Light on Lucrezia

V INTO FERRARA

In her castle which overlooked the River Mincio, Isabella d’Este was growing more and more uneasy with every report which reached her.

She had placed in the retinue which had left Ferrara for Rome a spy whom she could trust, a man who had at one time been a priest. His letters to her were signed El Prete, and he had sworn before he left that he would attach himself to the suite of the lady Lucrezia and that nothing which concerned her should escape his watchful attention. He would send details of every dress she wore, of every word she spoke, so that Isabella should know as much as if she were present.

Isabella soundly rated all her women; during these weeks of preparation her temper, always uncertain, had been more difficult than usual and they had been at their wits’ end to placate her.

Isabella was furious that the Borgia match was to take place; she was also desperately afraid that this girl, of whose attractions her brothers—even pious Sigismondo—wrote so consistently, was going to prove a rival.

“She has dresses such as you have never seen,” wrote Ferrante. And there were El Prete’s descriptions of mulberry velvets, blue brocades and slashed sleeves from which cascades of lace flowed like waterfalls.

Where did she get such dresses? Who made them? she demanded. The lady Lucrezia took great pleasure in planning her own dresses, she was told, and superintended the making of them.

Isabella had looked upon herself as the most elegant lady in Italy. The King of France had asked her to send him dolls wearing exact replicas of her designs. And here was Ferrante writing that she could never have seen such splendid dresses as those worn by the lady Lucrezia!

“I will show her what elegance means!” cried Isabella.

She summoned all her dressmakers to the castle. Rich stuffs were delivered for her approval. There was not a great deal of time if she was to be at the wedding with a wardrobe to put that of the Borgia woman in the shade.

Night and day she kept her sewing women busy while she designed garment after garment. Pearls were sewn on to rich brocade and capes of cloth of gold were lined with blonde lynx. Satins lay draped over tables, in the richest colors procurable.

Isabella paced up and down the great workroom reading extracts from the letters of her brothers and the priest.

“And what is she like?” she cried. “It would seem they are so bemused by her that they cannot write clearly. ‘She is tall and slender and greatly do the gowns she designs herself become her.’ ”

Tall and slender! Isabella ran her hands over her somewhat ample hips.

Her women pacified her as best they might. “She cannot be more slender than you, Marchesa. If she is, she must be hideously thin.”

Isabella’s dark eyes flashed with anger and apprehension. It was bad enough to bring a Borgia into the family, but to have to accept her as a rival—a successful rival—even in only one of the talents at which Isabella excelled, was going to be intolerable.

Although her courtiers might tell her that she was ethereal, that she was slender as a young girl, she knew better. Therefore she began work on dresses which would make her appear taller and more slender than she was.

Ippolito wrote of the graceful manner in which Lucrezia danced. So Isabella must summon a dancing master to the castle and practice dancing.

Lucrezia played charmingly on the lute which accompanied her sweet singing voice. Very well, Isabella must play her lute, practice her singing more constantly than ever.

There was one who looked on with aloof amusement at all these preparations. This was Isabella’s husband, Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua.

The man irritated Isabella. Lazy as he was, there had been occasions when he had reminded her that he was ruler of Mantua, and she never forgot them; and, feeling herself to be his superior, the fact that she was forced on such occasions to acknowledge his supremacy was galling. Many people in Italy considered him a great soldier, a man of some importance; but to Isabella there was only one important family in Italy—her own, the Estes—and the rest should consider themselves highly honored to mate with them. Her dislike of the Borgia marriage had its roots in this belief, and lazy Francesco was fully aware of her feelings.

He understood her too well, this soldier husband; and to see his supercilious smiles at her fear of Lucrezia was decidedly irritating.

She stormed at him: “It is very well for you. What do you care! I tell you this, I do not enjoy seeing my family so demean itself.”

“You should be pleased to see it so enrich itself, my dear,” said gentle Francesco.

“Ducats! What are they in exchange for this … this misalliance?”

“Ask your father, Isabella. He has a mighty respect for the ducat. And ducats are ducats, whether they come from the Papal coffers or those of Ferrara.”

“You mock me.”

His expression softened a little. He remembered the first days of their marriage, his pride in her who had seemed to tower above all other women. Had he in those days accepted her own estimation of herself? Perhaps. But she had been handsome; she had been sprightly and intelligent. Ah, if Isabella had been more humble, what an enchanting person she might have been!

“Nay,” he said. “I do not mean to mock.”

“You have seen this girl. Tell me what she is like. These brothers of mine, and all those who report on her, seem to have been bemused by a display of velvet, brocade and fine jewels.”

“So you hope to dazzle by an even more splendid display of velvet and brocade, with finer jewels?”

“Tell me, when you saw the girl did she dazzle you?”

Francesco thought back to that day when he had passed through Rome as the hero of Fornovo—that battle which had driven the French from Italy and had later proved to be far from decisive. He remembered a pleasant creature; a child she had been then. He had heard that she was sixteen but he would have thought her younger. He conjured up a vague vision with long golden hair and light eyes, very striking because not often seen in Italy.

“I remember her but vaguely,” he answered. “She seemed a pleasant child.”

Isabella looked sharply at her husband. The “child,” if rumor did not lie, had been far from innocent even then. Isabella would have been interested to know what she had thought of Francesco who oddly, so it seemed to her, was so attractive to women. She could understand Ippolito’s popularity, or Ferrante’s and that of her bastard brother Giulio. But they were Estes. The fascination of her ugly husband was beyond her comprehension.

She shrugged aside such thoughts, for there was no time to think of anything but the coming wedding.

She said: “I must write at once to Elizabetta. I hear that the cortège will spend a little time at Urbino. I must put your sister on her guard against the Borgias.”

Francesco thought of his prim sister Elizabetta, who had married the Duke of Urbino, and he said: “The bride is not very old. She will be coming to a strange country. I doubt not that she will be filled with apprehension. If you write to Elizabetta, ask her to be kind to the girl.”

Isabella laughed. “Kind to Borgia! Is one kind to vipers? I shall certainly warn Elizabetta to be on her guard.”

Francesco shook his head. “You will hatch some scheme between yourselves to make her days in Ferrara as uncomfortable as you can, I doubt not.”

Francesco turned and strode away. Isabella looked after him. He seemed quite moved. Could he have felt some tender feeling for the girl when he had seen her? Impossible. It was so long ago and they had not met since. There was no doubt that this Lucrezia Borgia, in spite of her evil reputation (which Isabella was certain had been deserved), appealed to the chivalry in men.

But there was no time to think about Francesco’s foolish gallantries and his sympathy with the Borgia girl. He should know better than seek to champion such a woman who had no right to marry into the aristocracy of Italy. She wrote at once to her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Urbino. Poor Elizabetta! she would be expected to entertain the upstart, and Elizabetta should be prepared. She should treat the girl with disdain. It was the only possible attitude in the circumstances.

