So, of course, I had to ruin it.
“There’s one way you’re different from those women who died,” I said casually. “None of them seem to have had families. And you’ve got that wrathful father up in Venice, haven’t you?”
Her head whipped around, and I saw her eyes snap wide and wary. “How—”
I smiled. “Your cousin Marco likes games of chance. Even more, he likes to talk. Especially when he’s winning, which I grant you isn’t often. But enough to piece together a few interesting things here and there. Tell me, is your father still working in Venice? Has he managed to wrangle himself that job cooking for the Doge yet, considering you stole all his recipes?”
“It’s none of your business!”
“I don’t suppose your father’s forgiven you, even if he hasn’t pursued you here,” I continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “What cook forgives another for making off with his life’s work?”
She tried to yank her hand away from mine, but I tightened my grip, holding her fast. My arms were short, but I had strong hands and odd double-jointed fingers, and they made for a vise grip.
“Why so skittish, Signorina Cuoca?” I cocked my head, wondering even as I said it why I was provoking her with my viper tongue, why I wasn’t kissing her instead. “Stealing recipes isn’t much of a sin, after all. Nothing they can put you in the stocks for. Unless you have a few more sins on your conscience than recipe theft, of course. Something they can put you in the stocks for.” I studied her, the white around her eyes, and smiled. “You have, haven’t you? What did you do? Steal from a lord? Burn a storeroom down to sell the supplies? Murder an apprentice?”
She wrenched away. “Keep your nose out of my affairs, dwarf.”
“Why should I? You interest me, Carmelina. People with secrets always interest me.”
“I don’t have any secrets.”
“Oh, but you do.”
She stalked away. “I’ll be sending my scullions up for that carcass,” she threw over her shoulder. “And if you ever steal from my kitchens again, I’ll geld you!”
“Always a pleasure,” I called after her, and laughed silently as the thud of a door was my only response. I hopped down from the balustrade, stretching my cramped legs for a moment.
A cook with a secret. A murderer in a mask.
“I wonder,” I said aloud, and as I slipped my gleaming Toledo blades home to their hidden sheaths, I began to whistle.
Giulia
Thank you, Sandro,” I whispered as my brother pressed a kerchief into my hand. I raised it to my face to dab away a tear.
“Faker,” he whispered.
Thank the Holy Virgin for dead fish and stinking mud. Normally I wasn’t quite so happy to have such smells clogging up my nose, but today I was grateful for the stench of refuse and dead cats that drifted perennially off the Tiber. Juan Borgia was taking sail for his Spanish duchy and his Spanish bride, and I’d be expected to shed a graceful tear or two at his departure along with the rest of the family. And I knew I’d never manage it without that river stench making my eyes water. Juan gone from Rome? It was all I could do to suppress a happy wave and a carol of joy.
I wasn’t the only one rejoicing inside, but outwardly of course the whole party was Spanish gloom—gloom, and grandeur. I’d already watched Rodrigo bid Juan a private farewell among the half-finished frescoes of the private papal apartments, both of them getting very Catalan and emotional in their embracing and kissing of cheeks. There had been a good many final admonitions too, among the smells of wet plaster and paint. “You will write to Us often,” the Pope had admonished, very much the grand Pope with the divine We. “Listen to Don Gines Fera and Mossen Jayme Pertusa, they’ll not steer you wrong—pay Their Catholic Majesties all respect—”
“I will, Your Holiness.” Juan bounced on his curly-slippered toes, impatient to be off.
“And tend to your bride! We wish a son from her as soon as possible; a Borgia sprig on the royal tree of Spain.” Rodrigo cupped Juan’s face in his hands, voice thick as he lapsed from Father of all Christendom to father of a more mortal variety. “A princess is none too good for my son!”
Maria Enriques of Spain. Did she have any idea what kind of man she was getting? Girls all dream of a handsome young husband, but there’s more to husbands than a pretty face. Juan’s auburn good looks didn’t really make up for his more inexcusable habits: riding horses to death, harassing the maids, hanging about the Piazza degli Ebrei looking for Jews to taunt. Not to mention his habit of wearing lace and tassels on the same doublet. Still, maybe Maria Enriques of Spain would tame him. Or at least keep him in Spain a good long time.
