Light on Lucrezia

by Виктория Холт

  Isabella was right, mused Ercole. He wanted no Borgia in his family; but he must be very careful how he worded his refusal to the Pope.

  There had been a time when a marriage between Alfonso and Louise d’Angoulême had been suggested. Therefore Ercole wrote, greatly regretting having to refuse the offer made by the Pope, but explaining that his son Alfonso had already made promises to this lady and was consequently not in a position to consider the brilliant marriage with His Holiness’s daughter which the Pope so generously offered.

  Ercole settled down in peace. Alfonso must marry soon. But it should not be with a Borgia.

  * * *

  When Alexander received Ercole’s letter he became pensive. It was clear to him that Ercole was not eager to ally his house with the Borgias. Then he grew angry.

  There were other matters which gave cause for thought. The abduction and rape of Dorotea was arousing indignation throughout Italy, and even Louis of France had added his protest to the rest, sending, as a gesture of disapproval, Yves d’Allegre to Cesare to protest. Louis had been really angry, because the heartbroken bridegroom, Carracciolo, declared his intention of leaving Venice and searching through the whole country until he found his bride. As the Venetian army was under his command and there was fear of an invasion from Maximilian of Austria, there was great consternation among the French at the prospect of Carracciolo’s desertion in order to conduct his purely personal affairs.

  Cesare, confronted by the envoys of the King of France, denied all knowledge of the whereabouts of Dorotea.

  “I have as many women as I want,” he retorted. “Why should I cause such trouble by abducting this one?”

  Many pretended to accept his word, realizing that to appear to doubt it would do little to help; but Carracciolo vowed vengeance on the Borgias, being certain that the man who had robbed him of his bride was Cesare.

  In the Vatican, the Pope loudly proclaimed Cesare’s innocence in the affair of Dorotea; but he was very perturbed by the refusal of the Duke of Ferrara to accept Lucrezia as a bride for his son.

  He pondered on the Duke, whose main characteristic he deemed to be his meanness. Ercole would go to great lengths to avoid spending money; but if there was anything he would hate to part with more than money it was a single yard of the territory over which he ruled.

  The Pope wrote to Ercole that it saddened him to think Alfonso was already engaged with another lady; but he was sure that great good could come to their houses by a marriage which would unite them, and he thought they should not lightly dismiss the plan. Alfonso was not available; Ippolito was a man of the Church; so he would give Lucrezia to Ferrara’s third son, Ferrante. Now his daughter was very rich, and he must have a kingdom for her. It was his suggestion—and his wish, he implied—that Ferrante should be given that portion of Ferrara known as Modena, which could be made the State of Modena and ruled over by Ferrante and Lucrezia.

  “Carve up Ferrara!” was the old Duke’s comment. “Never!”

  But he feared that the Pope would be adamant. He was certain of this when, appealing to the French for help (Ferrara had been an ally of the French for many years) he was told by Louis that a marriage between Este and Borgia was not displeasing to the French, and Louis’ advice was to continue with negotiations.

  Ercole knew then that Louis wished for the Pope’s help in conquering Naples; France was the ally of the Vatican and as a consequence, Ferrara must suffer.

  When Ercole received that intimation from the French he knew that he had to accept that which he hated.

  But he would never carve up Ferrara. It was better to forget old contracts with Louise d’Angoulême. It was better for the marriage—since marriage there must be—to be between Alfonso and Lucrezia.

  The Pope, walking with Lucrezia in the gardens of the Vatican, kept his arm in hers as they strolled among the flowers.

  “It makes me happy to see you yourself again,” he was telling her. “Lucrezia sad was like another being, not my bright daughter. And now I know you are pleased with this marriage which your loving father has arranged for you.”

  “Yes, Father,” she answered, “I am pleased.”

  “I grieve that you must go so far from home.”

  “But you will visit me, and I you, Father. We shall never be separated for long.”

  He pressed her arm tenderly.

