Light on Lucrezia

I THE BRIDEGROOM FROM NAPLES

At the head of the cavalcade which was traveling northward from Naples to Rome, rode an uneasy young man of seventeen. He was very handsome and richly dressed. His doublet was embroidered with gold and he wore a necklace of rubies; those who rode with him showed a deep respect when they addressed him, and it was obvious that he was of high rank.

Yet his mood was reflected in his followers who did not sing or shout to one another as they habitually did; there was among them an atmosphere of reluctance, almost of dread which indicated that although they rode steadily on, they were longing to go back along the road they had come.

“We cannot be far from Rome now,” the young man called to a member of his guard.

“Less than a day’s ride, my lord,” came the answer.

The words seemed to echo through the company like a distant rumble of thunder.

The young man looked at his men, and he knew that there was not one of them who would wish to change places with him. What did they whisper to one another? What was the meaning of their pitying glances? He knew. It was: Our little Duke is riding straight into the net.

Panic possessed him. His fingers tightened on the reins. He wanted to pull up, to address them boyishly, to tell them that they were not going to Rome after all; he wanted to suggest that as they dared not return to Naples they should form themselves into a little band and live in the mountains. They would be bandits. The King of Naples would be their enemy. So would His Holiness the Pope. But, he would cry, let us accept their enmity. Anything is preferable to going to Rome.

Yet he knew it was useless to protest; he knew that he must ride on to Rome.

A few months ago he had had no notion that his peaceful life would be disturbed. Perhaps he had stayed too long in childhood. It was said that he was young for his seventeen years. Life had been so pleasant. He had hunted each day, returning at night with the kill, pleasurably exhausted, ready to feast and sleep and be fit for the next day’s hunting.

He should have known that a member of the royal house of Aragon could not go on indefinitely leading such a pleasant but, as his uncle the King would say, aimless life.

There had come that day when he had been summoned to the King’s presence.

Uncle Federico had welcomed him in his jovial way and had been unable to suppress his smiles, for he was fond of a joke; and what he had to tell his nephew seemed to him a very good one.

“How old are you, Alfonso?” he had asked. And when Alfonso had told him, he had continued to smile. “Then, my boy,” he cried, “it is time you had a wife.”

There had been nothing very alarming in that statement. Alfonso had known that he would soon have a wife. But Uncle Federico, the joker, had not told all. “You are not sufficiently endowed, my nephew, to satisfy the bride I have in mind for you,” he went on. “Oh no! A bastard sprig, even of our noble house, is not good enough. So we shall ennoble you. Alfonso of Aragon, you shall be Duke of Bisceglie and Prince of Quadrata. What say you to that?”

Alfonso had declared his delight in his new titles. But he was eager, he said, to know the name of his bride.

“All in good time, all in good time,” murmured Federico, as though he wanted to keep the joke to himself a little longer. Alfonso remembered, although he had only been a very little boy at that time, how Uncle Federico—not King then but only brother of the King—had come to Naples from Rome and told how he had stood proxy for Alfonso’s sister Sanchia at her marriage with Goffredo Borgia, and how he had amused the company vastly—and in particular the Pope—by his miming of a reluctant virgin as the bride. As all knew that Sanchia had been far from a reluctant virgin for quite a long time before her marriage to little Goffredo, that was a great joke; it was the sort of joke which Uncle Federico, and doubtless others, reveled in.

Alfonso then wondered whether it was a similar joke which was now amusing his uncle.

“You are seventeen,” said Federico. “Your bride is a little older, but only a little. She is eighteen, nephew, and reputed to be one of the loveliest girls in Italy.”

“And her name, sire?”

Federico had come close to his nephew and put his mouth to his ear. “Nephew,” he said, “Duke of Bisceglie and Prince of Quadrata, you are to marry His Holiness’s daughter, Lucrezia Borgia.”

From the moment his uncle had spoken the dreaded name Alfonso had known no peace. There had been many evil rumors concerning that family, and his future bride had not escaped them. All feared the Pope. It was said that he was possessed of supernatural powers, and this must be so for at sixty-seven he had the vigor of a young man. His mind was alert and cunning as it had ever been; and it was rumored that his mistresses were as numerous as they had been in the days of his youth. But it was not the Pope’s vigor or diplomatic skill which was to be feared.

Rumors concerning the mysterious deaths of those who crossed the Pope’s will were continually being circulated throughout Italy. He and his son Cesare had formed, it seemed, an unholy partnership, and whenever their names were mentioned, men lowered their eyes and were afraid, for it was said that as little as a look could bring down the wrath of the Borgias, and that wrath could mean the assassin’s knife, a final plunge into the Tiber, or what was perhaps even more dreaded, an invitation to sup at the Borgia table. Those who lived within the shadow of the Borgias could never relax their vigil; they must be continually on the alert, watching, waiting and wondering.

It was to this shadow that his uncle was condemning young Alfonso, and not to its edge where he might exist in a certain amount of obscurity, but to its very heart.