“Your eyes are sparkling,” Sandro whispered at me.
“They are not.” I pressed the kerchief more firmly against my face.
“I won’t miss him either.” Sandro wrinkled his nose. “You know I’ve seen him go trooping around with his friends at night, getting drunk and killing cats in dark alleys?”
“And what are you doing in dark alleys, brother?”
“Taking the discreet route to visit my mistress, of course, and that’s a perfectly legitimate reason to be strolling down any dark alley. ‘Paolo goes to Francesca in the dead of the night—’”
“Shh!”
Private farewells were done now, and the Duke of Gandia had set out in state for the docks where four laden galleys waited to bear him off to Barcelona. Half of Rome had turned out to see him off this fine summer morning, clustering along the Campo dei Fiori and below the great crenellated pile of the Castel San Angelo. Rodrigo would be pleased by the crowds. He’d originally planned a more private family gathering for Juan’s departure, but after all the grumbling through the city about that poor murdered girl who was found spread out as though on a crucifix—well, my Pope had seen the wisdom of giving his flock something else to marvel at. After today, the prevailing gossip in the city would all be of Juan’s gold robe and the emerald in his hat that was the size of my eye, not satanic sacrifices and Jewish magic and the blood of innocent virgins spilled in the night. I’d had Masses said for the murdered girl’s soul, poor savaged thing. Such a hideous death in what was supposed to be the Holy City.
I crossed myself and tried to put her from mind. Whoever had killed her, she was with God now. Cesare Borgia was leading the swarm of churchmen now, tallest of them all. What I would have given to hear what thoughts were going on behind that immobile face—he wasn’t mourning his brother’s departure, that was for certain! My mother-in-law bustled along with Lucrezia and a bouncing Joffre, I came next on Sandro’s arm; then a crowd of Juan’s cronies jockeying and pushing for precedence. Fortunately he was taking most of them to Spain with him, young louts . . . and there was Vannozza dei Cattanei, blowing Juan a farewell kiss. She must have bribed my robe makers to see what I was wearing, because she was decked out in the exact same shade of sunshine-yellow satin, only with a great deal more gold embroidery and silver embroidery and pearls. She looked like a lemon, and she might as well have been sucking on one too from the set of her mouth. She tossed her head as she caught my eye, and I sent her my sweetest, sweetest smile.
My Pope—oh dear, he looked very grand in all his papal finery, elaborate robes fluttering about his sedan chair, but his swarthy face was as immobile as Cesare’s, and that meant he was fighting back tears. Rodrigo’s favorite son (though only God Himself knew why!) was gone from the nest. Lucrezia would have to be released to join her husband soon—and after that, I supposed it would be Joffre’s turn. Little Joffre, who stood hand in hand with Lucrezia at the dockside beside their papal father, both of them biting their lips. Just little lambs, really, but lambs grew up fast in the Borgia fold.
Juan Borgia dismounted his horse with a flamboyant toss of his dagged gold hem, holding his hand up to the crowd, who roared applause. He knelt, sweeping his cap from his head in a waft of plumes and pearls, and Cesare Borgia stepped forward, handsome face stony, to pronounce a blessing.
?
??I’ll bet you an archbishopric that he’s just mouthing that blessing,” I whispered to Sandro. “They’re not very fond of each other, those two.”
“Cain and Abel,” my brother said with one of his mountebank flourishes. “Joined by blood and bound by hatred—”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Nobody’s killed anybody yet. Though it did get close when Juan poached Cesare’s favorite horse last year and ended up breaking its leg over a jump.”
“—locked at each other’s throats for all eternity—”
“Holy Virgin, Sandro!” I stifled a giggle, casting a guilty glance at my Pope, who didn’t care what people said of him but took a very dim view indeed of any errant gossiping about his children. “I’ll see you get made an archbishop if you just shut up.”
“Don’t you dare ask the Holy Father for any favors on my behalf!”
