by Sarah Dunant
When he wakes next morning Alexander is ready to take on the world. He needs to be: the French King now issues an imperious demand for safe passage through the papal states. The message comes in no less a person than Alexander’s old ally from the conclave, Vice-Chancellor Cardinal Ascanio Sforza.
At least he has the temerity to be sheepish about his treachery. ‘I am sorry it has come to this, Your Holiness. It was never my desire…’ He trails off.
‘Of course not. You know if you have things to confess, Vice-Chancellor, I can always make the time.’ He has dressed to receive him, his bulk in papal velvet and ermine trim, the fisherman’s ring fat on his drumming fingers.
Sforza moves nervously from foot to foot. As rich churchmen go, he is better-looking than many, but the stress of family ambition – and the belligerence of his brother Ludovico in Milan – has put twenty years on his face. Now at least he has a more palpable incentive. If all goes according to plan, when the French take Rome a general council will be formed to depose the Pope and quite possibly set himself on the throne in his place, though everyone knows the real power would lie with della Rovere.
‘If I may speak frankly, Your Holiness. The French will conquer Naples with or without your support. It would be better if you concurred with King Charles’s demands now.’
‘And for whom exactly would it be better? The King? Me? Your brother in Milan? Or for you perhaps?’ Alexander’s broad smile smears the words with honey. ‘Tell me something, Ascanio, how do you like Pinturicchio’s decorations of our papal suite? He has been working so hard of late.’
‘I er… They are… most fine, Your Holiness.’
‘Yes indeed, I think they are. If you look to your left – I give you permission to turn away from me – there, at the wall directly in front of you. What do you see?’
Under the religious imagery, the lower half of the chamber is now made up of frescoed fabrics, playfully gathered as curtains to reveal painted wallpaper or fake shelves beneath: a little painterly mischief in a room of mysteries. And on one such shelf sits a life-size white and gold papal crown, its three dimensions so perfectly rendered that one might almost lift it off and put it on one’s head.
‘Clever, don’t you think? And so convincing. I dare say you feel your hand itching towards it. Obviously the palace I gave you two years ago is no longer big enough to fit your ambition. God’s wounds, Ascanio Sforza, you should be ashamed of yourself.’ Alexander is rising to his feet now, towering over his old ally, the smile replaced by a bellow designed to penetrate closed doors. ‘You are a disgrace to the Church. As an elected cardinal and vice-chancellor your loyalty lies here with the papacy, not in the baggage train of French invaders. I may be seen as a corrupt Spaniard by those who like to spread gossip, but by God I am more an Italian than those who betray her now and I will not see this land trampled by foreign troops. You go and tell that to your new lord.’
Sforza holds his ground as the tempest rages around him. ‘I came in all honesty to try and be of service, and now I have my answer.’
Alexander roars even louder this time and the door bursts open on five guards armed and ready. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll find someone else to send the message by. You are not a fit churchman to be seen in public any more. You can see how a room in Castel Sant’ Angelo compares with the comforts of your palace. If I were you I would pray that someone remembers to rescue you.’
News of Sforza’s humiliation is sweet gossip soon enough. The Pope, everyone agrees, has found his courage for battle again. What a shame, then, that he has no army to fight with. In mid-December, with French soldiers pouring into the papal states, Virginio Orsini, employed as head of the Neapolitan force, and owner of the great castles of Anguilara and Bracciano, which dominate the route into Rome, opens their gates to the enemy without firing a single shot. Surrender is too kind a word for it. It is, by anyone’s standards, betrayal.
CHAPTER 16
She has never lived so near the sea and it amazes her now, how its moods and colours change so much. The thick rope of water she has grown up with, the Tiber, has its own seasonal life, with its bursting spring banks and sluggish summer pull, but it is dull in comparison. Here the surface can shift from silver to cobalt blue to grey and black within a single day, flat as a table or churning foam, depending on the winds. The sound of it greets her every morning as her ladies open the shutters from the second floor of the ducal palace on to the city below, its presence so constant that there are times when she wonders if its moods have not become her own.
They had reached the city amid frantic spring storms. The rain had been so fierce that the celebration planned to greet their arrival had been washed out, the route slippery with ruined garlands of flowers. Still, the people who did come out cheered and cried out her name and she was so grateful to them, and they were all so wet anyway, that by the time they entered the palace and fell off their horses and out of their litters into running streams, there was nothing to do but laugh; laugh and make the best of it that they could. For the first few days the ducal chambers became washrooms, with sodden clothes draped in front of fierce fires, and steam, steam rising everywhere. She had never had such adventure in her life, and because she was the duchess, she found that if she laughed and shrugged off the misfortune, everyone else laughed with her.
With the sun came the leftovers of spring and Pesaro, small but none the less lovely if you were not hungry on the streets, opened its arms to greet its new ruler, who as the favourite of a pope could bring only wealth and favour. The vocabulary and dialect of the Romagna is such that there were moments when she could barely understand a word of what was being said to her, but she bowed her head and smiled, and there was such grace and openness in her face that of course they took her into their hearts.
