"I was pregnant."
Marietta made no exclamation of shock at the news, only a single, deeply drawn breath. She reached for the wine with trembling fingers, and quaffed a huge swallow.
Sister Maria Lucia watched her with bright, wickedly amused eyes. "Perhaps it is best that the story of my life will be told during a single night, Sister. I would not have the sin of driving you to intemperance laid at my feet."
"If it would extend the course of your story, I would gladly acquire any number of vices," Marietta said earnestly, then hesitated. "Is there truly no hope, Sister? Having found you, I am loathe to part with your company so soon. Is there nothing that can be done? Prayers that I could offer, or medicines that would extend your days?"
"No hope, my young friend? This night is the culmination of years of hope. Death is not to be feared when you have reached my advanced age." Sister Maria Lucia clasped Marietta's arm. With her assistance, the sister sat up and gestured to the shadowed recesses of the cell.
"As my time has draws near, all those whom I love have come to see me to my final sleep. They are here, clustered about the bed." Sister Maria Lucia spread her arms wide, embracing the still, close air of the cell. "There, in the corner, my mothers stand together, the strands of their hair intertwined. Lucrezia is a beautiful girl once more, and Elizabetta holds her hand. My fathers stand guard in the shadows behind them, Cesare with his sword raised and Micheletto at his right hand. Henri has come as well, so handsome once more, and he glares at one I have not yet named. And my sister, whose death is still a wound... They are here with me again and my soul rejoices!" Sister Lucia pressed hands to her heart, tears streaming down her face. "I will be with you soon," she said, her smile brighter and more luminous than the sun as it pierces the clouds on a stormy day.
She turned to Marietta. "Dearest one, do not weep. This is not a tale of loss that I tell you, of one old woman dying. Spring always follows the darkness of winter, bringing life to a barren field. It shall be so for you, I swear it. Now stem your tears, or I shall cry as well, and let me tell you how my heart was healed."
I traveled to the home of Philippe de Bourbon after parting from Henri at the Field.
Summer had come in all its abundant glory to France, leaving it as fertile and ripe as a young virgin on the day of her wedding. Everywhere bloomed small flowers that perfumed the air with their sweetness, intoxicating to my senses, and the stalks of wheat moved together in the wind like waves tossed upon the shore.
And for all the beauty of the land, I could in no way appreciate it, or the care that my sister's lover had taken to see that the journey would prove uneventful. A gentle horse bore me down the road with the company of soldiers, and each night a small tent was erected for my comfort, guarded by the vigilant Philippe. A numbness like approaching death had stolen over my mind. I can tell you little of the journey through the mountains to Busset. Only a single conversation imprinted itself on my memory and has remained there ever afterward, for in it I began to understand the nature of men, and the man whom my sister loved.
Philippe de Bourbon treated me with a distant courtesy that only relented as we approached his home. He nudged his stallion close to my own and spoke in a low and gentle voice that ended my reverie.
"You must learn to guard yourself in sleep, my lady. You called out the English King's name."
I looked at him, so handsome upon his magnificent horse, and for the first time I bitterly envied my sister. The poison of that emotion had taken deep root in my heart and I spoke without care of the consequences. "Did my...lady tell you of my sorry adventure?"
"That you won the king's heart and then spurned him? What she did not tell me I surmised for myself, Lady."
"No doubt he has already taken another woman to bed." The words were acid on my tongue, and I thought myself brave to speak them.
Philippe glanced sidelong at me from under his eyelashes. "Truly, you are Louise's sister," he mused, and shook his head, making the waves of dark hair dance.
I brought my horse to a stop and glared at Philippe, "What do you mean?"
Philippe waved his men on. When they had reached a distance that would allow us to speak in private he turned to me with unmistakable anger flaring in his eyes.
"You believe that women are the only creatures capable of love, that because our bodies are strong that men can not fall prey to tender emotions."
His words stung, and I retorted coldly. "Do not speak to me of love, I have done with it. The love of men has brought me here, far from my home."
