Madonna of the Seven Hills: A Novel of the Borgias

by Jean Plaidy

  She wanted to be happy; therefore she would not think of anything that might make her otherwise.

  She turned to Giulia. “Perhaps I shall marry this man, this Giovanni Sforza. I like the sound of him. He has the same name as my brother.”

  “There are many Giovannis in Italy,” Giulia reminded her.

  “But I doubt not that something will happen to make my father choose another husband for me. Giulia, would it not be strange if I never married … because no sooner am I betrothed to one than I must marry someone who will be more grand, more suitable?”

  “You will surely marry one day.”

  “Then I shall have a lover … even as you have.”

  “Husbands are not always lovers, my dear. And you have a long way to go before you are as I am.”

  Giulia put her face close to Lucrezia’s and smiled her most secretive smile. “I will tell you a secret. The Pope is more than my lover. He is the father of the child I carry within me.”

  “Oh, Giulia! So you are to have a child!”

  Giulia nodded. “That was why I was so angry when that vagabond said what he did. I believe it is becoming known. That means that some of our servants are more inquisitive than they should be … and too talkative.”

  “Do not punish them for that, Giulia,” said Lucrezia. “It is natural that they should be so.”

  “Why should you care whom I punish?”

  Lucrezia said: “I do not want to think of punishments. The sun shines so beautifully on the piazza, does it not, and were not my father’s apartments quite beautiful? Cesare and Giovanni will soon be home, and I shall have a husband. There is so much to make me happy. It is merely that I do not wish to think of anyone’s not being pleased.”

  “There are times,” said Giulia, “when you seem so simple; and there are times when you seem so very difficult to understand.”

  Lucrezia was in her apartment at the Palace of Santa Maria, and her slaves and women were helping her to dress. One fastened the ribbon of her gown while another set a jeweled ornament in her hair.

  The arrangements for her marriage had advanced considerably; Don Gasparo, the rejected suitor, had been placated with a gift of three thousand ducats; and the whole of Italy was talking of the Borgia-Sforza alliance. Some saw in this a threat to their security, and della Rovere had decided he would be safer out of Rome. Ferrante of Aragon was disturbed by the alliance and waited apprehensively for what it would bring forth.

  There was no doubt in Lucrezia’s mind that this betrothal had reached a stage which none of the others had, and it seemed almost certain that she would marry Giovanni Sforza.

  So, when a page knocked for admission and told one of her attendants that a noble gentleman had arrived at the palace and was asking to see her, Lucrezia immediately thought that Giovanni Sforza had come.

  This was wrong of him, of course. He should not come informally; there would be a ceremonial procession into the city; the Pope’s daughter and her betrothed husband could not meet like any serving man and maid; but it would be pleasant and so romantic to do so. She smoothed the folds of her brocade gown and looked at her reflection in the polished metal mirror. She was beautiful; she longed to partake of that sort of love about which Giulia talked.

  She said: “Tell him I will receive him.”

  But even as she turned, the visitor stood in the doorway and the sight of him made Lucrezia forget the romantic longing she had had to see her future husband.

  “Cesare!” she cried, and forgetting all ceremony she ran to him and threw herself into her brother’s arms.

  She heard his low laughter, laughter of triumph, of passion, of something she did not understand but loved. She took his hand and kissed it many times.

  “You are happy to see me, Lucrezia?”

  “It has been a long time,” she cried.

  “You thought of me now and then?”

  “Every day, Cesare, every day of my life. I never knelt before the Madonna in my room without mentioning your name.”

  Cesare was looking impatiently at the women ranged about her. It was as though a new element was in the room, dominating all others; the women looked different; they stood like creatures who had been turned to stone. Yet they almost cringed. Lucrezia remembered how, long ago in the nursery in their mother’s house, the slaves and serving men and women had been afraid of Cesare.

  She said: “Leave us. My brother and I have much of which we wish to talk, and that is for our ears alone.”

  They did not need to be told twice.

