by Jean Plaidy
“We are of Naples,” said Alfonso, “and are the son and daughter-in-law of His Holiness, who is our friend.”
“Alfonso, you fool … you fool!”
“I am weary, Sanchia.”
“Oh, go to your wife,” cried Sanchia. “Go … and revel in your love, for what little time is left to you. Alfonso, be warned. You must take great care when Cesare returns to Italy.”
“He has just got him a wife,” cried Alfonso, his brow wrinkling.
“All husbands are not as devoted as you, brother. Some have ambitions beyond making love.” She caught his arm suddenly. “You are my brother,” she said, “and we stand together, as we always have.”
“Yes, Sanchia, indeed yes.”
“Then … do not be lulled into false security. Keep your ears and eyes open, brother. There is danger near us … danger to our house … and do not forget, although you are Lucrezia’s husband, you are also a Prince of Naples.”
Goffredo, who was now seventeen, was aware of the tension and determined not to be left out. The Pope showed great delight in the marriage of Cesare and the pregnancy of Lucrezia, and it seemed to Goffredo that he had little time to be interested in his younger son. People were often less respectful to him than they had ever dared be to Cesare and the dead Giovanni. Goffredo knew why. It was because many declared he was not the son of the Pope, and Goffredo had an uneasy feeling that Alexander himself was inclined to take the same view.
Goffredo admired the Borgias with an intensity of feeling which he could feel for no one else. He believed that if he were not accepted as one of them, life would have no meaning for him.
He determined therefore to draw attention to the similarity between himself, Cesare and the late Giovanni, and took to roaming the streets after dark in the company of his attendants, entering taverns, seeking out women and causing brawls among the men. This had been a particularly favorite pastime of Giovanni before he had died, and Goffredo longed to hear people say: “Oh, he is going the way of his brothers.”
One night as he and his men were roystering on the Bridge of St. Angelo, the guard called to them to halt.
Goffredo, a little alarmed, but determined to acquit himself like a Borgia, swaggered forward, demanding to know what this low fellow thought he was doing in obstructing the pleasure of a Borgia.
The guard drew his sword and two of his soldiers came quickly to his side. Goffredo would have preferred to retire, but that was something which neither Cesare nor Giovanni would ever have done.
The guard, however, was a brave man; moreover it was well known throughout Rome that the Pope was not so fanatically devoted to Goffredo as he was to the other members of his family. Cesare was in France; Giovanni was dead; and the guards of the City of Rome had decided that they would not allow this youngest member of the family to strike terror into the hearts of good Roman citizens, and he should be taught a lesson.
“I ask you, my lord,” said the man civilly, “to go quietly on your way.”
“And I ask you,” blustered Goffredo, “to mind your manners.”
“I mind my duty,” retorted the guard, “which is to defend the citizens of Rome.”
Thereupon Goffredo had no alternative but to fly at the man in a rage which he hoped matched that so often displayed by Cesare; but the guard was waiting for him. His sword pierced Goffredo’s thigh and the young man fell groaning to the ground.
When Sanchia saw Goffredo carried home she thought he was dying. His wound was bleeding profusely as he lay inert on a hastily constructed bier, his face without color, his eyes closed.
Sanchia demanded to know what had happened, and was told that the guard had attacked her husband because he refused to go quietly on his way.
“Why,” declared one of his men, “had there not been so many of us to surround him and protect him he would doubtless have met the same fate as his brother, the Duke of Gandia, and we should have had to dredge the Tiber for his body.”
Sanchia was incensed. First she called the physicians to attend her husband, and when she was assured that his life would be saved she gave vent to her anger. None would have dared attack Cesare or Giovanni as they had Goffredo. It was a sign that her husband was not accorded the respect due to the Pope’s son.
She determined therefore that the guard who had attacked Goffredo should be severely punished as a warning to all who might think they could ill-treat her husband with impunity.
She sought an early audience with Alexander, and was immediately angered because of his lack of concern in the fate of Goffredo. He did not dismiss his attendants nor did he give her that warm and tender smile which he habitually bestowed on all beautiful women.
“Holiness,” cried Sanchia, “is nothing being done to bring this fellow to justice?”
The Pope looked astonished.
“I refer,” went on Sanchia, “to this soldier who dared attack my husband.”
The Pope looked sad. “I regret that little Goffredo is wounded. It is a sorry matter. But the guard who attacked him was but doing his duty.”
“Duty to strike my husband! To wound him nigh to death!”
“We know full well that Goffredo was acting in an unseemly manner, and that when he was politely asked to go quietly on his way, he refused and in his refusal made ready to attack the guard. To my mind there was only one thing for our man to do. He must defend himself … and the peace of Rome.”
“Do you mean he is to go unpunished?”
“Punishment has already been meted out. Goffredo was the offender; his was the punishment.”
“This is your own son!”
The Pope lifted his shoulders and allowed a doubtful expression to creep across his face, which infuriated Sanchia. That he should deny the paternity of her husband, here before others, was intolerable. She lost control of her feelings.
