by Jean Plaidy
She was glad at that time of the company of her lively and beautiful though somewhat empty-headed cousin Angela Borgia, who could not conceal her delight in being back in Ferrara, since during the stay at Comacchio she had been deprived of the company of her lover, Giulio.
Angela, completely immersed in her own affairs, was unaware of the dangerous discord which prevailed in the castle at this time. She had never forgiven Ippolito for turning from her to Sanchia when they had first met, and as her mind was completely occupied with her own attractiveness she could not forget the slight.
It was a different matter now. Ippolito was regretting his earlier conduct. Ippolito was a lover of women, and there was quite a scandal in Ferrara because of the way in which he caressed young girls as a lover might, while he feigned to be blessing them as a Cardinal.
Angela seemed far more desirable to him now than she had at the beginning of their acquaintance, and this was no doubt due in some measure to his knowledge that she had for some time been indulging in a passionate love affair with his half-brother Giulio.
Ippolito had long been irritated by Guilio; the young man’s vanity was maddening, particularly as, through Angela, he could flaunt it before the Cardinal.
He never lost an opportunity of talking of Angela before Ippolito, and the Cardinal felt his desire for Angela grow with his murderous feelings against Giulio.
Now Guilio had ostentatiously put himself on the side of Ferrante.
Ippolito longed to discountenance the conceited Giulio and, even at this time of anxiety, when Angela returned from Comacchio he made another attempt to take her from Giulio. He followed her into the gardens one day and asked for a few words with her.
“I am growing weary of your continual refusals,” he told her.
“There is one alternative, Eminence. If you cease to ask there would be no more refusals.”
“There will continue to be demands,” he declared angrily, “until what I ask is given.” She looked pensive, as though she were considering him, and he cried passionately: “Angela, you know that I love you. I have loved you earnestly since our first meeting.”
“I remember the occasion well,” she said. “No doubt Sanchia of Aragon remembers it also.”
“You were such a child,” he pleaded. “I respected your innocence.”
“That respect began,” she retorted, “when you set eyes on Sanchia. Do not imagine that I may be dropped for the sake of others and picked up when they are no longer available.”
“You are mistaken. You turn to that young fool Giulio …”
“Giulio is no fool. He loved me from the first and has done so ever since. Think of him—my lord Cardinal. Think of Giulio and think of yourself. Why, I love his beautiful eyes more than the whole of you and your wealth and all your fine promises. Understand that.”
Laughing she ran lightly across the grass to the castle.
As soon as Alfonso heard that his father was dying, he made plans to return to Ferrara immediately; and no sooner had he set foot in the castle than the tension lessened. There was a quality of strength about Alfonso; he was practical in the extreme; he might lack the dignity of Ippolito but he was also without that blind arrogance; he might lack the vitality of Ferrante and the charm of Giulio, but he was possessed of a strength which inspired the confidence of all.
“How fares my father?” demanded Alfonso on his arrival.
“He lives, my lord,” he was told, “but he is very weak.”
Alfonso was relieved. He had reached home in time. He greeted his brothers and Lucrezia and immediately went to the sick-room.
Old Ercole’s expression lightened when he saw his eldest son, and Alfonso hurried to the bed and knelt to receive his blessing.
“My son Alfonso,” whispered the Duke. “I rejoice to see you here. Very soon Ferrara will pass into your hands. Never forget the Este traditions, Alfonso, and keep peace within the family.”
Ercole’s eyes went to those standing about his bed—his sons and the wife of Alfonso. He wanted to warn Alfonso against the ambitions of his brothers and the extravagance of his wife, but he was too tired. Alfonso sensed this, and remembered that one thing which he and his father had in common. “Father,” he said, “would you like a little music in your bedchamber?”
The Duke smiled. Music, which he had always loved; music to soothe him in his passing, to delight his mind so that it was lost in that pleasure which would prevent his worrying about the future of Ferrara.
Alfonso gave orders that musicians should come to the bedchamber. Surprised, they came, and Alfonso then commanded that they play those pieces of music which his father had best loved. And thus, to the music of the harpsichord, Duke Ercole left Ferrara forever.
Alfonso’s vital personality filled the castle.
Custom demanded that the new Duke should be crowned before the court went into mourning for the death of the old one, so the first task which lay before them was the coronation with all its attendant ceremony.
Now that he was among them none feared that the rivalry between his brothers would ever become serious. The new Duke of Ferrara was a man who would make all pause and consider very carefully before they crossed his will.
It was winter and the streets of Ferrara were icily cold as Alfonso rode out from the castle to the Cathedral to be crowned Duke of Ferrara; but in spite of the snowy weather the people turned out to cheer their new Duke.
And when he returned to the castle Lucrezia was waiting to greet him. She stood on the balcony, that the people might see her, wearing a great cloak of white watered silk lined with ermine about her shoulders, and, as the people cheered her and she bowed and waved her acknowledgments, the crimson and gold jewel-spattered gown beneath the cloak became visible.
