by Jean Plaidy
He went down, the mad and bitter laughter on his lips; and as he lay bleeding from his many wounds Louis de Beaumont rode up to see who this man was who had so eagerly sought death.
There were many to bend over him, to strip him of his shining armor and his fine raiment.
When they had done this they left him naked for the buzzards; and the thirty-one-year-old Duke of Romagna and Valentinois, the dreaded Cesare Borgia, was no more.
Lucrezia was dreaming of Francesco in her apartments, asking herself if he would come again, when into the courtyard there came a dusty rider.
Lucrezia did not know that he had come, and it was Friar Raffaela who brought her the news.
He came to her, and there were tears in his stern eyes as he laid his hands on her shoulders and blessed her.
“You are so solemn,” said Lucrezia; “you are so tender that I am afraid.”
“I would ask you to prepare yourself for tragic news.”
Lucrezia waited tense.
“Il Valentino has been killed in battle.”
She did not speak; she stood staring at him, her expression blank as though she refused to believe him.
“It is true, my daughter,” said the friar.
She shook her head. “It is false … false!” she cried.
“Nay. It is true. He died bravely and in battle.”
“Not my brother, not Cesare. He would not die in battle. He could not. He was a match for all.”
“Would you like me to pray with you? We will ask for courage that you may bear this grief.”
“Prayer! I want no prayers. There has been a mistake. Good friar, you must go to Navarre. You must bring me the truth. There has been a mistake. I know it.”
He looked at her sadly and shook his head.
Then he led her to her bed and signed to her women to help her. She seemed limp until they laid hands on her. Then she threw them off.
She looked pleadingly at the friar once more before she covered her face with her hands. They heard her whispering to herself: “Cesare … my brother! My brother … Cesare! It is not possible. Not Cesare … anyone but Cesare.…”
She signed to them to leave her alone. They did so and she threw herself on to the floor still murmuring his name.
“My father … Giovanni … my first Alfonso … all those … yes … but not Cesare.…”
Her women were afraid when she remained thus for more than an hour. They came to her and tried to rouse her, but she would not be roused. She would neither eat nor drink; but eventually she allowed them to help her to her bed.
She lay there woebegone and during the night they heard her sobbing.
Many times she called his name; it was uncanny, they said, as though she were imploring him to come back from the dead.
In the morning they tried again to rouse her.
It was a terrible blow, they said; but she would grow away from it. It was the sudden shock which had stunned her.
“Grow away from it!” she cried. “You do not understand, for Cesare was Lucrezia, and Lucrezia Cesare; and one without the other is but half alive.”
It was Strozzi who sought to rouse her.
She must not give way to her sorrow, he implored her; she was young yet and there were many years before her. He understood her grief for her brother, but there were many who loved her and grieved to see her grief. For their sakes she must not become so sad that she would surely die of melancholy.
To him and to Barbara she tried to explain this bond between herself and her brother which had begun in their nursery days and had continued through their lives. They assured her that they understood, but that she must throw herself into some activities or lose her reason.
What of Francesco who loved her so tenderly? Was it fair to him that he must in anguish hear these reports of her misery?
Strozzi had devised an intricate plan whereby Lucrezia and Francesco might correspond with each other. They must not forget that they were surrounded by spies here in Ferrara, and it was certain that Isabella had heard by now of her husband’s infatuation for Lucrezia.
Strozzi’s plan was that he should write letters to Francesco on Lucrezia’s behalf, and that he would send these to his brother—Guido residing in Mantua—who would then take them to the Mantuan court and present them to Francesco. The answers would come by the same route. But they dared not use their own names for this correspondence in case it should fall into hands not intended to receive it; Francesco, for instance, should be called Guido since the letters were to be addressed to Guido, and Lucrezia should be known as Barbara. They must also have faked names for others such as Alfonso, Ippolito, Isabella, who might be referred to.
