by Jean Plaidy
Amongst her attendants was her young cousin, a very beautiful fifteen-year-old girl named Angela Borgia, who was excited to be with Lucrezia at this time and overjoyed because she was to accompany her into Ferrara.
Angela, gay and high-spirited, was determined to get all the fun she could out of life, and, watching her, Lucrezia tried to see everything through the young girl’s eyes and thus feel young again.
Angela was with her while she was dressing for a party which was to be given in the Pope’s apartments, and the irrepressible child was holding one of Lucrezia’s gowns about her—a glorious creation, designed by Lucrezia herself, of gold and black striped satin with cascades of lace falling from its slashed sleeves. She was dancing about the apartment, pretending that she was being married and haughtily deigning to receive the ring from one of the women whom she had made take the part which Ferrante had taken at the wedding.
They were all helpless with laughter. There was that about Angela to inspire mirth. She was so wild and so lighthearted, so outrageously indifferent to etiquette, that at times she reminded Lucrezia of Sanchia who, though in Rome, took little part in the celebrations.
“Have done, child,” said Lucrezia, “and come and help fasten my dress.”
The dress was a mulberry velvet with gold stripes, and Angela cried out: “Oh … what would I not give for a dress like that! Twenty years of my life … my honor … my virtue …”
“You do not know what you are saying,” said Lucrezia.
“You do not know how beautiful you look. If I had a dress like that, I should look fair enough.”
Lucrezia smiled at the saucy young face. “You have pretty dresses.”
“But not so grand. Lucrezia, dearest cousin, do you remember your blue brocade gown … the one with the slashed sleeves and the golden lace? That becomes me greatly.”
“I have no doubt,” said Lucrezia.
“You designed that dress for yourself, cousin, but you might have designed it for me.”
Lucrezia laughed. “You want to wear it at the party tonight?”
Angela leaped up and threw her arms about her cousin’s neck. “May I, dearest cousin? May I?”
“Well, perhaps,” said Lucrezia.
“You are the dearest cousin in the world. I would rather die a thousand deaths than not accompany you into Ferrara.”
“You cannot contemplate dying once, let alone a thousand times. Get the blue dress, and let us see if it fits you.”
“It does. I have tried it.”
So she was helped into the dress, and paraded before them, mimicking Lucrezia in many moods: Lucrezia at her wedding, Lucrezia dancing with Ippolito, with Ferrante and with Cesare.
And so amusing was she, so full of vitality, that Lucrezia could not help laughing and felt her spirits lifted by this young girl.
Ippolito stood in a corner of the Pope’s apartments idly watching the dancers. He had a great deal about which to write home. He and his two brothers had written many letters, as requested, to their father, to Alfonso and to their sister Isabella. It was very necessary to write to Isabella; she had always considered herself the head of the family. Ippolito’s lips curled. He took a delight in telling Isabella of the charm, beauty and grace of this newcomer to their family, for overbearing Isabella was going to receive a shock when she read those letters. Isabella would be furiously jealous; she considered herself the most attractive and charming, as well as learned woman in Italy. Isabella also considered herself the most elegant. She was going to be hard put to it to compete with Lucrezia’s amazing collection of elaborate gowns. He knew that Ferrante was writing ecstatically of Lucrezia; and that Sigismondo was doing the same, although he knew how disturbing the eulogies would be to Isabella. Sigismondo wanted to please his sister but he was deeply pious and must tell the truth. Isabella knew this. That was why Sigismondo’s accounts were going to disturb her more than those of Ippolito whom she knew might be malicious, and of Ferrante who was impressionable.
A very elegant, richly-clad figure had moved toward him, so heavily masked that the face was completely hidden; but Ippolito knew that it was Cesare, for that haughty bearing, that fine elegant figure, those rich garments, could belong to no one else.
There was a bond between Ippolito and Cesare. Ippolito was a reluctant Cardinal; Cesare had been an even more reluctant one; Cesare was attracted by the Cardinal’s robes of Ippolito, which he had designed himself and which were therefore different from those of other Cardinals. They proclaimed his fastidiousness and his contempt for the role he had been called upon to assume.
“This is a gay gathering, my lord,” said Ippolito.
“The gayest we have had so far.”
“There would seem to be a hint of sadness in the laughter of His Holiness.”
“He is reminded that before long my sister will go away.”
Ippolito looked sharply at Cesare. “It is a matter of grief to you also?” Cesare did not answer; his eyes behind the mask had grown angry suddenly, and Ippolito went on: “I wish you would tell me how you escaped from the purple.”
Cesare laughed. “It took me many years to do it.”
“I doubt I ever shall.”
“You, my dear Ippolito, are not the son of a Pope.”
“Alas! My father will do nothing to help me escape the destiny into which I have been thrust.”
“My friend, let it not restrain your natural bent. When I was a member of the Sacred College I did not allow it to do so to me. I had many adventures then—amusing adventures—very similar to those which I enjoy today.”
“I understand.”
“You too have your adventures?”
“I do; and I believe I am on the brink of one at this very moment.”
Cesare looked about the room.