  “You will be Duchess of Ferrara, my precious one. From the moment of the marriage the title will be yours. Fortunately old Ercole has no wife living, so you will be entitled to call yourself Duchess of Ferrara.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “A fine title which will make you equal with the Princesses of Italy. That was what I always wanted for my little girl.”

  She was silent, thinking: How strange that I should look forward to this marriage. How strange that I should want to go away from my home.

  This elation within her was due to the fact that escape was imminent. She was about to tear herself free from the bonds. She had imagined them like the threads of a spider’s web, but they were made of flesh and blood and the wrenching apart would be painful.

  And this husband of hers? She had seen his picture. He was big; he looked strong; but what had appealed to her most on examining that picture was the certain knowledge that he would not be a man to disturb her innermost self. She would give him children, and that would satisfy him; he would never want to know how much she had cared for his predecessors, how much she had suffered when that other Alfonso was murdered; he would never seek to discover the secret of that strange relationship between herself and Cesare, herself and her father. He was a practical man; he had his workshop and a host of mistresses. Many of the children in the villages of Ferrara were begotten by him. He was unrefined, he was called crude, yet, oddly enough, all that she heard of him pleased her. She would know her duty and she would perform it; and her secret life would be left inviolate. She would be alone in Ferrara, able to ponder on her life, to understand herself.

  It was not the marriage to which she was looking forward; it was to freedom, to what she scarcely dared to think of as escape. But she let the Pope believe that it was the marriage which pleased her.

  “They have made a hard bargain with us, Lucrezia,” mused Alexander. “A dowry of 100,000 ducats and treasure worth 75,000 ducats, as well as the castles of Pieve and Cento.”

  “It is a great deal to ask of you, Father, for ridding you of your daughter.”

  “Ah!” laughed Alexander. “But it is the marriage I always wanted for you. Duchess of Ferrara, Lucrezia, my love! Alfonso, your husband, the legitimate heir of his father. It is a fine match, a grand match. And my beloved is worthy of it.”

  “But it is a high price for it.”

  “There is more than that. They insist on their tithes being reduced—4,000 ducats to 100. What impudence! But wily old Ercole knows how I have set my heart on this match. He is also asking for further honors for Ippolito. And this will not be all.”

  “It is too much.”

  “Nay. I’d give my tiara for your happiness, if need be.”

  She smiled at him, thinking: It is true. You would give much to buy me a grand marriage. But you could not mourn with me one hour when my husband was murdered.

  Little Roderigo, in the gardens with his nurse, came toddling toward them.

  “Ho!” cried Alexander, and picked up the little boy, and swung him above his head. Roderigo’s fat hand reached for Alexander’s not inconsiderable nose and tried to pull it. “Such impudence! Such sacrilege!” went on Alexander. “Do you know, young sir, that that is the sacred nose you mishandle so, eh?”

  Roderigo crowed with pleasure, and Alexander, in a sudden passion of love, held the boy tight against him, so tightly that Roderigo set up a noisy protest. Alexander kissed him and put him down. He smiled at the nurse, a pretty creature, and murmuring a blessing, he let his hand rest on her soft hair.

  “Take care of my grandson,” he said tenderly. He would visit the
nursery this evening. There he would find a double pleasure—the company of the boy and his nurse.

  Lucrezia, watching, thought it was like the old pattern she remembered so well. Alexander did not change; thus had he visited that nursery on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo, where she and her two brothers had eagerly awaited his coming, even as young Roderigo would wait now. Had there been a pretty nurse then to catch his attention? Perhaps not; Vannozza, their mother, would have made sure that there was not.

  “You will miss Roderigo when we leave for Ferrara,” said Lucrezia.

  There was a short silence, and Lucrezia was aware of a sudden fear.

  Alexander said gently: “If it were necessary for you to leave him behind, you would know he was receiving the best of care.”

  So it had been arranged. She was to leave Roderigo behind her. It was hardly likely that they would have allowed her to take him. The Estes would not want this child of a former marriage. Why, oh why, had this not occurred to her before she had shown her willingness for the match!