A messenger brought a letter from her father.

She read it through quickly. It was the formal invitation to the wedding, and strangely enough it did not include Francesco.

There was a private letter in which the old Duke explained. He did not trust the Borgias. The marriage could have been arranged for the purpose of luring great lords to the wedding so that their domains might be left unprotected, for Cesare Borgia was eager to make a kingdom for himself, and Ercole thought they should be wary of the Duke of Romagna; therefore Francesco would be wise to stay at home in order to guard Mantua should the need arise.

Isabella nodded. She and her father had the same sagacious minds, and this suggestion was worthy of him.

Moreover she was rather pleased. She was determined to do everything in her power to make Lucrezia uncomfortable, and it would have been somewhat irritating to have to do so under Francesco’s critical eyes. Now she would go without her husband to Ferrara, and there she would enjoy herself without restraint, for she had no doubt whatever that in a conflict between herself and Lucrezia, she would be the victor.

When she showed Francesco her father’s letter, he was thoughtful.

“It is sound good sense, is it not?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “It is sound good sense. Any man would be a fool to leave his domain while Cesare Borgia is seeking to enlarge his.”

She slipped her arm through his and laughed up into his face. “I see that your kindness is all for the sister, and does not extend to the brother.”

“The brother,” he said, “is my affair.”

“It’s true, Francesco. Therefore the sister should be left to me.”

The journey to Ferrara was slow. There were so many to welcome them on the way, and stage pageants for their amusement. When Cesare said good-bye and rode back to Rome, a sense of freedom from the past came to Lucrezia, but it was not without its apprehensions for the future. Ippolito had said good-bye, for he too must return to Rome—a hostage from Ferrara. Angela Borgia had behaved with haughty indifference toward the elegant Cardinal, who had been slightly piqued and faintly amused, but his thoughts had mainly been on riding back to Rome where he could renew a most exciting friendship with Sanchia.

Riding beside Lucrezia was Adriana Mila, with whom Lucrezia had spent so much of her childhood. Adriana was in charge of Lucrezia’s attendants and it was comforting to have her there; Lucrezia was grateful also for the company of her two cousins, young Angela and Girolama Borgia who was the wife of Fabio Orsini. It was very comforting, when going to a strange land, to have old friends about one.

And now the time had come to say good-bye to Francesco Borgia, the Cardinal of Cosenza, in whose kind hands she was leaving the care of her little Roderigo.

She could not prevent herself from weeping before them all when she said her good-bye to the old man, imploring him once more to care for her little boy; and this he again swore he would do. She knew that he would keep his promise for, although he was a Borgia (he was a son of Calixtus III) he lacked that overwhelming ambition which was possessed by her father and brother. In his hands Lucrezia felt she could best leave the welfare of her son, and this she told him while he assured her that her trust should not be misplaced.

Sorrowfully she watched him ride away, realizing that yet another link with the past had broken. Now they must continue the journey, since the Duke and Duchess of Urbino were waiting to receive them.

At the gates of the town of Gubbio in the territory of the Duke of Urbino, the Duke and his wife Elizabetta were waiting to greet Lucrezia.

Elizabetta was filled with an anger which she could not entirely suppress. Her husband had assured her that it was necessary to do honor to Lucrezia Borgia; Cesare had turned his eyes on rich Urbino and any excuse would be enough for him to descend upon it. Therefore they must give him no opportunity for enmity, and must offer his sister all the honors they would give to a visiting aristocrat.

Elizabetta, who had been in close correspondence with her sister-in-law, Isabella d’Este, found it difficult to compose her features as she waited.

She thought—as she had a thousand times—of all the misery the Borgias had brought into her life. When her husband Guidobaldo had been called into service to go into battle with the Pope’s son, Giovanni Borgia, their troubles had begun. For one thing, Guidobaldo (acknowledged to be, with her brother Francesco Gonzaga, one of the greatest soldiers in Italy), had been obliged to serve under the Borgia. Of all the incompetent commanders who had ever dared command an army Giovanni had been the most incompetent, and as a result of obeying his orders, Guidobaldo had been wounded, taken prisoner by the French and kept in a dark dank prison while his family had strained all their resources to provide the ransom demanded for his release. The Borgia Pope could have paid that ransom, but he had been too busy slyly making his peace terms with the French and covering up the follies of his son.

And when Guidobaldo had returned home he was a different man from the husband Elizabetta had known. He was crippled with rheumatism and suffered piteously from gout. A young man had left his home in the service of the Papal armies; the wreck of that young man had returned. He walked slowly and there were days when he could scarcely walk at all; he was bent double, his face yellow and lined.

Elizabetta had grown bitter. Guidobaldo might forgive the Borgias, for he had a sweet and gentle nature which was the result of an inability to see evil until it was right upon him. Elizabetta would never forgive them.

She looked at him now crouched painfully on his horse, ready to bestow on the daughter of the man who was responsible for his present state that courtesy for which he was famous. He would be telling himself, if he even remembered past injuries: It was not this girl’s fault. It would be churlish of me to show by look or word that I remember her father’s ill-treatment of me.

But I, thought Elizabetta, shall do all in my power to show these upstarts that we accept them only because it is expedient to do so.

And here was the girl, looking fragile and very feminine, gentle and pretty, so that it was difficult even for one determined to hate her, to believe the evil stories concerning her.

The Duke bowed over her hand; his Duchess was gracious but Lucrezia, looking up into the prim face under the black broad-brimmed hat, at the black velvet garments which were not designed for decoration, was conscious of the Duchess’s dislike.

She realized then that this was but a foretaste of what might be waiting for her in her new home; she had to fight prejudice; she had to win the affection or at least tolerance of people who had made up their minds before they met her that they would dislike her.

Guidobaldo had put his castle at the disposal of Lucrezia, and he had planned masques, banquets and lavish entertainments; he was courteous and kind; but Lucrezia was constantly aware of the disapproval of Elizabetta; and it was with Elizabetta that she must travel to Ferrara, as it had been arranged (and it was the Pope’s urgent desire that this should be so) that she and Elizabetta should share the magnificent litter.

Alexander had warned his daughter that she must spend as much time as possible in the company of Elizabetta and Isabella. She must study their clothes, their manners, their gestures; she must remember that they were aristocratic ladies belonging to the most noble families in Italy.

“Nothing will delight me more,” Alexander had said, “since I cannot have my dearest daughter with me, than to think of her in the company of these Princesses. Do as they do. Speak as they speak. For, Lucrezia, my beloved, you have become a Princess even as they are.”

So Lucrezia, lying side by side with Elizabetta in the litter, was determined to be as serene, as aloof as her companion; and thus Elizabetta lost one opportunity of snubbing Lucrezia as she had intended. The Borgia girl, she was forced to admit, had grace and charm, and to be in her company was to believe her to be almost as noble as oneself.

