“Holiness, Holiness,” chanted Giovanni.
“Come,” said the Pope, “tell the lady your name.”
“It is Giovanni.”
“Giovanni what?”
“Giovanni Borgia.”
“Borgia indeed! Never forget that. It is the most important part. There are thousands of Giovannis in Italy, but few Borgias; and that is the name you will be proud to bear.”
“Borgia …!” repeated Giovanni.
“Oh Giovanni,” cried Lucrezia, “did you mind leaving your old home?”
Giovanni’s eyes clouded slightly. “This is a better one,” he said.
“Of a certainty it is,” said the Pope. “It contains His Holiness and the beautiful Madonna Lucrezia.”
“Madonna Lucrezia,” murmured the boy almost shyly.
Alexander picked him up and kissed him.
“There,” he said. “You have seen him.”
“He is to stay here now?”
The Pope nodded. “He shall stay with his Holy Father who loves him, for that is what he wishes.”
Giovanni nodded gravely.
“Now we will return him to his nursery, and then you and I will have a little talk. I would wish you to see how happy he is there, and how well he gets on with his little friend and kinsman.”
So, carrying young Giovanni, the Pope led the way to the nursery, where little Roderigo was seated on the floor playing with bricks which he was trying to build into a tower. When he saw Lucrezia he got to his feet and came stumbling toward her.
She lifted him in her arms and he showed no resentment at her kisses. Then he pointed to Giovanni and said: “Giovanni.”
Lucrezia’s voice was broken with emotion as she said: “So you love little Giovanni?”
“Big Giovanni,” Roderigo reminded her; then his attention was caught by the great ruby she wore in her necklace, and his fingers closed over it and his big eyes started in wonder.
She hugged him and felt the tears rushing to her eyes.
Alexander saw them and said: “Let us leave the children with their nurses. I have something to say to you.”
So they left the nursery and Alexander put his arm about her as he led her back to his apartment.
“You see,” he told her. “I kept my promise. I have sent for him that he may be brought up as one of us.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“I fear I let this break upon you too suddenly. I should have prepared you. But I hoped to give you a great pleasure, and I could not keep the treat hidden any longer. He is a beautiful boy—already I see the Borgia in him.”
She turned to him suddenly and threw herself into his arms. “I’m sorry, Father, but it brings it all back … so vividly.”
He stroked her hair gently. “I know, my beloved. I saw that in your face. And these tears of yours are tears of joy, are they not. You see the boy has been well looked after. You need never worry on that score. I shall give him an estate and titles. He shall be as one of us. Have no fear for his future, Lucrezia. It is in my hands.”
She kissed those hands. “The kindest and most capable hands in the world,” she murmured.
“Their greatest joy is in making happiness for my dear daughter.”
“But Father, he is my son, even as Roderigo is, and it saddens me to have to leave them.”
“True, you cannot take them with you into Ferrara; but you know they are safe here.”
“You wanted your children to grow up round you, Father. I want the same.”
He was silent. “I know this.” Then he smiled brilliantly. “Why should you not have them with you … in time, eh, Lucrezia? I know that you are full of wiles; you are charming and beautiful. When you wanted something of me, did you not invariably get it? Why? Because you were enchanting and I loved you so much that I could not refuse. I doubt not that you will soon learn to get what you want from your husband, as you do from your father.”
“You mean in time I may persuade him to let me have the boys with me.”
He kissed her tenderly. “I doubt it not,” he said.
* * *
It was impossible for the arrival of little Giovanni Borgia to go unnoticed, and the new child at the Vatican became the main source of conversation in certain circles. Who is Giovanni Borgia? was the question of the day. He was given a new title, the Infante Romano.
Alexander was faintly perturbed. The marriage with Ferrara would appear to be settled, but this was not so. Ercole had shown quite clearly that he was not enthusiastic for the marriage; he had bargained for his ducats and honors like a merchant; and Alexander believed he would choose the first opportunity to slide out of the agreement. It was only fear of the Papacy and the present unrest in Italy which made him agree; the arrogant aristocrat thought his family too good for that of the Borgias; in his prim way he recoiled from alliance with a family which had provoked more scandals than any other in Italy. Therefore it was a pity that there should be at this time another scandal—and that concerning a three-year-old child.
Who is the Infante Romano? It was impossible to escape from the question.
Isabella d’Este would be writing to her father, telling him of her belief as to the parentage of the mysterious child. If Lucrezia’s name were mentioned in connection with the child, Ercole might consider he had ample reasons for breaking the marriage agreement.
Alexander then drew up a Bull, the prime motive of which was to legitimize little Giovanni, for he wished this healthy little boy with the flashing dark eyes to be known as a true Borgia, and legitimization was the only means of doing so. The child was, he declared, the son of Cesare, Duke of Valentinois, and a woman of Rome. Cesare, father of so many illegitimate children, would not mind accepting responsibility for another.
The Infante Romano then was the son of Cesare Borgia, and this accounted for the delight the Pope found in the child.
