Light on Lucrezia

by Виктория Холт

  Sanchia had demanded that the guards placed outside the apartment should be those whom she was sure she could trust—members of her own household and her brother’s. She sent messages to her uncle, King Federico, telling him what happened, and as a result Messer Galeano da Anna, a noted Neapolitan surgeon, arrived in the company of Messer Clemente Gactula, Federico’s own physician.

  By this time it seemed almost certain that Alfonso would live, and now that he was well enough to realize that either Lucrezia or Sanchia was constantly with him and that his doctors were those sent by his uncle, he felt a new confidence and with this came a new strength.

  The Pope was a little irritated by his daughter’s desertion of his own sick-room for that of her husband. He hinted that it was a little melodramatic of the two women to watch over Alfonso as though his life were still in danger.

  But Alexander was worried. He was fully aware who was responsible for the attack, and this meant that he could only pretend that he wanted his son-in-law’s would-be murderers brought to justice.

  It was said in the Vatican and in the streets that if Alfonso recovered from this attack it would not be long before he met with another, for it was clear that Cesare Borgia, the dreaded Il Valentino, was behind this attempt on his life.

  They were very anxious days for Lucrezia. How could she help recalling that period of great anguish when she had learned that her lover’s body had been found in the Tiber? She knew who had arranged poor Pedro’s death. It was the same one who had tried to strike down Alfonso.

  Sometimes Alfonso would call out in his sleep and she would rush to his bedside to soothe him. She knew that his nightmares were always of threatening danger, and there was one name which he never failed to whisper—Cesare!

  Lucrezia decided that she must see her brother; she must make him understand how devotedly she loved Alfonso. Cesare loved her. Had they not always been close? Surely he could not continue to plot Alfonso’s death if he understood how much she loved her husband.

  She left Sanchia with Alfonso and went to Cesare’s apartments.

  Her brother’s eyes shone with mingled affection and speculation. “My dearest sister, it is rarely that you have given me this pleasure of late.”

  “I have been nursing my husband.”

  “Ah, yes. And how fares he?”

  “He will live, Cesare, if his attacker does not make another and successful attempt.”

  “How could that be while his two guardian angels watch over him?” said Cesare lightly. “You look tired, my beloved. You should rest. Or better still, ride with me. What say you … out to Monte Mario?”

  “No, Cesare. I must go back to my husband.”

  He took the back of her neck in his hands and squeezed gently. “Have you no time for your family?”

  “Our father is well again,” she said; “you do not need me, and my husband has been wounded nigh to death. Oh Cesare!” Her voice broke suddenly. “There is a great deal of scandalous talk. People say …” She faltered, and his hands on her neck tightened. He put his face close to hers, and the gleam in his eyes frightened her.

  “What do people say?” he demanded.

  “They say that he who was behind the killing of the Duke of Gandia was behind the attempted killing of Alfonso.”

  She lifted her face and forced herself to look into his eyes.

  “Cesare,” she insisted, “what have you to say to that?”

  She saw his mouth tighten; she was aware of the intense cruelty in that face, as he answered brutally: “If it was so, there is no doubt that he had his reasons; and I am certain that your little husband deserved his wounds.”

  She had been trying to tell herself, against her better judgment, that it could not be Cesare, but she found it impossible to deceive herself longer.

  Cesare pulled her to him, his fingers still on her neck, and she suddenly felt that he saw her as a kitten, a pretty playful kitten whose charming ways delighted him when he deigned to be amused by them. He kissed her. “You must not tire yourself,” he said. “But I shall not insist on your riding with me today. I would have you come of your own free will.”

  “That will be when Alfonso is quite well,” she answered firmly, disengaging herself.

  “In the meantime,” he said, “you and the militant Sanchia will guard him well, knowing that what fails at noon may be successful at night.”

  She lowered her eyes and did not answer. Her throat was constricted with an emotion which she ascribed to fear.

  Back in the apartment she consulted Sanchia.

  “I have been with Cesare, and I know that he will not rest until he has killed Alfonso.”

  “I know it too,” replied Sanchia.

  “He will make another attempt, Sanchia. What can we do?”

  “We are here to prevent that attempt.”

  “Is it possible, Sanchia?”

  “I do not think,” said Sanchia, “that while you and I are near any will come to attack him. Cesare is suspect. If any were taken in the act and put to the Question they might confess. A confession involving Cesare would not please him.”

  “But, knowing Cesare is involved, my father would never allow the murderers to be brought to justice.”

  “It would be difficult to murder Alfonso here in the Vatican itself. No, I believe they will wait until he is well, and then they will lure him to some lonely spot. They will attack then. It is later that we have to fear such an attack. What we must guard against now is poison.”

  “Sanchia, I am frightened. I see shadows all about me. It is like being alone in the dark when I was very young and peering into the shadows, waiting for wild beasts and ghosts to spring at me.”

  “There is a vast difference,” said Sanchia grimly. “These are not ghosts.”

  “Sanchia, we must get him out of Rome.”

  “I have been turning over plans in my mind for days.”

  “Can we do it?”