But Elizabetta did not forget. This girl had been brought up at the Papal Court. She had no doubt heard stories of Guidobaldo’s impotence since he had returned from the prison in which the Pope had allowed him to languish. The Borgias had always appreciated the coarsest jokes. Elizabetta was not going to forget merely because this girl had a quiet grace and a serene dignity. The Borgias were loathsome; and if they appeared in the guise of charming girls they were even more deadly.

So Elizabetta continued cool and unhelpful, and Lucrezia was conscious that her companion was hoping all the time that she would commit some social error. Adriana Mila hated Elizabetta and was unable to avoid showing it. This hatred delighted the Duchess of Urbino. She would sit smiling her aloof superior smile as they continued the journey, thinking of all she would have to tell her dear friend and sister-in-law, Isabella, when they met in Ferrara.

Elizabetta was slyly amused when they came to Pesaro. She watched the wilting of Lucrezia’s spirits as they entered the town. The girl must remember those months she had spent here as the wife of Giovanni Sforza who had been Lord of Pesaro before Cesare had taken it from him.

She must be remembering all the details of the scandalous divorce, and surely she must feel some shame.

Elizabetta said as they came into the town: “This must seem very familiar to you.”

“I have been here before.”

Elizabetta laughed lightly. “Of course, with the first of your husbands. But then you were so young, were you not. He could not have seemed like a husband to you. After all, it was no true marriage, was it? There was no consummation.”

Lucrezia stared straight ahead, and there was a faint flush in her pale cheeks.

“Giovanni, who has been at the court of my sister-in-law, swears that the marriage was consummated,” went on Elizabetta. “Poor Giovanni! He has lost so much … his lands … his wife … even his reputation as a man. I pity Giovanni Sforza.”

Lucrezia still said nothing; she too pitied Giovanni.

“The people here will remember, doubtless,” pursued Elizabetta. “They have long memories. They will remember when you came here as the bride of the Lord of Pesaro. Odd … that now you should come here as the bride of another, although their lord—I should say he who was their lord—still lives, still declares himself to be your husband!”

“I do not know how that can be,” said Lucrezia, “since there was a divorce.”

“On the grounds of non-consummation! But if the marriage was consummated, the grounds for divorce would disappear and … if there was no reason, how could there be a divorce? I do not know. Your father, who is wise in these matters, no doubt could tell us. Why, look! The people are eager to see you. You must show yourself, you know.”

And Lucrezia, who had hoped to enter quietly into Pesaro of many memories, must leave the litter, and ride her mule, so that all might see her.

Elizabetta rode beside her, maliciously hopeful. If she could have incited those people to shout abuse at Lucrezia she would have done so.

But here was Ramiro de Lorqua, the Spaniard whom Cesare had set up to rule Pesaro in his absence, and Ramiro, knowing the esteem in which Lucrezia was held by his master, was determined that such a welcome should be given her as was never before seen in Pesaro. He could count on the cooperation of the people, for Ramiro was the most brutal of overlords and they dared not oppose him.

It may have been fear of Ramiro, it may have been because the slender girl with her long golden hair falling about her shoulders seemed to them so gentle and so charming, but there was no abuse; there were only cries of “Duca! Duca! Lucrezia!”

And although Lucrezia’s misgivings did not abate during the time she was in Pesaro, Elizabetta was disappointed.

It was Ramiro’s duty to escort Lucrezia through the territory of Romagna, and this he did, making certain that in her brother’s domain she should be fêted wherever she went. Banquets were arranged in her honor; in the captured towns the citizens displayed banners of greetings. Cries of welcome followed her wherever she went.

The Duke of Ferrara was growing uneasy, for the journey was taking longer than he had anticipated and as many of the wedding guests were already at Ferrara he was groaning at the expense of feeding and entertaining them.

He sent instructions that the journey must be speeded up. There must not be these long halts at various towns. He was all impatience to receive his daughter-in-law.

But Lucrezia showed a certain determination. She would not hurry. Every few days her hair must be washed, and she felt too fatigued to spend day after day in the saddle or even in the litter.

So the Duke fumed and counted the cost of entertaining his guests, while Lucrezia continued with her slow progress.

Ferrante was enchanted by her; he was writing the most eulogistic letters which were dispatched by special messenger to his sister Isabella, throwing that lady into a passion of jealousy.

“She and I opened the ball last night, sister. I have never seen her look more lovely. Her hair was more golden than ever. She had washed it that day. It was necessary that it should be washed every few days to preserve its gold. Her dress was of black velvet, and she looked more slender, more fair than ever before; on her head was a small gold cap, and it was difficult to see which was cap and which was hair; on her forehead there was an enormous diamond. Her Spanish dwarfs are amusing creatures. They dance in the ballroom when she dances, following her round, calling attention to her beauty. They are quite vain and like to parade in brilliant clothes to match those of their mistress. They gesture obscenely and make bawdy jokes—even about their mistress. No one seems to object. The manners of Rome are different from those of Ferrara or Mantua. I wonder, my dear sister, what you would say if your dwarfs made such jokes and gestures as they followed you round the ballroom. Lucrezia accepts it all in the utmost good humor, and since we left Pesaro—where I confess she seemed somewhat depressed—she has been full of high spirits.”

When Isabella received that letter she was furious.

“Idiot!” she cried. “The young fool writes like a lover. From what we know of her reputation, mayhap he already is.”

She would show the letter to Alfonso, try to rouse some indignation in his sleepy mind.

While Lucrezia was at Rimini, that town where she had opened the ball with Ferrante, one of the servants rode into the castle with disquieting news.

Ferrante was the first person he saw, and he fell at the young man’s feet, declaring that Madonna Lucrezia was in terrible danger.

“How so?” asked Ferrante.

“Because, my lord, outside the town a company of men are waiting for her. These are led by Carracciolo.”

“Carracciolo!” cried Ferrante.

“May I refresh your lordship’s memory? Carracciolo was betrothed to Dorotea da Crema who was abducted by Cesare Borgia and has never been heard of since.”

“You mean that this man seeks to abduct Madonna Lucrezia?”

“It would seem so, my lord. Aye, and do to her what Cesare Borgia did to his betrothed.”

Ferrante lost no time in hurrying to Lucrezia, and telling her what he had heard. Lucrezia was terrified, for the thought of violence alarmed her.

Ferrante threw himself on his knees and declared that he would protect her with his life. She was not listening; she was thinking of Dorotea, who had set out on a journey very similar to this one she was making, and who had never reached her destination. She thought of Cesare, and she shivered.

She understood the feelings of this man Carracciolo. She knew what would happen to her if she fell into his hands.

Elizabetta came in, startling Ferrante from his knees.

He at once blurted out what he had heard.

Elizabetta shrugged her shoulders. “Doubtless it is merely some tale,” she said.

But she could not hide the expression of pleasure which briefly flitted across her face. She hates me, thought Lucrezia. She hopes I shall fall into Carracciolo’s hands.