“Now it wasn’t my idea, his making you part of the Roman Curia. He appointed you because he likes you, Sandro.”
“How dare he like me. I don’t like him—”
My big brother: making his way up the ladder of the Church with surprising speed—though he hadn’t accepted the Curia position until I begged and cajoled him for a full fortnight.
“I didn’t want to take it,” Sandro scowled. “And I don’t want anything else from His Holiness’s hands, so don’t you dare go asking.”
He glowered at the white and gold figure of my Pope in his sedan chair, now raising a hand to sketch a cross over the crowd as the blessing concluded. My brother still wasn’t very happy about my status. It’s not really what any fond big brother wants to say, is it?—My little sister, the Pope’s concubine. I counted it a miracle, really, that Sandro had come as far as grudging acceptance. All through the papal elections and the subsequent festivities, Sandro had been swearing vengeance up and down on “that Spanish whoremonger,” threatening castration and decapitation and the strappado, despite all my insisting that I’d chosen my position in all contentment. I’d had to plead for days and days even to get him to meet with Rodrigo—and my wily Pope had been clever enough not to appear in full regalia, but in rumpled shirt and doublet like any Roman merchant, patting my hand like any fond husband, pouring wine for my stiff-faced brother like any charming host. My two favorite men in all the world, dining privately together that first time, some weeks after the election’s frenzy had subsided. “Leave it to me,” Rodrigo said blithely, and left me to my pacing up and down outside the room where they dined, biting my nails and wondering if my favorite brother was going to shun me forever as a harlot. Men! But then Sandro had reappeared, no longer purple-faced but puzzled and slightly glowering, to tell me, “I don’t like this at all, sorellina. Not one bit. So I don’t understand how I’m no longer furious. He’s . . .”
“I know.” I’d stood on tiptoe to kiss my brother. “Thank you, Sandro.”
As for the rest of la famiglia Farnese . . . well. What exactly had they all done, learning I had skipped away from my husband’s bed to the Holy Father’s? We should exile you from this family for the shame you’ve brought upon it, my brother Angelo had written in more than one furious letter . . . until the Pope bestowed upon him an Orsini bride with a hefty dowry. I would never have believed that any sister of mine could behave like a common flea-house trollop, my second brother had written icily . . . and then finished his letter asking if I would ask the Pope to pay for repairs on our crumbling castello by the lake. You were always flighty and vain, and now you’re a common slut! my sister Gerolama had written me . . . but now her letters begged favors for her stick-like Florentine husband.
I ask you. So much for the vaunted family morals. I hadn’t gone home to Capodimonte once since my wedding, and I didn’t think I’d be returning any time soon. My family didn’t want to see me, after all; they just wanted to see the things I could get them, and those could be requested by letter without the inconvenience of my immoral self in their presence.
A great roar came up from the crowd then, yanking me from my thoughts. Juan Borgia had mounted his gilded-prow galley that would whisk him off to Barcelona, pausing to wave his emerald-studded cap at the docks again. Oh, would he just hurry up and be gone? I couldn’t stand around faking tears much longer.
“Four galleys to see him to Barcelona?” Sandro scoffed as the oars shipped with a slow graceful motion, and the galley glided ponderously away from the dock like a fat dowager in huge skirts.
“Full of jewels, furs, brocades, carpets, tapestries, presents for his bride, more presents for King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella . . .” I stood on tiptoe to watch the galleys retreat, finally allowing myself a beam. “And they say women pack too heavily on journeys.”
“How long do you wager it will take him to spend all four galleys’ worth?”
“At least he’s gone.” I waved happily. “Gone for good, if I’m very well behaved and the Holy Virgin answers my prayers.”
“Since when have you ever been well behaved?”
“Oh, you’re one to lecture me, Alessandro Farnese. What’s the name of your latest amore? Battestina, isn’t it?”
“Silvia,” my brother confessed. “Battestina got clingy.”
“You should send your mistresses to me for advice. I’m never clingy.”
