Madonna of the Seven Hills: A Novel of the Borgias

by Jean Plaidy

  She did not answer. Desperately she was seeking for courage to tell them of her condition, to explain why they must put aside all thought of a grand marriage for her, how she loved Pedro and that he was the father of the child she carried.

  She had imagined herself telling them, again and again as she lay in her converted cell and, although it had seemed a great ordeal which lay before her, it had not seemed impossible. Facing them, she found that she had underestimated the fear and awe in which she held them, the power which they held over her.

  Alexander’s smile was almost roguish. “There are many clamoring for your hand, daughter.”

  “Father … I do not wish to think of them.”

  Cesare had moved swiftly toward her and put an arm about her. “What ails you, Lucrezia? You look ill. I fear you have suffered privation in your convent.”

  “No … no. I have been comforted there.”

  “It is no place for such as you are.”

  “But you are pale and you look exhausted,” said the Pope.

  “Let me sit down a moment,” Lucrezia begged.

  Both men watched her intently. Only Alexander realized how frightened she was, and he motioned her to a stool.

  Cesare told her of the men who were eager to marry her. “Francesco Orsini … Ottaviano Riario … and there is Sanchia’s brother, the little Duke of Bisceglie.”

  Alexander said suddenly: “This has been an ordeal for the child. She needs rest now. Your apartments have been prepared for you, my dear. You shall go to them at once.”

  Cesare was about to protest, but the Pope was his old firm self. He was clapping his hands and slaves were appearing.

  “Madonna Lucrezia’s women should conduct her to her apartments,” he said.

  When he was alone, Alexander stood before the shrine in his apartments. He was not praying; he was staring at it, and there were furrows in his brow and the rich purple blood stained his face, while in his temples a pulse throbbed visibly.

  It was impossible. But it was not impossible at all. What had been happening in the convent all these months? He had heard stories of what could and did happen in convents. But not that of San Sisto.

  He had not dared voice his supicions before Cesare. Oh yes, he was afraid of his son. If Cesare had guessed what was in his mind he might have done anything, however reckless. Cesare must not know yet … if it were true. But this monstrous thing which he suspected must not be true.

  He thanked the saints that Cesare’s mind was so constantly on his own affairs that he had failed to be as perceptive as his father. Cesare had been dreaming of release from the Church and marriage to Carlotta of Naples, even as Lucrezia stood before them, and he had not noticed how complete was the change in Lucrezia. Could all those months of quiet life at San Sisto’s have wrought such a change? Not they alone.

  But he must be careful. He must remember his fainting fits. It would not do for him to be ill now, because if what he suspected were true he would need all his wits to deal with it.

  He must wait. He must recover his equanimity; he must remind himself that he was Alexander, who had emerged triumphant after the death of Calixtus—Alexander who on every occasion turned defeat into victory.

  At length he made his way to his daughter’s apartment.

  Lucrezia was lying on her bed, and only Pantisilea sat beside her. There were tears on Lucrezia’s cheeks, and the sight of them filled Alexander’s heart with tenderness.

  “Leave us, my dear,” he said to Pantisilea; and the girl’s dark eyes were fearful and yet adoring as they met his. It was as though she implored him, out of his great tenderness, his power and understanding, to save her dear mistress.

  “Father!” Lucrezia would have risen, but Alexander put a hand on her shoulder and gently forced her back on to the pillows.

  “What have you to tell me, my child?” he asked.

  She looked at him appealingly, but she could not speak.

  “You must tell me,” he said gently. “Only if you do, can I help you.”

  “Father, I am afraid.”

  “Afraid of me? Have I not always been benevolent to you?”

  “The kindest father in the world, Most Holy Lord.”

  He took her hand and kissed it.

  “Who is he?” he asked.

  Her eyes opened wide and she shrank against her pillows.

  “Do you not trust me, child?”

  She sprang up suddenly and threw herself into his arms; she began to sob wildly; never had he seen his serene little Lucrezia so moved.

