by Jean Plaidy
“Is this not in some way my business?” Lucrezia asked with unwonted passion. “Am I not your wife?”
“I would pray you remember it,” Alfonso had answered. “A wife’s task is to provide children for her husband, and you have not been successful in that respect.”
That subdued her. She was always subdued by her inability to produce an heir.
But within the next few weeks she was again pregnant and Alfonso’s manner warmed a little toward her.
And now she must put aside thoughts of those two sad prisoners. She was with child, and she prayed that this time she would not disappoint Alfonso. But what made her so happy was that there would be a guest at the ball who, she did not doubt, had made the journey to Ferrara for the purpose of seeing her; that guest was Francesco Gonzaga.
She was dressed in cloth of gold with velvet and brocade; she wore her hair loose and a great diamond on her forehead.
Her old friend, Ercole Strozzi, whispered to her that he had never seen her look so beautiful as she did tonight. She smiled at him well pleased. Since her love affair with Pietro Bembo, Ercole Strozzi had been one of her most trusted friends. It was pleasant to sit with the crippled poet discussing poetry and music; and talking of those days at Ostellato seemed to bring them back endowed with a fresh beauty.
But this night, if she thought of Pietro Bembo, it was as a figure of unreality; their love now seemed like something they had read in a poem, too fragile for truth, too rarefied for reality. And here was a man who was virile—a man who could arouse her senses, and make her feel young as she had in those days when she had loved Pedro Caldes and Alfonso of Bisceglie.
Francesco, as the guest of honor, took her hand and led her in the dance, and his eyes were ardent beneath the hooded lids.
“It seems many years since I said good-bye to you in Mantua,” he said. “Did Isabella hurt you badly, Lucrezia?”
Lucrezia smiled. “No,” she answered. “At that time nothing could hurt me. You had made me so welcome.”
“I mean to put a shell about you … a protective shell to guard you from her malice. She hates you because I love you.”
“She hated me when you were scarcely aware of my existence.”
“I have been aware of your existence since the day we first met. Nothing shall come between us now. Not Alfonso nor all of Ferrara. Not Isabella with all her malice.”
“We could not be lovers, Francesco,” she told him. “How could we? It is impossible.”
“Love such as I bear you can conquer what may seem impossible to conquer!”
“Come, we must dance,” she told him. “We are watched, you know. All will be wondering of what we talk so earnestly.”
“They must know that I love you. How could any man do otherwise?”
“I have my enemies,” she said. “But dance, I pray you. Alfonso watches.”
“A plague on Alfonso,” murmured Francesco.
Lucrezia’s dancing had always been of the utmost grace and charm. It had delighted her father and her brothers, and Alexander had been wont to have the floor cleared when Lucrezia danced. Here in Ferrara it attracted attention, and many watched as she circled the floor.
She seemed inspired on this night. She radiated happiness. She was full of such spirits as had been hers before the death of her father, and those watching her marveled.
“Madonna Lucrezia is happy this night,” people said to one another, and they laughed behind their fans. Had it anything to do with her attractive partner? Francesco Gonzaga could not be called a handsome man, but he was known to appeal to women.
“How can we meet … alone?” demanded Francesco passionately.
“We cannot,” she told him. “It would never be allowed. We are watched closely. My husband watches me, and I wonder too how many in your suite are Isabella’s spies.”
“Lucrezia, in spite of all, we must meet.”
“We must plan with care,” she told him.
There was another matter which she did not forget even as she danced with Francesco and allowed her senses to be exhilarated by his desire for her: the need to help Cesare. Who could be more useful to Cesare than the powerful Marquis of Mantua, the great soldier whom the Pope had made Captain-General of his armies?
“You know of my brother’s escape?” she asked.
He nodded. “It was one of the greatest sorrows in my life that my efforts on his behalf should have failed with the King of Spain.”
“You did your best to help. Do not think I shall ever forget that.”
“I would give my life to serve you.”
There was nothing they could do but dance together; only thus could they touch hands and whisper together. So they danced and danced until the early morning, and Lucrezia seemed like a child again.
She did not realize how exhausted she was until her women helped her to her bed. Then she lay as in a dream, her eyes shining, recalling everything he had said, the manner in which he had looked at her.
I am alive again, she told herself. Cesare is free, Francesco Gonzaga loves me, and I love him.
She awoke. It was not yet light. Something was wrong, and as she tasted the salty sweat on her lips, she was suddenly aware of acute agony.
She called to her women and they came running to her bedside.
“I am ill,” she said. “I feel as though I am near to death.”
The women looked at each other in alarm. They knew.
The doctors were brought; they nodded gravely. There was whispering throughout the apartment.
“She was mad to dance as she did. It is certain that by so doing she has lost the heir of Ferrara.”
Alfonso stormed into her apartment. He was too furious to contain his anger.
“So,” he cried, “you have lost my son. What good are you as a wife, eh? You dance through the night to the danger of our heirs. What use are you to me?”
