This time, as I watched the wedding festivities, I was allowed to be there. I had been asked to attend should Madonna Lucrezia need anything. But if her happy, carefree glow all the evening long was any indication, she had everything she needed. As before, I was content to simply watch.
It was a much smaller affair than her first wedding, only family members and high-ranking nobles and church officials. Yet everyone was dressed splendidly, and the feast was as sumptuous as ever.
I watched as Lucrezia danced first one dance, and a second, with her brother Cesare. They danced close together, smiling and laughing, moving together as if they had done this their whole lives. And no doubt they had.
I thought of the rumors I had heard, that Lucrezia and Cesare committed incest together, that they had known one another in unholy ways. Watching them dance like this, at ease with one another, so loving, it was easy to see where the rumors had come from. I had never before seen siblings so close and affectionate.
Yet I could not believe it was true. If it was, I of all people surely would have seen evidence to give it credence, and I had not. Cesare Borgia might be guilty of many terrible deeds, but this was not one of them. He loved his sister protectively, fiercely—perhaps too much so—but not in such an unnatural way. The evil he had done had been out of love for her. As unforgivable, as misguided as what he had done had been, had he not thought only to protect his sister?
Could the intentions still be good when the act was so horrible?
As the night wore on and guests began to disperse, Cesare beckoned, discreetly, to me. I followed him out and up to his rooms. Lucrezia was not likely to look for me that night.
Yet when we got to his bedchamber, he did not seem eager for my company, as he often was. Instead he looked down into a darkened courtyard from the window. “Perhaps you should go,” he said at last. “It has been a long day for us both.”
I crossed the room and slid my arms around his waist, laying my cheek against his velvet-clad back. “Is something troubling you, Cesare?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing I could name.”
“I am happy to stay.”
“I do not know as I will be very good company.”
I could easily convince him otherwise. Perhaps other women might not have dared, but he continued to send for me and not for any other women, even after all this time. Even in the festering nest of gossip that was Rome, I had not heard any rumors about him and any other lady. Not since Sancia, before he had first taken me to his bed. I was sure I was not the only woman he had bedded in all this time, but I was certainly his favorite. His lover. His mistress. The keeper of his secrets.
I slid my hands lower, to his manhood. “I shall go if you want me to,” I murmured, brushing my fingers against him. He was hard beneath his breeches. I drew back, as though to leave.
He caught my wrist and spun to face me. “No,” he said. “Stay.”
I smiled, and went to work removing his clothing, then mine. We went to the bed, and I pushed him down and straddled him, lowering myself slowly onto him. He lifted his hips, thrusting himself deeper into me. “Oh, Maddalena,” he groaned.
I began to move atop him, his fingers digging into my hips as he arched beneath me. When he reached his ecstasy, I looked down at his face, my eyes hazy with my own pleasure, and took in his expression, twisted with exquisite agony. I smiled, enjoying the sight.
A week or so after Lucrezia’s wedding, Cesare sent for me, and I went eagerly, as I always—still—did. When I arrived that night he was sprawled in a chair before the cold fireplace, idly toying with the goblet of wine in his hand. He scarcely noticed my arrival. “Cesare,” I said, and moved to stand behind him, running my hands down his shoulders and over his chest. I bent forward and kissed his neck.
He sighed, turning his head and catching my lips with his. But then he turned his gaze forward again, toward the cold stone of the fireplace. “There is wine there on the table, if you would like some,” he said, somewhat offhandedly.
I served myself from the jug he had indicated and took the chair next to his, studying him carefully as I sipped—a good red from Tuscany, if I wasn’t mistaken. God forgive me, but being a cardinal’s mistress had given me an appreciation for fine wine, finer than I had had any occasion to taste before in my life. “Are you well, Cesare?” I asked finally, when he did not speak further.
He turned to face me at last, and the smile that crossed his face, while weary, was genuine. “Perfectly well,” he said. “Only tired.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I was in negotiations with the French ambassador much of the day.”
I went still at this. “Oh?” I asked, prompting him to go on, even as I both did and didn’t wish to know more.
Everyone in the Borgia circle had heard the rumors by then, even if they likely hadn’t reached the rest of Rome yet. Pope Alexander was seeking an alliance with the new French king—the same nation that had invaded us just a few short years ago—and would use his son to seal this alliance. His son Cesare’s marriage, which of course would involve said Cardinal Borgia leaving the Church, something almost unheard of.
I suspected it was not so much Pope Alexander using his son to get what he wanted as it was the other way around.
“Yes,” he said. “He assures me his king is agreeable to everything, and that our accord shall be a mutually beneficial one. Finally, there shall be no more obstacles. I shall have what I want. What I’ve always wanted.”
I was rather puzzled at the flat tone of his voice. “And does this not make you happy?”
He laughed shortly and took another swig of wine. “Of course it does.”
“Forgive me, but you do not seem happy.”
“It shall be strange, to leave Rome. To leave Italy.” He looked up at me. “To leave you.” He spun the stem of his wineglass between his thumb and index finger. “I had not thought very long on any of those things before.”
Will you truly miss me, when you go off to conquer the world? When you marry your royal wife? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. Not because I did not dare, but because I did not wish to hear the answer.
He drained the rest of the wine from his glass and stood up. “Never mind,” he said brusquely. “As I said, I am only tired.” He reached out and pulled me to my feet. “But not too tired for you, my Maddalena.” He kissed me deeply and drew me over to the bed.
Enjoy this, Maddalena, I told myself as he unlaced my dress, shivering as his fingers brushed my bare skin. This is all you can ever have of him.