She was horrified as much by the malice of this woman as by the fears this story had conjured up.

She thought then: I am a Borgia. The sins of my family are my sins. Can it be that now … they are catching up with me, that there is no real escape?

Lucrezia had spent a sleepless night. All through those hours as she tossed and turned she had expected to hear shouts of triumph from below, harsh voices demanding her surrender.

A thick fog lay over the town in the early morning, and she insisted that they slip away under cover of it. She was terrified of this place and could not bear to spend another hour in it.

So they left as quickly and as silently as they could, traveling along the Via Emilia toward Bologna.

When the fog lifted they were able to see the open country for miles round and there was no sign of a pursuing force.

Lucrezia’s relief was apparent, but Elizabetta was determined that she should not enjoy it.

“I have news for you,” she said. “Giovanni Sforza is coming to the wedding.”

“Oh, but he can’t do that!”

“He can. He has announced his intention of so doing. I have heard that he has already set out for Ferrara.”

Lucrezia looked sharply at her companion, and she believed then that Elizabetta and her friend Isabella, whom she had now realized was also an enemy, had arranged that Giovanni Sforza should be at the wedding so that she would be embarrassed.

Looking forward to her new life she saw that it would be peopled with those who wished to destroy her.

They came to Bologna where members of the reigning family, the Bentivoglio, set out to meet her; and she was led in triumph to their beautiful house on the outskirts of the town.

Great fires were burning, and it was with immense relief that Lucrezia and her entourage warmed themselves. Entertainments had been prepared, but Lucrezia had begged that they should be postponed. She and her fellow travelers were very fatigued and longed to rest for this first day.

It was pleasant to be within these frescoed walls, to stretch out before a blazing fire, to call for hot water, that the dust of the journey might be washed from her hair.

Angela and Girolama helped with her toilet, chatting excitedly, reminding her that they were on the very borders of Ferrara and very soon would reach their journey’s end.

Angela had been a little subdued since her encounter with Ippolito, but she was no less lovely for that.

They were talking of the receptions they had received, of the banners in morello and gold which had been hung out by the people, who knew how she favored these colors.

“It would seem, Lucrezia,” said Angela, “that the whole of Italy loves you. Surely only love could inspire such enthusiasm.”

“Love … or fear,” said Lucrezia grimly.

Girolama said: “I hear their voices in my sleep. I hear the chanting: ‘Duca! Duca! Duchessa!’ It goes on and on.”

“They loved you as soon as they saw you,” persisted Angela. “They take one look at you and catch their breath with wonder.”

“Rather is it surprise,” said Lucrezia, “because my hair is not serpents and I have not the eye of the Gorgon.”

“They love you the better because of the false rumors they have heard. You look … angelic. There is no other word for it.”

“You look at me with the eyes of a Borgia, little cousin; and I have come to believe that in Borgian eyes Borgias are perfect. Try looking with the eyes of others.”

Adriana came bustling in.

“Hurry!” she cried. “There is unexpected visitor. Oh … but look at your hair. Take off that robe quickly. Where is your striped morello? Oh, we shall never have time.”

“Who is it?” demanded Lucrezia, terror seizing her. She thought of Carracciolo, furious on account of the rape of his betrothed, vowing vengeance on the Borgias; she thought of Giovanni Sforza humiliated and insulted, determined on revenge.

Adriana was so excited she could scarcely find the words. “I had no notion that this would happen. Come … girls … quickly. Oh dear … oh dear … that we should be caught like this!”

“But Adriana, be calm. Pray tell us who the visitor is.”

“Alfonso is here. Your bridegroom is determined to see you before you make your state entry into Ferrara.”

“Alfonso …!” Lucrezia had begun to tremble.

She was aware of the distracted Adriana, searching for the right dress, of Angela, running a comb through her wet hair.

Then there were heavy footsteps outside the room, there was a deep voice commanding someone to stand aside.

The door was flung open and Alfonso d’Este stood looking at his bride.

He was tall and broad, his eyes gray-blue in color, his nose fiercely aquiline, and there was about him an air of brutal strength.

Lucrezia hastily rose to her feet and curtsied.

Those watching thought they had never seen her look so fair and fragile as she did beside her future husband.

“My lord,” she said, “if we had had news of your coming we should not have received you thus.”

“Ha!” he said. “ ’Twas my plan to surprise you.”

“You find me with my hair wet. We have but recently arrived here with the grime of the journey upon us.”

“I’m not so shocked by grime as are most.” He took a strand of the hair in his hand. “I had heard it shone like gold,” he said.

“It does so when it is dry. I am grieved that it should be wet when you first meet me.”

He twisted a handful of it and pulled it gently. “I like it,” he said.

“I am glad it pleases you. As I hope to.…”

He was looking at her, and she knew him for a connoisseur of women; each detail of her body was considered, and now and again she would hear that short dry laugh of his. He was not displeased.

He looked at Adriana and the two girls.

“Leave me with Madonna Lucrezia,” he said. “I have business with her.”

“My lord,” began Adriana in alarm.

He waved his hand at her. “Have done, woman,” he said. “We have been married, if only by proxy. Begone, I say.” And as Adriana hesitated, he bellowed: “Go!”

Adriana curtsied and went, the girls following her.

Alfonso turned to her. “They will learn,” he said, “that I am a man who likes instant obedience.”

“I have already seen that.”

He came closer to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. He was not fully at ease in her company; he never was in the presence of well-bred women. He preferred the girls he met in taverns or in the villages. He looked; he beckoned; and because they would not dare disobey—nor did they want to—they came at his bidding. He was not a man who wished to spend a lot of time in wooing.

She looked fragile, but she was not inexperienced, he knew that much. He had sensed that sensuality in her which appealed to his own.

He seized her roughly and kissed her on the mouth. Then he picked her up in his arms.

“It was for this I came,” he said, and carried her through the apartments to her bedchamber.

She was barely aware of the scuffling movement, the hasty departure of the girls, who had been waiting there for her.

All through the house they would be talking of Alfonso’s visit. She did not care. Nor did he.

When Isabella heard that Alfonso had paid an unceremonious visit to the bride she was furious.

She stormed into Alfonso’s apartments and demanded to know how he could have committed such a breach of etiquette.

“How!” cried Alfonso, who saw everything literally. “By taking horse and riding there.”

“But you are expected to greet her standing by the side of our father at the ceremonial entry.”

“I shall do so.”

“But to go ahead like some lovesick apprentice!”

“All men have some curiosity about the woman they are to marry, whether they are dukes or apprentices. If you want to blame someone for this, blame yourself.”

“Myself!”

“Certainly yourself. If you had not painted her so dark, made such a monster of her, I might have been ready to wait. As it was I had to satisfy my curiosity.”

“And, knowing you, I imagine it was not only your curiosity which was satisfied.”

