Light on Lucrezia

Now that she was to have a child, Lucrezia told herself that this was the happiest time of her life. She refused to look back; she refused to look ahead. The present was all-satisfying.

Each day her love for her husband seemed strengthened; and the Pope, seeing that love, seemed eager to assure her that he also had a great affection for his son-in-law.

In the apartments at Santa Maria in Portico, Cardinals and men of letters continued to assemble; there were whisperings and insinuations, and the political intent of those meetings grew more insistent. The anti-Papal and anti-French party was growing and, since the meetings took place in Lucrezia’s apartments, Alfonso would appear to be one of the leaders of it.

But like Lucrezia, Alfonso quickly wearied of politics. He was barely eighteen and there were so many more interesting things in life than intrigue. He was faintly impatient of men such as Ascanio Sforza who must continually—or so it seemed to him—be watching the behavior of others for slights, insults, innuendoes. Life was good. Enjoy it. That was Alfonso’s motto.

The Pope was so charming, so solicitous of their happiness. None had been more delighted than he to learn of Lucrezia’s pregnancy, and it astonished Alfonso to see this amazing man turn from the dignities of his holy office to the tender care of his daughter. He would walk with the pair in the Vatican gardens and make plans for their child, and he would talk to them in that rich musical voice, so that Alfonso could almost see the wonderful little boy playing in the gardens there in the years to come.

It seemed incredible that anyone would want to be the enemy of such a man; and as long as Cesare remained in France Alfonso was sure he would be completely happy.

One day the Pope said to him: “You and I in company with two of my Cardinals will go on a hunting expedition toward Ostia, for the woods there are full of game and we shall find good sport.” He had laughed to see Alfonso’s expression. “As for Lucrezia, she must stay quietly behind for a few days and rest. I fancy she looks a little tired lately, and we must think of the child. And, my son, all the time you are enjoying the hunt you will be looking forward to the pleasure of reunion with Lucrezia! Oh, you are a fortunate young man.”

Lucrezia had declared he must go, for she knew how he enjoyed a long hunt and he would only be away for a few days. So Alfonso went in the company of the Pope and Cardinals Borgia and Lopez; and he saw yet another side of the character of this man who was his father-in-law, the sportsman and hunter; and he began to believe in those rumors he had heard which declared that Alexander VI was possessed of magical powers; what he believed he now learned was that these did not come from the Devil but from God.

Alfonso would never forget the return from that hunt, the joy of riding into Rome in pale February sunshine and seeing Lucrezia on the balcony watching for their approach.

She ran down to greet them and stood among them, slender and golden-haired, for two months’ pregnancy was not apparent; and there, among the stags and wild goats and other booty of that hunt, he embraced his wife with tenderness and delight which brought tears to the eyes of the Pope and his Cardinals.

Alfonso had cried out: “I am happy … happy to be home.”

And he marveled, realizing what he was now calling his home was that City to which, but a short while ago, he had come with no little dread.



She had missed him, she told him when they were alone. She had been counting the hours to his return.

“Did you ever believe there could be happiness such as this?” asked Alfonso.

“No,” she told him. “I did not believe it.” It was true, for during her love affair with Pedro Caldes she had always known that they could never enjoy delights such as this. She had dreamed of a small house far from Rome in which she, Pedro and their child would live; she had known that if she had gained her happiness with Pedro she would have lost much of that which she shared with her father. Now she had lost nothing. She was completely happy; she was sure that when her baby was born she would cease to dream about that other child who had once been as much to her as the one she now carried.

She said to Alfonso: “No, I did not think there could be such happiness, but now I believe there can be even greater happiness than this. That will be on the day when I hold our child in my arms.”

They lay sleeping, arms entwined; and in their sleep they looked like two innocent children.



The next day brought realization to Lucrezia of what a flimsy thing happiness could be.

Sanchia came to her apartments in the morning.

“It is going to be a sunny day,” she said. “We should prepare for the journey to the vineyards of Cardinal Lopez.”

Lucrezia remembered. Last night the Cardinal had issued the invitation to the ladies, and they had accepted joyfully.

“Why,” said Sanchia, “pregnancy suits you, Lucrezia. You look more beautiful than you did two months ago.”

“It is happiness that suits me,” Lucrezia answered.

