by Jean Plaidy
“Oh … but a bastard,” murmured Cesare.
“And you … my fine lord … what are you, pray?”
“Soon to be the ruler of Italy.”
Her eyes flashed. It would be so. She was sure of it, and she was proud of him. If any could unite Italy and rule it, that man was Cesare Borgia. She would be beside him when he reigned supreme. Cesare Borgia would need a queen, and she was to be that queen. She was exultant and intensely happy, for there was one man to whom she longed to be married, and that was this man, Cesare Borgia. And it would be so. As soon as she was divorced their marriage would take place, and the whole of Italy would soon have to recognize her as its Queen.
He was looking at her now, and she held out her arms. He embraced her, but even as she put her arms about his neck she sensed his absentmindedness.
She withdrew herself and said: “But I demand that you pay my brother the respect due to him.”
“That have I done. He merits little.”
She brought up her hand and slapped his face. He took her by the wrist and a smile of pleasure crossed his face as he twisted her arm until she squealed with the pain.
“Stop,” she cried. “Cesare, I implore you. You will break my bones.”
“ ’Twill teach you not to behave like a beggar on the Corso.”
Freed, she looked angrily at the marks on her wrist.
“I ask you,” she said sullenly, “to call on my brother, to welcome him to Rome.”
Cesare shrugged aside her request.
“If,” she went on, “he is to be your brother in very truth …”
“I never looked on Lucrezia’s first husband as my brother. Nor shall I on her second.”
“Jealous!” snapped Sanchia. “Insanely jealous of your sister’s lovers. It is small wonder that there is scandal concerning your family throughout Italy.”
“Ah,” he said, smiling slowly, “we are a scandalous family. I fancy, my dear Sanchia, that scandal has not grown less since you joined us.”
“I insist that you welcome my brother.”
“It is enough that my father sent for him and that he is here.”
“But Cesare, you must do him some small honor. You must show the people that you do so—if not because he is to be Lucrezia’s husband, then because he is my brother.”
“I do not understand,” said Cesare with cruel blankness.
“But if I am divorced … if I am free of Goffredo and we are married …”
Cesare laughed. “My dear Sanchia,” he said, “I am not going to marry you.”
“But … there is to be a divorce.”
“His Holiness is not eager for another divorce in the family. The Church deplores divorce, as you know. Nay, you shall stay married to your little Goffredo. Of what can you complain in him? Is he not a kind and complaisant husband? As for myself, when I am free of these garments, I shall seek me a wife elsewhere.”
Sanchia could not speak; it seemed to her that her fury was choking her.
“Moreover,” went on Cesare, savoring her efforts to keep that fury under control, “when I acquire my titles—and I can assure you they will be mighty titles—I must look farther than an illegitimate Princess, Sanchia. You will readily understand that.”
Still she could not speak. Her face was white, and he noticed her long slender fingers plucking at the skirt of her dress. He could still feel the sting of those fingers on his cheek; he could still see the mark of his on her wrist. Their relationship had always been a fiery one; they had inflicted their passion on one another, and many of their most satisfactory encounters had begun with a fight.
“My bride,” went on Cesare, flaying those wounds he had laid open with the whip of humiliation likely to cause most pain, “will doubtless be a near relative of yours: the daughter of your uncle, the King of Naples, his legitimate daughter, the Princess Carlotta.”
“My cousin Carlotta!” cried Sanchia. “You deceive yourself, Cardinal Borgia! Bastard Borgia! Do you think my uncle the King would allow you to marry his daughter?”
“His Holiness and I have very good reason to believe that he is eager for the match.”
“It is a lie.”
Cesare lifted his shoulders lightly. “You will see,” he said.
“See! I shall not see. It will never come to pass. Do you think you will have Carlotta? My uncle will want a prize for her.”
“It might be,” Cesare retorted, “that he will be wise enough to see in me what he seeks for her.”
In the ante-room her women, hearing Sanchia’s wild laughter, trembled. There was something different about this encounter. This was surely not one of those violent quarrels which ended in that fierce lovemaking which set their mistress purring like a contented cat while they combed her hair and she told them of Cesare’s virility.
“I can tell you,” screamed Sanchia, “that you will never have Carlotta.”
“I beg of you, do not scream. You will have your women thinking I am murdering you.”
“They could easily suspect it. What is one more murder in your life? Murderer! Liar! Bastard! Cardinal!”
He stood by the couch, laughing at her.
She sprang up and would have scratched his face, but he was ready for her; he had her by the wrist, and she spat at him.
“Is it the time for you to think of marriage?” she cried. “By the marks on your face I should think not.”
He shook her. “You should control your temper, Sanchia,” he warned her.
“Are you so calm, Cesare,” she demanded.
“Yes, for once I am.”
“Do not think you may come here and treat me as your mistress while you make these plans for Carlotta.”
“I had not thought of it,” he said. “You weary me, Sanchia. With your ambitions you weary me.”
“Get out of here,” she cried.
And to her astonishment he threw her back on to her couch and left her.
She stared after him. She was bitterly wounded for he had hurt her where she was most vulnerable.
