Rome, July 1495
Giulia and Adriana were lounging languidly in the July heat, being fanned by us serving girls, when a footman arrived. “His Eminence, the Cardinal of Valencia,” the man announced. The words were scarce out of his mouth when the cardinal appeared in the room behind him.
Adriana uttered a cry and straightened in the chair where she had been slouching. “Your Eminence!” she said, rising to her feet and patting her hair. “You should have sent word you were coming! We could have received you properly, and had refreshments—”
He smiled and raised a hand. “Do not trouble yourself, cousin,” he said. “I bring excellent news, and it could not keep.”
“Nothing can keep in this heat,” Giulia said, with a sensuous smile. She snapped her fingers at Isabella and me. “Run to the kitchens and fetch us some chilled wine, if there is any to be had,” she said.
We both curtsied and hurried off. I nearly tripped carrying the tray back up the stairs, so eager was I to hear the cardinal’s news.
“Steady,” Isabella whispered from behind me. I paused outside the sitting room door, took a deep breath, and went back into the room.
“… realized he had no choice,” the cardinal was saying. “He had left his retreat too long already, and he paid for it.”
I stopped in front of him and curtsied. “Wine, Your Eminence?” I asked.
“That would be most welcome.” He smiled widely upon seeing me. “Maddalena. I hope you are well?”
“Very well, Your Eminence,” I said, setting down the tray on the nearby sideboard and pouring him a goblet.
I had not caught so much as a glimpse of him since the day he had told me of Federico’s death, when I had cried in his arms. With Lucrezia still in Pesaro, he had not much occasion to visit the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico. Which made me all the more curious as to his news, and all the more shamefully delighted to set eyes on him again.
It had been many long months since I had learned of Federico’s death. My sinful dreams of Cardinal Borgia had since morphed into nightmares of watching Federico die in the wine shop. He lay bleeding, reaching out a hand and begging me to save him as I just stood and watched him bleed to death, unable to move or speak. The nightmares plagued me.
I had confessed my guilt over Federico’s death, and the priest had done nothing more than lecture me on the desirable state of marriage, especially for women. A woman needed a husband to curb her naturally sinful ways, inherited from Eve. I should not have hesitated in marrying a good man who had asked me. He seemed less concerned that my doubt had unwittingly led to Federico’s death than he was with my hesitation at remarriage. Still, he had assigned me my penance—a week of bread and water once more—and absolved me. Of my feelings toward Cardinal Borgia, my sinful thoughts and dreams and even actions, I said nothing. Not confessing such sins would weigh down my soul enough to drag it straight to hell, but I could not find the words.
Yet the cardinal’s presence at the palazzo that day still helped to lift the cloud of darkness and guilt I had been living under since I had heard the horrible news.
“And so?” Adriana prompted once Isabella and I had finished serving the wine—a crisp white from the Veneto the ladies favored in the hot summer months. “You said there was a battle?”
“Indeed,” the cardinal said, taking a sip. “The combined forces of the Holy League met Charles’s retreating army at Fornovo and have won a great victory, under the command of the Marquis of Gonzaga. Charles escaped, but there were heavy casualties, and he was forced to leave behind all the plunder he had acquired on his trip across Italy.”
A smile slipped across my face. I had pieced together most of Charles’s trials in Naples: too much wine and whoring had made Charles’s soldiers impossible to command, and the people of Naples had turned on them. Hearing news of the Holy League forming against him, Charles reluctantly set out for home, hoping to reach the northern mountains before the allied forces could meet him. He had passed by Rome—causing much alarm and near-panic; I had hardly slept for days—reportedly hoping that the pope would now bestow the crown of Naples upon him. The pope, however, was not in Rome at the time, having taken the papal court to the hilltop city of Orvieto for a spiritual retreat, or so it was claimed. And so, thank God and all His saints, Charles had ridden by Rome and kept riding.
Giulia clapped her hands together. “So it is over? The French have truly gone?”