But Alexander was perturbed. He must consider the future, those days when he might not be there to protect the interests of the child. He wished to leave him certain properties; he accordingly drew up another Bull which should remain secret at least for as long as he lived. In this he declared the child to be his own by a woman of Rome. But for the moment he had stifled the rumors. He had given to the world his explanation of his love and care of the child, and the mystery would seem to be solved. The anxious Ercole at least could not use it as an excuse for canceling the wedding plans.
* * *
Meanwhile the King of France was planning his attack on Naples. He knew that, although he might conquer the land, he could not hold it without an investiture and for this reason he wished to placate the Pope. Therefore he had helped Cesare to conquer Romagna, and Cesare was to be his ally in the march on Naples.
Louis had made another shrewd move by forming an alliance with Spain. For certain concessions (the acquisition of Apulia and Calabria) the Spaniards had agreed to stand aside and leave their Aragonese kinsmen of Naples to fight alone.
Louis demanded that Cesare should leave garrisons in the towns he had conquered and join him in the conquest of Naples—which Louis declared was part of their contract. Cesare was furious, for he had been made to see how little his triumphs had been due to himself. He was realist enough to understand that he was under the Papal influence and that of France, and that should these be removed he would stand naked to his enemies.
There was disturbing news from Maximilian who was not pleased by the Franco-Spanish alliance and demanded to know who these Borgias were who had set themselves up as dabblers in European politics. He let it be known that he was considering coming into Italy himself and that he would smash through this petty kingdom of Romagna if only for the pleasure of making it clear to the Borgias that they were nothing but an insignificant family, a member of which happened to have been elected Pope.
It was humiliating, yet there was no help for it but to obey the French and march to Naples. Federico in panic surrendered before the arrival of the soldiers, and Louis of
fered him exile in France which he gratefully took. Thus, when the French with Cesare and his soldiers came into Naples, there was no battle; Naples was theirs to command, and the people came into the streets to welcome the conquerors.
Humiliation was turned to triumph and Cesare rode in glory through Naples.
Federico was now an exile—that Federico who had refused to allow his daughter to marry a Borgia! It was a moment for which Cesare had yearned for a long time. Moreover there were many who were fascinated by him, and in the processions of victory more eyes were turned on Cesare Borgia than on Louis of France.
There were balls and banquets, and Cesare was the center of attraction at these. There were many women eager to be noticed by him, although news of the massacre of Capua had reached them, and it was said that there had never been such barbaric savagery as that displayed by Cesare Borgia in the Neapolitan campaign, and that many French Captains who had prided themselves on their chivalry had made it known that they did not wish to be thought of as allies of such a man.
Cesare was always at his most brutal when he believed his dignity had been insulted; and every cruelty he perpetrated during that campaign was meant to soothe those wounds inflicted by Princess Carlotta and her father, Federico.
At Capua he had ridden through the town forcing his way into houses wherever he had heard there were beautiful young girls. He was insistent that they should be virgins; therefore it was necessary that they should be of a tender age. He discovered forty of them and demanded that they be taken to Rome, housed in his palace, and kept there to form a harem for his pleasure. His rule was barbaric. Men whom he suspected of insulting him, even by a word, had their tongues cut out, hands cut off and were exposed to public view until they died.
He set about amusing himself but so promiscuously did he do this that it was not long before he was again smitten with that disease which he had contracted in his early youth, from which he suffered periodic attacks and which was known throughout Italy as the male francese.
This sickness, exhausting him physically as it did, never failed to have its effect on his mind. His wildness increased with it; his anger was even more easily aroused; suffering pain as he did, he seemed to be filled with a demoniacal desire to inflict it on others.
There was a shiver through the whole of Rome when Cesare returned to recuperate and join in the celebrations of his sister’s coming marriage.
* * *
Alfonso d’Este, working in his foundry by day and amusing himself with his countless mistresses by night, was the least disturbed member at his father’s court.
“All this fuss about a marriage!” he guffawed. “Let us get the matter done with.”
His brothers, Ippolito, Ferrante and Sigismondo who would travel to Rome to escort Lucrezia back to Ferrara, argued with him. He scarcely listened. There were continual arguments in the family, which was perhaps not so surprising when there were so many brothers, all of different opinions.
Ippolito, the fastidous Cardinal who longed to wear jewels and tasteful garments and had even designed a Cardinal’s robe of his own, declared that he was all eagerness to see the bride. He had heard such stories about her. She was reputed to be beautiful with wonderful yellow hair which was probably dyed or brightened in some way. He felt that a woman with such a history would be interesting.
Ferrante declared that he was longing to see her. An incestuous murderess would make life exciting in Ferrara!
Sigismondo crossed himself hastily and said that they should go down on their knees and pray that no harm should grow out of the marriage.
Alfonso laughed at them. “Have done,” he said. “This is a woman like ten thousand others.”
“There you are wrong, brother,” said Ferrante. “She is a seductress, and it is said that her brother, Cesare Borgia, murdered his brother and her husband out of desire for her.”
Alfonso spat over his shoulder. “I could find a dozen like her any night in any brothel in Ferrara.” He yawned. He was going back to his foundry.
