Light on Lucrezia

VIII

DUCHESS OF FERRARA



Those weeks which followed her father’s death were like an evil dream to Lucrezia. She could not escape from the memory of her loss; she grew pale and thin, for she still could eat little and her nights remained sleepless. Often she would sit crying quietly, and sometimes she would talk of her father, recalling every incident which proclaimed his devotion to her.

“Something within me has died,” she said. “I shall never be the same again.”

There was no sympathy for her from Ferrara. Duke Ercole openly rejoiced. The court, he declared, should not mourn one who had never been a true friend to Ferrara; and he added that for the honor of the Lord God and benefit of Christendom he had often prayed that the scandalous Pope should be removed from the Church. Now God had seen fit to answer his prayers, so there was little for him to mourn about.

It was Pietro who provided the comfort she needed. It was natural that he should. To whom else could she turn?

He would present himself at the villa each day, waiting for her to ask for him; and at length she did ask, and there he was waiting to offer comfort.

He was the one person to whom she could talk of her grief. He listened tenderly; he wept with her; he told of his undying love, and he wrote verses to commemorate it.

“Oh Pietro, Pietro,” she cried. “What should I do without you?”



Ercole Strozzi arrived at Ostellato one day.

He came to Medelana with Pietro. He had not seen Lucrezia since he had heard the news of her father’s death, and he kissed her hands tenderly and commiserated with her.

“But I come,” he said, “to give warning. Alfonso intends to visit you here. It may be that he has heard of Pietro’s visits and the friendship between you two. It would be wise if Pietro left Ostellato before Alfonso arrives.”

“He does not care who my friends are,” said Lucrezia.

“My lady Duchessa, I beg of you take care. The death of your father weakens your position and it will be necessary to act with the utmost caution.”

“I will visit Venice for a while,” said Pietro. “You have suffered enough and I would never forgive myself if I added to those sufferings.”

“You must not stay too long away from me,” Lucrezia implored. “You know how I rely on you now.”

Strozzi watched them with interest. This love affair, which he had planned, was ripening, he fancied. It had outgrown the Platonic stage, he was sure; and he would be interested to see what effect it had on Pietro’s work.

He must certainly make sure that Alfonso was not so irritated that he forbade the two to be together. Therefore it was wise for Pietro to disappear.



Alfonso arrived almost immediately after Pietro had left.

He was shocked by his wife’s appearance. Even her hair had lost its luster.

He remonstrated with her. “Why, it was many months since you had seen your father. Why should you make all this fuss now?”

“Can you not understand that I shall never … never see him again?”

“I understand it perfectly well. But you might not have done so in any case.”

She began to weep silently, because his reference to her father had brought back more tender memories.

“I did not come here to listen to your lamentations,” said Alfonso, who could not bear the company of weeping women.

“Then you should have left me to mourn alone,” she told him.

“Were you mourning … alone?” he asked.

“There is no one … no one … who can really share such grief with me.”

Alfonso, who was practical in the extreme, could not begin to understand the nature of the love which had existed between Alexander and Lucrezia. He knew that that mighty influence had been withdrawn and he imagined her grief to be partly due to fear for her own future. He could understand such alarm. The King of France had already hinted that if Alfonso wished to repudiate the marriage he would put no obstacle in the way. Ferrara had been forced to accept the Borgia as a bride but Ferrara should not be forced to keep her.

Did she know that the friendship of France for her family was a fickle thing? Was she weeping for the loss of that Apostolic mantle which had protected her so firmly all her life? To practical Alfonso it seemed that this must be so.

He sought to comfort her. “You need have no fear,” he said, “that we shall repudiate the marriage. We shall not take seriously the hints of the King of France.”

“What hints are these?” she asked.

“Is it possible that you do not know? Are you so shut away here at Medelana?”

“I have heard no news since I heard that which so overwhelmed me with grief that I could think of nothing else.”

He told her then of French animosity toward her family. “But have no fear,” said Alfonso; “we shall not repudiate the marriage for we should have to pay back the dowry if we did, and that is something my father would never do.”

He laughed aloud at the thought of his father’s parting with all those ducats which he loved so well. He placed an arm about Lucrezia and tried to jolly her toward an amorous mood, but she was unresponsive. She repeated: “The King of France would not dare.… Though my father is dead I still have my brother.”

“Your brother!” cried Alfonso.

She turned to him suddenly; she was vital again, her eyes suddenly brilliant, not with joy, but with a terrible fear. “Cesare!” she cried. “What of Cesare?”

“It was a sad thing for him that he fell sick at such a time. He needed his strength. But he was lying sick almost to death while your father’s enemies rioted in the streets, ransacked the Papal apartments and made off with jewels of great value—which, it seems, your brother’s servants had failed to put into safe keeping.”

“Where is he now?” asked Lucrezia in anguish.

“He went to Castel Sant’ Angelo for safety.”

“And the children?”

“They went with him. Your son Roderigo and the Infante Romano.” Alfonso burst out laughing. “Do not look so downcast. He had his ladies with him. Sanchia of Aragon was there and Dorotea, the girl he abducted. I wonder how they liked each other.”

“My brother … a prisoner!”

“Your brother a prisoner. How else could it be? He conquered many towns, and the whole of Italy feared him. He strutted about like a conqueror, did he not? But he took his power from the Papal standards, and suddenly … he finds himself a sick man and the Papal influence withdrawn from him.”

Lucrezia had taken her husband’s arm and was shaking it in her distress.

“Oh, tell me everything … everything!” she begged. “Can you not see that it is agony for me to remain in suspense?”

“The French King has withdrawn his support from your brother. All the small states are rising against him. Why should they not at such a time regain what was theirs? Even that first husband of yours, even Giovanni Sforza, is back in Pesaro.”

Lucrezia dropped his arm. She turned away from him that he might not see her face.

“Holy Mother of God,” she murmured. “I have been immersed in my own selfish grief while Cesare is in trouble, Cesare is in danger.”

Thus in the brutal frankness of a few minutes Alfonso had done more to make her forget her grief in her father’s death than Pietro had, with all the gentle comfort he had to offer, because in her fear for her brother she could best forget her sorrow for her father.



Fortunately for his peace of mind Cesare was too ill to realize the full extent of his defeat. The shock to his system, which drinking the diluted but poisoned wine had given it, although it was not fatal had deeply aggravated that other disease of which he had been a victim for so many years. During the sojourn in Castel Sant’ Angelo he was not only sick in body but in mind, and therefore only half aware of what was happening in the world outside.

A new Pope had been elected. At such a time of unrest it had seemed advisable to the Cardinals to elect a very old man until the situation became more stable. The old man, Pius III, was almost on his death-bed when elected and therefore not inclined to meddle in Cesare’s affairs. It was thus that the latter was able to earn that respite in Castel Sant’ Angelo. But Pius died after a reign of twenty-six days, and there was all the furore which attended a Papal election to begin again.

Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, that old enemy of the Borgias, now had his eyes on the Papacy; he had hoped for it at the time of Alexander’s election and he was determined to secure it now, for if he did not he would most certainly never do so.

He was shrewd; he was clever; he was, indeed, a man of immense vitality. He was of the same type as Alexander himself, and this may have been due to the fact that they had both been born poor, although each had possessed a powerful Pope for an uncle. Sixtus IV had advanced his nephew della Rovere even as Calixtus III had given his nephew Roderigo Borgia his start in life; and both of these nephews had decided that they would one day wear their uncles’ robes.

The time of Conclave was one of great tension for every Cardinal, as even to those who did not expect themselves to be elected Pope it was of the utmost importance which Pope was elected, since a friend or an enemy in the Vatican could make all the difference to their future.