  “My dearest, my dearest,” he murmured, “you may tell me. You may tell me all. I shall not scold you whatever you have to tell. Do I not love you beyond all else in the world? Is not your happiness my most constant purpose?”

  “I thank the saints for you,” sobbed Lucrezia.

  “Will you not tell me? Then must I tell you. You are to have a child. When, Lucrezia?”

  “It should be in March.”

  The Pope was astounded. “That is but three months hence. So soon! I should not have believed it.”

  “Pantisilea has been so clever … oh, such a comfort, Father. Thank you for sending her. I could not have had a dearer friend. I shall always love her … as long as I live.”

  “She is a dear creature,” said the Pope. “I am glad that she comforted you. But tell me, who is the father of your child?”

  “I love him, Father. You will permit our marriage?”

  “It is difficult for me to deny my daughter anything.”

  “Oh Father, beloved Father, would I had come to you before. How foolish I was! I was afraid. When you were not with me, I did not see you as you really are. I saw you as the powerful Pope determined to make a politically advantageous marriage for me. I had forgotten that the Holy Father of us all was first my own dear father.”

  “Then it is time we were together again. The name of the man?”

  “It is your chamberlain, Pedro Caldes.”

  The Pope rocked her to and fro in his arms.

  “Pedro Caldes,” he repeated. “A handsome boy. One of my favorite chamberlains. And he visited you in your convent, of course.”

  “It was when he brought me news of Giovanni’s death, Father, and I was so unhappy. He comforted me.”

  The Pope held her fiercely against him; for a moment his face was distorted with rage and anguish. My beloved Giovanni murdered, he was thinking; my daughter pregnant with the child of a chamberlain!

  But when Lucrezia looked at him, his face wore its habitual expression of tenderness and benignity.

  “My dear child,” he said, “I will confess that I am startled.”

  She took his hands and covered them with kisses. How appealing she was, looking at him with those adoring yet frightened eyes; she reminded him of her mother at the height of their passion.

  “Father, you will help me?”

  “Do you doubt it … for one moment? Shame, Lucrezia! But we must be cautious. You have been divorced in the belief that your husband is impotent and you are a virgin.” In spite of the Pope’s horror at the situation with which he was confronted he he could not refrain from smiling. It was a situation which, in any circumstances, must seem to him essentially humorous. “What will our good Cardinals say, think you, if they discover that the charming innocent young virgin, who appeared before them so decorously, was six months pregnant? Oh Lucrezia, my clever one, my subtle one, it would not do at all. We might even have Sforza claiming the child and swearing it was his. Then where would be our divorce? We have to act now with the utmost caution. The matter must be kept secret. Who knows of it?”

  “None but Pedro and Pantisilea.”

  The Pope nodded.

  “None must know, my child.”

  “And Father, I may marry Pedro? We want to go away from Rome to live quietly and happily somewhere together, where no one concerns themselves with us and what we do; where we can live peaceful happy lives, as ordinary people may.”

&nbs
p; The Pope smoothed her hair from her hot face. “My beloved,” he said, “you must leave this matter in my hands. The world shall know that the ordeal through which you have passed has been a trying one. You will stay in your apartments at Santa Maria in Portico and, until you have regained your health, none shall wait on you but the faithful Pantisilea. In the meantime we will discover what can be done to make you happy.”

  Lucrezia lay back on her pillows, and the tears slowly ran down her cheeks.

  “In truth,” she said, “Alexander VI, you are not a man; you are a god.”

  Madonna Lucrezia was ill. For two months since she had left the convent she had been confined to her apartments, and only her maid Pantisilea and the members of her family were allowed to see her.

  The citizens of Rome laughed among themselves. What did this mean? What had Madonna Lucrezia been doing during her stay in the convent? They remembered that she was after all a Borgia. In a few months’ time would there be a child at the Vatican, a little infant whom the Pope in his benevolence had decided to adopt?

  Cesare heard the rumors, and declared he would be revenged on those who repeated them.

  He went to his father’s presence and told him what was being said.