His new brother-in-law would be that Cesare Borgia whose hands were so recently stained with his own brother’s blood. There were rumors concerning his relationship with Lucrezia, and it was said that he loved her with a love which went beyond what a brother should feel for his sister. The rumor added that he hated all those on whom his sister’s affection alighted, and sought to destroy them; so Cesare’s cold vicious eyes would at once and inevitably be directed toward Lucrezia’s bridegroom.

And Lucrezia? How did this young bridegroom picture her as he rode toward Rome?

A bold and brazen woman. The stories concerning her relationship with her father and her brother were shocking. Giovanni Sforza, her divorced husband, had many a tale to tell of the wicked and incestuous woman who had been his wife. Giovanni Sforza, it was true, was an angry man because the Pope had branded him with the stigma of impotency. It was natural, Uncle Federico had said, that Sforza should want his revenge, and how could he better take it than by slandering the wife whose family had insisted she divorce him? But was it true that Lucrezia, when she had stood before the Cardinals and Envoys in the Vatican declaring herself to be virgo intacta, had really been six months pregnant? Was it true that the child she had borne three months later had been smuggled out of the Vatican, her lover murdered, her faithful maid, who had shared Lucrezia’s secrets, strangled and thrown into the Tiber?

If these stories were true, what manner of woman was this to whom his uncle was sending him? At the moment the Pope and his terrifying son were eager for the marriage, but what if in time to come they found it not to their liking? Giovanni Sforza, it was said, had escaped death by running away, but he had escaped with his life, only to be branded as impotent.

What fate was in store for the newly made Duke of Bisceglie?

Nearer and nearer they came to Rome, and as the distance decreased so his fears grew.

Those fears would have been allayed in some measure if he could have seen his future wife at that moment. She was in her apartments with a piece of needlework in her hands, her golden hair, freshly washed, damp about her shoulders. She looked very young and immature; she was pale, and in the last months had grown thin, and there was a look of intense tragedy in her expression as she bent over her work.

Her women who sat with her were chattering together, trying to disperse her melancholy thoughts. They were talking of the imminent arrival of the Duke of Bisceglie.

“I hear he is a very handsome man.”

“Madonna Sanchia is beside herself with pleasure at the thought of his arrival.”

Lucrezia let them talk. What did it matter? Nothing they said could make her happy. She did not care if he was the handsomest man in the world. There was only one husband she wanted, and he would never be hers. Three months ago they had taken his body from the Tiber.

“Pedro, Pedro,” she whispered to herself, and with a supreme effort she prevented the tears falling from her eyes.

How could she break herself of this unhappy habit, this preoccupation with the past? Until recently she had had the gift, inherited from her father, of never looking back. Now when she saw one of her father’s chamberlains in the apartments of the Vatican, or perhaps from the window of this Palace of Santa Maria in Portico, she would believe for one ecstatic second that it was but a nightmare which haunted her, and that it was truly Pedro whom she saw, Pedro, young and beautiful as he had been in the days when they had loved and dreamed of a life they would have together. When she saw a woman carrying a child, or heard the cry of a baby, the anguish would return.

“I want my baby,” she whispered to herself. “Now … here in my arms … I want him now. What right have they to take him from me?”

The right of might, was the answer. She had been powerless in their hands. While she lay helpless they had lured Pedro to his death; she, a woman weak from childbirth, lay exhausted, and they had stolen her baby from her.

There was a commotion without and one of her women said: “It is Madonna Sanchia coming to visit you, Madonna.”

And there was Sanchia with her three constant attendants, Loysella, Bernardina, and Francesca; Sanchia merry and vivacious, Sanchia from Naples who snapped her fingers at Roman etiquette.

Lucrezia never looked at Sanchia without astonishment, for Sanchia was the most arrestingly beautiful woman Lucrezia had ever seen. Lucrezia with her golden hair, pale eyes, delicate skin, serene expression and that slightly receding chin which gave her a look of perpetual innocence, was considered to be a beauty, but beside black-haired, blue-eyed Sanchia she seemed colorless. It was said of Sanchia that she dabbled in witchcraft, and that was why she was possessed of that extraordinary beauty which men found irresistible. Lucrezia could believe that Sanchia would be capable of anything.

But during recent months there had grown a bond between them, for it was Sanchia who had comforted her as no one else could. Lucrezia had found it strange to discover unsuspected depths in Sanchia’s character. Sanchia, who had a host of lovers, could smile at Lucrezia’s tragic relationship with Pedro, and her advice was: “Take more lovers. That is the way to forget.”

They were different though. Sanchia must understand that.

Sanchia was now frowning at the needlework in Lucrezia’s hands.

“You sit there stitching, when at any moment my brother may be here.”

Lucrezia smiled gently. “One would think it was your husband who was coming, rather than your brother.”