Her women came in and found her weeping quietly. They had never seen her quiet; they had never before seen her so unhappy.
They coaxed her, combed her hair, smoothed unguents into her hot forehead, told her she must not cry so and spoil her beautiful eyes.
And at length she ceased to cry and, springing up, swore revenge on Cesare Borgia, swore that she would use all her powers to prevent his marriage with her cousin. She would make a wax image of Cesare; she would stick red-hot pins into its heart. Evil should come to him because he had wounded her deeply and had exulted in the wounding.
“By all the saints!” she cried. “I will be revenged on you, Cesare Borgia.”
This was Lucrezia’s wedding day—her second wedding day.
That other, which had taken place five years before when she was thirteen, seemed now like some haunting scene from a nightmare—horrible and unreal. She did not want to think of it. Then she had been too young to consummate the marriage, and the man beside her had been grim and unattractive, a widower who had seemed quite unimpressed by her beauty.
She wanted to be happy. She realized now how like her father she was. She knew how bitterly he had suffered when Giovanni, his best-loved son, had been murdered. Thus had she felt when the news had been brought to her that Pedro Caldes’ body had been taken from the Tiber. Then she had cried to the saints: “Out of your goodness, let me die.” Alexander must have uttered similar words.
He had recovered quickly. He had turned from memories of the dead to delight in the living. He was wise; she believed him to be the wisest man on Earth; his conduct in crises had always been an example. Now she understood more than she ever had before that she needed to follow his example.
She wanted to love her bridegroom. Was it very difficult? He was young and handsome and, although they had first met but three days ago, he was already becoming ardent. He had had fears of what he would find; those fears were dispersed. Thus should her mise
ry disappear. In the arms of Alfonso, her legitimate lover, she would forget that passion for Pedro Caldes which had been doomed from its beginning.
How glad she was that he had come unceremoniously to Rome, thus enabling them to make each other’s acquaintance before the wedding day. She was delighted when Alfonso had whispered to her: “You are so different from the wife I expected to find waiting for me.”
“You are pleased with what you find?” she had asked, and he had answered: “I am bemused with delight.”
She believed that he spoke with the sincerity of youth rather than with the flattery of a courtier.
Lucrezia was right. Alfonso was happy; he was thinking only of her. He knew that Cesare hated him because he was to be Lucrezia’s husband, and he did not seem to care. The Papal guards made bets on how long it would be before the Pope decided that his new son-in-law was useless to his aims, and how long after that Alfonso would cease to exist; for a second divorce would provide something of a scandal, and indeed might be difficult even for the wily Alexander to procure. Still, Alfonso did not care. He was to marry Lucrezia, and that was all he had time to think about.
Her women were dressing Lucrezia in a gold-colored gown which was heavy with pearls comprising the mingling arms of Borgia and Aragon. About her neck were priceless rubies, and the lustrous emerald which adorned her forehead gave some of its color to her pale eyes. She looked very little older than she had on the day she married Giovanni Sforza.
She was conducted with her attendants to the Pope’s private apartments in the Vatican, to that room, which she knew so well, with the Pinturicchio murals and the ceiling on which was carved the gilded bull and the papal crown.
Here Alfonso was waiting for her and, as she looked at him in his magnificent wedding garments, there was no doubt in her mind that he was the most handsome man in Italy.
The Pope smiled benignly at the young couple, and he was amused because of what he saw in their eyes.
They knelt before the Papal throne and the wedding ceremony took place and, in accordance with the ancient custom, a naked sword was held over the heads of the bride and groom. This duty fell to a Spanish captain, Juan Cervillon, and as he stood very still, his sword held high above this beautiful pair, many eyes were turned to that gleaming blade, and the question was in many minds: How long before it will descend on our little bridegroom?
The ceremony was over, and it was time for the feasting and celebration. Lucrezia walked by her husband’s side and even her dress, stiff with embroidery and pearls and heavy with jewels, could not impair her grace. Dainty and elegant, as she was, she seemed aloof from the coarse jests, which were encouraged by the Pope. Her bridegroom was enchanted with her and he and she seemed apart from the company. All noticed their absorption in each other, and the Pope pointed it out to all who came near him.
“What a delightful pair!” he cried. “Did you ever see a more beautiful bride and groom? And I declare that they are so eager for each other that they are wishing the feasting and dancing over. The marriage will be consummated before long, I have no doubt.”
And as they came into the apartment where the banquet was in readiness, one of Sanchia’s suite, who had heard that his mistress had been bitterly humiliated by Cesare and was determined to show his loyalty, stuck out his foot while one of Cesare’s suite was passing and the man went sprawling on the floor. This caused much amusement among Sanchia’s suite and several leaped on to the fallen man and began belaboring him. Hot-blooded Spaniards, servants of Cesare, were not prepared to see one of their number so treated; they pushed into the fray and soon there was pandemonium throughout the apartment.
Cardinals and Bishops sought to make peace, calling on the protagonists to desist for fear of the Pope’s displeasure; but there was too much noise for them to be heard, and hot-tempered Spaniards and Neapolitans continued to fight.