  “It is inevitable,” said the Pope. “There are always such stories concerning us. The people need them as they need their carnivals.”

  “I’ll not have such things said of Lucrezia. She must come out of her seclusion. She must show herself.”

  “Cesare, how could she do that?”

  The Pope was looking at his son, marvelling at the egoism of Cesare, who was waiting for that day when he would be released from the Church to marry Carlotta of Naples and take charge of the Papal armies. That image in his mind was so big that it obscured all others. Thus it must have been when he arranged for the murder of Giovanni. The grief of his father was as nothing beside his own grandiose ambitions. Even Lucrezia’s predicament was not known to him, which seemed fantastic because, had he given the matter a moment’s thought, it would surely have been obvious.

  “By appearing among them,” Cesare replied.

  It was time he realized the true state of affairs. At the end of the month, or the beginning of next, Lucrezia’s child would be born. He would have to know.

  “That,” said Alexander, “would be but to confirm the rumors.”

  Now Cesare was really startled. The Pope watched the hot blood rush into his handsome face.

  “ ’Tis true enough,” went on Alexander. “Lucrezia is with child. Moreover the birth is imminent. Cesare, I wonder you did not realize this.”

  Alexander frowned. He understood how terrified Lucrezia would be of Cesare’s discovering her condition. She and little Pantisilea would have been doubly careful when Cesare visited her.

  “Lucrezia … to have a child!”

  The Pope lifted his shoulders. “These things happen,” he said lightly.

  “While she was in the convent!” Cesare clenched his fists. “So that was why she was so contented there. Who is the father?”

  “My son, let not our tempers run high. This is a matter wherein we need all our cunning, all our calm. It is unfortunate, but if this marriage we are planning for Lucrezia is to be brought about, it will not help us if it should be known that, while she stood before the Cardinals declaring herself virgo intacta, she was in fact six months pregnant. This must be our little secret matter.”

  “Who is the father?” repeated Cesare.

  The Pope went on as though he had not spoken. “Listen to my plan. None shall attend her but Pantisilea. When the child is born it shall be taken away immediately. I have already been in contact with some good people who will take it and care for it. I shall reward them well, for remember, this is my grandchild, a Borgia, and we have need of Borgias. Mayhap in a few years’ time I will have the child brought to the Vatican. Mayhap I will watch over its upbringing. But for a few years it must be as though there was no child.”

  “I wish to know the name of this man,” insisted Cesare.

  “You are too angry, Cesare. I must warn you, my son, that anger is the greatest enemy of those who allow it to conquer them. Keep your anger in chains. It was what I learned to do at an early age. Show no anger against this young man. I shall not. I understand what made him act as he did. Come, Cesare, would not you and I in similar circumstances behave in exactly the same manner? We cannot blame him.” The Pope’s expression changed very slightly. “But we shall know how to deal with him when the time comes.”

  “He shall die,” cried Cesare.

  “All in good time,” murmured the Pope. “At the moment … let all be peaceful. There is my little Pantisilea.” The Pope’s tone was regretful, and his smile tender. “She knows a great deal. Poor child, such knowledge is not good for her.”

  “Father, you are wise. You know how to deal with matters like this, but I must know this man’s name. I cannot rest until I do.”

  “Do nothing rash, my son. His name is Pedro Caldes.”

  “Is he not one of your chamberlains?”

  The Pope nodded.

  Cesare was shaking with rage. “How dare he! A chamberlain, a servant … and my sister!”

  The Pope laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, and was alarmed by the tremors which shook Cesare.

  “Your pride is great, my son. But remember … caution! We shall know how to settle this matter, you and I. But at the moment our best method is caution.”

  Caution! It was not in Cesare’s nature to be cautious. The rages which had come to him in boyhood were more frequent as he grew older, and he found it becoming more and more difficult to control them.

  His mind was dominated now by one picture: His sister with the chamberlain. He was obsessed by jealousy and hatred, and there was murder in his heart.

