The Lion and the Rose by Kate Quinn Page A

them. Cardinal Zeno stamped off without even the pretense of a courteous exit, and Ascanio Sforza would have too if I had not accosted him. “Cardinal Sforza, I will need you desperately once the music begins, for it’s all in French and you know how wretched my French is. Perhaps you will translate for me?” I smiled and charmed until he thawed, and then I nodded sympathetically as he muttered veiled complaints about these consistories where one’s opinions weren’t even consulted, and had anyone listened to his proposal that one of the Sforza clan be considered as Gonfalonier? Perhaps even the absent Count of Pesaro; he was the Pope’s son-in-law, after all, yet had anyone even
pretended
to consider his name when Cardinal Sforza suggested it?
    “The Holy Father hears all suggestions,” I soothed, and made my usual discreet promise that I would carry Cardinal Sforza’s concerns directly to the papal ear when it was next close to mine. He bustled off looking mollified. This was my own part of Rodrigo’s seemingly idle social gatherings: to listen, to promise, and to decant all for my Pope’s dissection later. In truth, I had no idea why anyone tried to bribe or wheedle me into using my influence with Rodrigo, because he kept his own counsel when it came to the business of Christendom. He was not a man to be swayed just because a soft voice whispered in his ear across a pillow, nor did I believe it my place to sway him. God’s chosen Vicar on earth had far more exalted sources than me to consult for advice—namely, God Himself. No one had elected
me
Pope, after all, so I kept well out of papal business, merely giving Rodrigo a dutiful recitation of what others so hopefully whispered into my ear. He drank it all in, chuckling at their efforts to recruit me.
    By the time the music began, I’d soothed another pair of cardinals and smiled at the Neapolitan ambassador’s attempt to find out if Gonsalvo de Cordoba, or any of the other Spanish generals, or possibly a mule, would be aiding Juan in leading the papal armies. A little array of choir boys were paraded out into the gardens, looking unnaturally solemn, and the cardinals and the ladies took their places on padded stools as the first pure treble launched the melody. Normally I’d sit at my Pope’s side, but he was weaving some scheme with a pair of sour-looking ambassadors from Queen Isabella of Castile. Lucrezia had abandoned flirting with my brother and was now eyeing one of her father’s papal envoys.
    Impulsively, I caught at her brocade sleeve. “Come sit with me, Lucrezia.”
    “I can’t,” she said flippantly. “Our dresses will clash.” She twitched her bright scarlet skirts against my ice-blue gauze. “These pale colors of yours—I’m determined to set the style for something bolder. You’d better look to your laurels if you want to keep leading the fashions in Rome, Giulia! You know, Sancha told me her robe makers had a dozen orders for caps with peacock plumes the instant I was seen wearing one to Mass? And Perotto over there—Father’s new envoy, you know the one? Pedro Calderon, but everyone calls him Perotto—says I’m an absolute
vision
in bright red like this!”
    “You’re making talk, you know.” I tried to say it lightly. “All this flirting with my brother, and with Sancha’s pages, and now with papal envoys. Don’t you think—”
    “You sound like my mother, Giulia Farnese. Are you getting old and prim?” And off rushed the Pope’s daughter—“My dear Perotto, you must sit beside
me
!”
    Taking a deep breath, I claimed a seat of my own beside the last woman in the world who wanted me at her side. Claimed my seat and smiled, and gestured for the earnest little choir of boys to continue their singing, and said low-voiced, “Vannozza, perhaps we should talk about your daughter.”
    She looked at me down the long, high-bridged nose that she’d also passed on to Cesare Borgia. Vannozza dei Cattanei: my