“You are not disappointed in my little brother?” Sanchia asked.

“You know my feelings for him.”

“Take care of him, Lucrezia. Take care of him when Cesare comes home.”

“You have news of Cesare?”

“I know that he is not going to marry Carlotta, but I knew that before he went.”

Lucrezia smiled sadly at her sister-in-law. Sanchia had been jealous, she knew, and she was sorry for Sanchia’s unhappiness.

Sanchia said fiercely: “He went in October. It is now February. Yet he remains unmarried. I tell you this, Lucrezia: Cesare is nothing more than a hostage of the French. The bonds are silken, shall we say, but they are nevertheless bonds. Why does Cesare not marry? Because the King of France wishes to keep him in France!”

“You mean he is so attached to Cesare …”

Sanchia laughed. “Do you think the whole world loves your brother as you do? No! The King of France is planning an attack on Italy, and if he holds the Pope’s beloved son as hostage he can be sure that he will be free from Papal interference when he makes the attack.”

“Cesare … a hostage!”

“Why not? He was once before, remember. He escaped at Velletri and thus inflicted humiliation on the French which they will not easily have forgotten. Mayhap they remember it still.”

“But the King of France greatly honors my brother. We constantly hear of the entertainments he gives for his pleasure.”

Sanchia put her face close to Lucrezia’s and whispered: “One of those who accompanied Cesare to France has written that the honors paid to Cesare are like those paid to Christ on Palm Sunday, when less than a week later there were cries of ‘Crucify him.’ ”

“Sanchia! You mean Cesare is in danger!”

“I doubt not that he will know how to look after himself. But he’ll not get Carlotta.” Sanchia lifted her shoulders. “Come, which bonnet will you wear?”

Lucrezia tried to turn her attention to the bonnets. She would not believe that Cesare was in any danger. If he did not marry Carlotta, then he would have someone else. Soon he would be home. She was not going to let fears for her brother cloud her happiness.

So they set out for the vineyards of Cardinal Lopez. They were very beautiful in the pale February sunshine and Lucrezia was determinedly merry, eager to banish the uneasy thoughts which Sanchia had set in motion.

Cardinal Lopez and his household had prepared a feast for the visitors, and they sat watching races or joined in the outdoor games which he had arranged for their entertainment. There was much laughter, but every now and then Lucrezia felt a longing to be with Alfonso that she might tell him of Sanchia’s words which had made her a little uneasy, and seek reassurance. She would not tell her father because, although he would dismiss the rumors, he might in the secrecy of his mind brood on them; but Alfonso, she was sure, would dismiss them as ridiculous because he would know that was what she wanted him to do.

Longing to be with Alfonso, she cried out as they were walking down one of the sloping paths to the stables: “Do hurry. Let us race!”

Bernardina, who was close behind her, gave a whoop of joy and, pulling at Francesca’s gown, shouted: “Come along. I’ll be at the stables first.”

Lucrezia cried: “Not you!” And sped away.

She was leading when her foot tripped over a stone and, as her ankle twisted under her, she fell; Bernardina unfortunately was too close on her heels to pull up and, as Lucrezia went down, fell on top of her. Francesca fell over Bernardina and for a few seconds the pair lay on Lucrezia, their full weight pressing her to the ground. They were laughing as they leaped to their feet; then suddenly they stopped, for Lucrezia had not moved. She was lying, her body twisted and still, exactly as she had fallen.



The Pope sat by his daughter. They had carried her back to her palace, and put her to bed; then they had taken the news to the Vatican that there had been an accident and that the doctors feared the consequences might be serious. Lucrezia lay white and still; she had lost the baby.

It was comforting, when she opened her eyes, to see her father beside her. She put out a hand and he took it. She knew immediately what had happened, because she was aware of the sorrow in his eyes. The loss of a grandchild could make him more unhappy than the news that the French were at the outskirts of Rome.

“Dearest Father …” she began.

Now he was smiling, ready to soothe her.

“You will get better, my daughter,” he murmured. “Your weakness will pass.”

She whispered: “My baby …”

“Oh, but it is an unfortunate accident, nothing more. Two people in love, such as you and Alfonso are, will get many more children. As for this one … we do not even know that it was a boy.”

“Boy or girl, I loved it.”