  The Pope had urged caution, but he no longer obeyed the Pope. After the death of his brother he had learned his father’s weakness. Alexander did not remember to mourn for long. He forgot the misdeeds of his family; he ceased to regret the dead and gave all his attention to the living. The great affection of which he was capable—evanescent though it might be—was intense while it lasted; and it had to be directed toward someone. Cesare had taken the affection his father had given to Giovanni, as though it were a title or estate. Cesare knew he need not fear the loss of his father’s affection, no matter what he did. That was the great discovery he had made. That was why he felt powerful, invincible. Alexander was lord of Italy, and Alexander would bend to the will of his son.

  So when Alexander said Caution, why should Cesare heed that warning unless he wished to?

  One day he came face to face with Pedro Caldes in one of the ante-rooms leading to the Papal apartments, and Cesare’s anger flared up to such an extent that he was drained of all memories of his father’s warning.

  “Caldes, halt!” cried Cesare.

  “My lord …” began the startled chamberlain, “what would you have of me?”

  “Your life,” said Cesare, and he drew his sword.

  The startled young man turned and fled toward the Pope’s apartments. Cesare, grasping his sword, followed.

  Pedro, breathless and terrified, could hear the cruel laughter of Cesare close behind him; once Cesare’s sword touched his thigh and he felt the hot blood run down his leg.

  “You waste time in running,” Cesare cried. “You shall die for what you have dared do to my sister.”

  Fainting with fear, Pedro reached the Papal throne, on which Alexander was sitting; with him were two of his chamberlains and one of the Cardinals.

  Pedro cried: “Holy Father, save me … save me before I die!” And he flung himself at Alexander’s feet.

  Cesare was upon him. Alexander had risen, his expression horrified and full of warning.

  “My son, my son, desist,” he cried. “Put away your sword.”

  But Cesare merely laughed and thrust at the chamberlain, as Alexander stooped forward to protect him, so that the blood spurt
ed up and stained the Pope’s robes, and even splashed his face.

  Those who had been with the Pope stood back aghast, while Alexander put his arms about Pedro and looked up into his son’s glowering face.

  “Put away your sword,” he said sternly, and there was a return of the Alexander who, benevolent as he was, had always known how to quell his sons. “Bring not your quarrels to our sacred throne.”

  Cesare laughed again, but he felt once more that awe of his father which he was surprised to discover he had not quite overcome.

  He obeyed as he said truculently: “Let him not think that this is the end of our quarrel.”

  Then he turned and strode out of the apartment.

  Alexander murmured: “The hot blood of youth! He does not mean to be so rash. But who of us was not rash in youth? Have this young man’s wounds attended to and … for his own safety let him be kept under guard.”

  Pantisilea leaned over the bed.

  Lucrezia murmured: “It is beginning, Pantisilea.”

  “Lie down, Madonna. I will send a message to the Holy Father.”

  Lucrezia nodded. “He will take care of everything.”

  Pantisilea despatched a slave to the Vatican with a signet ring which the Pope had given her and which was to be a sign between them that Lucrezia was in need of a midwife. In this affair, the Pope had decided, no word should be written. When he received the ring he would know its purpose, and for no other reason must it be sent to him.

  “How blessed I am in such a father,” murmured Lucrezia. “Oh, Pantisilea, why did I not go to him at once? If I had, Pedro and I might have been married now. How long it is since I saw Pedro! He should be close to me now. How happy I should be if he were! I shall ask my father to bring him to me.”

  “Yes, Madonna, yes,” soothed Pantisilea.

  She was a little uneasy. She had heard rumors concerning the disappearance of Pedro Caldes, but she had not told Lucrezia of this. It would upset her with her confinement so near.

  “I dream, you know,” said Lucrezia. “I dream all the time. We shall have to leave Rome. That will be necessary for a while, I doubt not. We shall live quietly for a few years in some remote place—even more remote than Pesaro; but I do not think my father will allow us to be away from him forever. He will visit us; and how he will love his grandchild! Pantisilea, do you think it will be a boy?”