The crowd was dispersing now, wandering off in search of a new diversion—but the Pope stayed, looking out over the gleaming river in his sedan chair, papal guard clustered about him. Sandro slipped away, murmuring of Curia duties—“Don’t you mean duties to this new Silvia of yours?” I whispered—but the Borgias stayed until Juan’s ship had disappeared from sight around the bend in the river. Then Rodrigo’s gaze stirred as he found my face, dashing a heavy hand at his eyes, and I blew him a kiss.
* * *
Now that I was officially a fallen woman, a woman of loose morals, a harlot, take your pick of titles, people liked to tell me about the weight of sin I carried on my shoulders. Mostly mendicant friars and virtuous women, who really got far more excited about this sort of thing than I did. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that my shoulders felt quite unweighted. Rodrigo was right: Why should I be afraid of hellfire as a fornicator and an adulteress, when I could have my absolution straight from the Holy Father’s own lips (between kisses)? Who was more qualified to forgive my sins than God’s own chosen Vicar?
Mind you, being a mistress has its responsibilities. Wives can be capricious or bad-tempered sometimes, or prone to headaches—but a mistress must always be charming, sprightly, and ready to entertain. And wives only have to get dressed and ready to face the day, whereas I have to get dressed and ready to face the night as well.
If I’d been a proper wife, no doubt Orsino would be tired of me by now and trouble me only once a week or so when he’d come into my chamber, climb on for a quick poke under my nightdress, then roll off and start to snore. Everyone knew husbands got bored with their wives, who, properly speaking, weren’t supposed to enjoy the nighttime side of things anyway. But Rodrigo, well . . . I gave a little involuntary laugh. The Holy Father was different when it came to passion, let us say. And furthermore, I never knew when he might take the passage from the Vatican to the Palazzo Santa Maria. Even if he couldn’t come to spend cena with Lucrezia and me, sometimes he would steal an hour or two after midnight to come to my bed, so I always made sure to prepare myself: velvet dress changed for a filmy shift, a light combing of rosewater through my hair to keep it lying smooth instead of frizzing out from the day’s plaits and pins, a scented apricot cream rubbed all over my skin (with special attention to heels and elbows), and only then would I tuck myself between the silk sheets of my huge curtained bed with no idea whether I’d be allowed to sleep the night through or not.
I knew I’d see my Pope tonight, however, so I hurried more than usual with the rosewater and creams, hesitating just a moment when Pantisilea handed me a sealed letter. “Another one, madonna. Tell me what’s in this one?”
“Certainly not. You can go to bed now, Pantisilea.”
“I’ve got a squire waiting for me.” She winked and flitted off in high good humor. I waited till the heavy door shut before taking my letter out again. Pantisilea and I were quite fond of each other now that I’d suborned her loyalty from my mother-in-law’s side to mine. She was the one to privately smuggle me the letters I sometimes got from my husband.
I broke the seal on the letter and made my way through the childlike scrawl. He wrote the letters with his own hand; that was clear enough from the spelling, which was even more appalling than Lucrezia’s. Orsino wrote to tell me that he was wel. He hoped I was wel. There was good hunting at Carbognano; yesterday he had bagged a stagge with a fine rakk of antlers. There was talk of the French invading . . .
Pages of awkward courtesies, hardly different from the last letter and the letter before that. I sighed, touching the page to a candle flame and letting it burn in the shallow dish where I kept a handful of Carmelina’s honey-drenched mostaccioli, or would have kept a handful of her honey-drenched mostaccioli if I didn’t keep eating them all in one sitting. The letter flared into ash, and I nibbled a thumbnail. Poor Orsino; why did he keep writing to me when we hadn’t even seen each other since that awkward coupling in the stables? If he didn’t want me enough to claim me for his own, or my daughter for that matter (and she wasn’t his! He knew that, surely; he hadn’t even come to Rome for her christening!), then why did he write? I wrote him back only because I still felt sorry for him, sorry and sometimes vaguely guilty. I kept my notes brief and formal, smuggled back to Orsino through Pantisilea so my mother-in-law wouldn’t find out and tell my Pope. If Rodrigo knew, he’d have my young husband on the strappado and no mistake.