by Jean Plaidy
A shiver of fear ran through the castle. Voices shook as they whispered one to another: “Il Valentino is here!”
He knelt by the bed and took her into his arms.
“My love, my dearest, I am here. Cesare is here … come to cure you.”
And she, who had recognized none, now opened her eyes; and those watching saw the change which came to her face as she whispered: “Cesare … Cesare … my beloved … so it is you.”
He had his arms about her. He called for pillows that she might be propped up; he smoothed the damp hair back from her face.
“I am here now.” His arrogant voice rang through the apartment. “You will be well now.”
“Oh Cesare … it has been so long.”
He had taken her hands and regardless of the risk was covering them with kisses. “Too long … too long, my precious one.”
She was almost fainting on her pillows, but all were aware of the new life in her.
He shouted to them: “Leave us. Leave us together.”
And none dared disobey.
They waited outside the room. It was a miracle, they whispered; she had been close to death, and he was bringing her back to life.
He called for wine—wine to revive her—and when it was brought, those who saw her marveled at the change in her, for it was as though this vital man breathed new life into her.
It is not natural, was the verdict. These Borgias are something more than human. They have power over life and death. They deal death and they raise from the dead.
The strange incomprehensible words which passed between them—for they spoke in the Valencian tongue—sounded like incantations to those listening ears. They remembered all the slights they had inflicted on Lucrezia since her arrival in Ferrara, and they trembled lest Il Valentino knew of these.
Lucrezia was saying: “You should not have come to me, Cesare, you who are so busy with your victories.”
“Too busy to come to my dearest one when she is sick unto death! Never that, beloved. We must send a message at once to our father.”
“He will be overjoyed when he knows you have been here.”
“He will only be overjoyed if I can tell him that you are well again. Lucrezia, you must not die. Think of it! What would life mean to us … our father and myself … if we lost you!”
“But you have your life, Cesare. All your ambitions are being realized.”
“They would be of no account to me if I lost you.”
He embraced her and she wept a little. “Then I must get well. Oh Cesare, I have thought so much of you … and our father. I have thought of you and your conquests. I have thought of you in Urbino.”
He was quick to sense the tremor in her voice and, because there were times in their lives when they were so close—and this was one of them—that they read each other’s thoughts, he was aware of her unhappiness on account of his conquest of Urbino.
“Lucrezia, dearest,” said Cesare. “It is necessary that I establish my kingdom. Do not think that I work for myself alone. Everything I have gained belongs to us all. Do not think I ever forget that. You … our father … our children … shall all benefit from my conquests. I will give one of my new towns to your little Giovanni. What say you to that? The little Infante Romano is a Borgia, and he must not be forgotten.”
“You comfort me,” she said. “Often I have thought of my children.”
“Grieve not, dearest. You have nothing to fear on their account while our father and myself are alive to care for them.”
He could see that he had comforted her. He laid his hand on her hot forehead. “It is time you slept, beloved,” he said. “I will remain at your bedside and, although I must leave you soon, it shall not be for long. I must go, Lucrezia, but I shall return.”
So she slept and he remained on watch. When he left, the next day, all were talking of the miracle, for it now seemed that Lucrezia would recover.
A few weeks later when Lucrezia, still weak, was reclining on her bed surrounded by her women, she cried out in sudden fear. “My pains are beginning,” she said; and as the child was not expected for another two months there was consternation throughout the palace.
Doctors came hurrying to her bedside, and all those fears which had been dispersed with the coming of Cesare were revived.
How could Lucrezia emerge alive from a seven-months birth after her recent illness? It seemed impossible.
Alfonso came to his wife’s bedchamber and knelt by her bed. Lucrezia smiled at him wanly, but he had no elixir of life to offer her comparable with that which, so all were certain, flowed from Il Valentino.
“Do not grieve, Alfonso,” she said. “If I die you will marry again … a woman who mayhap will be able to give you children.”
“Do not speak of dying,” cried Alfonso. “You must not die. You must live, Lucrezia. If you are spared I … I will make a pilgrimage to Loreto.”
She smiled. She realized that he was offering a great sacrifice in exchange for her recovery.
“On foot,” added Alfonso.
“Oh, Alfonso,” she murmured. “That is noble of you. But you must not grieve. I fear our child will be lost. They tell me that there is little hope that it will be born alive.”
“Let it not disturb you,” said Alfonso. “We are young, are we not? We will get more children. Boys … many of them.”
Now the sweat was on her forehead and the pains were growing more frequent. She cried out in her agony, and shortly afterward her daughter was born, dead.
All through the night they waited, while Lucrezia lingered between life and death, and with the morning Cesare came riding once more to the castle. Hope soared at the sight of him for all believed in his supernatural powers, and that what he had achieved once he would achieve again.
Ercole and Alfonso greeted him with delight.
“I beg of you,” cried Alfonso, “save my wife. It would seem that you alone can do it.”
So Cesare went to the sick-room, and as Lucrezia’s dull eyes fell upon him they brightened. She knew him, although she had been unaware of those at her bedside until he came.
