Chapter 12 – Honeyed milk
'And I thought I would never know sweetness.'
And she kissed him again. The air was silent and cold above the water, but her heart was blooming. Heat was rising from the parting between her breasts, and she was sweating, melting with impatience, but her hands were anchored firmly on the cold, hard ground by the small lake, far below her weightless, floating head. She had to part from him and look at him again, to make sure it was really real, to make sure he was really here. He was here. And she was no longer alone. She was seen, and she was loved. She was wanted.
But she couldn't let go of the ground.
At any moment, her husband's dogs could break through the trees and surround them, or, which was more likely, a passing hunter could recognise her and tell lord Sforza. Even the devotion of her new acquaintance could not be fully relied on. She had not intended for their arrangement to be a permanent one, but, perhaps, Paolo had different ideas. There was no predicting what he would do if she ever slighted him.
This was all very short-sighted, imprudent - but she couldn't stop. She wasn't afraid – or she just didn't care anymore. She was tired, and lonely – and the longer she sat alone in her room, uncaressed and uncherished by her husband, the more tired she was.
No amount of her entreaties could bring her closer to lord Sforza. Every attempt was empty, futile. The very thought of trying filled her with a profound sense of hopelessness.
On what was supposed to be their wedding night, she was prepared to do anything, give up anything, even her soul, for him to leave her alone – and her silent prayers were answered. He froze mid-motion, the sleeve of his doublet trailing on the floor, stared at her resentfully, as if she were the one to blame for it all, then picked his clothes up off the floor and stomped away, letting the door slam behind him, leaving her to crouch by the dying fire.
He hadn't even touched her – and somehow, that left her sad, not relieved. If he were to change his mind in that moment, she thought then, she would throw herself on him, ripping off her own clothes, and beg him to take her.
She wrapped her hands around the emptiness that filled her, buried her face in her knees, and wailed.
Was this really a sin? If it was, then she would be punished for it. But what punishment could be worse than loneliness?
All throughout the first months of their marriage, the only times her husband deigned it necessary to speak to her were to vent his frustrations, and what a shame it was to be married to a Borgia, and how little valued he must be to have been given Lucrezia for a bride.
Lucrezia used to hope that they would eventually grow to love each other. G-d knew that, if he had only been kind to her, considerate, caring and understanding, patient with her lack of knowledge and experience, she would never have betrayed him like this.
From one of her Marrano maidservants, back at the Vatican, she had heard that the Jewish sages permitted women to leave their marriages if their physical needs were not satisfied, and that seemed to make a lot of sense to her now. It was outright criminal, making your spouse feel unwanted.
She didn't owe him anything! So why did she still feel the need to justify herself, to herself?
But that didn't matter now. There would be enough time to think about it later, in the hollow solitude that enveloped her just before she fell asleep. She wasn't alone anymore, not for now. Did it matter so much, who she loved? She was with someone she loved. With someone she loved to touch and be touched by. And, just for an hour, she could forget the difference.
Lucrezia didn't know what she had even expected.
But just like when they spoke the week before, when lord Sforza's unexpected tenderness made her hope, briefly, that he would ask her not to go back upstairs to her lonely room, but to stay with him – only for him to abruptly end the conversation, asking her only to re-consider her choice to not see her mother, - she was disappointed.
She had no right to his love, that much she knew. Certainly not after what she had done. From the very beginning, she had, perhaps, expected too much. Theirs was an arranged marriage – it was foolish of her to think that he would fall in love with her the very first time he laid eyes on her.
Her main hope had not rested on instant love, however, but on their gradual getting to know each other, and learning to love and support each other. But lord Sforza had made it clear from the start that he did not feel that way, did not want to feel that way, and considered himself too refined to ever consider feeling that way towards Lucrezia. And her betrayal had surely been the final nail in the coffin, serving only to confirm his prejudices, turn his heart completely against her, and seal them off from each other forever.