“Ah, we loved it. But it was not to be.” He leaned over the bed. “And dearest daughter, you are safe. Soon you will be well. I praise the saints for that mercy. Shall I grieve because of an unborn grandchild, when my dearest is spared to me? When they brought me the news of your accident terrible fears beset me, and I cried out that if aught happened to my Lucrezia I would have no more interest in life. I prayed for your life as I never prayed before; and you see, Lucrezia, my prayers have been answered. My beloved is safe. And the child … But I tell you there will be more children.”

“Father,” she said, “stay near me. Do not leave me yet.”

He smiled and nodded.

She lay back and tried to think of the children she and Alfonso would have; when they had a child, a living child, she would cease to mourn for this one; she wanted to think of the future; she wanted to forget the uneasy words she had heard concerning her brother Cesare.



Meanwhile Cesare remained unsatisfied in France. He was wishing that he had never set out on the French adventure. He had been humiliated, he considered, as he never had been before in all his life. Carlotta of Naples hated him, and she had declared to all her friends, who had made sure that her comments should reach his ears, that she would never be known as Madame la Cardinale, as she surely would if she married the Borgia.

When they met, which they did frequently, she would endeavor to appear guileless and imply that he must not blame her for his lack of success in his courtship; she merely obeyed her father who was upheld in his determination by all the royalty of Europe—except of course the King of France.

It was a galling position, but Cesare must control his anger and pretend that he was not perturbed, not growing more and more worried with every passing week.

The King sent for him one day. His Queen was with him and he did not dismiss those few ministers who stood near his throne; which Cesare felt to be an added insult.

“I have grave news for you, my lord Duke,” said Louis, and Cesare was aware that some of those men about the throne were hard pressed to hold back their smiles.

“Sire?” said Cesare, fighting for control with all his might.

“Two of our subjects have married,” said Louis, “and I fear this is not going to please you.”

“Have I any special interest in these subjects of Your Majesty?” asked Cesare.

“A great interest. One is the Princess Carlotta.”

Cesare felt the uncontrollable twitch in his lips; the hot blood flooding his face; he was clenching his fists so tightly that his nails, which were buried in his palms, drew blood.

He heard himself stammering, and his voice seemed to begin in a whisper and end in a roar. “Married, Your … Majesty?”

“Yes, the minx has married her Breton nobleman.” The King lifted his shoulders. “Of course, she had her father’s consent to the marriage, and the Queen and I consider that in these circumstances the matter was out of our hands.”

“His Majesty, the King of Naples, seems very pleased with his daughter’s match,” said Anne of Brittany quickly.

Cesare’s fingers itched to seize his sword and attack the royal pair there and then. They were his enemies; they had arranged this. And to think that it was he who had brought them the Bull which enabled them to marry! They were deliberately insulting him, telling him that the King of Naples did not object to a Breton nobleman of no great importance, whereas he would not accept Cesare Borgia, son of the Pope, as his son-in-law.

It was unendurable. They were asking him to suffer too much humiliation.

Perhaps Louis realized this, because he said quickly: “Ah, my lord Duke, there are other ladies at our Court. Perhaps they would be less capricious.”

“Holy Mother,” prayed Cesare, “keep me calm. Stop this mad racing of my blood which bids me murder.”

He managed to say: “What lady has Your Majesty in mind?”

Louis smiled pleasantly. “This is a bitter disappointment. But I have a good match in mind for you. My kinsman, the King of Navarre, has a fair young daughter. What say you to marriage with young Charlotte of Navarre?”

Cesare felt his heartbeats quicken. He had set his heart on Carlotta, but Charlotte was no mean alternative.

“Alain d’Albret,” went on the King, “come forth, cousin, and tell us what you would say to a match between our good friend the Duke of Valentinois and your little Charlotte.”

The King of Navarre came and stood before the King of France. His looks were sullen. He said: “It does not seem meet to me, Sire, that a Cardinal has a right to marry.”

“The Duke is no longer a Cardinal,” the King reminded him.

Cesare cried: “I have been freed from my vows. I am as fit and able to marry as any man.”

“I should need to be sure that a man who had once been a Cardinal was free of all ecclesiastical ties, before I gave him a daughter of mine,” said Alain d’Albret stubbornly.

