All language subtitles for The.Borgias.S01E06.SD.DVD-reward.en

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! Ha-ha!
- 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 Borgias 1x06 ♪
The French King
Original Air Date on May 1, 2011

== sync, corrected by elderman ==

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...

- 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
his every good wish.

And in the face of all of 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.
- Oh, 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.

Uh, uh...

- 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.

It's 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...
- Ah!

- How she can be ridden.
- Oh, she can.

She can.

You find the art of politics
more engrossing than...

Than-
Than the art of love?

Did I say that?

They have more in common
than you might think.

I would doubt that.

Let us take...

your most elegant leg.

A 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.

Hmm?

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.

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?

Ha!

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? Hmm...

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?

And 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?

Heh!

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 made
your reappearance.

Juan.

Is the house my father
bought you not to your liking?

Too cold?

Too lonely, perhaps?

Um, 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?

- No!
- JUAN, PLEASE!

He must have heard the rumours
that one of us was fathered

by this goatherd.

- Juan, stop!
- We are the sons of the pope!

And you entertain a 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,

3 weeks dead

with stab wounds
to his neck.

For those 3 weeks

I gave my body to you.

I broke my marriage vows.

I thought...

perhaps I hoped
you did so willingly.

You bought those
3 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-

If that is what he is, 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 these 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.

Then 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.

Papa.

Ah...

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, Duchessa 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.

== sync, corrected by elderman ==