“You, girl,” Adriana de Mila called to me, poking her head out of Lucrezia’s dressing room. “Come. We need your help.”
I rose from my usual chair where I was adding some embroidery to one of Lucrezia’s shifts and hurried toward her. “Of course, Madonna Adriana.”
Lucrezia was within, being dressed for her wedding, to take place that very day. I had seen much of her wedding gear over the past week—the gown, its elaborate sleeves, the new silk shoes dyed to match, some new pieces of jewelry. Yet I was unprepared for the true vision that my mistress made. When I stepped into her dressing room, I gasped.
She stood in front of a tall Venetian glass mirror, with Adriana, Giulia, and two maids standing around her. Her gown was of the palest blue and trimmed with gold: gold lace at the bodice and hem, gold embroidery down the front panel, and gold ribbons on the sleeves, which were slashed to reveal a cloth-of-gold chemise beneath. A gold chain set with pearls wound around her head, crossing her brow and disappearing into her elaborate coiffure, where the chain was woven through the strands of her pale hair. A gold necklace set with an enormous diamond encircled her throat, along with gold rings on various fingers, and dangling diamond earrings.
She was breathtaking, and all who set eyes on her would think her an angel. Her eyes moved to me as I entered and, set off by the gown as they were, seemed almost impossibly blue. Their troubled expression widened into one of relief when she saw me. “Oh, Maddalena,” she said. “Thank goodness. Come here, please, quickly.”
I crossed the room to her and bobbed a curtsy. “How may I serve you, Madonna?”
“There is a tear,” she said, her lip trembling as though she were trying not to cry, “in the hem of the dress.” She pointed down, and I saw where the gold lace had likely been stepped on and come away from the hem.
“Honestly, Lucrezia, if you had just stopped fidgeting like I told you to…” Adriana began to complain, but she was silenced by a sharp, irritated gesture from her young charge.
“Yes, I am well aware,” Lucrezia said testily. “But what’s done is done, and it must be fixed.” She turned her beseeching eyes back to me. “You can fix it, can’t you, Maddalena? You are the most gifted seamstress I know, and if you cannot fix it…”
That was all? A bit of lace torn away from the hem? Tension leaked from my body. I smiled with relief, hoping to put her more at ease. “This is easily fixed, Madonna,” I said. “Have no fear. I’ll only need you to stand in place while I mend it.”
Lucrezia’s delicate body sagged with relief. “Thank the Blessed Virgin,” she murmured. “Yes, of course, I shall stand for however long it takes, and be grateful for it. Zia Adriana, please get Maddalena whatever she needs.”
I knelt to examine the lace and the hem. I looked up at Donna Adriana. “I can fetch my needles from my bag in the next room; I have one fine enough for this work,” I said. “But I shall need gold thread.”
“We have some, somewhere,” Lucrezia said. “Zia Adriana, please find it, and fetch Maddalena’s sewing bag as well.”
“No, no, Madonna, I can—”
But Adriana was already off, gone to fetch my bag and to hunt for the gold thread. As a bride, Lucrezia was indeed queen for a day, and it seemed all would do her bidding, even if her bidding was to fetch and carry for a lowly maid like myself. I allowed myself a bit of satisfaction with this turn of events. I was saving the wedding dress and, in a way, the wedding! I would need to confess this sin of pride later, but for now I allowed myself to revel in it.
Within minutes Donna Adriana returned with my sewing bag and a spool of gold thread, and I got to work.
I was not permitted to attend the wedding ceremony, of course, nor the banquet that followed; but, as everyone I served was in attendance, there was no one to stop me from sneaking into the Vatican Palace to have a look at the revelry. And, I thought rather mischievously, perhaps I would seek out Federico and pass some of the evening in his company. It had been far too long since I had beheld his handsome face.
But oh, what a sight the wedding banquet made! Well worth the scolding I would receive if I were caught, though I knew Lucrezia wouldn’t mind if she saw me there.
The room was a glorious sight: an elaborate glass chandelier overhead blazed with candles, and more candles lit the room from sconces all around the walls and on the tables. Fine velvet and satin hangings, in the Borgia colors and stitched with the crest of the Borgia bull, adorned the marble walls, along with intricate tapestries depicting biblical scenes such as the Wedding at Cana and the Sermon on the Mount. The many tables in the huge hall were covered with cloth of gold, and gold plates and cutlery still remained on some of the tables as the servants worked to clear the remains of the feast—a feast comprised of enough food to have fed my village for a month, by the looks of it.
And the guests! They were nearly more dazzling than the room. Ladies wore gowns of every color, in the finest fabrics, and with jewels to match. The men wore clothes nearly as vibrant, and gold and silver stitching glinted from many a doublet. Even the cardinals in attendance, in their bright red robes and caps, had added lace to their sleeves and wore their largest jeweled crosses for the occasion.
The wealth on display was unbelievable. I had seen evidence of great wealth in the Vatican Palace, certainly, and the treasures in Madonna Lucrezia’s house, yet this was something else altogether. The excess was brilliant to look at, but was not such pride and vanity and waste a sin? Especially while people starved in the streets and villages outside?