  Brother and sister twined their arms about each other and Cesare drew her to the window. “I would look at you,” he said. “Why, you have changed, my Lucrezia.”

  There was anxiety in her eyes. “Cesare, you are not displeased with the change?”

  Cesare kissed her. “It delights me,” he said.

  “But you must tell me of yourself. You have been out in the world. You are an Archbishop. That sounds strange. My brother Cesare, Archbishop of Valencia. I shall have to be very demure when I am with you. I must remember that you are a holy man of the Church. But Cesare! You do not look like an Archbishop! This doublet of yours! I declare it is stitched with gold. And what a little tonsure. A simple priest has more than that.”

  His eyes blazed suddenly; he clenched his fists, and Lucrezia saw that he was shaking with rage.

  “Do not talk of these matters! Lucrezia, I demand that you stop. Archbishop of Valencia! Do I look like an Archbishop? I tell you, Lucrezia, I will not be forced to continue this life. I was never meant for the Church.”

  “No, Cesare, you were not, but …”

  “But one of us must go into the Church. One of us, and that one must be myself. I am the eldest but I am the one who must stand aside for my brother. He will soon be home. One imagines the preparations there will be for him. Giovanni, Duke of Gandia! Our father cares more for his little toe than for the whole of my body.”

  “It is not true,” she cried, distressed. “It is not true.”

  “It is true.” His eyes seemed murderous as they were turned upon her. “Do not contradict me, child, when I tell you it is true. I will not remain in the Church, I will not.…”

  “You must tell our father,” said Lucrezia soothingly.

  “He will not listen. By all the saints, I swear it.” He went to the shrine and, lifting his hands as one who was about to take a solemn oath, he cried: “Holy Mother of God, I swear I will not rest until I am free to lead the life I wish. I will allow no one to bind me, to lead me. I, Cesare Borgia, am my own master from this day on.”

  He had changed, Lucrezia realized; he had grown more violent, and she was afraid of him.

  She laid her hand pleadingly on his arm. “Cesare,” she said, “you will do what you wish. No one shall lead you. You would not be Cesare if you allowed that.”

  He turned to her and all the passion seemed to have left him; but she saw that he still shook with the violence of his emotion.

  “My little sister,” he said, “we have been long separated.”

  She was anxious to turn the subject away from the Church. “I have heard news of you from time to time, how you excelled in your studies.”

  He touched her cheek gently. “Doubtless you have heard many tales of me.”

  “Tales of daring deeds.”

  “And foolish ones?”

  “You have lived as men do live … men who answer to none.”

  He smiled tenderly. “You know how to soothe me,” he said. “And they will marry you to that oaf from Pesaro, and doubtless they will take you away from me.”

  “We shall visit often, Cesare … all of us, you, Giovanni … Goffredo.…”

  His face darkened. “Giovanni,” he cried with a sneer. “He will be on his brilliant campaigns, subduing all Italy with his armies. He will have little time to be with us.”

  “Then you will be happy, Cesare, for you always hated him.”

  “And you … like the rest … worshipp
ed him. He was very handsome, was he not? Our father doted on him—so much that he forces me to go into the Church when that is where Giovanni should go.”

  “Come, tell me about your adventures. You were a gay young man, were you not? All the women of Perugia and Pisa were in love with you, and you, by all accounts, were not indifferent to them.”

  “There was not one of them with hair as golden as yours, Lucrezia. There was not one of them who knew how to soothe me with sweet words as you do.”

  She laid her cheek against his hand. “But that is natural. We understand each other. We were together when we were little. That is why, of all the men I ever saw, there was not one as beautiful in my eyes as my brother Cesare.”

  “What about your brother Giovanni?” he cried.

  Lucrezia, remembering the old games of coquetry and rivalry, pretended to consider. “Yes, he was very handsome,” she said; then, noticing the dark look returning to Cesare’s face, she added quickly: “At least I always thought so until I compared him to you.”

  “If he were here, you would not say that,” accused Cesare.

