by Jean Plaidy
The woman was to Alfonso’s taste. She was voluptuous and silent. He preferred silent women. They had drunk deeply and he was drowsy; he lay stretched on the bed waiting for the woman, while she hovered about the room.
“Come, hurry, woman,” he growled.
But she laughed at him, and he half regretted that he had drunk so deeply that he felt disinclined to rise. She was kneeling at the foot of the bed.
He cried: “What do you there?”
And still she laughed.
She did not know that he was the ruler of Ferrara. Part of the pleasure in these nightly jaunts was that he ventured forth incognito.
He jerked his foot. It did not move. But he felt too listless to care, and the woman was now flitting to the head of the bed.
He reached out an arm to catch her; she took it at the wrist and held it. She had moved behind him and, keeping his arm outstretched, she kissed it at intervals.
He grew impatient; he was never a man to fancy the preliminaries of lovemaking. He implied that he was a practical man; he made no secret of the purpose which had brought him here. Therefore delay irritated him. But tonight he was strangely listless.
Then he found that his feet and hands were securely tied to the bedposts, and he was at the mercy of this woman.
Now he was alert. For what purpose had she tied him thus? How could he have been so foolish as to have lain supine while this was done to him? Suddenly he understood. Something had been slipped into his wine to produce this lassitude.
He was in danger, and the thought of danger, and the need for prompt action, cut through the fumes in his head.
Then the door burst open and there was Gian Cantore di Guascogna, the rascally priest with the divine voice who, like his master, enjoyed a tour of the brothels.
“Free me, you rogue,” shouted Alfonso.
The priest came and stood by the bed. He had taken his dagger from his belt. He lifted his hand as though he were about to plunge the knife into the Duke’s heart.
“Enough!” cried Alfonso. “Come, you old rogue. Cut these ropes at once. ’Twas a good enough joke, and I its victim, but ’tis over.”
Alfonso had been accustomed to command all his life, and there was authority in his voice. His laughter rumbled in his throat, and the priest, under the spell of that strong personality, leaned over the bed and cut the ropes.
Alfonso jumped up; he was laughing heartily, slapping Gian on the back, calling him Scoundrel.
Then he pushed Gian from the room. Gian stood outside the door trembling.
With the coming of the spring Alfonso left Ferrara for one of his missions abroad and, as was the custom, appointed Lucrezia as Regent. Ippolito being so powerful in Ferrara—the most important man next to Alfonso—could not be ignored, so that it was necessary that he should be co-Regent.
Lucrezia was glad of her brother-in-law’s help, for Ippolito, when he was not suffering from imagined slights to his dignity, was a statesman of no small ability.
But Lucrezia was aware that Ippolito’s hatred of his half-brother had been increased through the terrible injury he had done him. Ippolito could not dismiss Giulio from his thoughts; he knew that many people deplored what he had done, and he sought to put himself right in the eyes of Ferrara. To do this he must prove Giulio worthless, and as Ippolito had always had numerous spies in the castle, he was fully aware of the meetings which took place in Giulio’s apartments.
He listened gravely to Alfonso’s account of how he had been tied to a prostitute’s bed, and Alfonso had accused him of lacking a sense of fun. Ippolito had said nothing. He intended to teach all his brothers a lesson.
That the plotting had begun as a game, and had never been anything else, mattered not to Ippolito. He was determined to set himself right in the eyes of the world while he brought some balm to his own conscience.
He did not tell Lucrezia what was in his mind, as he believed Lucrezia might warn Giulio and Ferrante. She was forever searching for some means of making Giulio happy, and Ippolito did not trust her.
Ippolito discovered that an ambush had been laid for Alfonso at some place on his journey. That this was done half-heartedly was of no account; and that the plotters had waited at a spot which Alfonso did not pass was quite unimportant. Ippolito arrested Boschetti and his son-in-law who, when put to torture, confessed that there had been plots against the life of Alfonso and Ippolito, and these had been concocted in Giulio’s room.
Lucrezia came to the dark room.
“Giulio,” she cried in alarm.
He sat up to stare at her.
“Alfonso is back,” she went on, “and something is wrong. Boschetti and his son-in-law have not been here for three days. They are in prison.”
Giulio leaped off his bed; the sight of his poor stricken face made Lucrezia want to weep.
“They are Ippolito’s prisoners,” she said. “There is talk of treason.”
“So … he has done this! He has made a monster of me and now he wants my life.”
“I believe it to be so,” said Lucrezia. “There is little time to spare. You should leave at once, Giulio. Do not let yourself fall into Ippolito’s hands again.”
“Do you think I care what becomes of me?”
“Giulio, you must live. You must live to prove to Alfonso that you had no intention of taking his life. There is only one way you can do this. It is through immediate escape.”
“And where should I go?”
“Isabella, your sister, loves you dearly. She hates Ippolito for what he has done to you. Go to Isabella. She will help you. And her husband is a good man.”
Giulio kissed Lucrezia’s hands; and soon she had the satisfaction of hearing him gallop away from the castle.
