters. In return, he had grown up surly, better at brawling than at study. He might have moved on to other things faster if his father had had the decency to die at the right time. At twenty-six he knows that he is in his prime: athletic, virile—the pox had only slowed him for a while—and eager for glory. Yet Ferrara is still ruled by this skinflint old man in love with convents and concerts.
He, himself, enjoys music well enough; indeed, to everyone’s surprise—but his own—he has become a most skillful viol player. But not to please his father. Performing frees him from the worst of the fripperies of court life. He finds such behavior—no feels it, feels it deep in his gut like the weight of constipation—to be a painful waste of time. Give him the sweat of the crucible and the casting pit anytime, the alchemical mix of copper and tin, the swirl and color inside the cauldron, the flow of molten metal into the funnel, and the camaraderie of men committed to dirty honest work.