Lucrezia must admit that it would be a means of corresponding with her lover, and what she needed now in this time of terrible melancholy was an interest which would make her forget for a time the death of Cesare.
Lucrezia, at first half-heartedly, allowed herself to be drawn into this scheme; and after some weeks she realized what Strozzi had done for her, since this correspondence which brought her assurances of Francesco’s devotion was, she believed afterward, the means of saving her from a breakdown at this time.
Then she discovered that she was pregnant.
Alfonso refused to take any great interest in this pregnancy. He had been disappointed so many times. He was finding the bonnet-maker’s daughter absorbing; she appealed to him as no woman had before, and what he had thought would be a passing fancy had developed into a love affair already of some duration.
He spent a great deal of time in the woman’s company; and Lucrezia was glad of this. She was determined this time, though, that she would do nothing rash, and she lived quietly during the months of waiting, longing for the arrival of the baby.
She never danced and was very careful of what she ate, spending her time in writing letters with Strozzi and designing the baby’s garments. She instructed the court engraver, Bernardino Veneziano, to make her a cradle which should transcend all other cradles, and when this was completed members of the court came to marvel at it. It was made of gilded wood with four pillars at its corners. The roof was a pergola of gold branches and leaves; the curtains were of satin and the miniature pillows embroidered with gold.
It was in April when her pains started, and there was excitement throughout the castle. Alfonso however reacted by leaving at once. He could not endure another failure, and he did not trust Lucrezia to give him the heir he so much needed.
It was some hours after he had left when the baby was born—a healthy little boy who cried lustily and who, all declared, would most certainly not go the way of his predecessors.
When the little boy was laid in Lucrezia’s arms she felt a great load of sadness lifted from her. She had her son and she would try to live her life in him; she would try to forget all the sorrow which had made up the preceding years and she would endeavor with all her might to stop grieving for Cesare.
Alfonso came riding back to Ferrara when he heard the baby was born and was male and healthy.
He stormed into the bedchamber and demanded to see the child. He held it in his arms and laughed aloud with pleasure. This was a true heir of Ferrara.
“We will call him Ercole, after my father,” he said. “Come, Ercole, my son, come and meet the ambassadors who are all waiting to welcome Ercole who will one day be their Duke.”
And in the audience chamber, where many waited to see the new heir, Alfonso held up the child; then he removed the robe, crying: “See. He is healthy, this one, and provided with all things.”
There was great rejoicing in Ferrara.
There were rumors concerning the baby, for many remembered the last visit of Francesco Gonzaga and, although the lovers had believed at the time that their meetings had been secret, there could have been some servant whom they had believed erroneously that they could trust.
There were covert remarks concerning little Ercole’s appearance.
Was that the Este nose? Perhaps it was a little to
o wide? A little too flattened? Did it resemble the very distinctive nose of a certain neighboring Marquis?
Lucrezia heard the rumors through Strozzi, a born intriguer who had his spies everywhere; she shrugged them aside. They were quite ridiculous, she said, and everyone must know them to be so.
Strozzi however warned her to be careful. Ippolito was watching her closely and she should remember the havoc he had wrought in the lives of his brothers. She must never forget those two young men, still captive in their tower. No one spoke of them nowadays; they seemed to have been quite forgotten; but she should never forget and, remembering them, be reminded of the might and malice of Ippolito.
Her first indication that Alfonso was aware of Francesco’s love for her and hers for him was when he sent the announcement of little Ercole’s birth to Mantua. She read his message and expressed astonishment that it should be addressed to Isabella.
“I see,” she said, “that you do not mention Francesco Gonzaga.”
Ippolito, who was with his brother, said: “Isabella is our sister.”
“But Francesco Gonzaga is ruler of Mantua.”
“We do not think it necessary to tell him of the child’s birth,” retorted Ippolito.
Lucrezia did not answer. Alfonso was looking at her directly. She knew then of their suspicions.