Sanchia grimaced; she sat on one of the high-backed chairs and her three women drew up stools and sat at her feet. Lucrezia’s women had withdrawn themselves, yet hoping that they would not be dismissed for Sanchia’s conversation was invariably racy and indiscreet; so if Lucrezia forgot to dismiss them—and she had been absentminded of late—they might stay and garner much interesting news.

“Ah, my husband!” said Sanchia. “Do not mistake me, dear sister. I love your brother, my little Goffredo, but I am a woman who asks more of a husband than that he should be a pretty little boy.”

“My brother is happy to be your husband,” murmured Lucrezia.

“But he is so young. Far too young for me.”

“He is sixteen now.”

“But I am twenty-one and he still seems a child to me. You know he has never been a husband to me.…”

Sanchia’s voice was low but penetrating. She was aware of the listening women. She wanted them to hear her; she wanted the news spread throughout Rome that her marriage had not been consummated. It was not true, and unfortunately for Sanchia, that consummation had been witnessed by the King of Naples and a Cardinal. However, Sanchia’s thoughts were on divorce, and she knew that if it was declared firmly enough that the marriage had not been consummated then such declaration could be accepted.

“Poor little Goffredo,” said Lucrezia.

Sanchia dismissed the subject abruptly. “How brightly your hair shines. Smile, Lucrezia. It would seem that you are contemplating a funeral rather than a wedding.”

“It is because she has not yet seen the Duke,” said Loysella.

“When you have seen him you will be enchanted,” Sanchia told her. “He is very like his sister in appearance.” Sanchia laughed. “Now you are hoping that our resemblance is in appearance only. That’s so, is it not?”

“Oh Sanchia,” said Lucrezia, and she put out her hand and touched that of her sister-in-law. Sanchia looked at her in alarm. Poor Lucrezia! she thought. She has suffered too much over that affair of Pedro Caldes. She must stop brooding. Alfonso will be here perhaps this day; he must not find a sad Lucrezia brooding on the death of her murdered lover.

“I would talk to Madonna Lucrezia alone,” she said on impulse.

“Alone!” Loysella, Francesca and Bernardina looked at her reproachfully.

“Yes,” Sanchia told them firmly, “I mean alone.”

Sanchia, illegitimate daughter of a King of Naples, could suddenly put on the dignity of royalty, and when she did this her intimate women knew that she expected immediate obedience, so they rose and left the apartment, Lucrezia’s attendants following them.

“Now,” said Sanchia, “they are gone and we can speak freely. Lucrezia, stop grieving. Stop grieving, I say.”

Lucrezia shook her head and said in a broken voice: “How can one … at will?”

Sanchia ran to her and put her arms about her. “Lucrezia, it is so long ago.”

“Three months,” Lucrezia’s smile was a twisted one. “We swore to be faithful forever, and you say three months is long.”

“All lovers swear eternal fidelity,” said Sanchia impatiently. “It means ‘I will be true to you as long as our love lasts.’ That is the most that can be expected.”

“Our love was different.”

“All loves are different. Had your Pedro lived, you would have forgotten him by now. It is because they murdered him … because they made a martyr of him … that you remember.”

“I would remember him all my life, no matter what had happened.”

“Lucrezia, he was your first lover. That man they married you to—Giovanni Sforza!” Sanchia wrinkled her nose with disgust. “You never loved him.”

“It is true,” said Lucrezia. “I never loved him, and now … I think I hate him.”

“He is no friend of yours. Who could expect it? He is branded as impotent. He’ll never forgive you that, Lucrezia. He’ll be your enemy for life.”

“I lied,” said Lucrezia. “I signed the document because they insisted and I was weak. Perhaps God punishes me because of the lie I told.”

Sanchia shook her head impatiently. “You had no alternative but to sign the document. Had not His Holiness and Cesare determined that you should sign?”

“But I should have stood out against them. Our marriage was consummated … many times.”

“Hush! It is something we know but never mention. And you are divorced now, sister, free of Sforza. Never say aloud those words, never admit your marriage was consummated. But Lucrezia, do stop grieving. Pedro is dead; nothing can bring him back, and that is an episode which is over. Learn to forget. He was your first love, I know, and you remember. But when you have had many lovers you will find it hard to remember what he looked like.”

“You forget—you, Sanchia, who have had lovers since you were a child, who have known so many that you cannot remember them all—you forget that we planned to marry, that we have a child.”

“You should not grieve for the child. He will be taken good care of.”

“Don’t you understand, Sanchia? Somewhere a baby lives … my baby. Some strange woman feeds him and soothes him when he cries. He is my baby … my own son—and you ask me to forget him!”

“You should not have had the child, Lucrezia.” Sanchia laughed suddenly. “I cannot help it. I think of you, standing before the dignitaries, solemnly swearing that your marriage to Sforza had not been consummated, and as a consequence you were virgo intacta, when actually you were pregnant … and in three months’ time your child would be born.”

“Do not speak of it, Sanchia; it is more than I can bear.”

