Light on Lucrezia

IV

THE THIRD MARRIAGE



When Ercole, Duke of Ferrara, heard of the Pope’s desire for a marriage between Lucrezia and his son Alfonso, he was incensed.

The old Duke was an aristocrat, and he considered this plan to foist a bastard on to the noble house of Este was an impertinence.

Now that he was sixty he knew that he had to contemplate that day when his son Alfonso would be head of the house, and he did so with a certain amount of misgiving. Ercole was a man of taste; he was deeply religious, and had at one time been a friend of Savonarola; he extended hospitality to the religious and the misconduct of the Borgias had filled him with horror.

He wished Ferrara to be apart from the rest of Italy and he had made it a center of culture. He encouraged literature and art, and his passions were music and the theater. He had offered hospitality to the great architect, Biagio Rossetti, and the result was apparent in the streets of Ferrara.

There was only one favorable aspect of the proposed marriage as far as Ercole was concerned; The Borgias were rich and, if he should ever demean himself and his family by agreeing to the match, he would be able to demand an enormous dowry. Ercole was a man who enjoyed hoarding money and hated to spend it.

Not, he brooded, that his son Alfonso was one who would be perturbed by the evil reputation of the family which was planning to marry into his. Alfonso was a coarse creature, and it was beyond Ercole’s comprehension how he could have begotten such a son. Alfonso seemed to have no desire but to spend his days in his foundry experimenting with cannon, and his nights with women—the more humble the better. Alfonso had never cared for ladies of high degree; he preferred a buxom serving girl or tavern wench; his adventurers in low company were notorious.

Apart from a love of music which he had inherited from his father he did not seem to belong to the Este family. His brother Ippolito would have made a better heir; but Ippolito, as a second son, wore the Cardinal’s robes, and in this he had something in common with Cesare Borgia—he hated them.

Where was Alfonso now? wondered Ercole. Doubtless in his foundry, testing his cannons. Perhaps one day they would be useful in war. Who could say? Perhaps he should go to Alfonso and tell him of this monstrous suggestion. But what would be the use? Alfonso would grunt, shrug his shoulders, and be quite prepared to spend half the night with the girl and doubtless soon get her with child, as he did half a dozen mistresses.

Duke Ercole decided he would not be able to discuss the matter with Alfonso.

His children, he was beginning to realize, were becoming unmanageable. Was that a discovery which must be made by all old men? Ippolito, elegant and handsome, was chafing against his Cardinal’s robes. Ferrante, his third son, was wild, and he could never be sure what mad adventure he would undertake. Sigismondo was quiet, seemed to lack the ambition of his brothers and was clearly the one who should have worn the Cardinal’s robes. Then there was Giulio of the wonderful dark eyes, his natural son—gay and handsome—a prime favorite with women. Ercole sighed. He had done his best to procure a high position in the Church for Giulio, but Giulio was not eager and had early in his life discovered a method of getting his own way.

There was also a daughter—Isabella—who had married Francesco Gonzaga and was now Marchesa of Mantua. Isabella should have been a man. Ercole would have enjoyed having her with him now to discuss this proposed marriage. Doubtless she had heard of it in her castle, on the Mincio; and how furious she would be. He pictured her with pride … there in her castle which contained some of the best sculpture in Italy together with paintings, books, and any object which had claim to beauty. Isabella was what Ercole had wished all his children to be—intellectual. She should have been a man of course. Still, she ruled Mantua, it was said, as any man might, governing her husband and their subjects; and she was referred to as “the first woman of her age.” Isabella called attention to herself all the time. She made it known that her court was a refuge for artists; she must be unique; even her clothes were different from those worn by others, being designed by herself and made in the finest and most brilliantly patterned cloth. These clothes were copied, but by that time Isabella had discarded them.

Yes indeed, Ercole wished that Isabella was in Ferrara to give her opinion of the proposed marriage.

But she was not; so he must perforce go to the foundry to discuss it with Alfonso.

