A Brutal Rivalry Between Two Fascinating Women - Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "Renaissance Rivals"

BOOK EXCERPT

The Vatican, 1501

Lucrezia entered the room swiftly, the pope’s attendants blurring in her peripheral vision. Without looking at them, or even at her father, she knelt before him and lowered her head to kiss the immense ruby set in gold upon his outstretched hand, lingering there so she would not have to meet his eyes.

At last he lifted her chin, forcing her gaze upward toward his own dark eyes, twinkling with far too much vitality for a man of seventy.

Known for his astonishing vigor, he appeared younger and leaner than when she had left. Perhaps he had experienced some remorse and, for a brief time, lost interest in food. The thought that her father might actually have suffered for his role in shattering her world surprised her.

“How beautiful you look in that color, my dear,” he said warmly. “I hope the new gowns please you. And your rooms? Are they satisfactory? I selected every piece of furniture and decoration myself. I do know how to make my darling happy, do I not?”

“I am only four months a widow, Your Holiness,” she replied, startled that words contradicting him emerged so freely from her mouth. “I put on this gown only to please you. I should not be wearing festive colors. It is unseemly.”

Though her pulse quickened, she enjoyed the sharp crack of her words in the air and felt a surprising surge of confidence.

“What is unseemly is lingering too long in sorrow and desecrating, yes, desecrating, a beautiful young face with lines of grief.”

The pope did not seem offended. Rather, he challenged her gently, softening the commanding depth of his rich voice.

“In His wisdom, Our Lord blessed you with rare beauty, and in gratitude you must present a countenance radiant with happiness.”

“But I am not happy, Father.”

“Your mournful expression displeases the Lord, Lucrezia.”

He smiled, pausing to let the weight of his words settle upon her.

“Life belongs to the living, and we insult God when we fail to show gratitude for the gift of life.”

She lowered her eyes to escape his sparkling russet gaze, his broad smile, his relentless cheerfulness. How dared he speak of gratitude for life when he himself had robbed her of happiness?

“Your poor little hands,” he murmured, examining skin worn dry beyond its years and nails ragged from nervous biting. “I shall have Giulia massage them with her rose oil. She has returned to Rome and is eager to see you.”

Lucrezia caught herself smiling at the thought of renewed closeness with the beautiful Giulia Farnese, who had known her since childhood, and immediately resented that her father noticed the flicker of happiness crossing her face.

The pope surveyed her slowly from head to toe and sighed.

“Why have you done this to yourself, darling? You are thin, your hair has lost its luster, and the light has vanished from your eyes. Thank God you are home where I may care for you again.”

The concern in his voice softened her indignation like balm upon a wound. A tiny bud of warmth unfurled within her at the familiar comfort of being under his protection.

What incurable weakness existed within her that gave him such power?

A hundred times she had vowed she was now a different woman, yet the speeches of accusation she had rehearsed throughout the journey home began slipping away. All the words she had sharpened during sleepless nights dissolved beneath the caress of his hand and the searching tenderness in his gaze.

She knew precisely what he wished to see from her, and providing it required so little effort that withholding it suddenly seemed almost cruel.

She allowed him to search her face a moment longer and then finally smiled.

“There,” he said softly. “That is what I live to see.”

The pope rose, and the dozens of attendants scattered through the chamber immediately leapt to their feet. Ignoring them all, he took Lucrezia’s hand, making clear that when she was present the rest of the world ceased to exist.

“Come, child. Let us speak privately.”

They withdrew into the pope’s private chamber, where Lucrezia settled into her favorite chair opposite her father. It welcomed her so perfectly she felt as though the cushion itself remembered her form.

He accepted a sparkling crystal decanter from a servant and poured Lucrezia a goblet of deep incarnadine wine, releasing a rich, earthy fragrance into the room. Then he waved the servant away, leaving them alone.

The wine unfolded slowly upon her tongue, heavy with fruit and warmth. As it spread through her body, she relaxed more deeply into the chair.

“I brought you home to share excellent news,” he said. “You are to be married again.”

“Married?”

Never again, she thought immediately.

Marriage had brought her nothing but grief and death. Besides, how could another marriage even be possible? She was scarcely months into widowhood. What family would take her so soon after the murder of her second husband?

“What is the matter, child?” the pope asked gently. “I thought you would be pleased to know you need not spend these precious years alone.”

“Father, you have shocked me.”

She must remember the promise she had made to herself and to God. She must tell him now, no matter how much it displeased him.

Say the words quickly. Before courage abandons you.

She crossed her feet tightly, as though the pressure might force the words upward.

“I do not wish to marry again. I decided at Nepi that I want to enter a holy order. I wish only to serve God. That is the sole happiness I seek for the remainder of my life. Surely it is an appropriate fate for the daughter of the Holy See?”

The pope’s smile vanished instantly, and he leaned backward as though physically avoiding her words.

Fearfully, Lucrezia lowered her eyes.

“My dear, darling daughter,” he said slowly. “Do you truly imagine I would permit such a thing? I admire your piety, but do you not think one servant of God in the family is sufficient? Child, look at me.”

She forced herself to obey.

His eyes burned with fierce concentration, one of the great gifts possessed by both her father and brother: the ability to impose their will upon others through the sheer force of their gaze.

“If you sincerely wish to serve the Lord, the quickest path is through serving your father. I seek nothing less than strengthening the temporal power of the Church by uniting Italy beneath her authority. That is how I serve God. And in that service, Lucrezia, you have a vital role.”

“I, Father? Every role I have played has ended in misery and death.”

Ignoring her protest, he continued calmly. “Perhaps I have expected too much understanding from you. Yes, you shall marry again, and if God decrees another husband be taken from you, then you shall marry again after that, and again if necessary, until your duty to family and God is fulfilled.”

Lucrezia bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She had already fulfilled her duty twice without complaint. It was he who had destroyed what God Himself had joined together.

“Perhaps,” the pope continued coolly, “I overestimated your intelligence. I assumed the realities of the world were plain to you. Perhaps I must explain them more simply.”

He folded his hands together.

“The old families ruling Italy have strengthened themselves for centuries through marriage alliances. We are Spaniards. We have not enjoyed such advantages. We are newcomers in this country, and our position remains precarious because it rests entirely upon my office.”

“But Father, you are one of the most powerful men in the world.”

His expression softened at her acknowledgment.

“My dearest, try to understand. Unlike kings and dukes, who may leave lands and titles to their heirs, a pope is elected.”

Lucrezia turned toward the painting of Christ ascending into Heaven.

“My power dies with me, Lucrezia,” the pope declared with terrifying finality.

Instantly she fell to her knees beside him, clutching his powerful hand against her cheek.

“Never say such things, Father. I cannot bear imagining the world without you.”

She shuddered at the thought of his mortality. Rationally she knew he must die someday like every man, yet some irrational part of her refused to believe it possible. At seventy he still radiated the force of a man in his prime.

“Someday you and your brother must live without me,” he said. “And on the day of my death, my enemies will descend upon you both like wolves. That is what I must prevent.”

“I do not care what happens to me. Promise me you will never speak so casually of death again. I have already seen far too much of it.”

“Nonsense. You are a Borgia. You could confront the Devil himself if necessary.”