The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (7 page)

7

“Have you heard?”

I turned my head to find Renaldo standing beside me. It was the next morning. We were in the corridor that led to Borgia’s apartments. The steward had approached so stealthily as to escape my notice. Either that or I was far too preoccupied for my own good.

“Heard what?”

His sharp nose twitched with excitement. “The dispatch riders from Rome report that there was a violent thunderstorm in the city last night. The papal apartments in the Vatican were struck by lightning. Two of His Holiness’s secretaries were knocked to the ground and rendered unconscious.”

This was indeed startling news. Thunderstorms in Rome in early autumn are not common, and for the Vatican itself to have been struck …

“Clearly,” I said, “the fact that this happened
after
His Holiness’s departure from the city is a sign of God’s favor.”

Renaldo snorted. “It could be taken as such. But the betting is running five to two that the Almighty simply missed.”

“Surely that is sacrilege.” I meant no criticism, matters of religion being impenetrable to me. I was merely concerned that Renaldo might be placing himself at some risk by repeating such a thing. However, the possibility did not seem to worry him overly much.

“That is humor or what passes for it these days,” he said. Leaning a little closer, he imparted the rest of what he had heard. “Satan protects our master, so the street whispers. Hence, Borgia’s departure from the city in advance of divine retribution.”

The charge that Borgia was a servant of the Devil had been around for as long as I could remember. Such can be said of all men who achieve great worldly ambitions. Even so, if it was now being rumbled about in the streets, something was afoot.

“How big a spoon do you think it takes to stir such a pot?” I asked.

Renaldo shrugged. “More to the point, who wields the spoon?”

Who indeed? In Rome, I had my own sources of information. While they could not begin to rival Borgia’s, they were effective all the same, reaching as they did from the Jewish Quarter deep into the network of smugglers who populated the city’s underground. By contrast, in Viterbo I was fumbling in the dark, trying to find my way in a place too alien for me to be sure of anything.

“You will tell me if you hear more?” I asked Renaldo.

He nodded gravely. “You and I are of the same mind, Donna Francesca. We both want only what is best for our master.”

On that I was in full accord. The problem was that our master did not always seem to understand what was best for him. Nor did his son. No matter. My first duty was to tell Borgia what I had learned from David. But as so often happens with good intentions, there were problems.

“His Holiness is occupied with matters of state,” the high-nosed secretary informed me. All of Borgia’s secretaries viewed me with suspicion and dislike, for which I could hardly blame them. I was, after all, a woman who had the confidence of the Pope, in their eyes an aberration of nature even without the added complication of my dark profession.

“Serious matters,” the secretary emphasized. “I doubt that I can fit you in unless—”

He broke off as an angry voice penetrated the wall between the antechamber and the inner office. The words were indistinct, but there was no mistaking the tone, or the fact that the speaker was Borgia himself. Clearly, something had displeased Il Papa.

“Unless,” the secretary resumed, “the matter is urgent…” He looked at me almost hopefully.

Borgia and I had an understanding, Under certain circumstances, he would see me immediately. I had only to declare that it was urgent for him to do so and all barriers would melt away. He had made it so because he understood full well that there were times when such access could be vital to his survival.

“¡Aquesta lloba!”
His Holiness exclaimed, his voice rising loudly enough as to leave no further doubt of his meaning. “That she-wolf! How dare she do this?
¿Qui cony es creu que és?
”

I could not say who the Queen of Spain thought she was, apart from the obvious, but Borgia’s pungency in his native Catalan made his sentiments about her more than clear. His Holiness rarely showed anger in public, and then usually only for effect, but in this case he seemed genuinely enraged. Whatever Isabella had done, she appeared to have earned his enmity and more.

“Do you know what has provoked him?” I asked the secretary.

He hesitated, reluctant to share anything he knew with me, but anxiety—always high among those who served Il Papa—got the better of him. “The Spanish have arrested Juan, charging him with immoral behavior.” He sniffed faintly. “As though they should have expected any other kind.”

I could not conceal my shock. To arrest the Pope’s son hard on the heels of his marriage into the Spanish royal family seemed an act of feckless hostility. But perhaps I should not have been so surprised. I had never trusted Their Most Catholic Majesties. Their decision the previous year to expel the Jews from Spain had smacked of the worst sort of fanaticism combined with a shortsighted ruthlessness that did not bode well for anyone allied with them. I blamed them for much of what had happened since, not the least encouraging the atmosphere of hatred that led to my father’s murder.

Without delay, I announced, “It is urgent that I see His Holiness.”

The magic word having been uttered, the secretary stood aside. I entered as Borgia was in the midst of a graphic—and, I believe, anatomically impossible—description of the Spanish queen’s begetting. Seeing me, he broke off. With one hand, he dabbed with a cloth at the sweat pouring off his forehead. With the other, he accepted the goblet of wine that a timorous servant held out to him.

Having taken a long swallow, he eyed me. “What do
you
want, poisoner?”

By all means, take that moment to remind the world of who and what I was, a weapon only waiting to be unleashed at his whim.

“A few moments of your time, if you please, Your Holiness.” I spoke so meekly that even Borgia in his black mood could not restrain the flicker of a smile.

“Out!” he bellowed to the others.

The breeze cast up by the haste with which his secretaries and hangers-on fled his office ruffled the skirts of his cassock. Borgia and I were alone.

“Get on with it,” he ordered with a wave of his hand. “What new trouble do you bring?”

Experience had taught me that when dealing with a man as seeped in intrigue and duplicity as Borgia, nothing was more effective than the blunt, unvarnished truth.

“An assassin is en route to Viterbo, or possibly even already here.”

His Holiness shrugged. “Another? All to the good. I wouldn’t want your skills to grow dull.”

