Light on Lucrezia

VI IN THE LITTLE ROOMS OF THE BALCONY

When the guests had departed Lucrezia relinquished the apartments in which she had lived in state and prepared to settle in the “little rooms of the balcony” (gli camerini del poggiolo) which had been reserved for her own special use.

She examined them in the company of Angela and Nicola, and all three were delighted with the cozy intimacy of the place. Here, Lucrezia realized, she could shut herself away from the main castle, receive her friends and make of the rooms a little corner of Rome in Ferrara.

Angela bounced on the bed to test it and as she did so there came the sound of tearing material. She saw that the bed covering had split; she touched it and tore it still further.

“It is perished,” she said. “It must be hundreds of years old.” She looked at her hands black with dirt; the grime of years was on them.

Lucrezia pulled back the coverlet. The sheets, she found, when she touched them, might have been made of paper.

“It is as though they made my bed a hundred years ago and it has been waiting for me all this time!”

Nicola had shaken the velvet hangings and a cloud of dust emerged to hang in the air.

“They are in tatters,” she cried.

In despair Lucrezia sat down on a stool and the brocade on its seat split as she did so.

“So these are the little rooms which Duke Ercole so magnanimously gives me,” she said.

“It is characteristic of your welcome,” cried Angela. “Lavish enough on the surface, full of enmity beneath. If I were you, cousin, I would go at once to your miserly father-in-law and demand to know what he means by giving you such miserable quarters in his castle.”

Lucrezia shook her head. “I doubt that would do me any good.”

“I should write at once to the Holy Father,” suggested Nicola. “He will send orders that you be decently housed.”

“I wish to live in peace,” explained Lucrezia. “If I complain of this it will only make trouble. No. We will strip off these ancient furnishings and put new ones in their place. We’ll have it gay and brilliant. We’ll have upholstery in morello and gold, and until it is finished I shall go back to the apartments I have occupied so far.”

“So you will do it at your own expense?” murmured Nicola.

“My dear Nicola, how else could I get what I want in Ferrara?”

Angela took Lucrezia’s hand and kissed it. “You look like an angel,” she said, “and verily I believe you must be one. Your husband spends his days and half his nights with other women; yet you greet him with a smile when he visits you. Your father-in-law insults you by offering you the dust and grime of ages, and you smile sweetly and say you will refurnish your apartments at your own expense. As for that demon, Isabella d’Este, your sister-in-law, she behaves to you like a fiend, and you behave—outwardly at least—as though you respect her. Nicola, what do you think of my cousin? Is she not an angel?”

“I think,” said Nicola, “that she is wise, and when you have to live on Earth it is doubtless better to be wise than an angel.”

“I trust I am wise,” said Lucrezia. “I have a strong feeling within me that I have need of wisdom.”

While she was making her plans for the little rooms of the balcony she received the first blow.

Duke Ercole visited her.

He said: “I see you have not yet occupied the rooms of the balcony which I allotted to you.”

“They are in sore need of refurnishing,” she told him. “When that is done I am going to find them quite delightful. I am grateful indeed to you for having given me such charming rooms.”

“Refurnish them!” cried the Duke aghast. “That is going to cost good ducats.”

“I have already decided on my color scheme. And refurnishing is necessary. It must be years since it was done.”

“The wedding has cost me a great deal,” grumbled the Duke.

“I know. I intend to pay for the refurnishing of these rooms.”

The Duke looked somewhat placated. He went on: “I have come here to tell you that on account of the great cost of the wedding I can no longer afford to feed and house so many of your attendants, so I am sending your Spaniards back to Rome tomorrow.”

Lucrezia felt a cold touch of fear. These were her friends, and he wanted to deprive her of them.

She said: “They need cost you nothing. There is, I believe, a clause of the agreement between us which provides that I pay my own household expenses.”

“There is,” agreed the Duke quickly. “But you must keep within your income here. Moreover Spaniards do not fit well into Ferrara. I have decided they shall go.”

She was fighting for control. She had been able to face the hostility all about her because she had been surrounded by her friends. Was this a plot to rob her of them one by one? A terrible feeling of longing swept over her. The Vatican seemed far away and how different was this grim hostile old man—her father-in-law—from the benign all-loving father who had shielded her during all those years which had preceded her journey to Ferrara.

She would not let him see how deeply moved she was. She had dropped her head. He must have thought the gesture one of submission, for he rose and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You will soon learn our ways,” he said. “The Spaniards are an expense you cannot afford, and we do not like extravagance in Ferrara.”

To whom could she appeal? There was, of course, her husband. He visited her nightly, so he must be pleased with her, and surely she might ask some favor of him.

She lay in the bed waiting for him. He would arrive soon; he had visited her every night since she had been in Ferrara. She guessed she was different from the women with whom it was his custom to associate, and that difference evidently provided a fillip to his passion.

He came singing, as he so often did. Surprisingly he had a good voice. She had not yet ceased to marvel that one, in other ways so insensitive, should have such a good ear for music and an apparent love of it.

He never wasted time in conversation, and there were nights when scarcely a word passed between them. He would undress, leap into the bed beside her, indulge in his animal passion and be gone when she awoke in the morning; but this night she was determined to talk to him.

She sat up in bed. “Alfonso, I have something to say.”

He looked surprised, raising those heavy brows as though reproving her for suggesting conversation at such a time.

“We scarcely ever speak to one another, let alone indulge in conversation. It is simply not natural, Alfonso.” He grunted. He was not giving her his full attention, she realized. “But tonight,” she went on, “I am determined to talk. Your father has said that my Spanish attendants are to leave Ferrara in the very near future. Alfonso, I want you to stop that happening. These are my friends. Do not forget that although I am your wife I am a stranger here. It is difficult to live in a strange land even when one’s friends are about one. There are different customs to which I must adjust myself. Alfonso, I beg of you, speak to your father. Alfonso, you are listening?”

“I did not come to talk,” said Alfonso reproachfully.

“But are we never to talk? Are we always to meet like this and nothing else?”

He looked at her in some surprise. “But what else?” he asked.

“I do not know you. You visit me at night and are gone in the morning. During the day I scarcely see you alone.”

“We do very well,” he said. “You’ll be with child before long. Perhaps you already are.”

There was a flash of spirit in Lucrezia’s voice as she retorted: “In that case would you not be wasting your time?”

“We can’t be sure yet,” said Alfonso speculatively.

Lucrezia felt hysterical. She began to laugh suddenly.

“You are amused?” asked Alfonso.

“It would seem I am a cow … brought to the bull.”

Alfonso grunted. He was ready now. He blew out the candle and got in beside her. She felt his heavy body suffocating her, and she wanted to cry out in protest.

But there was no one who would heed her cries.

The next day when the Spaniards left Ferrara, she did not protest. She accompanied the Duke and his court on a hunting expedition, which he had had the good taste to arrange for her so that she should not see the actual departure of the Spaniards.

She was docile, and Ercole, watching her, believed that he had discovered how to treat his daughter-in-law.

When the Spaniards reached Rome they went straight to the Vatican where Alexander received them immediately.