Alfonso burst out laughing. “Would you have her fancy she had another Sforza for a husband?”

“Sforza was not as the Pope made him out to be.”

“He should have proved otherwise.”

“What, before witnesses?” Isabella laughed. “You would not have been diffident about proving your manhood, I am sure, no matter how many witnesses were mustered.”

“It is hardly likely that mine would have been in question.”

“Indeed not, when half the children in Ferrara have a look of you!”

“The people like to know a man is a man.”

“You are almost licking your lips.”

“She was adequate.”

“As any woman would be, for you.”

“Not any woman. I would not fancy one who sought to rule me as you rule Francesco.”

Isabella angrily flounced out of the apartment and went to ask her father’s permission to go ahead of the main party to greet Lucrezia.

“It will be a courteous gesture,” she explained. “Alfonso has already been to see her. Now your daughter should go. For, as you have no wife, your daughter must act as hostess.”

Ercole agreed because he knew it was no use doing otherwise.

“I will take Giulio with me,” said Isabella, “since she should be met by one of your sons. And as Alfonso has already behaved like a yokel at a fair, and Ippolito is a hostage of the Borgias, and Ferrante and Sigismondo are with the travelers, there is no one but Giulio.”

“Giulio will enjoy the journey, I doubt not,” said Ercole.

Lucrezia stepped on to the barge which was to carry her along the river into Ferrara. This was the flat land, the land of mists in the valley of the Po. Ercole had followed his ancestors in draining much of the land and making it fertile; there were no hills, and the climate was cold compared with that to which Lucrezia was accustomed. Many times she had been grateful for her fur-lined cape and remembered her father’s instructions to protect her face and body.

It seemed that when the wind was not blowing there were the fogs to contend with. There was a great deal in this new land to which she would have to resign herself.

But she had met her husband. She smiled, remembering that encounter. Few words had been exchanged. Alfonso made it clear that he had not come to talk. There was something brutal about him; the consummation with him had been quite unlike that with either of the other two husbands. With Sforza it had been shuffling and shameful because that was how Sforza had thought of it. With her first Alfonso, the Duke of Bisceglie, it had been a romantic fulfillment; with the man who was now to be her husband it was a quick and natural animal desire which without finesse or forethought must be immediately satisfied.

She believed she would satisfy him.

As she stood on the deck of the barge peering at the river bank, there was a cry, and looking ahead she saw a great golden galley coming toward them. It obviously belonged to some very rich person as it was decorated with cloth of gold.

Adriana came running to her.

“It is the bucintoro of the Marchesa of Mantua. She has come on ahead to welcome you to Ferrara.” Adriana’s eyes were anxious. She knew of the enmity which Isabella d’Este felt toward Lucrezia, and she wondered whether she should warn her charge.

The barges were tied and Isabella came aboard. She had scored the first victory as Lucrezia had not yet put on the ceremonial dress in which she intended to greet the old Duke of Ferrara. And there was Isabella, catching every eye and dazzling it, in green velvet ablaze with jewels and a long cloak of black velvet lined with blonde lynx.

Lucrezia bowed and Isabella took her into her arms and kissed her cheeks; there was patronage, resignation and hatred in those kisses, and Lucrezia was shocked by their vehemence.

“Welcome to Ferrara,” said Isabella.

“I am honored by your coming to see me.”

“I wished to see you,” said Isabella. “My brother has been misguided enough to visit you already, it seems.”

Lucrezia smiled at the memory.

Brazen! thought Isabella exulting. She will soon learn that Alfonso’s passion is for every kitchen slut.

She had seen Elizabetta and turned to embrace her.

“My dearest, dearest sister! Elizabetta! How it delights me to see you!”

“Dear Isabella!”

“And the journey?” asked Isabella.

Elizabetta cast a glance in Lucrezia’s direction. “Exhausting … most exhausting.”

Lucrezia knew in that moment that Elizabetta and Isabella were allied against her. But she had caught sight of a very handsome young man who had leaped on the barge. He came to her, holding out both hands.

“Welcome! Welcome!” he cried. “We could not wait for you to come to us. We must perforce come to you.” She saw the mist on his brows and curling lashes. His enormous dark eyes were the handsomest she had ever seen. “I am Giulio,” he said with a smile. “The Duke’s bastard son.” His smile was so warm and admiring that she forgot the threatening hostility of Isabella.

She said: “These are my cousins, Girolama … Angela.…”

“Enchanted, enchanted,” murmured Guilio.

His eyes rested on Angela, and Angela’s on him.

Why, mused Angela, did I think Ippolito handsome? Only because I had not seen his bastard brother.

Isabella, realizing what was happening, came hurrying forward. They must not forget that she was in charge, so she gave orders that the barge was to proceed, as the Duke of Ferrara was waiting on the towpath a short distance away, to greet his new daughter.

The barge moved slowly forward; then through the mist Lucrezia saw figures take shape on the towpath. The barge stopped and she alighted.

She was led to the old Duke who stood erect to receive her. She fell to her knees on the damp grass; and, looking down on her golden head and wondering what sharp words Isabella had bestowed on her, the old Duke was momentarily sorry for her, she seemed so young and she was among strangers in a strange land.

“Come, rise, my dear,” he said, “you must not kneel on this wet grass.” He embraced her and went on: “We will not stand about; my barge is waiting here.”

But Alfonso was at his father’s side to greet her, and the smiles which he exchanged with her were those of two who had shared an experience after which they could no longer be strangers.

She boarded the Duke’s barge with him, her husband and his attendants. Isabella was not pleased by her father’s courteous care of the newcomer, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

She had to content herself with devising the little insults she intended to bestow during the wedding ceremonies.

And so the barge went on into Ferrara, while Alfonso’s cavalry rode beside it along the river bank; and as they came near to the Este villa on the outskirts of Ferrara there was a sudden booming of her husband’s cannon to welcome her.

Alighting, being received by that other Lucrezia, the illegitimate daughter of Ercole, and being conducted to her apartments where she was to spend the night before making her formal entry into Ferrara the next day, Lucrezia felt bewildered, wondering how she was going to fit herself into the new life which lay before her.

The next day dawned fine and bright, which was pleasing to everyone, as there had been much apprehension that the rain or mist would mar the entry into Ferrara.

Lucrezia was dressed in her wedding dress. Adriana was giving flustered commands to Girolama and a very lovely young girl named Nicola, who seemed more nimble-fingered than Angela, for Angela had fallen into one of her pensive moods since setting eyes on Giulio.