  “We will. As soon as he is well we will have him smuggled out of Rome. We’ll disguise him as one of the chamberlains and send him with a letter which I will write to my uncle Federico. We will do it, Lucrezia.”

  “Thank you, Sanchia, thank you for all you have done for my husband.”

  “Who,” Sanchia reminded her, “is also my brother. Listen, Lucrezia. When the doctors come tomorrow we will consult with them. You know that little hunchback from Alfonso’s household?”

  “He who loves Alfonso so much, and has waited outside this room ever since it happened?”

  Sanchia nodded. “We can trust him. He will be able to have horses ready, and as soon as Alfonso’s wounds are healed, he shall escape. Tomorrow we will begin preparations to put the plan into action.”

  * * *

  She sat by Alfonso’s bed, holding his hand. He had just awakened from one of his nightmares.

  She put her face close to his. “Alfonso, my dearest, all is well. It is I … Lucrezia.”

  He opened his blue eyes and she felt a surge of tenderness, for he looked very like little Roderigo.

  “Lucrezia,” he murmured, “stay close.”

  “I am here. I shall remain here. Try to sleep, my darling.”

  “I am afraid of sleep. I dream, Lucrezia.”

  “I know, my love.”

  “He is always there … in my dreams. He bends over me … that cruel smile on his lips … that gleam in his eyes, and his sword raised. There is blood on that sword, Lucrezia. Not my blood. His brother’s blood.…”

  “You distress yourself.”

  “But he will not rest until he is rid of me, Lucrezia. He is your brother and you have loved him. You have loved him too much. Your father protects him. You all protect him.”

  “I have one thought only, Alfonso—to protect you, to make you well. Listen, my dearest, there are plans afoot. As soon as you are well enough you are going to slip away from Rome.”

  “And you?”

  “I shall follow you.”

  “Come with me, Lu
crezia.”

  “And our baby?”

  “We must all go together. No more separations.”

  She thought, the three of us to escape; that would not be easy. But she would not disturb him now by pointing out the difficulties. Let him dream of their escape. Let him replace his nightmare with that happy dream.

  “The three of us,” she said. “We will go together.”

  “I long for that night. ’Twill be at night, will it not? You and I … and the child, riding away to safety, Lucrezia. When … when?”

  “When you are well enough.”

  “But it will take so long.”

  “No. Your wounds are healing. You are very healthy, they tell me. Your blood is good. Few would have recovered as quickly as you have. It will not be long now. Think of it, Alfonso. Think of it all the time.”

  He did think of it; and when he slept there was a happy smile on his lips.

  * * *

  Alfonso was now able to walk about the apartment. He would sit on the balcony overlooking the Vatican gardens, and feel the warm sun on his face. The doctors said that he would soon be ready to sit his horse.

  He was longing for that day.

  Sanchia or Lucrezia had first held his arm as he tottered about the apartment, and it was a great day when he walked unaided to the balcony.

  “Soon,” Lucrezia whispered.

  “We must wait,” Sanchia said, “until he is strong enough to endure a long journey.”

  So he took exercise, and waited, and longing began to take the place of fear in Alfonso’s blue eyes.

  The little hunchback, whom he had befriended and who was ready to give his life for him if need be, was constantly in attendance and one day, when he, Alfonso, was sitting on the balcony, he called to the little fellow to bring him a cross-bow so that he could discover whether he had strength to shoot a bird in the gardens.

  The cross-bow was brought, and he tried it.

  He missed the bird and sent the hunchback down into the gardens to retrieve the bolt.

  * * *

  Cesare was walking in the gardens with Don Micheletto Corella, one of his Captains, when he saw the hunchback running swiftly across the grass to retrieve the bolt.

  “Is that not the servant of my brother-in-law?” he asked.

  “It is indeed, my lord, and do you not see your lord-ship’s brother-in-law at the window now, the cross-bow in his hands?”

  “By all the saints!” cried Cesare. “We have narrowly escaped death.”

  The Captain returned his master’s smile. “Had the bolt pierced one of our hearts, my lord, we should indeed not be alive.”

  “So … he would attempt my life!”

  “None could blame your lordship if, in the circumstances, you demanded his.”

  Cesare laid his hand on the man’s shoulder; they smiled. It was the opportunity they had been waiting for.

  * * *

  It was afternoon and many were sleeping in the August heat. Alfonso was resting on his bed. The exercise of the morning had tired him. Lucrezia and Sanchia sat on either side of the bed. They were dozing lightly.

  Suddenly there was a commotion outside the room, and Sanchia went to see what was happening, Lucrezia following her. At the door they saw soldiers arresting the guards.

  “What is this?” demanded Sanchia.

  “If it please the Madonna,” explained Captain Micheletto Corella, “these men are all accused of a plot against the Pope.”

  “It is not possible,” cried Lucrezia.

  “These are my orders, Madonna,” was the answer.

  “What is this plot?” demanded Sanchia.

  “I do not know, Madonna. I merely obey orders.” He looked at them with respectful kindness, as though he were disturbed to see two such beautiful ladies in distress. He went on: “His Holiness is but two doors away. Why do you not go to him and ask him to release these men, if you are so sure of their innocence?”

