Light on Lucrezia

X THE BULL IN THE DUST

In the highest tower of the fortress of Medina del Campo Cesare paced up and down, clenching his hands, biting his fists, uncontrollable fury within him.

“How can I endure this life?” he shouted at his attendants. “Why should this happen to me … to Cesare Borgia! What have I done to deserve such a fate?”

His servants cowered before him. They might have answered that he had imprisoned many men, had condemned them to a worse fate than that which he now suffered; but none dared speak to him, even though their silence could irritate him as much as words.

He had not been ill-treated. In Spain he was recognized as a prisoner of rank. He had his chaplain and attendants, and he was not entirely denied visitors from the outside world.

But to a man such as Cesare Borgia, who had dreamed of ruling all Italy, this fate was the most tragic that could have befallen him.

There were moments of fury when none knew what he would do next. He had during one of these, which had come to him while he was in the prison of Cincilla, lifted the governor in his arms and attempted to throw him over the battlements. Cesare was emaciated by sickness and frustration, but anger gave him strength and the governor’s life had been saved just in time.

As a result Cesare had been removed to this high tower in the fortress of Medina del Campo.

When he looked from his narrow window he could see the valley far below. He would sit brooding for hours over the view from that slit of a window. He longed for freedom and each day he cursed his evil fate, until those about him believed he would do himself an injury.

Then he would call for writing materials that he might write to his sister.

“Lucrezia,” he would cry aloud. “You are the only friend I have in the world. And what can you do for me? You are almost as much a prisoner as I am. To think that this evil fate could befall us … the Borgias!”

He would sink into melancholy, and none dared go near him.

But there were moments of hope. He had heard that King Ferdinand was not pleased with the work of the Great Captain, Consalvo de Cordoba, in Naples, and that he considered he was a traitor to his country. Ferdinand had a plan. He would release Cesare Borgia, set him at the head of an army and send him to make war, in the name of Spain, on Cordoba. Cordoba was the man who had delivered Cesare into the hands of Spain; but for Cordoba he would not be a prisoner now. Ferdinand decided that Cesare was indeed the man to subdue the Great Captain.

So hope was born. There was laughter in the tower of Medina del Campo. Cesare cried: “Soon I shall be marching at the head of my army. Soon I shall be in Naples. I was dying, my friends, for a breath of Italian air. The thought of breathing it revives me now.”

He discussed his plans with his visitors; he would spend hours stretched out on the floor, studying maps. There was an atmosphere of excitement in the tower—until news came that Ferdinand had changed his plans and had set out in person for Naples.

Then it seemed that madness possessed Cesare. He threw himself about the tower so that his servants were sure he would do himself an injury. He stood at the window looking down, and all believed that he planned to throw himself out.

The Count of Benavente, a nobleman who lived close by, had visited Cesare out of curiosity, and become fascinated by him. This Count, seeing thoughts of suicide in Cesare’s eyes, said to him: “Are you thinking of throwing yourself out of the window, my friend?”

Cesare answered: “It would be an escape from what is rapidly becoming intolerable.”

“By the window certainly,” said Benavente. “But why jump out? Why not lower yourself down by means of a rope?”

“I have my visitors,” said Cesare. “I am treated as a prisoner of some state. But my jailers would never allow a rope to be brought to me.”

“It might be arranged,” said Benavente.

Cesare now had an object in life. His spirits revived and the old vitality was with him. His chaplain and his servant Garcia were in the plot, and eventually, a little at a time, the rope was smuggled into the tower.

There came a day when, afraid that the guards were becoming suspicious, Cesare decided that there must be no more delay. The pieces of rope were securely joined together, and the escape planned for a certain dark night.

Garcia descended first and to his horror he discovered, when he reached the end of the rope, that he was too far from the ground to jump with safety. But jump he must; and he lay groaning in the ditch about the castle, his legs broken. Cesare had by this time descended and seen what had happened; there was no alternative but to jump; he did so and, as with Garcia, both legs were broken as were his wrists and several bones in his fingers.

Writhing with pain, cursing his ill-luck, he lay on the ground. But it was not long before Benavente came hurrying to him and, seeing his condition, picked him up with the aid of his groom and set him on a horse.

Cesare was in agony, but at least he had escaped. As for Garcia, there was not time to save him as the castle was already alert.

Garcia was left to be captured and executed, but Cesare was taken by Benavente to Villalon, there to have his bones reset and recover sufficiently to undertake the journey he had planned into the Kingdom of Navarre, which was ruled over by his brother-in-law.

At last he was well enough and, thanking his friend Benavente, he left him and with two attendants rode with all speed toward Navarre.

Lucrezia never ceased to think of her brother.

The times were anxious. Julius was proving a warlike Pope and, although during Alexander’s lifetime he had been his bitter enemy, decrying the ambitious desire to subdue the neighboring states of Italy, now that he was sure of his own power he was determined to restore the Papal states to the Church; and it seemed that his policy ran along lines similar to those pursued by Alexander.

He had made an alliance with the old Orsini, marrying his daughter, Felice della Rovere, to Gian Giordano Orsini; his nephew Niccolo della Rovere was married to Laura, the daughter of the beautiful Giulia, wife of Orsino Orsini. Laura was said by some to be the daughter of Alexander, but Julius chose to ignore this and accept her as an Orsini.

Having made peace with the Orsinis and the Colonnas, Julius felt that he was safe at home; he was therefore ready for conquest farther afield, and went forth to attack the Baglioni of Perugia and the Bentivoglio of Bologna.

The Bentivoglios had always been firm friends of the Este family, but Ferrara had been forced into alliance with the Church. Julius however had never had a great opinion of Ippolito and had reproved him often for his vain dress and manners, suggesting that he behaved more like a woman than a man and did not conduct himself in a manner befitting a member of the Sacred College. Moreover Julius had been shocked by recent happenings in Ferrara, and considered that Alfonso had been wrong not to have punished Ippolito for his terrible outrage on Giulio.

Therefore there were rumors in Ferrara that this friendship between them and the Pope was an uneasy one, and that the latter might, when he had completed his conquest of Perugia and Bologna, turn his attention to Ferrara.