He knelt by the bed and embraced her; he demanded that they be left alone. He was instantly obeyed and when he eventually called to all those who were hovering at the door, he demanded that the doctors come forward to bleed his sister.
“No more,” moaned Lucrezia. “Let me rest. I am weary of remedies. I want only now to go in peace.”
Cesare answered her reproachfully in the Valencian language and, turning to those about the bed, said that his sister should now be bled.
The leeches were applied while Cesare watched; he held Lucrezia’s foot and talked to her while the bleeding took place. Although none knew what he said, it must have been amusing for from time to time Lucrezia would laugh, as those in the Este castle had thought never to hear her laugh again.
So Lucrezia recovered; and went for peace and a change of scene to the Convent of Corpus Domini. The people of Ferrara crowded about her litter as she was carried thither from the castle, and wished her a complete return to health.
Meanwhile Alfonso set out on his pilgrimage to the Virgin of Loreto. He had sworn to go on foot, which would have taken up much valuable time when all heads of states should be looking after their dominions, and Alfonso wished he had not been so rash in making his vow. However, now that his daughter had recovered, the Pope felt benevolent to all the world and declared that Alfonso should have a dispensation, releasing him from part of his vow. He must go to Loreto, but he might make the journey on horseback.
In Corpus Domini Lucrezia began to think of returning to life, and to long for fine clothes and music, for the company of her friends, and a lover who was less crude than Alfonso.
VII
THE GREAT CALAMITY
When Lucrezia returned to the little rooms of the balcony Ercole Strozzi was waiting for her. Lucrezia had regained her fragile beauty, the hair-washings had been resumed and it was as golden as it had
ever been, but she herself had changed subtly. She was more spirituelle.
She seemed pleased that Alfonso was not in the castle. After his return from the pilgrimage he was making a tour of the military fortifications of Ferrara, and as he probably felt that until Lucrezia was completely well again there would be small chance of getting a healthy heir for Ferrara, he would therefore be better occupied with the military and his stray mistresses.
Lucrezia was by no means unhappy at being left alone. The musical evenings continued. There was a truce between herself and the old Duke. She had sent to Rome for Jacopo di San Secondo, who was one of the most famous players of the viol in Italy; and the Duke often came to her apartments to hear the music of this man.
Strozzi continued to bring exquisite materials from Venice, and displayed great interest in the making up of these. He could discuss clothes for hours and make suggestions which delighted Lucrezia.
He would read poetry to her and very often these verses were the composition of Pietro Bembo. He talked often of Pietro.
“Poor Pietro, he lives a lonely life now in my villa at Ostellato. It is good for his work, however. He speaks of you often.”
“That is because you have often spoken of me to him.”
“How could I help that? My thoughts of you occupy a large part of my waking life.”
“My dear Ercole, I cannot tell you what your friendship has meant to me. Knowing you has changed my life here in Ferrara.”
“There are many jealous of my favor with you.”
“There will always be those to watch my actions and hate me for them.”
“There is one who envies me more than any other. Can you guess who? No, you will not, I see. It is Pietro Bembo. I will confess something. Those verses I read to you today—they were written for you.”
“But he has never seen me. How could he write such verses for one he has never seen?”
“I have talked of you so much that he has a clear picture of you. If you visited him he would know you at once.”
“I cannot believe it.”
Ercole Strozzi looked at her slyly. “Why not put it to the test?”
“Call him to Ferrara!”
“Then he would know you at once. No, I mean visit him at Ostellato.”
“How could I do that!”
“It is simple. A short journey by barge. There is peace and solitude in my villa at Ostellato. Why should you not make the journey? Surprise him.”
She laughed. “I should enjoy seeing our poet,” she answered. She turned to Strozzi. “I believe you are continually trying to plan pleasures for me.”
Strozzi smiled. He wanted to see them together—the amorous poet with his neo-Platonic leanings; this Lucrezia, fresh from the pains of childbirth and fever, whose husband could never give her anything but physical satisfaction.
It would be interesting to watch the reaction of these two; so interesting that Strozzi had long planned it, for he knew it would be irresistible.
Bembo was wearying of the quiet life, although it was true that when he was in Venice he had longed for it. He had come here on Strozzi’s invitation mainly to escape from his Helena. She was charming but she was demanding, and he was satiated with physical love. Handsome and famous, sought after by courtiers and rich women, he had felt the solitude of the country to be inviting.
He would stay until Strozzi came again, and then he would explain to him his feelings. It would be churlish not to explain in person to his friend after he had offered him the hospitality of his villa.
He was sitting in the shade, murmuring verses to himself, when he heard the sound of voices. There was music too, and feminine laughter. A party was sailing down the river. He did not bother to go and look, and suddenly he was aware of her coming toward him. She was dressed in cloth of gold and there was an emerald on her forehead; her long golden hair was caught in a net which was sewn with pearls.
She said: “Good day to you, poet. You know me?”
He knelt at her feet, took her musk-scented hand and kissed it. “There is only one who could look thus, Duchessa.”
