Lucrezia’s divorce soon became common knowledge, at least among those associated with the Vatican and the Borgia family. It was an open secret that the pope was seeking to annul her marriage to Giovanni Sforza, and this had become a great source of distress to Lucrezia, who hated the gossip as much as, if not more than, the idea of her marriage being annulled.
“I don’t understand how Papa can do this to me,” she wailed to Donna Adriana as a few other maids and I assisted with her bath. “Does he not know what people will say about me?”
“What could they possibly say? What would anyone dare say about you?” Donna Adriana asked. “You are the pope’s daughter.”
“You know perfectly well what they will say, pope’s daughter or no,” Lucrezia huffed. “That I am a bad wife. I could not make my husband happy. I am a failure as a woman. They already speak ill of us because we are Catalan, and—”
“Psh,” Donna Adriana scoffed. “The ignorant with nothing better to do will say such things, perhaps. But anyone who matters knows that marriages among families like ours are about politics, and nothing more. Wifely virtue does not signify.”
I had to hold back a snort. Who better to know such things than Adriana de Mila, whose son was sent off to the country just after his own wedding with cuckold’s horns affixed to his head at the behest of the man who would become pope?
Donna Lucrezia went on about marriage in the sight of God and duty, but I was no longer listening. I yawned, trying my best to hide it as I washed Donna Lucrezia’s long tresses. I had not been getting much sleep of late.
Yet as tiring as my nights were, I would not trade them for anything. Sleep was for the girl I had been, who had needed to dream of such things as now happened to me in my waking hours. To be desired by a man such as Cesare Borgia, to revel in his touch and watch how he thrilled at mine … it was worth any sin. It was worth the exhaustion, and the looks of wrath and disgust I fancied Madonna Sancia had been sending my way of late. Each time I caught her glaring in my direction, I would simply lower my eyes but keep my chin up. Even if she somehow knew that I had taken her place in Cesare’s bed, what right had she to be angry? She had cast him off. And there was nothing she could do to me in any case, not while I was effectively under Valentino’s protection.
I pushed aside thoughts of Sancia and returned to much more pleasurable recollections of my lover. Why, the night before, he had …
“Maddalena?”
I started and looked up to find Donna Lucrezia and Donna Adriana both looking at me questioningly. Donna Lucrezia looked somewhat irritated, as though it were not the first time she had called my name.
“My apologies, Madonna,” I said. “I … I did not hear you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I asked you to get the cloth, so I may step out,” she said.
“Of … of course.” I hurried to grab a clean length of cloth and unfurled it, holding it out for Madonna Lucrezia. She rose from the tub, wet hair streaming down her back, and stepped out. I wrapped the cloth around her, proceeding to help dry her. Once she was dried off and dressed, she would sit out in the garden for a few hours to help her hair dry. It was all quite an ordeal.
She resumed her conversation with Donna Adriana, and I was free to fall back into my dreamy, preoccupied haze.
“Where were you last night?” Isabella hissed later that night, once we were relieved of our duties and heading down to the kitchens to find something to eat. “I awoke in the middle of the night, and you were not in your bed.”
“Donna Lucrezia needed something,” I said.
“A fine attempt, Maddalena, but I know better,” Isabella said, folding her arms across her chest. “You have been out of your bed several nights of late. Madonna Lucrezia is not that demanding, especially given that Pantasilea sleeps just outside her bedchamber.”
I sighed. I had been dying to tell Isabella the truth, but was not sure if I should. Now that she had found me out, I might as well. “Very well. But you must not tell anyone.”
Her eyes sparkled at this hint of something salacious. “I promise!”
I dragged her out to the garden, and we huddled beside one of the hedges. I lowered my voice to a near whisper after ensuring that we were alone. “I have been with His Eminence. Cardinal Valentino,” I confessed. Now that I had begun the tale, I found I could not stop. It all poured out of me. Isabella’s eyes grew wider and wider as she listened, and when I finally finished, she was silent for a long time.
“Well?” I demanded. “Haven’t you anything to say?”
Isabella shook her head. “I scarcely know where to begin.” She regarded me with a mixture of surprise, wariness, and admiration. “You truly have been bedding Cesare Borgia these weeks past? The handsomest man in Rome?”
I could not help preening at those words. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?”
“But he is a prince of the Church! And I know you, Maddalena, to be a good Christian.”
“I … I am. I try to be.” Indignation crept into my voice. It was one thing for me to wrestle with such guilt and misgivings, but it was a great deal more uncomfortable to hear the same from someone else. “You’ve had no trouble making suggestive comments about him in the past, saying you wished he would have private conversation with you and I know not what else.”
“I was speaking in jest,” Isabella argued. “I never meant to imply … I never truly thought…” She shook her head. “And you had such harsh words about Donna Sancia when that woman at the market—Fabrizia?—told us they were having an affair. And here you go, doing the same thing.” Understanding dawned on her face. “I see now. You were jealous. You desired him even then.”
Blushing, I nodded.
She sighed. “Oh, Maddalena. I … I do not mean to judge, I swear it. I am shocked, is all. I never expected…”
I clutched her arm. “I know. Believe me, I know. But I … you must believe me when I say I am happy. It is a strange and impossible situation, but I am.” My face heated up. “I … sin or no, I enjoy being in his bed. I cannot help it. I have desired him, it is true, and he desires me. That is all there is to it.”
“Oh, Maddalena,” she said once more. “You will take care, won’t you? What you are doing is dangerous. These people, these powerful nobles and churchmen, they are not like us. Their world is not ours. He is dangerous. He would hurt you as soon as he breathes and think nothing of it. And I do not wish to see you hurt.”
“I understand,” I said. “I do. And I expect nothing from him, Isabella. Truly I don’t. He cares for me, he does, but I know there can be nothing more to it than this.”
“Hmmm. Mind you remember that.”
“I will.”
“I mean it. There is no more foolish creature than a young woman in love. Take care, Maddalena. Mind that you do not become caught up in their Borgia games.”
“I will not,” I replied.
“Buono.” She smiled. “And so? Is he as skilled in bed as he looks?”
I laughed. “Oh, yes. That I can tell you for sure.”
She giggled. “Well, good. Good that he cares for your pleasure; many men don’t. Take whatever happiness you can from it, while it lasts.”
“I plan on it.”
“But, Maddalena,” she said, her face growing serious again, “you will be careful, won’t you?”
“I will, amica mia. I promise it.”
We embraced, and when we stepped back she had a thoughtful look on her face. “I suppose it all makes sense,” she said. “Madonna Sancia is now bedding the other Borgia brother. The Duke of Gandia.”
I blinked in surprise. “She is?”
“Oh, yes. You hadn’t heard? They are quite blatant about it. He comes into her bedchamber bold as you please, no shame.” She considered this. “So Sancia of Aragon tossed aside Cesare Borgia, and he has picked you up in her stead.”
“I suppose,” I said uncomfortably. “No doubt she broke his heart, and he came to me for comfort.”
Isabella chuckled. “If he has a heart to break. Just mind, Maddalena, that he does not break yours.”