Cesare cried out: “You are a fool! The whole world knows I am free.”

There was silence all about him. Louis’ looks were cold. This foreigner had forgotten the strictness of Court etiquette in France.

Cesare said quickly: “I crave pardon. But these matters could be proved to you.”

“They would need to be proved,” said rough Alain.

“You must forgive his caution,” added the King, looking from Alain to Cesare. “He is a father with a father’s feelings.”

“Your Majesty can explain to him that I am free.”

“We will give him full proof,” said the King. “But this will take a little time.”

“I shall need the utmost proof, Your Majesty,” declared Alain.

The King rose and going to Alain put his arm through his; then he turned and beckoned to Cesare, and linking his other arm through Cesare’s he walked with the two of them to an embrasure where he spoke in whispers while those who had watched the previous scene talked among themselves, respecting the King’s wish for privacy.

“The proof will come,” said the King to Alain. “His Holiness will lose no time in supplying it.” He turned to Cesare. “Charlotte’s brother Amanieu will be your brother, my lord Duke. He has long desired his Cardinal’s hat. A Cardinal’s hat, Alain! I feel that, if you saw your son in possession of that, you would hasten your decision, would you not?”

“Proof, Sire,” said Alain. “I must have proof … proof for myself, and a Cardinal’s hat for my son; and then … I should not be averse to accepting a husband for my daughter.”

Cesare was silent. He must have a bride. He could not face the humiliation of returning to Rome without one. And Charlotte d’Albret was the daughter of a King, even as Carlotta was.

He saw in this marriage a means of saving his face, but at the same time he was wary.

Was it true, that which was being whispered throughout the Court: “The King keeps Cesare Borgia here as a hostage”?

Had he suggested this marriage to delay Cesare’s departure from France, to make him a willing visitor rather than an unwilling one? Cesare believed that Louis was even now planning an attack on Milan. Was he, the great Cesare, to be put in the humiliating position of hostage once more?

Yet marriage with a kinswoman of France would serve him well.

He determined then to marry Charlotte as quickly as possible.



The Court of France was at Blois, and the occasion was the wedding of Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, and Charlotte d’Albret.

The King was delighted. He was invariably delighted to be in this beautiful château on the banks of the Loire, so grand yet so exquisite, built as it was on different gradients which made it both picturesque and majestic. Louis loved Blois best of all his châteaux because it was here that he had been born one June day in the year 1462, and it was in the same château on an April night as recent as 1498 that a messenger had brought news to him of the death of King Charles, and kneeling before him had cried: “Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!”

Blois had very special memories for him.

Therefore he was pleased that this marriage should take place at Blois. His armies were ready to march against Milan, and he had succeeded in detaining the Pope’s beloved son on French soil for seven months. His marriage would keep him here for several more months as he would not leave France until his wife was pregnant. Moreover the Borgias were now bound by marriage to the French Royal House—a great honor for them, which they would most certainly recognize.

When Louis was ready to invade Italy he would find that he had the mighty influence of the Pope on his side, and he could congratulate himself on a diplomacy to equal that of Alexander VI. He had obtained his divorce and the support of the Pope—all for Alain d’Albret’s daughter and a paltry estate and title.

So he felt satisfied and benign as he watched the celebrations. And what celebrations these were! Let the Borgia pay. He wanted splendor, so let him have it. His father was one of the richest men in the world. Let these Borgias parade their wealth before the eyes of French cynics. Better for them to spend it on wedding festivities than on armies to hold out against the French.

The weather was warm and sunny and the fields about the castle delightful. It was acclaimed as an excellent idea to have the celebrations out of doors, and tapestries embroidered with flowers were set up in the fields forming square tents without any top covering, so that the clear blue sky was visible. These tapestried walls made a palace of the meadows with a great banqueting hall and ball-room—grass for carpet and the sky for a ceiling.

The Pope, delighted with the arrangements, had sent caskets of jewels for the bride; and little Charlotte, who had been brought up simply, was dazzled.

She was sixteen and young even for her years. She was a quiet little bride and, as her frightened eyes met his, even Cesare was moved by her simplicity. He realized too that she would be ready to admire him, as he seemed very splendid to her and, shut away from the world as she had been, she had not heard of his reputation.