He nodded at her. “They are making for France as fast as they can march.”
Adriana crossed herself. “Praise God,” she said. “This great trial is at an end. And a true triumph for His Holiness.”
“And for you, Eminence,” Giulia added. “I am given to understand you played a crucial role in the negotiations that brought the Holy League together.”
The cardinal smiled. “You are well informed, Madonna Giulia,” he said. “I did indeed assist His Holiness in negotiations and am pleased all came to fruition, and to a happy outcome.” He glanced over at me, met my eyes briefly, and smiled.
I was sure the naked admiration was quite visible on my face. The dream that God had sent me, of Cesare Borgia appearing like St. Michael the Archangel, wielding holy vengeance with his sword to save us, had been true after all. And Cardinal Valentino had kept his promise. The cardinal waged his battle in a different way than with the sword, but he had liberated us from the French all the same.
Yet if that dream had been sent from God, what to make of the dreams I’d had since? I shivered and shoved the thought aside.
Their talk turned to other things, news of His Holiness and of Lucrezia in Pesaro and Juan in Spain. Isabella and I were sent to fetch some sweetmeats from the kitchen, and to bring more wine.
“Would you do us the honor of dining with us this evening, Your Eminence?” Giulia asked as the hour grew late.
He rose from his chair. “Much as I would enjoy the pleasure, I am set to dine with His Holiness this evening,” he said. “I shall gladly accept such an invitation at another time, though.”
Adriana went to kiss her cousin on the cheek. “Thank you for bringing us the news,” she said. “Giulia and I shall both be on our knees in the chapel this evening, thanking God for this deliverance.”
He swept them a bow, looking more like a young gallant from the streets than a prince of the Church. “It is always a delight to be the bearer of fine news,” he said. “I wish you both well, and hope we see one another again soon.”
“Maddalena,” Giulia called, “see His Eminence out. Isabella, see to the dishes.”
I bobbed her a curtsy and followed Cardinal Borgia to the door. “This way, Your Eminence,” I said, stepping past him to lead him out. “Though I am sure you know the way.”
“I do indeed,” he said, but he followed after me.
Upon reaching the entrance hall, I gave him a curtsy as well. “Farewell, Your Eminence,” I said, though there was more—so much more—that I wished to say. “May God give you a good evening.”
My breath caught as he took my hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “And you, Maddalena,” he said softly. “Are you well? I have thought of you often these past months.”
“Your Eminence is too kind,” I said. I met his eyes, my expression surely wan and drained. I had not been sleeping so well, after all. “I am as well as can be expected.”
He nodded grimly. “I am sorry for your grief, Maddalena. None of us are without our scars from these last months, it seems.”
I wondered what had happened to him of which he did not speak. I wanted to know. I wanted to know everything, all the thoughts and sins and scars and joys he carried in that unknowable heart of his.
I wanted to know him.
But I was only a serving girl, and he a cardinal. If God in His wisdom had put this man in my way, likely it was only to teach me humility.
“Your words mean a great deal, Your Eminence,” I said.
“I hoped it may bring you some comfort that I did as you commanded me,” he said, and I looked up to see a slight smile curling his lips. “I did everything I could to drive the French from Rome. Would that I had done it sooner.”
I had thought of his promise many a time, yet I’d never imagined he did as well. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do. I remember everything about that morning.” He chuckled. “It was, after all, the first time I was slapped by a serving maid.”
I let out a giggle and tried desperately to compose myself. “I … I truly am sorry about that, Your Eminence.”
“No, you’re not,” he teased. “Nor should you be. I deserved it.”
I looked away from the warmth in his eyes, a corresponding warmth spreading through my body. “Your Eminence, there was nothing further you could have done. By then it … it was already too late for Federico.”
He kissed my hand again, his eyes never leaving mine. “May God grant you relief from your sorrow, dear Maddalena,” he said. “And perhaps He will send you another worthy man.”
“Perhaps,” I said as he turned to leave.
But he can never send me the one I want most.