Lucrezia looked beautiful when she was dressed in the mulberry colored satin with the wide gold stripes; the dress did not follow the Spanish fashion of which she had always been so fond, but was cut after the French style. The Pope had impressed upon her the need to show the utmost respect for their French allies as without them Cesare would not have made such a speedy conquest of Romagna, and it was possible that but for French pressure Ercole would have held out against the marriage. Moreover, it had been arranged that the French ambassador was to be her escort at many of the functions which would ensue. She must therefore continually think of placating the French, so it was a pretty gesture to favor their fashion in the most important dress in her trousseau. The wide sleeves, lined with ermine were French; so was the overcoat of cloth of gold. She wore the Este jewels—diamonds and rubies to form a headdress—and for this occasion her hair, seeming more brilliantly golden than ever, was unrestrained and flowed freely about her shoulders.

Her gray horse had been decorated to make a worthy charger for such a glittering bride. Caparisoned in velvet of deep crimson, its harness of gold, it was a spirited creature, a gift from Ercole. Lucrezia did not know it, but Isabella had chosen the horse. It was one of the most beautiful in Ercole’s stables, but it was for its wildness that Isabella had chosen it, telling herself that Lucrezia would have to be a very good horsewoman if she could ride the creature into Ferrara without some mishap.

When Lucrezia entered the city, after having been greeted by the French ambassador, a canopy of red satin was held over her and she was accompanied by the ambassadors and their retinues and those of the various noblemen and their households, all vying with each other to call attention to the splendor which they could parade before the eager eyes of the Ferrarese.

Alfonso, the bridegroom, had joined the procession, so plainly dressed in a gray doublet on which were traced fish scales in gold, a white feather the only ornament in his black hat, that he was the most modestly attired person in the assemblage and was noticeable for this very reason. Lucrezia was feeling a certain relief as she entered the city, although she was aware of the strict scrutiny which she must undergo, and she knew too that those who watched her every move with such eagerness were hoping to find fault. The relief was due to the fact that Giovanni Sforza had thought better of attending the wedding. He must, thought Lucrezia, have realized that, in endeavoring to humiliate her he might bring down scorn on his own head; he had therefore stopped short of Ferrara and turned back.

Nicola had brought her the news while she was dressing. She had had it, she said, from Don Ferrante who had expressed his delight and was eager that she should carry the news immediately to her mistress.

Thankful for this small blessing, Lucrezia rode on, her whole attention demanded by the spirited horse which reared and pranced from side to side and was clearly displeased with his burden.

Lucrezia was at home in the saddle, and she believed she could have mastered the creature if she had been on the slopes of Monte Mario or galloping across the meadows; it was a very different matter being the center of pageantry and forced to restrain him.

Isabella, looking startling in a dress of her own design, which was calculated to outshine Lucrezia’s wedding dress, and watching Lucrezia’s expert handling of the gray horse, grudgingly admitted to herself that Lucrezia was a horsewoman; and what was more to the point although she must be feeling uncomfortable, being forced to ride such a horse at such a time, her serene smiles were undiminished and if she was a little alarmed she gave no sign of it.

But when the fireworks display began, the terrified horse reared suddenly and there was a cry of alarm. Isabella watched exultantly until she realized that it was not Lucrezia who had cried out, but one of the spectators.

“It is dangerous!” cried a voice in the crowd. “No fit horse for the bride.”

Alfonso spoke to his men, and a mule, almost as splendidly caparisoned as the gray horse, was brought forward and Lucrezia was urged to change mounts for the sake of the crowd.

With infinite grace she leaped from the horse and mounted the mule. There was a gasp of admiration in the crowd, for the person least perturbed by the incident seemed to be Lucrezia.

Disgusted, Isabella turned her horse away from the procession and with some of her women rode by a different route to the castle. She was no longer interested in Lucrezia’s ride now that the bride was on a safe mule, and wanted to place herself in the most prominent position at the foot of the great staircase so that she, in her magnificent gown which was embroidered with quavers and crotchets and which she had called “pauses in music,” might receive the guests and do everything in her power to assure everyone that she was the most important woman that day in the castle of Ferrara.

The tiring day was over. Lucrezia’s women clustered about her to help her undress. They removed the mulberry and gold gown and the jeweled headdress; they combed the long golden hair.

There were those who wanted to play the familiar old jokes, indulge in crude wedding customs; but Lucrezia was anxious that they should not do so, and made her wishes clear.

Isabella and Elizabetta who, had she wished for horseplay, would have called her vulgar, now chose to be shocked by her aloof attitude and lack of humor.

But this was Lucrezia’s wedding night. She feared that the jokes as arranged by Isabella might include references to her previous marriages. She was adamant, and such was her quiet dignity that her wishes were respected.

Alfonso entered. Unconcerned as to whether they were subjected to the usual crude practical jokes or not, he was ready to spend half the night with his bride.

So this wedding night was very different from that which she had shared with another Alfonso; but she had reason to believe that her husband was not displeased with her.

She would be glad when the night was over, for she was disconcerted by the presence of all those who, the Pope had insisted, should watch the nuptials so that he could be assured that the marriage had been well and truly consummated.

Very shortly afterward—in as short a time as a messenger could ride from Ferrara to Rome—Alexander was reading accounts of the wedding.

The details were explained to him: the entry into Ferrara, the magnificence of his daughter in mulberry and gold, her expert management of a frisky horse, the honor which was done to her.

Duke Ercole was now writing enthusiastically of his daughter-in-law. Her beauty and charm surpassed all he had heard of her, he wrote to the Pope. “And our son, the illustrious Don Alfonso, and his bride kept company last night, and we are certain that both were very well satisfied.”

The Pope was delighted. He summoned his Cardinals and attendants that he might read the letters to them. He dwelt on the charm of Lucrezia and shook his head sadly because he had not been there to see her.

There were other letters, less restrained than Duke Ercole’s.

“Three times,” he said, shaking his head with a laugh. “Cesare did better, but then this illustrious Don Alfonso is not a Borgia. Thrice is well enough for an Este.”

He was in great good humor. One of his mistresses was pregnant. This showed great virility for a man of seventy-one.

Contemplating this and the triumphs of Cesare and Lucrezia, it seemed to him possible that the Borgias were immortal.

The morning after the wedding, Lucrezia awoke to find that Alfonso was not with her. It was true then, what she had heard of him. He had, even at such a time, arisen early either to go to some mistress or to his foundry.

What did it matter? She did not love him. This was quite different from her second marriage. She remembered that awakening with a pang of longing which she hastily dismissed, reminding herself of all the misery that marriage had brought her because she had loved too well.

She would not love in that way again. She would be wise. She now bore the title of Duchess of Ferrara, which was one of the grandest in Italy; and she would enjoy her position; she hoped she would bear sons; but she would not be in the least put out by her husband’s mistresses.

She looked about her and saw that those who had remained in the apartment to watch the consummation were now missing; they must have retired with Alfonso. She clapped her hands, and Angela and Nicola appeared.

“I am hungry,” she said. “Have food brought to me.”

They ran away to do her bidding, and after a while came back with food for her. She ate hungrily, but when she had finished she made no attempt to move.

Throughout the castle the wedding guests were stirring, but still she lay in bed chatting with her women.