As Cesare sat beside her at the banquet and danced with her under the blue sky in the tapestry-enclosed ball-room, he decided to make her happy while he was with her, for he had already made up his mind that as soon as she was pregnant he would return to Rome.

His ambitions were as strong as ever. He had his plans for conquering Italy. He would get her with child and leave her as chatelaine of his French estates; then he would return to make himself conqueror of his native land and perhaps of the world.

But he did not tell her this, and as he danced, looking very handsome in his wedding garments, he fascinated the simple girl with his witty conversation and his tender looks. Those who knew him well marveled at the change in him, and for a while forgot to be sorry for little Charlotte d’Albret.

As for Charlotte, she was far from sorry for herself. She was the bride of one of the most discussed men in the world, and she had found him charming, gay yet sentimental, tender yet passionate.

So under that May sky at Blois, the bride and bridegroom dreamed of their future, and the bride would have been surprised had she known that in the dreams of this witty yet tender husband she figured scarcely at all.



Lucrezia was by this time pregnant once more, and visiting her father every day.

When Cesare’s messenger Garcia came hot-foot to Rome with the news that the marriage had indeed taken place Alexander was as excited as though it were his own marriage. He sent for Lucrezia immediately and had Garcia brought at once to him although the poor man, exhausted with the fatigue of the journey, collapsed at the Pope’s feet.

Alexander, seeing his condition, had a comfortable chair brought for him, sent for wine and food to refresh him, but would not let him out of his sight until he had recounted what was happening in Blois.

“The marriage has been celebrated, Most Holy Lord,” gasped Garcia.

“And the consummation?”

“That also, Holiness. I waited until morning that I might bring news of this.”

“How many times?” asked the Pope.

“Six, Holiness.”

“A worthy son of his father,” Alexander cried, laughing. “My beloved boy, I am proud of you.”

“His Majesty the King of France congratulated my lord Duke on his prowess, Holiness.”

That made Alexander laugh still more.

“Saying, O Most Holy Lord, that my lord Duke had beaten His Majesty.”

“Poor Louis! Poor Louis!” cried the Pope. “Did he expect Valois to rival Borgia!”

Then he must hear every detail of the ceremony, going on to the consummation of which he liked to hear again and again.

He was heard murmuring for days afterward: “Six times! Not bad … not bad at all, my son.”

He enjoyed telling the story. He repeated it again and again to any who had not heard, and often to those who had, embroidering here and there, multiplying the jewels and the splendor and never leaving out that “six times”; and laughing aloud until the tears came to his eyes.

It was wonderful, thought Lucrezia, to see him so contented. It was but a month since the conception of her child, but she was feeling completely happy again. Her father was delighted; Cesare had a wife; and she had her beloved Alfonso, and they were to have a child. What more in the world could she want?



Sanchia was uneasy. She waylaid her brother as he came from his wife’s apartments.

Alfonso was humming a gay tune which Lucrezia often played on her lute, and the sight of his contented—almost ecstatic—expression irritated Sanchia.

“Alfonso,” she cried, “come into this little room where we can be quiet. I must talk to you.”

Alfonso opened his beautiful eyes, so like her own, in surprise, and said: “You sound disturbed, Sanchia.”

“Disturbed! Of course I’m disturbed. So would you be if you had any sense.”

Alfonso was a little impatient. Sanchia had changed since Cesare had gone away. None of her lovers pleased her and she was continually dissatisfied.

“Well,” said Alfonso stubbornly, “what ails you?”

“The French are planning an invasion.”

Alfonso wanted to yawn; he suppressed the desire with an effort.

“It is no use turning away from what I have to say because you find it unpleasant, Alfonso. You must listen to me. Ascanio Sforza is alarmed.”

“He is always alarmed.”

“Because he is a man of sound sense with his ears attuned to what is going on about him.”

“What goes on about him?”

“Intrigue.”

“Of a truth, Sanchia, you were always a lover of intrigue. I confess it was more amusing when they were intrigues of love.”

“What is going to happen when Cesare comes back?”

“I’ll swear he’ll be your lover in spite of his French wife.”

“He is now firmly allied with the King of France, and the French have always wanted Milan and … Naples. We belong to Naples. Do not forget it, Alfonso. Cesare will never forgive our uncle for refusing him Carlotta. He will band with the French against Uncle Federico. I would not care to be in Naples when Cesare enters with his troops.”