Weak and ill she looked pleadingly at him. “Alfonso …” she began, “I beg of you …”
“Beg … beg …! You will indeed be a beggar if you do not do your duty, woman. This is the third child we have lost. I tell you, you have no notion of your duty here. You bring frivolous Roman customs to Ferrara. We’ll not endure it, I am warning you.”
Lucrezia wilted, and the sight of her fragility infuriated Alfonso the more. He wanted a big strong woman, lusty, sensual and capable of bearing children.
He knew the dangers which threatened those states without heirs. Ippolito had already made trouble; there were the two prisoners in the castle tower. There must be an heir. Lucrezia must either cease disappointing him or he must get him a new wife.
He could no longer bear to look at her lying there among her pillows, elegant even in her present state. The ordeal through which she had passed had made her thinner than ever.
“Are you incapable of bearing children for me?” he cried.
He strode out of the room, and Lucrezia lay back exhausted and trembling.
Melancholy had seized her. There was no news from Cesare; Francesco had gone on his way; and there was a threat in Alfonso’s last words.
Alfonso strode furiously through the town. He was dressed as an ordinary merchant because he was eager not to be recognized; he did not wish his subjects to see him in this angry mood.
He was regretting that he had ever made the Borgia marriage. Of what use were the Borgia now? Their influence had died with Alexander. He did not believe that Cesare would ever regain his kingdom. Lucrezia was still rich, and that was to the good, but she was not rich in children.
She should certainly not have with her in Ferrara her son by the Duke of Bisceglie. She must be made to realize that her position was a very precarious one and would continue to be so until she gave Ferrara an heir.
He was passing a humble dwelling, and as he did so, a beautiful girl stepped into the street. She was carrying a box—the sort which was used for bonnets—and she walked with grace.
Alfonso immediately felt interested, and so g
reat was that interest that he forgot his resentment against his wife.
He followed the girl. She went into one of the big houses, but he knew she would soon come out since he guessed that she was delivering a bonnet to the lady of that house.
He was right. She soon emerged. Alfonso had rarely seen a face and figure which appealed to him more strongly. She walked with a feline grace although she was large of hip and bosom. Her long hair fell to her waist; it was unkempt, perhaps a little greasy; and her skin was brown. She might have appealed because she was so very different from the elegant wife whom he had just left.
He caught up with her.
“You are in a hurry,” he said, laying his hand on her bare arm.
She turned a startled gaze on him. Her large eyes were soft and without anger.
“I am in no hurry,” she said.
“It is well, because I would talk with you.”
“I must return to my mother’s house,” she said.
“The bonnet-maker?” he asked. “I saw you leave with the box on your arm.”
She recognized him suddenly; she turned to him and dropped a curtsey.
“You know me?”
“I have seen you riding in the streets, my lord Duke.”
“Do not be frightened,” he said softly. “I would know your name.”
“It is Laura Dianti.”
“Laura Dianti, the bonnet-maker’s daughter,” he repeated. “I think we shall be friends.”
They had reached the little house. She pushed open the door. It was dark inside.
“There is no one at home,” she said. “My mother is at the house of a lady, making a bonnet.…”
“So much the better,” laughed Alfonso.
He laid hold of her. She was unresisting, earthy, the woman he needed to make him forget his frustrated anger against Lucrezia.
He was well content; and so it seemed was Laura Dianti, the bonnet-maker’s daughter.
Lucrezia soon recovered from her miscarriage. There was so much now to make her gay. Cesare was a free man; she had constantly believed so firmly in his destiny, so godlike had he always seemed to her, that she was inwardly convinced that he would now achieve all his desires.
When a few of the younger Cardinals rode into Ferrara from the suite of Julius which was now installed in neighboring Bologna, Lucrezia was as lively as she had been since she came to Ferrara. She forgot Alfonso’s threats because, surrounded by Cardinals, she was reminded of the old days in Rome; and the homage these men paid her made her feel young and important again.
Francesco was passing through Ferrara once more, and this time she was determined that there should be some means of meeting privately. She began feverishly designing new dresses and spent so much time on these frivolities that Friar Raffaela da Varese, a strict priest of the Court, began preaching sermons against the wickedness of feminine vanity, and even condemned the use of cosmetics.
Lucrezia and her ladies pretended to listen to him gravely, but they ignored his warnings of hell-fire. There was gaiety in the little apartments of the balcony; and always at the side of Lucrezia was the lame poet, Ercole Strozzi.
Alfonso disliked him; he had no use for poets and, since he had ruled in his father’s place, life had gone less smoothly for Strozzi. Certain lands which had been bestowed on him by Duke Ercole had been reclaimed by Alfonso. Strozzi could have forgiven him that, but what angered him was Alfonso’s attitude toward his literary work.
Alfonso would laugh slyly when poetry was read, and there were many in the court who were ready to follow the example of the Duke.
Moreover Strozzi was a great friend of Francesco Gonzaga, and Francesco and Alfonso had never been fond of each other; now that Francesco desired Alfonso’s wife they were less likely to be so.
The proprietary attitude which Strozzi had assumed over Lucrezia, during the affair with Pietro Bembo, persisted. There was a strong bond between Strozzi and Lucrezia which neither of them understood. There was deep affection, although there had never been any suggestion of their being lovers.