Angela reported that Isabella and Elizabetta were already up and were wondering why she did not join them.

“I need a little respite from their constant attention,” she said.

“Hateful pair!” cried Angela.

“I am determined to rest for the whole morning in my bed,” Lucrezia told them. “There will be dancing and festivities for days to come; and, as these will extend far into the night, I intend to rest during the day.”

“What will Donna Isabella say to that?” asked Nicola.

“She may say what she will.”

“Giulio said,” ventured Angela, “that she has always been used to having her own way.”

“Ferrante says,” added Nicola, “that she rules Mantua when she is in Mantua, and Ferrara when she is in Ferrara.”

“And,” said Lucrezia, looking from one lovely face to the other, “it is clear to me that what Giulio and Ferrante say is in the opinion of Angela and Nicola absolutely right.”

Nicola flushed slightly; not so Angela. She had recovered her spirit and had entered into a relationship with the bold and handsome Giulio, which Lucrezia feared might already have gone beyond a light flirtation. Was there any reason why Angela and Giulio should not marry? Angela had been promised to someone else but, as Lucrezia well knew, such arrangements could be broken. In Nicola’s case it was different. Ferrante was the legitimate son of Duke Ercole; there could be no marriage with him for Nicola.

These affairs must—as they most certainly would—settle themselves; but she would at an appropriate moment drop a word of warning to Nicola.

Adriana came in to say that Donna Isabella was coming up to Lucrezia’s apartments ostensibly to bid her good morning but in reality to study her face for what was called signs of “the battle with the husband.” With her came her brothers and some of their young attendants.

Lucrezia knew that, cheated of their horseplay and crude jokes last night, they were determined to enjoy them this morning.

She cried out: “Lock the doors. They shall not come in.”

Adriana looked at her questioningly. “Lock the doors against Donna Isabella and Donna Elizabetta?”

“Certainly,” said Lucrezia. “Make haste and lock all doors.”

So they came and called to her, but she would not let them in.

Isabella, fuming against the arrogance of the upstart Borgia who dared lock an Este door against her, was forced to go away, vowing that she would be revenged.

In his castle beside the Mincio, Francesco Gonzaga read accounts of the wedding.

From his wife Isabella he heard that Lucrezia was quite pleasant to look at but far from the beauty they had been led to expect. The poor girl looked wan and fatigued when she arrived, and was a great disappointment to all who beheld her. She would have been well-advised to have made her entry into Ferrara after dark. She would have looked so much more charming by the flare of torches.

One of his wife’s ladies wrote in similar strain, stressing Ferrara’s disappointment with the girl, who had turned out to be quite plain after being heralded as a beauty. “It would have been so much better if she had not defied the clear light of day. Everywhere one heard the comment: ‘Compare her with Donna Isabella! There is true beauty. And her garments lack the style and dazzling delight of those of Donna Isabella.’ ”

But Francesco heard reports from other quarters which were not inspired by the malice of his dominating wife.

“Lucrezia Borgia is very pretty indeed; her eyes are light in color and adorable. Her hair is as golden as it is said to be. She is full of vitality, yet serene withal. And although she might appear to be a little too slender this but adds to her grace. She is extremely fragile, wholly feminine and a delight to look upon.”

Francesco grimaced when he read that.

He was remembering the young girl he had met when she was in her early teens. He recalled her dainty charm. He was glad that she was beautiful. He hoped she would prove a match for Isabella.

During the next few days Lucrezia realized the depth of that enmity which Isabella felt toward her, and it seemed to her that her only friends were those women she had brought with her. Ferrante and Sigismondo were charming to her, but Ferrante was frivolous and Sigismondo was very much under the influence of his family. Duke Ercole had not wanted the match and was anxiously counting the cost of feeding the wedding guests; he was amazed by Borgia extravagance and ready to listen to Isabella’s stories concerning his new daughter-in-law. She might have expected support from Alfonso, but uxorious as he was for part of the night, he was indifferent during the day and seemed scarcely aware of his wife. Lucrezia realized that if she asked for his support against his sister she would receive scant sympathy from him. His thoughts were on his foundry; all she had to concern herself about was getting with child. Alfonso had a horror of sterile women; he could not rid himself of the idea that he was virile enough to overcome infertility, and his favorite mistresses were his fruitful ones.

It was, on the whole, a hostile household, and Lucrezia was glad of her experience and upbringing which was helping her to steel herself against it, and to produce a mood almost of indifference.

She rose late, which was a habit Isabella deplored. She refused to be roused to anger, since she realized that it was her serenity which infuriated Isabella almost as much as her beauty and good taste in clothes.

Each day Lucrezia appeared among the guests in some dazzling gown of her own design which, brilliant as it was, accentuated her elegance; and beside her Isabella seemed coarse and overdressed.

Isabella, furious, determined to discountenance Lucrezia, and during the performance of a comedy, Miles Gloriosus, Isabella began to titter, and her attendants—who always sprang slavishly to do her bidding—joined in the tittering so that it was impossible to hear the actors speak. This was meant as an insult to Lucrezia, for the play was being given in her honor.

Lucrezia sat upright during the performance, looking at the players as though she was unaware of the disturbance.

And, when on the next night the somewhat bawdy Casina was performed, Isabella declared herself to be so shocked by the choice of the play that she would not allow her women (who were notorious for their lechery) to see it; so again Lucrezia sat through the play laughing heartily at the parts which would have amused her father, and seeming quite unaware of Isabella’s disapproval.

But Lucrezia was unhappy, understanding how her sister-in-law was determined to hate her. Her father or Cesare would have gone wholeheartedly into the battle; they would have sought victory over Isabella. Not so Lucrezia, who longed to be loved and had no wish to be anyone’s enemy.

There was yet another disturbing element. Isabella was giving Lucrezia’s Spanish dwarfs costly materials, velvets and brocades, from which garments could be made. She knew how vain the dwarfs were; they were continually longing to wear clothes as fine as their mistress. This, Isabella pointed out to them, they could do; and there would be more presents for them if they would shout “Long live Donna Isabella” instead of “Long live Donna Lucrezia.”

A few days after the wedding Lucrezia declared that she would spend the day in her own apartments, as her hair must be washed and there were letters to be written. Isabella was delighted, for this gave her a chance to win the French ambassador to her side.

She invited him to dinner; she played the lute and sang to him; and before he left she took off one of her scented gloves and gave it to him.

Philippe de la Roche Martin was susceptible, and Isabella was considered to be a very beautiful woman.

This would teach the sly creature to shut herself away, washing her hair! thought Isabella grimly. She was determined to parade her triumph that evening at the ball of torches.

During such balls each lady carried a torch which she gave to her partner of the evening and, when Lucrezia appeared, her hair freshly golden and her eyes sparkling with that vitality which was entirely her own because it was so serene, she looked more delightful than ever in her favorite morello and gold lined with ermine.