  The Pope was looking at her anxiously. Her face, she guessed, showed her misery, and he would remember the weeks when she had mourned the murdered Alfonso. He was afraid now that she was going to be sad and he wanted her so desperately to be gay.

  “Oh Father,” she said impulsively, “perhaps after all this marriage will bring no happiness to me.”

  He caught her hand and kissed it. “It will bring great happiness, my Duchess. You have nothing to fear. You can trust me to care for Roderigo, for is he not your son! Does he not belong to us?”

  “Father …” she faltered.

  But he interrupted her. “You think that perhaps I shall not always be here.”

  “Do not speak of such a thing. It is more than I can bear.”

  He laughed. “Your father is an old man, Lucrezia. He is close to seventy years of age. Few live as long, and those who do cannot hope for much longer.”

  “We cannot think of it,” she cried. “We dare not think of it. When we were little, it was you … Uncle Roderigo then … from whom all blessings flowed. It has not changed. Father, if you died, what would become of us? We should be only half alive, I believe.”

  He enjoyed such talk. He knew that it was not flattery; there was no hyperbole … or perhaps but a little. They did need him—now as they always had. His delicate Lucrezia, his strong Cesare.

  “I am strong and have much life in me yet,” he said. “But, my dearest, to satisfy you, the little one shall have another guardian besides myself. What think you of our kinsman, Francesco Borgia? The Cardinal is gentle; he loves you; he loves the child. Would you feel happier then, Lucrezia?”

  “I would trust Francesco,” she said.

  “Then so shall it be.”

  He took her hand and noticed that it was trembling. “Lucrezia,” he said, “you are no longer a child. I shall be making a short tour of the territories very soon. I am going to leave you in charge, to take over my secular duties.”

  She was aghast. “But … I am a woman, and this is a task for your most important Cardinals.”

  “I would show them all that my daughter is equal to any task with which, as a Borgia, she may be faced.”

  She smiled tremulously; she knew that he understood her fears of the new life which was stretching out before her. He wanted her to prove herself; he wanted to inspire her with the courage she would need.

  He loved her with a devotion as great as he could feel for any and she loved him. She loved him fiercely, passionately; and she asked herself then: Is there some curse on us Borgias, that our love must be of such an intensity that there comes a point in our lives when we must turn from it, fly from it?

  * * *

  Rome was gay; the streets were crowded, everyone in the City wished to catch a glimpse of Lucrezia on her way to Santa Maria del Popolo, where she was going to give thanks because the Duke of Ferrara had at last signed the marriage contract between herself and his heir, Alfonso.

  The Pope had wanted to make a grand occasion of this and, with that Borgian love of showmanship, he had arranged a pageant to dazzle even the eyes of Romans. As with all these spectacles the occasion was not only serious but gay, not only a solemn ceremony, but a masquerade. The cannons of St. Angelo were booming, and the bells were ringing all over the seven hills of Rome. Lucrezia, glittering with jewels, her dress trimmed with gold and precious stones, the net which held her hair being composed of gold and jewels, rode in triumph through the streets; with her were the ladies and noblemen of her court, three hundred in all, together with the ambassadors of Spain and France.

  The people crowded about the doorway of the church as Lucrezia entered and made her way to Alexander’s impressive marble tabernacle where she knelt to thank God for bringing this great honor to her.

  Her secular regency during Alexander’s absence had been a great success; she had dealt with all matters which were not ecclesiastical, and the Cardinals had all been astonished by her gravity and grasp of affairs.

  For the first time in her life Lucrezia had been aware of responsibility, and she enjoyed the experience. Cardinal Giorgio Costa, who was eighty-five, had made himself her adviser in particular and delighting in her youth had done a great deal to make the regency a success. It seemed impossible for these Cardinals, when they contemplated this serenely beautiful girl who so desired to please and listened so gravely to their advice, to believe those evil rumors they had heard concerning her. When the Pope returned he was immediately aware of the respect she had won, and knew that it had been a masterly stroke of his to appoint Lucrezia Regent.