“The enchanting creature in blue,” Ippolito explained.
“Ha!” laughed Cesare. “My young cousin Angela. She is scarce out of the nursery, but I grant you she has a charm.”
“She is delightful,” said Ippolito.
“Then you must make haste in your adventure, my friend, for in a few days Angela will be leaving with my sister and, although you are to accompany them out of Rome it will be only for part of the way, since you are to return as a hostage for your family’s good behavior to Lucrezia.”
“I know it,” said Ippolito. “And she is so young … and for all her look of witchery, inexperienced, I should say.”
“So much the better,” said Cesare. “But make haste, my friend. Time flies.”
“Tell me which of the ladies here tonight are the most seductive and the most accommodating.”
Cesare did not answer. Apparently he had not heard the question; and following his gaze, Ippolito saw that it was on his sister.
Ippolito led Angela in the dance. She was enchanting, so young and gay, very eager to enjoy a flirtation with the handsome Cardinal. He told her she was beautiful; she replied that she found him tolerably handsome.
He could look at no one else from the moment she had entered the room, he said. Angela was coquettish. Clearly, thought Ippolito, I shall be her first lover; the first of many mayhap, but the first.
The thought delighted him.
He whispered: “Could we not go away somewhere where we could be alone … where we could talk?”
“Lucrezia would notice and send someone to look for me.”
“Is Lucrezia your duenna?”
“After a fashion. I am in her charge and I am going to Ferrara with her.”
His hand tightened on hers; his eyes glowed.
“You enchant me,” he said.
“You shock me,” she retaliated. “You … a Cardinal!”
He grimaced. “Do not be deceived by my cloth.”
“I will not. I know enough of Cardinals to know that one must be as wary of them as of any men.”
“You are very wise doubtless.”
“Far too wise to be taken in by the light words of … even a Cardinal.”
Ipp
olito was regretful. She was undoubtedly charming; but she was not sweet and gentle as he had imagined she might be; she would need a long wooing. A pity; since there were not many days left to him.
She cried: “Lucrezia beckons me. Doubtless she does not care to trust me with a rake Cardinal.”
He was scarcely listening, for a woman had entered the apartment who was in truth the most beautiful he had ever seen. Her hair was black, her eyes startingly blue. He had heard of the charms of Sanchia of Aragon, but had not expected them to be so magnificent. She was quite different from the girl whose youth had attracted him. Sanchia was all-knowing, all fire and passion. There would be no long wooing needed with Sanchia. She would know at once whether a man attracted her and, if he did, there would be no delay.
He said: “Since the Duchess, your cousin, beckons you, we must needs obey.”
“We could look the other way and pretend we don’t see,” suggested Angela.
“That,” he said sternly, “would be a most ungracious act toward a gracious lady.”
And he took the child firmly by the arm and walked with her to Lucrezia.
He bowed over Lucrezia’s hand and chatted for a while. Then Ferrante came to them, and he asked Ferrante to dance with Angela. Cesare too had come to his sister’s side, and Ippolito moved off toward Sanchia of Aragon.
Cesare said: “Lucrezia, you and I will dance.”
They went to the center of the floor; she in the mulberry velvet with the dazzling stripes of gold, her hair in its net of jewels, and Cesare, elegantly dressed in cloth of gold looking like a god who had momentarily descended to Earth.
“A fig for these dances!” cried Cesare. “Let us dance as we did in our childhood. The old Spanish dances. You will not have an opportunity of dancing them in Ferrara. They are very prim there, we hear. Let us dance the jota … the bolero … the baile hondo.”
He towered over her and she felt frail and in his power, yet she knew that she possessed a certain power over him. She was reminded vividly of nursery days and the jealousy which she had inspired between him and their brother Giovanni.
“Lucrezia … Lucrezia …” he murmured, and his hands were warm and possessive upon her, “you are going away … far away. How shall we bear that … our father and I?”
“We shall meet,” she said desperately. “Often we shall see each other.”
“You will go away from us … become a member of a family which is not like ours.”
“I shall always be of our family.”
“Never forget it,” he said. “Never!”
The Pope, seeing his son and daughter dancing together, could not bear that any others should be on the floor. He clapped his hands and signed for them all to leave the two dancers alone together. He signed to the viols and flutes, and they understood that he wanted Spanish dances.
So they danced alone, as Lucrezia had on another occasion danced at her own wedding but with another brother. The music grew wilder, more passionate and all marveled at the expression which these two could infuse into the old dances of Spain.
They were watched by many, and there was a whisper in the ballroom that the tales which were circulated about these two seemed to be true.
One of the few who did not watch them was Angela Borgia. She could see handsome Ippolito exchanging passionate glances with Sanchia of Aragon, and she knew that he had forgotten the young girl who had amused him for a moment or two. Her first taste of splendor in Lucrezia’s beautiful dress was spoilt for her, and she wanted to run away and cry.
The Pope kept drawing attention to the beauty of the dancers. “Such exquisite grace! Did you ever see such dancing?”
He applauded loudly; he laughed hilariously; but those who were close to him detected a note of hysteria in his voice. Some predicted that, when it was time for his daughter to leave Rome, he would make all sorts of excuses to keep her with him.