The people did not seem to hate her, for their cheers were spontaneous; but she was wise enough now to know that they could cheer one day and call for her banishment the next.
Everything depended on Alfonso, and she realized suddenly that she knew very little about this husband of hers. How could it be otherwise when their acquaintance had seemed to begin and end in the bedchamber? And even there he had never confided to her his hopes and ambitions, his likes and dislikes. All she had known was that he wished for sons, and during the time they had been married she had disappointed him in that respect.
He was entering the castle now, and she came down from the balcony to greet him. She was at the entrance of the castle as he reached it and before the eyes of many eager spectators who, she knew, were as curious concerning her future as she was apprehensive, she knelt and kissed her husband’s hand.
Alfonso laid his hands under her armpits and raised her as easily as though she were a child. He kissed her cheeks and everyone applauded. But his kiss, Lucrezia noted, was as cold as the snowflakes which fluttered down upon them.
Then he took her hand and led her in to the banquet; and those festivities began which would go on until the next day when they must put off all signs of rejoicing, change white and red and gold for black, and conduct the old Duke to his last resting place.
The celebrations both of the coronation of the new Duke and the funeral of the old were over, and for the first time, it seemed to Lucrezia, she and her husband were alone together.
Here was the well-known routine. Alfonso, saying nothing, treating her merely as the means of getting children.
After the idyllic relationship with Pietro she was in revolt against this man, and yet when she thought of those sunny hours with Pietro at Medelana and Comacchio there seemed about them an air of unreality; they were light and transient; they could never be repeated.
She realized now that she was afraid of the future, and the knowledge that it lay within the power of this prosaic and cold man was alarming.
Never until this moment had she felt so alone. She thought of those who had stood between her and the ruthless cruelty of the world and, by their own ruthless cruelty which exceeded that of all others, had protected her from evil.
Alfonso had taken her into his rough embrace.
“It is important now,” he said, “that we should have sons.”
His words seemed to beat on her brain. Did they convey a warning? Sons … sons … and you are safe.
It was like a reprieve.
In a few weeks Lucrezia was pregnant. The Duke expressed his pleasure. Not that he had had any doubt that this would soon be so. He had had numerous children, and Lucrezia had already shown herself capable of bearing them.
He was waiting now for the birth of the heir of Ferrara.
Once my son is born, thought Lucrezia, my place here will be firm.
She knew that Isabella was receiving reports on her conduct; she had made several attempts to lure Pietro Bembo to Mantua and, now that she knew she could not, she was writing to her brother urging him to put an end to the love affair between his wife and the poet.
If you do not, she implied, when your child is born you will have all Ferrara looking for the features of a poet rather than those of a soldier.
Alfonso grunted as he read Isabella’s warning. He knew that the child Lucrezia now carried was his because she had not seen Bembo since long before its conception. He had known of his wife’s fanciful friendship with the poet and had cared not a jot for it. But Isabella was right when she said that the world might suspect his Duchess of foisting on to Ferrara a child not his.
Poets were not the sort of men he felt much sympathy with. As for Lucrezia he had little interest in her apart from the nightly encounters in the bedchamber. She was worthy of his attention then; he did not deny her beauty; she was responsive enough; but he would always prefer the tavern women; Lucrezia’s perpetual washing of her hair and bathing of her body vaguely irritated him. A little grime, a little sweat would have been a fillip to his lust.
Now that she was pregnant he was less frequently in her bedchamber; but he did like to visit her now and then for a change.
Pietro came back to Ferrara, and Lucrezia was delighted to see him, for it was wonderful to be with one who shared her love of poetry, whose manners were gracious and charming and who treated her as though she were a goddess, only part human, which was very different from the way in which Alfonso treated her.
Alfonso was alert. Never before, it seemed, had he shown so much interest in his wife. He gave her new attendants and they were all Farrarese.
“I have my women,” she told him. “I am satisfied with them.”
“I am not,” he retorted. “These women shall be in attendance on you in future.”
They were not her friends; they were his spies.
She wondered why Alfonso thought it necessary to spy on her. And one day she heard the sound of workmen near her apartments and, when she went to discover what was happening, she found that they were making a new passage.
“But why are you doing this?” she wanted to know.
“We have orders from the Duke, Duchessa.”
“Are you merely making this one passage?” she asked.
“That is so, Duchessa.”
“And how long is it to be?”
“Oh … it merely runs from the Duke’s apartments to your own.”
A passage … so that he could reach her quickly and silently.
What had happened to Alfonso that he was preparing to spy on her?
It was impossible that such mundane matters should touch the love she had shared with Pietro, which had no place in this castle with its secret passages through which an angry husband could hurry to confront an erring wife.
Lucrezia shuddered at the possibility of Alfonso’s discovering her and Pietro Bembo together. No matter how innocently they were behaving Alfonso would suspect the worst. What could he—that great bull of a man—understand of love such as she and Pietro shared?
She was careful never to be seen alone with Pietro; and it was only when they met, surrounded by others in the great hall of the castle, and he implored her to tell him what had changed their relationship that she could trust herself to explain, and tell him about the passage which Alfonso was having made.