  Now she came out of the church. It was growing dusk and as she rode back to the Vatican the people shouted: “Long live the Duchess of Ferrara! Long live Alexander VI!”

  As soon as it was dark the firework display began; and Lucrezia’s dwarfs, all brilliantly clad, ran through the crowds, shouting “Long live the Duchess of Ferrara!” and singing songs about her virtue and her beauty.

  The people, who loved a spectacle of this nature more than anything, were quite ready to forget old scandals and cry aloud “Long live the virtuous Duchess of Ferrara!”

  The Pope was in the center of the celebrations, presiding over the banquet, making sure that the ambassadors and all those emissaries from foreign courts should know how he esteemed his daughter; this was a mark of his affection; it was also a warning to the Estes of how great his wrath would be if they attempted to slide out of their agreement or, when his daughter arrived in Ferrara, they did not give her all the respect due to their Duchess.

  And the next day, after the traditional custom, Lucrezia gave her dress to her jester, who put it on and rode through the city, shouting “Hurrah for the Duchess of Ferrara!” The crowds followed him, shrieking with delight to see the fool so clad, making obscene gestures to the “bride”; all of which was watched by Lucrezia and the Pope with great amusement.

  Now that the marriage agreement was signed by Ercole there was one matter which the Pope had long wished to settle and at this time felt he was able to do so. He sent for Lucrezia one day and, when she came to him and he had received her with his usual affection, he dismissed all attendants and said to her: “My daughter, I have something to show you!”

  She was expecting a jewel, some piece of rich brocade, some article which was to be yet another wedding present for her, but she was mistaken.

  The Pope went to the door of an ante-room and spoke to someone who was waiting there. “You may go,” he said. “I will take the child.”

  Then he returned to Lucrezia and he was holding by the hand a beautiful little boy aged about three years.

  As Lucrezia stared at the child she felt the blood rush to her face. Those beautiful dark eyes were like a pair she had once known, and memory came rushing back to her. She was in the convent of San Sisto where a dark-eyed Spaniard had visited her—handsome, charming, passionate.

  “Yes,” said the Pope, “it is he.”

  Lucrezia knelt d
own and would have taken the boy into her arms, but he drew back, watching her solemnly, a little distrustful, bewildered.

  Lucrezia thought: And how could it be otherwise? It is three years since he was born … and all those years he has not seen his mother.

  “Come, my little man,” said the Pope. “What have you to say to the beautiful lady?”

  “She is beautiful,” said the boy, putting out a brown finger to touch the jewels on Lucrezia’s fingers. He put his face down to those hands and made little clucking sounds of pleasure. He liked the smell of musk with which she scented her hands.

  “Look at me, little one,” said Lucrezia, “not at my trinkets.”

  Then the solemn eyes surveyed her cautiously, and she was unable to resist taking him into her arms and covering his face with kisses.

  The Pope looked on, benign and happy. His greatest joy was in bringing pleasure to his loved ones; and this little boy—like most children and especially those who had Borgia blood in their veins—had immediately captivated him.

  “Please,” said the boy, “I do not like being kissed.”

  That amused the Pope. “Later you will, my son,” he cried. “Later you will not spurn the kisses of beautiful women.”

  “Don’t like to be kissed,” reiterated the boy.

  “Have you not been kissed much?” asked Lucrezia.

  He shook his head.

  “I think I should be tempted to kiss you often,” she told him; which made him move hastily away from her and closer to the Pope.

  “Little Giovanni likes his new home, does he not?” asked the Pope.

  Little Giovanni’s eyes lighted as he looked up into the impressive countenance, which might have been terrifying, but which was redeemed by that beautiful expression which enchanted young and old.

  “Giovanni wants to stay with the Holy Father,” he said.

  Alexander’s lips twitched with pleasure and emotion; the white hands caressed the child’s thick curly hair. “Then you shall, my son, you shall, for His Holiness is as delighted with Giovanni as Giovanni is with His Holiness.”