Read Online Sins of the House of Borgia by Sarah Bower - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Bower
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submit, to his advances, I cannot imagine. Perhaps it came from contemplating how well the Farnese family had done out of Giulia, or even Donna Lucrezia herself, the bastard daughter of a Spanish upstart and an innkeeper, about to marry into the House of Este.
Tonight, Duke Valentino was to throw a party for his sister in his private apartments. At least, Angela had remarked when the summons came, we were more likely to get a good meal. The duke, unlike his father, was famous for his appreciation of good food and wine. And we were honoured to have been asked; not all Donna Lucrezia’s ladies were to attend, as this would be an intimate function with only about fifty guests.
“How you can think of food with the stench of that paste in your nostrils I don’t know.” It was doubly offensive to me, the mixture of blood and cheese; my senses were proving slow students of Christianity.
“Don’t be so serious, Donata. And don’t make me talk any more; it’s all cracking round my mouth.” We lay for a while in silence, nothing but the soft hiss of tallow from our candles and, once, a crash followed by raised voices from across the courtyard in the direction of the palace kitchens. Then Angela suddenly said, “Donata. It’s such a pompous name, so...pious. You need a nickname.”
“And Angela isn’t? Pious, I mean.”
“Not at all. Angels simply are; gifts must be given and received and thanks made and all that. It’s too complicated. Besides, Lucifer was an angel. Angels have some side to them.”
“So what are you going to call me? Lucifer?”
“I don’t know. It will come to me. Now, help me wash this off. We had better not be late for cousin Cesare. I’m dying to see what La Fiammetta is wearing.”
I tried to focus my mind on the notorious Fiammetta, the flame-haired Florentine courtesan who was the duke’s current mistress, as I helped Angela wipe the beauty treatment from her face. Yet I found myself wondering what our rabbi would think if he could see me now, irredeemably unclean of body and mind. Then realised I didn’t care; outcast I might be, but with Angela’s newly clean skin beneath my fingers, I felt a sense of belonging I believed I had left behind in Toledo.
***
I should have known; I should have realised what the duke must think of me, that his invitation was not a compliment, nor even an insult. He had simply selected those he thought suitable to participate in the entertainment he had in mind, and of course, given the circumstances of our first encounter, he would think me suitable.
Insofar as he lived anywhere, the duke lived, not in his palace of San Clemente in the old Borgo which, for as long as I knew it, was in a continuous state of reconstruction, but in a suite of rooms directly above his father’s in the Vatican. These rooms had once belonged to Prince Djem and, despite the Holy Father’s ironic gift to Elisabetta Senese, retained much of the oriental opulence with which the prince of the Turks had surrounded himself. We dined at low tables, reclining on cushions like the ancients. Candles scented with vanilla and sandalwood sparkled in ornate brass stands, and the drowsy, sensual air was trapped by heavy curtains in some dark velvet.
Men and women dined together, young gentlemen of the duke’s household, some of whom I recognised, a handful of the younger cardinals, solid blocks of scarlet among the shifting, shimmering silks and brocades of the ladies, a great many of whom, though they seemed perfectly at home here, I had never seen before. Donna Lucrezia lounged beside her father who, in consideration of his age and exalted status, sat in an ornately carved chair with one foot resting on a cushion and the other, in which he had the gout, propped on the shoulder of a small black boy who knelt before him.
But the duke himself was nowhere to be seen. All through dinner he failed to appear until, just as the servants were clearing the fruit course and the musicians were
Tonight, Duke Valentino was to throw a party for his sister in his private apartments. At least, Angela had remarked when the summons came, we were more likely to get a good meal. The duke, unlike his father, was famous for his appreciation of good food and wine. And we were honoured to have been asked; not all Donna Lucrezia’s ladies were to attend, as this would be an intimate function with only about fifty guests.
“How you can think of food with the stench of that paste in your nostrils I don’t know.” It was doubly offensive to me, the mixture of blood and cheese; my senses were proving slow students of Christianity.
“Don’t be so serious, Donata. And don’t make me talk any more; it’s all cracking round my mouth.” We lay for a while in silence, nothing but the soft hiss of tallow from our candles and, once, a crash followed by raised voices from across the courtyard in the direction of the palace kitchens. Then Angela suddenly said, “Donata. It’s such a pompous name, so...pious. You need a nickname.”
“And Angela isn’t? Pious, I mean.”
“Not at all. Angels simply are; gifts must be given and received and thanks made and all that. It’s too complicated. Besides, Lucifer was an angel. Angels have some side to them.”
“So what are you going to call me? Lucifer?”
“I don’t know. It will come to me. Now, help me wash this off. We had better not be late for cousin Cesare. I’m dying to see what La Fiammetta is wearing.”
I tried to focus my mind on the notorious Fiammetta, the flame-haired Florentine courtesan who was the duke’s current mistress, as I helped Angela wipe the beauty treatment from her face. Yet I found myself wondering what our rabbi would think if he could see me now, irredeemably unclean of body and mind. Then realised I didn’t care; outcast I might be, but with Angela’s newly clean skin beneath my fingers, I felt a sense of belonging I believed I had left behind in Toledo.
***
I should have known; I should have realised what the duke must think of me, that his invitation was not a compliment, nor even an insult. He had simply selected those he thought suitable to participate in the entertainment he had in mind, and of course, given the circumstances of our first encounter, he would think me suitable.
Insofar as he lived anywhere, the duke lived, not in his palace of San Clemente in the old Borgo which, for as long as I knew it, was in a continuous state of reconstruction, but in a suite of rooms directly above his father’s in the Vatican. These rooms had once belonged to Prince Djem and, despite the Holy Father’s ironic gift to Elisabetta Senese, retained much of the oriental opulence with which the prince of the Turks had surrounded himself. We dined at low tables, reclining on cushions like the ancients. Candles scented with vanilla and sandalwood sparkled in ornate brass stands, and the drowsy, sensual air was trapped by heavy curtains in some dark velvet.
Men and women dined together, young gentlemen of the duke’s household, some of whom I recognised, a handful of the younger cardinals, solid blocks of scarlet among the shifting, shimmering silks and brocades of the ladies, a great many of whom, though they seemed perfectly at home here, I had never seen before. Donna Lucrezia lounged beside her father who, in consideration of his age and exalted status, sat in an ornately carved chair with one foot resting on a cushion and the other, in which he had the gout, propped on the shoulder of a small black boy who knelt before him.
But the duke himself was nowhere to be seen. All through dinner he failed to appear until, just as the servants were clearing the fruit course and the musicians were
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