Cesare, a sick man, with much of his conquered kingdom restored to those from whom he had taken it, was still a power in the Vatican, for Alexander had practiced nepotism as blatantly as any of his forbears, which meant that there were several Borgia Cardinals whose fates were so bound up with their family that they would vote for the man Cesare chose. Therefore Cesare still retained a certain influence, and della Rovere needed every vote he could lay his hands on.

He came to Rome and went to see Cesare.

He feigned shock at the sight of Cesare’s emaciated body and the ravages of sickness on his face; inwardly he was filled with exultation. He had always hated the Borgias. Alexander had been his great rival, and now he turned the full force of that hatred on Alexander’s son.

“My lord,” said the wily Cardinal, “you are very sick. You should not be in Rome. You need the sweet air of the country.”

“This is a time,” said Cesare, “when men such as we are must be in Rome.”

“Ah, the election. Poor Pius! But he served his purpose. He gave us that breathing space which was so necessary.”

“It is to talk of the election that you have come to see me?” asked Cesare.

Della Rovere replied: “I will not deny it.”

“It surprises me that you should come to me for help.”

Cesare was looking back over the years. He knew that his father had never trusted this man, had looked upon him as one of his greatest enemies, had known how desperately he desired the papal chair; he remembered he had said that della Rovere was an enemy to be watched with care because he was one of the cleverest and therefore most dangerous men in Italy as far as the Borgias were concerned.

Della Rovere smiled with an air of candor. “Let us be frank. A few months have changed our positions. You were a short while ago Duke of a large territory and there was not a state in Italy which did not tremble at the mention of your name. My lord, your kingdom has shrunk since the death of your father.”

Cesare clenched his hands firmly. He retorted coldly: “Everything I have lost shall be regained.”

“It may be so,” answered della Rovere, “but you will need a friend in the Vatican to replace the one whom you have lost.”

“Could there ever be one to replace my father?”

“There could be one who would give help for help.”

“You mean … yourself?”

Della Rovere nodded. “My lord Duke, look clearly at the position before us. You have been sick. You have been near to death, and your enemies have taken advantage of that. But already you recover. Much power still lies in your hands. It is for you to strengthen that power. You could not make a Pope, but you could prevent any Cardinal’s election by withholding the votes you command through the Borgia Cardinals. You need help now. You need it desperately. I need your votes. Make me Pope and I will make you Gonfalonier and Captain-General of the Church.”

Cesare pondered in silence. Della Rovere had risen; he stood by Cesare’s couch, his arms folded, and Cesare saw in him that glowing vitality, that power which had been so much a characteristic of Alexander.

Cesare tried to see into the future. Gonfalonier and Captain-General of the Church? It would be a blow to his enemies. He saw himself marching to conquest; he was visualizing the recapture of all that he had lost; he could see his enemies cringing before him.

Della Rovere bent over him swiftly and murmured: “Think of it.”

Then he was gone.

Cesare lay thinking, and a letter was brought to him from Lucrezia. He read it and smiled; it was an expression of devotion. She had heard of his plight; she had forgotten her terrible grief over her father in her anxiety for him. She could find little support for his cause in Ferrara, but she herself would raise men; she had valuable jewels which she could sell.

He kissed the letter. It seemed to him symbolic that it should arrive close on the visit of della Rovere. It was a good omen. He had but to recover his health and the world was waiting, waiting for him to conquer.

When della Rovere was elected Pope and was reigning as Julius II, Cesare waited for him to fulfill his promises.

There were many men living—among them the great Machiavelli himself—who marveled at Cesare’s simplicity in trusting Julius. It seemed to these men that Cesare’s illness had indeed weakened his mind.

Cesare set out from Rome for that part of Romagna which his troops had been able to maintain. He was full of hope. He knew that the King of France had immediately on the death of Alexander withdrawn his support. The King of Spain had not forgiven the Borgias for their alliance with the French; and now Spain was in possession of a great part of Southern Italy. Cesare, his forces considerably depleted, stood alone, and his enemies watched him, wondering what he would do next. They were astonished that he did not seem to realize the desperate position in which he found himself. Rarely had a man been stripped of his power so quickly as had Cesare Borgia. Alexander had died, taking the Borgia glory with him; but Cesare, it seemed, had yet to learn this.

Della Rovere had no intention of bestowing on Cesare the titles he had promised. He was secure in the Vatican and he wanted no more of Cesare Borgia. He was prepared however to let him escape from Rome, though for this concession he was going to demand the surrender of all that part of Romagna which was still in Cesare’s hands.

So when Cesare was ordered to surrender Romagna, and refused, he was taken prisoner by the Papal forces and imprisoned in a fortress at Ostia.

Here he was treated well, and did not believe he was in truth a prisoner. He would not believe it. He dared not. The new weakness within him frightened him so much that he would not contemplate it. From the battlements of the fortress he fired salvoes into the sea and shouted with mad ferocity as he did so. Those who were aware of what he did marveled at his conduct, yet they knew that he was in some way deceiving himself, deluding himself into believing that he was firing at an enemy.

Since Cesare refused to give up Romagna, della Rovere decided that he must be brought back to Rome. He must understand that the days of Borgia greatness were over, and that he was no longer a mighty conqueror.

So back to Rome he was brought while della Rovere considered what to do with him.

It was impossible to believe that this man was the brilliant Cesare Borgia. He seemed to have lost his sense of judgment completely. It was as though something of him had died with Alexander—his fire, his cunning; was there something superhuman about these Borgias? Were they different from all others? Was there some family unity which was not understood by ordinary men, so that when one died part of the others died also?

“His mind has been affected by his misfortunes,” said della Rovere. “We will have him put in those apartments where the young Duke of Bisceglie was lodged at the time of his murder. How will this weakened Cesare feel when he is forced to live with the ghost of a man he has murdered?”

It would suit della Rovere very well if Cesare Borgia went mad.



Lucrezia was back in Ferrara for the state visit of Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua.

Lucrezia, still in mourning for her father, had taken to wearing flowing robes in thin material which clung to her figure and made her look more slender than ever; she was once more washing her hair frequently, and against the dark draperies it seemed more golden than ever.

She was conscious of the lack of sympathy in the court; she longed for her solitary meetings with Bembo. But when they met, others were usually present and he had recently been called to Venice on the death of his young brother.

Both her husband and her father-in-law were irritated by her sadness; Ercole took no pains to hide his jubilation at the death of one whom he considered his old enemy, and it was obvious that but for the rich dowry he would have availed himself of the French King’s suggestion to annul the marriage. Alfonso was indifferent to his father’s rancor and his wife’s suffering. Both seemed to him a waste of time. His military duties and the work of his foundry occupied him fully; and he had his mistresses for his night time, as well as Lucrezia to get with child.

Both the Duke and his son were not very pleased by the coming visit of Gonzaga. They did not like him, and it was very rarely that he came to Ferrara although the distance between the Este territory and that of Mantua was not great.

The Este family thought that their Isabella was far too good for the Marquis of Mantua, and they made this plain. Clearly they thought he should have handed over the entire government of Mantua to the capable Isabella, and since—easy-going as he might be—Gonzaga had not done this, they were inclined to be resentful.

Thus the visit was to be a very formal one.

Francesco, as he rode with his cavalcade toward Ferrara, was thinking of Lucrezia Borgia. He smiled wryly recalling his wife’s animosity at the time of the wedding. Not that it had decreased since. Isabella was furious because of the way in which Lucrezia kept the poet, Pietro Bembo, in Ferrara. Isabella believed that all poets and artists belonged to her. Often she had tempted Pietro to come to Mantua, and always he had refused.