“He is your bastard!” she cried.
“It is a matter of which there has always been some doubt.”
“Doubt! How can there be doubt? He looks like you. He behaves like you. How like a Borgia to roam the streets in search of women to rape!”
“My dear Sanchia,” said the Pope, “we know you are only part royal, and that only as a bastard; but I pray you do not expose your base blood in unseemly brawling.”
“I will speak the truth,” cried Sanchia. “You may be Pope, but you are the father of countless children. It ill becomes you to deny the rights of any of them; but one as close to you as Goffredo …”
The Pope silenced her. “I ask you to go, Sanchia.”
“I’ll not go!” she cried, although she was aware of the amazement and acute interest, perhaps delight, of all those within earshot. “You did not despise my birth when you married me to Goffredo.”
“You are a fitting bride for Goffredo,” said the Pope. “I am uncertain who his father was. It may be that your mother was not certain who yours was.”
“I am the daughter of a King of Naples.”
“So says your mother. A little divergence from the truth has been known to take place on certain occasions, and from your conduct it might seem that this was one of them.”
Sanchia’s blue eyes blazed. This was an insult to her birth and her beauty. Never before had the Pope been known to show such anger toward a beautiful woman.
He said coldly now: “Will you leave me of your own accord?”
It was a threat and, looking round at the two stalwart men who were coming forward, and having no desire to further her humiliation by being hustled from the Pope’s presence, she bowed coldly and retired.
Feeling calmer in her own apartments she told herself that this was an indication of the acute danger in which her country stood. The Pope must intend to stand firmly with the French. She had been insulted; what fate was there in store for her brother? Even Lucrezia would not be able to save him. Had she saved Pedro Caldes?
Very shortly after her interview with the Pope, Ascanio Sforza came to see her.
News of her encou
nter with the Pope had reached him and he, like Sanchia, was filled with misgivings.
“It is certain,” he said, “that invasion is imminent.”
Sanchia agreed. “What should I do?” she asked.
“For yourself, stay where you are, discover all you can. Remain the friend of Lucrezia, for through her it may be possible to learn what is happening here in Rome. I shall leave as soon as possible for Milan. My brother Ludovico must begin his preparations immediately, and I will be there to help him. As for your brother …”
“Yes,” said Sanchia eagerly. “What of my brother?”
“It is difficult to guess what fate they have in store for him.”
“The Pope is full of affection toward him at this moment.”
“And ready to insult his sister before members of his suite.”
“It may be that I goaded him. I was very angry.”
“No, he would not have treated you as he did if he cared for the goodwill of Naples. Do not trust his friendship for your brother. When the French come Cesare will be with them, and when Cesare is in Rome they will seek to dispose of your brother. Cesare always hated Lucrezia’s husbands, and the fact that Lucrezia is really devoted to this one will not make Cesare hate him less.”
“You think my brother is in immediate danger?”
Ascanio nodded slowly. “He will be when it is known that I have left for Milan. The Pope knows of our meetings; it would be impossible to keep them secret from him. He has his spies everywhere, so he will know that we are on the alert. From the moment I leave Rome, Alfonso’s danger will be increased.”
“Then the wisest thing would be for him to leave at once for Naples?”
“Try to persuade him to leave without delay.”
“It will not be easy. He’ll find it difficult to tear himself from Lucrezia.”
“As you love him,” warned Ascanio, “bid him fly for his life.”
Lucrezia was lying on her bed while her women combed her hair. She was nearly six months pregnant and was easily exhausted.
But she was happy. Three months, she told herself, and our child will be born. She was planning the cradle she would have.
“Is it too soon?” she asked her women. “Why should I not have the pleasure of seeing it beside me when I wake, so that I may say to myself: ‘Only eighty-four days … eighty-three days … eighty-two days.…’ ”
Her women hastily crossed themselves. “It would seem like tempting Providence, Madonna,” said one.
“All will be well this time,” Lucrezia said quickly.
Then she was back on one of those unhappy journeys into the past. She saw herself six months pregnant as now, dressed in the voluminous petticoats which Pantisilea, the little maid who had attended her in her convent, had provided for her, standing before the Cardinals and Envoys and swearing that she was virgo intacta in order that she might be divorced from Giovanni Sforza.
“Perhaps,” she told herself, “I am unlucky. My first child unknown to me, being brought up in the care of some woman in this city! (Holy Mother, make her kind to my little one.) And then that little one who was lost to me before I knew whether it was girl or boy.”
But this was different. This child should be given the greatest care. It was alive within her—lively and strong; and everything indicated that this was a healthy pregnancy.
“My lord is late,” she said. “I had expected him before this.”
“He will be with you before long, Madonna,” she was told.
But she waited and he did not come. She dozed. How tired this healthy little one within her could make her feel; she touched her swollen body lightly and smiled tenderly.
“This time all will be well. It is a boy,” she murmured, “certainly a boy. He shall be called Roderigo after the best and most loving father a woman ever had.”
She heard voices in the ante-room, and sat up to listen. Why was it possible to tell by the tone of voices that something was wrong?