Was lord Sforza capable of loving a woman of a more noble background than hers, had one been chosen as his wife instead? In any case, he would have treated such a woman with more respect from the start.
That probably wasn't fair. He had done his duty by her. He had fed her, clothed her, and made sure she was healthy – even though she was pregnant with another man's child. She had no right to ask for more, and he had never promised her more.
But Lucrezia wasn't satisfied. She got a taste of what it was like, that evening the week before, to be loved and wanted by lord Sforza, and she was ravenous for more now. No matter how hard she tried to talk herself out of it, to remind herself that he was probably just lonely in the weeks after his accident, and looking for any kind of company, she still wanted more – more of him, more of his time, more of his attention.
After first realising her affair had resulted in pregnancy despite all the precautions she had taken, Lucrezia kept to her room, giving various excuses for Francesca to pass on to her husband. Lord Sforza never raised any objections, and eventually Lucrezia began to doubt that he even remembered she existed.
But she couldn't hide forever. Eventually lord Sforza was bound to summon a physician to take a look at his wife, even if only for appearances' sake, and then what would happen to her?
'Just tell lord Sforza the truth, my Lady,' Francesca had urged her. 'Tell him the truth. Or at least tell him that you want to visit with your family in Rome for a month or so. He won't suspect anything.'
But by that point, Lucrezia was sick of lying.
'My Lady?'
Lord Sforza's long nightshirt was trailing down his thighs, but he hastily tucked it into his trousers once he saw that she had noticed it. He clung tightly to the railing as he climbed the stairs after Lucrezia, but stopped a few steps below her, as if mindful of giving her enough space.
'Do you think… you could… in fact… stay with me for a little while longer?' Wiping his forehead, he gestured at the rectangle of trembling light below them. 'Sit with me by the fire?' Shorn of all of their former anger, his eyes were docile, timid, just short of pleading. 'I don't want to be alone.'
The stubble on his chin was slowly growing into a beard. Deep lines furrowed his face, wind-torn and tan, like the mountain ridges far above their castle. They weren't as profound as her father's wrinkles, but still she wondered what it would be like to run her fingers over them, reach her hand over the collar and feel lord Sforza's warm chest rise and fall under her fingers.
His good mood was unlikely to last. But she was curious.
Lord Sforza's forearms tensed under his nightshirt as he lowered himself onto the couch, clearly impatient to rest his arm, leg, head, and whatever else was hurting him. He began to put his feet up, but dragged them off as soon as he remembered she was in the room with him, and hastily gestured at the couch on the other side of the table.
'How is your health, my Lord?', Lucrezia decided to ask.
Lord Sforza nodded in acknowledgement of her question, but without looking her in the eye. 'Better. But it is your health I want to discuss. I must – ahem,' he cleared his throat a couple of times, not very believably, 'I was, perhaps, ungracious to you just now. When you came in and I told you to leave, just now, that was harsh of me.'
This level of consideration for the feelings of others was not something her husband displayed often.
'I assure you, my lord, that nothing you could say to me could be harsh enough,' Lucrezia began slowly, watching his face closely, hoping his kind disposition would last.
'No,' Lord Sforza vehemently shook his head, 'no, my Lady. There's been far too much harshness. Enough for an entire lifetime. And most of it completely undeserved.'
He reached for the wine jug, and began to fill one of the goblets next to him with the red liquid.
'There hasn't been enough understanding. Or kindness. But I would like there to be.' He offered the goblet to Lucrezia, but then set it back on the table, realising his mistake, 'I hope that eventually – not very soon, perhaps, but with time – you will be able to – we will be able to confide in each other.'
Was this really what he wanted? Why? Lucrezia had never even imagined that he would be so invested in having a relationship with her.
'It must have been hard for you, for instance,' lord Sforza continued, 'to find yourself in your present condition.' He took a sip from the goblet. 'Did you have anyone to talk to? When you found out?' Lucrezia didn't want to bring any grief on Francesca's head, so chose not to respond. 'Francesca, I imagine. Your handmaid.'
