by Jean Plaidy
“That which I have lost, I will regain.”
“You will need to go very carefully if you are to do so, and it is for that reason that I have come to warn you.”
“Well, what are these dire warnings you have to offer?”
“Firstly do not arouse the Captain’s jealousy.”
“That will be difficult to avoid, dear Sanchia. You are as desirable as ever, and I am but human.”
“Your life is in his hands. He is a good man who does not forget his friends in adversity; but you need to be careful. Your only friend in this court is your brother Goffredo.”
“Where is he now?”
“I know not. He and I rarely meet.”
“I see the Captain is a jealous man who will not tolerate husbands!”
She lifted her shoulders. “The court abounds with your enemies, Cesare. Naples did not love you after the murder of my brother.”
“Yet you continued to love me.”
“If I ever loved you Cesare, I ceased to do so then. There was passion between us afterward, but it was the passion of hate rather than love. Do you remember Jeronimo Mancioni?”
Cesare shook his head.
“You would not of course remember such a trivial incident. There have been so many like it in your life. He wrote an essay on what took place during the capture of Faenza. Doubtless it was a true account, but it did not please you. No, of course you would not remember Jeronimo. He remembers you though. His family remember also. Payment was demanded of him for writing that essay—his right hand was cut off and his tongue cut out. Such things are remembered, Cesare, when a man is in decline. I warn you, that is all. Have a care. You will need to walk more warily here in Naples than you ever did in your Roman prison.”
Cesare shrugged aside her warnings.
He would have taken her into his arms, but she would have none of that. He laughed at her playing the game of loyalty to her Spanish Captain. How long would that last? he asked himself. He visualized that before he was ready to set out on the re-conquest of Romagna, Sanchia would be his mistress and all his enemies in Naples would be fawning on him.
Hope had returned. Goffredo was there, with the old admiration shining in his eyes. Goffredo was ready to serve his brother, heart and soul. It was wonderful at such times to recall the devotion of his family. Lucrezia was raising men, selling her valuable jewels, writing letters to influential men begging their help for her brother; and now here was Goffredo. Alexander the great central figure was gone but they were still the Borgias.
Cesare was himself again. His arrogance had returned in full force. Sanchia was not yet his mistress, but that would come. Soon all in Italy should learn that the Borgia star had suffered but a temporary eclipse.
Consalvo de Cordoba was uneasy. He fervently wished that Cesare Borgia had chosen a different refuge. Consalvo was a man who prided himself on his honor, and from the moment he had heard Cesare was on his way to Naples his anxiety had began. He had received honors from Alexander, and he was not the man to turn from his friends when they were no longer of material value. He wished to help Cesare; yet at the same time he must not forget that he was in the service of his King.
In the days which followed Cesare’s arrival in Naples, Consalvo received no orders from Spain; therefore he welcomed Cesare and made it clear that his ill-fortune had not altered his friendship for the Borgia.
But he was wondering what orders he would receive when the knowledge that Cesare was in Naples reached Spain.
Sanchia was aware of his anxieties and sought to comfort him, for Sanchia was enchanted by her Great Captain. Handsome, powerful, he had won her admiration, and she had quickly surrendered herself to the new ruler of Naples. She was with him when orders came from Spain.
He read them and was lost in thought. Sanchia wound her arms about him and whispered: “What ails you, my Captain?”
He looked at her and smiled sadly. He knew that she had once been Cesare’s mistress for their love affair had been one of the scandals of Rome. He wondered about her, this strange tempestuous woman who had continued her relationship with Cesare after the murder of her brother whom she had dearly loved.
His own relationship with her had taught him something of her character. He wondered whether Cesare still attracted her; he wanted to find out, and at the same time he wanted to ease his own conscience; he therefore decided to confide in her.
“Orders from my King,” he said.
“Concerning Cesare?”
He nodded.
Sanchia went on: “Cesare has made himself hated by the world. The King of Spain, I can believe, does not wish him to regain his Kingdom.”
“You are right. I am to arrest him and send him to Spain. My King does not trust the Italians to keep him prisoner.”
“If he goes to Spain it will be the end of his hopes.”
Consalvo agreed.
“Why should this make you sad, my Captain? What is Cesare Borgia to you?”
“His father was my friend.”
“The Borgias were friends only to those who could be useful to them.”
“I have given him my word that he shall find sanctuary here.”
“And you have given him that. It is only when the matter is taken out of your hands that you must cancel it.”
“The Duchess of Gandia has pleaded with Ferdinand, my King, that justice be demanded for the murder of her husband Giovanni Borgia.”
“So Cesare is now to be made to pay for that long-ago crime, the murder of his own brother!”
“Crimes have long shadows.”
Sanchia was suddenly afraid. “If you go to his lodgings, he will fight. He is surrounded by men whom he has made his own, either through bribes or fear. My Captain, I am afraid. I am always afraid of Cesare.”
“I must lure him from his lodgings. I do not wish for bloodshed. I must get him to the Castel del Ovo.”
Sanchia nodded.
Consalvo waited awhile.