He made his way there. Alfonso was not in the building; he was lying out in the shade, eating a hunk of bread and an onion. His workmen lay beside him, and as he approached Ercole shivered with disgust, for it was impossible to tell which of those men was the heir of Ferrara and which his workmen. Alfonso was laughing heartily, possibly at some crude joke, and was fully at ease. But then he was always at ease. He did not care if the courtiers considered his manners crude; they were as Alfonso wished them to be and he made no apology for them. He would not even think of them. But at the same time he was clearly happier with the common people.

At the approach of the old Duke the workmen scrambled to their feet, and stood shambling and shuffling, not knowing how to act.

“Why, ’tis my father,” cried Alfonso. “Have you come to see the cannon fired, Father?”

“No,” said the Duke. “I have come to talk to you.” He waved a white and imperious hand at the workmen, who glanced sheepishly at Alfonso and, on receiving a nod from him, moved off.

“Come Father, sit here in the shade,” said Alfonso, patting the ground beside him.

The Duke hesitated, but he was hot and tired; and there was something endearing about this great bear of a man who was his eldest son, little as they had in common.

He looked about him for a moment and then sat down on the grass.

Alfonso turned his face toward him and as Ercole shrank from the strong odor of onion, he noticed that Alfonso’s hands were grimy, and there was a rim of thick dirt under his nails.

“If ever an enemy came to Ferrara,” he said, “I’d blast him out with my cannon.”

“I trust it would be effective,” said the Duke, flicking at a fly which had alighted on his brocade sleeve. “I have heard from the Pope. He hints that a marriage between you and his daughter would be desirable.”

Alfonso went on chewing onion, quite unperturbed. His mind was on his cannon.

How insensitive! thought the Duke. What would a bride think of him? What had his first wife thought of him? Poor Anna Sforza! But perhaps he should not have said Poor Anna. Anna had known how to take care of herself. She had not been to Alfonso’s taste. Not a feminine woman, but big and handsome. She had not had a chance against the greasy sluts of serving-girls who had claimed Alfonso’s attention. Had she turned shuddering from those grimy hands, from that onion-tainted breath, from a husband who was full of animal desire and completely without the niceties of refined living? Alfonso never wasted his time wooing; he saw a girl, seduced her and, if the experience pleased him, repeated the performance. Otherwise the affair was forgotten. Alfonso was a hearty, virile man.

Anna Sforza had not really been disturbed. She had her own tastes and, although as wife to the heir of Ferrara, she had been ready to bear him children, she was clearly glad when Alfonso spent his nights with a humble mistress and left her to dally with that pretty Negress whom she adored.

But Anna oddly enough, in an attempt to do her duty, had met her death. She had died in childbed. Not the first nor the last woman to do so; yet in Anna’s case it seemed doubly tragic.

“Well, Alfonso, what have you to say?”

“There has to be a marriage,” murmured Alfonso absently.

“But with the Borgias!”

Alfonso shrugged.

“And she a bastard!” went on Ercole.

“You’ll doubtless get a good dowry with her, Father,” said Alfonso with a grin. “That should please you.”

“Not for the biggest dowry in the world would I wish to see the house of Ferrara joined with that of the Borgias. Yet, if we refuse, we’ll have the Papacy against us. You realize what that will mean in these days of unrest.”

Alfonso’s eyes were shining. “We’ll use the cannon on any who come this way.”

“Cannon!” cried Ercole. “Of what use are your cannon against the Pope’s armies? And yet … and yet …”

“You’d be surprised if you saw them in action, Father.”

“The Pope’s armies …”

“No, no! My cannon. In days to come the cannon I shall make will have first place on the battlefield.”

“It is of this marriage that I wish to talk. Oh Alfonso, have you no sense of the fitness of things?”

It was the old cry. Some years ago this son of his had been wagered that he would not walk through the streets of Ferrara naked, with a sword in his hand. He had accepted the wager and done this thing. He had not understood that the people who had watched his progress would never forget what the heir of Ferrara had done.