Lucrezia felt apprehensive and ready for any terror that might come; never did a day pass without her thinking of those two young men who had been her frequent companions and who were now shut away in the tower of the castle. Disaster could descend, swift and unexpected. Who could know what would happen next?

Her old friend, Giulia Farnese, wrote to her now and then. Giulia was once more installed at the Papal Court now that her daughter Laura was married to the Pope’s nephew. Giulia recalled the old days when they had been constant companions and had washed their hair together and competed for Alexander’s attention. She wrote without nostalgia, which meant that life to her now was as good as it had been in Alexander’s time; and Lucrezia had heard that Giulia, even now only a little more than thirty, was reckoned to be the most beautiful and attractive woman in Rome. She was surrounded by admirers and even her young daughter, herself a beauty, could not compete with her.

Giulia had known great triumphs. Not so Sanchia, that other friend. Sanchia had died recently in Naples in the prime of her youth and beauty, deeply mourned by her last lover Consalvo de Cordoba, the Great Captain who had lured Cesare to the Castel del Ovo that he might be made prisoner of Spain.

It was into this uneasy atmosphere that the great news broke.

Lucrezia was with her women when she heard that a messenger was below and had news of such importance that he refused to impart it to any but the Duchessa herself.

The page knelt at her feet and poured out the great news: Cesare was free. He had reached Navarre. He was preparing now to regain all he had lost. He needed the help of the one he trusted more than any other in the world.

Lucrezia listening felt young again. She laughed as she had not laughed for a very long time.

Then she took the page into her arms, and kissed his forehead.

“You shall never want while you live,” she told him, “for bringing me this news.”

Lucrezia was light-hearted. She had another reason for rejoicing besides the escape of Cesare. A guest had arrived in Ferrara and a ball was to be given in his honor.

She had not realized how much pleasure this event would give her and she was astonished that she could feel so happy. Often she would look up at the tower in which those two young men were incarcerated and, thinking of the melancholy turn to Giulio’s life, had come near to weeping. She had pleaded with Alfonso, and the two brothers had been allowed to be together. She knew what comfort this would be to them, and it must have been indeed a happy day when Giulio and Ferrante were told that their confinement was no longer to be solitary.

But Lucrezia was not allowed to see them for Alfonso had forbidden any to visit them. Their names, he warned Lucrezia, were to be no more mentioned. He had shown mercy to his brothers who, he declared, had plotted against his life; they were together in captivity, and they were allowed a window from which to look out on the world. They would be fed and clothed until they died; he had commissioned men to look after that side of their lives. As for the rest, they were dead as far as all others were concerned.

“Why do you treat them thus?” Lucrezia had demanded. “Is it because you, like Ippolito, dare not look at Giulio’s face and know your own injustice?”

Alfonso’s eyes were cold. “If you would concern yourself with your business and leave mine alone, I should be better pleased with you,” he said.

“Is this not in some way my business?” Lucrezia asked with unwonted passion. “Am I not your wife?”

“I would pray you remember it,” Alfonso had answered. “A wife’s task is to provide children for her husband, and you have not been successful in that respect.”

That subdued her. She was always subdued by her inability to produce an heir.

But within the next few weeks she was again pregnant and Alfonso’s manner warmed a little toward her.

And now she must put aside thoughts of those two sad prisoners. She was with child, and she prayed that this time she would not disappoint Alfonso. But what made her so happy was that there would be a guest at the ball who, she did not doubt, had made the journey to Ferrara for the purpose of seeing her; that guest was Francesco Gonzaga.

She was dressed in cloth of gold with velvet and brocade; she wore her hair loose and a great diamond on her forehead.

Her old friend, Ercole Strozzi, whispered to her that he had never seen her look so beautiful as she did tonight. She smiled at him well pleased. Since her love affair with Pietro Bembo, Ercole Strozzi had been one of her most trusted friends. It was pleasant to sit with the crippled poet discussing poetry and music; and talking of those days at Ostellato seemed to bring them back endowed with a fresh beauty.

But this night, if she thought of Pietro Bembo, it was as a figure of unreality; their love now seemed like something they had read in a poem, too fragile for truth, too rarefied for reality. And here was a man who was virile—a man who could arouse her senses, and make her feel young as she had in those days when she had loved Pedro Caldes and Alfonso of Bisceglie.

Francesco, as the guest of honor, took her hand and led her in the dance, and his eyes were ardent beneath the hooded lids.

“It seems many years since I said good-bye to you in Mantua,” he said. “Did Isabella hurt you badly, Lucrezia?”

Lucrezia smiled. “No,” she answered. “At that time nothing could hurt me. You had made me so welcome.”

“I mean to put a shell about you … a protective shell to guard you from her malice. She hates you because I love you.”

“She hated me when you were scarcely aware of my existence.”

“I have been aware of your existence since the day we first met. Nothing shall come between us now. Not Alfonso nor all of Ferrara. Not Isabella with all her malice.”

“We could not be lovers, Francesco,” she told him. “How could we? It is impossible.”

“Love such as I bear you can conquer what may seem impossible to conquer!”

“Come, we must dance,” she told him. “We are watched, you know. All will be wondering of what we talk so earnestly.”

“They must know that I love you. How could any man do otherwise?”

“I have my enemies,” she said. “But dance, I pray you. Alfonso watches.”

“A plague on Alfonso,” murmured Francesco.

Lucrezia’s dancing had always been of the utmost grace and charm. It had delighted her father and her brothers, and Alexander had been wont to have the floor cleared when Lucrezia danced. Here in Ferrara it attracted attention, and many watched as she circled the floor.

She seemed inspired on this night. She radiated happiness. She was full of such spirits as had been hers before the death of her father, and those watching her marveled.

“Madonna Lucrezia is happy this night,” people said to one another, and they laughed behind their fans. Had it anything to do with her attractive partner? Francesco Gonzaga could not be called a handsome man, but he was known to appeal to women.

“How can we meet … alone?” demanded Francesco passionately.

“We cannot,” she told him. “It would never be allowed. We are watched closely. My husband watches me, and I wonder too how many in your suite are Isabella’s spies.”

“Lucrezia, in spite of all, we must meet.”

“We must plan with care,” she told him.

