Chapter 11 – In her arms
And had it been only a moment in her arms, or a lifetime? How could he be sure now? And did he really reach out to her as she reached out to him - not once, but twice?
"I want the servant to do it."
Lucrezia Borgia continued on undeterred, unwrapping the cotton bandages and opening the ointment bottle. "I let Matteo go home for a while, my lord."
"Who is - What? Why?"
"He's been doing so much these past few days." Without asking for his permission, she sat herself down on the edge of the bed, wrapped the bandage around his throbbing forehead, and deftly snipped away the required length. "It's not fair to him - and it's been a while since he last saw his family."
Was he to have no say even in who waited on him? Was he to have no respite from her, even now?
"How is the pain, my lord?" She was running a towel over the wound now, cleaning away old dried blood. It stung, like it always did, but it wasn't too unpleasant when she was doing it.
"Everything hurts." Giovanni had intended to snap at her, but the words just came out sad. "Even when I'm sleeping, I'm in pain. My dreams are filled with it. There's no escape from it. I wish I was dead." And it was all her fault, both him travelling in the forest so late that night, him being rescued, and being in constant pain now.
"Please, my lord," undeterred by his anger, Lucrezia Borgia stopped soaking the bandage in the ointment to look at him, "do not give in to despair. Your bodily struggle is over, thank Gd, but your soul must also persevere. I pray every night for your good health. Soon, you'll be able to go outside again, and you'll feel better. But you must stay strong."
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't happy to have her near him. Giovanni had spent far too much time on his own, not only during what he thought was her illness (which had really been the onset of her pregnancy), but even before, after their aborted wedding night. He was curious about her now, and he wanted to know her.
"So it's true." The night held her dominion firmly now, and it was good to have someone to talk to, to feel someone's healing touch. "What they told me, about you. You helped me. There, in the forest."
She lowered her head demurely, taking care not to look at him. "Yes, my Lord."
"What were you doing there in the first place? Didn't I tell you not to leave your room?" Giovanni honestly couldn't remember if he did. "At any rate… I expect you to ask me for something in return. I won't stand in debt to my own wife."
"Then I only ask for your forgiveness, my lord. I ask for mercy."
Giovanni squinted at his wife in disbelief. "Mercy for yourself, my lady? Or for your child? If you had to choose."
The ointment bottle froze in her hand for a moment, but Lucrezia didn't hesitate even for a moment to give him her answer. "For my child, my lord."
"See, I can never understand that," he mused aloud. "Why would you forfeit your own life for that of a bastard child? You could always just have other children."
But she didn't appreciate his joke. Her head dropped lower at this, her eyes heavy with sorrow.
Was this how he would allow himself to treat his wife - the woman who risked losing everything by helping him, and still chose to stand by him, instead of seeking refuge with her odious family?
"I jest, my lady." Giovanni reached for her hand, but thought better of it. "And in poor taste, surely. I didn't mean to distress you, come."
He was pleased to see her smile at his reassuring words, even if her smile was a formal one.
It was strange. He used to want to dominate her, to make her obey and fear him, to allow her no freedom since he, after marrying her, could not be free. But it was better to see her smile like this.
"You are a kind, dear girl," he commended her, "and I envy you. Organising charity for the poor and keeping an eye on the servants, while still looking after your child - and you are even helping me!"
But he didn't like that. It was too much, too soon.
"And you are stretching yourself far too thin, my wife." He gently pushed her hand away. "I won't have your brother coming here again to berate me for your ill health."
He didn't want to be a passive recipient of Lucrezia's care. Not simply because it no longer felt good to be seen by her like this, in such a state, but also because he didn't want her to have to look after both of them. Of course, he wanted to bask in her tenderness, her warmth and the hope that her youth afforded her - but he didn't want her to be responsible for his, or even her own health, clothing, food…
It wasn't right for her to be awake so late into the night, her face less drawn now but still too pale not to cause concern, tangled hair hastily tied in a knot and in a dress with holes at the elbows and under the armpits.
It was disgraceful - and it wasn't her fault. Once he knew about her circumstances, about her situation, he was immediately ashamed of ever calling her a slattern, even if only in his thoughts and not out loud, especially during her illness - even though she had no one but herself to blame for her pitiful condition.
A nobleman's wife could look nice because her husband provided for her. She had the space and time necessary to look after herself and make herself into a suitable companion and comfort to him, instead of worrying about the more mundane, material things. He had not made sure that young Lucrezia could enjoy her role like this.
Thankfully, he never actually called Lucrezia a slattern to her face. At least, he didn't think he did. Did he? Giovanni couldn't remember.
He ruffled impatiently through the parchments that he still had to read and sign.
"I will need a few more days to come to my senses. But in the meantime," he turned around to face her again, "please," (PLEASE?) "eat properly, sleep well, and don't spend any energy waiting on me. When I'm feeling better, I will personally arrange everything for you. The best doctors in the principality, the best midwives… truly, I will not have you want for anything. Just don't come in here."
She was strong. She was not just a child bride, not just a political pawn in her father's schemes. That should have been clear to him from the start. He was foolish to have miscounted her. Why did he do that? He couldn't remember.
Already it was getting hard to resist her will. Once she had made clear to him her desire to be near him, to look at him and to touch him, he found himself unable to maintain his distance.
She was never like this before. Something had awakened her, stirred the blood in her veins and made her overcome her fear of him, and show him the strength of her affection.
But what, no, who was the cause of this?
Could it be him?
Could she see the tenderness that she was awakening within him? Was that what she was responding to?
It had to be so. It had to be him! There was no other explanation.
Well? he wanted to ask them, all of them, looking down and trying to hide their curiosity, where is your other man now, whoever he is? It's not him she wants now, is it? She wants me, her husband. She wants me by her side, not him. She wants me. See? She wants me, her husband - not him!
It was hard to push her away, hard to tell her 'no'. He did it as gently as he could after he embraced her, bringing the conversation back again to the topic of her seeing her family, making her promise to, at the very least, consider inviting her mother to come and spend time with her, and then finally wishing her goodnight.
It wasn't just him asking his wife to consider his suggestions instead of expecting her to obey his orders that was simply unthinkable.
Vanozza Cattaneo was once a whore.
He was the one to demand, in no uncertain terms, that, if he must be married to a Borgia, his wedding should, at the very least, be free of scandal. He was the one to order his mother-in-law - a whore as his mother-in-law! - barred from the wedding!
And now he was asking his wife to invite that same woman into the castle where his father used to live?!
It was, perhaps, not quite as outrageous as continuing to provide for an unfaithful Borgia wife, but it was still a shocking change to what his conduct in such a situation would have been in the past.
What was happening to him?
It would soon be dawn. There was still no hint of scarlet among the dark clouds outside the library window, but the air was fragile and still, as if he were all alone in the world. Giovani drank the rest of his wine in this early silence of the nascent day, making a mental note to take the goblet out to the castle kitchen to be washed. He was planning to have the entire library to himself for a while, and didn't want the servants to come in and disturb him.
Already he had spent a week without speaking to her again - but he would need more time before seeing her once more. He would need a strategy - so that he would not appear defenceless in front of her again, would not be caught off guard, would not be put into a position where he felt he had no choice but to renege on his principles and family honour.
But Giovanni would have no time to prepare. Already there was a knock on the door.
"Come in?" He turned around in his armchair to see who would emerge from behind the wooden door, and immediately stood up straight. "Oh. Madam."