“Dear sister, it is because you are young that you suffer so deeply. I tell you this, that when my brother comes it will be a different story. Oh, why is he not here! Shall I weary you with the stories of his many virtues, and how he and I were such good friends when we were very young? Shall I tell you how we escaped to the island of Ischia at the time of the French invasion? But I have told you of these matters before. I will tell you something else, Lucrezia. Yes, I will talk of myself, that you may forget your own sorrows. I and Goffredo are to be divorced.”

“That cannot be so.”

Sanchia’s blue eyes sparkled. “Oh, but it is! That is why I sent the women away. It is not yet the moment to let them into this secret.”

“Goffredo will be heartbroken. He worships you.”

“His future is being taken care of, and he’ll be pleased to pass me over to my new husband.”

“And why so?”

“Because my new husband is to be one whom he adores: Cesare.”

“But that is not possible,” said Lucrezia quickly.

“If the Pope and Cesare decide that they desire it, it will be done.”

“Cesare has long wished to leave the Church, and always our father has opposed it.”

Sanchia came a little closer to Lucrezia and spoke in a whisper: “Do you know who is the master now?”

Lucrezia was silent. Sanchia had done what she had set out to do; she had diverted Lucrezia’s thoughts from her own unhappiness.

“I have noticed often,” said Sanchia, “how His Holiness defers to Cesare, how he seeks always to please him. It seems that Cesare is loved even more than Giovanni Borgia was ever loved. Have you not noticed it? Cesare wants a wife, and who is more suited to be his wife than I?” Sanchia laughed slyly, her eyes looking beyond Lucrezia so that the younger girl knew that she was thinking of many passionate encounters with Cesare, the strongest and most feared personality in Rome, the most fascinating of men, the only one whom Sanchia considered worthy to be her husband.

“Do you mean,” said Lucrezia, “that they are seriously considering this matter?”

Sanchia nodded.

“But my father always wished one of his sons to follow him to the Papal chair. That was what Cesare was to do.”

“Well, there is Goffredo.”

“The Cardinals will never agree.”

“Do you not know your family yet, Lucrezia?”

Lucrezia shivered. She did know them: she knew them too well, for the murderers of her lover had been her father and her brother.

Sanchia stretched herself like a cat in the sunshine, and the gesture was erotic and expectant.

Lucrezia, watching, felt renewed fear of the future.

In his apartments at the Vatican the Pope received his son Cesare, and when his attendants had bowed themselves out and father and son were alone, Alexander laid his hand on Cesare’s shoulder and, drawing him close, murmured: “My son, I think our little plan is going to work out in a manner which will be pleasing to you.”

Cesare turned and gave his father a dazzling smile which warmed the Pope’s heart. Since the mysterious death of his son Giovanni, Alexander had redoubled his devotion toward Cesare. Giovanni had been Alexander’s favorite son, yet, although Alexander knew that Cesare was his brother’s murderer, this son of his had been given that affection which had previously been Giovanni’s, together with the honors which had substantiated it.

There was a bond between these Borgias which seemed incomprehensible to those outside the family. No matter what its members did, whatever suffering they brought on one another, the bond was not slackened. Between them all was a feeling so strong—in most cases it was love, but in that of Giovanni and Cesare it had been hate—that all other emotion paled before this family feeling.

Now Alexander looked at this son of his who was known as the most vicious man in Italy, and had no wish to please him. Cesare was handsome—all the Pope’s children were handsome—and his hair had the auburn coloring which was shared by Goffredo. His features were bold, his body graceful, his manners those of a king; his skin at this time was slightly marred—the aftermath of an attack of the male francese.

Cesare wore his Cardinal’s robes with an arrogant disdain; but there was now a light in his eyes because he had great hopes of discarding those robes before long. And Alexander was happy because he was going to make Cesare’s wish come true.

“Well, Father?” said Cesare, the faintest hint of impatience in his voice.

“I am beginning to feel that it was a happy event when French Charles decided he would watch a game of tennis after his dinner.” The Pope smiled. “Poor Charles! I picture him with his Queen at Amboise. Who would have thought that such an innocent diversion as watching a game of tennis could have been so important to him … and to us?”

“I know,” said Cesare, “that he went into the fosses of the castle at Amboise and passed through the opening in the gallery and that it was very low—that opening—and our little Charles struck his head against the arch.”

“Such a little blow,” went on the Pope, “that he scarce felt it, and it was only afterward when he was returning to his apartments in the castle that he collapsed and died.”

“And now Louis XII is on the throne, and I hear he is as determined to win back what he calls French claims in Italy as his predecessor was.”

“We have rid ourselves of Charles. So shall we of Louis if need be,” said Alexander. “But Louis, I believe, is going to be very useful to us. I have decided that Louis shall be our friend.”

“An alliance?”

The Pope nodded. “Speak low, my son. This is a matter to be kept secret between us two. King Louis XII wishes to divorce his wife.”

“That does not surprise me.”

“Oh come, she is a pious woman, a good creature, and the people of France revere her.”

