I had let Donna Adriana know I would need additional ribbons and thread for some of the work I was doing on Madonna Lucrezia’s gowns, so she had counted out some coins and bid me go to the market. Isabella had insisted on joining me, claiming she would not be missed. She had been assigned duties serving mainly Sancia of Aragon—much to her chagrin—and since Sancia and the rest of the Borgia family had been summoned to the midday meal with His Holiness, she had decided to take advantage of her brief leisure time.
“I swear I have not left that palazzo in weeks!” Isabella said, tilting her head up to the bright and unforgiving Roman sun as we walked to the market. “Madonna Sancia is even more demanding than I expected. Every hour of the day and night she needs something, practically.”
“You exaggerate, amica mia. Surely she must sleep,” I teased.
Isabella arched one dark eyebrow. “I am certain she does, but where she sleeps, I do not know.”
I turned to face her. “What do you mean?”
“There have been several nights when I have looked in on her after she had retired—lest she accuse me of being derelict in seeing to her every need—and found she was not in her bed.”
“Why would you go into her bedchamber when you have not been summoned?”
Isabella flushed slightly. “Well, the first time it was as I said—I wanted to leave her no room to criticize me. But after I became curious to see if she was out of her bed on other nights, so I checked back. And indeed she has been. She was missing more nights than not last week.”
“Let us hope you are not caught snooping,” I said.
“Maddalena, you are quite missing the point. Where has she been all these nights, at such an indecent hour?”
“No doubt with her husband.”
Isabella snorted. “If that is the case, he has more stamina than I gave him credit for. But would it not be more appropriate for him to visit her rooms, and not the other way around?”
“I am surprised you did not check Don Jofre’s rooms on those nights to be sure,” I said, half-joking.
“I wanted to, but I could not think of a plausible excuse that I could give to his servants. I can hardly say that Sancia sent me, for if she is there it will be an obvious lie, and if she is not, she will not thank me for summoning her husband when she is not in her rooms.”
I laughed aloud. “You have plainly given this a great deal of thought.”
“What else have I to occupy my mind all day? I do not have fine embroidery to work on, as you do.”
I grinned. “Do not act as though you are jealous, Isabella. We both know you would sooner put the needle through your eye than be forced to apply it to fabric.”
Isabella shuddered. “God forgive me, but you’re right. I had rather scrub Sancia of Aragon’s chamber pots all day than sew.”
“Then we are perfectly suited to our tasks,” I said, giggling.
She sighed. “I do wish I had some special skill like you, though, one that makes me more valuable to these fine ladies we serve.” Before I could think how to reply, she added, “Nor would I say no to a private word on occasion with Cardinal Borgia.” She winked at me.
“Isabella!” I chastened, feeling myself blush. “He is kind to me because he helped me once, and he appreciates my service to his dear sister. Nothing more. And for shame—he is a prince of the Church!”
“Who is advocating anything shameful?” she said with a grin. “I am speaking only of exchanging a few words, is all.”
I fell silent. Surely she could not know of my most secret and disgraceful thoughts about Cardinal Borgia, could she? Surely I had not given such away?
By then we had reached the market, and I sought out the vendors who would have what I needed. As I purchased some thread in several colors—silver, crimson, and a few shades of blue—and tucked them away in my satchel, I heard a voice hailing me from a few stalls over. “Maddalena Moretti! Can it be you?”
I turned to see Fabrizia, a maid from the Vatican with whom I had been friendly. Our paths had not crossed since I’d left for Santa Maria in Portico. “Fabrizia! Lovely to see you. You look well,” I said.
“As do you,” she said, approaching with a smile. “You are still serving the pope’s daughter?”
“I am indeed.” I indicated the stall we were moving away from. “I do much sewing and embroidering for her and others in her household. I am here replenishing my supplies. And you are still employed in the Vatican Palace?”
“I am indeed.” She gave me a sly look. “Sancia of Aragon lives with Donna Lucrezia in Santa Maria in Portico, does she not? Along with her husband, the youngest Borgia boy?”
“She does,” I said, wondering at the shift in topic. “I do embroidery work for her as well. Isabella here,” I indicated, “mainly serves Madonna Sancia. Isabella, this is Fabrizia Tortelli.”
Fabrizia nodded. “A pleasure, Isabella. I only ask about Madonna Sancia because…” She glanced around furtively. “Well, I wondered if you had noticed anything untoward.”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Isabella spoke up. “I was just telling Maddalena that for several nights in the last week Madonna Sancia has not been in her bed. I suppose she may be with her husband, but—”
“To be sure she is not,” Fabrizia said, her eyes sparkling with gossip. “Here, come away from the crowds, I’ve something to tell you both…”
She drew us off to a quiet corner of the market and glanced around before continuing. “Right,” she said, her voice low. “I saw her—this Sancia of Aragon—one night in the Vatican. Very late, it was. Near dawn, in fact—I had just arisen to go about my duties.”