“What news of Ferrara?” he cried. “What letters do you bring me from my daughter?”

While they gave him letters, they warned him that life was not as glorious for his daughter in Ferrara as he would wish.

He listened eagerly to the tales of Lucrezia’s first days there, of the arrogance of Elizabetta and Isabella and the serenity of Lucrezia which had astonished all who beheld it.

The Pope’s face darkened. “None shall insult her with impunity,” he declared. “So the Duchess of Urbino received her coldly. That was a foolish thing to do. My son Cesare will not be pleased when he hears of that, and his temper is quick. He lacks his father’s calmer and more forgiving nature.”

He listened to an account of the festivities, of how Lucrezia had shone at them, her beauty dazzling all who beheld it, with everywhere women desperately trying to copy her dresses.

“We were dismissed, Holiness, and the Lady Lucrezia wept at our going.”

“It must have been sad, and I am sure she misses you, but tell me—what of her husband?”

“Holiness, he spends his nights with Madonna Lucrezia—at least part of his nights. His mistresses are numerous, and he has not deserted one of them even now that he has a wife.”

The Pope laughed. “But he visits his wife’s bed every night?”

“Every night, Holiness.”

“Then I swear she’ll be with child by Easter.”

“Yet, Most Holy Lord, her husband spends much time with other women.”

“Ah, youth!” said the Pope regretfully. “What a glorious thing is youth. So Alfonso has mistresses, eh, many of them. Well, that is as it should be. I would not want another impotent husband for my daughter. Why, as soon as Lucrezia is with child, Alfonso must come to Rome. I will make him very welcome.”

And the Spaniards went sorrowfully away, realizing that the Pope did not attach much importance to their dismissal from Ferrara.

Lucrezia had refurnished the little rooms, and they were now charming, opening as they did on to the balcony in which beautiful flowers were growing. There were three rooms—her bedroom, another room in which she entertained, and a third which was for her ladies. Here they seemed cut off from the rest of the castle; and if Lucrezia did not quarrel with the Ferrarese in her suite, she let them know that their allegiance, first to Isabella and then to Duke Ercole, had been noted by her and she did not trust them as her friends.

There were whole days when she would not emerge from the little apartments, and the sound of laughter and singing would be heard coming from them. Spanish customs prevailed in the little rooms, it was said. Lucrezia rarely left her bed until noon. Then after Mass she would eat a leisurely meal and chat with her women about the dresses she possessed and the new ones she would have. They sang songs and read poetry. There was of course her hair to be washed; and she liked to bathe her body in scented water. Often when she, Angela, Nicola and Girolama found themselves alone they could call to the little maid, Lucia, to bring in a great bath of scented water; then they would undress, put their hair into nets and leap into the bath, laughing and splashing each other, washing each other’s backs, while little Lucia kept heating more water which she perfumed and added so that they could lie in the bath in scented comfort for as long as they wished.

Then they would get out, vigorously dry each other’s bodies and put on silk shirts of the Moorish fashion which had been made for this purpose. They would stretch themselves out on couches and talk of poetry and love, of fine materials, of new styles in dresses and jewels, through the long afternoons, while Lucia burned sweet-scented incense in the braziers.

Lucrezia did not know that little Lucia was bribed with bonbons by El Prete, and that she gave detailed descriptions of what happened in the apartments to him, which he in turn passed on to his mistress Isabella.

“It is pagan, quite pagan!” stormed Isabella from Mantua; and she declared that she would write to her father about the extraordinary behavior of his new daughter-in-law.

Ercole read those letters from Isabella, and it hurt him so much to think of money being wasted so lavishly that he felt he must curb Lucrezia’s extravagance. It was no use speaking to Alfonso who declared that his duties began and ended in the bed, and defied any to suggest he did not perform those with zeal.

Ercole had to act. He would not allow Spanish customs to be brought to Ferrara. He therefore forbade the wearing of zaraguelles, and there was now a law that the police might arrest any woman wearing these. But how, since these garments could be completely hidden by a gown, were the police to know they were worn? It would be possible, it was pointed out to Ercole, for women to defy the law under the very eyes of the police.

Ercole was in a difficulty. The law had been made and must be carried out, but he was not the man to give his police a chance of behaving lewdly. He could not allow them to arrest women suspected of wearing these strange garments and submit them to a search. Then how could it be ascertained whether or not a woman was wearing zaraguelles?

Ercole then declared that the police might discover by examination whether women were wearing the forbidden garments; but if they put an innocent woman to the test, if they were to submit her to the search only to discover she was without the offending garment, then the hand which had made the search was to be cut off. It was the only curb Ercole could put on possible immorality—which would offend him even as much as the introduction of Spanish customs to his court.

In the little rooms there was laughter. Lucrezia and her ladies continued to wear their zaraguelles of softest silk delicately embroidered; for what man was going to risk the loss of his hand to discover what was worn beneath a woman’s gown?

The law against zaraguelles had been made to placate Isabella. But there was something else on Ercole’s mind.

He made his way to the little apartments one day.

There was an immediate scuffle when he was known to be approaching, for fine materials had to be put away, aromatic baths concealed.

Lucrezia received him graciously, but inwardly she smiled to notice his dismay at the lavish decoration of her apartments.

“Welcome, my lord Duke,” she said, and gave him her scented hand to kiss.

Musk! thought the Duke. The price of musk today is high and of what use is scent? What purpose does it serve?

“I pray you sit beside me,” said Lucrezia. “I would make you comfortable. Will you drink some wine?” She clapped her hands.

“I am in no need of wine,” said the old Duke, “being fully refreshed. My dear daughter, you are more than comfortable here.”

“I have made these rooms very like those I occupied in Santa Maria in Portico.”

“They must have been very richly decorated.”

“They were comfortable enough.”

“You live extravagantly here, daughter, and it is for this reason that you and I must have a talk. We do not like debts in Ferrara.”

“Debts! But I have my money … my own money. I ask nothing of Ferrara!”

“But surely you cannot afford to live as you are living on 8,000 ducats a year.”

“8,000 ducats a year! But certainly I could not live on 8,000 ducats a year.”

“It is a goodly sum, and it is what I have decided shall be your income.”

“My lord Duke, you joke.”

“I am in great earnest.”

“I could not live on 8,000 ducats a year. I must have at least 12,000, and I should not consider that princely.”

“You have been brought up very extravagantly, I fear,” said the Duke sternly.

“Moreover,” said Lucrezia with spirit, “my father has paid you a handsome dowry. This was to enable you to give me an income which would compare with that to which I have been accustomed.”

“Ferrara is not Rome, my daughter. I am not a rich man as your father is. In Ferrara we consider 8,000 ducats a goodly income. I pray you, adjust your ideas and consider it so, for it is all you will get.”

“I cannot accept it,” said Lucrezia. “It would be penury.”

“I doubt it not, if there must be so many gowns, so much costly scent. You have many of these luxuries. Be more careful with them, and they will last you a very long time.”

Lucrezia’s expression was blank. She said: “I am and my household cannot live on 8,000 ducats a year.”