“Hump-backed, ugly and barren,” murmured Cesare.

“But pious withal. She is ready to denounce her throne and retire to a convent at Bourges. That is, of course, if a divorce is granted King Louis.”

“He’ll need a dispensation from Your Holiness if he is to gain that,” said Cesare with a grin.

“He asks much. He would marry his predecessor’s wife.”

Cesare nodded. “I have heard Anne of Brittany is a pretty creature, though a little lame, but they say that her wit and charm more than make up for her lameness.”

“Her estates of Brittany are vast and rich,” added the Pope. “So … Louis hungers for them—and for her.”

“And how does Your Holiness feel regarding the granting of his requests?”

“That is what I wish to discuss. I shall send a message to the King of France that I am deeply considering the possibility of granting that dispensation. Then I shall tell him of my son—my beloved son—who desires to leave the Church.”

“Father!”

There were tears in Alexander’s eyes. It delighted him to bring such pleasure to his loved one.

“I doubt not, my dearest son, that before long you will find yourself enabled to cast off the purple for which so many crave and from which you so long to escape.”

“You understand my feelings, Father. It is because I know my destiny does not lie within the Church.”

“I know, my dearest son, I know.”

“Father, bring about my release and I’ll promise you shall not regret it. Together we will see all Italy united under the Borgia Bull. Our emblem shall shine forth from every town, every castle. Italy must unite, Father; only thus can we take our stand against our enemies.”

“You are right, my son. But do not talk to others of these matters as you talk to me. Our first task is to free you from the Church, and I shall demand Louis’ help in exchange for his divorce. But I shall ask more than that. You shall have an estate in France and … a wife.”

“Father, how can I show my gratitude?”

“Let there be no such talk between us,” said the Pope. “You are my beloved son, and my greatest wish is to bring honor, glory and happiness to my children.”

“This talk of a divorce between Sanchia and Goffredo?”

The Pope shook his head. “On the grounds of the non-consummation of the marriage! I like it not. People will be talking of Lucrezia’s divorce from Sforza, and we shall have that scandal revived. I hope soon to have the little boy brought to me here, and I long for that day. No, as yet there shall be no divorce. And you, my son, with the titles which will come to you when you leave the Church, will not wish for marriage with your brother’s divorced wife. Why should you? Oh, Sanchia is a beautiful woman, well skilled in the arts of love; but do you need marriage to enjoy those? Not you, my son. You have been enjoying all you could get as Sanchia’s husband, these many months. Continue in your pleasure. I would not have you curb it. But marry Sanchia! A Princess, I grant you, but an illegitimate one. What say you to a legitimate Princess of Naples, Cesare?”

Cesare was smiling.

Holy Mother of God, said the Pope to himself, how beautiful are my children and how my heart trembles with the love I bear them.

Alfonso Duke of Bisceglie rode quietly into Rome. There were no crowds to line the streets and strew flowers in his path. He came unheralded. The Pope had wished that there would be no ceremonial entry. The scandal of Lucrezia’s divorce was too recent, having taken place only six months previously, and since during that time Lucrezia had borne a child—and how was it possible, however many precautions were taken, to keep these matters entirely secret?—it was better for the new bridegroom to come unheralded.

So Alfonso apprehensively came to Santa Maria in Portico.

Sanchia, awaiting his arrival was with Lucrezia. She guessed what his feelings would be. She knew he would come reluctantly, and she was fully aware of the tales he would have heard regarding the notorious family into which he was to marry. He did not come as a respected bridegroom, as a conquering prince, but as a symbol of the desire of Naples for friendship with the Vatican.

“Have no fear, little brother,” murmured Sanchia. “I will take care of you.”

She would demand of Cesare that he be her brother’s friend; she would make it a condition for Cesare was her lover. If Cesare showed friendship for young Alfonso—and Cesare could be charming when he so desired—others would follow. The Pope, whatever he was planning, would be gracious; and Lucrezia, however much she mourned Pedro Caldes, would be gentle with Alfonso.

Sanchia was longing to show her brother the power she held at the Vatican. Her love for other men waxed strongly and waned quickly, but her love for her young brother was constant.

Lucrezia, with Sanchia and their women, went down to greet her betrothed; and as soon as she saw him her interest was stirred, and it was as though the idealized shadow of Pedro Caldes receded a little. Alfonso was such a handsome boy. He was very like Sanchia, having the same vivid coloring, but he appeared to lack Sanchia’s wantonness, and there was about him an earnest desire to please which Sanchia lacked and which was endearing.

Lucrezia was moved by the way he clung to his sister and the display of emotion between them.

Then he was standing before his bride, those beautiful blacklashed blue eyes wide with a surprise which he found it impossible to suppress.

“I am Lucrezia Borgia,” said Lucrezia.