What in another man would have been a show of bravado was, in Borgia’s case, evidence of genuine personal courage. He wasted no time fearing what his enemies might do to him, preferring to make them fear him instead. That was admirable, but I could not allow my own success in keeping him alive to lead to overconfidence.

“This one may not be like the others we have seen,” I said. “A great deal of money is moving between banks, both here and in Spain. More than the usual effort is being made to conceal where it is coming from and where it is going.”

His gaze narrowed. Borgia prided himself on his army of spies, and rightly so; very rarely was he taken by surprise. Yet even many-eyed Argus had his blind spots.

“How do you know this?”

“David ben Eliezer brought word. Do you remember him?”

“The renegade Jew, the one who wants to fight?”

“I don’t think he wants to, necessarily. He just doesn’t believe that the meek really will inherit the Earth. Or even be around to see who does.”

Borgia grunted. He walked around the expanse of his desk and sat down in the thronelike chair. Lacing his hands over his stomach, he said, “I can’t say I disagree with him. Do you trust his sources?”

“He hasn’t told me what they are, but I wouldn’t expect him to. What is more important is that I trust the man. David believes the threat is real. We should take that seriously.”

“And do what?” Before I could reply, Borgia added, “Don’t suggest that I limit where I go or whom I see; I’ll have none of that. If you had your way, I’d be living as an anchoress immured in convent walls.”

The thought of Borgia as a virgin nun sealed off from the world caused me to press my lips together in an effort not to burst out laughing. When I was sure that the impulse had safely passed, I said, “As a first step, I suggest that you put your own men on the town gate to scrutinize everyone coming and going.” It might already have been too late to stop the assassin from entering Viterbo, but I thought that the effort would be worthwhile all the same. If nothing else, it would remind the garrison that Borgia’s personal guard was a force to be reckoned within its own right.

Borgia grunted. “Not a bad idea. What else?”

“I’d like to bring David into the palazzo. Disguised, of course. Another pair of eyes and ears could be very helpful, and he’s good in a tough situation.”

“Done; but I want it clear to both of you that this has to be handled delicately.”

I understood his concerns, or at least I thought that I did, but even so I said, “With all respect, Your Holiness, we have an assassin, possibly a very good one. There is nothing delicate about that.”

“Is there not? Then tell me this, who is the target?”

Perhaps I had already been too long in Borgia’s employ, or all those years living under his roof as a child had warped my thinking. Had I breathed in conspiracy with the air, imbibed it with the water? Whatever the case, I understood the question all too readily. I also realized that his asking it meant that he had deciphered in an instant what it had taken me all night to figure out.

It was the Spanish banks that had troubled me. Not that Spain doesn’t have fine assassins, but Italy and France are known to breed better. Why send the money through Spain, then? I could think of only one reason.

“Obviously,” I said, “you may be the target.”

His eyebrows arched. “Only ‘may’? Who else would be worthy of so costly an assassin?” He spoke as a tutor to a promising pupil. I did not mind, understanding as I did how much I had to learn from him.

“Your enemies have been trying to kill you almost since the day you were elected pope, but you’re still here. I fear that they may have finally realized that they don’t actually need to attack you directly. They only need to weaken you enough so that you will fall on your own.”

A lesser man would have rejected the notion that his success did not depend entirely on himself but was owed at least in part to other forces. Borgia, who understood better than any other the rickety scaffolding upon which power rests, gazed at the marble and gold chessboard set up on his desk as though he had no greater concern than his next move. Almost absently, he asked, “How might they accomplish that?”

The game had changed, I saw. The queen was no longer in danger. A bishop of her own had come forward to protect her, supported by a knight.

“By destroying the one thing you must have in order to survive: your alliance with Spain.”

“Ah, yes, Spain again. Funny how often it comes up lately.” His gaze shifted to me. “What do you think of this business with Juan? Do you think it’s related?”

“I wouldn’t discount the possibility, but to be perfectly frank, Juan is too far away for me to concern myself with him. I have to concentrate on the situation at hand.”

Borgia grunted his approval. “Fair enough. If you were this highly paid assassin, what would you do?”

I could only hope that the promptness with which I answered would be taken as an indication of my devotion to safeguarding Il Papa and not as evidence that I entertained disloyal thoughts.

“One possibility would be to harm someone close to you in such a way that you would be made to believe that Herrera and the other Spaniards were responsible. In that event, you would be driven to kill them and thereby end the alliance yourself.”

His Holiness nodded slowly. “Quite right; it is well known that I would destroy anyone who strikes at my children.”

That was the one thing he truly feared, more even than falling at the hands of an assassin. Borgia’s children were his promise of immortality. I suppose that was why any resistance to his will in matters regarding them prompted him to fury.

“Obviously, we can take every precaution to protect Cesare and Lucrezia, but we’re already doing that. Which means that they are likely not the target. Someone else is.”

I waited, letting him work through it for himself as he was always wont to do. No one liked a puzzle better than Borgia, and no one was better at unraveling them. After a moment, the corners of his mouth twitched. He took another swallow of the wine and set the goblet down.

“Herrera himself?”

I nodded. “To die in such way that you would be blamed. The Spanish would be infuriated, or at least they would claim to be, and the alliance would be shattered beyond all hope of repair.”

“You realize that this may be all Ferdinand and Isabella’s doing? They may simply want an excuse to betray me. If that is the case, you think they would go so far as to arrange the murder of their own nephew?”

“I do not rule it out.” Not that there weren’t plenty of other candidates. The French king, for one, but also the rival families within Italy itself—the Orsinis, Sforzas, Medicis, della Roveres, Farneses … the list went on and on. In the end, it didn’t matter. Regardless of who had sent the assassin, my only real concern was to stop him.