Isabella had ranted and raged. “He is her lover, doubt it not! The sly-faced creature. So demure! So gentle! A Borgia! My brother should be warned lest she decide to introduce him to Cantarella. You must warn Alfonso when you are in Ferrara.”

He smiled. Did she think that because she had behaved badly to Alfonso’s bride he was going to be ordered to do the same?

He was chivalrous by nature, and, as he remembered her, there had been something fragile and feminine in that young Lucrezia whom he had met—it must be nearly ten years ago—which had appealed to his gallantry even then. It must have appealed a great deal because he could recall it vividly now.

And so he rode into Ferrara.

The old Duke, he thought, was ailing, and could not last much longer; Alfonso was as bucolic as ever; Ippolito even more haughty; Ferrante more thoughtless; Sigismondo more pious; and Giulio more vain. He was going to be somewhat bored in Ferrara.

Then he met Lucrezia. He caught his breath at the sight of her; she was more fair and fragile than he had been thinking her. Her grief was so recent that it seemed to hang about her in an aura of melancholy. Slender as a young girl in her flowing draperies, her jewels restricted to a few brilliant diamonds, she was almost unearthly in her beauty; and he was deeply moved by the sight of her.

He kissed her hands and managed to infuse a tender sympathy into the kiss. He felt that he wanted to make up for all the insults and humiliations which his wife had administered.

“It was with the utmost sorrow,” he said in a low and tender voice, “that I heard of your loss.”

Tears came to her eyes, and he hurried on: “Forgive me. I should not have recalled it.”

She smiled gently. “You did not recall it. It is always with me. It will be with me until I die.”

She enchanted him, this girl with one of the most evil reputations in Italy, who yet could look so innocent. He longed then to discover the true Lucrezia, and he was determined to do so before he returned to Mantua.

The visit was to be a brief one, so there was not much time for him to do this; moreover he sensed an aloofness in Lucrezia. She was genuinely concerned, he knew, with her father’s death; and if it were true, as Isabella insisted, that Pietro Bembo was her lover, that would account for her polite indifference to his offer of friendship. She was charming of course, but he sensed she would always be that. He wanted to bring a sparkle to her eyes; to see them light up when he approached as he felt sure they would for a good friend. After all, the poor girl had not many friends whom she could trust—friends of some power, that is to say. Ercole was a hard, mean man; and Alfonso’s indifference to the sort of wife he had was obvious. Her father dead, herself childless—as far as Ferrara was concerned—the French King suggesting there might be a divorce, her brother a prisoner of the new Pope … poor girl, did she not realize the difficult position in which she stood? She should do everything in her power to win the support of a man such as the Marquis of Mantua. But she did not seem to think of her own position. She did not seem to care.

He turned his charm on her ladies. With them he was most successful.

Later they chattered about him to Lucrezia. Oh, but he was charming! Not handsome—they would admit that. His eyes were slanting, yet that gave them a look of humor. His nose was flattened as though his mother had sat on him when he was a baby; but did that not call attention to the tender mouth? He was fond of women; that was understandable. What a life he must have with that harridan, Isabella! They could love him out of very pity because he was married to such a woman.

What a remarkable horseman he was! Why, when he rode out with a party he sat his horse in a manner that set him apart from all others. Did Lucrezia notice how his horse welcomed his approach and became lively and spirited as soon as he mounted?

“He has devoted much of his time to horses,” said Lucrezia.

“It is to be understood,” cried Angela. “Such a wife would drive anyone to something else. It is to his credit that it is only horses.”

“Women,” added Lucrezia lightly, “have also come in for a good deal of his attention, so I have heard.”

“It does not surprise me,” retorted Angela. “I can well believe that he would be … irresistible.”

“I beg of you do not make Giulio jealous of the man,” cried Lucrezia in mock seriousness. “Is it not enough that you give him anxious moments on account of Ippolito?”

“Ippolito!” Angela snapped her fingers. “Let him go back to Sanchia of Aragon.”

Lucrezia laughed at her fiery young cousin, but she was still thinking of Francesco.



Francesco walked in the gardens of the palace and thought of Lucrezia. Never before had he wanted to linger in Ferrara; now he was going to be loath to leave. She excited him. She, with her gentle appearance, her evil reputation. She looked virginal, yet he knew Alfonso was her third husband, and there must have been lovers. Heaven knew there were scandals enough. What was it that excited him? That essential femininity? Or was it that gentleness? He grimaced. She was the complete antithesis of his wife. Was that the reason?

He felt a little sad, contemplating his overbearing Isabella. If she had only been a little less clever or a little less capable, how much easier she would have been to live with! But perhaps if she had been a little more clever she would have understood that she could have ruled him completely. He might have been ruled by gentleness; he never would be by arrogance.

There were times when he hated Isabella. Surely the gentlest of men must rebel against such a wife. Isabella was determined that everyone in Mantua should be her subject, including her husband. There had been times when he had been amused; but there had been others when even his natural placidity had been ruffled.

She no longer appealed to him as a wife or a woman. It seemed sad that this should have happened, for when they had first married he had marveled at his good fortune in having a wife who was possessed of all the virtues.

He was a sensual man, a man of action, yet a man of peace. He had often given way to Isabella, shrugged aside his own preferences, devoted himself to the horses he loved so that now his stables were famous throughout Italy, and the Gonzaga horses renowned for their excellence. He had also loved many women. That was his life, his escape from Isabella.

His courtly manners were the key to his success; that gentle charm, that tender care he was always ready to display, were irresistible. He used them diplomatically although they were not feigned, and it was their very sincerity to which they owed their success.

But toward Lucrezia he felt differently from the way in which he had felt toward any other woman, for Lucrezia was different. So depraved, said public opinion. One of the notorious Borgias. So gentle, said the evidence of his eyes, innocent no matter what has happened to her.

He must solve the riddle of Lucrezia although he was half aware that in solving it he might come to love her differently from the way in which he had ever loved a woman before.

This was clear, because had she been any other he would have planned a quick seduction, an ecstatic, but necessarily brief love affair, and would have returned satisfied to Mantua, fortified against the nagging of Isabella.

But this was different. He must seek to please Lucrezia, to win her confidence, to discover what really lay beyond that serene expression, to understand her true feelings for the poet Bembo.

This he set out to do.

At the balls and banquets he would not with obvious intention seek her out, but it was surprising how often she found herself partnered by him. Often when she walked in the gardens with her women, he—also accompanied by his attendants—would meet her. He would bow most graciously and pause for a few words, calling her attention to the flowers and discussing those which bloomed in the gardens of his palace on the Mincio. The others would fall in behind them.

As the time came nearer when he would be forced to leave for Mantua he began to grow desperate, and one day when they walked in the gardens, their attendants following, he told her, with that fervent sincerity which was so attractive, of his desire to be friends with her.

She turned to him and the candor of her expression moved him deeply. “You are truly kind, my lord,” she said. “I know that you are sincere.”

“I would I could help you. I know of your sadness. You feel alone here in this court. You long for sympathy. Duchessa … Lucrezia, allow me to give that sympathy.”

Again she thanked him.

“The Este!” he snapped his fingers and grimaced. “My own family by marriage. But how cold they are! How unsympathetic! And you … so young and tender, left alone to bear your grief!”

“They do not understand,” said Lucrezia. “It seems none can understand. Until I came to Ferrara I lived close to my father. We were rarely separated. We loved each other … dearly.”

“I know it.” He looked at her quickly, thinking of all the rumors he had heard concerning that love; and again he was deeply moved by her look of innocence.

