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cesarborjas · 6 years

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“we get dark, only to shine” - chapter four

title: we get dark, only to shine verse: wgdots (4/?) characters: Cesare Borgia, Lucrezia Borgia; Giovanni Sforza, Francesca; Cesare/Lucrezia, unwilling Lucrezia/Sforza stuff that happens: The consequences of Cesare’s intervention are not quite what Lucrezia expects. chapters: one, two, three

CHAPTER FOUR

Lucrezia fell asleep a few hours before sunrise, her head dropping into her arms as it had the night of her wedding. Cesare only shook his head, neatly laying out the tokens. He felt tired himself, and he had never known her to stay awake so late. But as she’d told him—she was no longer a child.

Cesare’s fingers tightened around the token in his hand, nails digging into the wood. Irrationally, he hoped it marred the thing forever. He would have liked to fling it into the fire. Fling it all, hear the table crashing, rip Sforza’s ridiculous trophies off the walls, the hides and fur from the floor and furniture, set the whole thing alight.

My heirs will have no Catalan blood, then?

Carefully, Cesare set the piece down. His hand was trembling towards his dagger—not that it made any difference now. The man was a pig, but a sleeping pig. All the easier, of course, except for the alliance, and his promise to Lucrezia. Did she care about that man?

He glanced over at his sister. Her breathing had deepened, the hairnet fallen askew. Cesare smiled to himself, despite everything. She was a prim creature in some odd ways, her gowns always immaculate, every strand of hair neatly tucked away, or plaited, or held under a cap. She must be asleep.

No, he did not think she cared for Giovanni Sforza, a boor who insulted her blood, her family, to her face. She cared for their father, for the alliance she had made, the reason for this miserable marriage of hers. She cared a good deal more than Cesare did, but even he knew he could not walk upstairs and cut Sforza’s throat. They needed the Sforzas, needed this Sforza.

The knowledge sat bitter on his tongue. Cesare could do nothing for his sister, offer her no consolation but a respite from her husband’s attentions.

Plainly disagreeable attentions, he thought. Well, Sforza need not have feared. He would sire no Catalan heirs while Cesare remained at Pesaro, nor Valencian either.

And afterwards?

Cesare pushed the thought out of his mind and stood, placing the last of the pieces. For a moment he just gazed down at Lucrezia, absurdly reluctant to wake her. Then he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and touched her shoulder.

“Lucrezia.” He jostled her shoulder again, feeling as if he’d done something unconscionable when she jerked upright, her eyes flying wide open and darting around before meeting his own. Her shoulder flinched away from his hand. “Lucrezia!”

Her wild stare cooled, unfocused, narrow shoulders sloping down again. She smiled, sleepy.

“Cesare.”

He lifted her into his arms, relieved when she unhesitatingly slipped her own about his neck, as she always had after a nightmare. Lucrezia laid her head against his shoulder, yawning into his neck.

“Go back to sleep, sis,” he said, even as he carried her out into the hall. She just mumbled something, her grip loosening.

Cesare paused, mentally retracing his steps about the place, Lucrezia’s limp body awkward in his arms but no great burden. He shifted her a little and continued on his way until he reached her room.

The maidservant who had sought Lucrezia out before hovered outside the door, apparently no more inclined to sleep than Cesare himself. Relief spread over her face when she saw him.

“Does your master yet sleep?” he asked, pitching his voice low.

“Yes, your Eminence.” She moved to open the door.

“Is he within?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. He retired to his own rooms tonight.”

Thank God, though God had precious little to do with it. Cesare carried his sister into her room, trailed by the faithful maid, who drew the coverlet back. Disentangling Lucrezia’s arms, he laid her out on her bed, then pulled the blankets up, tucking them around her. She only murmured a little to herself as Cesare stepped away and the maid—Francesca?—unpinned the hairnet. After a few moments, she fell back into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Francesca fussed over Lucrezia’s hair while he stood silently by, watching it spill over her white pillow. His pulse quickened in his throat, yet it was nothing he had not seen before, when he read to her until she fell asleep, or talked to her as she sulked in her room, or sat at her bedside wiping cloths over her feverish head.

And he’d touched her hair times beyond counting. Mama, why is baby’s hair white? he’d whispered as a child, patting the silvery-pale tufts, and when he was older he chased her around the archepiscopal palace or the villa, tugging at her plaits, and when he was older still he laughed into her face and twirled her hair around his finger, or pushed it aside to look at her properly.

That was the only reason, surely—never mind the glide of her skin under his fingers, the brush of her hair, gossamer-soft in his hands. Well, why should he mind it? The Pope stroked her hair, Vanozza patted her cheek, Juan pulled her braids as a boy and proudly grasped her arm now, Jofrè clung to her hands. They all delighted in her, cherished her. Not as he did, perhaps, nobody as he did, but still: a difference in degree, not kind.

Cesare’s gaze lingered on a long curl, falling sunny-gold over the skin of her collarbone. He could remember how … no. If he could not forget, neither should he remember; he had torments enough without seeking them out.