“How vulgar is this talk of money,” sighed the Duke. “Now that you belong to our noble family you should learn that we speak only of such matters with discretion.”

“I have heard you speak of them with fervor many times,” retorted Lucrezia.

The Duke looked pained. “Then I beg of you, let us drop the subject.”

“That,” said Lucrezia, “I cannot do until you agree to give me at least 12,000 ducats a year. It is the least I can live on.”

The Duke rose abruptly and left her. He was murmuring something about upstart families who married into the aristocracy.

It was an open break.

Lucrezia very soon became certain that she was pregnant. She called her women to her and imparted the news.

They were delighted.

“Now,” said Angela, “you will be in a position to bargain with the mean old Duke. He will surely not deny the income she deserves to the mother of his grandchild!”

“I doubt it,” cried Adriana. “He is a miser, that man; and he is even now wondering how he can best rid the court of us.”

“I’d die rather than leave,” declared Angela, thinking of handsome Giulio, who was her lover.

“I’ll not let you go,” declared Lucrezia. “Moreover I shall not accept a ducat less than 12,000.”

Alfonso was delighted when he heard the news. He strutted about the castle declaring that he would have been very surprised if she had remained barren longer.

His habits changed slightly; having achieved his object he no longer came so regularly to her by night.

The old Duke was, as had been anticipated, delighted with this early proof of Lucrezia’s ability to bear sons for Ferrara, and he relented a little. “I think,” he said, “that we might allow you an income of 10,000 ducats.”

But Lucrezia was unimpressed. She told him firmly that she could not possibly live on less than 12,000 and she considered even that beggarly.

The Duke stumped away in anger, reiterating that this preoccupation with money was downright vulgar.

One would need to be insensitive, thought Lucrezia, to endure meekly this new state of affairs in the Este palace. The continual haggling with the old Duke over money was indeed undignified; it was being made perfectly clear to her that she had been accepted into the family merely because her wealthy father was willing to buy her position; Alfonso, now that she was pregnant, showed clearly that he preferred his low-bred mistress. There was continual bickering between her intimate attendants and the Ferrarese, and the little rooms of the balcony became like a separate court.

Lucrezia then decided that she would do what she had done once before when she had found her position intolerable.

It was Easter week and she decided to find refuge in the quiet of convent life; there she could be at peace; she could meditate on her position; she could look at her life clearly and make up her mind how she should act.

So, a few weeks after her wedding, she entered the Convent of the Poor Clares, and in the quiet cell allotted to her and among the gentle nuns she considered her problems.

It was not possible for the wife of the heir of Ferrara to remain shut away, and Lucrezia’s spell of peaceful contemplation with the Poor Clares was brief.

Soon she was back in the rooms of the balcony to find that nothing had been changed by her absence. There were still the same conflicts between her attendants and the Ferrarese; her husband’s visits remained spasmodic and he showed quite clearly that he had no intention of trying to smooth out matters between herself and his father; and that his duty, which was to get her with child, had been expeditiously performed.

The Duke visited her in his somewhat ceremonious fashion but he did not come to discuss her income. He had, he considered, been quite magnanimous when he offered 10,000 ducats a year; he implied that, if he had taken a great deal from her father, it was because Este dignity was impaired by accepting a Borgia into its intimate family circle, and for this a great price must naturally be demanded.

But he came with further complaints.

“My daughter,” he said, “there are two maids of yours whose levity is giving some cause for scandal in my court.”

“And who are these?” she asked.

“Your cousin, Angela Borgia, and Nicola the Sienese.”

“I beg of you, my lord Duke, tell me in what way these ladies have offended.”

“My sons, Ferrante and Giulio, are enamored of them, I hear, and these two ladies are less virtuous than they should be.”

“It is to be hoped,” said Lucrezia, “that they are not as lacking in virtue as their two admirers, or I should tremble for the consequences.”

“Ferrante and Giulio are men. There is a difference, you must understand. There could be no marriage between my sons and these ladies. I would prefer that there should be no scandal either.”

“You forbid them to meet? Then, my lord, I must ask you to tell your sons of your displeasure. You have more authority in this respect than I could possibly have.”

“I have already made my wishes clear. They are not to visit these apartments each night, as they have been doing.”

“So you would forbid them to come here.”

“I do not forbid. I have told them that they may come here not more than twice a week, and then only when others are present.”

“I will respect your wishes as far as is in my power,” said Lucrezia. “But you must understand that while I may command my ladies I have no power over your sons.”

“I know it,” said the Duke. “But I ask you not to encourage their frolics.”

Lucrezia bowed her head.

The Duke took one look at the extravagant hangings, and Lucrezia could see that he calculated the cost as he did so. She smiled ruefully and bowed him out of the apartment.

It was impossible to restrain the young princes in their love affairs. Giulio was particularly ardent and Angela was by no means discouraging. How far had that affair gone? Lucrezia asked herself. She dared not ask Angela; nor did she wish to pry. It was not in her nature to administer strictures which were going to bring unhappiness to lovers. So she turned aside from asking awkward questions and let matters take their course.

She herself was thinking a great deal about the child she would have. It was in the early days of pregnancy yet, but she longed for a child. She often thought of Giovanni and Roderigo in Rome and wondered when she would be allowed to have them with her. The thought of suggesting such a thing filled her with bitterness. Duke Ercole was not eager to support her; what would he say if she asked permission to bring her sons to Ferrara? That project must wait. So she gave herself up to contemplating the new child.

To the little rooms of the balcony came some of the most interesting people in Ferrara. Writers and musicians felt that the atmosphere of those rooms was more congenial than that of the main apartments of the castle; and among those who came was a man who aroused Lucrezia’s immediate interest. This was Ercole Strozzi. Strozzi was a member of a Florentine family of great riches. They had been bankers who had come to Ferrara some years before, and they had found great favor with Duke Ercole.

This was probably due to the fact that they were experts with money. They knew how to make it, how taxes could be levied; and since they proved to be an asset to Ferrara, Duke Ercole was ready to lavish titles on them. Tito Vespasiano Strozzi was a poet in addition to being a brilliant money-maker, and this doubly endeared him to Duke Ercole, so he was ready to be gracious to his son, Ercole Strozzi.

Alfonso was paying one of his rare evening visits to Lucrezia’s apartments when Ercole Strozzi first came. Alfonso had been sitting at Lucrezia’s side, playing the viol with that touch of near genius which seemed so incongruous in a man of Alfonso’s kind. The company was listening entranced when Ercole Strozzi slipped into the room with the friend who wished to make him known to Lucrezia.

There was about Ercole Strozzi an air of distinction. He was not handsome but elegant; he was crippled and walked with the aid of a crutch.

Lucrezia’s eyes held his as Alfonso continued with his playing. Ercole Strozzi gave her that startled look of admiration which she had received from others yet which seemed different on Strozzi’s face. He bowed and stood perfectly still where he was, for ceremony was not observed in the little rooms, and art was all-important.

When Alfonso ceased playing, Strozzi came forward and taking her hand bowed over it.

He said: “The greatest moment in my life, Duchessa.”