“The Madonna is sleeping. Wait until she wakes.”
“She would want to know at once.”
“No … no. She is happier in ignorance. Let her sleep out her sleep.”
She rose and putting a robe about her went to the ante-room. A group of startled people stared at her.
“Something has happened,” she said. “I pray you tell me quickly.”
No one spoke immediately, and she looked appealingly at them.
“I command you to tell me,” she said.
“Madonna, the Duke of Bisceglie …”
Her hand went to the drapery of her throat, and she clutched it as though for support. The faces of those people seemed to merge into one and recede, as one of her women ran to her and put an arm about her.
“He is well, Madonna. No harm has come to him,” the woman assured her. “It is merely that he has left Rome.”
Lucrezia repeated: “Left Rome!”
“Yes, Madonna, he rode out with a small party a few hours ago; he was seen riding South at full speed.”
“I … I understand,” she said.
She turned and went back into her room. Her women followed.
There was a letter from Alfonso.
It was brought to Lucrezia an hour after she had heard the news of his departure. She seized it eagerly; she knew that he would not willingly have run away from her without a word.
She read it.
He loved her. His life had no meaning without her. But he had been forced to leave her. News had reached him of plots to take his life. He knew that if these plots succeeded they would bring the greatest unhappiness in the world to her, and he was more concerned for the unhappiness his death would inflict on her than for anything else, since if he were dead of what consequence would anything be to him? He was unsafe in Rome, as he had always known he must be, but he had allowed his happiness to blind him to his danger; now that danger was so close that he dared wait no longer. It broke his heart to leave her, but they should not long be separated. He implored her to ride out from Rome, as he had done, and join him in Naples. There they would be safe to pursue their idyll of happiness.
Lucrezia read the letter through several times; she wept over it; and she was still reading it when the Pope was announced.
He would not let her rise; he came to her bedside and taking her in his arms, pressed passionate kisses upon her.
He dismissed her women, and then she saw how angered he was by the flight of Alfonso.
“He is a young fool, a frightened young fool,” stormed Alexander; and Lucrezia was aware then that Alexander had lost some of that magnificent calm which had been his chief weapon in the days of his early triumphs. “Why does he run away from a young and beautiful wife like you?”
“He has not run from me, Father.”
“All will say he has run from you. Giovanni Sforza will be amused, I doubt not, and make sure that the whole world is aware of his amusement. And you to have his child in three months! The young idiot has no sense of the position he holds through marriage into our family.”
“Father, dearest and Most Holy Father, do not judge him harshly.”
“He has hurt you, my child, I would judge any harshly who did that.”
“Father, what do you propose to do?”
“Bring him back. I have already sent soldiers after him. I trust that they will soon restore the foolish boy to us.”
“He is uneasy, Father.”
“Uneasy! What right has he to be uneasy? Has he not been treated as one of us?”
“Father, there is trouble brewing. Cesare’s friendship with the French …”
“My little Lucrezia, you must not bother this golden head with such unsuitable matters. It was meant to delight the eye, not muse on politics. This husband of yours has wandered into a maze of misunderstanding because he thought he understood matters which are beyond his comprehension. It is that sister of his and her friends, I doubt not. I trust they have not contaminated you with their foolish notions.”
“Would these notions be so foolish, Father, if there were war with the French?”
“Have no fear. I would always protect you. And I will bring your husband back to you. This is what you want, is it not?”
Lucrezia nodded. She had begun to cry and although she knew that the Pope hated tears she could not suppress hers.
“Come, dry your eyes,” he begged; and as she moved to obey him, Alfonso’s letter, which had been beneath the bed covering, was exposed and the Pope saw it.
He picked it up. Lucrezia hastily took it from him. Alexander’s expression showed that he was a little hurt, and Lucrezia said quickly: “It is a letter from Alfonso.”
“Written since he went away?”
“He wrote it before he went and sent a messenger back with it. It explains why he has gone and … and …”
The Pope clearly longed to lay hands on the letter, and waited for his daughter to show it to him; but when Lucrezia did not, he was too clever a diplomatist to demand it and perhaps be refused. He did not want any unpleasantness with Lucrezia, and he knew now that her husband considered himself his enemy; therefore Lucrezia would be urged in two directions. The Pope was determined to keep his hold on his daughter and knew that he could best do this by continuing to be her benevolent and understanding father.
“I wonder he did not take you with him,” said Alexander. “He professes to love you dearly, yet he leaves you.”
“It is because of the child I carry. He feared that the journey must be made in such haste that harm might come to me and the child.”
“Yet he decides to leave you!”
“He wants me to join him as soon as possible in Naples.”
The hardening of the Pope’s mouth was not perceptible to Lucrezia. Alexander was determined Lucrezia should never be allowed to leave her father for her husband.
He hesitated for a few seconds, then he said: “He cannot be as anxious for your condition as I am. But perhaps he is young and does not realize that child-bearing can be a hazardous experience. I should not allow you, my dearest, to travel so far until your child is born.”