Oh, why was not Ippolito the eldest son? But Ippolito might have made trouble. Or Ferrante? Ferrante was reckless. Sigismondo? One did not want a priest to rule a dukedom. Giulio was a bastard and Giulio had been spoilt because of his beauty. But what was the use of railing against these sons of his? Alfonso was the eldest and for all his crudeness he was at least a man.

“Well, you do not seem in the least perturbed,” said the Duke.

“There’ll be compensations, I doubt not,” murmured Alfonso. His thoughts were back in the foundry; at this time of day—unless some luscious girl crossed his path—cannons were so much more interesting than women.

“Oh, there might be compensations,” agreed the Duke, rising, “but none would be great enough for me to welcome union with that notorious family.”

He rose and walked away and, as he did so, he heard Alfonso, whistling—in the coarsest possible manner—to his men.



It was carnival time in Urbino, and Guidobaldo di Montefeltre, the Duke found himself forced to entertain Cesare Borgia while he was waiting for the surrender of the town of Faenza.

The Duke was not pleased, but he dared do nothing else. Cesare, who had now assumed the title of Duke of Romagna, was an enemy to be feared, as none was entirely sure in which direction his armies would turn next.

So to the castle came the newly made Duke of Romagna, and it was necessary for the Duke and his proud wife, Elizabetta Gonzaga (who was sister to Francesco Gonzaga, husband of Isabella d’Este) to receive Cesare with all honor.

Elizabetta hated the Borgias; she had a score to settle with them. Her husband had been prematurely struck down with gout and found walking difficult and he who had once been a great soldier was now a victim of periodic immobility. But the Duke was of a kindly nature and ready to forget the past. Elizabetta, proud, haughty, looking on herself as an aristocrat, resented the Borgias and the treatment her husband had received at their hands, for it was Guidobaldo who had been with Giovanni Borgia when war had been waged against the Orsinis at Bracciano; and forced to obey the unwarlike commands of Giovanni Borgia, Guidobaldo had been wounded and taken prisoner. It was during the months in a French prison that he had contracted his gout and his health had been impaired forever; during that time the Borgia Pope had made no effort to have him released, and it was his own family who had been hard pressed to find the necessary ransom.

Such matters rankled with a proud woman like Elizabetta; only one as gentle as Guidobaldo could forget.

Now they were forced to entertain Cesare, and, as in the ball-room, Cesare was looking about him for the most attractive of the women. Elizabetta watched him, her lips tight. She deplored the necessity to entertain one whose reputation was so evil.

Elizabetta, dressed in black velvet which she considered decorous, insisted that all her ladies wear the same, and Cesare, accustomed to the splendor of the Roman ladies felt his spirits flag.

He was wishing that he had not come to Urbino. The gouty old Duke and his prim wife were not companions such as he would have chosen, but he did enjoy a certain amount of fun by watching their apprehension.

“Yours is an attractive domain,” he told them, and he let them see the glitter in his eyes.

They did not want trouble with the Pope, this Duke and Duchess; and they knew that the might of the Pope was behind his son.

Let them tremble in their shoes. If they could not give Cesare the entertainment he desired, at least let him enjoy what he could.

But Cesare suddenly discovered among the assembly a beautiful girl, and he immediately demanded of Elizabetta who she was.

Elizabetta smiled triumphantly. “She is a virtuous girl—Dorotea da Crema. She is staying here for a while but is on her way to join her future husband.”

“She is enchanting to the eye,” said Cesare. “I should like to speak with her.”

“It might be arranged,” said Elizabetta. “I will call her and her duenna.”

“Is the duenna the plump lady in black? Then I pray you do not call her.”

“My lord, even for you we cannot dispense with custom.”

“Then,” said Cesare lightly, “to enjoy the company of the beauty I must perforce put up with the dragon.”

Dorotea was charming.

Cesare asked if he might lead her in the dance.

“I fear not, my lord,” said the duenna. “My lady is on her way to join her future husband and, until she is married, she is not allowed to dance alone with any man.”

“Alone … here in this ball-room!”

