Previously on The Borgias...
Della Rovere has left Florence.
My fear is the cardinal will conspire with the French to invade us.
- The French king would... - Depose you. March south to Naples.
Want, want, want. France wants Naples. Spain wants Naples.
King Ferrante of Naples has an illegitimate daughter.
A union between you and Sancia would be of some benefit.
Let Joffre marry her. I will take my pleasures where I find them.
I will marry anyone you like if it helps you to sleep.
What do you know of marriage, Francesca?
It should not be thus.
- Theo! - The husband of my mother.
- We're all friends here. - I should hope so.
Paolo.
You could adjust my lord's saddle. He would fall.
He would return home tamed.
Broken.
I have met a woman, Mother.
You cannot stand for this.
My husband struck - it's what husbands do.
- If I can rid her of her impediment... - She will be yours?
There was an altercation at your sister's wedding. A promise of a reckoning.
Promise me you will not put yourself in harm's way.
You, Cardinal, have been nosing round my wife.
But it ends here!
The apothecary prepared this liniment, my lord.
He mentioned it might hurt,
but said the pain was worth enduring.
- Count again? - Yes, my lord.
Otherwise the wound might fester.
One...
- One... - Two...
Three... four...
And we are done,
my good Lord Sforza.
Damn horse. A viper must have startled him.
But we must count our blessings, my lord.
You may be some months in this little room.
At least your leg has been saved.
You have been kind to me, Lucrezia Borgia.
And it may be that... I was not,
in the first instance,
- kind to you. - Please my lord, do not think...
I see now that nobility
springs from the soul...
not from the blood.
I forgive you the accident of your family name.
I must...
accept your forgiveness, then, my lord, for the...
accident of my Borgia blood.
And I would, as a mark of thanks for your care these past few days,
lend you my horse.
Your horse?
He is the very devil when he's not being ridden.
I will gladly ride him out, my lord.
King Ferrante of Naples sends his humble regards.
King Ferrante of Naples can neither hear nor see, I believe.
- Son. - He nevertheless sends every good wish.
And in the face of all the spurious claims upon his kingdom,
from Spain, from France from the Duchy of Milan,
he would remind Your Holiness of the justice
of the independent claims of Naples.
An independent Naples can only be to Rome's benefit.
And I, as his ambassador, am proud to present the suit,
for your consideration, of his last unmarried daughter,
Sancia, Duchessa of Squillace.
Where is Squillace?
In the Kingdom of Naples.
My younger brother Joffre is all of 13 years old.
His Highness had understood the prospective groom
to be the Gonfaloniere himself, the Duke of Gandia.
Me?
Well, this is most irregular. I would never consider marrying the illegitimate daughter
- of the King of Naples... - Would you convey our thanks
to our friend and ally,
King Ferrante, whose claim to independence we fully understand,
for his most generous offer?
You will have our response shortly.
My husband cannot ride.
He cannot rut.
He cannot even hunt.
Even the deer are happy.
Will I be punished for that?
Will I be whipped?
For making the deer happy?
Are you happy, my lady?
Perhaps.
- Give the horse his heed. - But no whip?
No need for whip. Kick your heels.
You thought it appropriate?
I, Juan Borgia, and the illegitimate daughter of the King of Naples?
The Duchessa of Squillace?
Our alliance with Naples is now of the utmost importance.
I am the Duke of Gandia.
The Gonfaloniere of the papal state.
The son of the Pope of Rome.
- Oh, Brother, we both are that. - You marry her, then.
You know marriage for me is not an option.
Well, then, let it be Joffre!
Joffre still plays with his sister's dolls.
Here we have a life-size one.
Lucrezia still plays with dolls. She got married.
She did.
Are we to send all of our loved ones off to Pesaro?
To Squillace?
I will not marry the Duchessa of Squillace.
But I will ride to Naples to present my young brother's suit.
Juan...
One of us must ensure that she is a suitable bride.
Or would you prefer the honour?
I cannot. I am occupied in Rome.