“I feel,” she said, “that nothing can ever be the same for me again.”

“You feel thus because the loss is so recent. Your sorrow will moderate as time passes.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “My brother said that once.… when I was unhappy about another death.”

“It is true,” he answered.

When she had mentioned her brother’s name there had been a tremor in her voice, and Francesco knew then that her fears for her brother exceeded the misery she felt on account of the death of her father. What was the truth concerning this strange family relationship which had provoked more scandal than any other in Roman history?

Francesco longed to know; he wanted to understand every detail of her life. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, make her gay, as he felt she was intended to be.

Then he realized that through this family relationship he might win her confidence.

He said softly: “You are anxious on account of your brother?”

She turned to him appealingly. “The news I have heard of him frightens me.”

“I readily understand that. He trusted the new Pope too well, I fear. He seems to forget that Julius has always been an enemy of himself and your father.”

“Cesare has been sick … sick almost unto death. I have heard disquieting rumors that his sickness has such a hold upon him that it has deadened his judgment.”

Francesco nodded. “He is a man deserted by his friends. I understand full well your fears, now that he is a prisoner in the Vatican.”

“I picture him there … in the Borgia Tower.… I remember every detail of those rooms.”

Haunted by ghosts! she thought, seeing Alfonso—dear and most loved of husbands—lying dead across his bed, Cesare’s victim. And now Cesare, weakened by sickness, humiliated by defeat, was a prisoner in those very rooms.

Francesco laid his hand on her arm, and whispered in that tender voice which had so delighted her women attendants: “If there were aught I could do to ease your anxieties, gladly would I do it.”

An expression of joy flitted temporarily across her face, so that he was immediately aware of that latent gaiety within her. He wanted to arouse it; he wanted to make her joyous. Was it at that moment that he began to be in love with her?

“There might be something I could do for your brother,” he went on.

“My lord …”

“Say ‘Francesco.’ Need we stand on ceremony, you and I?”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I mean to earn your gratitude. There is nothing I crave more than to bring back the laughter to your lips.”

She smiled. “You are so kind to me, Francesco.”

“And there has been little kindness. Listen, I beg of you. Pope Julius and I are the best of friends, and I will tell you a secret. He is asking me to take command of the Papal army. You see, these are not idle promises I make. I shall devote my energies to making you smile again. And if you saw your brother restored to health, and once again Lord of Romagna, would you be happy?”

“I should still think of my father, but I believe that if I could know all was well with Cesare I should know such relief and pleasure that I must be happy again.”

“Then it shall be so.”

There were more delightful walks, more tender conversations, more promises, but eventually Francesco found it necessary to depart for Mantua, and this he did with the utmost reluctance.

Lucrezia missed him when he went; she told herself that she longed for the sight of Pietro Bembo; but she did enjoy hearing her ladies discuss the charms of Francesco Gonzaga.

As for Francesco, he rode into Mantua marveling at himself. What were these promises he had made? Was it possible for him to advise Julius to pardon the son of his oldest and most bitter enemy? Should not the heads of states such as Mantua be greatly relieved to have Cesare under lock and key?

But he had told the truth when he had said that above all things he wished to please Lucrezia.



Cesare lay on his bed, his drawn sword by his side.

In this room little Alfonso of Bisceglie had waited for his death. They had put him here, Cesare knew, hoping to unnerve him, to remind him of that long-ago crime. They were wrong if they thought they could do that. There had been many murders in his life and he did not look back through a mist of remorse. He did not feel remorse; he felt only frustration. He, Cesare, who felt the spirit of emperors within him, who knew that he had had a genius for military conquest, believed that ill-luck had dogged him throughout his life.

He thumped his pillow in sudden rage against fate, which had made him first fight to free himself from the Church and then had taken that great prop, his father’s power, from beside him before he was strong enough to stand alone. Worst of all was that ill-fate which had struck him with a sickness at the time when he most needed his strength.

But he would come back to greatness. He swore it.

He felt the power within him. That was why he lay in the darkness of this room, which for weaker men would have been haunted by the ghost of a murdered young man, and laughed at the darkness, laughed at Alfonso’s ghost, for he was truly unafraid.

He must get well again. He must eat heartily and sleep for long periods, that he might cast off the lassitude of the last weeks.

He began to carry out his plans. Special meals were prepared at his command, and he spent much time—he had plenty to spare—discussing the menus; he retired to his bed early and rose late. He engaged in card games with his guards; and he exulted because he felt his strength returning to him.

His guards grew friendly; they looked forward to the games; this Cesare Borgia, whom they had expected to dread, seemed but a mild man after all. They told him they marveled at his calm.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I put many people in positions similar to that in which I find myself,” he said. “I remember this now, and mayhap that is why I am so calm. Some of them were freed. I do not believe that this will be my home forever.”

The jailers exchanged glances; they watched him regaining his strength.

“My lord Duke,” they would ask, “is there aught we can do for you?”

He would give them small commissions and he noticed their increasing respect. It filled him with exultation. It meant that men still feared Cesare Borgia. It meant that they too believed a prison in the Borgia Tower would not always be his home.



With Francesco gone and Bembo far away, Lucrezia brooded continually on the plight of Cesare.

Something must be done, she was convinced. Cesare could not remain indefinitely a prisoner in the Borgia Tower. The subtle cruelty of choosing such a place for him was not lost on Lucrezia; for although she knew him well enough to realize that he would suffer little remorse for the murder of her husband which had taken place in those rooms, it was in those very apartments that he had sat with their father and discussed great plans. She believed that Cesare must be near to madness, and that he must be released at all cost.

Therefore she went to see Duke Ercole and, throwing herself on her knees before the old man, she cried: “My dear father, I have come to ask you to grant me one request. I have asked for little since I have been here and I trust you will bear this in mind.”

The old Duke looked at her sourly. He was feeling ill and was displeased with life. Often he wondered what would happen to Ferrara when it was ruled by his son Alfonso; he remembered too that he hated the marriage which had allied his house with that of the Borgias—a family which was now of no consequence in Italy; moreover there was no son yet. If this marriage was going to prove unfruitful he would do all in his power to undo it—ducats or no ducats.

“Well,” he said, “what is this you would ask?”

“I would ask you to allow me to invite my brother to Ferrara.”

“Are you mad?”

“Is it mad to wish to see a member of my family?”

“It would be madness to invite your brother here.”

“My brother is sick. Remember how he brought me back to life. He needs nursing. Who should do that but his sister?”

Ercole smiled unpleasantly. “We want no scandals brought into Ferrara,” he said.

“I promise you there would be none.”

“There always will be scandal where two Borgias are together,” retorted the Duke cruelly.

“You are a man with a family,” persisted Lucrezia, “you must know something of the ties which bind families together.”

“I understand nothing of the ties which bind the Borgias. Nor do I wish to.”

“But you must hear me. Allow me to invite my brother and the children of the Vatican to Ferrara. Let it be a short visit. I promise you it shall be so. But I beg of you, give me your permission to ask my brother here. He would not wish to stay. Maybe he would go into France. He has estates there.”

“The King of France has written to me that on no account will he be allowed into France in spite of your supplications. He advises me to have nothing to do with the priest’s bastard.”

Lucrezia was unpleasantly startled. She had had high hopes of Cesare’s being able to go to France. The French King had always been his friend, she had believed; and he had a family there.

She looked pleadingly into the tight-lipped gray old face, but the Duke was adamant.

He closed his eyes. “I am very tired,” he said. “Go now and be thankful that you made a good match before it was too late to do so.”

“A good match?” she said with an air of defiance. “Do you think I am so happy here?”

