Blood & Beauty: A Novel of the Borgias

  He flings himself off the horse, the second spear, with a crossbar a third of the way up, already poised as the boar twists and howls. There are twenty, maybe thirty, forty paces between them. He settles his feet into the ground and braces himself. His blood is pumping and he can hear a kind of singing in his ears. The best place will be the neck, but wherever it is, there will be no second chance.

  The boar is charging now, moving at frenzied speed, head low so the tusks will get leverage on flesh. He has seen men half disembowelled by the goring if the spear doesn’t hold.

  ‘Come on!’ he roars at the top of his voice. Even braced against impact, he is thrown off centre as the whole weight of the animal rams on to the spear. For a second both man and beast are staggering. The man recovers first. All those hours of slamming, battering contact with battle swords have run rods of iron through his body and the spear has plunged in as far as the crossbar, so however hard it pushes the boar can get no closer. The tip has entered through the back of the head, deep into the body, and with Cesare at the other end holding firm, the beast can do nothing but squeal and squirm in furious agony. He calls in the dogs again and they hurl themselves upon the trapped body until finally the boar is brought to its knees. Only now does he let go of the spear and go in with the hunting dagger. The beast tries to rise, but it is too wounded. It is lying half on its side now, its great bulk juddering. This time he gets close enough to feel the brush-bristles of the hair. He picks his spot and slams in the long blade, hitting an artery so the blood whooshes up like a fountain into the air, soaking his clothes, spraying his face and hair: the gush-gush of a life extinguishing.

  As it lies twitching heavily, its blood pumping out on the ground, he slits open the stomach. The dogs hold back, growling, muscle straining, impatient for their share of the kill. Even the injured one has pulled itself out of the bushes to try to join the pack, half its own innards trailing the ground. He cuts out some offal from the boar and throws it the first piece. As he stands aside to let them in, the dogs go mad with joy.

  The chase and the kill. There is nothing in the world to compare to it. He has not felt so present, so filled with life, for months. Like any other man he has a yearning for the snug warm tunnels of women, but if heaven lets in men like him, then his eternity will be spent hunting, not copulating.

  The first horses from the main hunt are galloping into the glade, the King, of course, in the lead. He reins in his mount, amazed by the sight of this beautiful young man, drenched in blood. The royal hunt dogs pour in, snapping at each other in territorial dispute over the kill. No one else moves.

  Finally the King dismounts, motioning everyone else to stand back. ‘Valentinois,’ he shouts, striding up to Cesare. With the boar still twitching at their feet, he grabs his face between his hands and pulls it towards him as if they are going to kiss, then at the last moment embraces him, holding on until he too is thick with blood. But Cesare is still in communion with death and his laughter is more bestial than courtly. ‘Valentinois,’ the King says again, as if to remind him who and where he is. And now the shout is taken up, like a chant behind him. ‘Valentinois! Valentinois! Valentinois!’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, you look like a pagan. God help your wife on your wedding night,’ Louis laughs, throwing an arm around his shoulders and turning him towards the hunt, inviting his men to enjoy the spectacle of their bloodstained intimacy. ‘Come, leave the butchering to others. They will reward the dogs and bring you back your tusks and hooves. You and I have work to do.’

  Back in the palace, Cesare, bathed and dressed, attends His Majesty for a private dinner in his bedroom. Thick brocade curtains cut out the draughts, and there is a healthy fire in the open grate, the apple wood spitting sparks into the room. As his servants pour the wine, black as boar’s blood in the candlelight, the King can barely take his eyes off his guest.

  ‘Like you, my great, dear duke, I am a man who does not admit failure lightly.’ Louis is bullish from the start; Cesare’s blood lust is still strong in the room and the King is energised by it. Such virility is wasted on court intrigue; only put him at the head of a cohort of cavalry and this fiery young warrior will shine brighter than any armour. ‘I have done everything I can, but it seems Naples does not want you as a son-in-law. What can I say? Believe me, it will be their loss. But you are our dear ally and even dearer cousin and I will not have you disappointed. I promised you a royal wife called Carlotta. And that is what you shall have. I offer you a toast: to marriage and war.’ He lifts his blood wine and their silver goblets clash together. ‘Now. There is someone I want you to meet.’

