Once again, the household of the pope’s women had gathered on the terrace of the Castel Sant’ Angelo, but for a much happier reason. Today we were watching the French army ride out of Rome. And good riddance, I thought. May you never come back.
Our lives could return to normal. We could return to Santa Maria in Portico in the coming weeks and leave this cold fortress that had begun to feel rather like a tomb—fitting, for, as Isabella had told me, that was exactly what it once was. She claimed the structure had originally been built by one of the pagan emperors of Rome as a tomb for himself and his wife. It did not surprise me. I had come to feel a bit like a corpse myself, tucked away behind the cold walls.
And once our lives returned to the way they once were, surely I would be able to find Federico myself, if I did not have word from Cardinal Borgia first. My failure to do so, even with the risks I’d taken, had not allowed me to sleep any better. With the French gone, the servants would return to the Vatican—no doubt some of them already had, with the Holy Father again in residence—and someone would know where Federico had gone. And if not, I could hire a messenger to take a letter to his family’s vineyard once peace had returned to Rome and its environs.
But I kept remembering the blood in the wine shop. I returned again and again to that image. It was likely Federico had not been there at all, yet it haunted me each time I closed my eyes, my stomach twisting in a sickening mix of guilt and dread.
I pulled myself from my dark musings and peered down at the street below. Cardinal Borgia was riding beside the French king as they left the Vatican Palace and rode past the fortress.
I had not seen Cardinal Borgia since the day I had foolishly left the Castel Sant’ Angelo to seek Federico—the day I had slapped a prince of the Church. I still blushed to think of it, but what I blushed at most was the memory of his lips grazing the skin of my hand, and of the words he had spoken to me with such reverence: I shall do as you bid me, Maddalena, avenging angel, Madonna of Holy Vengeance. Never had someone spoken to me so before, as though I were to be admired, worshipped.
He had kept his first promise to me: later that same day, several wheels of fresh cheese had been delivered to the Castel’s kitchen expressly for me. I had shared with the staff, of course; the cook had baked us a fresh loaf of bread to go with it, and we all practically squealed with delight as we devoured our feast. Naturally, the others had been curious where I had gotten such a bounty; I lied—promising myself to confess the sin later—and said Federico’s family had sent it. Gossip would be ruthless if I said it had come from Cardinal Borgia; there would be speculation that was neither wanted nor warranted. We had no relationship beyond that of a maid and a man who far outranked her in the world, even if he was particularly kind to me …
He is very brave, I thought, watching him ride past. He rode into unknown danger, into a war that was not of his making, and yet one he would try to stop.
And he had kept his promise to me. With the departure of the French, the people of Rome would be safe. However he and the Holy Father had arranged it, the French were leaving, and the city would rejoice. He had even offered himself up as a sacrifice to see it done. Whether or not he could bring me news of Federico, I considered his promise fulfilled.
He could be killed, I thought suddenly, and the thought forced the breath sharply from my lungs as though I had fallen flat onto stone.
Surely he is in little danger, I tried to reassure myself. He is the pope’s son, after all. It would be more than their soul was worth for anyone to harm him. And behind him rode a fair-haired man I had seen with His Eminence before, his bodyguard. He was not alone. He had his man to protect him.
And yet … it was war. Horrible and unpredictable things could happen when men have violence in their blood.
I might never see Cesare Borgia again.
This should not have mattered to me. I should have harbored no more feeling for him than the respect due a prince of the Church.
But I did. And wrong and sinful though it was, I could no longer deny it as I watched him ride away and my heart broke.