“You’re a fool if you prefer a prison in Rome to your apartments in the palace here.”

“I see,” said Lucrezia, “that I was foolish to hope … for kindness … for sympathy.”

“You were foolish if you thought I would have more than one Borgia at my court.”

He watched her sardonically as she left him.



Cesare took a last look round the apartments. No more would he lie on that bed, his drawn sword at his side, no more order those elaborate meals, nor play cards with his jailers. He had done that which, such a short while ago, he had sworn he would never do. He had surrendered Romagna as the price of freedom. Now he could walk out of his prison; but he must leave Rome.

He was filled with hope. His sojourn in the Borgia Tower had given him back his strength. In some safe place he would make his plans, and within a few months he would win back all he had lost.

He wished that he could go to Ferrara. He needed Lucrezia at such a time. By the saints, he thought, I’ll remember old Ercole for this insult. He shall wish that he had never been born before I have done with him.

But at the moment Ferrara was no place for him.

There was one other: Naples. At Naples he could make his plans.

Naples. It was now in the hands of the Spanish, which was perhaps better than being in the hands of the French. The Spanish King had been annoyed at Cesare’s one-time friendship with the King of France, but that was over now, and the Borgias were after all Spanish. Oh yes, it was at Naples that he could expect to find that temporary refuge which he sought.

So he set out for Naples and during the ride south great plans were forming in his head. He must find new allies. Sanchia was in Naples; he flattered himself that he had always been able to subdue Sanchia; his brother Goffredo was there, and Goffredo was still eager to tell the world that he was a Borgia, so Cesare could count on Goffredo’s loyal support. The children of the Vatican had also been taken there, so there would be an element of Rome at the Naples court.

Perhaps there would be others less pleased to see him; for instance there would be the relations of Lucrezia’s second husband, the Duke of Bisceglie. They might still harbor resentment, but he had no fear of them. In Naples he would make new plans.

The first of these would be to strengthen his friendship with the man who had been set up in charge of Naples by orders of the King of Spain. This was a pleasure-loving handsome young man, Consalvo de Cordoba, who was known as the Great Captain. He had been a friend of the Borgia family, and Cesare saw no reason why, with this man’s help, he should not find sanctuary while he gathered together an army and prepared to go into battle.

How different was this journey into Naples from others in which he had taken part! He remembered riding in triumph, the people running from their houses to look at him, calling a welcome to him, while the fear of him showed in their faces.

Now he rode in unheralded.



When he was installed in the lodgings allotted to him he was told that a visitor had called and was asking to be brought into his presence.

“Is it the Captain?” he asked.

“My lord,” he was told, “it is a lady.”

That made him smile. He guessed who it was, and he had expected her.

She came into his presence and, when they were alone, she threw off the cape and flung aside the mask she was wearing.

Her adventures had not impaired her beauty. There was Sanchia, voluptuous as ever, her dark hair falling about her shoulders, her blue eyes flashing.

“Sanchia,” he cried and would have embraced her, but she held up an imperious hand.

“Times have changed, Cesare,” she said.

“Yet you come hot-foot to see me, the moment I arrive in Naples.”

“For the sake of old friendship,” she said.

He took her hand and kissed it. “For what else?” he asked.

She tore her hand away and he caught her by the shoulders. Her eyes flashed. She cried: “Have a care, Cesare. The Captain is my very good friend, and you do not come this time as a conqueror.”

He dropped his hands and throwing back his head burst into loud laughter.

“The Captain is your friend!” he sneered. “Well, it is what we must expect. He is in command here, and Sanchia must command him. Is it due to you that I owe the hospitality I now receive?”

“It might be so,” she said. “At least it is friendship which brings me here. I have come to warn you.”

He looked disappointed. “I thought you had come to recall—and relive—old times.”

“Nothing of that sort!” she flashed. “Everything of that nature is over between us. I see that though you have lost Romagna you have lost little of your arrogance, Cesare. Times change and we must change with them.”

“That which I have lost, I will regain.”

“You will need to go very carefully if you are to do so, and it is for that reason that I have come to warn you.”

“Well, what are these dire warnings you have to offer?”

“Firstly do not arouse the Captain’s jealousy.”

“That will be difficult to avoid, dear Sanchia. You are as desirable as ever, and I am but human.”

“Your life is in his hands. He is a good man who does not forget his friends in adversity; but you need to be careful. Your only friend in this court is your brother Goffredo.”

“Where is he now?”

“I know not. He and I rarely meet.”

“I see the Captain is a jealous man who will not tolerate husbands!”

She lifted her shoulders. “The court abounds with your enemies, Cesare. Naples did not love you after the murder of my brother.”

“Yet you continued to love me.”

“If I ever loved you Cesare, I ceased to do so then. There was passion between us afterward, but it was the passion of hate rather than love. Do you remember Jeronimo Mancioni?”

Cesare shook his head.

“You would not of course remember such a trivial incident. There have been so many like it in your life. He wrote an essay on what took place during the capture of Faenza. Doubtless it was a true account, but it did not please you. No, of course you would not remember Jeronimo. He remembers you though. His family remember also. Payment was demanded of him for writing that essay—his right hand was cut off and his tongue cut out. Such things are remembered, Cesare, when a man is in decline. I warn you, that is all. Have a care. You will need to walk more warily here in Naples than you ever did in your Roman prison.”

Cesare shrugged aside her warnings.

He would have taken her into his arms, but she would have none of that. He laughed at her playing the game of loyalty to her Spanish Captain. How long would that last? he asked himself. He visualized that before he was ready to set out on the re-conquest of Romagna, Sanchia would be his mistress and all his enemies in Naples would be fawning on him.



Hope had returned. Goffredo was there, with the old admiration shining in his eyes. Goffredo was ready to serve his brother, heart and soul. It was wonderful at such times to recall the devotion of his family. Lucrezia was raising men, selling her valuable jewels, writing letters to influential men begging their help for her brother; and now here was Goffredo. Alexander the great central figure was gone but they were still the Borgias.

Cesare was himself again. His arrogance had returned in full force. Sanchia was not yet his mistress, but that would come. Soon all in Italy should learn that the Borgia star had suffered but a temporary eclipse.

Consalvo de Cordoba was uneasy. He fervently wished that Cesare Borgia had chosen a different refuge. Consalvo was a man who prided himself on his honor, and from the moment he had heard Cesare was on his way to Naples his anxiety had began. He had received honors from Alexander, and he was not the man to turn from his friends when they were no longer of material value. He wished to help Cesare; yet at the same time he must not forget that he was in the service of his King.

In the days which followed Cesare’s arrival in Naples, Consalvo received no orders from Spain; therefore he welcomed Cesare and made it clear that his ill-fortune had not altered his friendship for the Borgia.

But he was wondering what orders he would receive when the knowledge that Cesare was in Naples reached Spain.

Sanchia was aware of his anxieties and sought to comfort him, for Sanchia was enchanted by her Great Captain. Handsome, powerful, he had won her admiration, and she had quickly surrendered herself to the new ruler of Naples. She was with him when orders came from Spain.

He read them and was lost in thought. Sanchia wound her arms about him and whispered: “What ails you, my Captain?”

He looked at her and smiled sadly. He knew that she had once been Cesare’s mistress for their love affair had been one of the scandals of Rome. He wondered about her, this strange tempestuous woman who had continued her relationship with Cesare after the murder of her brother whom she had dearly loved.

His own relationship with her had taught him something of her character. He wondered whether Cesare still attracted her; he wanted to find out, and at the same time he wanted to ease his own conscience; he therefore decided to confide in her.