Philippe's face twisted with derision and I saw the muscles of his body clench, as though I were an enemy across the lines of battle. "Then do not speak to me of pain, Lady, for I think you know little of it. When I was scarcely out of long gowns, I saw a girl on the road riding with her mother. For all that she was thin as a tree branch, she blazed with life, and in her I saw a spirit more fierce than a Toledo blade. I have loved Louise from that moment, and I crafted myself into that which would appeal to her. And all it had won me is an occasional place in her bed, where I keep company with her husband and my king. I saw how the English King looked at you, Lady, as though you were a flower grown in the highest meadows, forever out of reach. Well do I know that feeling, for it has been my constant companion these last ten years. "
Compared with the selfless nature of his love, my actions seemed the petty cruelty of a spoiled child. Truly, I had not believed Henry capable of the depth of emotion our affair had roused in my breast, and it had made my leaving easier. And I had the consolation of knowing that he still lived, while Henri thought himself the instrument of my death. The tears that anger had locked away flowed, and I wept bitterly, knowing at last the extent of my crime.
Philippe watched me, and pity must have moved him to temper the harshness of his words. "My apologies, Lady. Perhaps you did rightly to leave him. You seem ill suited to remain in the shadows."
My breath found release in harsh laugh, low and rough as the stone that forms the network of crypts that lie beneath the surface of our ancient cities. I wiped the wetness from my cheeks. "How little you know of my family, sir. Borgia's were born in the shadows."
The hill that we had been climbing abruptly crested, and, spread out before me was the entirety of the valley, bisected by a winding green river. I saw the chateau from a distance , a small gray jewel surrounded by fields where men, appearing no larger than ants, tilled the soil. It was so lovely, so peaceful, that the stranglehold of my grief loosened enough for me to offer an apology.
"I spoke in anger, sir, and I beg your pardon," I told him. "Truly, you seem a man worthy of the love my sister bears you." At his startled look, I nodded, and such joy came into his face that tears threatened to spill from my eyes once more.
Philippe saw to many provisions that would ensure my comfort during my stay at his chateau, but he was called back to court, where the alliance with England against the Emperor crumbled almost as soon as the monarchs left the field. I was left in an ancient forest with only my memories to keep me company and a nagging, mysterious illness that began shortly after my arrival.
"Could you be with child, my lady?" A serving girl asked when she found me bent over, retching for the forth morning.
A child. The thought exploded with the force of a thunderclap. His child. Henri was not utterly lost to me. I cried tears of joy at the truth of it, and the bleeding scrap of my heart healed, a precious offering that I gave to the child now cradled in my womb.
Immediately, I sent word to my sister. Two fortnights later I returned to the Chateau of La Motte-Feuilly, where Louise greeted me with desperate joy. Together we rejoiced that the line of our family was to be continued, and we plotted to ensure our safety in the years ahead.
"I must return to court for a short time, sister," Louise said, holding my hand as we lay together on the bed. "so that I may be with you when your time grows near."
That my connection to the English king would never be discovered, I took the name of Anna Farnese, a cousin to the Duchess, and newly widowed. Trusted servants to the Duchess attended me, and my body bloomed like a summer rose, ripe with Henri's child.
"What is it like, sister?" Marietta asked hesitantly, unwilling to interrupt the flow of the story, but prompted by her insistent curiosity.
Sister Maria Lucia closed her eyes and smiled dreamily. Her hand moved to her stomach, concealed beneath the woolen robe.
"At first, you love the promise of the child, the idea. You speak to it always, of hopes and dreams and the life which you foresee. And then, when the child moves, you love it as something separate from yourself.
"There are many kinds of love, my young sister. The love of God, the love which we have for our mother and father, the burning love which I felt for Henri. Far greater than any of these is the love of a mother for her child. I would have sacrificed anything for the happiness of those I love, but for my child I would have offered up my still beating heart, and counted it a good bargain."