“Then, my friend,” sneered Alfonso, “yours must have been a singularly unexciting life.”

Strozzi smiled lightly and condescendingly. His favor with the Duke absolved him from paying much respect to his uncouth son. It was true that one day Alfonso would be Duke of Ferrara, but it was no use Strozzi’s trying to curry favor with him; he would never achieve it however much he tried. He and Alfonso were so very different in outlook that there could never be harmony between them.

“I would not call it that,” said Strozzi, still keeping his eyes on Lucrezia, “yet would I insist this is its greatest moment.”

Alfonso guffawed. “Strozzi’s a courtier, or fancies he is. Poet too. Do not take his words too seriously, Lucrezia. Well, Strozzi, what are your latest verses, eh? Ode to a red rose or a pale primrose?”

“You are pleased to mock,” said Strozzi. “And while you may mock me as much as you wish, I confess it grieves me that you should speak slightingly of poetry.”

“I am an uncouth fellow, as you know full well,” said Alfonso. He looked round the company. “So elegant, these ladies and gentlemen! These artists! What right have I to be here among them with the odor of the foundry upon me?”

“You are very welcome here,” said Lucrezia quickly. “We should be gratified if you came more often.”

He chucked her under the chin, for he took a great delight in calling attention to his crude manners in such company. “Come, wife,” he said, “let us have the truth. You’ll be glad to see me gone. Truth is more interesting to a plain man like me than your precious poetry.”

He put a hand on Strozzi’s shoulder with such force that the poet almost lost his balance and was forced to lean heavily on his crutch.

“It is not so,” began Lucrezia, but he interrupted her.

“Adieu, wife. I’ll leave you to your art. I’m off to those pastures more suited to my animal tastes and spirits. Adieu to you all.” And, laughing, he left the apartment.

There was a brief silence which Strozzi was the first to break.

“I fear my coming is the cause of his departure.”

“You must not blame yourself,” said Lucrezia. “I blame no one. He rarely comes here and, apart from the time when he plays his viol, seems to have little interest in what goes on.”

“He will never like me,” said Strozzi.

“It may be because he does not know you.”

“He knows much of me which he does not like. I am a poet for one thing. A cripple for another.”

“Surely he could not hate you for these reasons?”

“To a maker of cannons poetry seems a foolish thing. He is strong, never having known a day’s sickness in his life. He regards with horror any person who is not physically perfect. It is often so with those who have physical perfection and something less in their mental powers.”

A faint smile twisted the handsome lips, and Lucrezia was aware of a stab of pity, which was what Strozzi intended. Strozzi was not in the least sorry for himself; he would not have changed places with Alfonso. Strozzi was so mentally brilliant that he had quickly learned to turn his physical disability to advantage. His love affairs were conducted with a finesse which would have seemed incomprehensible to Alfonso d’Este, but they were as numerous and satisfactory as he wished. He had come now to charm Lucrezia and to win for himself a Cardinal’s hat.

He stayed at her side throughout the evening, and he was not long in assuring Lucrezia that in him she had found a friend who would compensate her for all the hostility she had met with at the Este court.

He could not dance. He indicated his crutch.

“I was born with a deformed foot,” he told her. “In my youth this caused me pain and discomfiture. It no longer does, because I have realized that those who would despise me for my deformity are not worthy of my friendship. I think of my deformity as a burden which for a long time I carried on my back, until I suddenly realized that through it I had developed other qualities; then it was as though the load had burst open to disclose a pair of wings.”

“You are a philosopher, as well as a poet,” said Lucrezia. “And I like your philosophy.”

“Have I your permission to come to your apartment often? I feel that you and I could have a great deal to say to each other.”

“I shall look for you tomorrow,” Lucrezia told him.

When Alfonso visited her that night, he was unusually talkative. She was in bed when he entered the apartment in his brisk manner.

“So the Strozzi has found his way to your apartments, eh?” he said. “The greatest moment of his life!” Alfonso burst into loud laughter. “You understand what that means, eh? At last he has a chance—so he thinks—to get his Cardinal’s hat. The Pope’s own daughter! How could he get nearer the Pope than that?” Alfonso wagged a finger at her. “Mark you, he’ll be asking for the hat before long.”

“I think you are wrong, Alfonso,” she said. “You judge everyone by … by the people you know here. There was a delicacy in his manner.”

That made Alfonso laugh still more. “He knows how to manage the ladies, eh? Not the women … but the ladies. Strozzi wouldn’t look at a mere serving-woman. What good could she bring to him? I tell you a Cardinal’s hat means more to him than any of your gracious smiles. He wouldn’t as much as see a kitchen girl. He wouldn’t see what she could offer. He’d only know she hadn’t Cardinals’ hats to give away.”

“It might be more comfortable for us all if you were less interested in the gifts of kitchen girls,” began Lucrezia. “It might be that if you made some pretence of living a life more in keeping with your rank …”

But Alfonso was in bed and no longer interested in conversation.

Under the cover of music Strozzi talked.

“I make no secret of the fact, my dear Duchessa, that it has been the ambition of my life to possess a Cardinal’s hat.”

“It is a worthy ambition,” Lucrezia told him.

“And knowing of the love your father bears you, I feel that, should you consider me worthy, you would be able to convince His Holiness that I should not disgrace the Sacred College.”

“I am certain that you would grace the Sacred College,” Lucrezia assured him.

Strozzi bent nearer to her. “I would be willing to spend as much as 5,000 ducats to attain my desire.”

“It is a great sum,” said Lucrezia.

“My family is rich, and I feel that I must go out into the world. I have my life to live in places beyond Ferrara.”

“I will write to my father. I believe the friendship that you have shown to me will please him more than 5,000 ducats.”

“I am grateful.” His beautiful eyes were eloquent. She smiled at him. She was realizing that, in spite of her chilly reception in Ferrara, she was at last making her own court, and life was becoming interesting.

“How you must miss Rome!” he said suddenly.

“More than I can say.”

“Ferrara seems dull to you doubtless?”

“It is so different from Rome. In Rome there was so much to do. There were so many shops full of wonderful things.”

“So you think the shops of Rome the best in Italy?”

“Indeed yes. Those of Naples are exquisite, but I think Rome holds the palm.”

“You have not seen the shops of Venice?”

“No.”

“Then I must tell you they have goods therein … jewels … cloth … to outshine anything you ever saw in Rome.”

“Is this really so?”

“Indeed yes. Venice is the traders’ center. They congregate there from the north and the south; and all that is best in their merchandise is bought by the merchants of Venice and displayed in the shops there. I see that you have exquisite taste. May I say that I have never seen gowns of such style? Your velvets and brocades are very beautiful; I have never seen better outside Venice.”

He continued to tell her of the beauties of Venice, of its culture and riches. Strozzi had many friends in that city but there was none other who held the place in his esteem which belonged to Pietro Bembo. Lucrezia knew of Pietro Bembo, of course. He was the greatest humanist in Italy and one of the finest poets. The friendship was treasured by Strozzi, he declared, and he felt himself honored by it.

