by Jean Plaidy
Where was Alfonso now? wondered Ercole. Doubtless in his foundry, testing his cannons. Perhaps one day they would be useful in war. Who could say? Perhaps he should go to Alfonso and tell him of this monstrous suggestion. But what would be the use? Alfonso would grunt, shrug his shoulders, and be quite prepared to spend half the night with the girl and doubtless soon get her with child, as he did half a dozen mistresses.
Duke Ercole decided he would not be able to discuss the matter with Alfonso.
His children, he was beginning to realize, were becoming unmanageable. Was that a discovery which must be made by all old men? Ippolito, elegant and handsome, was chafing against his Cardinal’s robes. Ferrante, his third son, was wild, and he could never be sure what mad adventure he would undertake. Sigismondo was quiet, seemed to lack the ambition of his brothers and was clearly the one who should have worn the Cardinal’s robes. Then there was Giulio of the wonderful dark eyes, his natural son—gay and handsome—a prime favorite with women. Ercole sighed. He had done his best to procure a high position in the Church for Giulio, but Giulio was not eager and had early in his life discovered a method of getting his own way.
There was also a daughter—Isabella—who had married Francesco Gonzaga and was now Marchesa of Mantua. Isabella should have been a man. Ercole would have enjoyed having her with him now to discuss this proposed marriage. Doubtless she had heard of it in her castle, on the Mincio; and how furious she would be. He pictured her with pride … there in her castle which contained some of the best sculpture in Italy together with paintings, books, and any object which had claim to beauty. Isabella was what Ercole had wished all his children to be—intellectual. She should have been a man of course. Still, she ruled Mantua, it was said, as any man might, governing her husband and their subjects; and she was referred to as “the first woman of her age.” Isabella called attention to herself all the time. She made it known that her court was a refuge for artists; she must be unique; even her clothes were different from those worn by others, being designed by herself and made in the finest and most brilliantly patterned cloth. These clothes were copied, but by that time Isabella had discarded them.
Yes indeed, Ercole wished that Isabella was in Ferrara to give her opinion of the proposed marriage.
But she was not; so he must perforce go to the foundry to discuss it with Alfonso.
He made his way there. Alfonso was not in the building; he was lying out in the shade, eating a hunk of bread and an onion. His workmen lay beside him, and as he approached Ercole shivered with disgust, for it was impossible to tell which of those men was the heir of Ferrara and which his workmen. Alfonso was laughing heartily, possibly at some crude joke, and was fully at ease. But then he was always at ease. He did not care if the courtiers considered his manners crude; they were as Alfonso wished them to be and he made no apology for them. He would not even think of them. But at the same time he was clearly happier with the common people.
At the approach of the old Duke the workmen scrambled to their feet, and stood shambling and shuffling, not knowing how to act.
“Why, ’tis my father,” cried Alfonso. “Have you come to see the cannon fired, Father?”
“No,” said the Duke. “I have come to talk to you.” He waved a white and imperious hand at the workmen, who glanced sheepishly at Alfonso and, on receiving a nod from him, moved off.
“Come Father, sit here in the shade,” said Alfonso, patting the ground beside him.
The Duke hesitated, but he was hot and tired; and there was something endearing about this great bear of a man who was his eldest son, little as they had in common.
He looked about him for a moment and then sat down on the grass.
Alfonso turned his face toward him and as Ercole shrank from the strong odor of onion, he noticed that Alfonso’s hands were grimy, and there was a rim of thick dirt under his nails.
“If ever an enemy came to Ferrara,” he said, “I’d blast him out with my cannon.”
“I trust it would be effective,” said the Duke, flicking at a fly which had alighted on his brocade sleeve. “I have heard from the Pope. He hints that a marriage between you and his daughter would be desirable.”
Alfonso went on chewing onion, quite unperturbed. His mind was on his cannon.