There was another matter which she did not forget even as she danced with Francesco and allowed her senses to be exhilarated by his desire for her: the need to help Cesare. Who could be more useful to Cesare than the powerful Marquis of Mantua, the great soldier whom the Pope had made Captain-General of his armies?

“You know of my brother’s escape?” she asked.

He nodded. “It was one of the greatest sorrows in my life that my efforts on his behalf should have failed with the King of Spain.”

“You did your best to help. Do not think I shall ever forget that.”

“I would give my life to serve you.”

There was nothing they could do but dance together; only thus could they touch hands and whisper together. So they danced and danced until the early morning, and Lucrezia seemed like a child again.

She did not realize how exhausted she was until her women helped her to her bed. Then she lay as in a dream, her eyes shining, recalling everything he had said, the manner in which he had looked at her.

I am alive again, she told herself. Cesare is free, Francesco Gonzaga loves me, and I love him.

She awoke. It was not yet light. Something was wrong, and as she tasted the salty sweat on her lips, she was suddenly aware of acute agony.

She called to her women and they came running to her bedside.

“I am ill,” she said. “I feel as though I am near to death.”

The women looked at each other in alarm. They knew.

The doctors were brought; they nodded gravely. There was whispering throughout the apartment.

“She was mad to dance as she did. It is certain that by so doing she has lost the heir of Ferrara.”

Alfonso stormed into her apartment. He was too furious to contain his anger.

“So,” he cried, “you have lost my son. What good are you as a wife, eh? You dance through the night to the danger of our heirs. What use are you to me?”

Weak and ill she looked pleadingly at him. “Alfonso …” she began, “I beg of you …”

“Beg … beg …! You will indeed be a beggar if you do not do your duty, woman. This is the third child we have lost. I tell you, you have no notion of your duty here. You bring frivolous Roman customs to Ferrara. We’ll not endure it, I am warning you.”

Lucrezia wilted, and the sight of her fragility infuriated Alfonso the more. He wanted a big strong woman, lusty, sensual and capable of bearing children.

He knew the dangers which threatened those states without heirs. Ippolito had already made trouble; there were the two prisoners in the castle tower. There must be an heir. Lucrezia must either cease disappointing him or he must get him a new wife.

He could no longer bear to look at her lying there among her pillows, elegant even in her present state. The ordeal through which she had passed had made her thinner than ever.

“Are you incapable of bearing children for me?” he cried.

He strode out of the room, and Lucrezia lay back exhausted and trembling.

Melancholy had seized her. There was no news from Cesare; Francesco had gone on his way; and there was a threat in Alfonso’s last words.

Alfonso strode furiously through the town. He was dressed as an ordinary merchant because he was eager not to be recognized; he did not wish his subjects to see him in this angry mood.

He was regretting that he had ever made the Borgia marriage. Of what use were the Borgia now? Their influence had died with Alexander. He did not believe that Cesare would ever regain his kingdom. Lucrezia was still rich, and that was to the good, but she was not rich in children.

She should certainly not have with her in Ferrara her son by the Duke of Bisceglie. She must be made to realize that her position was a very precarious one and would continue to be so until she gave Ferrara an heir.

He was passing a humble dwelling, and as he did so, a beautiful girl stepped into the street. She was carrying a box—the sort which was used for bonnets—and she walked with grace.

Alfonso immediately felt interested, and so great was that interest that he forgot his resentment against his wife.

He followed the girl. She went into one of the big houses, but he knew she would soon come out since he guessed that she was delivering a bonnet to the lady of that house.

He was right. She soon emerged. Alfonso had rarely seen a face and figure which appealed to him more strongly. She walked with a feline grace although she was large of hip and bosom. Her long hair fell to her waist; it was unkempt, perhaps a little greasy; and her skin was brown. She might have appealed because she was so very different from the elegant wife whom he had just left.

He caught up with her.

“You are in a hurry,” he said, laying his hand on her bare arm.

She turned a startled gaze on him. Her large eyes were soft and without anger.

“I am in no hurry,” she said.

“It is well, because I would talk with you.”

“I must return to my mother’s house,” she said.

“The bonnet-maker?” he asked. “I saw you leave with the box on your arm.”

She recognized him suddenly; she turned to him and dropped a curtsey.

“You know me?”

“I have seen you riding in the streets, my lord Duke.”

“Do not be frightened,” he said softly. “I would know your name.”

“It is Laura Dianti.”

“Laura Dianti, the bonnet-maker’s daughter,” he repeated. “I think we shall be friends.”

They had reached the little house. She pushed open the door. It was dark inside.

“There is no one at home,” she said. “My mother is at the house of a lady, making a bonnet.…”

“So much the better,” laughed Alfonso.

He laid hold of her. She was unresisting, earthy, the woman he needed to make him forget his frustrated anger against Lucrezia.

He was well content; and so it seemed was Laura Dianti, the bonnet-maker’s daughter.

Lucrezia soon recovered from her miscarriage. There was so much now to make her gay. Cesare was a free man; she had constantly believed so firmly in his destiny, so godlike had he always seemed to her, that she was inwardly convinced that he would now achieve all his desires.

When a few of the younger Cardinals rode into Ferrara from the suite of Julius which was now installed in neighboring Bologna, Lucrezia was as lively as she had been since she came to Ferrara. She forgot Alfonso’s threats because, surrounded by Cardinals, she was reminded of the old days in Rome; and the homage these men paid her made her feel young and important again.

Francesco was passing through Ferrara once more, and this time she was determined that there should be some means of meeting privately. She began feverishly designing new dresses and spent so much time on these frivolities that Friar Raffaela da Varese, a strict priest of the Court, began preaching sermons against the wickedness of feminine vanity, and even condemned the use of cosmetics.

Lucrezia and her ladies pretended to listen to him gravely, but they ignored his warnings of hell-fire. There was gaiety in the little apartments of the balcony; and always at the side of Lucrezia was the lame poet, Ercole Strozzi.

Alfonso disliked him; he had no use for poets and, since he had ruled in his father’s place, life had gone less smoothly for Strozzi. Certain lands which had been bestowed on him by Duke Ercole had been reclaimed by Alfonso. Strozzi could have forgiven him that, but what angered him was Alfonso’s attitude toward his literary work.