But Giulio came back to Ferrara. He came back because Ferrante was in the hands of his enemies, and Giulio could not rest in Mantua while Ferrante was their prisoner. He had to return to explain that their plots had no roots in reality. They had had a hundred opportunities to kill their brothers, but they had not taken advantage of these.
Isabella and Francesco had listened to the demands of Alfonso for his return, and they had allowed him to leave only when Alfonso had given them his word that Giulio’s life should be spared.
Thus Giulio came back to Ferrara where in the company of Ferrante he was forced to witness the barbarous execution of some of his friends.
Ippolito had won. He had assured Alfonso and the people of Ferrara that his prompt action had saved Ferrara from terrible civil war and bloodshed. Ippolito’s conscience was salved. He had attacked his brother in a fit of rage; but see what a villain this brother was—he was a traitor to Ferrara!
Giulio and Ferrante were sentenced to death, but the sentences were reduced to those of life imprisonment, and from that time they were placed in one of the towers of the Castle of Ferrara, there to live out their long lives, there to listen to the music of the balls which took place in the castle, to hear the sounds of the people who passed the castle’s walls. So near to the life they had known, and yet shut away from it, they were two young men before whom the long years stretched out, yet whose lives were over.
X
THE BULL IN THE DUST
In the highest tower of the fortress of Medina del Campo Cesare paced up and down, clenching his hands, biting his fists, uncontrollable fury within him.
“How can I endure this life?” he shouted at his attendants. “Why should this happen to me … to Cesare Borgia! What have I done to deserve such a fate?”
His servants cowered before him. They might have answered that he had imprisoned many men, had condemned them to a worse fate than that which he now suffered; but none dared speak to him, even though their silence could irritate him as much as words.
He had not been ill-treated. In Spain he was recognized as a prisoner of rank. He had his chaplain and attendants, and he was not entirely denied visitors from the outside world.
But to a man such as Cesare Borgia, who had dreamed
of ruling all Italy, this fate was the most tragic that could have befallen him.
There were moments of fury when none knew what he would do next. He had during one of these, which had come to him while he was in the prison of Cincilla, lifted the governor in his arms and attempted to throw him over the battlements. Cesare was emaciated by sickness and frustration, but anger gave him strength and the governor’s life had been saved just in time.
As a result Cesare had been removed to this high tower in the fortress of Medina del Campo.
When he looked from his narrow window he could see the valley far below. He would sit brooding for hours over the view from that slit of a window. He longed for freedom and each day he cursed his evil fate, until those about him believed he would do himself an injury.
Then he would call for writing materials that he might write to his sister.
“Lucrezia,” he would cry aloud. “You are the only friend I have in the world. And what can you do for me? You are almost as much a prisoner as I am. To think that this evil fate could befall us … the Borgias!”
He would sink into melancholy, and none dared go near him.
But there were moments of hope. He had heard that King Ferdinand was not pleased with the work of the Great Captain, Consalvo de Cordoba, in Naples, and that he considered he was a traitor to his country. Ferdinand had a plan. He would release Cesare Borgia, set him at the head of an army and send him to make war, in the name of Spain, on Cordoba. Cordoba was the man who had delivered Cesare into the hands of Spain; but for Cordoba he would not be a prisoner now. Ferdinand decided that Cesare was indeed the man to subdue the Great Captain.
So hope was born. There was laughter in the tower of Medina del Campo. Cesare cried: “Soon I shall be marching at the head of my army. Soon I shall be in Naples. I was dying, my friends, for a breath of Italian air. The thought of breathing it revives me now.”
He discussed his plans with his visitors; he would spend hours stretched out on the floor, studying maps. There was an atmosphere of excitement in the tower—until news came that Ferdinand had changed his plans and had set out in person for Naples.
Then it seemed that madness possessed Cesare. He threw himself about the tower so that his servants were sure he would do himself an injury. He stood at the window looking down, and all believed that he planned to throw himself out.
The Count of Benavente, a nobleman who lived close by, had visited Cesare out of curiosity, and become fascinated by him. This Count, seeing thoughts of suicide in Cesare’s eyes, said to him: “Are you thinking of throwing yourself out of the window, my friend?”
Cesare answered: “It would be an escape from what is rapidly becoming intolerable.”
“By the window certainly,” said Benavente. “But why jump out? Why not lower yourself down by means of a rope?”
“I have my visitors,” said Cesare. “I am treated as a prisoner of some state. But my jailers would never allow a rope to be brought to me.”
“It might be arranged,” said Benavente.
Cesare now had an object in life. His spirits revived and the old vitality was with him. His chaplain and his servant Garcia were in the plot, and eventually, a little at a time, the rope was smuggled into the tower.
There came a day when, afraid that the guards were becoming suspicious, Cesare decided that there must be no more delay. The pieces of rope were securely joined together, and the escape planned for a certain dark night.
Garcia descended first and to his horror he discovered, when he reached the end of the rope, that he was too far from the ground to jump with safety. But jump he must; and he lay groaning in the ditch about the castle, his legs broken. Cesare had by this time descended and seen what had happened; there was no alternative but to jump; he did so and, as with Garcia, both legs were broken as were his wrists and several bones in his fingers.