“We are of Naples,” said Alfonso, “and are the son and daughter-in-law of His Holiness, who is our friend.”

“Alfonso, you fool … you fool!”

“I am weary, Sanchia.”

“Oh, go to your wife,” cried Sanchia. “Go … and revel in your love, for what little time is left to you. Alfonso, be warned. You must take great care when Cesare returns to Italy.”

“He has just got him a wife,” cried Alfonso, his brow wrinkling.

“All husbands are not as devoted as you, brother. Some have ambitions beyond making love.” She caught his arm suddenly. “You are my brother,” she said, “and we stand together, as we always have.”

“Yes, Sanchia, indeed yes.”

“Then … do not be lulled into false security. Keep your ears and eyes open, brother. There is danger near us … danger to our house … and do not forget, although you are Lucrezia’s husband, you are also a Prince of Naples.”



Goffredo, who was now seventeen, was aware of the tension and determined not to be left out. The Pope showed great delight in the marriage of Cesare and the pregnancy of Lucrezia, and it seemed to Goffredo that he had little time to be interested in his younger son. People were often less respectful to him than they had ever dared be to Cesare and the dead Giovanni. Goffredo knew why. It was because many declared he was not the son of the Pope, and Goffredo had an uneasy feeling that Alexander himself was inclined to take the same view.

Goffredo admired the Borgias with an intensity of feeling which he could feel for no one else. He believed that if he were not accepted as one of them, life would have no meaning for him.

He determined therefore to draw attention to the similarity between himself, Cesare and the late Giovanni, and took to roaming the streets after dark in the company of his attendants, entering taverns, seeking out women and causing brawls among the men. This had been a particularly favorite pastime of Giovanni before he had died, and Goffredo longed to hear people say: “Oh, he is going the way of his brothers.”

One night as he and his men were roystering on the Bridge of St. Angelo, the guard called to them to halt.

Goffredo, a little alarmed, but determined to acquit himself like a Borgia, swaggered forward, demanding to know what this low fellow thought he was doing in obstructing the pleasure of a Borgia.

The guard drew his sword and two of his soldiers came quickly to his side. Goffredo would have preferred to retire, but that was something which neither Cesare nor Giovanni would ever have done.

The guard, however, was a brave man; moreover it was well known throughout Rome that the Pope was not so fanatically devoted to Goffredo as he was to the other members of his family. Cesare was in France; Giovanni was dead; and the guards of the City of Rome had decided that they would not allow this youngest member of the family to strike terror into the hearts of good Roman citizens, and he should be taught a lesson.

“I ask you, my lord,” said the man civilly, “to go quietly on your way.”

“And I ask you,” blustered Goffredo, “to mind your manners.”

“I mind my duty,” retorted the guard, “which is to defend the citizens of Rome.”

Thereupon Goffredo had no alternative but to fly at the man in a rage which he hoped matched that so often displayed by Cesare; but the guard was waiting for him. His sword pierced Goffredo’s thigh and the young man fell groaning to the ground.



When Sanchia saw Goffredo carried home she thought he was dying. His wound was bleeding profusely as he lay inert on a hastily constructed bier, his face without color, his eyes closed.

Sanchia demanded to know what had happened, and was told that the guard had attacked her husband because he refused to go quietly on his way.

“Why,” declared one of his men, “had there not been so many of us to surround him and protect him he would doubtless have met the same fate as his brother, the Duke of Gandia, and we should have had to dredge the Tiber for his body.”

Sanchia was incensed. First she called the physicians to attend her husband, and when she was assured that his life would be saved she gave vent to her anger. None would have dared attack Cesare or Giovanni as they had Goffredo. It was a sign that her husband was not accorded the respect due to the Pope’s son.

She determined therefore that the guard who had attacked Goffredo should be severely punished as a warning to all who might think they could ill-treat her husband with impunity.

She sought an early audience with Alexander, and was immediately angered because of his lack of concern in the fate of Goffredo. He did not dismiss his attendants nor did he give her that warm and tender smile which he habitually bestowed on all beautiful women.

“Holiness,” cried Sanchia, “is nothing being done to bring this fellow to justice?”