“Orders from my King,” he said.

“Concerning Cesare?”

He nodded.

Sanchia went on: “Cesare has made himself hated by the world. The King of Spain, I can believe, does not wish him to regain his Kingdom.”

“You are right. I am to arrest him and send him to Spain. My King does not trust the Italians to keep him prisoner.”

“If he goes to Spain it will be the end of his hopes.”

Consalvo agreed.

“Why should this make you sad, my Captain? What is Cesare Borgia to you?”

“His father was my friend.”

“The Borgias were friends only to those who could be useful to them.”

“I have given him my word that he shall find sanctuary here.”

“And you have given him that. It is only when the matter is taken out of your hands that you must cancel it.”

“The Duchess of Gandia has pleaded with Ferdinand, my King, that justice be demanded for the murder of her husband Giovanni Borgia.”

“So Cesare is now to be made to pay for that long-ago crime, the murder of his own brother!”

“Crimes have long shadows.”

Sanchia was suddenly afraid. “If you go to his lodgings, he will fight. He is surrounded by men whom he has made his own, either through bribes or fear. My Captain, I am afraid. I am always afraid of Cesare.”

“I must lure him from his lodgings. I do not wish for bloodshed. I must get him to the Castel del Ovo.”

Sanchia nodded.



Consalvo waited awhile.

Would Sanchia warn her old lover? He wondered. There was an uncanny power in these Borgias; Consalvo had been conscious of it since Cesare had come to Naples. He was a man who had suffered terrible sickness and heartbreaking defeat; yet his resilience was becoming more and more apparent every day. With a little help Cesare would regain his kingdom.

Oddly enough Consalvo had wanted to give that help. He was not a man who wished to stamp on the lame. He would have wished to plead Cesare’s cause with King Ferdinand, to have passed on Cesare’s explanation of the need to make the French alliance when he had done so.

Consalvo believed that he could have done that successfully; but Cesare’s old crimes were creeping up on him. The pleading of his murdered brother’s widow had decided Ferdinand that Cesare should be brought to Spain where he could answer that charge and make no more trouble in the Italian States.

Consalvo must do his duty. He was first of all a soldier. But he wondered—and in some measure he hoped she would—whether Sanchia would warn her old lover of the danger in which he found himself.

Now in the Castel del Ovo troops were waiting, and Consalvo must lure Cesare to the castle with some false tale of danger. He, Consalvo, must invite the son of his old friend to sanctuary which would in reality be a trap.

Such conduct deeply perturbed a man of the Great Captain’s conscience. He hoped that when his messenger arrived at Cesare’s lodgings, the Borgia would be gone.



Sanchia had shut herself into her apartments and would allow none of her women to come near her.

Her eyes were as brilliant as sapphires and as hard as diamonds.

Very soon Cesare might leave Naples—for a Spanish prison; and it was in her power to save him.

She thought of their stormy relationship, of all the pleasure it had brought her. She was recalling those tempestuous scenes which had delighted and exhilarated her. She remembered the hate she had felt for Cesare, the deep satisfaction which she, a strong sensual woman, had derived from their encounters.

Often she dreamed of Cesare … Cesare bending over her, quarrelling with her, Cesare making love.

She was remembering also her little brother, Alfonso, so beautiful, so like herself. Insignificant little incidents from childhood would occur to her—the way he smiled, the way he lisped her name, the way he trotted after her with so much admiration in his bright blue eyes for his clever sister Sanchia. Then she thought of his coming into the Vatican with the hideous wounds inflicted on Cesare’s orders; she remembered his casting himself at the feet of herself and Lucrezia, clutching their skirts, begging them to defend him from Cesare.

Then she remembered his limp body lying across the bed with bruises, made by Cesare’s murderers, on his throat.

And remembering she covered her face with her hands and wept, wept for the little brother whose life had been cut short by Cesare Borgia.



Cesare was in his lodgings when the messenger came.

“I come from the Great Captain,” he told Cesare.

“What news?”

“My lord, you must leave this lodging at once. My master has heard that enemies of yours are gathering in large numbers and preparing to attack you here and do to you what you have done to one of them.”

“Who are these?”

“It is the family of Jeronimo Mancioni, my lord. He who lost his tongue and right hand. This night they will strike. The Great Captain offers you refuge in the Castel del Ovo. He says that it is imperative that you leave at once.”

Cesare was angry. He was not a coward, and he disliked the thought of running away, but he must guard against his enemies. That was one thing he had learned. When his father was alive he had been able to ignore them; now they massed about him, determined to strike while they found him defenseless.

He pictured those maddened relatives of Mancioni. They would humiliate him, mutilate him, if they had a chance. He would fight them and kill a few; but how many of them would there be? A large band, the messenger told him; not only members of the Mancioni family, but others who had suffered at his hands.

Cesare turned to his servant. “Make ready,” he said. “We will leave at once for Castel del Ovo.”

Oh the humiliation of this! He, the great Cesare, to skulk from his lodgings into refuge! When he recovered his kingdom all those who had dared humiliate him should pay a thousandfold for every slight they had inflicted. He would come back to Naples; he would inflict such torture on the Mancionis as they had never dreamed of.

But there was no time to think of that now. Through the silent streets he hurried, all the time alert for sounds which might indicate that his enemies had discovered his flight and were in hot pursuit. When he reached the castle—sweating with exertion and relieved that he had been spared the humiliation of meeting his enemies—he was surrounded by soldiers.

“Cesare Borgia,” said one of these, “you are a prisoner of His Majesty, the King of Spain.”

Cesare looked about him, but he could see nothing for the mists of anger which swam before his eyes.

It was a trap, a trap conceived by the Great Captain, that honorable man!

For a few seconds it seemed as though he would venomously attack all those who surrounded him; but he was too late. He was firmly held and bound.

Very soon afterward he was put on the ship which was waiting to take him to his Spanish prison.



Lucrezia was overwhelmed with sorrow when she heard that Cesare had been taken prisoner and incarcerated in the fortress of Cincilla.

She wept to recall how often he had talked of going to Spain—the country of their family’s origin—in the utmost splendor, even as his brother the Duke of Gandia had done. No, it would have to be greater splendor. Cesare must outdo Giovanni at all costs. And now he had gone ignobly, taken there by force, a captive.

She heard that the King of Spain was wondering whether he should be brought to trial for the murder of his brother, found guilty—which he undoubtedly would be—and executed. But it might be that Cesare Borgia was more important to the King of Spain alive and a menace to Pope Julius. On such did the life of one who had hoped to rule all Italy depend.

The Court of Ferrara was growing more and more antagonistic toward Lucrezia as her family’s fortunes further declined. There was only Goffredo left, and Goffredo had never been of great account. Never before had Lucrezia been so lonely; never before so completely shorn of that power in which her family had so tenderly wrapped her.

Alfonso had gone away on a foreign visit and, without even his casual protection, life at the castle was unsupportable. Therefore Lucrezia retired to the country retreat of Comacchio.

Pietro Bembo arrived and stayed nearby at one of Strozzi’s villas which the architect of this affair had put at the disposal of his pair of lovers.

There was comfort in Bembo’s presence. There were walks in the beautiful gardens of the villas; there was music and the reading of poetry. But the love which she had once enjoyed with Bembo had lost its ecstasy. How could she indulge in ecstatic love when Cesare was in misery? Moreover into Lucrezia’s thoughts there intruded a man quite different from Bembo—a man of action, the breeder of horses, flat-nosed, completely sensual Francesco Gonzaga.

Pietro would gently recall her attention to the poem he was reading.

“You are sad, beloved,” he would murmur.