“Strozzi said you would know me. I have so enjoyed your poems. I could not resist the opportunity of telling you so.”
“You have come with friends?”
“Some of my women and other attendants. They await me in the barge.”
“Then you have come in simplicity. I am glad. For I live simply.”
“I know. Strozzi told me.”
“He has told you much about me?”
“So much that I cannot believe we are now meeting for the first time. I also know you through your works.”
“I am so overwhelmed that I forget the duties of a host. You will take refreshment?”
“Perhaps a goblet of wine.”
He clapped his hands and commanded a slave that it should be brought to them in the garden; they sat in the shade drinking, and talking mainly of his poetry.
She enchanted him. She was ethereal, so different from the woman rumor had painted for him. She was so gentle, even more fragile than usual after her recent illness, and that she should be one of the notorious Borgias seemed incongruous while it added to her attractions.
“I cannot stay long,” she told him. “We must get back to Ferrara before dark.”
He said he would show her the herb gardens; he was interested in herbs and had made additions to Strozzi’s collection. And as they walked through the gardens he made poetry for her, and this told her that her coming was something he would never forget as long as he lived.
“You will visit me again here?” he asked.
She smiled a little sadly. “I could not come often. It would be noticed. Then, I do not doubt that I should be forbidden to come. But why should you not come to Ferrara? You could meet your friend Strozzi, and there are often parties in my apartments. You would be very welcome.”
He took her hand and kissed it fervently. Then he walked with her to the barge.
She stood looking back as they glided away; he stood watching. They were both aware of a tremendous attraction, different from that which either had ever felt for any other person.
Pietro Bembo came to Ferrara, and he was seen each night in the little rooms of the balcony.
As he was famous thoughout Italy his presence added luster to those gatherings. Bembo was accustomed to adulation and it affected him little as he was completely absorbed in his friendship with Lucrezia. For the first time in their lives each was indulging in an absorbing friendship which was as yet Platonic. It was a friendship of the mind, of spiritual love; and it was felt by both that should it descend to a physical level it would deteriorate and become another love affair such as each had known before.
Lucrezia, weak from that recent illness which had almost proved fatal, Pietro seeking a sensation which would lift his muse to even greater heights, found in each other all that, at this time in their lives, they longed for. Each of them felt exalted—together, apart from the rest of the world.
Strozzi looked on, content. This was as he wished. He had brought them together; he could watch them indulge in their unusual relationship and know that it was what he had intended. He could feel godlike; he could say to himself: I took these two prominent people and brought them together, I knew that they would behave thus, and it is what I wished. It would be interesting to see how long the friendship lasted on this level, how long before passion gained control and brought them tumbling from their lofty eminence down to earthly pleasures. Two beautiful sensual people, mused Strozzi; how long before they went the way of all flesh?
He believed he could keep them where they were or bring them down to Earth. It was a sensation of power which appealed to him mightily, which soothed the pain in his leg, which eased the fatigue which came so readily because of that pain, which made him say to himself: Ercole Strozzi, if you can rule the lives of two such people, why could you not rule the world?
Angela, so abandonedly in love with Giulio now that she made n
o secret of the fact that she spent half her nights in his company, was delighted by Lucrezia’s friendship with Pietro.
“Why, cousin,” she cried, “Giulio tells me that his sister Isabella is furious because Pietro comes here. She prides herself that all great poets are her property. How glad I am that we have secured him.”
Lucrezia smiled gently at her exuberant cousin. Poor wayward Angela, thought Lucrezia, she would never understand the delights of spiritual love.
“Giulio tells me that Isabella is offering him bribes to go to her in Mantua,” went on Angela. “She wants him there, not only because he is a great poet, but because he is so devoted to you. At last you have a chance to pay her back for all the insults she heaped on you at the time of the wedding. It must give you great pleasure to contemplate that.”
But spiritual love was certainly beyond Angela’s comprehension. It seemed a strange way for two lovers to behave … to meet only to quote poetry.
“It will not last,” she said to Nicola. “You wait. Soon they will be lovers in the true sense.”
Nicola was not sure. Angela was such a sensual little animal, a madcap who might one day find herself in a difficult position. Nicola, now that her love affair with Ferrante had faded, was quite ready to believe in the beauty of that new kind of love practiced by her mistress and the poet. Indeed the character of Lucrezia’s little court had changed. There was less pandering to sensation. Instead of aromatic baths and leisure hours spent in Moorish shirts, there was continual reading of poetry and playing of music.
Only Angela went on in the old way.
One day Ercole Strozzi gave a grand ball in his palace in Ferrara to which the whole court was invited. Alfonso, back from his inspection of the fortifications, was present; so were all his brothers.
Pietro Bembo was naturally a guest, and it delighted Strozzi to watch his two Platonic lovers together. Lucrezia had changed. In this sedate ethereal young woman it was almost impossible to recognize the girl who, during her wedding celebrations, had taken her castanets and danced the erotic dances of Spain for the amusement of the court.
