should he be coarsely blunt and admit that no, the match did not please him the least? or should he show some gallantry, spare her innocence and emulate her in maintaining a front of affability? “there isn’t a match that could please me, madonna.” a middle ground of sorts. his rancour was shap, his tone bitter, but cesare was acutely aware that she did not deserve any of it. if he remained a pawn in the great game his father had been engaged for a few years now across the board of italy, clarice orsini was lesser yet.
“do you think peace can be so easily conjured?” making do with their fate was one thing, deluding herself with what they were now destined to accomplish was naive at best, dangerous at first. she had no role to play save for the one of wife, obedient and loyal to the family she would be a part of. “my father,” cesare started, his steps slow upon the gravel of the garden paths, “is trying to placate those who cannot be natural allies.” oh he could have laughed at his own phrasing! as if there was such a thing as a natural ally to the borgias, that spanish scourge the great italian families were now bound to suffer. “would you ever turn against us?” would her family risk her safety by slipping first?
@virtuouslongings / ctnd.