Alfonso said: “I shall shortly be going to France. You will be Regent with my brother while I am gone. Doubtless”—he waved his hands—“after recent happenings you may be feeling incapable of governing. I would have you know that Ippolito is always here to help you … and to help me.”
It was a warning. She went back to her apartments and sent a message by her chaplain, to Strozzi. She trusted the chaplain completely. He had been with Cesare and had helped him escape from Medina; he had come to her asking for refuge, and most willingly she had given it; she was very fond of his company, for they would sit together and talk of Cesare for hours, so that Lucrezia was able to hear details of his captivity; and it was almost as though Cesare were not dead, when she talked with his chaplain. Moreover this man and the page who had brought her the news, were, she knew, her very trusty servants, and she had need of all those whom she could trust.
When the chaplain brought Strozzi to her, she told them what Alfonso and Ippolito had said.
All Strozzi’s love of scheming was aroused. He was determined that the love affair should prosper. He then wrote a letter to Francesco, through his brother Guido, in which the perfidy of Camillio (their name for Alfonso) and Tigrino (Ippolito) was deplored. Camillio was leaving for France, very shortly, so why should not Guido (Francesco) pay a visit to Ferrara in his absence?
Isabella was angry. All her malice against Lucrezia had its roots in jealousy; and now Lucrezia had inflicted the greatest humiliation upon her; Isabella’s husband was in love with her rival.
A light, passing affair with humble women, Isabella accepted; a light passing flirtation with Lucrezia she might have endured. But Francesco had changed; he was melancholy, brooding; and he had given up all other women.
What power was there in that quiet slender girl to arouse such devotion? Isabella demanded of herself.
She was determined however to ruin Lucrezia, and Francesco too if need be.
When she thought of Francesco, cunning came into her eyes. As his love for Lucrezia grew, so did his hatred of Isabella. He was asserting himself against her and was reminding her twenty times a day that he was the ruler of Mantua, and the power which she had once seized as her right, was now being taken from her.
If Francesco were involved in disaster at Ferrara, she would not be heart-broken. Her son, Federigo, was young yet. If his father died there would be a regent, and who should that be other than the mother of the young Marquis Federigo?
She wrote to her brother Ippolito, that lover of intrigue. It was no use writing to Alfonso; he was too prosaic; and Ippolito had taken a dislike to Lucrezia since the affair of Giulio and Ferrante, because he knew that Lucrezia’s sympathy had been with his brothers.
It might not be a bad idea, suggested Isabella, to lure Francesco to Ferrara and there expose the lovers. Ippolito should burn her letter when he received it, as she would burn the letters he wrote to her. She believed that there might be considerable correspondence between them over this matter.
Shortly afterward Lucrezia was visited by a gentleman named Masino del Forno, who was known as the Modenese; he was a much favored man at the court of the Este family and Lucrezia knew him to be a great friend not only of Alfonso but Ippolito.
Conversation was general for the first minutes of the visit. Masino del Forno asked to see the heir and young Ercole was brought in. He was a very healthy baby, and Lucrezia was delighted with him.
When Ercole had been taken away, Masino said quietly: “What a pity it is that relations between Ferrara and Mantua are not more cordial.”
“The Marchesa is devoted to her brothers,” said Lucrezia cautiously.
“I was not thinking of the Marchesa. After all it is the Marquis himself who is the ruler of Mantua. We must not forget that.”
“I do not forget,” said Lucrezia lightly.
“It is a grievous thing in these times that there should be misunderstandings. I firmly believe that a visit from Francesco Gonzaga would do a great deal to improve relations between the two states.”
Lucrezia felt her heart leap. She longed to see Francesco again, but something within her warned her. She knew Masino del Forno to be an intimate of Ippolito and since the terrible fate of Giulio and Ferrante she had been afraid of Ippolito.
Del Forno went on: “I believe that if an emissary went from Ferrara to Mantua to persuade the Marquis to come here, he would do so. I myself would travel to Mantua with the greatest delight. Should I go with your blessing?”