Strozzi was now entirely devoted to the beautiful Barbara Torelli whom Lucrezia, when she had heard her sad story, had taken under her protection.
Strozzi was an artist; he longed to create, and because he felt a certain inadequacy in his poetry he wished to use his creative ability to mold the lives of the people he loved.
Barbara Torelli had appealed to his pity, for hers had been a very tragic story. She had been married to Ercole, one of the Bentivoglios of Bologna, the lowest sort of sensualist, in whom Barbara’s cultured manners inspired a great desire to humiliate her. He had therefore set about making her life as miserable as he possibly could and his greatest pleasure was in devising means of insulting her. There came a time when he invited a Bishop to his home and offered to rent Barbara to him for a period, for the sum of 1,000 ducats. Barbara refused to agree to the transaction; whereupon her husband told her that if she did not he would publicly accuse her of attempting to poison him. Barbara’s reply to that was to leave him. She found refuge in Mantua and stayed in a convent under the protection of Francesco Gonzaga.
It was Francesco who had made her story known, and although he could not induce Ercole Bentivoglio to return her dowry, a great deal of sympathy was aroused for Barbara.
The poetic Strozzi was deeply moved by her story; he sought her acquaintance, and her charm and dignity in adversity so moved him that he fell deeply in love with and married her. As for Barbara, she found this second Ercole such a contrast to the first that she began to return his affection, and the passionate and tender love between Ercole Strozzi and Barbara Torelli became an inspiration for many of the poets of the day.
Lucrezia had been equally moved by Barbara’s story and Strozzi’s devotion to her, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should offer her protection to Barbara. So Barbara was a frequent member of Lucrezia’s circle, and Strozzi yearned to repay her and Francesco for all they had done for Barbara while at the same time he sought vengeance on Alfonso, who had not only deprived him of his property but was so uncouth that he could not appreciate his poetry.
Thus, when Francesco came to Ferrara once more, Strozzi determined to use all his ingenuity so that the lovers might meet in the intimacy they desired.
Lucrezia’s love affair with the attractive soldier blossomed under Strozzi’s care, and there were meetings between the lovers while Strozzi, Barbara and those few intimate and trusted friends made the necessary cover.
During those weeks Lucrezia began to love Francesco with the strength which came with maturity. Francesco declared his one desire was to make her happy; she believed him; and so those idyllic weeks passed.
It was night, and Cesare with his army was encamped about the Castle of Viana.
A terrible melancholy came to him as he went to the door of his tent and looked out at the starry sky. There was a knowledge within him that his dreams would never be anything but dreams, that he had lived his life recklessly and had failed to see the truth, which was that all his greatness had come from his father.
Now in this little camp, the little commander in this little war was a disappointed man, a man of no account.
He, Cesare Borgia, must this tragic night see himself as he really was.
He had offered his services to his brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, and this was the task assigned to him: he must break the siege of the Castle of Viana and defeat the traitor Louis de Beaumont. It might be, if he could prove that he was still the same Cesare Borgia who had struck terror into the hearts of so many during the lifetime of his father, that he would yet get the help he needed to win back his kingdom.
But what was the use? He must face the truth. What had become of the Borgias now? Who cared for the emblem of the Grazing Bull? Alexander, that most fortunate of men, had died in power; but he had taken the might of the Borgias with him.
Cesare’s wife, Charlotte d’Albret, had made no effort to help him.
Why should she? He had forgotten her when he did not need that help. He had escaped from the King of Spain, and the King of France had become his enemy. What was his standing with his brother-in-law? He had no illusions. Should the King of France demand him to be delivered up, the King of Navarre would not refuse.
He was alone and friendless. There was only one in the world whom he could trust; she would give everything to help him, his beloved Lucrezia.
But what of Lucrezia? Her power had waned with his, for they were bound together as Borgias, and his danger was hers. Lucrezia would give her life for him, he knew; but that was all she could give.
“Little Lucrezia,” he murmured, looking up at the stars. “What big dreams we had in our nursery, did we not? And bigger dreams when our father ruled the Vatican. Dreams, my dearest, only dreams. I would not accept this fact before tonight. It is significant that I do so now. Cesare Borgia believed himself capable of ruling the world, but I see these idle fancies of mine as dreams.”
There was sudden tumult within the camp. One of his men shouted that the enemy were taking stores into the castle under cover of darkness.
“To horse!” cried Cesare, and he leaped into the saddle.
He could see the party riding with great speed toward the castle; he shouted to his men to follow him, and he was off.
He rode with such mad fury that he outstripped all his followers. He reached the raiding force which was now joined by men from the castle who, realizing what had happened, had come out to do battle.
Cesare rode into their midst, slaying right and left, shouting triumphantly as he did so. But he knew that the others were far behind, and that he was alone … alone and surrounded by the enemy.
He laughed within himself. In that mad moment, when the need for action had intruded on his reverie, he had determined on this.
They were all about him; he heard their blood-thirsty laughter. He heard his own, loud, demoniacal. He raised his sword and slashed furiously.
He was brave, they said; but what was one among so many?