Quickly I crossed myself. This was the pope’s palace, and his daughter’s wedding, I reminded myself. Many of these people served God and His Church. If God in his wisdom had seen fit to bestow such wealth upon them, it was not for me to question or judge. Surely it was right for God to reward His holy servants so.
I positioned myself behind one of the wall draperies, to watch as the dancing began. The pope sat at the head table beside Giulia Farnese, both watching approvingly as Lucrezia was led out by her bridegroom. I started a bit at the sight, so discordant a pair did they make: she, blushing and glowing radiantly in her extravagant gown, and he, dour and with a tight smile on his lips. He was not yet thirty—still much older than his teenaged bride—but already his drab brown hair was beginning to thin and he had developed a paunch around his middle, which his fine doublet did nothing to hide. He had a short beard that looked to hide a weak chin, and his small eyes darted nervously around the room, as though he were a rabbit in a room full of foxes and was hoping they had not noticed him yet, that he could still slip away unscathed.
He bowed to her and took her hand, and as the musicians in the corner struck up a lively tune, they began to dance. He was clumsy and awkward on his feet, and several times Lucrezia had to step gracefully out of the way, lest he tread on her toes. Still, her bright smile did not slip for so much as an instant, even as she tried to make conversation with her new husband, and he replied with no more than a word or two. No doubt he needed to direct his full concentration toward the dance, I thought, feeling somewhat irritated on my mistress’s behalf.
After what seemed a painfully long time, the bride and groom’s dance ended, and other couples rose to take a spot on the floor. The pope rose from his seat at the dais and spoke in his booming voice. “Cesare,” he called, “lead the bride in a dance, won’t you? Let’s have a Spanish dance.”
All heads turned toward where Cesare Borgia rose from his seat. I blinked once, almost disbelievingly; I hadn’t recognized him without his archbishop’s robes. He was dressed as a nobleman, wearing a doublet of midnight blue trimmed with silver and silver hose—beautiful clothes, and finely made, but not nearly as ostentatious as what was worn by many others in the room. He wore only his large archbishop’s ring on his left hand; no other jewelry or adornment. His hair flowed freely in dark curls to his shoulders, without his bishop’s cap to hold it back. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen; handsomer even than Federico.
I may not have recognized Cesare Borgia when I’d first slipped into the room, but once I did, I did not know how I had missed him. Or how to look away. He inclined his head to his father in agreement and walked out onto the floor, where the other dancers waited for him to take his place. He took Lucrezia’s hand and kissed it, and she beamed, a smile that eclipsed any she had thus far given her bridegroom. She was no doubt relieved to be dancing with someone as familiar as her brother. Giovanni Sforza stood awkwardly behind the pair; then, as though only just realizing he had been dismissed, walked stiffly off the dance floor and back to his seat. A slight scowl twisted his features, and I wondered if anyone else noticed, and what they made of it if they did.
“Very good!” the pope called out and clapped his hands. “Begin!”
On his cue, the musicians struck up a lively dance, and Lucrezia and Cesare began to move. The other couples had returned to their seats, as it seemed they were not familiar with this Spanish dance.
And what a striking pair they made. If one did not know they were brother and sister, it would not be easy to guess: him dark and tall, she slight and golden. They were each beautiful in their own way, though, and therefore alike even as they were different.
The dance was a quick, vigorous one, yet it managed to be sensual all the same, with the dancers holding each other’s gaze and pressing together quickly before again moving apart. It was slightly shocking to me that a brother and sister should dance it together, yet the Holy Father was beaming approvingly from his seat on the dais, clapping along with the quick beat.
A glance at the other attendees, however, showed I was not the only one mildly scandalized. A few other guests, some of them cardinals, raised their eyebrows as they watched the Borgia siblings. Others exchanged shocked glances. And Giovanni Sforza wore a scowl that only deepened as the dance went on. Only Juan Borgia, sitting beside Cesare’s empty seat, seemed indifferent, his attention fully focused on his wine goblet. I pressed myself closer to the wall, praying the Blessed Mother would keep his gaze from falling on me, this night or any other.
Once the dance ended, all those in attendance clapped heartily, and the two dancers bowed in acknowledgement. Juan rose to take his turn dancing with the bride, and Cesare escorted a smiling Giulia Farnese to a place among the other couples who had returned to the floor. And the bridegroom, amidst all the splendor put on for his sake, remained sullenly in his seat.
I could not help but pity Lucrezia while watching the sneer of distaste beginning to curl his lip. She was so young and full of life, too much so to be saddled with a husband who could take no pleasure in the things that brought her joy. If anyone would know that, it was I.
And as I watched the dancing continue on into the night, my eyes were drawn back again and again to Cesare Borgia, in his elegant and understated clothing. A true prince, in both looks and dignity, I thought, watching him charm his dance partner of the moment, a lady I did not know. A pity a man more like him could not have been found for young Lucrezia.