She had heard from Angela, who was turning out to be a perfect and reliable little spy for her mistress, of Isabella’s encounter with the French ambassador, and she knew that Isabella was determined to lure him from her. So, with a charming smile she handed her torch to Philippe de la Roche Martin, and after such a gesture the gallant Frenchman was so charmed that he had eyes only for Lucrezia, seeming scarcely aware of Isabella’s presence, and all were declaring that at last Lucrezia had scored a victory over her rival.

Thereafter Lucrezia kept the Frenchman at her side, which was a triumph indeed, as the French were more feared than any and it was important for all to be on good terms with Louis’ ambassador.

The French were subtle; one could never be sure what meaning lurked behind their words and actions. Even those wedding presents which Philippe de la Roche Martin brought from his master seemed to have some subtlety attached to them for those who could understand the dry humor of the King of France. There was an engraving of St. Francis on a gold medal for the Duke; was that meant to imply: What a pious man is Duke Ercole! Here is an image of St. Francis for him to pray to, but if there is one thing he admires as much as the saints it is gold. For Lucrezia there was a rosary of golden beads, but when these beads were opened they were seen to contain musk. Did that mean: She is outwardly demure but what lies within? For Alfonso there was a recipe for casting cannon and a figure in gold of Mary Magdalene. Was Louis slyly reminding the bridegroom of the scandals he had heard concerning his bride?

With the French no one could be sure. That was why it was necessary to be on good terms with the French King’s ambassador. That was why Angela, Adriana, Nicola and all those whom Lucrezia had brought with her rejoiced, and Isabella and the rest of the Ferrarese looked on in dismay.

The celebrations went on. Each day there was some spectacle to be witnessed. Each day Isabella in company with Elizabetta planned some fresh insult for Lucrezia, each day Lucrezia realized more and more how difficult it was going to be to live in harmony with her relations.

Alfonso continued passionate by night, indifferent by day; Duke Ercole continued to count the cost; letters went to and fro between Rome and Ferrara, but no one yet dared tell the Pope that his daughter had her enemies in the Este stronghold.

The Ferrarese were now being deliberately insulting to Lucrezia, laughing at her as she passed, mocking her graceful walk and her beautiful clothes. She gave no sign at the time that she noticed their rudeness, but she told those ladies who had been selected by Duke Ercole to be her attendants that she had no more use for them and refused to allow them into her apartments. She remained in bed during the greater part of the morning, chatting with her ladies, discussing dresses, attending to her toilet; in her imperturbable way she was behaving as she would in her home at Santa Maria in Portico.

She appeared at the balls and banquets serenely lovely. Once at a ball her own ladies played Spanish tunes on their lutes and, selecting one of the very pretty girls who had come with her to Ferrara, Lucretia danced with her, their skirts whirling, the castanets in their hands; and so enchanted was the company that there was a hushed silence all about them, and Isabella’s attempts to start a conversation on some entirely different subject were defeated.

When the dancing was over, and the applause ringing out, Angela demanded of Isabella: “Do you not think Madonna Lucrezia dances like an angel, Donna Isabella?”

“An angel? I was thinking of a Spanish gypsy. Donna Lucrezia dances with fire and spirit, as I hear they do.”

Angela was furious, but Giulio was beside her, laying a restraining hand on her arm.

There was talk and laughter throughout the company—and Angela cried to Giulio: “Are you all afraid of her … this sister of yours?”

But Lucrezia was sitting back in her chair, while one of her Spaniards fanned her. She was smiling, as though she had not understood the malice behind Isabella’s remarks.

That night Alfonso and Giulio danced together for the enjoyment of the company, and later Alfonso played his viol.

It was strange to see his somewhat clumsy fingers, the foundry grime still on them, making such music. Lucrezia began to wonder then whether there was a side to her husband which she had not yet discovered.

Isabella would soon return to Mantua, and she was determined that she must leave some lasting memory of her visit behind for Lucrezia.

She sought out her father. Ercole was pondering over his accounts.

“Do you know, daughter,” he said, “that there are still more than four hundred guests in the castle? What do you think it costs me to feed them?”

Isabella, never having time for other people’s problems, ignored the question.

“Your daughter-in-law will make Este into a Spanish Court before she has been here long.”

“She will do no such thing,” retorted Ercole.

“And how can you be sure?”

“Because I would never permit it.”

“It will creep in subtly before you realize it. Oh, she is so calm, so smug. There are no tantrums with Madonna Lucrezia. She merely looks like a fragile flower and says ‘I want this. I want that.’ And because no one takes her seriously and tries to stop her she gets it.”

“I have no time for your women’s quarrels. Over four hundred guests! Calculate the food that means! And four hundred guests is not all. What of their horses?”

“Those dresses of hers are half-Spanish. All that gold. It is Spanish, I tell you. Spanish! Do you know she wears zaraguelles?”

“What is that?”

“Zaraguelles. Those silk pantaloons, all richly embroidered. She wears them beneath her dresses. It is a Spanish custom. It should be stopped. Father, you will have no peace with that woman and her Spanish attendants.”

“Oh, let her be and help me devise a means of ridding myself of these guests who are making of me a poor man.”

“Father, if you sent away her Spanish attendants you would have fewer mouths to feed. She has too many attendants.”

The Duke was thoughtful, and Isabella smiled. She had made her point.

The loss of her friends was going to hurt Lucrezia more than any of the pin-pricks which Isabella had been able to inflict. She wished she could rob Lucrezia of her more intimate circle—that watchful Adriana, sly Nicola and the saucy Angela. But to go so far as that would certainly bring down the wrath of the Pope. For the moment she must content herself with banishing the Spaniards.

She wrote to Francesco telling him that she was tired of Ferrara and was longing for Mantua. She wished to be with her husband and her little son Federico.

Reading the letter Francesco laughed.

He guessed that the young Lucrezia was holding her own against Isabella, and wondered why he should feel so pleased.

At last the ceremonies came to an end and the guests began to depart. The ambassadors came to make their farewell speeches to Lucrezia, but Isabella contrived to be present with Elizabetta, and it was she who answered them, Elizabetta following her, although the thanks and good wishes of the ambassadors had been directed at Lucrezia.

Lucrezia did not attempt to stop them, but when they were over she offered a few modest and well-chosen words as though she had not been ousted from her rightful place.

The ambassadors thought her meek and nervous, but there were some among them who believed that she considered the open animosity of her sister-in-law too foolish for her attention.

These too were Lucrezia’s thoughts; she was also reminding herself that Isabella had a home in Mantua. She could not desert that forever. And it was a happy day when Isabella and her retinue set out for Mantua. Lucrezia could not hide her pleasure.

But, as she went on her way, Isabella was smiling, well satisfied; she knew her parsimonious father would soon deprive Lucrezia of her Spanish attendants, and that Lucrezia’s patience was going to be strained to the limit by life in Ferrara.