It was easy to read his thoughts, for there was a simplicity about him which reminded her that she was his senior, if only by a little. He had heard evil tales of her and he had expected … What had he expected? A brazen, depraved creature to strike terror into him? Instead he found a gentle girl, a little older than himself but seeming as young, tender, serene, gentle and very beautiful.

He kissed her hands, and his lips were warm and clinging; his blue eyes were filled with emotion as they were lifted to her face.

“My delight is beyond expression,” he murmured.

They were not idle words; and in that moment, a little of the dark sorrow which had overshadowed her during the last months was lifted.

Sanchia was reclining on a couch, surrounded by her ladies, when Cesare was announced.

She had been telling them that before long they would have to say good-bye to little Goffredo, because he would no longer be her husband. The method employed in the Sforza divorce had been so successful that His Holiness was tempted to repeat it.

“But I,” she was saying, “shall not be six months pregnant when I stand before the Cardinals and declare my marriage has not been consummated.”

Loysella, Francesca, and Bernardina laughed with delight. Their mistress’s adventures were a source of great pleasure to them and were emulated by them to the best of their ability.

She had made them swear to secrecy, and this they had done.

“Your future husband is at the door,” whispered Loysella.

Sanchia tapped her cheek playfully. “Then you had better leave me. I asked him to come. I demanded that he should.”

“You must get him accustomed to obedience,” laughed Bernardina.

But Cesare was already in the room and even their frivolity was stemmed. He looked at them imperiously, not assessing their obvious charms as he sometimes did, but impatiently as though they were inanimate objects which offended his eyes. They might joke about him when he was not present, but as soon as he made his appearance they were conscious of that power within him to strike terror.

They curtsied hurriedly and went out of the room, leaving him alone with their mistress.

Sanchia lifted a hand. “Come, Cesare,” she said, “sit beside my couch.”

“You wished to see me?” he asked, sitting down.

“I did. I am not very pleased with you, Cesare.”

He raised his eyebrows haughtily, and her blue eyes shone with sudden anger as she went on: “My brother is in Rome. He has been here a whole day and night, yet you have ignored him. Is this the courtesy you have to show to a Prince of Naples?”

“Oh … but a bastard,” murmured Cesare.

“And you … my fine lord … what are you, pray?”

“Soon to be the ruler of Italy.”

Her eyes flashed. It would be so. She was sure of it, and she was proud of him. If any could unite Italy and rule it, that man was Cesare Borgia. She would be beside him when he reigned supreme. Cesare Borgia would need a queen, and she was to be that queen. She was exultant and intensely happy, for there was one man to whom she longed to be married, and that was this man, Cesare Borgia. And it would be so. As soon as she was divorced their marriage would take place, and the whole of Italy would soon have to recognize her as its Queen.

He was looking at her now, and she held out her arms. He embraced her, but even as she put her arms about his neck she sensed his absentmindedness.

She withdrew herself and said: “But I demand that you pay my brother the respect due to him.”

“That have I done. He merits little.”

She brought up her hand and slapped his face. He took her by the wrist and a smile of pleasure crossed his face as he twisted her arm until she squealed with the pain.

“Stop,” she cried. “Cesare, I implore you. You will break my bones.”

“ ’Twill teach you not to behave like a beggar on the Corso.”

Freed, she looked angrily at the marks on her wrist.

“I ask you,” she said sullenly, “to call on my brother, to welcome him to Rome.”

Cesare shrugged aside her request.

“If,” she went on, “he is to be your brother in very truth …”

“I never looked on Lucrezia’s first husband as my brother. Nor shall I on her second.”

“Jealous!” snapped Sanchia. “Insanely jealous of your sister’s lovers. It is small wonder that there is scandal concerning your family throughout Italy.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling slowly, “we are a scandalous family. I fancy, my dear Sanchia, that scandal has not grown less since you joined us.”

“I insist that you welcome my brother.”

“It is enough that my father sent for him and that he is here.”

“But Cesare, you must do him some small honor. You must show the people that you do so—if not because he is to be Lucrezia’s husband, then because he is my brother.”

“I do not understand,” said Cesare with cruel blankness.

“But if I am divorced … if I am free of Goffredo and we are married …”

Cesare laughed. “My dear Sanchia,” he said, “I am not going to marry you.”

“But … there is to be a divorce.”

“His Holiness is not eager for another divorce in the family. The Church deplores divorce, as you know. Nay, you shall stay married to your little Goffredo. Of what can you complain in him? Is he not a kind and complaisant husband? As for myself, when I am free of these garments, I shall seek me a wife elsewhere.”

Sanchia could not speak; it seemed to her that her fury was choking her.

“Moreover,” went on Cesare, savoring her efforts to keep that fury under control, “when I acquire my titles—and I can assure you they will be mighty titles—I must look farther than an illegitimate Princess, Sanchia. You will readily understand that.”

Still she could not speak. Her face was white, and he noticed her long slender fingers plucking at the skirt of her dress. He could still feel the sting of those fingers on his cheek; he could still see the mark of his on her wrist. Their relationship had always been a fiery one; they had inflicted their passion on one another, and many of their most satisfactory encounters had begun with a fight.