How insensitive! thought the Duke. What would a bride think of him? What had his first wife thought of him? Poor Anna Sforza! But perhaps he should not have said Poor Anna. Anna had known how to take care of herself. She had not been to Alfonso’s taste. Not a feminine woman, but big and handsome. She had not had a chance against the greasy sluts of serving-girls who had claimed Alfonso’s attention. Had she turned shuddering from those grimy hands, from that onion-tainted breath, from a husband who was full of animal desire and completely without the niceties of refined living? Alfonso never wasted his time wooing; he saw a girl, seduced her and, if the experience pleased him, repeated the performance. Otherwise the affair was forgotten. Alfonso was a hearty, virile man.
Anna Sforza had not really been disturbed. She had her own tastes and, although as wife to the heir of Ferrara, she had been ready to bear him children, she was clearly glad when Alfonso spent his nights with a humble mistress and left her to dally with that pretty Negress whom she adored.
But Anna oddly enough, in an attempt to do her duty, had met her death. She had died in childbed. Not the first nor the last woman to do so; yet in Anna’s case it seemed doubly tragic.
“Well, Alfonso, what have you to say?”
“There has to be a marriage,” murmured Alfonso absently.
“But with the Borgias!”
Alfonso shrugged.
“And she a bastard!” went on Ercole.
“You’ll doubtless get a good dowry with her, Father,” said Alfonso with a grin. “That should please you.”
“Not for the biggest dowry in the world would I wish to see the house of Ferrara joined with that of the Borgias. Yet, if we refuse, we’ll have the Papacy against us. You realize what that will mean in these days of unrest.”
Alfonso’s eyes were shining. “We’ll use the cannon on any who come this way.”
“Cannon!” cried Ercole. “Of what use are your cannon against the Pope’s armies? And yet … and yet …”
“You’d be surprised if you saw them in action, Father.”
“The Pope’s armies …”
“No, no! My cannon. In days to come the cannon I shall make will have first place on the battlefield.”
“It is of this marriage that I wish to talk. Oh Alfonso, have you no sense of the fitness of things?”
It was the old cry. Some years ago this son of his had been wagered that he would not walk through the streets of Ferrara naked, with a sword in his hand. He had accepted the wager and done this thing. He had not understood that the people who had watched his progress would never forget what the heir of Ferrara had done.
Oh, why was not Ippolito the eldest son? But Ippolito might have made trouble. Or Ferrante? Ferrante was reckless. Sigismondo? One did not want a priest to rule a dukedom. Giulio was a bastard and Giulio had been spoilt because of his beauty. But what was the use of railing against these sons of his? Alfonso was the eldest and for all his crudeness he was at least a man.
“Well, you do not seem in the least perturbed,” said the Duke.
“There’ll be compensations, I doubt not,” murmured Alfonso. His thoughts were back in the foundry; at this time of day—unless some luscious girl crossed his path—cannons were so much more interesting than women.
“Oh, there might be compensations,” agreed the Duke, rising, “but none would be great enough for me to welcome union with that notorious family.”
He rose and walked away and, as he did so, he heard Alfonso, whistling—in the coarsest possible manner—to his men.
It was carnival time in Urbino, and Guidobaldo di Montefeltre, the Duke found himself forced to entertain Cesare Borgia while he was waiting for the surrender of the town of Faenza.<
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The Duke was not pleased, but he dared do nothing else. Cesare, who had now assumed the title of Duke of Romagna, was an enemy to be feared, as none was entirely sure in which direction his armies would turn next.
So to the castle came the newly made Duke of Romagna, and it was necessary for the Duke and his proud wife, Elizabetta Gonzaga (who was sister to Francesco Gonzaga, husband of Isabella d’Este) to receive Cesare with all honor.