  Lucrezia and Sanchia ran toward the Pope’s apartments.

  He was not there.

  Then suddenly they looked at each other and, without a word, ran back as fast as they could to Alfonso.

  They were too late.

  Alfonso lay across his bed. He had been strangled by the cruel hands of Micheletto Corella.

  III

  THE CASTLE OF NEPI

  T he cortège made its dismal way to the little church in the shadow of St. Peter’s. It was dusk and the light of twenty flares showed the way to Santa Maria delle Febbri. Mingling with the shuffling footsteps of the friars were their low voices as they chanted prayers for the soul of the dead man.

  The apartments of Santa Maria in Portico were filled with the gloom of mourning. Red-eyed servants spoke in whispers, and silent-footed slaves passed one another with downcast eyes.

  And in the rooms of Madonna Lucrezia there could be heard the sound of weeping voices as she and her sister-in-law reproached themselves while seeking to comfort each other.

  * * *

  Sanchia, her beauty impaired by the signs of her sorrow, paced up and down Lucrezia’s apartment, storming with rage one moment, collapsing on to Lucrezia’s bed in misery the next.

  “How could we have been such fools!” she demanded.

  Lucrezia shook her head. “We should have known it was a trap.”

  “All the care we took … cooking his meals, watching over him, never leaving him for a moment without one of us with him … and then … to be such fools!”

  Lucrezia covered her face with her hands. “Oh Sanchia, I have an unhappy feeling that I bring tragedy to all who love me.”

  “Have done with such talk,” cried Sanchia. “They would not have dared, had we not left him alone. It is not some evil luck you must curse, but your own—and my—stupidity.”

  “It was such a short way to go.”

  “But we left him long enough for that brute to put his fingers at his throat and strangle him.”

  “He said that Alfonso suffered from a haemorrhage when he got up too quickly as they entered the room.”

  “Haemorrhage!” cried Sanchia. “Did we not see the bruises on his throat? Holy Mother, shall I ever forget?”

  “Don’t, I beg of you, Sanchia.”

  Loysella came hurrying into the apartment, fear in her eyes. “Il Valentino comes this way,” she cried. “He will be with you, very, very soon.”

  Loysella dropped a curtsey and hurried out. She no longer had any wish to watch with coquetry the coming of Cesare Borgia.

  “That he should dare!” cried Sanchia.

  Lucrezia was trembling. She did not want to see him; she was afraid her feelings would get beyond restraint when she must look at this beloved brother—this once-beloved brother?—whom the whole of Rome knew as the murderer of her husband.

  There was the sound of soldiers’ footsteps on the stairs and, when the door was flung open, two of them stood on guard as Cesare came into the room.

  Lucrezia had risen. Sanchia remained seated, her blue eyes flashing hate and scorn.

  “Cesare …” stammered Lucrezia.

  He looked at her coldly, marking the signs of her grief with distaste.

  Sanchia cried out: “Murderer! How dare you come here to violate our grief?”

  Cesare was looking at Lucrezia, talking to Lucrezia. “Justice has been done.”

  “Justice?” said Lucrezia. “That murder of one who did no harm to any!”

  Cesare’s voice was more gentle. “That he did no harm was no fault of his; he tried hard enough. He acted so that it was clear that it should be my life or his. I had no alternative but to make sure that it was not mine.”

  “He would never have hurt you,” said Lucrezia. “He would never have hurt me by hurting you.”

  “You are too gentle, sister. You know not the ways of ambition. Why, shortly before he died he attempted to take my life. I saw him at his window, the cross-bow in his hand.”

  “He but shot idly to amuse himself and test his strength
,” said Lucrezia.

  “Little thinking,” cried Sanchia, “that it would give you the excuse you sought.”

  Cesare ignored Sanchia. He said: “There have been plots … plots against me … plots against the Papacy. Dearest sister, you have been an innocent dupe. They have been concocted in your own apartments; while you chatted of art and music, of poetry and sculpture, your late husband and his friends made their plans. His death was just.”

  “You admit to the murder?” said Sanchia.

  “I admit to the justifiable killing of Alfonso of Bisceglie; and so shall die all traitors. Lucrezia, I come to you to say this: Dry your tears. Do not grieve for one who was your family’s enemy, who plotted against your father and your brother.” He came to her and took her by the shoulders. “Many members of your household are being placed under arrest. It is necessary, Lucrezia. My little one, do not forget. Have you not said that, whatever else we are, we are Borgias first of all.”

  He was trying to make her smile, but her expression was stony.

  She said: “Cesare, leave me. I beg you, I implore you … go from me now.”

  He dropped his hands, and turning walked abruptly from the room.

  * * *

  The Pope sent for his daughter, and received her with a certain amount of reserve; her blank expression and the marks of grief on her face vaguely irritated him. Alfonso was dead; no amount of grief could bring him back. She was twenty, beautiful, and he was going to see that a worthy marriage was arranged for her. Why should she continue to grieve?

  He kissed her and held her against him for a few seconds. The gesture was enough, in Lucrezia’s emotional state, to set her weeping.