“I know his work well,” said Lucrezia. “I agree with you that it could only come from a fine mind. Now I envy you your visits to Venice more than ever. There you will be with your poet friend. You will be together in that beautiful city; you will search the merchants’ treasures. Oh yes, I greatly desire to explore Venice.”

“You are a beautiful woman and nothing should be denied you. I could bring Venice to you, in some measure. I shall of course speak of you with my friend Pietro Bembo; I shall tell him of your charm and delicacy. I will make you known to him and him to you. With your permission I will search the shops of Venice for the finest velvets and brocades, and I will bring back the most exquisite, the most delicately embroidered, that they may be made into gowns worthy to be worn by you.”

“You are kind, my friend. But I could not buy these stuffs. Since I have been in Ferrara I am no longer rich.”

“You are the Pope’s daughter. I shall but mention that, and there is not a merchant in Venice who would fail to give you all the credit you desire.”

“You are a very good friend to me,” she told him.

He lifted her hand and kissed it. “To be the best friend you ever had, Madonna, is the greatest ambition of my life.”

“I thought that was to wear a Cardinal’s hat,” she answered.

“No,” he said slowly. “I have suddenly discovered that I no longer desire that hat.”

“You speak seriously?”

“I do indeed. For of what use to me would a place in Rome be when my Duchessa must remain in Ferrara?”

Ercole Strozzi was possessed of an inner excitement. His thoughts were constantly of Lucrezia. Her entirely feminine quality appealed to him in such a way as to present a challenge. Lucrezia seemed to demand to be dominated. He wished to dominate. He did not seek to be her lover; their relationship must be of a more subtle nature. The bucolic Alfonso satisfied Lucrezia’s sexual appetite, and Ercole would have considered a physical relationship between them crude and ordinary; he had been the lover of many women and there was no great excitement to be gleaned from a new love affair.

The lameness of Strozzi had filled him with a desire to be different from others in more important ways. There was in his nature a streak of the feminine which betrayed itself in his love of elegance, in his exquisite taste in clothes and his knowledge of those worn by women. This feminine streak impelled him to show his masculinity. The artist in him wished to create. It was not enough to write poetry; he wished to mold the minds of those about him, to guide their actions, to enjoy, while he suffered his infirmity and was conscious of the feminine side of his nature, the knowledge that those he sought to mold were in some respects his creatures.

Lucrezia, gentle, all feminine, so eager for friendship in this hostile land, seemed to him an ideal subject whose life he could arrange, whose character he could mold to his design.

He could advise her as to her dresses; he could show her the charm of a fashion she had hitherto ignored. He was now going to Venice to choose rich stuffs for her. Her outward covering would be of his creation; as in time the inner Lucrezia should be.

She was sensitive; she was fond of poetry. It was true that they had not educated her in Rome as Isabella d’Este, for instance, had been educated. He would remedy that; he would encourage her to become more intellectual; he would increase her love of poetry, he wished to be the creator of a new Lucrezia.

Thus he reasoned as he came into Venice, as he went through the stocks of the merchants and bought exquisite patterned satins and velvets of varying shades of color.

“They are for Lucrezia Borgia, Duchess of Ferrara, and daughter of the Pope,” he explained; he had come from Ferrara on a visit to Venice, and she had entrusted him with these commissions.

There was not a merchant in Venice who was not prepared to bring out his most treasured stock for the daughter of the Pope.

When Strozzi had made these purchases he visited his friend, the poet Pietro Bembo, who welcomed him with great pleasure. Pietro was handsome and thirty-two years of age; but his attraction did not only lie in his handsome looks. His reputation throughout Italy was high; he was known as one of the foremost poets of his time, and because of this there was always a welcome for him in Ferrara, Urbino or Mantua, should he care to visit these places.

Pietro was a lover of women, and experience was necessary to him. He was in love at this time with a beautiful woman of Venice named Helena, but the love affair was going the way of all his love affairs, and Pietro, finding it difficult to write under the stress, longed for a quiet refuge. He and Strozzi had been fond of each other since they had met some years before in Ferrara; they admired the same poetry; they were passionately devoted to literature in any form; and they shared a detestation of the commonplace.

“I feel angry with Helena,” said Strozzi. “I fancy she is the cause of your long stay in Venice.”

“I am thinking,” said the poet, significantly, “of leaving Venice.” Strozzi was pleased to hear this.

“I have been buying fine materials here in Venice,” he said. “Such silks, such tabbies! You never saw the like.”

“Silks and tabbies? What do you want with such fripperies?”

“I have been buying them on behalf of a lady—the new Duchess of Ferrara.”

“Ah! Lucrezia Borgia. Tell me, is she a monster?”

Strozzi laughed. “She is the daintiest, most sensitive creature I ever set eyes on. Exquisite. Golden-haired, eyes that are so pale they take their color from her gowns. Delicate. Quite charming. And a lover of poetry.”

“One hears such tales!”

“False. All false. It is an ill fate which has married her to that boor Alfonso.”

“She feels it to be an ill fate?”

Strozzi’s eyes were thoughtful. “I do not entirely understand her. She has learned to mask her thoughts. It would seem that Alfonso perturbs her little; and when I think of him—uncouth, ill-mannered—and her—so sensitive, so delicate—I shudder. Yet there is a strength within her.”

“You are bewitched by your Duchess.”

“As you would be, had you seen her.”

“I admit a certain curiosity as to the Borgia.”

“Perhaps one day you will meet.”

The poet was thoughtful. “A delicate goddess married to Alfonso d’Este! One would say Poor Lucrezia, if one did not know Lucrezia.”

“You do not know Lucrezia. Nor do I. I am not certain that Lucrezia knows herself.”

“You are cryptic.”

“She makes me thus.”

“I see she absorbs you. I have never known you so absentminded before. I declare you are longing to go back to Ferrara with your silks and tabbies.”

Strozzi smiled. “But let us talk of you. You are restless. You weary of Helena. Why do you not go to my Villa at Ostellato?”

“What should I do there?”

“Be at peace to write your poetry.”

“You would come and see me there?”

“I would. Mayhap I would induce Lucrezia to ride that way. It is not far from Ferrara.”

The poet smiled, and Strozzi saw that the exquisitely lovely Duchessa of such evil reputation, whom he had described as sensitive and unformed, was catching at Pietro’s imagination as she had caught at his.

Strozzi was pleased. He wished to mold those two. He wished to put them together in his great villa at Ostellato and watch the effect they had on each other.

When Strozzi returned to Ferrara he found that the heat of the summer was proving very trying to Lucrezia. She was suffering a great deal of discomfort in her pregnancy, and her relations with Duke Ercole had worsened.

She was delighted with the velvets, silks and tabbies which Strozzi had brought her, and they did lift her spirits for a while. She was interested too in his account of the poet, Pietro Bembo, and she gave a party during which Strozzi read the young man’s newest verses.

But these were isolated incidents, and Strozzi saw that she was suffering too much discomfort to feel really interested in either fine materials or absent poets.

She ordered a handsome cradle to be made in Venice so that she could have it well before the baby was due. “It is a great extravagance,” she said, “and I know full well that the Duke will be shocked when he sees it. But I care not. I have come to think that the only pleasure I have in this heat is from shocking the Duke.”

