The Borgia Mistress: A Novel by Sara Poole

perfection. But in private, he eschewed ceremony, performing tasks for himself that others of lesser standing than his own would never have dreamed of doing. He had told me with relish of nights spent sleeping on the ground on the extended hunting trips he took with the men of his personal guard, who were as close to him as a band of brothers. For a fortnight and more, they would range over rough terrain in exercises that bore an uncanny resemblance to training for war, even though Cesare insisted that they were mere amusement.
    Borgia knew of the deception and disliked it, but so far at least he had not insisted that his eldest son pursue more sedentary activities both better suited to his new position as cardinal and less alarming to his fellow prelates. The Spaniards, however, had managed to accomplish what Il Papa had not. Since their arrival, Cesare had been forced to rein in his natural impulses and give their amusements preference over his own.
    The effort had left him more impatient than he would otherwise have been, and chafing for action. He tossed the second boot aside and stood.
    “You should know that there is something else in addition to the problem of your brother,” I said. “David ben Eliezer has brought word that an assassin is on the way to Viterbo.” I hesitated before adding, “Obviously, you, your father, and Lucrezia are all at risk, but it also occurred to me that the target could be Herrera.”
    Cesare showed no particular concern that he or either of the others might be marked for death. He had grown up understanding the danger inherent in seeking to scale the heights of power. Fortuna was a capricious goddess who might at any moment withdraw her favor and send the most ambitious plunging into the deepest abyss.
    Still, the mention of Herrera surprised him, if only for a moment. “An interesting notion. Should I be concerned for the Spaniard?” At my raised brow, he laughed. “Really, Francesca, you didn’t make a bid for removing him in some seemingly innocent way before the assassin can strike?”
    A little stiffly, I said, “His Holiness does not think that useful, at the moment.” Surely I could not be so obvious to everyone as I apparently was to Borgia padre e figlio or I would not have survived even a year in my present occupation.
    Cesare laughed. He slipped an arm around my waist and drew me to him. “I am profoundly relieved that Il Papa is acting with his usual wisdom. And yet, so much tension remains.” He bent closer, nuzzling the curve of my neck. “I missed you yesterday morning. You slipped away before I was awake.”
    “You could have sought me out last night.”
    He drew back enough to look at me. “The Spaniards—”
    “Require constant tending. Yes, I know.” If Cesare was to be believed, everything he did was for the sake of his father’s ambitions, having set aside his own as a good and faithful son. Indulging the Spaniards had nothing whatsoever to do with his own intensely sensual nature or his need to vent the frustration that had been growing in him daily since his ascension to the cardinalate.
    “How was your visit to the baths?” I inquired pleasantly.
    “Purifying. After a sweat and a good soak in the mud, they scrub you down. I don’t know what they use exactly, but—”
    I bent a little closer, the better to inhale his scent. “Eucalyptus, sea salt, and a bit of citron. Did you enjoy yourself?”
    He laughed, understanding my meaning full well, and pressed me closer. “Do you think I did?”
    “I am always impressed by your stamina.” That was as close as I would come to admitting that I was pleased by his unmistakable arousal, and aroused in turn by it. “How is it that you are not more … relaxed?”
    The principal attraction of the baths being the pretty girls and boys who attended the patrons, I had assumed that Cesare would have partaken of such pleasures as were to his taste. But perhaps I was mistaken.
    “You can thank the