Alfonso would laugh slyly when poetry was read, and there were many in the court who were ready to follow the example of the Duke.

Moreover Strozzi was a great friend of Francesco Gonzaga, and Francesco and Alfonso had never been fond of each other; now that Francesco desired Alfonso’s wife they were less likely to be so.

The proprietary attitude which Strozzi had assumed over Lucrezia, during the affair with Pietro Bembo, persisted. There was a strong bond between Strozzi and Lucrezia which neither of them understood. There was deep affection, although there had never been any suggestion of their being lovers.

Strozzi was now entirely devoted to the beautiful Barbara Torelli whom Lucrezia, when she had heard her sad story, had taken under her protection.

Strozzi was an artist; he longed to create, and because he felt a certain inadequacy in his poetry he wished to use his creative ability to mold the lives of the people he loved.

Barbara Torelli had appealed to his pity, for hers had been a very tragic story. She had been married to Ercole, one of the Bentivoglios of Bologna, the lowest sort of sensualist, in whom Barbara’s cultured manners inspired a great desire to humiliate her. He had therefore set about making her life as miserable as he possibly could and his greatest pleasure was in devising means of insulting her. There came a time when he invited a Bishop to his home and offered to rent Barbara to him for a period, for the sum of 1,000 ducats. Barbara refused to agree to the transaction; whereupon her husband told her that if she did not he would publicly accuse her of attempting to poison him. Barbara’s reply to that was to leave him. She found refuge in Mantua and stayed in a convent under the protection of Francesco Gonzaga.

It was Francesco who had made her story known, and although he could not induce Ercole Bentivoglio to return her dowry, a great deal of sympathy was aroused for Barbara.

The poetic Strozzi was deeply moved by her story; he sought her acquaintance, and her charm and dignity in adversity so moved him that he fell deeply in love with and married her. As for Barbara, she found this second Ercole such a contrast to the first that she began to return his affection, and the passionate and tender love between Ercole Strozzi and Barbara Torelli became an inspiration for many of the poets of the day.

Lucrezia had been equally moved by Barbara’s story and Strozzi’s devotion to her, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should offer her protection to Barbara. So Barbara was a frequent member of Lucrezia’s circle, and Strozzi yearned to repay her and Francesco for all they had done for Barbara while at the same time he sought vengeance on Alfonso, who had not only deprived him of his property but was so uncouth that he could not appreciate his poetry.

Thus, when Francesco came to Ferrara once more, Strozzi determined to use all his ingenuity so that the lovers might meet in the intimacy they desired.

Lucrezia’s love affair with the attractive soldier blossomed under Strozzi’s care, and there were meetings between the lovers while Strozzi, Barbara and those few intimate and trusted friends made the necessary cover.

During those weeks Lucrezia began to love Francesco with the strength which came with maturity. Francesco declared his one desire was to make her happy; she believed him; and so those idyllic weeks passed.

It was night, and Cesare with his army was encamped about the Castle of Viana.

A terrible melancholy came to him as he went to the door of his tent and looked out at the starry sky. There was a knowledge within him that his dreams would never be anything but dreams, that he had lived his life recklessly and had failed to see the truth, which was that all his greatness had come from his father.

Now in this little camp, the little commander in this little war was a disappointed man, a man of no account.

He, Cesare Borgia, must this tragic night see himself as he really was.

He had offered his services to his brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, and this was the task assigned to him: he must break the siege of the Castle of Viana and defeat the traitor Louis de Beaumont. It might be, if he could prove that he was still the same Cesare Borgia who had struck terror into the hearts of so many during the lifetime of his father, that he would yet get the help he needed to win back his kingdom.

But what was the use? He must face the truth. What had become of the Borgias now? Who cared for the emblem of the Grazing Bull? Alexander, that most fortunate of men, had died in power; but he had taken the might of the Borgias with him.

Cesare’s wife, Charlotte d’Albret, had made no effort to help him. Why should she? He had forgotten her when he did not need that help. He had escaped from the King of Spain, and the King of France had become his enemy. What was his standing with his brother-in-law? He had no illusions. Should the King of France demand him to be delivered up, the King of Navarre would not refuse.

He was alone and friendless. There was only one in the world whom he could trust; she would give everything to help him, his beloved Lucrezia.

But what of Lucrezia? Her power had waned with his, for they were bound together as Borgias, and his danger was hers. Lucrezia would give her life for him, he knew; but that was all she could give.

“Little Lucrezia,” he murmured, looking up at the stars. “What big dreams we had in our nursery, did we not? And bigger dreams when our father ruled the Vatican. Dreams, my dearest, only dreams. I would not accept this fact before tonight. It is significant that I do so now. Cesare Borgia believed himself capable of ruling the world, but I see these idle fancies of mine as dreams.”

There was sudden tumult within the camp. One of his men shouted that the enemy were taking stores into the castle under cover of darkness.

“To horse!” cried Cesare, and he leaped into the saddle.

He could see the party riding with great speed toward the castle; he shouted to his men to follow him, and he was off.

He rode with such mad fury that he outstripped all his followers. He reached the raiding force which was now joined by men from the castle who, realizing what had happened, had come out to do battle.

Cesare rode into their midst, slaying right and left, shouting triumphantly as he did so. But he knew that the others were far behind, and that he was alone … alone and surrounded by the enemy.

He laughed within himself. In that mad moment, when the need for action had intruded on his reverie, he had determined on this.

They were all about him; he heard their blood-thirsty laughter. He heard his own, loud, demoniacal. He raised his sword and slashed furiously.

He was brave, they said; but what was one among so many?

He went down, the mad and bitter laughter on his lips; and as he lay bleeding from his many wounds Louis de Beaumont rode up to see who this man was who had so eagerly sought death.

There were many to bend over him, to strip him of his shining armor and his fine raiment.

When they had done this they left him naked for the buzzards; and the thirty-one-year-old Duke of Romagna and Valentinois, the dreaded Cesare Borgia, was no more.

Lucrezia was dreaming of Francesco in her apartments, asking herself if he would come again, when into the courtyard there came a dusty rider.

Lucrezia did not know that he had come, and it was Friar Raffaela who brought her the news.