Ercole called Ippolito to him. It was no use talking to Alfonso. Now more than ever he found it difficult to believe Alfonso was his son. It was distressing to witness his low tastes, his animal sexuality. Ercole had prided himself that the Este court was the center of culture. How could it continue so when he was dead and Alfonso ruled in his place? He himself had lived as chastely as a man of his time could have been expected to live. His wife, Eleanora of Aragon, had been virtuous; she had borne him six children, and four of these had been sons. His daughters had been a credit to him—his dear Isabella, who now ruled in Mantua, and Beatrice who had been the wife of Ludovico of Milan but was unfortunately now dead. He himself had only two mistresses (having fewer he would have been suspected of impotence) and one of these had borne him a daughter named Lucrezia, and the other—beautiful Isabella Arduino—had presented him with his beloved son Giulio who was admired throughout the court for those wonderful flashing dark eyes of his, so like his mother’s that he was a continual reminder of past passion.
Ercole was a cultured gentleman; Alfonso, apart from his one talent for playing the viol, was a boor.
So it was to Ippolito that he must talk of this marriage, and as he talked, regretted, as he had so many times before, that Ippolito was not his eldest son.
“I do not despair altogether,” he said, “of foiling the Pope’s plans.”
Ippolito was surprised. “At this late stage, Father?”
“Until the woman is actually here, there is hope. The Pope is urging that you set out for Rome at once. Thus you will reach the city before the winter.” Ercole laughed. “I am delaying. I am telling him that the dowry must be paid in large ducats and not chamber ones, and he is protesting.”
“You think that will hold up matters?”
Ercole chuckled. “I do indeed. Then the winter will be upon us, and who knows what will have happened by the spring?”
“Father, what arrangements are you making for the traveling of Sister Lucia’s nuns?”
Ercole’s face lengthened. Ippolito had introduced a subject which involved the spending of money, and such subjects always upset Ercole.
“It will be an expensive matter to transport them from Viterbo to Ferrara,” went on Ippolito. “And I fear, my dear father, that you will be asked to pay for the journey.”
Ercole was thinking of Sister Lucia da Narni whom he cherished here in Ferrara. Being very interested in theological matters he had been always impressed by miracles, and any who could provide them was sure of a welcome at his court. Some years ago Sister Lucia, who was in a Dominican convent in Viterbo, had begun to see the stigmata forming on her hands. This phenomenon appeared every Friday, and Ercole had been so impressed by what he heard of this miracle and so certain that Sister Lucia must be a very holy woman, that he had wished her to leave Viterbo and come to Ferrara.
Sister Lucia was not unwilling, but her superiors would not allow her to leave them, for they saw that she would bring much gain and glory to them. However, the sister was put in a basket, smuggled out of the convent, and brought to Duke Ercole who, delighted with his acquisition, installed her in a convent of her own, visited her frequently, looking upon the stained rags which she produced on Fridays as holy relics.
But she wished to have those nuns about her with whom she had lived at Viterbo, and after many negotiations it was agreed that certain of the nuns should come to share the Ferrara convent with Sister Lucia.
It was the transportation of these nuns which was now causing Ercole some concern. And Ippolito, watching his father slyly, said suddenly: “The nuns would have to pass through Rome. Why should they not travel with the bride and her company?”
Ercole was looking at his son speculatively.
Ippolito went on: “Why then, Father, they could travel at her expense.”
“It is a good idea, my son,” said Ercole.
“And think, Father, if you successfully oppose the match, in addition to all those d
ucats you will lose, you will have to pay for the nuns’ journey yourself. You stand to lose, my father, if you do not accept Lucrezia.”
Ippolito was filled with secret laughter as he watched avarice and family pride grapple with one another.
* * *
Cesare sought his sister. She was surrounded by her women, and there were rolls of beautiful material in the apartment. Lucrezia was draping some of this about one of them and indulging in one of her favorite occupations—designing her own dresses.
The brocade of that shade of deep crimson, which had a hint of blue in it and which was called morello, fell from her hands as she saw Cesare. She felt the blood leave her face and she appeared to be without life, unable to move. Every time she saw him, she seemed to sense change in him. She was moved by pity, by fear and by admiration. There was no one like him in the world, no one else who could ever have the same power to move her, to hurt her, to fill her with tenderness and with fear.
“Why Cesare …” she began.
He smiled sneeringly at the fine materials. “So,” he said, “you are preparing for the wedding.”
“There is a great deal to do,” she said. She waved her hand and the women were only too ready to leave her.
“My brother,” she said, “it makes me happy to see you back in Rome.”
He laughed, and touched his face with beautiful slender fingers, so like his father’s. “The reason for my return does not make me happy.”
“You suffer so. I trust the cure has done its work.”
“They tell me it has, but I wonder sometimes whether the foulness will ever leave me. If I but knew who brought it to me this time …” His eyes were cruel, and she shuddered. Stories of his barbaric cruelty to the Neapolitans had reached her and she, who deplored cruelty and whose great desire was to live in peace with all around her, longed for him to curb his violence.
Light on Lucrezia Page 17