“How can I be otherwise,” she asked, “when I think of my brother? He less than any can endure prison. What is his life like, I wonder.”

Pietro shook his head. He did not remind her that what was done to Cesare was not so cruel as that which Cesare had done to others.

“He would have been a good ruler, a good and wise ruler, once his kingdom was in his hands,” she insisted. “He had great plans which he discussed with his fortress engineer, a man who, I think, is called Leonardo da Vinci. There were to be sanitary systems which would have drained away the refuse in the cities, and that, Cesare used to say, was one of the first steps toward ridding the country of periodic plague. He planned to do all this, and he would have done it.”

Bembo tried to lure her back to talk of poetry, but the magic which the early days of their association had brought with them was lost to her.

There came a day when messengers arrived from Ferrara. They had come to warn Lucrezia that old Duke Ercole was very ill and there seemed little hope that he would recover. Her brothers-in-law, Ippolito, Ferrante, Sigismondo and Giulio, thought that she should return at once to Ferrara.

She was preparing to leave when she saw Bembo coming across the garden to her, and the sight of him, his poems in his hands, walking quietly across the gardens, seemed to her so utterly peaceful that she was filled with a longing to spend the rest of her life at Comacchio or some other quiet retreat.

“I love Pietro,” she murmured. “Oh, that I were free to marry him.” And her mind went back to Pedro Caldes whom she had once loved so dearly, the father of little Giovanni, and she thought, had I been allowed to marry him when I wanted to, had I been allowed to live peacefully with him, our lives would surely have been lived in surroundings such as this. And Pietro and Pedro seemed in that moment like one and the same person; and she loved that person dearly.

She ran out to meet him, for she was overcome by a longing to stroll once more round the gardens, to snare the happy moments she had enjoyed in this place that she might preserve them in her mind forever; she knew that the death of Duke Ercole was going to make a great deal of difference to her life, and that when she was truly Duchess of Ferrara—if Alfonso decided to keep her as his wife, and if he did not she could not begin to imagine what would become of her—she would not be allowed to leave Ferrara to indulge in an idyllic love affair with a poet.

In the shelter of the trees Pietro embraced her fervently. “We cannot guess,” he said, “what his death will mean to us. But know this, my beloved, always I shall love you, always cherish these hours we have spent together.”

She dared not delay now. In the absence of her husband her brothers-in-law had summoned her, and she guessed that Ippolito was already aware of her love affair with Pietro.

So she rode out to Ferrara, but before she came into the town a letter was delivered to her. As she read it a faint flush rose to her cheeks and she felt a tremor of excitement within her as she recalled the ugly charming face of the man who had lately intruded on her thoughts and refused to be dismissed.

He had written that news of what was happening in Ferrara had reached him. If she should be in need of a friend, he, Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, would be ready to come at once to her aid.

She rode on, her spirits lightened; such was the power of that man to comfort her.



There was an atmosphere of tension in the castle of Ferrara when Lucrezia arrived. Alfonso was, unfortunately, traveling in England, and Ippolito was watchful of Ferrante, Ferrante of Ippolito. Giulio, hot-headed and haughty, was already putting himself at the disposal of Ferrante with whom he had always been on terms of friendship, which had grown deeper out of his hatred for Ippolito. Sigismondo spent his time praying that no discord befall Ferrara on the death of the Duke.

Lucrezia was received with pleasure and relief by her brothers-in-law. As Alfonso’s wife she was, in his absence, acknowledged as the most important person at court; for it pleased the brothers, in this time of uncertainty, to have a figurehead whom they could regard as temporary head of the state.

Lucrezia remembered those days when the Pope had left Rome and had placed her at the head of secular affairs. That experience stood her in good stead now, and she slipped naturally and calmly into the new position which was awaiting her.

She was conscious though of the tension which existed between the brothers, and she prayed that soon Alfonso would return.

In the meantime with her natural serenity and dignity she was able to keep the bubbling passions of the brothers at bay, while they waited for the return of Alfonso and the end of Ercole.

She was glad at that time of the company of her lively and beautiful though somewhat empty-headed cousin Angela Borgia, who could not conceal her delight in being back in Ferrara, since during the stay at Comacchio she had been deprived of the company of her lover, Giulio.

Angela, completely immersed in her own affairs, was unaware of the dangerous discord which prevailed in the castle at this time. She had never forgiven Ippolito for turning from her to Sanchia when they had first met, and as her mind was completely occupied with her own attractiveness she could not forget the slight.

It was a different matter now. Ippolito was regretting his earlier conduct. Ippolito was a lover of women, and there was quite a scandal in Ferrara because of the way in which he caressed young girls as a lover might, while he feigned to be blessing them as a Cardinal.

Angela seemed far more desirable to him now than she had at the beginning of their acquaintance, and this was no doubt due in some measure to his knowledge that she had for some time been indulging in a passionate love affair with his half-brother Giulio.

Ippolito had long been irritated by Guilio; the young man’s vanity was maddening, particularly as, through Angela, he could flaunt it before the Cardinal.

He never lost an opportunity of talking of Angela before Ippolito, and the Cardinal felt his desire for Angela grow with his murderous feelings against Giulio.

Now Guilio had ostentatiously put himself on the side of Ferrante.

Ippolito longed to discountenance the conceited Giulio and, even at this time of anxiety, when Angela returned from Comacchio he made another attempt to take her from Giulio. He followed her into the gardens one day and asked for a few words with her.

“I am growing weary of your continual refusals,” he told her.

“There is one alternative, Eminence. If you cease to ask there would be no more refusals.”

“There will continue to be demands,” he declared angrily, “until what I ask is given.” She looked pensive, as though she were considering him, and he cried passionately: “Angela, you know that I love you. I have loved you earnestly since our first meeting.”

“I remember the occasion well,” she said. “No doubt Sanchia of Aragon remembers it also.”

“You were such a child,” he pleaded. “I respected your innocence.”

“That respect began,” she retorted, “when you set eyes on Sanchia. Do not imagine that I may be dropped for the sake of others and picked up when they are no longer available.”

“You are mistaken. You turn to that young fool Giulio …”

“Giulio is no fool. He loved me from the first and has done so ever since. Think of him—my lord Cardinal. Think of Giulio and think of yourself. Why, I love his beautiful eyes more than the whole of you and your wealth and all your fine promises. Understand that.”

Laughing she ran lightly across the grass to the castle.



As soon as Alfonso heard that his father was dying, he made plans to return to Ferrara immediately; and no sooner had he set foot in the castle than the tension lessened. There was a quality of strength about Alfonso; he was practical in the extreme; he might lack the dignity of Ippolito but he was also without that blind arrogance; he might lack the vitality of Ferrante and the charm of Giulio, but he was possessed of a strength which inspired the confidence of all.

“How fares my father?” demanded Alfonso on his arrival.

“He lives, my lord,” he was told, “but he is very weak.”

Alfonso was relieved. He had reached home in time. He greeted his brothers and Lucrezia and immediately went to the sick-room.

Old Ercole’s expression lightened when he saw his eldest son, and Alfonso hurried to the bed and knelt to receive his blessing.

“My son Alfonso,” whispered the Duke. “I rejoice to see you here. Very soon Ferrara will pass into your hands. Never forget the Este traditions, Alfonso, and keep peace within the family.”

Ercole’s eyes went to those standing about his bed—his sons and the wife of Alfonso. He wanted to warn Alfonso against the ambitions of his brothers and the extravagance of his wife, but he was too tired. Alfonso sensed this, and remembered that one thing which he and his father had in common. “Father,” he said, “would you like a little music in your bedchamber?”