He came to her, and there were tears in his stern eyes as he laid his hands on her shoulders and blessed her.

“You are so solemn,” said Lucrezia; “you are so tender that I am afraid.”

“I would ask you to prepare yourself for tragic news.”

Lucrezia waited tense.

“Il Valentino has been killed in battle.”

She did not speak; she stood staring at him, her expression blank as though she refused to believe him.

“It is true, my daughter,” said the friar.

She shook her head. “It is false … false!” she cried.

“Nay. It is true. He died bravely and in battle.”

“Not my brother, not Cesare. He would not die in battle. He could not. He was a match for all.”

“Would you like me to pray with you? We will ask for courage that you may bear this grief.”

“Prayer! I want no prayers. There has been a mistake. Good friar, you must go to Navarre. You must bring me the truth. There has been a mistake. I know it.”

He looked at her sadly and shook his head.

Then he led her to her bed and signed to her women to help her. She seemed limp until they laid hands on her. Then she threw them off.

She looked pleadingly at the friar once more before she covered her face with her hands. They heard her whispering to herself: “Cesare … my brother! My brother … Cesare! It is not possible. Not Cesare … anyone but Cesare.…”

She signed to them to leave her alone. They did so and she threw herself on to the floor still murmuring his name.

“My father … Giovanni … my first Alfonso … all those … yes … but not Cesare.…”

Her women were afraid when she remained thus for more than an hour. They came to her and tried to rouse her, but she would not be roused. She would neither eat nor drink; but eventually she allowed them to help her to her bed.

She lay there woebegone and during the night they heard her sobbing.

Many times she called his name; it was uncanny, they said, as though she were imploring him to come back from the dead.

In the morning they tried again to rouse her.

It was a terrible blow, they said; but she would grow away from it. It was the sudden shock which had stunned her.

“Grow away from it!” she cried. “You do not understand, for Cesare was Lucrezia, and Lucrezia Cesare; and one without the other is but half alive.”

It was Strozzi who sought to rouse her.

She must not give way to her sorrow, he implored her; she was young yet and there were many years before her. He understood her grief for her brother, but there were many who loved her and grieved to see her grief. For their sakes she must not become so sad that she would surely die of melancholy.

To him and to Barbara she tried to explain this bond between herself and her brother which had begun in their nursery days and had continued through their lives. They assured her that they understood, but that she must throw herself into some activities or lose her reason.

What of Francesco who loved her so tenderly? Was it fair to him that he must in anguish hear these reports of her misery?

Strozzi had devised an intricate plan whereby Lucrezia and Francesco might correspond with each other. They must not forget that they were surrounded by spies here in Ferrara, and it was certain that Isabella had heard by now of her husband’s infatuation for Lucrezia.

Strozzi’s plan was that he should write letters to Francesco on Lucrezia’s behalf, and that he would send these to his brother—Guido residing in Mantua—who would then take them to the Mantuan court and present them to Francesco. The answers would come by the same route. But they dared not use their own names for this correspondence in case it should fall into hands not intended to receive it; Francesco, for instance, should be called Guido since the letters were to be addressed to Guido, and Lucrezia should be known as Barbara. They must also have faked names for others such as Alfonso, Ippolito, Isabella, who might be referred to.

Lucrezia must admit that it would be a means of corresponding with her lover, and what she needed now in this time of terrible melancholy was an interest which would make her forget for a time the death of Cesare.

Lucrezia, at first half-heartedly, allowed herself to be drawn into this scheme; and after some weeks she realized what Strozzi had done for her, since this correspondence which brought her assurances of Francesco’s devotion was, she believed afterward, the means of saving her from a breakdown at this time.

Then she discovered that she was pregnant.

Alfonso refused to take any great interest in this pregnancy. He had been disappointed so many times. He was finding the bonnet-maker’s daughter absorbing; she appealed to him as no woman had before, and what he had thought would be a passing fancy had developed into a love affair already of some duration.

He spent a great deal of time in the woman’s company; and Lucrezia was glad of this. She was determined this time, though, that she would do nothing rash, and she lived quietly during the months of waiting, longing for the arrival of the baby.

She never danced and was very careful of what she ate, spending her time in writing letters with Strozzi and designing the baby’s garments. She instructed the court engraver, Bernardino Veneziano, to make her a cradle which should transcend all other cradles, and when this was completed members of the court came to marvel at it. It was made of gilded wood with four pillars at its corners. The roof was a pergola of gold branches and leaves; the curtains were of satin and the miniature pillows embroidered with gold.

It was in April when her pains started, and there was excitement throughout the castle. Alfonso however reacted by leaving at once. He could not endure another failure, and he did not trust Lucrezia to give him the heir he so much needed.

It was some hours after he had left when the baby was born—a healthy little boy who cried lustily and who, all declared, would most certainly not go the way of his predecessors.

When the little boy was laid in Lucrezia’s arms she felt a great load of sadness lifted from her. She had her son and she would try to live her life in him; she would try to forget all the sorrow which had made up the preceding years and she would endeavor with all her might to stop grieving for Cesare.

Alfonso came riding back to Ferrara when he heard the baby was born and was male and healthy.

He stormed into the bedchamber and demanded to see the child. He held it in his arms and laughed aloud with pleasure. This was a true heir of Ferrara.

“We will call him Ercole, after my father,” he said. “Come, Ercole, my son, come and meet the ambassadors who are all waiting to welcome Ercole who will one day be their Duke.”

And in the audience chamber, where many waited to see the new heir, Alfonso held up the child; then he removed the robe, crying: “See. He is healthy, this one, and provided with all things.”

There was great rejoicing in Ferrara.

There were rumors concerning the baby, for many remembered the last visit of Francesco Gonzaga and, although the lovers had believed at the time that their meetings had been secret, there could have been some servant whom they had believed erroneously that they could trust.

There were covert remarks concerning little Ercole’s appearance.

Was that the Este nose? Perhaps it was a little too wide? A little too flattened? Did it resemble the very distinctive nose of a certain neighboring Marquis?

Lucrezia heard the rumors through Strozzi, a born intriguer who had his spies everywhere; she shrugged them aside. They were quite ridiculous, she said, and everyone must know them to be so.

