I did not know what shocked me most: the truth of what had happened to Juan, Duke of Gandia; that Cesare told me all of it and then some; or that he knelt before me when he made his confession.
He rose to his feet and continued pacing as he told me everything: his lifelong jealousy of and rivalry with his brother; his frustrated ambitions; his affair with Sancia; his discovery of Sancia and Juan’s betrayal; his witnessing Juan’s murder and turning away; and how his younger brother, Jofre, had been behind the deed.
I do not know for how long he spoke, could not say how long the telling of the entire tale took. I did not move once, merely stayed where I was, holding on to one of the massive carved bedposts for support, watching and listening as he talked and paced. As I heard his confession.
When he finished speaking, he turned to look out the window into the darkened courtyard below, one forearm braced against the stone wall, almost as though he could not bring himself to face me. He remained there, silent, spent, for a long time.
I, too, was frozen. I did not know what to say. What was there to say to such a confession? My heart ached, and I could not entirely say why. “Cesare,” I whispered.
He turned back to me, and his face bore an expression I had never seen upon it before, nor ever would again, and would never forget: as though he was afraid, deathly afraid. “Maddalena,” he said. “Would you … do you condemn me, for all these things I’ve done?”
I wondered if it was truly me from whom he sought absolution. And yet I could see from the utter wreckage in his eyes that it mattered to him what I thought. It mattered desperately.
If he sought absolution and forgiveness from me, he would have it. For I knew the truth, and I was still glad Juan Borgia was dead.
“No,” I said. I drew a deep breath, trembling slightly. “I do not condemn you. I don’t. But it is you who must forgive yourself.” Tears sprang to my eyes as I remembered what Juan had tried to do to me. Justice had been served. My uncle would have reminded me that vengeance belonged to the Lord, but perhaps the Lord had used Cesare Borgia as his instrument. It seemed so to me, a woman who had been assaulted and need not live in fear of that man ever again. “I do not judge you, Cesare. I do not condemn you.”
He crossed the room to me and took me in his arms, crushing me to him. He buried his face in my hair, and tears slid down my cheeks. I could not be certain that he was not weeping as well.
I drew him to the bed and lay down beside him. Neither of us removed our clothing. He held me tightly to him, his arms wrapped around me and mine around him, and we did not move the whole night long.