  Charlotte d’Albret is young and lovely, and the blood in her veins runs as blue as that of her unlovely namesake. She is the sister of the King of Navarre, with a claim on the French throne itself. She has high, melon-ripe breasts, a smile to melt ice, a quietly religious sense of duty and a father whose only concern is the need for some extra cash. Maybe the King has had her waiting in the wings all the time. Who knows?

  ‘What is Naples anyway but a hellhole of deceit and disease, eh? This way you will have not only French lands but also a royal French wife.’ They walk together through the royal garden, the air growing milder with each passing day. ‘Once married, there will be nothing to stop us marching together and subduing the renegade Milan. With the city taken, my army will be your own to do with as you wish. God help the fortresses you march on, Cesare,’ he says, seeing again the boar’s insides bloody and steaming in his hands. ‘As for Naples… well, there is always our own French claim on it. Revenge, dear cousin, can be taken in many forms.’

  Cesare, who has looked in the mouths of many gift horses, knows a good enough mount when he sees it. Back in Rome, Alexander, who has been suffering his son’s humiliation as if it was his own, is jubilant. The marriage is negotiated, signed and celebrated in the Queen’s own chapel at Blois on May 12, barely six weeks after their first meeting.

  Cesare’s envoy gallops out when it is still dark. Seven hundred miles and a mountain range separate father and son. He reaches the Vatican four days later. Before he can open his mouth his knees buckle under him and Alexander gives a mere servant permission to sit in his presence. When he starts to talk his larynx is so coated with dust that his voice cracks. Food and wine are brought to help him recover.

  Four hours later, when the man is still answering questions, the Pope joins him at the table. No detail is too small, no triumph uncelebrated. His new daughter-in-law is a vision of beauty, her new wardrobe overflowing with Borgia gowns and jewels. Cesare is the most handsome bridegroom the court has ever seen, the marriage breakfast the most sumptuous, and the King of France so enamoured of his cousin that he showers him with even more titles and gifts. As for the wedding night – oh, the wedding night… No sooner has the messenger staggered home to sleep than Alexander invites others in to hear the news all over again. And so it is that Cesare’s sexual prowess enters history: twice before dinner and six times afterwards.

  ‘My son. My son! Eight lances broken in a single night,’ he reiterates gleefully with each retelling. ‘He has bettered his own father in that!’

  It is a family triumph and everyone must rejoice with him.

  In the forecourt of the palace of Santa Maria in Portico, the Duchess of Bisceglie orders a bonfire to be lit to commemorate the event. Inside, however, the celebration is muted.

  When the Pope visits, the couple receive him in Lucrezia’s bedchamber, a bowl for sickness discreetly stowed close by. As with her brother, family duty is pleasure for Lucrezia these days and the new baby she is carrying will be born in late autumn. Halfway through the story of Cesare’s triumph, her smile starts to tremble and tears slip down her cheeks. She tries to laugh them away, but they will not stop.

  ‘It is the baby,’ Alfonso says, squeezing her hand. ‘She feels everything most acutely these last weeks.’

  Alexander nods understandingly.

  But it is not the baby. Cesare is married into Franc
e, and Naples is no one’s ally any more.

  ‘Whatever happens, Alfonso and Sancia will still be family, won’t they, Father?’

  ‘You are not to worry about such things, Lucrezia.’

  The words, exchanged lightly only a few months ago, now sit accusingly between them. The Pope, who cannot bear to have his joy interrupted by the problems to come, kisses her on the forehead, before making his excuses to leave on further business.

  As the door closes, Alfonso puts his arms around her. ‘It is all right. You are the Pope’s daughter and everything will be all right.’

  ‘No. Don’t you understand? This marriage makes your family our enemy. And that exposes you and Sancia.’

  ‘What? Will he try and divorce us both? I think not. I may not have performed as publicly as Cesare, but no one can doubt we are married. In a few months I will be the father of the Pope’s grandchild. However angry he might be with my uncle, he will not take it out on me. He loves you too much for that.’