“Soon,” she said, “it will be completed. Then he will be able to come swiftly and silently to my bedchamber unheralded, unannounced. He has had this made so that he may try to catch me in some misdemeanor.”
“Where can we meet and be safe?”
“Nowhere in Ferrara … that is certain.”
“Then come again to Medelana, to Comacchio.…”
“It is different now,” she answered sadly. “I am in truth the Duchess of Ferrara. Alfonso needs an heir. Do you not understand that I must produce that heir, and he must come into a world which is satisfied that he can be no other than the son of Alfonso?”
“But if we cannot meet in Ferrara, and if you cannot leave Ferrara, where shall we meet?”
“My dearest Pietro,” she whispered, “do you not see—this is the end.”
“The end? How could there be an end for us?”
“The end of meetings. The end of our talks … the end of physical love. I shall love you always. I shall think of you always. But we must not meet, for if we did and we were discovered I know not what would happen to either of us. Our love remains, Pietro. It is as beautiful as it ever was. But it is too beautiful to be subjected to the harshness of everyday life.”
He was staring at her with dumb anguish in his eyes.
Too beautiful, she thought. And too fragile.
IX
THE BROTHERS OF FERRARA
Pietro was lost to her. The tender relationship was over, as were the flowers which had bloomed so beautifully in the gardens which had provided its background.
Lucrezia was trying to give all her thoughts to the child who was due to be born in September. Her pregnancy was a difficult one and she often felt very ill. Alfonso, who could not endure sickness in women, left her very much alone, and now that Pietro had gone from Ferrara the suspicious husband no longer made his unheralded visits through the corridor.
Alfonso had many difficulties to contend with in those months and little time to spare even for his foundry. The plague had been more devastating than usual during the hot summer days; and the results of famine in Ferrara had been alarming; moreover the death of old Ercole seemed to have brought certain festering sores to a head. These were the petty jealousies and rivalries between the brothers.
The most disturbing of these brothers was the bastard Giulio. The very fact of being a bastard made Giulio constantly anxious to prove that he was every bit as important as his brothers. It was unfortunate that Giulio happened to be the most handsome member of the family; he was also the wittiest, and he had the gift of ingratiating himself with the people. He was more popular than any of his brothers, although the solid worth and practical ability of Alfonso were appreciated.
Ferrante was like a pale shadow of Giulio, almost as madly reckless, but lacking that quick wit of the bastard. And it now seemed that Ferrante and Giulio were ranging themselves against Ippolito. Sigismondo however could be ignored; his ideas were becoming more and more mystic, and he would never be a menace to the dukedom.
In his new position Alfonso was quick to realize that harmony within his dukedom was essential, and he tried to placate Giulio by presenting him with a palace and a good income such as he could never have possessed under the rule of mean Duke Ercole.
This however, while it made Giulio more arrogant than ever, also aroused the jealousy of Ippolito, who showed his rancour by arresting a chaplain who belonged to Giulio’s household. The man may have slighted Ippolito; no one but Ippolito was sure of this, but what did seem obvious was that Ippolito was trying to show Giulio, and Ferrara, that his upstart bastard brother must remember his place in the dukedom and that therein he must behave with due respect to his legitimate brothers.
This was the state of affairs during that
hot summer when the city, with a hundred noisome smells, was the breeding place of plague.
It would be folly, Lucrezia decided, to remain there for the birth of her precious heir; and she called her women to her and told them that she planned to leave for Modena where, in more suitable conditions, her child should be born.
She noticed that her cousin Angela seemed to have lost her usual high spirits, and she wondered whether this was due to the fact that she would be leaving Giulio.
She decided to speak to her, and eventually sent all her women away with the exception of Angela; and when they were alone she said: “Now, cousin, you had better tell me about it.”
Angela began to protest vigorously—too vigorously—that nothing was wrong; then she broke down and sobbing blurted out: “I’m going to have a baby.”
“Giulio?” said Lucrezia at length.
“Who else?” demanded Angela fiercely.
“Giulio knows?”
Angela nodded.
“And what says he, my dear?”
“He says that we must marry.”
“Well, then you should be happy.”
“We are afraid that there will be obstacles. Alfonso’s permission must be obtained.”
“I doubt not that he will give it.”
“Ippolito will do all in his power to frustrate us. He hates Giulio.”
“And you, my pretty cousin, are in part responsible for that.”
Angela, always the coquette, smiled through her tears. “Was it my fault?”
Lucrezia smiled gently. “Well, do not be distressed. I doubt not that all will be well for you. But in the meantime I would advise caution. It would not be wise for you to marry without Alfonso’s consent, as Giulio would then arouse the enmity of his eldest brother as well as that of Ippolito. Heaven knows, enough trouble is caused by the quarrels between himself and Ippolito. Now listen to me. Keep this matter secret for the present and ask Giulio to do the same. Believe me, this is the best way if you would marry in the end. Your pregnancy can be kept secret for a while. We will make a new fashion for skirts. Leave it to me.”