Yes, so I've heard.
What have you heard?
That beneath that cardinal's skirt, there may still be a man.
Ah, ah, ah...
- Look at you. - Me?
Like Narcissus.
In the spring waters.
Narcissus?
You don't know Narcissus?
I can neither read nor write, my Lady Lucrezia.
Narcissus fell in love with his own reflection.
In the waters of a spring.
Do not move.
It is impossible.
To fall in love with a reflection?
To kiss it.
And I thought I would never know sweetness.
Is this your residence, Cardinal?
For the moment.
You are spare in your tastes, Cardinal.
There is but one ornament I need here.
May I call you something other than Cardinal?
Call me Cesare.
Cesare.
Remind me why I'm here, Cesare.
Because you want to be.
Because...
Your husband's absence makes it possible.
Because...
It is time to stop pretending.
Please. I do not trust my heart.
Oh, you must, to have come here with me.
Can you love me, Cesare Borgia?
Or is it just desires of the flesh?
I am very much afraid that it is both.
One or the other, I could deal with.
Both, and I may be lost.
Can a good thing come from a bad thing,
Paolo the groom?
Is this a good thing?
Yes. I think.
And what is the bad?
I think you know...
Paolo the groom.
I have a second name.
And I don't want to know it.
I would call you Narcissus.
Oh, my God.
You make me hope.
And I'm afraid of hope.
Hope for what?
For days like this.
In the future, with you.
If you were given them?
I beg you, do not make me hope.
He will be home in two days.
Perhaps his business will detain him.
Now, I desire a purely defensive union.
The terms of which have already been outlined by our respective ambassadors.
And I desire the happiness of our youngest son.
And 200,000 ducats, surely.
Perhaps.
But we need this union more than we need riches.
The wolves are bearing down on the Papal States.
And...
we would have a wedding.
If only to once again see our dear Lucrezia.
Yah!
Forgive me, Gonfaloniere Borgia,
if I feed my father as we converse.
He has so few pleasures left. But he does like his chicken!
What a coincidence.
Chicken is my brother Joffre's favourite.
Perhaps my sister can feed him thus.
He is all of 13 years old. Soon to be a man.
I am truly blessed, then, in this union.
You are.
And your brother, Gonfaloniere, is he illegitimate, like me?
His father has drafted a papal bull to confer legitimacy on all his children.
And that has bearing on the matter of bastardy, does it?
We do not appreciate that term, Your Highness.
Why not? I never minded it.
I found it gave one a certain licence.
Let me just say
that his rights of inheritance are secure, under law.
If my betrothed has anything like the vigour of his brother...
You would marry this Borgia here, would you not, dear sis?
I am your bastard sister, Alfonso.
I shall marry whomever I am told.
I am sure your brother should grow into your stature, Gonfaloniere.
It comes with many benefits - the Borgia name, the Borgia prowess.
I am told it is considerable,
within and without the marital bed.
Most important of all, the protection of the Pope of Rome
for our poor, beleaguered Kingdom of Naples.
We have enemies fast approaching, Gonfaloniere. My father's name
was once enough to terrify them. Perhaps your father's name should do the same?
I have been entrusted with all of my father's battles.
- Are you not scared, dear sis? - I fear...
I fear, I fear.
Perhaps after our meal, Gonfaloniere,
my sister can give you the royal tour?
My father had a way of, uh, dealing with his enemies.
It might prove instructive for the future.
- Your father had them stuffed? - Indeed.
Clever.
His reputation then preceded him.
As does your reputation precede you.
Does it? Should I be honoured?
In my father's case, it inspired terror.
What do I inspire,
Juan Borgia?
Lust.
Then I must make do...
with lust.
You would sample your brother's betrothed the way you would a mare?
But one of such beauty.
Sample her, then.
I would know...
- ..how she can be ridden. - Oh, she can.
She can.
You find the art of politics more engrossing...
- than... - Than the art of love?
Did I say that?
Mmm.
They have more in common than you might think.
I would doubt that.