“My bride,” went on Cesare, flaying those wounds he had laid open with the whip of humiliation likely to cause most pain, “will doubtless be a near relative of yours: the daughter of your uncle, the King of Naples, his legitimate daughter, the Princess Carlotta.”

“My cousin Carlotta!” cried Sanchia. “You deceive yourself, Cardinal Borgia! Bastard Borgia! Do you think my uncle the King would allow you to marry his daughter?”

“His Holiness and I have very good reason to believe that he is eager for the match.”

“It is a lie.”

Cesare lifted his shoulders lightly. “You will see,” he said.

“See! I shall not see. It will never come to pass. Do you think you will have Carlotta? My uncle will want a prize for her.”

“It might be,” Cesare retorted, “that he will be wise enough to see in me what he seeks for her.”

In the ante-room her women, hearing Sanchia’s wild laughter, trembled. There was something different about this encounter. This was surely not one of those violent quarrels which ended in that fierce lovemaking which set their mistress purring like a contented cat while they combed her hair and she told them of Cesare’s virility.

“I can tell you,” screamed Sanchia, “that you will never have Carlotta.”

“I beg of you, do not scream. You will have your women thinking I am murdering you.”

“They could easily suspect it. What is one more murder in your life? Murderer! Liar! Bastard! Cardinal!”

He stood by the couch, laughing at her.

She sprang up and would have scratched his face, but he was ready for her; he had her by the wrist, and she spat at him.

“Is it the time for you to think of marriage?” she cried. “By the marks on your face I should think not.”

He shook her. “You should control your temper, Sanchia,” he warned her.

“Are you so calm, Cesare,” she demanded.

“Yes, for once I am.”

“Do not think you may come here and treat me as your mistress while you make these plans for Carlotta.”

“I had not thought of it,” he said. “You weary me, Sanchia. With your ambitions you weary me.”

“Get out of here,” she cried.

And to her astonishment he threw her back on to her couch and left her.

She stared after him. She was bitterly wounded for he had hurt her where she was most vulnerable.

Her women came in and found her weeping quietly. They had never seen her quiet; they had never before seen her so unhappy.

They coaxed her, combed her hair, smoothed unguents into her hot forehead, told her she must not cry so and spoil her beautiful eyes.

And at length she ceased to cry and, springing up, swore revenge on Cesare Borgia, swore that she would use all her powers to prevent his marriage with her cousin. She would make a wax image of Cesare; she would stick red-hot pins into its heart. Evil should come to him because he had wounded her deeply and had exulted in the wounding.

“By all the saints!” she cried. “I will be revenged on you, Cesare Borgia.”

This was Lucrezia’s wedding day—her second wedding day.

That other, which had taken place five years before when she was thirteen, seemed now like some haunting scene from a nightmare—horrible and unreal. She did not want to think of it. Then she had been too young to consummate the marriage, and the man beside her had been grim and unattractive, a widower who had seemed quite unimpressed by her beauty.

She wanted to be happy. She realized now how like her father she was. She knew how bitterly he had suffered when Giovanni, his best-loved son, had been murdered. Thus had she felt when the news had been brought to her that Pedro Caldes’ body had been taken from the Tiber. Then she had cried to the saints: “Out of your goodness, let me die.” Alexander must have uttered similar words.

He had recovered quickly. He had turned from memories of the dead to delight in the living. He was wise; she believed him to be the wisest man on Earth; his conduct in crises had always been an example. Now she understood more than she ever had before that she needed to follow his example.

She wanted to love her bridegroom. Was it very difficult? He was young and handsome and, although they had first met but three days ago, he was already becoming ardent. He had had fears of what he would find; those fears were dispersed. Thus should her misery disappear. In the arms of Alfonso, her legitimate lover, she would forget that passion for Pedro Caldes which had been doomed from its beginning.

How glad she was that he had come unceremoniously to Rome, thus enabling them to make each other’s acquaintance before the wedding day. She was delighted when Alfonso had whispered to her: “You are so different from the wife I expected to find waiting for me.”

“You are pleased with what you find?” she had asked, and he had answered: “I am bemused with delight.”

She believed that he spoke with the sincerity of youth rather than with the flattery of a courtier.

Lucrezia was right. Alfonso was happy; he was thinking only of her. He knew that Cesare hated him because he was to be Lucrezia’s husband, and he did not seem to care. The Papal guards made bets on how long it would be before the Pope decided that his new son-in-law was useless to his aims, and how long after that Alfonso would cease to exist; for a second divorce would provide something of a scandal, and indeed might be difficult even for the wily Alexander to procure. Still, Alfonso did not care. He was to marry Lucrezia, and that was all he had time to think about.

Her women were dressing Lucrezia in a gold-colored gown which was heavy with pearls comprising the mingling arms of Borgia and Aragon. About her neck were priceless rubies, and the lustrous emerald which adorned her forehead gave some of its color to her pale eyes. She looked very little older than she had on the day she married Giovanni Sforza.

