When I finally arrived at my father’s rooms, he rose impatiently upon my entrance. “Cesare,” he said sourly. “You are late.”
His words sparked my anger at Juan anew. “Apologies, Holy Father,” I said stiffly. “I had to prevent His Grace the Duke of Gandia from violating one of Your Holiness’s servant girls.”
My father was taken aback straightaway. “May God forgive him,” he sighed, crossing himself. “I will speak to Juan.”
Yet almost immediately, we left the subject of Juan’s outrages against women. “Sit, my son, sit, and have some wine. I have something of great import to discuss with you.”
I sat, but did not drink. I was still too angry with Juan, and my father for so casually brushing his actions aside. “What would that be?”
My father’s next words chased all thoughts of Juan and the poor servant girl—Maddalena, her name was Maddalena—from my mind. “Lucrezia’s marriage,” he said. “I have decided on a suitable bridegroom.”
I sat up straighter. “You have? Who?” I demanded. I had expected to be consulted, to be able to advocate for the man who would be likely to keep Lucrezia in Rome, or at least nearby. Yet I had not so much as heard the name of any man being considered, and here my father was telling me he had already decided.
“Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro,” my father said with satisfaction.
Immediately I sorted through the information I possessed about this man, admittedly not much. He was a cousin of Ludovico and Ascanio, if I was not mistaken—not of the main branch of the Sforza family. And Pesaro was a small city of little import. “Giovanni Sforza?” I repeated, incredulously. “He is married already, is he not?”
“Widowed,” my father said. “The marriage would make Lucrezia Countess of Pesaro, as well as strengthen our ties with the Sforzas of Milan.”
“Holy Father, you cannot be serious.” The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think better of it.
His expression darkened. “I assure you I am,” he said, irritated. “And I wonder that you have the nerve to speak to me in such a tone.”
“I assumed you brought me here so that I might offer my opinion,” I said, trying to sound as calm and reasonable as possible.
His scowl softened slightly. “I did,” he conceded. “Now explain to me what possible objections you can have.”
“Giovanni Sforza is hardly the most wealthy or prestigious match that could be found for the pope’s daughter,” I began. “He brings a connection to the Sforzas of Milan, yet he is but a cousin—and a relatively poor one at that. Pesaro and its title are of little importance to those on the Italian peninsula. And he must be at least twice her age, no?” I could not add my final and perhaps most strenuous objection, one that would carry little weight here: I promised Lucrezia she would never be made to leave us. To leave me.
“Is there a more prestigious Sforza relative for her to wed that you are hiding from me?” my father demanded. “Any connection to them will benefit us, and we owe them a boon after Ascanio’s support of me in conclave. The boon they wish for is to be more closely connected to the Holy Father.”
“The vice-chancellorship is not enough for Ascanio, I see,” I said scornfully. I had never much liked the man; he had a face like a rat, and his ambition knew no bounds. I wondered how far he would take this sense of obligation Pope Alexander felt toward him, and how far the pope would allow it to go.
My father looked at me with a faint glare. “We owe them a boon,” he repeated. “And what is more, Giovanni Sforza is a noted condottiere, as I’m sure you know yet left out of your accounting of him. We can call upon his military strength and his numbers whenever we have need.”
Referring to the man as a “noted” condottiere was rather generous, but I held my tongue. In truth, that Giovanni Sforza could bring military aid to us was perhaps the only advantage of the match, so far as I could see. We would need his troops and more to bring the Romagna firmly under control. “Surely there are even more advantageous matches, from a military perspective,” I argued. “One of the Orsini or Colonna, even…”
“And how to repay the Sforzas, then?” my father asked impatiently.
“Why must it be Lucrezia who marries into their Godforsaken family?” I demanded. “Why not get a Sforza bride for Juan or Jofre?”
“I have other plans for Juan,” he said. He meant bigger plans, better plans. Nothing but the best for his favorite son, no matter how little deserved. “And Jofre is too young for marriage as yet. We need this alliance now.”
Jofre was not that much younger than Lucrezia. “I do not trust the Sforzas,” I said. “Ludovico has all but stolen the ducal crown, and Ascanio—”
“All the more reason to align ourselves with them, and keep them close,” my father interrupted. “And you know as well as I do that we need an alliance with a notable Italian family as soon as possible. The Italian nobles do not trust our Catalan blood.”
He was right, but I still couldn’t bear the thought of Lucrezia marrying into that family, of this being her future. “Do you think Lucrezia could love him?” I asked at last.
My father waved this away. “Young girls fall in and out of love as easily as they change their gowns,” he said. “Political alliances are not made on the basis of love. You should understand this by now, Cesare.”
“But this is Lucrezia,” I protested, finally making the emotional plea. “Your only daughter, my only sister. Do you not want her to be happy?”
His face softened. “Of course I want her to be happy. And I expect doing her duty to her family will make her happy.”
I angrily picked up the goblet of wine and finally took a sip. A long one.
“Lucrezia is a prize as a bride,” my father went on. “Giovanni Sforza will know this and will know how he is being honored with her hand. He will have no reason not to treat her like the princess she is.”
“I shall make certain he does,” I said, through gritted teeth. “For if he does not, I will make him pay.”
My father chuckled. “Ever you are a loyal brother, Cesare,” he said. “I mark it well and appreciate your loyalty. We will have much need of it in the days to come.” He picked up his glass from the table between us. “Then we are decided?”
I took up my own glass, clinked it against his, and drank, though I did not speak. I could not bear to give words to my acquiescence.