  She stares at him: such eyes, like cut sapphires. One would think that they could see through anything.

  ‘I am sure you are right,’ she murmurs. ‘I am being foolish.’

  She holds him tighter. There is no point in telling him that it is not her father she is worried about.

  CHAPTER 41

  July, and the French army is on the move. Cesare leaves his new bride in tears as he takes command of his squadron of cavalry. The King greets him publicly, embracing him, calling him brother and warrior and finding yet another French decoration to add to his list of titles.

  When the news reaches Rome, Vice-Chancellor Ascanio Sforza leaves immediately on a hunting trip, his baggage train altogether too large for such a short stay away. Milan is doomed and he can expect no help from the Church to save it.

  Even if the Pope had the will there is little he could do about it. Half of Italy is in France’s pocket anyway. Venice has signed her own treaty and the smaller states of Ferrara, Mantua and Savoy are already banking on the favours they will get from supporting King Louis. Whatever patriotic dreams Alexander might have had for his adopted homeland, the unpalatable truth is that the country is a sack of spatting cats that has learned nothing from the past. The only justice will be a poetic one: the man who started the tide turning five years ago will be the first to be swept away by it. As Alexander predicted, nobody is crying for the Sforzas.

  Before the Vice-Chancellor leaves he makes a last call at the palace of Santa Maria in Portico to say his goodbyes to the young couple who have been the nearest he can get to the Pope over the months of escalating tension. He sits nervously, as if the door might open on soldiers at any time.

  ‘Must you leave?’ Lucrezia asks anxiously.

  ‘The lines are drawn. There is no place for me here any more.’ He pauses. ‘And if you want my opinion I would say this is no longer a safe city for your husband.’

  ‘But I am the Pope’s son-in-law,’ Alfonso says automatically. It is a phrase that has already lost much of its comfort.

  ‘You are also the King of Naples’s nephew. If I may speak freely, my lady?’

  Lucrezia nods. She has learned fast these last few months and knows that allies can only be friends when the political moment allows. Nevertheless, she has developed a certain fondness for this Sforza cardinal. Though he lacks a taste for the kill, he is more able than many and with a different brother might have made a greater career for himself.

  ‘Once the French have taken Milan, they will revive their claim on Naples. By refusing Cesare’s marriage to Carlotta, King Federico has thrown not only himself but the whole house of Aragon to the wolves. Your brother will get French troops to carve out a state for himself in Italy and Naples is the price the papacy will pay for it. Being married into this family is no longer a privilege but a liability. I speak as someone who knows only too well.’

  No, no, she wants to say. No. This is not the same as last time. How could it be? She crosses her hands across her belly in a gesture of unconscious protection.

  ‘I am sorry, madam. It is what I think.’

  Lucrezia stares across at her husband. Neither of them speaks. They are both thinking the same thing: It has started already.

  It is partly Jofré’s doing. In his struggle to get his father’s attention, he has taken to imitating Juan, dressing in jewels and carousing around Rome at night with a band of Spanish reprobates. Crossing Ponte Sant’ Angelo a few days before, he was confronted by the Sheriff of Rome and in the brawl that followed someone fired an arrow into Jofré’s leg. He’d been brought back to the palace howling murder as the blood spouted and Sancia, terrified by the sight, had raised the alarm as far as the Vatican, pulling the Pope out of bed in her demands for revenge.

  But Jofré’s pain can never pierce his father’s heart in the way that Juan’s did. After calling both sides to put their case, he excuses the Sheriff and sends his son to Castel Sant’ Angelo to cool his temper in a cell. When the news reaches Sancia, she explodes with fury.

  ‘It is an outrage. Jofré almost bled to death.’

  ‘That is not what the doctors say. According to them it is a flesh wound.’

  ‘That’s not true! He was beside himself with the pain.’

  Alexander sighs. Up to his eyes in high politics, he does not need this now, but Sancia has never learned the art of softening up her prey before she pounces.

  ‘How can you pardon the offender and punish Jofré? This is not justice.’

  ‘If Jofré draws his sword and attacks the Sheriff’s men, then he deserves what he gets.’

  ‘But he is your son!’