Alexander had now heard of Duke Ercole’s offer of 10,000 ducats as his daughter’s annual income, and he was incensed.

“My daughter cannot be expected to live on a pittance,” he cried, and reminded that old Duke of the 100,000 ducats he had received as dowry, besides all other benefits.

The Duke retorted that marriage into aristocratic families could not be attained by those of lower status without high costs; this infuriated Alexander, and all benefits from the Papacy immediately ceased.

Alexander wrote that he had heard that Lucrezia had been treated with scant respect at the time of the wedding, and he would like Duke Ercole to know that he was far from pleased.

But from the stronghold of Ferrara the Duke snapped his fingers at the Papacy; Lucrezia declared that she would rather starve than accept the miserly 10,000 ducats a year. She gave a banquet for the Duke in her apartments and at this she used the goblets and silver-ware which were marked with the emblem of the Grazing Bull, the arms of Naples and those of the Sforzas. She wished the Duke to know that she was not dependent upon him. She had the relics of a less penurious past, and the Grazing Bull was much in evidence.

The Duke’s reactions were that, as she had so much, he need not worry about her. He was content to save his money.

And after that, when he visited her, he found the doors of the little rooms closed against him.

But he did not wish them to be so obviously bad friends, and these little quarrels were patched up, although he remained adamant—and so did Lucrezia—about money.

Lucrezia was finding this pregnancy more exhausting than the others. She lost a little of her sweet temper and although she did not keep up the intense hostility between herself and the Duke, she was less forgiving than previously.

She spent a few weeks at the Este palace of Belriguardo and when she left this palace to return to Ferrara, the Duke, who was becoming disturbed by the spreading rumors of hostility between them, set out to meet her on the road.

Knowing that he was coming to greet her, Lucrezia deliberately delayed so that the Duke was kept waiting in the heat of the sun. When she came, fresh and cool from having rested in the shade, and expressed little concern to see him hot and angry, he realized that there was another side to the soft and gentle Lucrezia.

Guidobaldo di Montefeltre, Duke of Urbino, sat in the convent gardens outside the city walls. It was June and delightful to sit in the shade. He was suffering less pain than usual and was thinking how pleasant it was to enjoy that freedom from discomfort, to sense the peace all about him.

Elizabetta, his wife, was visiting Mantua. She and Isabella, he guessed, would put their heads together and discuss the latest Borgia scandal. Isabella was urging her father to stand firm and not to give the bride a ducat over 10,000 a year.

How those two hated the bride of Ferrara! He could understand Elizabetta in some measure, but in Isabella’s case it was jealousy. He had urged Elizabetta to forget her rancor before she set out on her visit to Mantua.

“I suffer the fortunes of war,” he had said. “It is wrong to blame young Lucrezia for what happened to me.”

Then Elizabetta had cried out: “You went away young and healthy. You came back crippled. Alexander could have brought you back to me … as you went away. But he let you stay in that filthy prison. It was no concern of his, he said. You were no longer of use to him. Do you think I shall ever forget that?”

“Still, Elizabetta,” he had said, “it is wrong to blame the girl.”

“I blame them all. I would like to see all Borgias suffer as they have made us suffer.”

Guidobaldo now shook his head, remembering. What joy was there in life if one nursed hatreds? To live peacefully one must forget past insults and injuries; and that was what he had tried to do. Even at this moment Cesare Borgia was passing through Urbino on his way from Romagna to Rome. He had asked permission to do so. Elizabetta would have refused, even though she knew that to have refused would have plunged Urbino into war. She would have cried: “I’ll not give one concession to these Borgias, however small. Let him make a long march round Urbino. Let him know that we do not forget. He has laughed at you for your lost manhood, yet he must know that it was his father who destroyed it.” Then he would have had to placate her, to tell her that to refuse would mean war. He was glad therefore that she was in Mantua and that they had avoided one of those unpleasant emotional scenes during which he was reminded how much his infirmity meant to her.

Sipping his wine he wondered where this would end. Would it happen, as some prophesied, that as the territory of Il Valentino grew so would his longing to make it bigger? Would he rest content until the whole of Italy was his?

Wretched thoughts. There had been too much war. The old soldier was weary, no longer being fit for battle. Thus he could enjoy the good wine, the pleasant shade and the thought that Elizabetta was away in Mantua.

He dozed and was awakened by the clatter of horses’ hoofs. He heard voices in the distance.

“The Duke! He is here? Then I pray you take me to him at once.”

Did he guess during those brief seconds before the messenger reached him?

Elizabetta was right when she said a man was a fool to trust a Borgia. He had laid his territory open to the Borgia, and at this moment Il Valentino and his ruthless troops might be in the city itself.

The messenger was kneeling before him. “My lord, there is not a moment to lose. Il Valentino has entered Urbino. He has taken possession of the city. He is sacking the palace. He is sending his soldiers to find you, and he knows that you are here. To horse … my lord Duke. Fly for your life!”

So Guidobaldo di Montefeltre, twice deceived by the Borgias, took horse and rode toward Mantua with all the speed his crippled body would allow.

He found that the news had preceded him. Elizabetta had retired to her apartments worn out with grief and worry. Isabella and Francesco consoled him, making him very welcome and insisting that he must rest.

“A curse on these Borgias!” cried Isabella.

But when she was alone with her husband, Francesco saw the speculative look in her eyes.

“Guidobaldo was a fool to allow Il Valentino free entry into Urbino,” she declared. “What has come over him?”

“He is war-weary. He is no longer young. That is what has happened to Guidobaldo.”

Isabella stalked up and down the apartment. She was visualizing the Urbino palace and Elizabetta’s wonderful collection of statues which she had always envied. She had asked Michelangelo to make something similar to his Sleeping Cupid for her, but artists would not work to order. It was the same with Leonardo da Vinci; he could not be induced to produce anything beautiful at this time, being concerned with a new drainage system which he was sure would be the means of disposing of many of the causes of periodic plague. At least, thought Isabella, the Borgia would not destroy anything which was beautiful.

Francesco watched her, that wise expression in his sleepy eyes.

She turned on him in her rage. “How can you smile? Do you not realize what this means to Guidobaldo and Elizabetta?”

Francesco became serious. “Too well,” he said. “I smiled because I thought of what it might mean to you.”

“I do not understand you. What could it mean but a share in their grief?”

“It could also mean a share in their treasures.”

She wanted to slap his face. He was too clever, with his habit of reading her thoughts.

She was loud in her denunciation of Cesare Borgia, but at the same time she secretly dispatched messages to Urbino, and her attitude would appear to be friendly. She had heard—she wrote—that Cesare had taken possession of the Urbino palace, and there was a statue there which she coveted beyond all others. She had longed to possess it and now, if Il Valentino were kind, she had a hope of doing so. It was the Sleeping Cupid which Michelangelo had made. She and Cesare were related since his sister’s marriage to her brother. If he could find it in his heart to grant her this request, she doubted not that they could be friendly as relations should be.

