The Borgia Mistress; A Novel

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This is a work of ction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this

novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used ctitiously.

. Copyright by Sara Poole. All rights reserved. Printed in

the United States of America. For information, address St. Martins Press, Fifth Avenue,

New York, N.Y. .

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Poole, Sara,

The Borgia mistress : a novel / Sara Poole.st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN ---- (hardcover)

ISBN ---- (trade paperback)

ISBN ---- (e-book)

. Alexander VI, Pope, Fiction. . Borgia, Cesare, ?

Fiction. . Borgia familyFiction. . Women poisonersFiction.

. Family secretsFiction. . ConspiraciesFiction. . Church and

stateFiction. . RenaissanceItalyRomeFiction. I. Title.

PS.E B

'.dc

First Edition: May


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Donna Francesca . . .

I was in the Campo dei Fiore, walking toward Roccos

shop. There was something important that I needed to

tell him.

Lady . . .

I quickened my pace, avoiding the pushcarts and passersby,

the piles of manure and the importuning peddlers, afraid I

would be too late.

Wake up!

I really had to . . . it was important . . .

The street in front of me dissolved. I blinked in the sudden

glare of light piercing the cocoon of my curtained bed. Portia,

holding up a lamp, grasped me by the shoulder and shook me.

For pitys sake I squinted, trying without effect to clingto the dream.

1R o m e

O c t o b e r


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Sara Poole

Condottieri are here, theportieresaid. Hiscondottieri. They

say you must come.

They saywhat?

You must come. They wanted me to let them in, but I said

I would wake you myself. Even so, they are right outside. They

wont wait for long.

Despite the coolness of early autumn, I slept naked. A lm

of sweat shone on my skin. The nightmare had come as usual,

leaving its mark on me.Ill kill him, I swear I will.

The dwarf chuckled. She jumped down from the stool,

found a robe of nely woven Egyptian cotton dyed a saffron

hue, and held it out.

No, you wont. Hell charm you as he always does and

youll forgive him.Slipping my arms into the sleeves of the robe, I winced.

How can the sharpest-eyedportierein all of Rome be such a

romantic?

Portia shrugged. What can I say? He tips well.

I started to laugh, coughed instead, caught myself, and strode

out of the bedchamber, through the salon lled with my books

and the apparatus I used in my investigations, all feeding the

rumors about me. The robe billowed around my legs, gold

mined from the crushed stigmas of Andalusia crocuses. I went

quickly between light and shadow, pausing in neither. A cat,

perversely white in violation of hallowed superstition, followed

in my wake. The door to the apartment stood open. Beyond, I

could see helmeted soldiers in shining breastplates pacing anx-iously.


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The Borgia Mistress

Their leader saw me coming and stiffened, as he damn well

should have, given the circumstances.

Donna, he said and sketched a quick bow. A thousand

apologies, but I thought it best . . . That is, I wasnt certain if

you would . . .

Where is he?

The captain hesitated, but he could not lie. Not to me.

One of the benets of my having a reputation as dark as the

Styx.At a taverna in the Trastevere. Hes not . . . in good shape.

I sighed and arched my neck, still struggling to wake fully.

A thought occurred to me. Its Sunday, isnt it?

It is, donna, unfortunately. We dont have much time.

Wait here.

I went back into the apartment. Portia, the only name bywhich I knew theportiere, was laying out clothes for me. As

her eye for such things was much better than my own, I did not

protest. Instead, I said, Remind me to change the lock on

the door. Either that, or just give me your key.

She grinned and shook her head. What good would either

do, donna? The locksmith would be in the pay of the landlord

and Id have a new key before the day was out. Besides, who

would look after things for you if you have to go away?

I pulled a shift over my head, mufing my voice. Why

would I go away?

Portia shrugged. Im only saying . . . it could happen.

What have you heard? For surely theportierehad heard

something. She always did.Its not very nice in the city right now. Too much rain, the


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Tiber ooding, rumors of plague. Certain people might think

this was a good time to visit the countryside.

Oh, God. Manure, pigs, bucolic romps, too much open

space. I hated the countryside.

Just get him to the chapel, theportiereadvised. That will

spare us all a lot of trouble.

My name is Francesca Giordano, daughter of the late GiovanniGiordano, who served ten years as poisoner to the House of

Borgia and was murdered for his pains. To acquire the means

to avenge him, I poisoned the man chosen to take his place.

Fortunately, Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, as he was then, saw past

my offense to perceive my usefulness. At his behest, I set out

to kill the man I believed at the time to have ordered my fa-thers murder. Only God knows if Pope Innocent VIII died

by my hand. What is certain is that his demise opened the way

for Borgia to become pope.

Recoil from me if you will, but know this: No one feared

the darkness of my nature more than I. Had I been able to re-

cast myself into an ordinary womana wife and mother,

perhapsI would have done so in an instant, though it require

me to walk through the res of Hell. Or so I liked to believe.

Saint Augustine, while still a young man wallowing in de-

bauchery, prayed to God to make him chastebut not yet.

My own aspirations may have owed at least some of their

appeal to the unlikelihood of their achievement any time

soon. I was as I was, may God forgive me.


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I was then twenty-one, brown-haired, brown-eyed, and, al-

though slender, possessed of a womanly gure. I say this with-

out pride, for in the parade of my sins, vanity brought up the

rear. Working in a mans profession as I did, my appearance

discomted more than a few. That suited me well enough, for

while they were preoccupied with thoughts of either burn-

ing or bedding menot excluding bothI did not hesitate

to act.

The taverna was on one of the little corsiethat ran off theCampo dei Fiore. When the marketplace was bustling, as it

usually was, the place would be easy to miss. But in the hours

before dawn, the light and sound spilling from its narrow door

made it impossible to overlook.

