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There's the wet splat of seagull droppings, dangerously close to him. Cesare looks up, then continues to thoughtlessly peel paint off the bench. There's a bouquet of flowers by his side, white roses and little pink things he chose on a whim. They smell lovely, even in the fishy breeze of the promenade. If asked point blank he wouldn't be able to tell why he bought them, but then nobody asks.
In his gut he knows. Of course he knows.
Charlotte had looked like a well-appointed mouse; anxious, eager to please, blushing a lot. She was well-coiffed and styled, wearing one of the dresses he'd brought from Rome. Hands folded demurely in front of the velvet stomacher.
She'd stood aside while he signed. He made sure his fingers brushed hers when he passed on the quill, and she'd gasped a little - protocol demanded that her father be given precedence, signing before her, but... Cesare winked at her, smiling. The simple gesture made her neck break out in an unsightly rash, but Cesare wasn't exactly one to complain, not at present. His own itch nearly drove him crazy.
A chubby child stumbles past him, running after a toy that moves of its own. What do they call them, battery-operated, or something? He watches the child fall, scramble up and look around. Apparently there's no parent around to hover and fret, so there's no stunned wailing, no tears - the runt just picks himself up and chases on again. Smart little bugger.
Idly, Cesare starts plucking petals from a rose and scatters them under the bench.
She had been nothing to write home about, but she had tried. She had been kind and pious, with a nice enough rump to slap.
The King and Queen had been there; high officials of their court, too. His Majesty had the preamble to the contract read out loud, signaling French consent to the match. Naming the price, too. "... duly informed of the great and commendable services which the high and powerful prince don Caesar de Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, has rendered to him and to his crown" - bla bla bla - "hoping the Duke will render them unto him in the future, for the conquest of his kingdom of Naples and his duchy in Milan."
Right. French claims to Italian thrones came cheaper by the dozen, didn't they.
Charlotte pointedly looked out the window then, and Cesare touched the hem of her veil. The meadows of Blois were in bloom. "It's beautiful outside, isn't it," he whispered in Catalan, knowing she'd understand. He continued making gentle overtures during the ceremony, tried to distract her from what was, essentially, an hour of political bargaining. A sale.
And as they were filing out to dine, to discuss details of the wedding itself, to be held two days hence, on the twelfth day of May, he managed to steal a kiss from her. Slipping in his tongue, just to make her blush again.
Looking at the flowers, Cesare notices he has flayed at least half of them. M'ama. Non m'ama. His hands are sweaty. He dries them by rubbing them down the seams of his pants, then gets up and walks away, leaving the stupid bouquet where it is. No idea why he bought it in the first place.
In his gut he knows. Of course he knows.
Charlotte had looked like a well-appointed mouse; anxious, eager to please, blushing a lot. She was well-coiffed and styled, wearing one of the dresses he'd brought from Rome. Hands folded demurely in front of the velvet stomacher.
She'd stood aside while he signed. He made sure his fingers brushed hers when he passed on the quill, and she'd gasped a little - protocol demanded that her father be given precedence, signing before her, but... Cesare winked at her, smiling. The simple gesture made her neck break out in an unsightly rash, but Cesare wasn't exactly one to complain, not at present. His own itch nearly drove him crazy.
A chubby child stumbles past him, running after a toy that moves of its own. What do they call them, battery-operated, or something? He watches the child fall, scramble up and look around. Apparently there's no parent around to hover and fret, so there's no stunned wailing, no tears - the runt just picks himself up and chases on again. Smart little bugger.
Idly, Cesare starts plucking petals from a rose and scatters them under the bench.
She had been nothing to write home about, but she had tried. She had been kind and pious, with a nice enough rump to slap.
The King and Queen had been there; high officials of their court, too. His Majesty had the preamble to the contract read out loud, signaling French consent to the match. Naming the price, too. "... duly informed of the great and commendable services which the high and powerful prince don Caesar de Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, has rendered to him and to his crown" - bla bla bla - "hoping the Duke will render them unto him in the future, for the conquest of his kingdom of Naples and his duchy in Milan."
Right. French claims to Italian thrones came cheaper by the dozen, didn't they.
Charlotte pointedly looked out the window then, and Cesare touched the hem of her veil. The meadows of Blois were in bloom. "It's beautiful outside, isn't it," he whispered in Catalan, knowing she'd understand. He continued making gentle overtures during the ceremony, tried to distract her from what was, essentially, an hour of political bargaining. A sale.
And as they were filing out to dine, to discuss details of the wedding itself, to be held two days hence, on the twelfth day of May, he managed to steal a kiss from her. Slipping in his tongue, just to make her blush again.
Looking at the flowers, Cesare notices he has flayed at least half of them. M'ama. Non m'ama. His hands are sweaty. He dries them by rubbing them down the seams of his pants, then gets up and walks away, leaving the stupid bouquet where it is. No idea why he bought it in the first place.