Strozzi however warned her to be careful. Ippolito was watching her closely and she should remember the havoc he had wrought in the lives of his brothers. She must never forget those two young men, still captive in their tower. No one spoke of them nowadays; they seemed to have been quite forgotten; but she should never forget and, remembering them, be reminded of the might and malice of Ippolito.

Her first indication that Alfonso was aware of Francesco’s love for her and hers for him was when he sent the announcement of little Ercole’s birth to Mantua. She read his message and expressed astonishment that it should be addressed to Isabella.

“I see,” she said, “that you do not mention Francesco Gonzaga.”

Ippolito, who was with his brother, said: “Isabella is our sister.”

“But Francesco Gonzaga is ruler of Mantua.”

“We do not think it necessary to tell him of the child’s birth,” retorted Ippolito.

Lucrezia did not answer. Alfonso was looking at her directly. She knew then of their suspicions.

Alfonso said: “I shall shortly be going to France. You will be Regent with my brother while I am gone. Doubtless”—he waved his hands—“after recent happenings you may be feeling incapable of governing. I would have you know that Ippolito is always here to help you … and to help me.”

It was a warning. She went back to her apartments and sent a message by her chaplain, to Strozzi. She trusted the chaplain completely. He had been with Cesare and had helped him escape from Medina; he had come to her asking for refuge, and most willingly she had given it; she was very fond of his company, for they would sit together and talk of Cesare for hours, so that Lucrezia was able to hear details of his captivity; and it was almost as though Cesare were not dead, when she talked with his chaplain. Moreover this man and the page who had brought her the news, were, she knew, her very trusty servants, and she had need of all those whom she could trust.

When the chaplain brought Strozzi to her, she told them what Alfonso and Ippolito had said.

All Strozzi’s love of scheming was aroused. He was determined that the love affair should prosper. He then wrote a letter to Francesco, through his brother Guido, in which the perfidy of Camillio (their name for Alfonso) and Tigrino (Ippolito) was deplored. Camillio was leaving for France, very shortly, so why should not Guido (Francesco) pay a visit to Ferrara in his absence?

Isabella was angry. All her malice against Lucrezia had its roots in jealousy; and now Lucrezia had inflicted the greatest humiliation upon her; Isabella’s husband was in love with her rival.

A light, passing affair with humble women, Isabella accepted; a light passing flirtation with Lucrezia she might have endured. But Francesco had changed; he was melancholy, brooding; and he had given up all other women.

What power was there in that quiet slender girl to arouse such devotion? Isabella demanded of herself.

She was determined however to ruin Lucrezia, and Francesco too if need be.

When she thought of Francesco, cunning came into her eyes. As his love for Lucrezia grew, so did his hatred of Isabella. He was asserting himself against her and was reminding her twenty times a day that he was the ruler of Mantua, and the power which she had once seized as her right, was now being taken from her.

If Francesco were involved in disaster at Ferrara, she would not be heart-broken. Her son, Federigo, was young yet. If his father died there would be a regent, and who should that be other than the mother of the young Marquis Federigo?

She wrote to her brother Ippolito, that lover of intrigue. It was no use writing to Alfonso; he was too prosaic; and Ippolito had taken a dislike to Lucrezia since the affair of Giulio and Ferrante, because he knew that Lucrezia’s sympathy had been with his brothers.

It might not be a bad idea, suggested Isabella, to lure Francesco to Ferrara and there expose the lovers. Ippolito should burn her letter when he received it, as she would burn the letters he wrote to her. She believed that there might be considerable correspondence between them over this matter.

Shortly afterward Lucrezia was visited by a gentleman named Masino del Forno, who was known as the Modenese; he was a much favored man at the court of the Este family and Lucrezia knew him to be a great friend not only of Alfonso but Ippolito.

Conversation was general for the first minutes of the visit. Masino del Forno asked to see the heir and young Ercole was brought in. He was a very healthy baby, and Lucrezia was delighted with him.

When Ercole had been taken away, Masino said quietly: “What a pity it is that relations between Ferrara and Mantua are not more cordial.”

“The Marchesa is devoted to her brothers,” said Lucrezia cautiously.

“I was not thinking of the Marchesa. After all it is the Marquis himself who is the ruler of Mantua. We must not forget that.”

“I do not forget,” said Lucrezia lightly.

“It is a grievous thing in these times that there should be misunderstandings. I firmly believe that a visit from Francesco Gonzaga would do a great deal to improve relations between the two states.”

Lucrezia felt her heart leap. She longed to see Francesco again, but something within her warned her. She knew Masino del Forno to be an intimate of Ippolito and since the terrible fate of Giulio and Ferrante she had been afraid of Ippolito.

Del Forno went on: “I believe that if an emissary went from Ferrara to Mantua to persuade the Marquis to come here, he would do so. I myself would travel to Mantua with the greatest delight. Should I go with your blessing?”

Lucrezia was tempted, but it was as though the grotesque face of Giulio rose before her to warn her of the perfidy of Ippolito.

She said coolly: “In my husband’s absence my brother Ippolito is co-regent with me. I pray you discuss this matter with him; and if he agrees that you should travel to Mantua with an invitation for the Marquis, then I should put no obstacle in the way.”

The Modenese went away; Lucrezia sensed that he felt disappointed.

In Mantua Francesco, waiting impatiently for the letters which brought him news of Lucrezia, was suddenly aware of a change in Isabella. She was less haughty, less arrogant, less fiery-tempered. When he asserted his rights she would press her lips firmly together as though she were holding back words which she longed to utter; and all the time there was a look of expectancy on her face as though she were urging herself to have patience … for a while.

Isabella was plotting. Against whom? wondered Francesco. Against Lucrezia? Then that would be against him.

What was the meaning of that air of looking forward? She was like a cat at a mousehole. Why? There was her attitude to their son, Federico. It was indulgent yet firm. It was as though she was determined to win the boy’s respect and affection while she kept a restraining hand on him.

A visitor arrived at Mantua. He came quietly—almost in secret—and he came from Ferrara. He sought an early opportunity to be alone with the Marquis.