A burly guard stood outside to deter the pickpockets who

preyed on drunken young noblemen too busy slumming tonotice that they were being robbed. He took one look at the

approaching condottieri and vanished down a nearby alley.

If you wish us to go in rst, donna . . . , the captain said.

I ignored him, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

The smell hit me at onceraw wine, sweat, roasted meat,

smoke. I inhaled deeply.Ah, Roma. The looming threat of the

countryside itted through my mind, but I repressed it.

A lout cross-eyed with drink saw me rst and reached out

to grasp my waist. I eluded him easily and pressed on. The

greater part of the din was coming from a large table toward

the back behind half-closed curtains where a bevy of mostly

naked young women clustered, vying for the attentions of the

male guests.


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A burst of deep laughter . . . a girlish shriek . . . a snatch

of ribald song . . .

I pushed past a nubile young thing wearing only diapha-

nous harem pants, elbowed another even more scantily clad,

and came at last within sight of the reason why I had been

rousted out of bed in the wee hours of the morning.

Lolling back in his chair, a goblet in one hand and a rounded

breast in the other, the son of His Holiness Pope Alexander VI

appeared to be in high good humor. A blondeto whom thebreast belongedstraddled his lap, while a completely nude

brunette posed on the table in front of him, her legs spread

invitingly.

Cesare raised a brow, though whether in interest or amuse-

ment I could not say. His dark hair with a slight reddish cast

was loose and brushed his shoulders. In features, he resem-bled his motherthe redoubtable Vannozza dei Cattanei

far more than he did his father, having her long, high-bridged

nose and large, almond-shaped eyes. He had been in the sun

even more than usual and was deeply tanned. In public he

generally wore the expected raiment of a high-born young

man, but that night he was dressed for comfort in a loose

shirt and breeches.

He bent forward, whispered something in the ear of the

blonde that made her shriek with feigned shock, and called

for more wine.

Vino! Molto vinofor everyone!

Cesare.

He blinked once, twice. A moment passed, another. He let


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go of the girls breast, set the goblet on the table, and sighed

deeply.

Ai, mio,he sent you.

Of course he did, I said. Whom did you think he would

send?

A murmur went around. The whisper of my name. The

brunette paled, pressed her legs together, and ed. So, too, did

most of the crowd. Scrambling off her perch, the blonde fell.

For a moment, her smooth rump was high in the air before shepicked herself up and followed the rest.

Only the Spaniards remained. Arrogant, high-nosed young

men, scions of ancient families, swift to take offense at any slight

to their honor, real or imagined. They were lately come to the

court of the Pope, who still considered Valencia to be home, and

had been drawn inevitably to the company of his son.Who is this? one of them demanded, resolutely ignorant.

Cesare Borgia rose unsteadily, adjusted his breeches, and

made a token effort to straighten himself. He smiled grudg-

ingly.

My conscience, alas.

Outside in the street, surrounded by the condottieri, he held

his face up to the cool night air. A ne mist carried the tang of

the sea miles off at Ostia. He breathed it in deeply, as did I. For

a moment, the lure of far-off places and different lives lled us.

Say you couldnt nd me.

It wouldnt make any difference if I did. Your father would

just send someone else. Be glad he sent your own guards and

not his.


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He sighed. Have you no pity? My life is ending.

I fought a smile and lost. He was so young still, this boy-

man with whom my own life was so unexpectedly entwined.

You are scarcely eighteen years old and you are about to

acquire more power and wealth than most can ever dream of.

Do not expect anyone to weep for you.

All well and good, but this isnt how I wanted to get either.

You know that.

Who among us gets what we want?My father has.

I conceded the point with a slight nod. True enough. Now

let us see if he can keep it.

Torches burned in brackets set into the walls of the palazzo

near the Campo, illuminating the marble statues in the en-

trance and the loggia beyond. Despite the hour, the servantswere all awake and scurrying about. I went with Cesare up the

curving stairs to his private quarters and waited as he threw off

his clothes and sank into a steaming-hot bath. As he sweated

out the effects of his indulgence, I mixed a restorative from

powders I carried in a small bag that hung at my waist. I never

went anywhere without that bag or without the knife nestled

in a leather sheath next to my heart.

He swallowed the potion I handed him without delay,

testament to his trust in me. Watching him, I wondered

how many people I knew would do the same. A dozen, at

most, if I really stretched? And half of those would at least

hesitate.

Thats vile, he said.The tub was carved from a single piece of marble and


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The Borgia Mistress

decorated with ample-breasted mermaids. I sat on a stool next

to it. Youll be glad of it all the same.

He was leaning back, his head against the rim, his eyes

closed, but he opened one to look at me. You could get in.

I could. . . . I appeared to consider it. But you know

what would happen. Tired as we both are, wed fall asleep

afterward and then wed drown. Che scandalo.

He laughed, accepting my refusal with better grace than I

had expected. I took that as evidence of how truly low hisspirits were.

When the water had cooled, he rose and stood naked, legs

braced and arms held away from his sides. Droplets sluiced

down his skin kissed by the sun. He was leaving the lankiness

of youth behind, coming into his own as a man and a warrior.

His shoulders had broadened rst, followed by his torso, butlately the bands of muscle across his abdomen and thighs had

become even more evident. So far at least, his body was with-

out imperfection, a condition he lamented as he longed to

prove himself on the eld of honor. Scars, he insisted, were the

true mark of a man; all else was pretense. His father, Christs

Vicar on Earth, thought otherwise, and his will ruled, at least

for now.

This really doesnt bother you? Cesare asked as his long-

suffering valet nished patting him dry.

I shrugged. Why should it?

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The Borgia Mistress; A Novel