Ursula, he reminded himself. She had not entered his thoughts since he left Rome. Without her face immediately before him, he could recall only her elegant figure, her rich gold hair caught in its net—

Cesare took a harsh breath.

“Retired to his own rooms tonight?” he repeated to Francesca, who was now pulling the blankets over Lucrezia’s toes. “It is unusual?”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes both anxious and approving, then quickly returned to her task. “Yes, your Eminence. The lord Sforza prefers to sleep in my lady’s bed.”

The maid looked young, little older than he was himself, but something about the pass of her hand over the blankets reminded him of Vanozza. Only a servant-girl doing her duty—perhaps.

“And how often does he sleep alone?”

Francesca returned to the head of the bed, carefully unhooking Lucrezia’s necklace. In a flat tone, she said, “Never, sir.”

Cesare had no need to count down the days since his sister’s wedding, but he did it anyway, then counted again. His gut twisted in revulsion. He had thought the man likely unskilled, certainly unpleasant, but hardly vigorous. Hardly—

At least I have one night’s respite.

He walked out and leaned against the wall. It was cold and rough against his head and back, but the discomfort felt strangely remote, like reading a third-hand account of a long-ago war. The thumping of his own heart, the hissing of his breath between his teeth seemed just as distant, someone else entirely, nothing real but for his racing thoughts and a strong desire to vomit.

Cesare pressed his fist against his mouth, then went looking for Micheletto. He was, of course, awake.

“What do you have for me?” Cesare asked.

“Lord Sforza is hated by nearly all,” said Micheletto. “His servants high and low, the citizenry of Pesaro, the peasants, the musicians, everyone but the huntsman.”

“And my sister?”

Micheletto stared over the ramparts. “Few have any opinion of her. Those who do, believe that she hates him, as well.”

So Sforza had made himself the object of universal loathing in his own lands. Cesare tucked the knowledge away. It seemed unlikely to solve his most pressing problems, but might very well be of some use in the future. Meanwhile, his other thoughts seemed to hurtle drunkenly around. He was too tired to think properly.

“Is he fond of wine?” Cesare said suddenly.

“Not particularly,” said Micheletto. “He drinks with dinner, but his tastes are severe. If you wish me to season it, I—”

“No,” said Cesare. “That will not be necessary. What is necessary is that my sister gets sufficient rest. She has been sleeping poorly; I do not wish her husband to awaken her. If it seems at all probable, inform me at once. I want no bloodshed, no scandal.”

“Yes, your Eminence.”

Cesare gave him a quick look. “Is that a note of disapproval I hear, Micheletto?”

“No. But most men pay little heed to the wishes of their wives in these matters, or their wives’ brothers.”

“Most men,” said Cesare, “are not married to Lucrezia Borgia. See that nothing disturbs her peace, and obey her commands as you would mine. Do you understand?”

Micheletto ignored his hastily-concealed yawn.

“I do, your Eminence.”

Lucrezia woke as she always did now, curled on the far side of her bed. This morning, however, she felt no crushing sense of dread, nor the exhaustion that came from a few hours of restless, anxious sleep. Her thoughts were clear, and her room quiet but for the crackle of the fire and Francesca’s soft footsteps.

Yawning contentedly, Lucrezia turned over and sprawled out on her bed, relishing the cool touch of the blankets against her skin. But when she asked Francesca for the time and heard that it was past the sixth hour, she bolted upright.

“What did you say?”

She looked down at her arms; she was still wearing last night’s gown. Why had Francesca not … but no, it was not her doing, was it? Lucrezia remembered now. She and Cesare had played alquerque into the night, until—until after her husband retired. She could not remember stopping. But she had a vague recollection of dropping her head on Cesare’s shoulder, feet dangling in the air. He must have carried her away when she drifted off, as he had done on her wedding-night, and so many times before.

See, Mama, I’m strong enough to pick her up, I can carry her—

Lucrezia laughed under her breath, then shook the faded memory away. They’d won her night of freedom, but today there would be a reckoning for it. It was worth it, she decided.

“Where is the lord Sforza, Francesca?”

“He left early to go hunting, my lady.”

She tried to snuff out a flicker of hope. “And my brother?”

“Cardinal Borgia accompanied him. He was very eager to go, I heard—that’s why they left so early.”

Lucrezia smiled at nothing in particular. “Oh.”

“Is the cardinal a keen hunter, my lady?”

“No,” she said. A laugh threatened to burst out of her throat—not a small chuckle, not one of her giggles, a real, deep laugh. She felt her smile widening. It must look silly, but she didn’t care. “Cesare likes a challenge. He used to fight bulls.”

Francesca’s composure faltered. “Bulls!”

“He learned from the men of my father’s household,” said Lucrezia, leaning comfortably back against her pillows. In that moment, she felt almost at home. “We’re Spanish, you know. He told me that after that, there wasn’t much sport in killing deer. It bores him out of his mind.”

Lucrezia gazed at the fire. She’d never quite recognized her family’s devotion for what it was, the ready affection traded from one to another, complicated as it was by her father’s position and the clashes of personality and will. Lucrezia herself had scarcely ever quarrelled with anyone; she loved and was loved without qualification.

