Madonna of the Seven Hills: A Novel of the Borgias

by Jean Plaidy

  Lucrezia did not miss him in the least. She had seen little of him, and it was only at special functions that they had appeared together.

  Giulia laughed at her as they played with Giulia’s little daughter Laura, who was now nearly two years old.

  “One would think you had gained a lover rather than lost one,” said Giulia.

  “A lover! He was never that.” Lucrezia was wistful. One grew up, and she was fourteen now. Giulia had been fourteen when she had become Alexander’s mistress.

  “Well, do not show your pleasure in his departure quite so openly,” advised Giulia.

  “Is my Holy Father coming to see me?” asked little Laura, tugging at her mother’s skirts.

  Giulia picked up the child and smothered her with kisses. “Soon, I doubt not, my darling. He could not stay away long from his little Laura, could he?”

  Lucrezia watched them, still wistful, thinking of those days when the same father had delighted other children whose nursery he had visited. Alexander—as tender a father to little Laura as he had been to her and Cesare, Giovanni and Goffredo—remained as young as he had been when she and her brothers were in the nursery. Now they were no longer children, and it seemed that wonderful and exciting things happened to them all except herself. She had been married, but hers was no real marriage; and she could be glad because her husband had now run away. Whether he had run away from the plague or from her, it mattered not. Whatever he ran away from he was a coward. Yes, she was sure he was a coward.

  She had dreamed of a lover as magnificent as her father, as handsome as her brother Giovanni, as exciting as Cesare—and they had given her a small man, a widower, a cold man who made no protest because the marriage was not consummated; they had married her to a coward who ran away from the plague and did not attempt to take her with him.

  Not that she wanted to go. But, she told herself, if Giovanni Sforza had been the sort of man who insisted on taking me, I should have wanted to go.

  “Giulia,” she said, “do you think that, now Giovanni Sforza has left me, my father will arrange a divorce?”

  “It will depend,” said Giulia, smoothing her daughter’s long fair hair from her forehead, “on how useful the Holy Father considers the marriage.”

  “Of what use could it be … now?”

  Giulia left her little daughter and going to Lucrezia laid her hand on her shoulder.

  “No use at all,” she said. “Depend upon it the marriage will be dissolved and then you will have a fine husband … a husband who will declare he will have none of this marriage which is no marriage. Moreover, you grow up, Lucrezia. You are old enough now for marriage. Oh yes, it will be a handsome husband this time. A true marriage.”

  Lucrezia smiled. “Let us wash each other’s hair,” she said; and Giulia agreed. It was a favorite occupation, for their golden hair must be washed every three days because after that time it darkened and lost something of its bright color, so they spent a great deal of time washing each other’s hair.

  And while they washed they talked of the handsome husband who would be Lucrezia’s when the Pope had freed her from Giovanni Sforza. Lucrezia saw herself in a gown of crimson velvet sewn with pearls. She was kneeling on a cushion at the feet of her father and saying: “I will with a good heart.” And the man who knelt beside her was a shadowy figure, but he combined the presence of her father and the qualities she so admired in her brothers.

  It seemed to her as though it were a Borgia who knelt beside her.

  Lucrezia quickly ceased to dream, because when her father became aware that Giovanni Sforza had left Rome he was angry and recalled him at once.

  But safe in Pesaro among his own subjects, far from the conflict of politics and the threat of plague, Giovanni could be bold. He ignored the orders.

  There were threats and promises, for Alexander was afraid of what this son-in-law might do, once he was out of his control.

  And then finally the Pope declared that if Giovanni Sforza would return to Rome his marriage should be consummated and the dowry paid.

  All waited eagerly to see what Sforza would do then; Lucrezia waited … in trepidation.

  PESARO

  Even with such baits held out to him, Giovanni Sforza was reluctant to return to Rome.

  There was unrest throughout Italy, and Sforza was fully aware of this. This time it was not warring states of the peninsula which cast a shadow over the land; there was a mightier enemy.

  The King of France had renewed his claims to the throne of Naples and had informed Alexander that he was sending a mission to the Vatican that the matter might be discussed.

  Alexander, with his clever diplomacy, received the French mission graciously; and his reception of them was viewed with such disfavor throughout Italy that there were rumors that before long Alexander would be deposed. Della Rovere was alert; he was determined that next time the Papal throne was empty he would sit on it.

  Alexander however was not perturbed. He had infinite belief in himself and was sure that he could make the best of a situation however ominous it seemed. Ferrante of Aragon had died and his son Alfonso was now King. Alfonso determined at all costs to keep the Papal friendship, and offered great bribes to Alexander in order to cement it. It was not in Alexander’s nature to refuse the bribes, so he now allied himself with Alfonso; meanwhile the French were dissatisfied and threatened invasion.

  In his retreat at Pesaro Giovanni Sforza watched what was going on but could not make up his mind which road to take. Ludovico of Milan had shown him quite clearly that he could not be trusted to help his relative in an emergency. The Pope was obviously strong since Alfonso of Naples was suing so ardently for Papal friendship. Therefore Giovanni Sforza decided that he would return to Rome.