The dowry was being carefully counted by those officers from Ferrara who had been sent to collect it. There was much haggling about the size of the ducats, and at times it seemed that in spite of the fact that the marriage celebrations had taken place there would be some hitch and Lucrezia would not leave for Ferrara after all.
The nuns were giving Lucrezia a great deal of trouble. The women were terrified, never having traveled before. Some of them were very young and not without attraction. The lusty soldiers who were to accompany the cortège were already joking together and making bets with one another as to who would be the first to seduce a nun.
Lucrezia appealed to the Pope, who was inclined to laugh the matter off.
Let the women be seduced, was his suggestion. It would be something for them to think about for the rest of their days.
But Lucrezia was determined to please her new family, and she believed that if aught amiss befell the nuns, her father-in-law would blame her for it. She knew that Giovanni Sforza had been given shelter by Isabella the Marchesa of Mantua, and that her new sister-in-law would be ready to believe the worst of her. The three brothers had given her some indication of the temperament of the lady, and Lucrezia was already suffering qualms on her account. She must therefore placate Duke Ercole; she knew that she had to live down an evil reputation; she knew that Isabella was going to find fault with her wherever possible; so she determined that Ercole’s band of nuns should arrive in Ferrara as virtuous as when they came to Rome.
Therefore she arranged that they should travel in carriages and leave several days in advance. She even arranged at some expense to herself that the carriages should have a covering, so that the nuns would be protected from the weather.
Thus she felt she would show her new father-in-law that she intended to be a good and docile daughter.
Meanwhile in the counting houses the 100,000 golden ducats were changing hands.
There were the last farewells.
Lucrezia visited her mother in her vineyard outside the city.
Vannozza embraced her daughter fondly, but she could not hide her pleasure. This golden-haired beauty was a Duchess, and Duchess of Ferrara, now a member of one of the oldest families in Italy, a real aristocrat. And such a thought could not give Vannozza any feeling but pleasure.
If it had been Cesare who was going away she would have wept bitterly, but in Lucrezia’s glorious departure she could feel nothing but pride.
“I shall be in the streets, my daughter,” she said, “to watch you leave Rome.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“I shall be proud … so proud.”
Lucrezia kissed her mother, and her emotion was as slight as Vannozza’s.
It was different saying good-bye in the nurseries. That was heartrending. Little Giovanni, the Infante Romano, in the few weeks he had been at the Vatican, had learned to love her. He had quickly forgotten his previous home, for he was only three years old; and it seemed to him that he had always lived in the splendor to which he had now become accustomed.
He was a little uneasy however to learn that Lucrezia was going away.
Fortunately little Roderigo, being only a year old, was too young to understand.
She embraced the little boys in turn as well as she could; their stiff little figures in rich brocade and the harness, which was worn by children of high degree, to make them grow straight and prevent rickets, stopped her from embracing them as she would have wished.
And at length she must face the most poignant farewell of all. Alexander received her in his private apartments and they were alone.
The Pope took his daughter into his arms and their tears mingled.
“I cannot let you go,” he cried. “I will not.”
“Oh my Father,” she answered him. “Most Holy, most sacred and most loving Father, what will our lives be without each other?”
“I know not. I know not.”
“But Father, you will come to Ferrara.”
He forced himself to picture it. The journey was long for an old man to undertake, but he would undertake it. H
e was no ordinary man. He could only endure this parting if he believed that at any time he could set out for Ferrara and she for Rome.
“Yes,” he said, “we shall meet often … often. How could it be otherwise with two who love as we do? You will write to me, my darling.”
“Every day, Father.”
“No matter what duties there are? Can you do that, my beloved one?”
“Yes, Father. I shall write every day.”
“I wish to know everything, my sweet child. Every detail. The compliments they pay you, the dresses you wear, when you wash your hair, all about your friends; and if any should annoy you, then I wish to know that too, for I tell you this, Lucrezia, oh my love, if any so much as hurt one of these beautiful golden hairs it will go ill with them … very ill indeed.”
“Did any woman ever have such a loving father?”
“Never, my daughter. Never.”
Outside in the square the cavalcade was waiting, the horses pawing the ground, and the soldiers and members of the household were swinging their arms to keep warm in the cold January air.
Cesare came to the apartment and looked sadly from his father to his sister.
“You feel this, even as I do, my son,” said the Pope.
Cesare placed his arm about his sister. “She is going from us, Father, but it is not good-bye. She will come to Rome before long. Ferrara is not all that distant from us.”
“That is right, my son. I am in need of comfort.”
The three of them spoke together then in the Valencian tongue, which they delighted to use when together. It enclosed them in a cozy intimacy and ensured that any, who by chance overheard, would not understand.
“Within the year,” said Alexander, “I shall be in Ferrara.”
“And,” added Cesare, “woe betide any there who does not treat my sister with respect.”
Alexander smiled proudly from son to daughter. “Cesare will protect you and your rights, dearest,” he said. “You have not only a father who loves you, but a mighty brother, and your welfare is his greatest concern.”