This man Masino del Forno, the Modenese, was not entirely unknown to Francesco. He knew him to be an intimate of Ippolito, and he believed that on more than one occasion he had performed a shady deed for his master.

Francesco had been walking in the gardens when del Forno sidled up to him; del Forno looked over his shoulder and back at the castle windows apprehensively.

“I come, my lord,” he whispered, “on a secret mission, a mission from the Duchessa.”

Francesco was immediately alert. This was strange. Why should Lucrezia send a message by this man, when already there was the excellent means of corresponding which Strozzi had arranged for them.

“A secret mission? You surprise me.”

“The Duchessa longs to see your lordship. She would have you know that the Duke will be away for many months. It would give her great delight if you could slip into Ferrara … unheralded … a secret mission, you understand.”

Francesco turned to the man, who could not know that he had received a letter which must have been written at the very time del Forno had set out from Ferrara. This was a very suspicious method of procedure, and Francesco did not trust it. He thought of Isabella’s demeanor of the last weeks and his suspicions increased.

“I doubt not,” he said, “that if my brother of Ferrara feels I should visit his dominion he will ask me to do so. As for going in secret, I see no virtue in that.”

“I have been entrusted,” pursued del Forno, “to give you this.”

He held out a miniature, tiny but exquisite. There was no mistaking the face portrayed there. It was Lucrezia’s. Francesco looked at it and longed to take it, but by now he was sure that his enemies were aware of his love affair with Lucrezia, and he believed he understood the meaning of his wife’s expression of late.

She wished him to be lured to Ferrara. The man who stood before him, he believed to be a hired assassin of Ippolito’s and possibly Alfonso’s.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I have no wish for this trinket, and I cannot understand why it should have been sent to me.”

With that he turned away from the man. He immediately went to his private apartments and wrote a letter to Zilio (Strozzi) which was meant for Lucrezia, explaining all that had happened and giving a strong warning that he believed them all to be in acute danger.

Isabella faced the Modenese and listened to his account of what had happened. She was angry. Francesco was not such a fool then. He might be in love with Lucrezia but he was not going to risk his life.

“You have been clumsy,” she snapped.

“Marchesa, I was tact itself. Depend upon it, they suspect us.”

“They would never suspect us, those two. They are besottedly in love like a shepherd and his lass. It is that man Strozzi who is managing their affairs. It seems to me that he is cleverer than my brothers. Go now. There is nothing else you can do. I think it would be well for you if you set out at once for Ferrara. If the Marquis suspects you, you yourself may be in danger. Go at once.”

Del Forno was only too glad to obey; and when he had gone, Isabella angrily asked herself why Lucrezia should be able to inspire such devotion, not only in Francesco, but in a purely Platonic way as it seemed she had with Strozzi.

She was more jealous of the girl than ever. One would have thought that, with her father and her brother dead and the name of Borgia no more of importance to the world, she would have been defeated. But no! For always there were some to rally round her.

Francesco was far away, but she still had Strozzi—Strozzi, the power in Ferrara, the lame poet who had taken Barbara Torelli and made a public heroine of her with his verses about her, who was no doubt after the dowry which the Bentivoglio were determined they would not relinquish.

Strozzi must have many enemies in Ferrara. There were not only Alfonso, who disliked him because he was a poet, and Ippolito, who objected to his influence over Lucrezia; there were the Bentivoglio who were violent people and very loath to part with money.

Isabella was thoughtful. Then she wrote to Ippolito.

“I pray that this letter may be burned, as I burn yours,” she finished. “This I ask for the sake of my honor and benefit.”

On a hot June night that chaplain who had been Cesare’s faithful servant, and therefore especially cherished by Lucrezia, left her apartments for his own quarters in the Convent of San Paolo.

It was a dark night and, as he came along the narrow streets, two men leaped upon him and one silently seized him while the other, equally silent, lifted his dagger and cut the innocent priest’s throat. Lightly they dropped the body on to the stones and crept away.

Next morning Lucrezia was heartbroken to discover that she had lost a trusted friend.

Strozzi came to see her that day.

His happiness in the baby girl Barbara Torelli had just given him was clouded by this tragic happening.

“What means it?” asked Lucrezia.

He looked at her obliquely. “Of course it may have been robbery.”

“Who would murder a poor priest for his money?”

“There are some who would murder any for the sake of one ducat.”

“I am afraid,” said Lucrezia. “I believe he has died because my enemies know that he is my friend. How I wish Francesco would come, that I might tell him of my fears.”

Lucrezia began to weep quietly. She had loved the priest, she said; and what harm had he ever done in his life? He had done only good.

Seeing her in this mood of despair Strozzi said they would write to Francesco and beg him to come to comfort her for, reasoned Strozzi to himself, Francesco would know how to take care of himself, and none would dare harm him. Moreover he feared that if her lover did not come, Lucrezia would lapse into melancholy.

“Come to see your Barbara (Lucrezia),” wrote Strozzi. “Show her that you love her, for she wants nothing else in the world.”

The letter was dispatched, and he left Lucrezia to visit Barbara who, in bed with her baby, had not heard the news of the priest’s death. He gave instructions to her woman that she should not be told. Barbara’s clear mind might read something in that death which would make her very uneasy, and a woman after child-birth needed the serene happiness which he had always sought to give her.

He left Barbara happy, after they had discussed the future of their child; he then shut himself in with his work and wrote a little of the elegy he was composing. Reading it through afterward he thought it sounded melancholy. He had written of death—although he had not intended to—for the memory of the priest’s murder would not be dismissed from his mind.

Later that day he went again to see Barbara and when he left her apartment he limped back to his own house, the sound of his stick echoing through the quiet streets. It was at the corner of via Praisolo and via Savonarola that the ambush caught him.

He had half expected it. He had arranged other people’s lives to such an extent that he knew that this was the inevitable end of the drama.

He was unarmed. Their daggers were raised against him. He faced them almost scornfully. He knew who his enemies were; it was the house of Este who wished him removed. It was Alfonso who saw him as the man who had arranged his wife’s love affairs with Pietro Bembo and Francesco Gonzaga; it was Ippolito who was determined to isolate Lucrezia from all those who might seek to make a political figure of her; it was the Bentivoglio family who feared he would discover some means of wresting Barbara’s dowry from them.