The Pope looked astonished.

“I refer,” went on Sanchia, “to this soldier who dared attack my husband.”

The Pope looked sad. “I regret that little Goffredo is wounded. It is a sorry matter. But the guard who attacked him was but doing his duty.”

“Duty to strike my husband! To wound him nigh to death!”

“We know full well that Goffredo was acting in an unseemly manner, and that when he was politely asked to go quietly on his way, he refused and in his refusal made ready to attack the guard. To my mind there was only one thing for our man to do. He must defend himself … and the peace of Rome.”

“Do you mean he is to go unpunished?”

“Punishment has already been meted out. Goffredo was the offender; his was the punishment.”

“This is your own son!”

The Pope lifted his shoulders and allowed a doubtful expression to creep across his face, which infuriated Sanchia. That he should deny the paternity of her husband, here before others, was intolerable. She lost control of her feelings.

“He is your bastard!” she cried.

“It is a matter of which there has always been some doubt.”

“Doubt! How can there be doubt? He looks like you. He behaves like you. How like a Borgia to roam the streets in search of women to rape!”

“My dear Sanchia,” said the Pope, “we know you are only part royal, and that only as a bastard; but I pray you do not expose your base blood in unseemly brawling.”

“I will speak the truth,” cried Sanchia. “You may be Pope, but you are the father of countless children. It ill becomes you to deny the rights of any of them; but one as close to you as Goffredo …”

The Pope silenced her. “I ask you to go, Sanchia.”

“I’ll not go!” she cried, although she was aware of the amazement and acute interest, perhaps delight, of all those within earshot. “You did not despise my birth when you married me to Goffredo.”

“You are a fitting bride for Goffredo,” said the Pope. “I am uncertain who his father was. It may be that your mother was not certain who yours was.”

“I am the daughter of a King of Naples.”

“So says your mother. A little divergence from the truth has been known to take place on certain occasions, and from your conduct it might seem that this was one of them.”

Sanchia’s blue eyes blazed. This was an insult to her birth and her beauty. Never before had the Pope been known to show such anger toward a beautiful woman.

He said coldly now: “Will you leave me of your own accord?”

It was a threat and, looking round at the two stalwart men who were coming forward, and having no desire to further her humiliation by being hustled from the Pope’s presence, she bowed coldly and retired.

Feeling calmer in her own apartments she told herself that this was an indication of the acute danger in which her country stood. The Pope must intend to stand firmly with the French. She had been insulted; what fate was there in store for her brother? Even Lucrezia would not be able to save him. Had she saved Pedro Caldes?



Very shortly after her interview with the Pope, Ascanio Sforza came to see her.

News of her encounter with the Pope had reached him and he, like Sanchia, was filled with misgivings.

“It is certain,” he said, “that invasion is imminent.”

Sanchia agreed. “What should I do?” she asked.

“For yourself, stay where you are, discover all you can. Remain the friend of Lucrezia, for through her it may be possible to learn what is happening here in Rome. I shall leave as soon as possible for Milan. My brother Ludovico must begin his preparations immediately, and I will be there to help him. As for your brother …”

“Yes,” said Sanchia eagerly. “What of my brother?”

“It is difficult to guess what fate they have in store for him.”

“The Pope is full of affection toward him at this moment.”

“And ready to insult his sister before members of his suite.”

“It may be that I goaded him. I was very angry.”

“No, he would not have treated you as he did if he cared for the goodwill of Naples. Do not trust his friendship for your brother. When the French come Cesare will be with them, and when Cesare is in Rome they will seek to dispose of your brother. Cesare always hated Lucrezia’s husbands, and the fact that Lucrezia is really devoted to this one will not make Cesare hate him less.”

“You think my brother is in immediate danger?”

Ascanio nodded slowly. “He will be when it is known that I have left for Milan. The Pope knows of our meetings; it would be impossible to keep them secret from him. He has his spies everywhere, so he will know that we are on the alert. From the moment I leave Rome, Alfonso’s danger will be increased.”

“Then the wisest thing would be for him to leave at once for Naples?”

“Try to persuade him to leave without delay.”

“It will not be easy. He’ll find it difficult to tear himself from Lucrezia.”

“As you love him,” warned Ascanio, “bid him fly for his life.”