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Excerpt 3 from Renaissance
Rivals by Karen Essex
The Vatican, 1501
Lucrezia entered the
room swiftly, the pope’s attendants blurring in her peripheral vision. Without
looking at them, or even at her father, she knelt before him and lowered her
head to kiss the immense ruby set in gold upon his outstretched hand, lingering
there so she would not have to meet his eyes.
At last he lifted
her chin, forcing her gaze upward toward his own dark eyes, twinkling with far
too much vitality for a man of seventy.
Known for his
astonishing vigor, he appeared younger and leaner than when she had left.
Perhaps he had experienced some remorse and, for a brief time, lost interest in
food. The thought that her father might actually have suffered for his role in
shattering her world surprised her.
“How beautiful you
look in that color, my dear,” he said warmly. “I hope the new gowns please you.
And your rooms? Are they satisfactory? I selected every piece of furniture and
decoration myself. I do know how to make my darling happy, do I not?”
“I am only four
months a widow, Your Holiness,” she replied, startled that words contradicting
him emerged so freely from her mouth. “I put on this gown only to please you. I
should not be wearing festive colors. It is unseemly.”
Though her pulse
quickened, she enjoyed the sharp crack of her words in the air and felt a
surprising surge of confidence.
“What is unseemly is
lingering too long in sorrow and desecrating, yes, desecrating, a beautiful
young face with lines of grief.”
The pope did not
seem offended. Rather, he challenged her gently, softening the commanding depth
of his rich voice.
“In His wisdom, Our
Lord blessed you with rare beauty, and in gratitude you must present a
countenance radiant with happiness.”
“But I am not happy,
Father.”
“Your mournful
expression displeases the Lord, Lucrezia.”
He smiled, pausing
to let the weight of his words settle upon her.
“Life belongs to the
living, and we insult God when we fail to show gratitude for the gift of life.”
She lowered her eyes
to escape his sparkling russet gaze, his broad smile, his relentless
cheerfulness. How dared he speak of gratitude for life when he himself had
robbed her of happiness?
“Your poor little
hands,” he murmured, examining skin worn dry beyond its years and nails ragged
from nervous biting. “I shall have Giulia massage them with her rose oil. She
has returned to Rome and is eager to see you.”
Lucrezia caught
herself smiling at the thought of renewed closeness with the beautiful Giulia
Farnese, who had known her since childhood, and immediately resented that her
father noticed the flicker of happiness crossing her face.
The pope surveyed
her slowly from head to toe and sighed.
“Why have you done
this to yourself, darling? You are thin, your hair has lost its luster, and the
light has vanished from your eyes. Thank God you are home where I may care for
you again.”
The concern in his
voice softened her indignation like balm upon a wound. A tiny bud of warmth
unfurled within her at the familiar comfort of being under his protection.
What incurable
weakness existed within her that gave him such power?
A hundred times she
had vowed she was now a different woman, yet the speeches of accusation she had
rehearsed throughout the journey home began slipping away. All the words she
had sharpened during sleepless nights dissolved beneath the caress of his hand
and the searching tenderness in his gaze.
She knew precisely
what he wished to see from her, and providing it required so little effort that
withholding it suddenly seemed almost cruel.
She allowed him to
search her face a moment longer and then finally smiled.
“There,” he said
softly. “That is what I live to see.”
The pope rose, and
the dozens of attendants scattered through the chamber immediately leapt to
their feet. Ignoring them all, he took Lucrezia’s hand, making clear that when
she was present the rest of the world ceased to exist.
“Come, child. Let us
speak privately.”
They withdrew into
the pope’s private chamber, where Lucrezia settled into her favorite chair
opposite her father. It welcomed her so perfectly she felt as though the
cushion itself remembered her form.
He accepted a
sparkling crystal decanter from a servant and poured Lucrezia a goblet of deep
incarnadine wine, releasing a rich, earthy fragrance into the room. Then he
waved the servant away, leaving them alone.
The wine unfolded
slowly upon her tongue, heavy with fruit and warmth. As it spread through her
body, she relaxed more deeply into the chair.
“I brought you home
to share excellent news,” he said. “You are to be married again.”
“Married?”
Never again, she
thought immediately.
Marriage had brought
her nothing but grief and death. Besides, how could another marriage even be
possible? She was scarcely months into widowhood. What family would take her so
soon after the murder of her second husband?
“What is the matter,
child?” the pope asked gently. “I thought you would be pleased to know you need
not spend these precious years alone.”
“Father, you have
shocked me.”
She must remember
the promise she had made to herself and to God. She must tell him now, no
matter how much it displeased him.
Say the words
quickly. Before courage abandons you.
She crossed her feet
tightly, as though the pressure might force the words upward.
“I do not wish to
marry again. I decided at Nepi that I want to enter a holy order. I wish only
to serve God. That is the sole happiness I seek for the remainder of my life.
Surely it is an appropriate fate for the daughter of the Holy See?”
The pope’s smile
vanished instantly, and he leaned backward as though physically avoiding her
words.
Fearfully, Lucrezia
lowered her eyes.
“My dear, darling
daughter,” he said slowly. “Do you truly imagine I would permit such a thing? I
admire your piety, but do you not think one servant of God in the family is
sufficient? Child, look at me.”
She forced herself
to obey.
His eyes burned with
fierce concentration, one of the great gifts possessed by both her father and
brother: the ability to impose their will upon others through the sheer force
of their gaze.
“If you sincerely
wish to serve the Lord, the quickest path is through serving your father. I
seek nothing less than strengthening the temporal power of the Church by
uniting Italy beneath her authority. That is how I serve God. And in that
service, Lucrezia, you have a vital role.”
“I, Father? Every
role I have played has ended in misery and death.”
Ignoring her
protest, he continued calmly. “Perhaps I have expected too much understanding
from you. Yes, you shall marry again, and if God decrees another husband be
taken from you, then you shall marry again after that, and again if necessary,
until your duty to family and God is fulfilled.”
Lucrezia bit her lip
so hard she tasted blood.
She had already
fulfilled her duty twice without complaint. It was he who had destroyed what
God Himself had joined together.
“Perhaps,” the pope
continued coolly, “I overestimated your intelligence. I assumed the realities
of the world were plain to you. Perhaps I must explain them more simply.”
He folded his hands
together.
“The old families
ruling Italy have strengthened themselves for centuries through marriage
alliances. We are Spaniards. We have not enjoyed such advantages. We are
newcomers in this country, and our position remains precarious because it rests
entirely upon my office.”
“But Father, you are
one of the most powerful men in the world.”
His expression
softened at her acknowledgment.
“My dearest, try to
understand. Unlike kings and dukes, who may leave lands and titles to their
heirs, a pope is elected.”
Lucrezia turned
toward the painting of Christ ascending into Heaven.
“My power dies with
me, Lucrezia,” the pope declared with terrifying finality.
Instantly she fell
to her knees beside him, clutching his powerful hand against her cheek.
“Never say such
things, Father. I cannot bear imagining the world without you.”
She shuddered at the
thought of his mortality. Rationally she knew he must die someday like every
man, yet some irrational part of her refused to believe it possible. At seventy
he still radiated the force of a man in his prime.
“Someday you and
your brother must live without me,” he said. “And on the day of my death, my
enemies will descend upon you both like wolves. That is what I must prevent.”
“I do not care what
happens to me. Promise me you will never speak so casually of death again. I
have already seen far too much of it.”
“Nonsense. You are a Borgia. You could confront the Devil himself if necessary.”
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