“What was she doing there at such an hour?” I asked.
Fabrizia chuckled. “Ah, Maddalena. Still such an innocent. What else would she be doing there at that hour?”
I bristled at her condescension. “Why don’t you tell us, as you seem to know so much about it?”
“Oh, I shall,” she said, either missing or ignoring the irritation in my voice. She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper, and we both moved forward to hear her. “She was dressed in a dark cloak, with a hood covering her face. At one point she turned, and I was able to see her clearly. She did not notice me, I am certain,” Fabrizia said with satisfaction. “But she was in the company of none other than Cardinal Cesare Borgia. She was clutching his arm—rather intimately, I might add—and they appeared to be heading for the tunnel that runs beneath the Vatican.”
“And to Santa Maria in Portico,” I whispered.
“Is that where it goes indeed? I had heard that, of course, but I’ve never followed it to the end myself.” Fabrizia continued. “Now mind you, when I saw her, I did not know it was the lady Sancia. I thought it was some harlot Valentino had smuggled in for his pleasure. Such things happen often enough. It was not until I saw her two nights later, bold as you please, walking into the Vatican all dressed up and on the arm of her little husband to dine with the Holy Father. Imagine! She has no shame, she cannot—she is bedding her husband’s brother, a holy cardinal, and still she dines with Pope Alexander himself!” Fabrizia crossed herself, her eyes cast piously toward Heaven.
Arguments rose to my tongue—Fabrizia had not seen them in any sort of a compromising position; Sancia could have been there to seek Cardinal Borgia’s help or …
The words withered before I could speak them. I did not need Fabrizia to call me a naive fool again. And why should I make excuses for Sancia of Aragon? Especially when there were clearly none to be made.
Why should I care what she did, or what Cardinal Borgia did? Their sins were not mine. I would not be called to answer for their actions. It should make no matter to me.
But it did. Suddenly I could not rid myself of images of the two of them entwined, the man who was so kind to me and that shameless woman …
Quickly I crossed myself, and if either Fabrizia or Isabella noticed no doubt they attributed it to my horror at the thought of such sin. In truth, I was begging God for forgiveness. For had I not committed the same sin as Sancia, in thought if not deed?
I hated her, but not for her sin, as the Church taught us to despise such sin. For I was guilty of not one but two cardinal sins now: lust and envy.
I hated her, and I had no right to do so.
It took me a second to realize Isabella was speaking. “… thought it must be something like that.” She nudged me. “Did I not say so, Maddalena?”
“Oh … yes, you did. Not an hour ago, in fact.”
“I think we all must agree, we must keep this to ourselves,” Fabrizia went on. “I’ve no need for word to get out and have it traced back to me, and I’m sure you both feel the same.”
Isabella and I both nodded.
“Allora, but I’m glad I ran into you, ragazze. I simply had to tell someone!” She giggled. “I could not have kept it to myself much longer!”
“Such a coincidence that we should see you,” Isabella said. “You have answered my questions, to be sure!”
“Indeed,” I said. “It was nice chatting with you, Fabrizia, but I’ve some shopping to do yet. We must be getting along.”
“Ah, very well! God bless you both. Perhaps our paths shall cross again soon!” Fabrizia waved farewell and turned to leave the market.
As Isabella and I returned into the maze of stalls and stands, she was nearly cackling with glee. “It is as I said, Maddalena! Can you believe it? Well, maybe not exactly as I said, for I never speculated on who Donna Sancia was meeting … I never imagined she’d be so bold!”
“And what of him?” I asked aloud, cursing myself silently for even responding. I wanted this conversation over as quickly as possible. “What of the vows he made to God and Holy Mother Church? Why is the shame only on her, and not him?”
Isabella shrugged. “Men—even and perhaps especially men of God—can do what they like and always have, Maddalena. It is not fair, but it is the way of the world. They shall have their reckoning with Jesus Christ in the end.”
“Well, we can at least acknowledge they both have sinned, instead of placing the blame solely at her feet,” I said briskly. “Now come, I’ve ribbon to find yet, and the ladies will no doubt be back at the palazzo soon.”
For the rest of that day, I could not shake an overwhelming feeling of betrayal. And I prayed I might be delivered from temptation, from this cycle of sin I had found myself in.