Lucrezia was tempted, but it was as though the grotesque face of Giulio rose before her to warn her of the perfidy of Ippolito.
She said coolly: “In my husband’s absence my brother Ippolito is co-regent with me. I pray you discuss this matter with him; and if he agrees that you should travel to Mantua with an invitation for the Marquis, then I should put no obstacle in the way.”
The Modenese went away; Lucrezia sensed that he felt disappointed.
In Mantua Francesco, waiting impatiently for the letters which brought him news of Lucrezia, was suddenly aware of a change in Isabella. She was less haughty, less arrogant, less fiery-tempered. When he asserted his rights she would press her lips firmly together as though she were holding back words which she longed to utter; and all the time there was a look of expectancy on her face as though she were urging herself to have patience … for a while.
Isabella was plotting. Against whom? wondered Francesco. Against Lucrezia? Then that would be against him.
What was the meaning of that air of looking forward? She was like a cat at a mousehole. Why? There was her attitude to their son, Federico. It was indulgent yet firm. It was as though she was determined to win the boy’s respect and affection while she kept a restraining hand on him.
A visitor arrived at Mantua. He came quietly—almost in secret—and he came from Ferrara. He sought an early opportunity to be alone with the Marquis.
This man Masino del Forno, the Modenese, was not entirely unknown to Francesco. He knew him to be an intimate of Ippolito, and he believed that on more than one occasion he had performed a shady deed for his master.
Francesco had been walking in the gardens when del Forno sidled up to him; del Forno looked over his shoulder and back at the castle windows apprehensively.
“I come, my lord,” he whispered, “on a secret mission, a mission from the Duchessa.”
Francesco was immediately alert. This was strange. Why should Lucrezia send a message by this man, when already there was the excellent means of corresponding which Strozzi had arranged for them.
“A secret mission? You surprise me.”
“The Duchessa longs to see your lordship. She would
have you know that the Duke will be away for many months. It would give her great delight if you could slip into Ferrara … unheralded … a secret mission, you understand.”
Francesco turned to the man, who could not know that he had received a letter which must have been written at the very time del Forno had set out from Ferrara. This was a very suspicious method of procedure, and Francesco did not trust it. He thought of Isabella’s demeanor of the last weeks and his suspicions increased.
“I doubt not,” he said, “that if my brother of Ferrara feels I should visit his dominion he will ask me to do so. As for going in secret, I see no virtue in that.”
“I have been entrusted,” pursued del Forno, “to give you this.”
He held out a miniature, tiny but exquisite. There was no mistaking the face portrayed there. It was Lucrezia’s. Francesco looked at it and longed to take it, but by now he was sure that his enemies were aware of his love affair with Lucrezia, and he believed he understood the meaning of his wife’s expression of late.
She wished him to be lured to Ferrara. The man who stood before him, he believed to be a hired assassin of Ippolito’s and possibly Alfonso’s.
“Thank you,” he said, “but I have no wish for this trinket, and I cannot understand why it should have been sent to me.”
With that he turned away from the man. He immediately went to his private apartments and wrote a letter to Zilio (Strozzi) which was meant for Lucrezia, explaining all that had happened and giving a strong warning that he believed them all to be in acute danger.
Isabella faced the Modenese and listened to his account of what had happened. She was angry. Francesco was not such a fool then. He might be in love with Lucrezia but he was not going to risk his life.
“You have been clumsy,” she snapped.
“Marchesa, I was tact itself. Depend upon it, they suspect us.”
“They would never suspect us, those two. They are besottedly in love like a shepherd and his lass. It is that man Strozzi who is managing their affairs. It seems to me that he is cleverer than my brothers. Go now. There is nothing else you can do. I think it would be well for you if you set out at once for Ferrara. If the Marquis suspects you, you yourself may be in danger. Go at once.”