Let us take...
your most elegant leg.
The perfect metaphor
for Italian politics.
Here...
..we have France,
the source of all disquiet.
But travelling south
across the Alps
we find the dukedom of Milan.
And below her,
Florence.
And here,
this little mound
is Rome.
But Naples
is your elegant calf,
your exquisite ankle,
your heel...
..your sole,
and your most delicious toe.
Now, lying here,
it may not seem important.
But try to stand,
and you'll find that all your balance comes
from here.
- Naples. - Hmm.
Naples.
But now,
I'm going to invade
fair France.
His Highness is testing a new cannon, Your Eminence.
Perfected during a battle against those English barbarians.
- Feu! - Fire!
Feu!
Le feu aux canons! Les boulets!
Your Royal Highness,
may I introduce you to Cardinal Giuliano Della Rovere.
Cardinal Della Rovere...
..His Royal Highness, King Charles, of France.
- Your Royal Highness. - We have heard of you.
And I of you, Your Highness.
Your military renown has travelled far and wide...
Enough of the pleasantries!
You are the one that would give us the crown of Naples?
The Kingdom of France has long had claims
on the investiture of the Kingdom of Naples.
- I would... - I said, enough pleasantries, did I not?
Just tell me, Cardinal,
how you would place the crown of Naples...
on this ugly head of mine?
And it is exceedingly ugly, is it not?
Your Highness bears all the vigour of the French race in his person.
He is afraid to say it!
- Is my head not ugly, General? - I can hardly bear to gaze at it.
So, admit it, Cardinal.
I have all the graces...
- of a carnival dwarf. - Those words
- would never pass my lips, Your Highness. - Well, then, we may get nowhere.
I appreciate only plain speech.
Tell us, then, what you want of us, plainly.
My countrymen are accustomed to the show of war, not the reality.
They could never muster the courage to sustain your French fury.
You want me to march to Rome, depose that Borgia,
give you the papal crown,
in the hope that you'll place the crown of Naples on this ugly head?
I want to restore the Universal Church to her former dignity.
Couldn't this Borgia do the same?
Restore the Church?
Place the Crown of Naples on this ugly noggin.
Noggin?
Head.
Either way, you must get to Rome, Your Highness.
- Must I? - And my countrymen
are accustomed to the show of war...
Oh, Lord!
My husband has been absent all of a week now.
You said he went to Ostia.
Are there not women in Ostia?
You say that so bluntly, Cesare Borgia.
- It makes me fearful. - Of what?
Of the consequences of your affections.
Can you not give thanks for the time we have spent together?
Thanks to whom?
To the moon. To Venus.
To, dare I say, the good Lord.
Does He not look down upon us this minute?
If He sees what I see,
He sees that it is good.
You were ordained a priest,
and yet you blaspheme thus.
If appreciation of your beauty is blasphemy,
consider me a blasphemer indeed.
A blasphemer and a heretic.
You frighten me, sometimes.
War is ugly, Cardinal.
Far uglier than I could ever be.
One should approach it
with extreme circumspection.
As one should approach you, perhaps?
He is learning to mean what he says!
But as to war, see here.
My new invention.
If it works, it will be...
truly grisly.
It will usher in a whole new era
of grisliness.
Chained cannonballs.
Both balls have to fire together.
If they don't...
we could be torn to shreds.
You wish to give the signal?
It would be my privilege, Your Highness.
It could also be your end.
Your most grisly end.
Yours too.
Proceed.
Impressive.
Yes?
Narcissus.
- If Lord Sforza were to find us... - How could he...
mount those stairs?
What?
What the devil?!
Butter, my Lord Sforza.
For the morning.
- You met my betrothed, Brother? - I did.
Your silence is alarming, Brother.
Put little Joffre at ease.
Rest assured, Joffre, she does not have horns.
Is she pretty?
No.
Is she kind?
I know not.
Does she have any qualities to recommend her?
She has two legs.
The requisite number of eyes. Ten fingers.
So she is not pretty and she is not kind.