The message was dispatched; she set about comforting Elizabetta and poor Guidobaldo, and her denunciation of the Borgias rang through the Castle.

Cesare was not one to give friendship lightly. He found the Sleeping Cupid and its beauty moved him deeply; it surely was one of the most exquisite pieces of workmanship in Italy, and it was small wonder that Isabella wanted it. Should he send it to Lucrezia? That would infuriate Isabella.

Cesare laughed aloud. His first impulse was to despatch the cupid to Ferrara, but he hesitated. He was the ruler of his own dominion now, and he dreamed of extending that dominion. He must not therefore give way to stupid whims. Isabella of Mantua was important in his schemes because she was a clever woman of wide influence, and at this time it was better to be friends with such as she.

He began to see the significance of this beautiful object. It was beyond price.

If he gave such a gift, what should he ask in return? The Duke and Duchess of Urbino were now sheltering in Mantua. They must be banished. Cesare’s daughter by Charlotte d’Albret should have a husband. The heir of Mantua was reputed to be one of the loveliest little boys in Italy. He knew that poor Charlotte’s child was ill-favored because he had read between the lines of all the reports that had come to him. She was intelligent enough, but her nose, young as she was, was ill-shaped and over-large. If she grew up ugly, a very large dowry might be demanded for her. Better to get her settled now while she was still a baby. And why should she not marry into one of the aristocratic families of Italy; why not the heir of Mantua?

Isabella had despised the Borgias and had shown this during the wedding at Ferrara. He would avenge Lucrezia and secure a prize for himself at the same time.

Smiling at the cupid, he assured himself that his terms would be accepted: The banishment from Mantua of the Duke and Duchess of Urbino; the betrothal of his daughter to handsome little Federigo, the heir of Mantua. And for that, Isabella should have her cupid.

Lucrezia had left her scented bath and was lying on a couch in her Moorish shirt when the news was brought to her.

Angela, who was with her, watched her with startled eyes, for she received the news without a word, and when the messenger had gone she lay still, staring before her.

Angela ran to her and embraced her. “Why should you grieve?” she demanded.

“They gave me hospitality,” answered Lucrezia. “The Duke was kind to me.”

“His Duchess was not. Hateful creature! In her black velvet hat and black velvet gown, she was like an old crow.”

“He asked for free passage through Urbino,” said Lucrezia, “and it was given. And when there was no one to defend the place … he took it. Oh, why does he do such things? Why does he make me cringe in shame?”

“You are too sensitive. This is war, of which we know nothing.”

“But we do know. I know that my brother’s ambition is like a wild animal let loose. It attacks, destroys … destroys all … men, women, children—and self-respect. I would I had never gone to Urbino.”

“The Duke and Duchess are safe. Your sister-in-law Isabella will look after her dear Elizabetta.”

Lucrezia confined herself to her apartments. She would see no one, and there was no longer music or laughter in the little rooms. She was ashamed and unhappy.

Angela, Adriana, Girolama and Nicola all sought to comfort her.

“They are safe at least,” they repeated. “They reached Mantua. There they will find refuge.”

They had not yet heard that the Duke and Duchess of Urbino were being requested to leave Mantua for Venice. They did not know that the little heir of Mantua was being betrothed to Cesare’s daughter.

Meanwhile Isabella stood looking at the exquisite work of art, and its beauty brought tears to her eyes.

Francesco watched her and murmured: “It is indeed beautiful. It should give you great pleasure. You paid a very big price for it, Isabella.”

It was the middle of July and the heat was intense.

There was plague in Ferrara and, to the horror of all within the palace, one of the maids went down with it. Angela Borgia caught it, but mildly, and Lucrezia was in great fear. They might isolate the patient but the damage was done.

Ceccarella, one of Lucrezia’s maids, died shortly after taking it and another, Lisabetta, was smitten with a serious attack.

Then Lucrezia caught it.

When the news reached Rome there was panic throughout the Vatican. The Pope became hysterical with fear. He paced up and down his apartment calling to the saints to watch over his beloved child and swearing to take a punitive expedition into Ferrara if she did not survive. He also sent her several physicians in whom he had great confidence.

He dispatched further messages to Cesare, begging him to add his prayers to those of his father that the greatest calamity which could befall them both might be averted.

Lucrezia’s condition was aggravated by her pregnancy which had already given some cause for alarm, and the doctors shook their heads over her. They feared the worst would happen.

“The burden of the child will be too much for her to bear,” was their verdict. “The best thing that could happen would be a still-birth; then we might reduce the fever.”

Lucrezia herself, tossing on her bed, was barely conscious. The old Duke visited her and wept over her condition. If she would recover, he declared, he would meet her wishes as to her income. She should have her 12,000 ducats a year. “But part of it shall be in goods,” he added quickly.

Lucrezia smiled vaguely at him; she was not fully aware who he was.

Furious messages came from Rome.

“The Duke of Ferrara has brought about my daughter’s low condition by his meanness,” cried the hysterical Alexander. “If aught happens to my beloved daughter I shall know whom to blame.”

The Duke grew anxious. The recent conquest of Urbino had been alarming; where would Cesare Borgia turn next? everyone was asking.

Alfonso had been on a mission to Pavia where Louis of France was installed. The heir of Ferrara had gone there as his father’s ambassador in order to placate the French King; and, Francesco Gonzaga had said, they must placate the French and with the French, Louis’ ally, Il Valentino, for if they did not they would be hanged one after another and be unable to do anything about it. They could only hope that their territory was not the next on the list for invasion.

Duke Ercole sent an urgent message to Alfonso that his wife was near to death and he must return at once; and as soon as Alfonso arrived in Ferrara he hurried to the bedside of his wife.

Alfonso was ill at ease in the sick room. The sight of Lucrezia, pale and wan, her eyes glazed and unrecognizing, filled him with dismay.

He could think of nothing to say to her. He knelt by the bed and took her hands in his. Hers were dry and feverish.

“You’ll be well,” said Alfonso. “You’ll get better. We’ll have a big family … handsome boys … even if you lose this one.”

But Lucrezia only looked at him with unseeing eyes, and Alfonso rose hopelessly to his feet.

She was dying, it was whispered throughout the castle. Her pregnancy had been a difficult one from the start, and now she had contracted this fever, what hope was there for her?

Furious and sorrowful messages came from the Pope. He was imploring them to save his Lucrezia’s life and at the same time threatening them.

My daughter’s death will not suit the Borgias at all, he wrote; and the Este family should be very careful how they acted, for he, Alexander, did not think it was going to suit them very well either.

The old Duke harangued his doctors. They must save his daughter-in-law. It was imperative that they do so. They must take every precaution, apply every cure—no matter how expensive—but they must not let her die.

In the draughty corners of the castle men and women whispered together. If she dies, the Borgias will come against us. More than all their possessions the Pope and Il Valentino love this girl.

But each day Lucrezia’s condition worsened, and it was said: “She cannot last the night.”

As she lay unconscious, half dead, unaware of what was going on about her, there was suddenly heard the sound of galloping horses.

