Read Online The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel by Sara Poole - Free Book Online
Authors: Sara Poole
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walls of the Vatican and, for that matter, wherever those with an appreciation for power gather.
“Is it?” I asked lightly, as though it were really no great matter, certainly no reason to explode in fury and burn all before him, starting with my own poor self. “I thought my job was to see to your safety.” Almost as an afterthought, I added, “And on occasion perhaps remove some encumbrance. I don’t recall you mentioning the Cardinal in that regard.”
“More fool I,” Borgia muttered but he was calming already, the admirable intelligence and order of his mind once more in evidence. He glanced round as though suddenly aware that we were observed. “Out! Out! Worthless dregs, all of you! Out!”
They went. Borgia and I were left alone, as no doubt he had intended, for now there would be great speculation about what he had to say to his poisoner in private. I admit to being curious myself.
Without ceremony, he slumped in the high-backed chair behind the vast desk of burled wood and inlaid marble, and gestured me into one of the smaller chairs across from him. It was a signal honor to be seated in his presence and one he did not accord me except when we were alone or as good as. You may wonder at such intimacy, as I did myself from time to time, but over our years together I came to at least some understanding of what drove Borgia to confide in me. La Bella and other women who came and went had their place in his life but I don’t believe he ever allowed them to see into the darker reaches of his soul. As for his confessor, some hapless priest held that nominal position while no doubt thanking God daily that Il Papa felt no impulse to bare his conscience to him.
But great men, for all their armor of invincibility, are still only men, and something in them all cries out to be known by at least one other who can, at the end of days, attest to their humanity. Typically, it is an outcast who takes such a role—a jester, a dwarf, or, though it was painful for me to acknowledge, one such as myself, set apart and isolated by my dark calling.
All the same, I did not fool myself. Whatever the needs of his soul, Il Papa played a deep game in which I was only one more pawn.
“That turd, della Rovere, plots to bring down my papacy,” he said. “Moreover, he may be behind the recent attempts on my life, the source of which you still have failed to discover. Whatever he is up to, I want the problem he presents resolved once and for all.”
“Holiness—” I intended to mention the practical difficulty of getting to della Rovere now that he was over three hundred miles away in his family’s stronghold, and perhaps even my own doubts that he had a hand in the attempts to kill Borgia, but Il Papa was having none of it.
Before I could speak further, he declared, “You’ve come up with creative solutions in the past. Do not disappoint me now.”
Having written fini to the discussion, at least so far as he was concerned, His Holiness reached for a flagon of wine set on a silver tray on his desk, filled a Venetian goblet studded with gems, and took a long swallow of claret. He was drinking earlier and more often than had been his custom before coming into the papacy. La Bella had told Lucrezia, who had told me, that he slept poorly and sometimes woke in the grip of night sweats. I wondered if what he had plotted and schemed for decades to attain was proving to be both more and less than he had anticipated.
I was about to stand, assuming myself to be dismissed, when he spoke again.
“What do you hear from Cesare?”
Still struggling to come to terms with the order I had just been given, I replied noncommittally. “He seems well.”
I assumed that letters from Cesare were intercepted and read before they ever reached me. What Borgia wanted was not so much the content of the letters as my interpretation of them, but that I was hesitant to give.
“Happy with his lot, is he? Content to follow my orders?”
Cesare
“Is it?” I asked lightly, as though it were really no great matter, certainly no reason to explode in fury and burn all before him, starting with my own poor self. “I thought my job was to see to your safety.” Almost as an afterthought, I added, “And on occasion perhaps remove some encumbrance. I don’t recall you mentioning the Cardinal in that regard.”
“More fool I,” Borgia muttered but he was calming already, the admirable intelligence and order of his mind once more in evidence. He glanced round as though suddenly aware that we were observed. “Out! Out! Worthless dregs, all of you! Out!”
They went. Borgia and I were left alone, as no doubt he had intended, for now there would be great speculation about what he had to say to his poisoner in private. I admit to being curious myself.
Without ceremony, he slumped in the high-backed chair behind the vast desk of burled wood and inlaid marble, and gestured me into one of the smaller chairs across from him. It was a signal honor to be seated in his presence and one he did not accord me except when we were alone or as good as. You may wonder at such intimacy, as I did myself from time to time, but over our years together I came to at least some understanding of what drove Borgia to confide in me. La Bella and other women who came and went had their place in his life but I don’t believe he ever allowed them to see into the darker reaches of his soul. As for his confessor, some hapless priest held that nominal position while no doubt thanking God daily that Il Papa felt no impulse to bare his conscience to him.
But great men, for all their armor of invincibility, are still only men, and something in them all cries out to be known by at least one other who can, at the end of days, attest to their humanity. Typically, it is an outcast who takes such a role—a jester, a dwarf, or, though it was painful for me to acknowledge, one such as myself, set apart and isolated by my dark calling.
All the same, I did not fool myself. Whatever the needs of his soul, Il Papa played a deep game in which I was only one more pawn.
“That turd, della Rovere, plots to bring down my papacy,” he said. “Moreover, he may be behind the recent attempts on my life, the source of which you still have failed to discover. Whatever he is up to, I want the problem he presents resolved once and for all.”
“Holiness—” I intended to mention the practical difficulty of getting to della Rovere now that he was over three hundred miles away in his family’s stronghold, and perhaps even my own doubts that he had a hand in the attempts to kill Borgia, but Il Papa was having none of it.
Before I could speak further, he declared, “You’ve come up with creative solutions in the past. Do not disappoint me now.”
Having written fini to the discussion, at least so far as he was concerned, His Holiness reached for a flagon of wine set on a silver tray on his desk, filled a Venetian goblet studded with gems, and took a long swallow of claret. He was drinking earlier and more often than had been his custom before coming into the papacy. La Bella had told Lucrezia, who had told me, that he slept poorly and sometimes woke in the grip of night sweats. I wondered if what he had plotted and schemed for decades to attain was proving to be both more and less than he had anticipated.
I was about to stand, assuming myself to be dismissed, when he spoke again.
“What do you hear from Cesare?”
Still struggling to come to terms with the order I had just been given, I replied noncommittally. “He seems well.”
I assumed that letters from Cesare were intercepted and read before they ever reached me. What Borgia wanted was not so much the content of the letters as my interpretation of them, but that I was hesitant to give.
“Happy with his lot, is he? Content to follow my orders?”
Cesare
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