  Lucrezia was waiting. Her hair had been freshly washed, her body perfumed. At last she was to be a bride.

  The Pope had welcomed his son-in-law as though his absence had been a natural one. He had embraced him warmly and declared that he was glad to receive him and that his nuptial couch was waiting for him.

  There were banquets and the usual crude jokes. It was almost like another wedding, but Lucrezia could not enjoy the celebrations so light-heartedly as she had the real wedding. That had been a masque with herself in the principal part; this was reality.

  Her husband’s attitude had changed toward her; she sensed that. He took her hand and she felt his breath on her face. At last he had noticed that she was beautiful.

  So they danced together, the dances of Italy, not the Spanish dances which she had once danced with Giovanni on that occasion which was so like this and yet so different.

  And then to that nuptial couch.

  He was quiet and said little. She was prepared for what must take place—Giulia had prepared her—but she knew that it was going to be very different from Giulia’s experience.

  She was a little frightened, but serene as always, and she knew that if she did not experience the ecstasy for which she had longed, at least she would be able to endure it.

  When they were alone in the great bed she said to him: “Tell me one thing first, Giovanni. Why did you wait so long before you came back?”

  “It would have been foolish to return,” he mumbled. “There was plague and … matters were uncertain.”

  He turned to her, impatient after all the months of waiting, but she held aloof with the faintest sign of fear in her big light eyes.

  “Did you come back for the consummation … or for the dowry?”

  “For both,” he answered.

  It was strange, bewildering, as Giulia had said; and yet it was not as Giulia had said. She was aware of excitement, of the discovery of a new world which seemed to be opening before her, of delights undreamed of. She knew that with another it would have been different; but even with this man it was adequate.

  Yet with some …

  She lay back smiling.

  She had grown up overnight. Alexander and Giulia, who had noticed it, discus
sed it together.

  “I am sorry for her,” mused Giulia. “My own experience was so different. Poor Lucrezia with that cold and nervous creature! Holiness, you should dissolve the marriage and give her a real man.”

  Alexander clicked his tongue playfully. “Such ways to talk of marriage! Oh, she is young yet. She has her whole life before her. I do not however shelve the idea of arranging a divorce, but divorces are not easy to arrange. The Church abhors them.”

  “But if the Holy Father decided, the Church would fall in with his wishes,” Giulia reminded him.

  “Ah, wicked one, you mock. I must devise a punishment for you.”

  “I will say ten ‘I love yous’ and throw myself in worship at your feet, and cry ‘Do with me as you will, Holy Father, for my body and soul belong to you.’ ”

  “My Giulia … my little love. What should I do without you! But you will look after my Lucrezia, will you not? You will advise her, wise woman that you are!”

  “How to take lovers and deceive her husband. As I did.”

  “ ’Twas no deceit. Poor little Orsino, he was willing that it should be so—most willing.”

  They laughed together while she assured him that she loved Lucrezia as a sister and that she would look after her as such.

  Giulia wished though to discuss other matters. She was eager that the Pope should arrange a grand marriage for Laura, since she wanted all Italy to know that the little girl was accepted as his daughter.

  “I will do it. Dearest little Laura shall have as fine a husband as you could wish.”

  He kept her with him. He needed the relaxation his relationship with her could give him. There were dark clouds over Rome at this time and he did not care to think of them. So he would be gay with his Giulia; he would make love as a young man while they both rejoiced in his virility.

  That was the very best antidote to trouble, he had discovered.

  They were in Lucrezia’s apartment—Lucrezia and Giulia. Their hair was loose about their shoulders. Giulia’s reached to her feet, and Lucrezia could sit on hers. They had been washing it once more.

  “There is sun on the balcony,” said Giulia. “Let us go there and dry it. Drying it in the sun should make it more golden than ever.”

  “Should we go on to the balcony?”

  “Why not?”

  “Could not infection reach us there?”

  “Oh, Lucrezia, are you not tired of being shut in the Palace? We must not go out … not even for a minute. I am weary of it all.”

  “It would be more wearying still if we caught the plague.”

  “I suppose so. I shall be glad when the hot weather has gone. Perhaps it will take the pestilential air with it.”

  Giulia rose and shook out her damp hair. “I shall go on to the balcony.”

  “Did you not promise the Holy Father that you would not?”

  Giulia grimaced. “I did not mention the balcony. I said I would not go out.”

  “He may have meant the balcony.”

  “Then let us pretend he did not. I am going out there now. I am going to sit in the sun and dry my hair.”

  “No, Giulia, you should not.”

  But Giulia had already gone.

  Lucrezia sat down thoughtfully, looking at the figure of the Madonna and the lamp before it.

  “Holy Mother,” she prayed. “Let all be well soon.”

  There was much that was wrong, she knew. It was not only the plague; that was a frequent visitor. There were ugly rumors about her father. She had heard the servants whispering; she had not told anyone she had heard, because servants might be whipped or even more terribly punished for saying some of the things which she had overheard. They had said that the Pope’s position was insecure and that there were many who wanted him to be removed and a new Pope set up in his place. Invasion was threatened by the French, and there were some who said that the Pope was a secret ally of Italy’s enemy.