Elizabetta hated the Borgias; she had a score to settle with them. Her husband had been prematurely struck down with gout and found walking difficult and he who had once been a great soldier was now a victim of periodic immobility. But the Duke was of a kindly nature and ready to forget the past. Elizabetta, proud, haughty, looking on herself as an aristocrat, resented the Borgias and the treatment her husband had received at their hands, for it was Guidobaldo who had been with Giovanni Borgia when war had been waged against the Orsinis at Bracciano; and forced to obey the unwarlike commands of Giovanni Borgia, Guidobaldo had been wounded and taken prisoner. It was during the months in a French prison that he had contracted his gout and his health had been impaired forever; during that time the Borgia Pope had made no effort to have him released, and it was his own family who had been hard pressed to find the necessary ransom.
Such matters rankled with a proud woman like Elizabetta; only one as gentle as Guidobaldo could forget.
Now they were forced to entertain Cesare, and, as in the ball-room, Cesare was looking about him for the most attractive of the women. Elizabetta watched him, her lips tight. She deplored the necessity to entertain one whose reputation was so evil.
Elizabetta, dressed in black velvet which she considered decorous, insisted that all her ladies wear the same, and Cesare, accustomed to the splendor of the Roman ladies felt his spirits flag.
He was wishing that he had not come to Urbino. The gouty old Duke and his prim wife were not companions such as he would have chosen, but he did enjoy a certain amount of fun by watching their apprehension.
“Yours is an attractive domain,” he told them, and he let them see the glitter in his eyes.
They did not want trouble with the Pope, this Duke and Duchess; and they knew that the might of the Pope was behind his son.
Let them tremble in their shoes. If they could not give Cesare the entertainment he desired, at least let him enjoy what he could.
But Cesare suddenly discovered among the assembly a beautiful girl, and he immediately demanded of Elizabetta who she was.
Elizabetta smiled triumphantly. “She is a virtuous girl—Dorotea da Crema. She is staying here for a while but is on her way to join her future husband.”
“She is enchanting to the eye,” said Cesare. “I should like to speak with her.”
“It might be arranged,” said Elizabetta. “I will call her and her duenna.”
“Is the duenna the plump lady in black? Then I pray you do not call her.”
“My lord, even for you we cannot dispense with custom.”
“Then,” said Cesare lightly, “to enjoy the company of the beauty I must perforce put up with the dragon.”
Dorotea was charming.
Cesare asked if he might lead her in the dance.
“I fear not, my lord,” said the duenna. “My lady is on her way to join her future husband and, until she is married, she is not allowed to dance alone with any man.”
“Alone … here in this ball-room!”
The duenna pursed her lips and held her head on one side with the air of one who has come up against an insurmountable obstacle. Cesare’s anger flared up, but he hid it. The limpid eyes of the girl were on him for a second, before she lowered them.
“It is a senseless custom,” said Cesare furiously.
No one answered.
He turned to the girl then. “When do you leave here?”
“At the end of the week,” she answered.
She was very innocent, afraid of him, and yet a little attracted. Perhaps she had heard of his reputation; perhaps he seemed to her like the devil himself. Well, even the most innocent of virgins must be a little excited to be pursued by the devil.
“I leave tomorrow,” he told her. “And that is as well.”
“Why so?” she asked.
“Because, since I am not allowed to dance with you, it is better that we should not meet. I find the desire to dance with you overwhelming.”
She looked eagerly at her duenna, but that lady was not glancing her way.
“What a bore is etiquette!” murmured Cesare. “Tell me, who is the most fortunate man in the world?”
“They say that you are, my lord. They talk of your conquests and say that every town you approach falls into your hands.”
“It’s true, you know. But I was referring to the man you are to marry. Remember that I am not allowed to dance with you; so I am not as fortunate as you had thought me.”
“That is a small matter,” she answered, “compared with the conquest of a kingdom.”
“That which we desire intensely is never small. What is the name of your husband?”
“Gian Battista Carracciolo.”
“Oh happy Gian Battista!”
“He is a Captain in the Venetian army.”
“I would I were in his shoes.”
“You … jest. How could that be so—you who are Duke of Romagna?”
“There are some titles which we would give up in exchange for … others.”