Then suddenly he did know fear. It was for Barbara. He thought of all the miseries she had endured; he thought of her at this moment, weak from child-birth. Barbara would be alone once more, alone in a cruel world.

But there was no time for thought. Strozzi sank fainting against the wall of casa Romei, while his enemies, determined that this should be the end, bent over him and thrust their daggers again and again into his dying body.

Lucrezia was bewildered. Cesare, her chaplain and now Strozzi—all lost to her. She was frightened; never before had she felt such a stranger in a strange land.

There was only one person in the world now to whom she could turn: Francesco.

Francesco must come to her. No matter what obstacles lay between them, he must come.

But who would now write those letters for her? Who would make sure that they reached their destination? By striking at Strozzi her enemies had cut her off from Francesco, the only man in the world who would help her.

She summoned Strozzi’s brothers, Lorenzo and Guido, to her; she wept with them over their brother’s death and she implored them to send a message for her to Francesco. “There is no one else whom I can trust,” she said. “You are his brothers, and you will do this for me.”

They did so and Francesco’s response was to offer a reward of five hundred ducats to any man or woman who could name the murderer of Ercole Strozzi.

The reward brought no murderer to light and, since little effort was made in Ferrara (where the police were famous for their successful work) to bring the murderer to justice, it became clear to Lucrezia that, whoever had committed the murder, it had been done with the connivance of Alfonso and his brother.

The desolate weeks passed. She would sit by the baby’s cradle, brooding. Only in him could she find comfort, yet she longed for a strong arm to lean on, and she realized that never before had she lacked that support. She saw herself clearly, saw that she lacked the self-reliance of a woman such as Isabella, that she had been dominated by her father and her brothers to such an extent that she felt limp and bewildered when forced to stand alone. She needed Francesco, yet he did not come.

Again she wrote to him, pleading, begging him not to forsake her. She would go to Reggio, and the journey from Borgoforte to Reggio was not a long one. She must see him, if it were only a brief meeting. She needed him as she never had before.

She set out for Reggio, and there she waited in feverish impatience.

Isabella watched Francesco with malicious lights in her eyes.

“Why do you not take a little holiday?” she asked. “You are looking strained, husband.”

He tried to read the thoughts behind her eyes. Was it true that she wished him to go to Lucrezia, that he might be murdered as Strozzi and the chaplain had been?

Isabella … Regent of Mantua. It was what she wanted, and if the life of her husband stood between her and that goal, she was ready to sacrifice him.

Francesco was torn between his desire to see Lucrezia and his need to preserve his life, between his wish to comfort his mistress and the triumph of outwitting his wife.

Just a short visit, he promised himself. A little trip to Reggio. It could be a walk into a death-trap. They have killed Strozzi so that we can no longer arrange our communications; they have stripped her of her friends, left her desolate so that I shall go needlessly into the trap they have prepared for me. They know she will implore me to go to her, because without Strozzi to warn her, how can she understand that this is a gigantic plot either to kill or to ruin us both?

He replied to her, that he longed to be with her but he was unwell and was in fact too ill to travel at this time.

When at Reggio Lucrezia received his letter she was filled with anxiety. Francesco ill; then she must go to him. She would not lose a moment. She called to her attendants and told them that they were leaving next day for Mantua.

She could scarcely sleep that night, so eager was she for the journey. She lay restlessly waiting for the dawn.

Daylight brought visitors to the castle—important visitors, she knew, for there was a great commotion below and, as Lucrezia started up from her bed, Alfonso himself strode into the room.

He stood, legs wide apart, laughing at her.

“What’s this I hear?” he said. “You plan to travel to Mantua?”

“Our brother is sick,” she answered him, although her voice shook with fear. “As I am not far distant I thought it but courteous …”

Alfonso’s laugh was louder. “You thought it courteous! The reason for your intended courtesy is well known. You are not going to Mantua to visit your lover.”

“I have made my arrangements.”

“Then we will unmake them.”

“Alfonso, what can it matter to you?”

“It matters this,” he said. He came to the bed and taking her by the shoulders shook her angrily. “You are my wife and Duchess of Ferrara. We have an heir, but we should have many children. Ercole needs brothers.”

“That … that he may … bury them alive?” she cried with a show of spirit.

He swung his heavy hand across her face. “That is for your insolence,” he said. And he repeated the action. “And that is for thinking to cuckold me and bring flat-nosed bastards into my house.”

She cowered back in the bed. Alfonso’s sudden burst of anger had passed. “No nonsense,” he said. “Daylight is here. You will dress, and we shall return to Ferrara without delay.”

“I have sent word that I am visiting our brother’s sick-bed.”

“Sick-bed! He’s in no sick-bed. He tells you so, hoping to excuse himself for not coming to you now. There is nothing wrong with Francesco Gonzaga. He is a man of good sense. He knows when it is unwise to continue a flirtation.” He put his face close to hers. “And that time has now come,” he added.

She leaped out of her bed. “Alfonso,” she cried, “I will not be treated thus. I am not one of your tavern women. I am not the bonnet-maker’s daughter.”

“Nay,” he said, “you lack their freedom. You are the Duchess of Ferrara, and in future you shall never forget it. Prepare yourself. I am in a hurry and impatient to return.”

“You forget that I am Lucrezia Borgia, and when I married you …”

“I forget nothing. Yours was a name which carried some weight in Italy. It was no credit to you. Your glory came from your father. Now he is dead, and your brother is dead, and the power of the Borgias is broken forever. So subdue that pride which cries ‘I am a Borgia!’ Be wise, woman. Cultivate modesty. Bear me children and I shall then have nothing of which to complain.”

So she came to Ferrara; and as she rode beside her husband she seemed to hear his words echoing in her ears. Alexander is dead, and with him died the power of the Borgias; Cesare is dead, and with him died all hope.

As they came near to the castle she looked up at the highest tower and she thought of the two young men who were prisoners and would remain there for the rest of their lives.

She rode with Alfonso into the castle, and she felt as the walls closed about her that she too was a prisoner, sharing their fate.

There was a pain in her heart and a longing to see a loved face again; and the cry which rose up within her was not Francesco, but Cesare.