Yet in the weeks since her marriage, a suspicion had crept upon her that nobody would ever love her again, that she would be shut up here, joyless and spiritless, forever. Sometimes she even suspected that there must be something peculiarly unlovable about her. Now, she remembered those days soaked in adoration, felt it touching her once more, easy and natural.

“Then something must have changed his mind, my lady,” said Francesca.

Lucrezia beamed. “I suppose it must.”

And so she spent the day in something like solitude, quiet and untroubled. She wrote letters, she listened to music, she rested again. She even started reading one of the books her father had sent with her, a dull one with pages of helpful aphorisms, and missed Rome wistfully rather than painfully.

While Lucrezia would have liked her brother’s company, she could not regret the peace he’d afforded her, even if now and then it seemed like he had never been there at all. She might have truly thought him gone again, if not for the occasional glimpse of his manservant going about his—or Cesare’s—business.

She half-dreaded their return, half-anticipated it, bracing herself for the expected hour. When she did finally did hear her brother’s laughter, though, her mood couldn’t help but lighten.

“A good clean kill,” Sforza was saying, in a voice of grudging approval.

As Lucrezia entered the hall, Cesare clapped her husband on the shoulder. “I am delighted to meet your—exacting!—standards, my lord. Then I have won our wager?” He caught sight of Lucrezia, the pleasure in his face turning warmer and brighter. “Ah! Forgive me, sister, I did not see you there.”

Cesare bowed low; Sforza just nodded.

“My lady,” he said coldly.

“Lucrezia,” said Cesare, striding over to kiss her cheek, “I fear I shall steal your husband from you again, after dinner. Lord Sforza has promised to open his best cask of wine.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You are truly an extraordinary host, my lord. I shall be sure to inform my father of it.”

“A bargain is a bargain,” muttered Sforza.

Lucrezia opened her mouth, then shut it again. “I must endure my loss, then,” she said finally, unsure of what scheme her brother might be concocting now.

She got a clearer idea when he dragged her husband off after dinner and emerged, alone, several hours later. Lucrezia, halfheartedly reading Blanquerna, sprang up in relief when Cesare alone knocked on her door, then felt a burst of panic.

“Where is Lord Sforza?”

“Still in the land of the living,” said Cesare dryly, “though no doubt he will wish he were not, come morning.”

Hope beat a quick rhythm in her chest. “Drink does not generally improve his mood. When he comes upstairs—”

“When his servants carry him upstairs, you mean.” Something about his face reminded her of Juan, less in his similar features than his expression, fixed in lines of lazy amusement. It didn’t shift in the slightest; nor did he move from where he stood leaning against the door.

“Carry him … how much did he drink?”

“He has not the Roman palate, sis,” Cesare said, voice still drawling.

Lucrezia narrowed her eyes at him. “And how much did you?”

He didn’t seem drunken, exactly. In fact, now that she studied him, she thought he just looked tired. A little tipsy, perhaps, but mostly exhausted.

Cesare fought bulls and went for days without rest. Why—

“How much did you sleep?” demanded Lucrezia.

“Sleep?” he said, as if he had never before heard the word.

“Last night,” said Lucrezia. “We played into the early hours of the morning, did we not? I cannot quite remember.”

Cesare grinned. “You collapsed on the field of battle. I, nobly, carried you upstairs so that you might recuperate, when I might have been licking my wounds instead.”

“You haven’t slept at all, have you?”

He just shook his head.

“And in Florence?” She knew how he got on Church business, nervous and restless.

Cesare squinted, looking oddly boyish. “Two nights?”

No, she realized, not that oddly. He was only a few years older than Lucrezia herself, and she’d been a child two months ago. She remembered him as a boy, really a boy, and wondered what had crushed his innocence. A woman? Or simply the grinding weight of the Church?

With a sigh, she said, “Go to bed, Cesare.”

He blew her a kiss and strolled off, laughing. Lucrezia just shook her head. And for a second night, she slept peacefully.

Notes

1) My heirs will have no Catalan blood, then: the prejudice against Catalan and Valencian Spaniards was particularly vitriolic during this time; there were points at which they were murdered in the streets of Rome, and it played a large role in the hatred the Borgias faced.

For his part, Cesare identified strongly with his heritage and regularly signed himself by his Valencian name, Cèsar. While only some of this is true in the show (and it's mostly conflated with anti-Spanish bigotry in general), we hear about similar struggles and Cesare is quite clear about identifying as Spanish. He wouldn’t appreciate sneering remarks about his background.

2) Blanquerna: an early novel (some two hundred years old by this time), written in Catalan, about a virtuous man who becomes Pope and reforms the Church along the path to his true dream of becoming a hermit. In the fic, it appeals to the Borgia family for obvious reasons, and several of them own copies, though Cesare and Lucrezia mostly find it dull.

#we get dark only to shine #fic #/#//#///#the borgias #cesare borgia #lucrezia borgia #giovanni sforza #francesca #otp: loves you as himself

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