Father’s announcement of Juan’s and my appointments was met mostly with silence. Michelotto brought word from his spies that many of the College of Cardinals were upset at my own appointment as papal legate over the older, more experienced cardinals, but the true outrage was at the gifting to Juan of the duchy of Benevento, as predicted. The general feeling was that the pope had largely overstepped the bounds of his secular authority. Yet no one knew quite what might be done about that. So the grumbling remained just that. I instructed Michelotto in no uncertain terms to bring me word if he got wind of anything changing in that regard.
In the meantime, Father threw a grand banquet to celebrate Juan’s investiture, and even those who complained mightily about the matter did not see fit to abstain from the Holy Father’s sumptuous table. Hypocrites, all, I thought contemptuously that night, watching two of the cardinals in question working their way through large plates and leering appreciatively down the bodices of the serving girls who poured them more wine. I had caught sight of Maddalena at one point—no doubt there attending Lucrezia—but she was not serving, thank heavens. If any of these men had looked at her like that I likely could not have stopped myself from plucking out their eyes.
Meanwhile, Juan and Sancia behaved more shamelessly than ever. She was seated beside him at the table, and no one could have failed to notice his hand on her leg, or the way she often whispered in his ear, placing a hand possessively on his chest or shoulder. When the feasting was over and the dancing had begun, they were the first couple to take to the floor, their bodies pressing almost obscenely close as they danced together.
I had danced a few turns with Lucrezia, but soon lost the stomach for it. Instead I was back at my seat, drinking more wine as I furiously watched Juan and Sancia make fools of themselves, and of me. I was incapable of looking away; as though this was hell and watching them was the punishment God had devised for me, that I might pay for my sins in the most excruciating way possible.
As I stewed and drank, Jofre came to sit in a chair beside me. He, it was plain, had had more than his share of the wine as well.
He did not speak at first, but his eyes were fixed on the same sight as mine. I remained silent; he would say what he wished when he was ready.
“I used to think myself the luckiest man in the world, to have such a wife,” Jofre said eventually, his words slurring.
“And so you are,” I said, knowing what was coming but wishing to forestall it if I could.
“No. I am not. Anyone would think that to have such a wife would be enough, but it is not. I have learned that the hard way, brother.” He took another drink and said morosely, “My wife does not love me.”
“Surely she—”
“I love her, but she does not love me. Our marriage is torture for me,” he said, as though I had not spoken. “And Juan…” His voice broke, yet I saw only rage in his eyes. There was a resemblance to me, and perhaps to Juan as well, in his face, but his features were softer, more blurred, as if in his case water had been mixed in with the Borgia blood. “He is my brother,” Jofre went on, teeth clenched. “I thought he loved me, as I always loved him. How could he do this to me? How?”
He did not know, then. He did not know I had bedded his wife before Juan. Yet his question felt like an accusation all the same.
“They must hate me,” Jofre said. “They must hate me fiercely, to so shame me before all.”
“I am sure that is not true,” I said, the first honest words I felt I could speak. I had nothing but enmity for both Juan and Sancia, but I was certain they did not mean to hurt Jofre, nor bore him any ill will. They were both simply too selfish to see the harm they were causing him. Or to care.
Just as I had been too filled with mad love and desire for Sancia to care.
“Then what must they think of me?” Jofre demanded, turning to face me.
“I do not believe they think of anyone save themselves.”
Jofre laughed mirthlessly and lifted his goblet to his lips. “How nice that must be, to think only of oneself. I find I cannot think of anything or anyone but the two of them.”