The palace, which had been asleep for years, stirred into life. There were banquets and plays and concerts, just as Giovanni had imagined, and everyone from the estates and towns around made the journey to see this most unusual entourage: a pope’s daughter and his mistress, the last even more lovely than the first. And so fashionable, both of them. Even the most renowned of the local nobility, women like Caterina Gonzaga with a reputation for stealing hearts and wearing the latest that the dressmakers of Milan and Venice could provide, found herself upstaged by the rainbow colours of their brocades and the daring cut of their cloth, though the contrast between her milk skin and sea-blue eyes and the sultry olive beauty of Giulia Farnese did not go unnoticed. Letters flew between Pesaro and Rome painting pictures of their social triumphs, detailing the wonders and ennui of provincial life. The more they wrote, the more the Pope demanded to hear. Oh, how he misses his favourite ladies, he moans.
Of course, Lucrezia misses her family too: they are first in her prayers and often in her heart, yet as duchess in her own right there are moments when she registers a lightness, happiness even; the happiness of someone who is both loved and sometimes let alone, where the Borgia in her is matched by being Lucrezia, a young woman with feelings and wishes of her own.
In those early days, even Giovanni seemed to blossom. A hunter who had brought back a catch that everyone could be proud of, he started enjoying what he had, rather than always looking over his shoulder for whoever might want to take it away from him. Though they had separate suites in the palace, as befits a duke and duchess, he would, in the beginning, come quite often to her at night and they would make a kind of love; a little hasty and fumbling perhaps, but one which caused her no pain and gave him such evident pleasure that she herself felt at times quite elated by it. And afterwards he would lie with her and call her sweet names, and she would think how comfortable married life might be, though sometimes her mind did slip to wonder about all those other husbands that Cesare had told her were still to come.
This honeymoon, however, does not last long. The ducal postal service is as busy from Milan as it is from Rome, and soon Giovanni is spending days away. When he returns he seems nervous and fretful an
d does not respond to her welcome. She begins to understand that his earlier unease had nothing to do with homesickness but that he is, by humour, an anxious man, not comfortable in his own skin. Now, even when they are in bed, he seems to have his mind on other things. Either that or there is some obstruction in his stomach, for he often complains of pains. When she asks sweetly (she hopes) what troubles him, he says that being Duke of Pesaro at such a time is not a small thing, and she nods consolingly, though privately she can’t help thinking how her father rules the whole of Christendom and yet always has time to joke and smile.
She would like to talk to someone about it. Perhaps their love-making has something missing, something that might soothe and satisfy him more. But Giulia by now is absorbed in her own worries, distraught with news of her brother’s illness and frantic to get away. Adriana is equally preoccupied because she will have to go with her, and anyway, her advice has already been given. ‘It is not so hard, this joining of the flesh. What is strange or distasteful soon becomes familiar.’
Perhaps nothing is wrong, she thinks. Perhaps this is just how married life must be.
After the women leave for Capodimonte the mood in the palace changes. With less excuse for banquets and the novelty of endless introductions, the pace of life slows, the days grow longer. The citizens of Pesaro go about their lives, oblivious of their new duchess behind the palace walls. It was ever thus. She grows lonely. She had hoped to find a new life here. Yes, there is a court of sorts: a few noble families still eager for invitations, but with little to offer back. She reads her books and brings in the small band of musicians to play music for them in the evenings. But often Giovanni does not stay to hear them, excusing himself with matters of state. She has heard of other cities – Mantua, Ferrara, Urbino, even wild Naples – where men and women gather to read poetry and talk of the new learning and the role of chivalry, late into the night. Where they write sonnets to the sensibilities of their duchess, praising her humour and virtues to the world. Oh, she would dearly like to run a court like that. To be, in effect, the muse of such men.
‘Are there poets here in Pesaro?’ she asks him one evening.
‘Poets? Not that I know of.’
‘Couldn’t we find some perhaps?’
She wanders round the rooms, looking at the tapestries and the gold plate that is on show. It is a sad little palace really, compared to Rome. There are decorations and a few fading frescos, but they seem lifeless in comparison to the mischief and majesty of Pinturicchio’s brush. Now she has her own home she would like to buy things for it: statues or commissioned paintings, perhaps. There are others who do so. She has heard talk of the eye and the purse of Isabella d’Este, born in Ferrara but married into Mantua, young still, maybe only half a dozen years older than Lucrezia herself. Her palace is said to be a showcase for old wonders and new art. She saw a portrait of her once – most lovely, though she knows from watching her family grow under Pinturicchio’s fingers that, while the men need recognisable likenesses to spread their fame, the women must be flattered before they are allowed to be themselves.
Perhaps if the world around was not moving so fast… As it is she spends much of the summer defending herself against her father’s anger over Giulia’s desertion. She charms herself back into his affections, but soon there is further anxiety as the letters speak of growing fear of invasion. Both Cesare and her father want them to return to Rome before things get worse. But Giovanni is busy too. He makes trips to Milan and when he is at home messengers come at strange times of the day and night. Then, from Rome urgent news comes that he is to be given a post in the army of Naples and his presence will be needed so they must be ready to leave at any time. ‘The state of Milan will be reluctant to give him his money since we are allied to King Alfonso, and Giovanni has no choice but to follow our will,’ her father writes to her. His tone is so clear she can almost hear his voice in the background.