Would Sanchia warn her old lover? He wondered. There was an uncanny power in these Borgias; Consalvo had been conscious of it since Cesare had come to Naples. He was a man who had suffered terrible sickness and heartbreaking defeat; yet his resilience was becoming more and more apparent every day. With a little help Cesare would regain his kingdom.
Oddly enough Consalvo had wanted to give that help. He was not a man who wished to stamp on the lame. He would have wished to plead Cesare’s cause with King Ferdinand, to have passed on Cesare’s explanation of the need to make the French alliance when he had done so.
Consalvo believed that he could have done that successfully; but Cesare’s old crimes were creeping up on him. The pleading of his murdered brother’s widow had decided Ferdinand that Cesare should be brought to Spain where he could answer that charge and make no more trouble in the Italian States.
Consalvo must do his duty. He was first of all a soldier. But he wondered—and in some measure he hoped she would—whether Sanchia would warn her old lover of the danger in which he found himself.
Now in the Castel del Ovo troops were waiting, and Consalvo must lure Cesare to the castle with some false tale of danger. He, Consalvo, must invite the son of his old friend to sanctuary which would in reality be a trap.
Such conduct deeply perturbed a man of the Great Captain’s conscience. He hoped that when his messenger arrived at Cesare’s lodgings, the Borgia would be gone.
Sanchia had shut herself into her apartments and would allow none of her women to come near her.
Her eyes were as brilliant as sapphires and as hard as diamonds.
Very soon Cesare might leave Naples—for a Spanish prison; and it was in her power to save him.
She thought of their stormy relationship, of all the pleasure it had brought her. She was recalling those tempestuous scenes which had delighted and exhilarated her. She remembered the hate she had felt for Cesare, the deep satisfaction which she, a strong sensual woman, had derived from their encounters.
&nb
sp; Often she dreamed of Cesare … Cesare bending over her, quarrelling with her, Cesare making love.
She was remembering also her little brother, Alfonso, so beautiful, so like herself. Insignificant little incidents from childhood would occur to her—the way he smiled, the way he lisped her name, the way he trotted after her with so much admiration in his bright blue eyes for his clever sister Sanchia. Then she thought of his coming into the Vatican with the hideous wounds inflicted on Cesare’s orders; she remembered his casting himself at the feet of herself and Lucrezia, clutching their skirts, begging them to defend him from Cesare.
Then she remembered his limp body lying across the bed with bruises, made by Cesare’s murderers, on his throat.
And remembering she covered her face with her hands and wept, wept for the little brother whose life had been cut short by Cesare Borgia.
Cesare was in his lodgings when the messenger came.
“I come from the Great Captain,” he told Cesare.
“What news?”
“My lord, you must leave this lodging at once. My master has heard that enemies of yours are gathering in large numbers and preparing to attack you here and do to you what you have done to one of them.”
“Who are these?”
“It is the family of Jeronimo Mancioni, my lord. He who lost his tongue and right hand. This night they will strike. The Great Captain offers you refuge in the Castel del Ovo. He says that it is imperative that you leave at once.”
Cesare was angry. He was not a coward, and he disliked the thought of running away, but he must guard against his enemies. That was one thing he had learned. When his father was alive he had been able to ignore them; now they massed about him, determined to strike while they found him defenseless.
He pictured those maddened relatives of Mancioni. They would humiliate him, mutilate him, if they had a chance. He would fight them and kill a few; but how many of them would there be? A large band, the messenger told him; not only members of the Mancioni family, but others who had suffered at his hands.
Cesare turned to his servant. “Make ready,” he said. “We will leave at once for Castel del Ovo.”
Oh the humiliation of this! He, the great Cesare, to skulk from his lodgings into refuge! When he recovered his kingdom all those who had dared humiliate him should pay a thousandfold for every slight they had inflicted. He would come back to Naples; he would inflict such torture on the Mancionis as they had never dreamed of.
But there was no time to think of that now. Through the silent streets he hurried, all the time alert for sounds which might indicate that his enemies had discovered his flight and were in hot pursuit. When he reached the castle—sweating with exertion and relieved that he had been spared the humiliation of meeting his enemies—he was surrounded by soldiers.
“Cesare Borgia,” said one of these, “you are a prisoner of His Majesty, the King of Spain.”
Cesare looked about him, but he could see nothing for the mists of anger which swam before his eyes.
It was a trap, a trap conceived by the Great Captain, that honorable man!
For a few seconds it seemed as though he would venomously attack all those who surrounded him; but he was too late. He was firmly held and bound.
Very soon afterward he was put on the ship which was waiting to take him to his Spanish prison.
Lucrezia was overwhelmed with sorrow when she heard that Cesare had been taken prisoner and incarcerated in the fortress of Cincilla.
She wept to recall how often he had talked of going to Spain—the country of their family’s origin—in the utmost splendor, even as his brother the Duke of Gandia had done. No, it would have to be greater splendor. Cesare must outdo Giovanni at all costs. And now he had gone ignobly, taken there by force, a captive.
She heard that the King of Spain was wondering whether he should be brought to trial for the murder of his brother, found guilty—which he undoubtedly would be—and executed. But it might be that Cesare Borgia was more important to the King of Spain alive and a menace to Pope Julius. On such did the life of one who had hoped to rule all Italy depend.
