She already looked far less like a pope’s pampered mistress: hair bundled carelessly into a net, dust across the skirts of her sensible split-layered riding dress, not a pearl in sight. But they still knew who she was, the villagers who came in their dusty smocks to gape at the side of the road as the procession passed. Women pointed and whispered; the men swung their barefoot children up to their shoulders to watch the glittering procession of horses, carriages, pack mules, and guardsmen in Lord Sforza’s colors. “That’s the Count of Pesaro,” the whisper went, but the land was fully of petty lordlings like him and no one gave Lord Sforza a second glance no matter how he pranced his caparisoned horse at the head of the line. “That’s the Pope’s daughter,” a far more excited whisper would follow, and the new Countess of Pesaro waved and bowed from her saddle, gracious but remote, very conscious of her dignity now that she was a wife and a great lady. “That’s the Pope’s concubine!” the last whisper would run, and men would crane their necks and gape for a look at the woman who’d tempted God’s own vicar from his vows, and Giulia laughed and blew kisses like a girl at a fair. We would travel another few days before reaching Pesaro, but late that afternoon my mule threw a shoe.

“I can’t stop and reload the other mules now just to make room for you,” the guardsman apologized as I slid stiffly to the ground around the laden panniers. “I’m afraid it’s back into the carriage with you, Messer Leonello.”

“He can ride behind me,” Madonna Giulia offered, halting her mare with a flash of scarlet saddle cloth and silver mane.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “You will start talking poetry again, or dress materials, and then I shall murder you. And my orders from Cardinal Borgia were to keep you safe, not murder you, so all in all I think I should find a cart to ride upon.”

Giulia laughed, gesturing one of the guards to find a cart that could squeeze me in. “I’m surprised Cesare cared enough to give you any orders regarding me. He usually looks right through me, like I’m a decorative glass vase.”

“He doesn’t care.” I massaged my cramped legs, the muscles beginning to unknot. “He cares for nothing outside the family. But he will not get the Holy Father’s full attention on the matter of the French unless you are looked after in all regards. Thus, my orders.”

“The French again!” Madonna Giulia made a face. “You really think they’ll invade?”

“Cleverer people than me seem to think so.”

“There’s no one cleverer than you, Leonello.”