‘We should leave now,’ she says after she has read it.
‘How can we leave when there is a threat of invasion? What will happen to Pesaro if it falls to the French and I am seen to have deserted it? We will go when I have made things safe here.’
She, who as yet knows only what she is told about politics, appreciates his anxiety. As duchess she too must worry about her people. Or at least she tries to.
A few weeks later he leaves again, saying he is meeting with the papal forces gathering in the Romagna. She waits anxiously to hear more. When he arrives back he seems smaller than before. His stomach pains are openly worse. She knows he must be torn between his two families. How could he not? She would like to help him, be a good wife to his agitated self, but increasingly it is not easy to get close to him. Once she wakes in the night and thinks she can hear him moving somewhere in the room. She lights the lamp, but the bedroom is empty. It is late summer now, but still baking hot despite the windows open towards the sea. She soothes her servant back to sleep and goes in search of him. She has an image of wiping his brow, bringing him back to bed and opening her robe so that he might bury his face between her breasts. The image is so strong she wonders if she has ever seen it – maybe a memory stirring from childhood, for the body she imagines under the robe is riper than her own. It both upsets and excites her.
She arrives outside his room to a line of flickering candlelight under the door and pushes it open quietly. He is hunched over his desk, the urgent scratching of a pen on paper, covered pages all around him. When she calls out his name softly, he jumps as if she had shot him with an arquebus, yelling at her for daring to disturb him, then moves his arms over the papers as if to hide them from her.
‘I did not mean to disturb you, my lord.’ She is so taken aback that she fears she might cry, but makes an attempt to stand her ground. ‘It is only that it is very late and I was hoping you might come to my bed tonight.’
‘Come to your bed?’ he says, as if this was the most deranged suggestion he has ever heard. ‘But I am busy. Can’t you see?’
‘Yes, yes, I see, but…’ And then to her fury the tears come anyway. Because she is fifteen years old and she knows that her marriage is not a success and has spent too long trying to pretend otherwise. He watches her in a kind of horror, then shakes himself and comes over to her, putting his arms awkwardly around her shoulders and pulling her to him.
‘I am sorry, Lucrezia. I did not mean to shout. Times are difficult. It is not your fault.’
‘Whatever is troubling you, you can tell me,’ she says, trying to stem her tears. ‘I am your wife.’
‘Yes. You are my wife.’ And he laughs bitterly. ‘My lovely, lovely Borgia wife.’
‘Is it my family?’ she says, drawing away for a moment. ‘Is there something you have heard that you fear to tell me?’ And she glances at the table with its hastily written correspondence.
‘No, no. It is just politics. Affairs of state, nothing to worry yourself about.’
‘You are worried about your family then? That is it. It must be hard to—’
‘Lucrezia, this is none of your business.’ He drops his arms and he does not look at her. ‘I said it is nothing. I am just busy. Go back to bed.’
But whatever she doesn’t know, she knows it is not nothing.
After this, he avoids her even more. If you are betraying your wife’s family, it is best that you do not pretend love. His bowels become his conscience. He can barely sit through a meal with her and takes to eating alone so he can leave the table when his stomach calls.
The messengers come and go. The French have crossed the Alps. Even the servants now talk of their unstoppable advance.
‘My cousin Ludovico is Duke of Milan now,’ he says one night.
‘Oh. What happened to his nephew?’ she asks timidly.
‘He died,’ he says bluntly.
‘And his wife?’
‘I dare say she will enter a convent or be sent home to Naples. Beatrice d’Este is now Duchess. Ha! She and her sister Isabella are queens of b
oth Mantua and Milan,’ he says bitterly. But then, bitterness is increasingly the taste of him now.
Two clever sisters with two great men as husbands. Ah, how she wishes she had a sister whose advice she might call on.
She lives with growing anxiety. The servants whisper about the possibility of the army moving into Romagna on their way south, for the terrain, it seems, would be easier on their feet. That is why there is an allied force of papal troops and Neapolitans waiting for them. But then to everyone’s surprise they choose another route, across the Apennines and down towards Florence. It is almost as if they know where the enemy will not be.
She waits each morning for news. It is winter now and letters take longer in the mud and the rain. The sea is white froth or death-grey by turns, coloured by stormclouds and chaffing waves. There are still no poets in Pesaro and two of the musicians have developed illnesses inside their chests which mean they cannot find the breath for their reeds. The palace becomes silent and cold. She thinks constantly of Rome; of what might be happening there, how there may not even be a family to go back to.
When at last the news comes he cannot hide it from her. After almost two weeks of silence it is clear there have been reasons why nothing is getting through. He breaks his isolation to come into her bedchamber that morning.
‘Lucrezia.’
Within seconds she is sitting up, the covers grabbed tight under her fingers.