  “I would, I swear I would. He’ll soon be here. Then I’ll show that I love you best.”

  “Who knows what gay manners he has picked up in Spain! Doubtless he will be irresistible to the whole world, as he now is to my father.”

  “Let us not talk of him, Cesare. So you have heard that I am to have a husband?”

  He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face.

  He said slowly: “I would rather talk of my brother Giovanni and his beauty and his triumphs than of such a matter.”

  Her eyes were wide and their innocence moved him to a tenderness which was unusual with him.

  “Do you not like this alliance with the Sforzas?” she asked. “I heard that the King of Aragon is most displeased. Cesare, perhaps if you are against the match and have good reason … Perhaps if you speak to our father …”

  He shook his head.

  “Little Lucrezia,” he said quietly, “my dearest sister, no matter whom they chose for your husband, I should hate him.”

  It was hot June and everywhere throughout the city banners fluttered. The Sforza lion was side by side with the Borgia bull, and every loggia, every roof, as well as the streets, was filled to see the entry into Rome of the bridegroom whom the Pope had chosen for his daughter.

  Giovanni Sforza was twenty-six, and a widower who was of a morose nature and a little suspicious of the bargain which was being offered him.

  The thirteen-year-old child who was to be his bride meant nothing to him as such. He had heard that she was beautiful, but he was a cold man, not to be tempted by beauty. The advantages of the match might seem obvious to some, but he did not trust the Borgia Pope. The magnificent dowry which had been promised with the girl—thirty-one thousand ducats—was to be withheld until the consummation of the marriage, and the Pope had strictly laid down the injunction that consummation was not to take place yet because Lucrezia was far too young; and should she die childless, the ducats were to go to her brother Giovanni, the Duke of Gandia.

  Sforza was no impetuous youth. He would wait, before congratulating himself, to see whether there was anything about which to be congratulated.

  He had a natural timidity which might have been due to the fact that he came of a subordinate branch of the Sforzas of Milan; he was the illegitimate son of Costanzo, the Lord of Cotignolo and Pesaro, but he had nevertheless inherited his father’s estate; he was impecunious, and marriage with the wealthy Borgias seemed an excellent prospect; he was ambitious, and that, could he have trusted the intentions of Alexander, would have made him very happy with the match.

  But he could not help feeling uneasy when trumpets and bugles heralded his approach as he came through the Porta del Popolo, whither the Cardinals and high dignitaries had sent important members of their retinues to greet him and welcome him to Rome.

  In that procession rode two young men, more magnificently, more elegantly attired than any others. They were two of the most strikingly handsome men Sforza had ever seen, and he guessed by their bearing who they must be. He was thankful that he could cut a fine figure on his Barbary horse, in his rich garments and the gold necklaces which had been lent to him for the occasion.

  The younger of these men was the Duke of Gandia, recently returned from Spain. He was very handsome indeed, somewhat solemn at the moment because this was a ceremonial occasion and he, having spent some years at a Spanish Court, had the manners of a Spaniard. Yet he could be gay and lighthearted; that much was obvious.

  But it was the elder of the men who demanded and held Sforza’s attention. This was Cesare Borgia, Archbishop of Valencia. He had heard stories of this man which made him shudder to recall them. He too was handsome, but his was a brooding beauty. Certainly he was attractive; he would dominate any scene; Sforza was aware that the women in the streets, who watched the procession from loggia and rooftop, would for the most part focus their interest on this man. What was it about him? He was handsomely dressed; so was his brother. His jewels were glittering; but not more so than his brother’s. Was it the manner in which he held himself? Was it a pride which excelled all pride; a certainty that he was a god among men?

  Sforza did not care to pursue the subject. He only knew that if he had a suspicion of Alexander he felt even more uneasy regarding his son.

  But now the greeting was friendly; the welcome warm.

  Through the Campo di Fiore went the cavalcade, the young men in its center—Cesare, Sforza and Giovanni—across the Bridge of St. Angelo to pause before the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico.