The house the Duchess gifted to me was a solid stone building that lay just outside the walled confines of her chateau. Spiders preformed dances from the top rafters and webs formed delicate tapestries that blew in the late summer wind. From the topmost window of the house I could see the road that lead North, away from France and across the water to where my beloved thought me dead. A thousand times or more I dreamed of joining him, and raising the child we had created together, but those dreams proved no more substantial than the dried husks of insects trapped by the glass within sight of the sky.
Fall came, and I watched from my window as showers of gold and orange leaves fell, burying the road in the brilliant colors of a dying forest.
It was the russet hair of the rider that first caught my attention from where I lay in my cocoon, watching the passage of time. Two figures, a darkly veiled woman and the slim, upright figure of a youth with hair the flaming red of a sunset.
My heart leapt in my throat watching them ride closer, for even from a great distance the young boy had the agile grace of one skilled with the blade, and the bright hair of my father. I leapt up and ran to them.
I should have known to temper my enthusiasm for greeting, for no sooner had I crossed the gate and raised my hand then a veil was placed before me, and I fell into the warm embrace of darkness. Angry shouts pulled me from sleep, and I opened my eyes to see Betta, my mother, who held me in her arms as though I were a child, while my brother Nico kept the angry, milling servants at bay with a sword.
"How…?" I asked, thinking that the sudden appearance of my mother and brother must be a vision born of my deepest desires.
"The Duchess sent for us," my mother crooned, and she placed her hand atop the mound of my stomach. Her eyes, dark as the evening sky, brimmed with tears, and I saw that the light dimmed by Micheletto's death had been rekindled with joy.
Sister Maria Lucia smiled, and again Marietta saw the echoes of beauty lighten her features.
"That I may finish the story in the time allotted to me, I shall offer few details of the duration of my pregnancy, for in truth, one is very like the next. My mother tended to me ceaselessly during the remaining months, when I swelled like a sea creature cast up upon the land. When the snows melted, my sister returned to the chateau. There, when the first spring flowers had begun to bloom, did my time come and after much travail I was delivered of a daughter, whose red hair and waving fists gave proof of her parentage. I named her Charlotte.
"The next years passed in a haze of golden sunshine, lit by the radiance of my blessed daughter's smile. Though I would have willingly carried her in my arms for years, all too soon did her feet touch the earth and then she became a whirlwind of laughter and dazzling brightness."
"Was she a biddable child?" Marietta asked.
Sister Maria Lucia chuckled. "The child bred of the Tudor and Borgia lines? Charlotte was like Lucifer before the fall, proud and angry and more radiant than the evening star. Red hair fell in a curtain to her waist before her fifth birthday and it would fly about no matter my efforts to constrain it. It was in that year that a nobleman who had been at the Field paid an unexpected visit to my sister while I waited in attendance on her. In that man's eyes I saw the light of recognition when my daughter ran through the hall to greet me. Charlotte was unmistakable with her red hair and vivid Tudor face, and I the woman who had shared the king's bed.
"Before another month had passed we were bound for Spain. My sister had received word that the courtier who had spied Charlotte was seen in the company of the English Ambassador. Nico, who had been in the service of Philippe, came as well, though my mother decided to return to Grosetto and live out her remaining years close to my father. I do not know the year of her death. Micheletto taught her to slip so cunningly through the shadows that perhaps, in the end, she surprised death, and went to my father's side in her own time.
"Louise had maintained a correspondence with our Borgia cousins in Spain, and her generosity ensued that we were received honorably by Juan Borja, the youngest son of Juan Llancol Borja, my great uncle.
Sister Maria Lucia chuckled huskily, and color touched her withered cheeks. "Juan...at first I hated him, the man clad in rough leathers who wore my father Cesare's beautiful face. And then I loved him for so long and so well that the strands of our souls became intertwined. Place the emerald ring in my hand, Sister, and I will tell you how, during our first meeting, I slapped the face of the man who would become my husband."