She has two eyes,
ten fingers, and two legs.
Not forgetting toes. Ten of them, I believe.
I will only marry once, Mother.
Oh, little Joffre!
- She is not only pretty. - No?
- She is beautiful! - Really?
She's an angel, sprung up on the soils of Naples.
In fact, if you will not marry her, I would marry her myself.
- Really? - Yes. Really.
Now, do I have your permission?
You may not, Juan. She is my betrothed.
Yes, she is. And who's a lucky boy?
He looks wealthy. Who is he, do you think?
Nobleman?
I don't know. We all look the same when we're dead.
Certainly dressed the part.
You would entice me to battle...
but do you understand what that means?
It means a just war, in defence of Christendom.
No war is just.
War is chaos,
brute force mustered against brute force,
until one side is destroyed, utterly.
I have read of your Italian battles.
Hired mercenaries on feathered horseback,
prancing like peacocks
one against the other until one side retires with...
something called honour?
But there is no honour in war.
The French learned that against the English.
There is blood, death, armour against armour,
until one side surrenders,
in death or domination.
Be careful what you pray for, Cardinal, if you pray for war.
You will find yourself in a place
beyond prayer itself.
As St Augustine said, Mother...
Let me be married, Lord,
but not yet.
- My dear. - Theo.
Your dear?
- I'd heard you'd made your reappearance. - Juan.
Is the house my father bought you not to your liking?
Too cold?
- Too lonely, perhaps? - Erm...
I would leave you, kind sir, and trouble you no further.
Yes, you will leave.
My son!
Yes, I am your son. Does this peasant's presence here
mean that he thinks he's my father?
- Juan, please! - He must've heard rumours that one of us
- was fathered by this goatherd. - Juan, stop!
We are the sons of the pope!
And you entertain this goatherd?
In my family home?
Juan!
What has this papacy done to you?
It has removed me forever from the likes of him.
Go.
Leave.
This is your home no longer.
I will return, Mother, when I please.
- But I will not have him here! - I said...
go.
I asked to meet you here because...
my husband has been found.
Washed up on the shores of the Tiber,
three weeks dead with stab wounds to his neck.
For those three weeks
I gave my body to you.
I broke my marriage vows.
I thought...
perhaps I hoped you did so willingly.
You bought those three weeks with murder!
I told you he was riding on the road to Ostia that night.
- Admit it, Cardinal. - I admit nothing.
Yet the crime is written on your face.
There was no murder. He fought. He lost.
I begged you not to meet him.
You begged me not to place myself in harm's way.
I had no idea you had such capabilities.
- And to think I thought you knew me. - I thought I knew a man.
A man conflicted, perhaps, between the world and God.
But not a murderer.
Is it murder to defend your mother's honour?
To procure the freedom of one you could love...
even more than your mother's honour?
If it is, I am a murderer born.
Maybe God can forgive you because I'm not sure I can.
Do you think I care for the forgiveness of God?
I care for your happiness, your future.
And I have now given it to you. Libera me, you asked me.
You have not given me a future.
You have given me a lifelong penance.
I am party to your crime.
I feel for you still...
but I know not this monster beside me.
Well, let me tell you.
I was born...with a stain.
A mark.
Like the mark of Cain.
But it is the mark of my father, my family.
The mark of Borgia.
I have tried to be other than I am.
And I have failed.
And if I have failed you in the process, I am truly sorry.
You...
You have the devil's insight, Cardinal.
You read what my heart wanted and you gave it to me.
You gave me joy,
through a crime I could not have conceived of.
And now I must live my life in penance,
praying for forgiveness.
Where?
You will not know where.
- You mean a nunnery? - I mean confinement.
I will search you out.
Like Abelard and Eloise.
You may find a nunnery cell, but you will never be free of me!
You are right.
I will never be free of you.
Are you out of your mind?
To spill the blood of your mother's husband?
To beat him like a common pimp?
- If that is what he is, Father... - Then what does that make you?
You've heard the rumour.