  Sforza lifted his eyes. There on the loggia, her hair shining like gold in the glittering sunshine, was a young girl in crimson satin decorated with rubies and pearls. She was gripping a pillar of the loggia and the sunlight rested on her hands adazzle with jewels.

  She looked down on her brothers and the man who was to be her husband.

  She was thirteen and those about her had not succeeded in robbing her of her romantic imaginings. She smiled and lifted her hands in welcome.

  Sforza looked at her grimly. Her youthful beauty did not move him. He was conscious of her brothers on either side of him; and he continued to wonder how far he could trust them and the Pope.

  The Palace of Santa Maria was in a feverish state of excitement; there was whispering and shouting, the sound of feet running hither and thither; the dressmakers and hairdressers filled the anteroom; Lucrezia’s chaplain had been with her for so long, preparing her spiritually, that those who must prepare her physically were chafing with impatience.

  The heat was intense—it was June—and Lucrezia felt crushed by the weight of her wedding gown heavily embroidered with gold thread and decorated with jewels which had cost fifteen thousand ducats. Her golden hair was caught in a net ornamented with glittering precious stones. Adriana and Giulia had personally insisted on painting her face and plucking her eyebrows that she might appear as an elegant lady of fashion.

  Lucrezia had never felt so excited in the whole of her life. Her dress may have been too heavy for comfort on this hot day, but she cared little for that, for she delighted in adorning herself.

  She was thinking of the ceremony, of the people who would crowd to see her as she crossed from the Palace to the Vatican, of herself, serenely beautiful, the heroine of this splendid occasion, with her pages and slaves to strew garlands of sweetsmelling flowers before her as she walked. She gave scarcely a thought to her bridegroom. Marriage was not, she gathered from what she had seen of those near her, a matter about which one should concern oneself overmuch. Giovanni Sforza seemed old, and he did not smile very often; his eyes did not flash like Cesare’s and Giovanni’s. He was different; he was solemn and looked a little severe. But the marriage was not to be consummated and, Giulia had told her, she need not be bothered with him if she did not want to be. She would continue to stay in Rome—so for Lucrezia marriage meant merely a brilliant
pageant with herself as the central figure.

  Giulia clapped her hands suddenly and said: “Bring in the slave that Madonna Lucrezia may see her.”

  The servants bowed and very shortly a dwarf Negress was standing before Lucrezia. She was resplendent in a gold dress, her hair caught in a jeweled net, and her costume was an exact replica of her dazzlingly beautiful mistress’s. Lucrezia cried out in delight, for this Negress’s black hair and skin made that of Lucrezia seem more fair than ever.

  “She will carry your train,” said Adriana. “It will be both amusing and delightful to watch.”

  Lucrezia agreed and turning to a table on which was a bowl of sweetmeats, she picked up one of these and slipped it into the Negress’s mouth.

  The dark eyes glistened with the affection which most of the servants—and particularly the slaves—had for Madonna Lucrezia.

  “Come,” said Adriana sternly, “there is much to do yet. Madalenna, bring the jeweled pomanders.”

  As Madalenna made for the door she caught her breath suddenly, for a man had entered, and men should not enter a lady’s chamber when she was being dressed; but the lord Cesare obeyed no rules, no laws but his own.

  “My lord …” began Adriana, but Cesare silenced her with a frown.

  “Cesare, what do you think of my dress?” cried Lucrezia. “Tell me whether you admire me now.”

  Cesare ignored her and, looking straight at Adriana, said: “I wish to speak to my sister … alone.”

  “But, my lord, the time is short.”

  “I wish to speak to her alone,” he repeated. “Do I not make my meaning clear?”

  Even Adriana quailed before this arrogant young man of eighteen. Rumors of his life at the universities of Perugia and Pisa had reached her, and the strangeness of the stories had made her shudder. Accidents often happened to those who opposed this arrogant son of the Pope and she was not so powerful that she could risk offending him.