“The next Borgia Pope.” Rodrigo nodded. “The only problem is, I won’t be there to see him do it.”

“‘We have for Pope Cesare Borgia, Pope Alexander VII.’” I sounded out the words. “Doesn’t sound like him at all. He’d rather be the kind of Alexander who conquers the world.”

“Juan can conquer the world. He’s hot-blooded; made for the battlefield. Cesare, he’s got a cooler head, and one needs that in the Church.”

“I don’t think he wants the Church.”

“Someone in the Church doesn’t want him, that’s certain.” Rodrigo gave a derisive chuckle. “Someone’s made a nasty attempt to keep Cesare out of the College of Cardinals. That murdered girl in the Borgo, the one with her throat cut—I’ll eat my throne if it was the Jews. Judging from what turned up on the girl’s body, it was someone doing their best to smear Cesare’s reputation. Cardinal della Rovere, perhaps? He’s appalled enough at the idea of one Borgia Pope, let alone two . . .”

Rodrigo went on, half amused and half angry, and it was something faintly sinister about a dagger that had possibly belonged to Cesare, but I didn’t want to hear the details. I had no desire think about women murdered in the night, not when I lay so cozy and safe in my Pope’s arms. “So, if Cesare is to be the next Borgia Pope,” I said instead, changing the subject, “and Juan is bound to lead the papal armies, what does that leave for Joffre?”

“Naples.” Rodrigo frowned, fingers drumming against my arm as he looked up at the ceiling. He’d had it painted with a fresco of a golden-haired Europa being borne off by Jupiter in his form as a bull. Europa looked quite a lot like me, and the bull had a cloth of the Borgia mulberry and yellow across its broad back. “I shall have to do something about Naples.”

“Now?” I poked his ribs until he squirmed. He was quite endearingly ticklish, my Pope. I aimed ruthlessly for the sensitive spot at his waist, and he caught my wrists together in one strong hand. He pinioned me against his broad chest, speaking in his most thunderous papal whisper.

“I shall excommunicate you, minx, if you make me squeal.”

“And I shall beg my Holy Father for forgiveness. On my knees, of course.”

“Then I may excommunicate you just for the pleasure of the sight.” He kissed the tip of my nose, finally smiling, but his mind was still on Naples. At least it was no longer gloomily fixed on Juan and poor dead Pedro Luis. “I think Joffre will rope Naples in for me. King Ferrente has a few spare princesses lying about—he’ll give one to Joffre, if I support him against France and Spain too . . .”