The Borgia Mistress: A Novel by Sara Poole Read Free Book Online Page B

Spanish—judging by the encouragement and advice shouted by his countrymen—moved with greater urgency, as though eager for a swift conclusion. Not so his opponent, who appeared to be enjoying the contest for its own sake.
    Cesare was smiling as he balanced lightly on feet set shoulder-width apart in the classic stance of the swordsman. He appeared almost as still as a statue until, in a sudden explosion of movement, he whirled to parry a thrust and meet it with his own. He had the coordination of a natural athlete and a fondness for making everything he did appear effortless. Young as he was—he was then just eighteen—he understood already how that could madden an opponent.
    At first, he and the Spaniard appeared well matched, for all that their fighting styles were clearly different. The Spaniard, of a swarthy visage dominated by a thin, sharp nose that resembled the beak of a hawk, struck me as impatient. I wondered if, being of an arrogant race, he had made the mistake of assuming that the Pope’s son would offer him little challenge. Cesare, by contrast, was far more controlled and deliberate, unusually so for his age, when hot blood and hot temper tend to march together. The cheers of the Spaniards faded away as they began to perceive that their man might not have as easy a time of it as they had expected. A hush settled over the crowd.
    I took a seat on one of the stone tiers a little apart from the others and watched with unfeigned interest heightened by concern for the larger implications of the contest. The Spanish being vitally important to Borgia’s strategy for survival against both della Rovere and the French, Cesare could not put the fellow in the dust as he no doubt wished to. He had to preserve some measure of the man’s dignity even as pride would drive him to leave no doubt as to which of them was the more skilled. And he had to do it even as the Spaniard’s attack turned increasingly fierce, the cut and thrust of his sword coming ever closer to wounding. Faced with the prospect of defeat, he appeared to forget that this was merely a sparring session and not actual combat.
    My heart leaped when the point of the Spaniard’s rapier slashed the air perilously close to Cesare’s chest. An instant later, I breathed again when the son of Jove, having apparently had enough of the exercise, agilely sidestepped the blow, thrust through the Spaniard’s defenses, and deliberately brought the point of his blade up against the other man’s eye. It was a move intended to intimidate, and it worked. The Spaniard flinched and fell back a pace. Cesare drove forward and this time brought his blade up against the other’s man’s throat. His smile never faltered even as his lips shaped a single word: “Yield.”
    A dark flare of anger moved across the Spaniard’s face, but he clearly had no choice. Scowling, he lowered his blade, but he failed to incline his head, as the rules of honorable combat required.
    Grudgingly, he said, “The bout is yours, signore.”
    At once, Cesare lowered his own weapon and slapped the Spaniard heartily on the back. “Well played, Don Miguel!” he said, loudly enough for all to hear. “I swear I thought you had me beat a time or two.”
    Whether anyone believed that was questionable, but the Spaniard at least appeared mollified. “Next time,” he boasted as they walked together from the field, “I will leave you in no such doubt.”
    From the corner of his eye, Cesare met my gaze. I raised a brow. He grinned, dropped back behind the Spaniards, and came over to me.
    “Have you been sent to retrieve me yet again?” He took a seat beside me, pulled his shirt away from his skin, and sighed. “Don Miguel wanted to fight. Had I begged off, he would have taken it as an insult no matter what the reason.”
    I stared out across the rapidly emptying amphitheater. Venus winked in the eastern sky. With the setting sun, a chill wind was springing up. I shivered slightly and wrapped my