“Titles, my lord? For what further title could you wish?”
“To be the lover of the fair Dorotea.”
She laughed. “This is idle talk, and it does not please my duenna.”
“Must we please her?”
“Indeed we must.”
Elizabetta watched with satisfaction. She said to the duenna: “It is time your charge retired. We must not have her fatigued while she is with us. A long journey lies before her and travel can be so exhausting. Remember you are in my charge and I must consider your comfort.”
The duenna bowed and Dorotea took her leave of Elizabetta. Her eyes lingered for a second on the figure of the Duke of Romagna. She shivered faintly, and was thankful that she was in the charge of her sometimes tiresome duenna.
Cesare felt angry and frustrated when she had gone. He was no longer interested in the entertainment, for the women seemed dull and prim to him, and he was filled with an urgent desire—which was fast becoming a necessity—to make the lovely Dorotea his mistress.
Dorotea rode out from Urbino surrounded by her friends and attendants.
They were all chatting about the ceremony and the clothes they would wear and how soon they would enter the Venetian Republic and there find Gian Battista Carracciolo waiting to greet them.
They were close to Cervia when a band of cavalry came galloping toward them. They were not alarmed; it did not occur to them that these horsemen would do them any harm; but as they came nearer it was seen that they were masked, and Dorotea was sure there was something familiar about their leader who shouted to them to halt.
The wedding party drew up. “You will not be harmed,” they were told. “We seek one of your party; the rest may travel on unharmed.”
Dorotea began to tremble, because she understood.
Her duenna said in a shaking voice: “You are mistaken in us. We are simple travelers on our way to Venice. We are going to attend a wedding.”
The masked man who had seemed familiar to Dorotea had ridden up to her, forced her duenna aside and laid a hand on her bridle.
“Have no fear,” he whispered. Then leading her horse after him, he moved away from the crowd while one of his men seized the youngest and prettiest of Dorotea’s maids and the men galloped away taking the girls with them.
“How dare you!” cried Dorotea. “Release me at once.”
Her captor only laughed, and there was something devilish in his laughter which filled her with terror.
She looked back; she could see the group on the road, the so
ldiers surrounding her party, preventing pursuit; and she knew that the masked man who had abducted her was Cesare Borgia; she knew the meaning of this and that Gian Battista Carracciolo would wait in vain for his bride, for Cesare Borgia had seen her, desired, waylaid her that his lust might be satisfied.
Isabella d’Este, when she heard of her brother’s proposed marriage with Lucrezia, was furious.
She wrote at once to her father, Duke Ercole, and told him that on no account must Lucrezia Borgia join the family. It was preposterous. These upstart Borgias … who were they to think of mingling their blood with the best in Italy?
She could tell him a great deal about the Borgias. Giovanni Sforza, Lucrezia’s first husband, had been staying in her court and the tales he had to tell would have been past belief if they had not concerned the Borgias.
The divorce had been arranged, so said Isabella, because the Pope was jealous of Lucrezia’s husband and wanted her all to himself. Incredible? But these were Borgias. It was said that Lucrezia had been the mistress of all her brothers. That too seemed absurd. Must she remind him again that these were Borgias? Had he heard the latest scandal? Dorotea da Crema, on her way to meet her bridegroom, had been waylaid by Cesare Borgia and taken off to be raped. The poor girl had not been heard of since. And it was a member of that brute’s family to whom her father was thinking of marrying the heir of Ferrara!
Isabella was right, mused Ercole. He wanted no Borgia in his family; but he must be very careful how he worded his refusal to the Pope.
There had been a time when a marriage between Alfonso and Louise d’Angoulême had been suggested. Therefore Ercole wrote, greatly regretting having to refuse the offer made by the Pope, but explaining that his son Alfonso had already made promises to this lady and was consequently not in a position to consider the brilliant marriage with His Holiness’s daughter which the Pope so generously offered.
Ercole settled down in peace. Alfonso must marry soon. But it should not be with a Borgia.