  All these matters made her very uneasy. She did not know much about her husband’s political feelings. They shared their bed now and she was in truth a wife, but a vaguely dissatisfied one. Giulia had said that he was cold; she had discovered that she herself was by no means so. She did not understand herself; desire—vague desire for someone unknown—was aroused in her, but it was not satisfied by Giovanni. She would lie beside him listening to his snoring and long to feel a lover’s arms about her. Not Giovanni’s. But there were times when she began to believe that any lover was better than none.

  The love she experienced was very different from that which Giulia knew, but then Giulia’s lover was that incomparable man, Alexander.

  Somewhere in the world there would be the lover she desired, for there must be other men in the world who had the qualities of the Borgias.

  But these were her own affairs and Lucrezia was rarely selfish, so that the affairs of others invariably seemed of as great importance—if not greater—to her than her own.

  She could find time to think of poor Cesare, more furious than ever because now danger threatened and he was unable to act. He longed to have his own condotta in the army; here was a chance for military glory, and he was denied it. Adriana had become very pious again and spent a lot of time on her knees, so it was clear that she was very worried.

  She heard shouting from the piazza and as she ran to the balcony to see what was happening, Giulia fell almost fainting into her arms.

  There was blood on Giulia’s forehead.

  “What happened?” She looked from Giulia to the balcony.

  “Do not go out there,” said Giulia. “Am I bleeding? They saw me there. A crowd gathered in no time. Did you hear what they said of me?”

  “I heard the shouting. Please sit down. I will bathe your forehead.”

  She clapped her hands and a slave came running.

  “Bring me a bowl of water and soft cloths,” she cried, “and tell none why you bring them.”

  Giulia looked at Lucrezia earnestly. “They called me lewd names,” she said. “And they mentioned the Holy Father.”

  “They … they dare not!”

  “But they dared, Lucrezia. That means that something more than we realize is happening in the city.”

  “Do you think they mean to depose him?”

  “He’ll never allow them to do that.”

  The slave came in with the water. Lucrezia took it and Giulia said: “I fell as I stepped on to the balcony and I have grazed my forehead.”

  The slave bowed and went away, but she did not believe Giulia.

  They know of this trouble, thought Lucrezia. They know more than we have been allowed to.

  It was impossible to keep secret the news that stones had been thrown at the Pope’s mistress who was on a balcony of Lucrezia’s palace. When Alexander heard of it he came hurrying to them.

  In spite of the dangerous position in which Alexander knew himself to be, his greatest concern at that moment was the safety of his mistress and daughter.

  He embraced them tenderly and for the first time since the war clouds had appeared over his head he showed anxiety.

  “But, my darling, let me see this wound. We must make sure there is no infection. Holy Mother of God, it might have been your eye. But the saints have preserved you, my precious one, and the wound is not great. And, Lucrezia, oh, my precious little daughter, you were unhurt. I thank the Virgin for that.”

  He held them both against him as though he would never let them go, and as each looked up into his face, she was aware of the conflict there.

  “You must not be anxious, dearest Father,” said Lucrezia. “We will take the greatest care. We will not venture on to the balcony until all this trouble is over.”

  The Pope released them and went thoughtfully to the figure of the Madonna. He stood beside it, his lips moving slightly. He was praying, and they were both aware that he was urging himself to make a decision.

  Slowly he turned to them, and he was the old firm Alexander again.

  “My darlings
,” he said, “I now have to do something which grieves me as nothing else could. I am going to send you away from Rome.”

  “Please do not do that, Father,” begged Lucrezia. “Let us stay with you. We will promise never to go out. But to be away from you would be the worst that could befall us.”

  He smiled and laid a hand on her head.

  “And my Giulia, what has she to say?”

  Giulia had thrown herself at his feet and taken his hand. Giulia was thinking: Something more terrible than even the plague is threatening Rome. The French armies may invade us … they will set up a Pope of their own choosing, and who knows what will happen to Alexander?

  Giulia had found Alexander a very satisfactory lover, accomplished and experienced; she did not doubt that she had been fortunate in having the best tutor in Rome. But part of Alexander’s attraction had been his power; the knowledge, first that he was the richest Cardinal in Rome, and later the Pope himself. Such was Giulia’s nature that all this had added to her pleasure. To imagine him without his glory, perhaps a humiliated prisoner of the French, made him appear a different person from the all-powerful, ever-indulgent and generous lover by whom it was an honor to be loved.

  Giulia was therefore not entirely dismayed by the thought of retirement to a safe place until it had been settled whether or not Alexander was to retain his power.

  She gave no sign of this; and Alexander who would have immediately detected duplicity in a statesman, was unaware of it in his mistress. This was partly due to that constant desire to see only that which he wished to see.

  He was as devoted to Giulia as ever. The gap in their years made her seem, even now that she was a mother, a young and artless girl. Her passion had always seemed spontaneous; her joy in him as great as his in her. Therefore he believed that she would be as heartbroken to leave him as he would be to lose her.

  “We will not leave you,” said Giulia. “We will face anything, Holy Father, rather than do so. I would rather die of the plague or at the sword of foreign soldiers than …”