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Authors: Sara Poole
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belched softly behind his beringed hand. “I could do with a decent night’s rest.”
Which was as close to apologizing for his suspicions as he would ever get.
“I know a good apothecary, should you want something more effective than wine.”
He pretended to be startled. “You surprise me, Francesca, as ever. Part of being a good Christian is to refrain from providing others with opportunity to sin.”
It was my turn to sigh. Sometimes I truly feared that he knew every nook and cranny of my life even as I still clung to the belief that Lux remained hidden from his scrutiny.
“Sofia Montefiore has no reason to harm you, Holiness.”
“Indeed not, the Jews love me. Have not I offered them the hand of tolerance?”
A well-greased hand, to be sure, but I refrained from saying so. Borgia eyed me a moment longer before he said, “When next you see my son, remind him to behave himself at the wedding. I will brook no nonsense there.”
“I don’t expect to see Cesare any time soon.” Indeed, I had no idea when I would see him at all, as in his present mood, it might be best if he stayed away from Rome until Lucrezia was well and truly wed.
Borgia merely smiled and waved me off. I left still struggling to come to terms with what I had been ordered to do. The practical hurdles aside, I was not convinced that sending Cardinal della Rovere from this world would accomplish anything of real value. The Church would still be riven by ambition and steeped in venality. And the ordinary people, what of them? They would still be distracted by the day-to-day struggle to live, too wearied to care much about the doings of their “betters.” Unless something happened to pierce the fog of apathy and seize their attention. The death of Cardinal della Rovere, for example? Would that be sufficient to send the mobs into the streets?
I had no time to dwell on the matter. Renaldo was waiting for me in the antechamber. The steward bent his head toward the inglenook where we had spoken the day before. I joined him there. Borgia’s mood had been such that I hadn’t dared to try to discover what he knew of the fire at the villa but Renaldo was another matter. I would not hesitate to sample whatever tidbits he had to offer.
Barely had he gained my attention than he confided, “He signed the bull.” This was said with the air of a man well satisfied with the bets he had placed and not a little relieved to have the matter settled.
I nodded, glad myself of the information but determined to acquire much more. “Well and good but, as you will already know, he is troubled.”
The steward looked at me sharply, no doubt hoping that I would reveal what had required a private conversation between Borgia and his poisoner. The betting on the subject would be fierce, one way or another. Indeed, it was likely that the touts of Rome were already setting odds on whether I would be sent to dispatch della Rovere and, considerably steeper, if I would succeed.
“I wondered if you knew why,” I said, deflating Renaldo’s hopes while at the same time flattering him with my apparent faith in his wisdom. In point of fact, the steward could have become an immensely wealthy man, as opposed to being merely very well-off, had he chosen to sell what he knew about Borgia’s dealings. The presumption is that secrets are to be found hidden in ciphered letters or overheard in whispered conversations, but the truth is that the best place to learn what a great man is really up to is to look at his household accounts. Know where and how he spends his money and you will know all that really matters.
Renaldo kept those accounts and did so with scrupulous care. He knew what Borgia spent on porridge for the boys who turned the spits in his kitchens and what he spent for little toys of a lascivious sort for La Bella, not to mention everything in between.
“There has been a flurry of payments,” he murmured. Like any good custodian of his master’s wealth, it
Which was as close to apologizing for his suspicions as he would ever get.
“I know a good apothecary, should you want something more effective than wine.”
He pretended to be startled. “You surprise me, Francesca, as ever. Part of being a good Christian is to refrain from providing others with opportunity to sin.”
It was my turn to sigh. Sometimes I truly feared that he knew every nook and cranny of my life even as I still clung to the belief that Lux remained hidden from his scrutiny.
“Sofia Montefiore has no reason to harm you, Holiness.”
“Indeed not, the Jews love me. Have not I offered them the hand of tolerance?”
A well-greased hand, to be sure, but I refrained from saying so. Borgia eyed me a moment longer before he said, “When next you see my son, remind him to behave himself at the wedding. I will brook no nonsense there.”
“I don’t expect to see Cesare any time soon.” Indeed, I had no idea when I would see him at all, as in his present mood, it might be best if he stayed away from Rome until Lucrezia was well and truly wed.
Borgia merely smiled and waved me off. I left still struggling to come to terms with what I had been ordered to do. The practical hurdles aside, I was not convinced that sending Cardinal della Rovere from this world would accomplish anything of real value. The Church would still be riven by ambition and steeped in venality. And the ordinary people, what of them? They would still be distracted by the day-to-day struggle to live, too wearied to care much about the doings of their “betters.” Unless something happened to pierce the fog of apathy and seize their attention. The death of Cardinal della Rovere, for example? Would that be sufficient to send the mobs into the streets?
I had no time to dwell on the matter. Renaldo was waiting for me in the antechamber. The steward bent his head toward the inglenook where we had spoken the day before. I joined him there. Borgia’s mood had been such that I hadn’t dared to try to discover what he knew of the fire at the villa but Renaldo was another matter. I would not hesitate to sample whatever tidbits he had to offer.
Barely had he gained my attention than he confided, “He signed the bull.” This was said with the air of a man well satisfied with the bets he had placed and not a little relieved to have the matter settled.
I nodded, glad myself of the information but determined to acquire much more. “Well and good but, as you will already know, he is troubled.”
The steward looked at me sharply, no doubt hoping that I would reveal what had required a private conversation between Borgia and his poisoner. The betting on the subject would be fierce, one way or another. Indeed, it was likely that the touts of Rome were already setting odds on whether I would be sent to dispatch della Rovere and, considerably steeper, if I would succeed.
“I wondered if you knew why,” I said, deflating Renaldo’s hopes while at the same time flattering him with my apparent faith in his wisdom. In point of fact, the steward could have become an immensely wealthy man, as opposed to being merely very well-off, had he chosen to sell what he knew about Borgia’s dealings. The presumption is that secrets are to be found hidden in ciphered letters or overheard in whispered conversations, but the truth is that the best place to learn what a great man is really up to is to look at his household accounts. Know where and how he spends his money and you will know all that really matters.
Renaldo kept those accounts and did so with scrupulous care. He knew what Borgia spent on porridge for the boys who turned the spits in his kitchens and what he spent for little toys of a lascivious sort for La Bella, not to mention everything in between.
“There has been a flurry of payments,” he murmured. Like any good custodian of his master’s wealth, it
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