Read Online Sins of the House of Borgia by Sarah Bower - Free Book Online Page A

shuffling the music on their stands to find the dances, the great double doors to the room swung open and he entered, preceded by two men in his red and gold livery, a tall, red-haired woman on his arm whom I took to be La Fiammetta. Beside her, the duke, clad as always in plain black and wearing very little jewellery, seemed almost to disappear among the shadows beyond the light of the scented candles. She was magnificent, with creamy skin and an erect bearing that made me think of the classical marble statues decorating the new facades of the great palaces such as our own Santa Maria. Except for the depth of her décolleté and the boldness of her makeup, you might easily mistake her for a great lady rather than a courtesan. She was, apparently, a skilled musician and could recite most of Ovid from memory, though some said that was because she put so many of the recommendations of the Ars Amatoria into practice with her lovers.
    We rose and bowed, a somewhat ragged obeisance as those who had already drunk more wine than was good for them stumbled over cushions. La Fiammetta knelt to His Holiness and kissed his ring, and bowed over Donna Lucrezia’s hand, but surveyed the rest of us with imperious disdain. Duke Valentino’s wife and daughter remained at the French court, hostages, some said, for her husband’s good behaviour. La Fiammetta was queen of Rome. The duke handed her into a cushioned space beside Donna Lucrezia; Donna Lucrezia moved readily enough to make room for her, but the air between them seemed jagged and frosty, as though the light and warmth of the perfumed candles could not penetrate there. Clearly they were not friends.
    The duke himself went to stand behind his father’s chair and was soon deep in discussion with the Holy Father, their heads bent together, the duke’s arm stretched along the back of his father’s chair while His Holiness’ pet monkey raced up and down it as far as its gold chain would extend. The girl who had somehow insinuated herself into the blessed lap was swatted away like a tiresome insect when she tried to nibble the pope’s ear. Then, with a sudden, loud laugh, the duke knocked the monkey aside, straightened up and, business at an end, began to survey the room as he planned his assault upon his guests. I realised, with a sensation of trapped birds struggling behind my ribs, that his face was set in my direction.
    Perhaps he wished only to greet his cousin, who was sitting beside me. But no. He had crossed the room in a few long, light-footed strides, and his body now inclined towards me in a shallow bow. I struggled to my feet and managed a tolerable curtsey despite being entangled in cushions and Angela’s skirts. I bit my lip as my shin struck the low table edge.
    “Well, Signorina Donata, you are steadier on your feet than the last time I saw you.”
    I felt the flush bloom on my cheeks as though my head had been thrust into a pan of boiling water. Cardinal Ippolito, seated at Angela’s other side, sniggered. I could think of nothing to say, but I had to say something or the duke would think me rude.
    “It had been a very emotional day for me, your grace. I regret my…lack of control.”
    “Holy Mother Church can have that effect on some people,” he replied, with a savage disdain that made me forget myself and glance up at his face.
    I had never seen the duke unmasked before. Angela said he kept his face covered because it was marred by the scars of the French disease and he was absurdly vain. I could not have told you if this was the case or not, could not have told you what he looked like, except that he seemed younger than I had expected. And that I knew, in less than the space of a breath, his face was the prism through which I would see the whole world from now on, the yardstick by which I would measure the beauty of every face. And that he understood my feelings, and that for this moment, if for no other, his beauty was a gift reserved only for me.
    Don