The Court of Ferrara was growing more and more antagonistic toward Lucrezia as her family’s fortunes further declined. There was only Goffredo left, and Goffredo had never been of great account. Never before had Lucrezia been so lonely; never before so completely shorn of that power in which her family had so tenderly wrapped her.
Alfonso had gone away on a foreign visit and, without even his casual protection, life at the castle was unsupportable. Therefore Lucrezia retired to the country retreat of Comacchio.
Pietro Bembo arrived and stayed nearby at one of Strozzi’s villas which the architect of this affair had put at the disposal of his pair of lovers.
There was comfort in Bembo’s presence. There were walks in the beautiful gardens of the villas; there was music and the reading of poetry. But the love which she had once enjoyed with Bembo had lost its ecstasy. How could she indulge in ecstatic love when Cesare was in misery? Moreover into Lucrezia’s thoughts there intruded a man quite different from Bembo—a man of action, the breeder of horses, flat-nosed, completely sensual Francesco Gonzaga.
Pietro would gently recall her attention to the poem he was reading.
“You are sad, beloved,” he would murmur.
“How can I be otherwise,” she asked, “when I think of my brother? He less than any can endure prison. What is his life like, I wonder.”
Pietro shook his head. He did not remind her that what was done to Cesare was not so cruel as that which Cesare had done to others.
“He would have been a good ruler, a good and wise ruler, once his kingdom was in his hands,” she insisted. “He had great plans which he discussed with his fortress engineer, a man who, I think, is called Leonardo da Vinci. There were to be sanitary systems which would have drained away the refuse in the cities, and that, Cesare used to say, was one of the first steps toward ridding the country of periodic plague. He planned to do all this, and he would have done it.”
Bembo tried to lure her back to talk of poetry, but the magic which the early days of their association had brought with them was lost to her.
There came a day when messengers arrived from Ferrara. They had come to warn Lucrezia that old Duke Ercole was very ill and there seemed little hope that he would recover. Her brothers-in-law, Ippolito, Ferrante, Sigismondo and Giulio, thought that she should return at once to Ferrara.
She was preparing to leave when she saw Bembo coming across the garden to her, and the sight of him, his poems in his hands, walking quietly across the gardens, seemed to her so utterly peaceful that she was filled with a longing to spend the rest of her life at Comacchio or some other quiet retreat.
“I love Pietro,” she murmured. “Oh, that I were free to marry him.” And her mind went back to Pedro Caldes whom she had once loved so dearly, the father of little Giovanni, and she thought, had I been allowed to marry him when I wanted to, had I been allowed to live peacefully with him, our lives would surely have been lived in surroundings such as this. And Pietro and Pedro seemed in that moment like one and the same person; and she loved that person dearly.
She ran out to meet him, for she was overcome by a longing to stroll once more round the gardens, to snare the happy moments she had enjoyed in this place that she might preserve them in her mind forever; she knew that the death of Duke Ercole was going to make a great deal of difference to her life, and that when she was truly Duchess of Ferrara—if Alfonso decided to keep her as his wife, and if he did not she could not begin to imagine what would become of her—she would not be allowed to leave Ferrara to indulge in an idyllic love affair with a poet.
In the shelter of the trees Pietro embraced her fervently. “We cannot guess,” he said, “what his death will mean to us. But know this, my beloved, always I shall love you, always cherish these hours we have spent together.”
She dared not delay now. In the absence of her husband her brothers-
in-law had summoned her, and she guessed that Ippolito was already aware of her love affair with Pietro.
So she rode out to Ferrara, but before she came into the town a letter was delivered to her. As she read it a faint flush rose to her cheeks and she felt a tremor of excitement within her as she recalled the ugly charming face of the man who had lately intruded on her thoughts and refused to be dismissed.
He had written that news of what was happening in Ferrara had reached him. If she should be in need of a friend, he, Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, would be ready to come at once to her aid.
She rode on, her spirits lightened; such was the power of that man to comfort her.
There was an atmosphere of tension in the castle of Ferrara when Lucrezia arrived. Alfonso was, unfortunately, traveling in England, and Ippolito was watchful of Ferrante, Ferrante of Ippolito. Giulio, hot-headed and haughty, was already putting himself at the disposal of Ferrante with whom he had always been on terms of friendship, which had grown deeper out of his hatred for Ippolito. Sigismondo spent his time praying that no discord befall Ferrara on the death of the Duke.
Lucrezia was received with pleasure and relief by her brothers-in-law. As Alfonso’s wife she was, in his absence, acknowledged as the most important person at court; for it pleased the brothers, in this time of uncertainty, to have a figurehead whom they could regard as temporary head of the state.
Lucrezia remembered those days when the Pope had left Rome and had placed her at the head of secular affairs. That experience stood her in good stead now, and she slipped naturally and calmly into the new position which was awaiting her.
She was conscious though of the tension which existed between the brothers, and she prayed that soon Alfonso would return.
In the meantime with her natural serenity and dignity she was able to keep the bubbling passions of the brothers at bay, while they waited for the return of Alfonso and the end of Ercole.