That one of us was sired by him,
and not by you, not by the Pope of Rome?
And you want to feed those rumours?
What is all of Rome talking about now?
Hmm?
- I will not have him in her house! - You will.
You will not?
Do you have any idea what lengths I've gone to
to keep your mother's reputation intact?
You were bred to be a soldier,
a general,
a leader of men.
Is that any way for a Gonfaloniere to behave?
Brawling like a common soldier, in your mother's home?
Forgive me, Father, if my honour demanded...
Your honour?
Do you know what they say about you?
What they whisper about you?
What, Father?
That your brother would be more suited to your estate.
Would you have us consider those thoughts?
Promise me you won't, Father.
If you promise to restrain yourself.
I do.
But promise me that I am of your blood and of no one else's.
You are our son.
No one else's.
Do not make us regret that fact.
I will not.
How can I make recompense?
You can beg forgiveness from your mother.
And you can escort her to your brother Joffre's wedding.
Papa.
Oh, my love.
I'm in heaven.
- Or am I still dreaming? - No, Father.
It is I.
The Borgia pope has betrothed his son
to King Ferrante's daughter.
How does that change matters?
The investiture of Naples must soon follow.
Ferrante would have not agreed to the match without it.
He is old, this Ferrante, and uglier than me.
But his son is not, my liege.
He would see his father invested before he dies,
so he can claim the crown, and the kingdom.
If there is a moment to move, it is now.
Cesare!
- Excuse me, Cardinal. - Yes.
So, tell me, Lucrezia.
- Marriage is... - It...
was hard, at first.
But then it grew sweeter.
I need details.
You will not have them.
Your husband, Giovanni...
He...
fell off his horse.
Foolish man.
He will go hunting.
I find the more confined husbands become the more... tolerable.
I could write a book about it.
Perhaps I will.
And you, Brother?
What of your heart?
It was broken
by a nun.
A nun? Like Eloise?
Will you spend a lifetime writing to her?
I could if I knew where she was.
But you can find out, surely.
I intend to.
How wonderful.
We can both write books.
The cutting of your hair
is a symbol
of the renunciation
of your earthly beauty.
Which is now in the service
of our Lord God,
Jesus Christ.
You will be a bride of Christ.
A handmaiden of Christ.
Christ will be your love,
your bread,
your wine,
your water.
Most worthy Lord,
do you agree, under the eyes of God,
to accept the most gracious Sancia, Duchess of Squillace,
as your lawful spouse?
I do.
She is too beautiful.
- I hate her. - You have promised to marry
the most gracious Sancia, here present...
If you hate beauty, dear sis, you must hate yourself.
All right.
I will love her, then.
But deep down, somewhere, I still hate her.
One can hate and love, I have found.
There was a poem, wasn't there, that said just that.
Odi et amo.
Most gracious lady,
do you agree, under the eyes of God,
to accept the most noble Lord Joffre as your lawful spouse?
I do.
Poor Joffre.
He deserved better than Naples.
Are you becoming expert in genealogy?
I have heard the rumours of her monstrous father.
And you believed them?
Why Naples?
Our father has a realm to protect.
And Sancia will protect it?
- We must wait and see. - ..worthy and ready
to enter the marriage contract.
You are now Duke of Squillace, Joffre Borgia.
How does that feel?
Where is Squillace?
I have no idea.
But I am its duchess.
There's a castle, I believe, just south of Naples.
And a lake. An income.
You see, they had to give me something, so...
they gave me Squillace.
Be nice to him. Promise me?
How nice?
- He is my younger brother. - Yes.
But how nice?
That nice.
I can be that nice.
- You will? - Yes.
Good night, pages.
Unless you would all join us?
No.
That is a step too far,
even for the Duke and Duchessa of Squillace.
Now, my husband,
are you ready?
You will have your war, Cardinal.
But I will only ask one thing of you.
Please, my liege.
No one will question the behaviour of my troops,
my captains, my generals, my arms.
You will have your war.
But it will be fought the French way.