  ‘In which case he should act like it.’

  ‘That is not what you would have said if it had been Cesare. Or Juan.’

  Juan. The word hangs in the air. The fact is, nobody mentions his dead son in the Pope’s presence. He has made it clear that he does not like to be reminded…

  He stares at her: this dark little beauty with her piercing eyes and flamboyant ways. Four years of marriage and not a hint of a pregnancy. He would be willing to believe it was Jofré’s fault had she not bedded all of his sons with not even a miscarriage to show for it. Maybe it is she who is the problem. If he needs to find Jofré another wife… ah! For now, it is not worth the trouble.

  ‘This audience is finished, young lady. Go back and look after your husband.’

  ‘Will you come and see him?’

  ‘I am a very busy man.’

  ‘But he is your son!’

  ‘If he is indeed “my son” then…’ He waves his hand in blind fury. Oh, how he is tired of being lectured by hysterical Spaniards.

  She stares at him, both of them immediately aware of what has been said.

  ‘What a madam you are,’ he says, collecting himself. ‘You should learn to hold your tongue.’

  But she has always been impetuous and when she is scared she has to fight to get over the fear. ‘I am sorry, Holy Father. But where I grew up we were allowed to speak our minds.’

  ‘Then perhaps it would be best if you went back there.’

  ‘What do you mean? You would send me away from Rome? What about Jofré?’

  ‘Oh, such drama! Go to your husband, woman. I want no more of you.’

  He sits fuming after she has gone. He is the Pope, the heart and head of the Holy Church, how dare she rage at him? Holy Mother of God, he should command more respect. He sighs. He is expecting the Ferrarese ambassador at any moment. The man will stride in huffing and puffing, demanding reassurance that wherever Cesare takes his army after Milan, it will pose no threat to the noble house of Este. Ferrara, Mantua, Bologna – oh, they are all worried now. Letters criss-cross the Alps between father and son: the most secure postal system in Europe, thank the Lord. The future of the dynasty is at stake. So much to be done, yet he spends his life surrounded by people who either cannot stop complaining or think they can raise their voices to him.

  Somewhere inside himself, Alexander understands
that he too is overreacting. It does not suit him being so bad-tempered, but then this sudden shift of allegiance away from Naples and Spain has made his life difficult in all manner of ways. He would like to talk to Lucrezia, because in the past she has been a discriminating listener. But not now. Now she stares at him with big mournful eyes. What? Is it his fault if the King of Naples signed his own death warrant? God damn them all.

  Sancia is close to collapse when she arrives at the palace, throwing herself into Alfonso’s arms and crying that they are about to be displaced – or worse.

  ‘You should not have angered him, sister. He is under much pressure.’

  ‘And we are not? I tell you, Alfonso, we are disowned. You should have heard what he said. He does not even care for Jofré. To listen to him you would think he only had one son, that monster Cesare.’

  ‘Do not call him that,’ Alfonso says quietly.

  ‘Oh, you are such an innocent, brother. Cesare never liked you. It was all pretence. He only cares for people when they’re of use to him. He would swat you like a fly if the “family” would gain from it. Talk to Lucrezia, she will tell you.’

  But when he repeats Sancia’s story to Lucrezia he does not press her further about the past. She is nearly five months pregnant now and he does not want to alarm her. Instead he takes up his pen and writes to his uncle. Even when a husband loves his wife as much as he does, his first loyalty is to the family he comes from. It is simply the nature of things.

  August: too hot to move, too hot to think, almost too hot to pray. French troops are sweating their way up the foothills towards the summer passes of the Alps. By winter there is no telling where they will be. The feeling of impending doom is made greater by the fact that this will be no ordinary winter. 1499 is drawing to a close and with it, not just the end of a century but also the end of a half-millennium. 1500. It is such a cleavage in the passage of time that for many it brings on a kind of spiritual vertigo. Invasion, war and this new sexual plague, so clearly a sign of God’s wrath, all add to the whispers of doom that are spreading like fire in bracken across Christendom. In preparation, sinners everywhere (and who, after all, is not?) make plans for pilgrimage. Their destination will be Rome.