She was conducted with her attendants to the Pope’s private apartments in the Vatican, to that room, which she knew so well, with the Pinturicchio murals and the ceiling on which was carved the gilded bull and the papal crown.

Here Alfonso was waiting for her and, as she looked at him in his magnificent wedding garments, there was no doubt in her mind that he was the most handsome man in Italy.

The Pope smiled benignly at the young couple, and he was amused because of what he saw in their eyes.

They knelt before the Papal throne and the wedding ceremony took place and, in accordance with the ancient custom, a naked sword was held over the heads of the bride and groom. This duty fell to a Spanish captain, Juan Cervillon, and as he stood very still, his sword held high above this beautiful pair, many eyes were turned to that gleaming blade, and the question was in many minds: How long before it will descend on our little bridegroom?

The ceremony was over, and it was time for the feasting and celebration. Lucrezia walked by her husband’s side and even her dress, stiff with embroidery and pearls and heavy with jewels, could not impair her grace. Dainty and elegant, as she was, she seemed aloof from the coarse jests, which were encouraged by the Pope. Her bridegroom was enchanted with her and he and she seemed apart from the company. All noticed their absorption in each other, and the Pope pointed it out to all who came near him.

“What a delightful pair!” he cried. “Did you ever see a more beautiful bride and groom? And I declare that they are so eager for each other that they are wishing the feasting and dancing over. The marriage will be consummated before long, I have no doubt.”

And as they came into the apartment where the banquet was in readiness, one of Sanchia’s suite, who had heard that his mistress had been bitterly humiliated by Cesare and was determined to show his loyalty, stuck out his foot while one of Cesare’s suite was passing and the man went sprawling on the floor. This caused much amusement among Sanchia’s suite and several leaped on to the fallen man and began belaboring him. Hot-blooded Spaniards, servants of Cesare, were not prepared to see one of their number so treated; they pushed into the fray and soon there was pandemonium throughout the apartment.

Cardinals and Bishops sought to make peace, calling on the protagonists to desist for fear of the Pope’s displeasure; but there was too much noise for them to be heard, and hot-tempered Spaniards and Neapolitans continued to fight.

One Bishop was felled to the ground; another was bleeding at the nose; and Alexander, who could not help laughing inwardly at the sight of his Bishops without their dignity, delayed for a few seconds before, in an authoritative voice, he put an end to the skirmish by threatening terrible punishment to all concerned in it unless they desisted at once.

There was quiet and those who a moment before had been defending and attacking with vigor crept back to their places while Alexander led the bride and the bridegroom to the banqueting table.

But the fight was an omen. There were several present who knew what it indicated. The rumors of a possible marriage between Cesare and Sanchia had been well circulated. It would seem that Sanchia’s supporters had a score to settle with those of Cesare. Could this mean that Cesare, when he obtained his release from the Church would look elsewhere for a bride?

Sanchia’s angry looks supported this theory; as did Cesare’s sly contented ones.

Now the Pope called for music and entertainment behaving as though nothing unusual had happened.

There followed the songs, the dancing and the theatrical performances. During these Cesare appeared dressed as a unicorn, and such was his beauty and dignity that the Pope’s eyes glistened with pride and even Lucrezia turned from her bridegroom for a moment and had eyes for none but her brother.

As Lucrezia danced with her bridegroom, there was an ecstatic air about them both, and not since they had told her of Pedro’s death had she known such pleasure.

Alfonso said as they danced together: “This is the happiest night of my life.”

“I am glad,” Lucrezia told him. “We shall be happy together, you and I, Alfonso.”

“Whatever happens to us we shall have our happiness to look back on,” he said, sober suddenly.

“We shall see that it is always with us,” she told him. “There shall be no looking back … only forward, Alfonso.” She smiled at him tenderly. “You were afraid when you heard you were to marry me, were you not?”

“I had heard tales,” he confessed.

“Evil tales of me. There are always evil tales of my family. You must not believe them.”

He looked into her clear light eyes. He thought: Does she not know? She cannot. And how could she understand … she who is so young and innocent?

“Alfonso,” she continued, “I want you to know that I have been unhappy, so unhappy that I never thought to laugh again. You have heard me laugh, Alfonso, this day. It is the first time for many months, and it is because you have come.”

“You make me so happy.”

“You must make me happy, Alfonso. Please make me happy.”

“I love you, Lucrezia. Is it possible that in three short days one can love so deeply?”

“I hope so. For I think I am beginning to love you too, and I want to be loved … deeply I want to be loved.”

“We will love each other then, Lucrezia … all the days of our lives.”

He took her hand and kissed it; and it was as though they had made a vow as solemn as that which they had taken before the Papal throne.

The Pope, watching them, chuckled and remarked to one of his Cardinals: “It is a shame to keep them from the nuptial bed. Did you ever see two lovers more eager?”