Writhing with pain, cursing his ill-luck, he lay on the ground. But it was not long before Benavente came hurrying to him and, seeing his condition, picked him up with the aid of his groom and set him on a horse.
Cesare was in agony, but at least he had escaped. As for Garcia, there was not time to save him as the castle was already alert.
Garcia was left to be captured and executed, but Cesare was taken by Benavente to Villalon, there to have his bones reset and recover sufficiently to undertake the journey he had planned into the Kingdom of Navarre, which was ruled over by his brother-in-law.
At last he was well enough and, thanking his friend Benavente, he left him and with two attendants rode with all speed toward Navarre.
Lucrezia never ceased to think of her brother.
The times were anxious. Julius was proving a warlike Pope and, although during Alexander’s lifetime he had been his bitter enemy, decrying the ambitious desire to subdue the neighboring states of Italy, now that he was sure of his own power he was determined to restore the Papal states to the Church; and it seemed that his policy ran along lines similar to those pursued by Alexander.
He had made an alliance with the old Orsini, marrying his daughter, Felice della Rovere, to Gian Giordano Orsini; his nephew Niccolo della Rovere was married to Laura, the daughter of the beautiful Giulia, wife of Orsino Orsini. Laura was said by some to be the daughter of Alexander, but Julius chose to ignore this and accept her as an Orsini.
Having made peace with the Orsinis and the Colonnas, Julius felt that he was safe at home; he was therefore ready for conquest farther afield, and went forth to attack the Baglioni of Perugia and the Bentivoglio of Bologna.
The Bentivoglios had always been firm friends of the Este family, but Ferrara had been forced into alliance with the Church. Julius however had never had a great opinion of Ippolito and had reproved him often for his vain dress and manners, suggesting that he behaved more like a woman than a man and did not conduct himself in a manner befitting a member of the Sacred College. Moreover Julius had been shocked by recent happenings in Ferrara, and considered that Alfonso had been wrong not to have punished Ippolito for his terrible outrage on Giulio.
Therefore there were rumors in Ferrara that this friendship between them and the Pope was an uneasy one, and that the latter might, when he had completed his conquest of Perugia and Bologna, turn his attention to Ferrara.
Lucrezia felt apprehensive and ready for any terror that might come; never did a day pass without her thinking of those two young men who had been her frequent companions and who were now shut away in the tower of the castle. Disaster could descend, swift and unexpected. Who could know what would happen next?
Her old friend, Giulia Farnese, wrote to her now and then. Giulia was once more installed at the Papal Court now that her daughter Laura was married to the Pope’s nephew. Giulia recalled the old days when they had been constant companions and had washed their hair together and competed for Alexander’s attention. She wrote without nostalgia, which meant that life to her now was as good as it had been in Alexander’s time; and Lucrezia had heard that Giulia, even now only a little more than thirty, was reckoned to be the most beautiful and attractive woman in Rome. She was surrounded by admirers and even her young daughter, herself a beauty, could not compete with her.
Giulia had known great triumphs. Not so Sanchia, that other friend. Sanchia had died recently in Naples in the prime of her youth and beauty, deeply mourned by her last lover Consalvo de Cordoba, the Great Captain who had lured Cesare to the Castel del Ovo that he might be made prisoner of Spain.
It was into this uneasy atmosphere that the great news broke.
Lucrezia was with her women when she heard that a messenger was below and had news of such importance that he refused to impart it to any but the Duchessa herself.
The page knelt at her feet and poured out the great news: Cesare was free. He had reached Navarre. He was preparing now to regain all he had lost. He needed the help of the one he trusted more than any other in the world.
Lucrezia listening felt young again. She laughed as she had not laughed
for a very long time.
Then she took the page into her arms, and kissed his forehead.
“You shall never want while you live,” she told him, “for bringing me this news.”
Lucrezia was light-hearted. She had another reason for rejoicing besides the escape of Cesare. A guest had arrived in Ferrara and a ball was to be given in his honor.
She had not realized how much pleasure this event would give her and she was astonished that she could feel so happy. Often she would look up at the tower in which those two young men were incarcerated and, thinking of the melancholy turn to Giulio’s life, had come near to weeping. She had pleaded with Alfonso, and the two brothers had been allowed to be together. She knew what comfort this would be to them, and it must have been indeed a happy day when Giulio and Ferrante were told that their confinement was no longer to be solitary.
But Lucrezia was not allowed to see them for Alfonso had forbidden any to visit them. Their names, he warned Lucrezia, were to be no more mentioned. He had shown mercy to his brothers who, he declared, had plotted against his life; they were together in captivity, and they were allowed a window from which to look out on the world. They would be fed and clothed until they died; he had commissioned men to look after that side of their lives. As for the rest, they were dead as far as all others were concerned.
“Why do you treat them thus?” Lucrezia had demanded. “Is it because you, like Ippolito, dare not look at Giulio’s face and know your own injustice?”
Alfonso’s eyes were cold. “If you would concern yourself with your business and leave mine alone, I should be better pleased with you,” he said.