The Duke smiled. Music, which he had always loved; music to soothe him in his passing, to delight his mind so that it was lost in that pleasure which would prevent his worrying about the future of Ferrara.

Alfonso gave orders that musicians should come to the bedchamber. Surprised, they came, and Alfonso then commanded that they play those pieces of music which his father had best loved. And thus, to the music of the harpsichord, Duke Ercole left Ferrara forever.



Alfonso’s vital personality filled the castle.

Custom demanded that the new Duke should be crowned before the court went into mourning for the death of the old one, so the first task which lay before them was the coronation with all its attendant ceremony.

Now that he was among them none feared that the rivalry between his brothers would ever become serious. The new Duke of Ferrara was a man who would make all pause and consider very carefully before they crossed his will.

It was winter and the streets of Ferrara were icily cold as Alfonso rode out from the castle to the Cathedral to be crowned Duke of Ferrara; but in spite of the snowy weather the people turned out to cheer their new Duke.

And when he returned to the castle Lucrezia was waiting to greet him. She stood on the balcony, that the people might see her, wearing a great cloak of white watered silk lined with ermine about her shoulders, and, as the people cheered her and she bowed and waved her acknowledgments, the crimson and gold jewel-spattered gown beneath the cloak became visible.

The people did not seem to hate her, for their cheers were spontaneous; but she was wise enough now to know that they could cheer one day and call for her banishment the next.

Everything depended on Alfonso, and she realized suddenly that she knew very little about this husband of hers. How could it be otherwise when their acquaintance had seemed to begin and end in the bedchamber? And even there he had never confided to her his hopes and ambitions, his likes and dislikes. All she had known was that he wished for sons, and during the time they had been married she had disappointed him in that respect.

He was entering the castle now, and she came down from the balcony to greet him. She was at the entrance of the castle as he reached it and before the eyes of many eager spectators who, she knew, were as curious concerning her future as she was apprehensive, she knelt and kissed her husband’s hand.

Alfonso laid his hands under her armpits and raised her as easily as though she were a child. He kissed her cheeks and everyone applauded. But his kiss, Lucrezia noted, was as cold as the snowflakes which fluttered down upon them.

Then he took her hand and led her in to the banquet; and those festivities began which would go on until the next day when they must put off all signs of rejoicing, change white and red and gold for black, and conduct the old Duke to his last resting place.



The celebrations both of the coronation of the new Duke and the funeral of the old were over, and for the first time, it seemed to Lucrezia, she and her husband were alone together.

Here was the well-known routine. Alfonso, saying nothing, treating her merely as the means of getting children.

After the idyllic relationship with Pietro she was in revolt against this man, and yet when she thought of those sunny hours with Pietro at Medelana and Comacchio there seemed about them an air of unreality; they were light and transient; they could never be repeated.

She realized now that she was afraid of the future, and the knowledge that it lay within the power of this prosaic and cold man was alarming.

Never until this moment had she felt so alone. She thought of those who had stood between her and the ruthless cruelty of the world and, by their own ruthless cruelty which exceeded that of all others, had protected her from evil.

“Oh my father,” she wanted to cry. “You have left me undefended. Cesare is a prisoner and I am alone … at the mercy of Ferrara.”

Alfonso had taken her into his rough embrace.

“It is important now,” he said, “that we should have sons.”

His words seemed to beat on her brain. Did they convey a warning? Sons … sons … and you are safe.

It was like a reprieve.



In a few weeks Lucrezia was pregnant. The Duke expressed his pleasure. Not that he had had any doubt that this would soon be so. He had had numerous children, and Lucrezia had already shown herself capable of bearing them.

He was waiting now for the birth of the heir of Ferrara.

Once my son is born, thought Lucrezia, my place here will be firm.

She knew that Isabella was receiving reports on her conduct; she had made several attempts to lure Pietro Bembo to Mantua and, now that she knew she could not, she was writing to her brother urging him to put an end to the love affair between his wife and the poet.

If you do not, she implied, when your child is born you will have all Ferrara looking for the features of a poet rather than those of a soldier.

Alfonso grunted as he read Isabella’s warning. He knew that the child Lucrezia now carried was his because she had not seen Bembo since long before its conception. He had known of his wife’s fanciful friendship with the poet and had cared not a jot for it. But Isabella was right when she said that the world might suspect his Duchess of foisting on to Ferrara a child not his.

Poets were not the sort of men he felt much sympathy with. As for Lucrezia he had little interest in her apart from the nightly encounters in the bedchamber. She was worthy of his attention then; he did not deny her beauty; she was responsive enough; but he would always prefer the tavern women; Lucrezia’s perpetual washing of her hair and bathing of her body vaguely irritated him. A little grime, a little sweat would have been a fillip to his lust.

Now that she was pregnant he was less frequently in her bedchamber; but he did like to visit her now and then for a change.

Pietro came back to Ferrara, and Lucrezia was delighted to see him, for it was wonderful to be with one who shared her love of poetry, whose manners were gracious and charming and who treated her as though she were a goddess, only part human, which was very different from the way in which Alfonso treated her.

Alfonso was alert. Never before, it seemed, had he shown so much interest in his wife. He gave her new attendants and they were all Farrarese.

“I have my women,” she told him. “I am satisfied with them.”

“I am not,” he retorted. “These women shall be in attendance on you in future.”

They were not her friends; they were his spies.

She wondered why Alfonso thought it necessary to spy on her. And one day she heard the sound of workmen near her apartments and, when she went to discover what was happening, she found that they were making a new passage.

“But why are you doing this?” she wanted to know.

“We have orders from the Duke, Duchessa.”

“Are you merely making this one passage?” she asked.

“That is so, Duchessa.”

“And how long is it to be?”

“Oh … it merely runs from the Duke’s apartments to your own.”

A passage … so that he could reach her quickly and silently.

What had happened to Alfonso that he was preparing to spy on her?

It was impossible that such mundane matters should touch the love she had shared with Pietro, which had no place in this castle with its secret passages through which an angry husband could hurry to confront an erring wife.

Lucrezia shuddered at the possibility of Alfonso’s discovering her and Pietro Bembo together. No matter how innocently they were behaving Alfonso would suspect the worst. What could he—that great bull of a man—understand of love such as she and Pietro shared?

She was careful never to be seen alone with Pietro; and it was only when they met, surrounded by others in the great hall of the castle, and he implored her to tell him what had changed their relationship that she could trust herself to explain, and tell him about the passage which Alfonso was having made.

“Soon,” she said, “it will be completed. Then he will be able to come swiftly and silently to my bedchamber unheralded, unannounced. He has had this made so that he may try to catch me in some misdemeanor.”

“Where can we meet and be safe?”

“Nowhere in Ferrara … that is certain.”

“Then come again to Medelana, to Comacchio.…”

“It is different now,” she answered sadly. “I am in truth the Duchess of Ferrara. Alfonso needs an heir. Do you not understand that I must produce that heir, and he must come into a world which is satisfied that he can be no other than the son of Alfonso?”

“But if we cannot meet in Ferrara, and if you cannot leave Ferrara, where shall we meet?”

“My dearest Pietro,” she whispered, “do you not see—this is the end.”

“The end? How could there be an end for us?”

“The end of meetings. The end of our talks … the end of physical love. I shall love you always. I shall think of you always. But we must not meet, for if we did and we were discovered I know not what would happen to either of us. Our love remains, Pietro. It is as beautiful as it ever was. But it is too beautiful to be subjected to the harshness of everyday life.”

He was staring at her with dumb anguish in his eyes.

Too beautiful, she thought. And too fragile.