One Bishop was felled to the ground; another was bleeding at the nose; and Alexander, who could not help laughing inwardly at the sight of his Bishops without their dignity, delayed for a few seconds before, in an authoritative voice, he put an end to the skirmish by threatening terrible punishment to all concerned in it unless they desisted at once.
There was quiet and those who a moment before had been defending and attacking with vigor crept back to their places while Alexander led the bride and the bridegroom to the banqueting table.
But the fight was an omen. There were several present who knew what it indicated. The rumors of a possible marriage between Cesare and Sanchia had been well circulated. It would seem that Sanchia’s supporters had a score to settle with those of Cesare. Could this mean that Cesare, when he obtained his release from the Church would look elsewhere for a bride?
Sanchia’s angry looks supported this theory; as did Cesare’s sly contented ones.
Now the Pope called for music and entertainment behaving as though nothing unusual had happened.
There followed the songs, the dancing and the theatrical performances. During these Cesare appeared dressed as a unicorn, and such was his beauty and dignity that the Pope’s eyes glistened with pride and even Lucrezia turned from her bridegroom for a moment and had eyes for none but her brother.
As Lucrezia danced with her bridegroom, there was an ecstatic air about them both, and not since they had told her of Pedro’s death had she known such pleasure.
Alfonso said as they danced together: “This is the happiest night of my life.”
“I am glad,” Lucrezia told him. “We shall be happy together, you and I, Alfonso.”
“Whatever happens to us we shall have our happiness to look back on,” he said, sober suddenly.
“We shall see that it is always with us,” she told him. “There shall be no looking back … only forward, Alfonso.” She smiled at him tenderly. “You were afraid when you heard you were to marry me, were you not?”
“I had heard tales,” he confessed.
“Evil tales of me. There are always evil tales of my family. You must not believe them.”
He looked into her clear light eyes. He thought: Does she not know? She cannot. And how could she understand … she who is so young and innocent?
“Alfonso,” she continued, “I want you to know that I have been unhappy, so unhappy that I never thought to laugh again. You have heard me laugh, Alfonso, this day. It is the first time for many months, and it is because you have come.”
“You make me so happy.”
“You must make me happy, Alfonso. Please make me happy.”
“I love you, Lucrezia. Is it possible that in three short days one can love so deeply?”
“I hope so. For I think I am beginning to love you too, and I want to be loved … deeply I want to be loved.”
“We will love each other then, Lucrezia … all the days of our lives.”
He took her hand and kissed it; and it was as though they had made a vow as solemn as that which they had taken before the Papal throne.
The Pope, watching them, chuckled and remarked to one of his Cardinals: “It is a shame to keep them from the nuptial bed. Did you ever see two lovers more eager?”
II
DUCHESS OF BISCEGLIE
Those Cardinals who had assembled for the Consistory were uneasy. They were wishing that they had followed the examples of their fellows and pleaded some excuse which would keep them from Rome at such a time.
The Pope, from his Papal throne, had greeted them with his accustomed benevolence, but those who knew Alexander well were aware of the determination beneath the benignity. Once again they would be presented with one of those outrageous demands such as Alexander made from time to time for the sake of his family; they would be faced with the knowledge that they were in honor bound to oppose the Borgia wish, and they knew that they would lack the courage to do so.
They remembered with chagrin the recent divorce when so many of them had been deceived by the innocent looks of Lucrezia Borgia. They were fully aware that the Pope and his family
were going to score another triumph over them.
Alexander watched Cesare as he took his stand before the assembly, and did his best to subdue the pride within him. Cesare was right. He was the man made to rule Italy, and he could best achieve his ambitions in freedom from the Church.
In his slender fingers Cesare held the scroll on which Alexander and he had spent so much time, while he begged his fellow Cardinals to give him their attention.
Cesare’s voice was gentle. Alexander had warned him to be humble and, astonishingly, Cesare was obeying his father in this respect. Alexander was a man who must have his way but who always sought to have it peaceably if possible. There he differed from Cesare who was so impatient to achieve his desires that he often did not care how he did so.
“It was not of my own free will that I entered the Church,” he was saying now. “I have never had a vocation.”
Aware that many eyes were turned upon him, Alexander let his head fall on to his chest in an attitude of dejection as though what his son was saying caused him the utmost pain. In spite of his display of surprise and anguish, all knew of course that it was Alexander’s wish that Cesare should be released, and that he had composed the very words which Cesare was now uttering. They also knew that those Cardinals who refused to act in accordance with his wishes should beware of reprisals.
“My conscience demands that I lay these facts before you,” went on Cesare, “for I see no other course than to appeal to your mercy and goodness, and I trust that in your compassion you will see fit to release me from my vows.”
There was silence. The Cardinals had once more turned their gaze upon the Holy Father, who had now lifted his face so that all could see the concern thereon.
Cesare appealed to the Pope. “Were I free,” he cried, in loud and confident tones, “my life should be dedicated to my country. I would visit the French—from whom we all stand in great danger—and I would give my life to save our country from invasion, and bring peace to the land.”
Alexander spoke then. “That which is asked by the Cardinal Cesare Borgia of Valencia is a grave matter. It demands deep thought and deliberation from this assembly, so that a reply cannot at once be given.”
