well-preserved auburn-haired predecessor, still handsome in her russet velvets and many rings. Vannozza, who had stayed at Rodrigo’s side a full decade and given him four children. “La Bella,” she said, and smiled in that special way that both indicated her innate superiority
and
concealed those horse teeth. “What has my daughter to do with you?”
“I love her,” I said bluntly. “As much as my own daughter. But Lucrezia needs reining in.”
That surprised Vannozza; I could see from the peevish fold that suddenly appeared at the corner of her eyes. Because
blunt
wasn’t how we ever began things, Vannozza and me. Most of the time we managed to ignore each other altogether. If forced into conversation, there would first be polite noncommittals, then a few exchanges of edged courtesy punctuated by an oversweet bout of cooing, and then perhaps one of us would unsheathe claws. Usually Vannozza, because I could outcoo absolutely anyone, much less my spiteful, wasp-waisted, wasp-tongued predecessor.
This time, however, I had sidestepped all the pleasantries.
“Lucrezia is being talked about,” I went on under cover of the music, before Vannozza’s bright eyes could narrow any further. “It’s Sancha’s example—remember the incident at Pentecost? People whispered for weeks.”
At the Feast of Pentecost in May, Lucrezia and Sancha had traded jokes and whispers all through the long sermon in the Basilica San Pietro—and had finally abandoned their seats altogether to clamber into the choir stalls with all their ladies, bringing the service to a complete halt as they settled their skirts and called for refreshments. Johann Burchard, the beleaguered little German who had the thankless task of acting as Rodrigo’s master of ceremonies, had run about shrieking and tearing his hair afterward as he bemoaned the horrendous impropriety of it all, and even I had been surprised. Lucrezia was merry by nature, but she’d always been respectful.
“My daughter,” Vannozza stated as though bringing the Eleventh Commandment down from on high, “is merely high-spirited.”
“Rodrigo said that too,” I said, and her eyes flared at my use of her former lover’s name. Oh, Holy Virgin, would she just stop bristling? I hadn’t taken Rodrigo away from her; they’d already been long parted when he swooped me off my feet, but there was no use telling Vannozza that. One of those women who always finds an excuse to feel slighted; aren’t they tiresome? “His Holiness won’t listen to a word about Lucrezia,” I tried again. “You know how he is—‘Bah, Lucrezia’s just in high spirits! I like seeing a pretty young filly kick up her heels—’”
Vannozza gave an unwilling snort through her long nose. I leaned closer, lifting my nosegay of yellow roses to cover our conversation as the choir began a new tune. A good many eyes had flicked avidly in our direction, seeing the Pope’s current and former mistresses bend their heads so close together. “It’s not just about Lucrezia giggling and misbehaving during sermons,” I went on. “She listens far too much to Sancha, and Sancha is
not
a good influence.”
“That girl is a harlot,” Vannozza deigned to concede. Not the kind of girl a mother wants for any of her sons—and surely she had to know by now that Sancha was sleeping with all them (having recently added Juan to her collection to complete the trifecta of Borgia sons. I ask you). I pressed my advantage.
“Do you want Lucrezia to be a harlot too, Vannozza? She’s fluttering her lashes at that new papal envoy now,
and
my brother,
and
any other handsome man at court who crosses her path. And she used to be so in love with her husband; it floated off her like perfume.”
Maybe that was what truly troubled me. You could look about Rome and see any number of young wives who loved to flirt and giggle, and if you saw the fat or sour or graying men they were married to, you usually couldn’t blame them. But
and
concealed those horse teeth. “What has my daughter to do with you?”
“I love her,” I said bluntly. “As much as my own daughter. But Lucrezia needs reining in.”
That surprised Vannozza; I could see from the peevish fold that suddenly appeared at the corner of her eyes. Because
blunt
wasn’t how we ever began things, Vannozza and me. Most of the time we managed to ignore each other altogether. If forced into conversation, there would first be polite noncommittals, then a few exchanges of edged courtesy punctuated by an oversweet bout of cooing, and then perhaps one of us would unsheathe claws. Usually Vannozza, because I could outcoo absolutely anyone, much less my spiteful, wasp-waisted, wasp-tongued predecessor.
This time, however, I had sidestepped all the pleasantries.
“Lucrezia is being talked about,” I went on under cover of the music, before Vannozza’s bright eyes could narrow any further. “It’s Sancha’s example—remember the incident at Pentecost? People whispered for weeks.”
At the Feast of Pentecost in May, Lucrezia and Sancha had traded jokes and whispers all through the long sermon in the Basilica San Pietro—and had finally abandoned their seats altogether to clamber into the choir stalls with all their ladies, bringing the service to a complete halt as they settled their skirts and called for refreshments. Johann Burchard, the beleaguered little German who had the thankless task of acting as Rodrigo’s master of ceremonies, had run about shrieking and tearing his hair afterward as he bemoaned the horrendous impropriety of it all, and even I had been surprised. Lucrezia was merry by nature, but she’d always been respectful.
“My daughter,” Vannozza stated as though bringing the Eleventh Commandment down from on high, “is merely high-spirited.”
“Rodrigo said that too,” I said, and her eyes flared at my use of her former lover’s name. Oh, Holy Virgin, would she just stop bristling? I hadn’t taken Rodrigo away from her; they’d already been long parted when he swooped me off my feet, but there was no use telling Vannozza that. One of those women who always finds an excuse to feel slighted; aren’t they tiresome? “His Holiness won’t listen to a word about Lucrezia,” I tried again. “You know how he is—‘Bah, Lucrezia’s just in high spirits! I like seeing a pretty young filly kick up her heels—’”
Vannozza gave an unwilling snort through her long nose. I leaned closer, lifting my nosegay of yellow roses to cover our conversation as the choir began a new tune. A good many eyes had flicked avidly in our direction, seeing the Pope’s current and former mistresses bend their heads so close together. “It’s not just about Lucrezia giggling and misbehaving during sermons,” I went on. “She listens far too much to Sancha, and Sancha is
not
a good influence.”
“That girl is a harlot,” Vannozza deigned to concede. Not the kind of girl a mother wants for any of her sons—and surely she had to know by now that Sancha was sleeping with all them (having recently added Juan to her collection to complete the trifecta of Borgia sons. I ask you). I pressed my advantage.
“Do you want Lucrezia to be a harlot too, Vannozza? She’s fluttering her lashes at that new papal envoy now,
and
my brother,
and
any other handsome man at court who crosses her path. And she used to be so in love with her husband; it floated off her like perfume.”
Maybe that was what truly troubled me. You could look about Rome and see any number of young wives who loved to flirt and giggle, and if you saw the fat or sour or graying men they were married to, you usually couldn’t blame them. But
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