Why would he know Francesca, when he typically didn't remember the names of their servants?
'She probably helped you figure out what was going on in the first place.'
Lucrezia could no longer resist the urge to be honest with him. 'Yes, my Lord.' She felt the tension in her chest begin to loosen, like a fist unclenching one finger after another. 'She did.'
All of her pleading with Francesca had come to nothing. The maidservant refused to help. It didn't matter how many times Lucrezia explained to her that lord Sforza would surely kill her when he found out, or how much she cried and begged to be given something, anything at all to rid her of the child.
Her insides felt bloated, soft, swollen with decay. Paolo's touch had made her feel better about her body, enjoy it and love the pleasure of their couplings, but his naive affections had ultimately only made things worse. The rot had set in deep.
She felt now like one of her husband's does, crushed and pinned down in an iron trap. And like an animal driven wild by the chase, exhausted but still yearning to live, she was prepared to bite off her own limb to free herself.
All Lucrezia could do now was sit by the window, watch the sun rise out of the sea, and stare at her growing stomach, protruding very firmly now from the cradle of her slender hips.
Lord Sforza stared into the fire for a few minutes after she'd finished talking. Then he pushed his weight off of the couch, took two shaking steps, and sat himself on Lucrezia's couch a metre away from her.
'What a horror.' His expression was hard to read, and that disquieted Lucrezia. It only dawned on her now how much she had actually told him, and how much she feared that her honesty would frighten him, that he would be disgusted with her and turn away from her again.
He rang the bell, and ordered the servant to bring Lucrezia some warm milk and honey. As she warmed her hands against the hot cup, he picked the checkered plaid off the back of the couch, and leaned forward to wrap her in it.
Lucrezia kept on drinking the sweet mixture, but she wasn't listening anymore. She could barely follow the trail of his words, she couldn't make them out – something about considering ending an innocent life and jeopardising her own, about captive soldiers breaking their thumbs and hacking off their limbs to escape their shackles, feeling forced to hurt oneself to escape from greater danger…
But his voice, deep and firm, infused with understanding, somehow comforted her, and she wanted to wrap herself up in it and just lie down. She preferred it like this. She didn't want to understand what he was saying, she couldn't bear facing disappointment again - but it sounded understanding, somehow, supportive, even though she knew how unwise it was to rely on his support.
She found herself soothed by it. With her elbow nestled in the corner between the back and the arm of the couch, she allowed her eyes to close, and felt herself smile at nothing.
'Why didn't you just say you wanted to visit with your family in Rome, my lady?'
The phrase jumped out at her from the stream of other words, catching Lucrezia unprepared. She straightened her back, realising her drink was about to spill over onto the carpet.
'I wouldn't have refused. Why go through the danger of travelling on your own and in secret? Without even saying goodbye,' he added, and Lucrezia detected an unmistakeable bitterness in his words.
She felt her eyes well up with tears, remembering the terror and resignation she felt as she left the place she had once hoped would become her home, where she dreamed of living in mutual respect and partnership with her husband, even if they never did grow to love each other.
'I couldn't lie to you, my Lord.' She hastily looked away, hoping he wouldn't see her distress, the onslaught of emotion which she was no longer able to fend off, and also hoping he would. 'I couldn't stand in front of you, look you in the eye and lie to you.' Her voice faltered, and she rested her head in her hands.
The couch sagged right next to her, and she felt a hand fall heavily on her shoulder. She looked up to see lord Sforza, her husband, who barely dignified her with a glance at their wedding - even as he said 'I do', even when he put the ring on her finger, even when he danced with her - lean forward to look her in the eye, his brow creased with worry and compassion.
'Oh. My dear. Come here, Lucrezia.' He motioned her to come into his embrace, opening his arms in invitation, which she only too happily accepted. 'Come here, my Lucrezia. It's alright. It's alright.'