A little band of riders was seen, and at the head of them rode a tall and elegant man who leaped from his horse, flung the reins to a groom and called: “Take me at once to the Duchess of Ferrara.”

One of the servants ran out to this man and cried: “It is impossible, my lord. The Duchess lies near to death and there is plague in the castle. If you value your life you should not come here.”

“Stand aside,” was the answer, “and if you value your life conduct me with all speed to the bedchamber of your Duchess.”

Others came running forward, and there were some who recognized the newcomer. One man threw himself on his knees and cried: “My lord, there is plague in the castle.”

He was brutally kicked aside and a voice of thunder cried: “Must I fight my way to my sister?”

Then all fell back, and the man who had been kicked now whined: “My lord Duke, follow me; I will take you to her with all speed.”

A shiver of fear ran through the castle. Voices shook as they whispered one to another: “Il Valentino is here!”

He knelt by the bed and took her into his arms.

“My love, my dearest, I am here. Cesare is here … come to cure you.”

And she, who had recognized none, now opened her eyes; and those watching saw the change which came to her face as she whispered: “Cesare … Cesare … my beloved … so it is you.”

He had his arms about her. He called for pillows that she might be propped up; he smoothed the damp hair back from her face.

“I am here now.” His arrogant voice rang through the apartment. “You will be well now.”

“Oh Cesare … it has been so long.”

He had taken her hands and regardless of the risk was covering them with kisses. “Too long … too long, my precious one.”

She was almost fainting on her pillows, but all were aware of the new life in her.

He shouted to them: “Leave us. Leave us together.”

And none dared disobey.

They waited outside the room. It was a miracle, they whispered; she had been close to death, and he was bringing her back to life.

He called for wine—wine to revive her—and when it was brought, those who saw her marveled at the change in her, for it was as though this vital man breathed new life into her.

It is not natural, was the verdict. These Borgias are something more than human. They have power over life and death. They deal death and they raise from the dead.

The strange incomprehensible words which passed between them—for they spoke in the Valencian tongue—sounded like incantations to those listening ears. They remembered all the slights they had inflicted on Lucrezia since her arrival in Ferrara, and they trembled lest Il Valentino knew of these.

Lucrezia was saying: “You should not have come to me, Cesare, you who are so busy with your victories.”

“Too busy to come to my dearest one when she is sick unto death! Never that, beloved. We must send a message at once to our father.”

“He will be overjoyed when he knows you have been here.”

“He will only be overjoyed if I can tell him that you are well again. Lucrezia, you must not die. Think of it! What would life mean to us … our father and myself … if we lost you!”

“But you have your life, Cesare. All your ambitions are being realized.”

“They would be of no account to me if I lost you.”

He embraced her and she wept a little. “Then I must get well. Oh Cesare, I have thought so much of you … and our father. I have thought of you and your conquests. I have thought of you in Urbino.”

He was quick to sense the tremor in her voice and, because there were times in their lives when they were so close—and this was one of them—that they read each other’s thoughts, he was aware of her unhappiness on account of his conquest of Urbino.

“Lucrezia, dearest,” said Cesare. “It is necessary that I establish my kingdom. Do not think that I work for myself alone. Everything I have gained belongs to us all. Do not think I ever forget that. You … our father … our children … shall all benefit from my conquests. I will give one of my new towns to your little Giovanni. What say you to that? The little Infante Romano is a Borgia, and he must not be forgotten.”

“You comfort me,” she said. “Often I have thought of my children.”

“Grieve not, dearest. You have nothing to fear on their account while our father and myself are alive to care for them.”

He could see that he had comforted her. He laid his hand on her hot forehead. “It is time you slept, beloved,” he said. “I will remain at your bedside and, although I must leave you soon, it shall not be for long. I must go, Lucrezia, but I shall return.”

So she slept and he remained on watch. When he left, the next day, all were talking of the miracle, for it now seemed that Lucrezia would recover.

A few weeks later when Lucrezia, still weak, was reclining on her bed surrounded by her women, she cried out in sudden fear. “My pains are beginning,” she said; and as the child was not expected for another two months there was consternation throughout the palace.

Doctors came hurrying to her bedside, and all those fears which had been dispersed with the coming of Cesare were revived.

How could Lucrezia emerge alive from a seven-months birth after her recent illness? It seemed impossible.

Alfonso came to his wife’s bedchamber and knelt by her bed. Lucrezia smiled at him wanly, but he had no elixir of life to offer her comparable with that which, so all were certain, flowed from Il Valentino.

“Do not grieve, Alfonso,” she said. “If I die you will marry again … a woman who mayhap will be able to give you children.”

“Do not speak of dying,” cried Alfonso. “You must not die. You must live, Lucrezia. If you are spared I … I will make a pilgrimage to Loreto.”

She smiled. She realized that he was offering a great sacrifice in exchange for her recovery.

“On foot,” added Alfonso.

“Oh, Alfonso,” she murmured. “That is noble of you. But you must not grieve. I fear our child will be lost. They tell me that there is little hope that it will be born alive.”

“Let it not disturb you,” said Alfonso. “We are young, are we not? We will get more children. Boys … many of them.”

Now the sweat was on her forehead and the pains were growing more frequent. She cried out in her agony, and shortly afterward her daughter was born, dead.

All through the night they waited, while Lucrezia lingered between life and death, and with the morning Cesare came riding once more to the castle. Hope soared at the sight of him for all believed in his supernatural powers, and that what he had achieved once he would achieve again.

Ercole and Alfonso greeted him with delight.

“I beg of you,” cried Alfonso, “save my wife. It would seem that you alone can do it.”

So Cesare went to the sick-room, and as Lucrezia’s dull eyes fell upon him they brightened. She knew him, although she had been unaware of those at her bedside until he came.

He knelt by the bed and embraced her; he demanded that they be left alone. He was instantly obeyed and when he eventually called to all those who were hovering at the door, he demanded that the doctors come forward to bleed his sister.

“No more,” moaned Lucrezia. “Let me rest. I am weary of remedies. I want only now to go in peace.”

Cesare answered her reproachfully in the Valencian language and, turning to those about the bed, said that his sister should now be bled.

The leeches were applied while Cesare watched; he held Lucrezia’s foot and talked to her while the bleeding took place. Although none knew what he said, it must have been amusing for from time to time Lucrezia would laugh, as those in the Este castle had thought never to hear her laugh again.

So Lucrezia recovered; and went for peace and a change of scene to the Convent of Corpus Domini. The people of Ferrara crowded about her litter as she was carried thither from the castle, and wished her a complete return to health.

Meanwhile Alfonso set out on his pilgrimage to the Virgin of Loreto. He had sworn to go on foot, which would have taken up much valuable time when all heads of states should be looking after their dominions, and Alfonso wished he had not been so rash in making his vow. However, now that his daughter had recovered, the Pope felt benevolent to all the world and declared that Alfonso should have a dispensation, releasing him from part of his vow. He must go to Loreto, but he might make the journey on horseback.

In Corpus Domini Lucrezia began to think of returning to life, and to long for fine clothes and music, for the company of her friends, and a lover who was less crude than Alfonso.