The duenna pursed her lips and held her head on one side with the air of one who has come up against an insurmountable obstacle. Cesare’s anger flared up, but he hid it. The limpid eyes of the girl were on him for a second, before she lowered them.

“It is a senseless custom,” said Cesare furiously.

No one answered.

He turned to the girl then. “When do you leave here?”

“At the end of the week,” she answered.

She was very innocent, afraid of him, and yet a little attracted. Perhaps she had heard of his reputation; perhaps he seemed to her like the devil himself. Well, even the most innocent of virgins must be a little excited to be pursued by the devil.

“I leave tomorrow,” he told her. “And that is as well.”

“Why so?” she asked.

“Because, since I am not allowed to dance with you, it is better that we should not meet. I find the desire to dance with you overwhelming.”

She looked eagerly at her duenna, but that lady was not glancing her way.

“What a bore is etiquette!” murmured Cesare. “Tell me, who is the most fortunate man in the world?”

“They say that you are, my lord. They talk of your conquests and say that every town you approach falls into your hands.”

“It’s true, you know. But I was referring to the man you are to marry. Remember that I am not allowed to dance with you; so I am not as fortunate as you had thought me.”

“That is a small matter,” she answered, “compared with the conquest of a kingdom.”

“That which we desire intensely is never small. What is the name of your husband?”

“Gian Battista Carracciolo.”

“Oh happy Gian Battista!”

“He is a Captain in the Venetian army.”

“I would I were in his shoes.”

“You … jest. How could that be so—you who are Duke of Romagna?”

“There are some titles which we would give up in exchange for … others.”

“Titles, my lord? For what further title could you wish?”

“To be the lover of the fair Dorotea.”

She laughed. “This is idle talk, and it does not please my duenna.”

“Must we please her?”

“Indeed we must.”

Elizabetta watched with satisfaction. She said to the duenna: “It is time your charge retired. We must not have her fatigued while she is with us. A long journey lies before her and travel can be so exhausting. Remember you are in my charge and I must consider your comfort.”

The duenna bowed and Dorotea took her leave of Elizabetta. Her eyes lingered for a second on the figure of the Duke of Romagna. She shivered faintly, and was thankful that she was in the charge of her sometimes tiresome duenna.

Cesare felt angry and frustrated when she had gone. He was no longer interested in the entertainment, for the women seemed dull and prim to him, and he was filled with an urgent desire—which was fast becoming a necessity—to make the lovely Dorotea his mistress.

Dorotea rode out from Urbino surrounded by her friends and attendants.

They were all chatting about the ceremony and the clothes they would wear and how soon they would enter the Venetian Republic and there find Gian Battista Carracciolo waiting to greet them.

They were close to Cervia when a band of cavalry came galloping toward them. They were not alarmed; it did not occur to them that these horsemen would do them any harm; but as they came nearer it was seen that they were masked, and Dorotea was sure there was something familiar about their leader who shouted to them to halt.

The wedding party drew up. “You will not be harmed,” they were told. “We seek one of your party; the rest may travel on unharmed.”

Dorotea began to tremble, because she understood.

Her duenna said in a shaking voice: “You are mistaken in us. We are simple travelers on our way to Venice. We are going to attend a wedding.”

The masked man who had seemed familiar to Dorotea had ridden up to her, forced her duenna aside and laid a hand on her bridle.

“Have no fear,” he whispered. Then leading her horse after him, he moved away from the crowd while one of his men seized the youngest and prettiest of Dorotea’s maids and the men galloped away taking the girls with them.

“How dare you!” cried Dorotea. “Release me at once.”

Her captor only laughed, and there was something devilish in his laughter which filled her with terror.

She looked back; she could see the group on the road, the soldiers surrounding her party, preventing pursuit; and she knew that the masked man who had abducted her was Cesare Borgia; she knew the meaning of this and that Gian Battista Carracciolo would wait in vain for his bride, for Cesare Borgia had seen her, desired, waylaid her that his lust might be satisfied.



Isabella d’Este, when she heard of her brother’s proposed marriage with Lucrezia, was furious.

She wrote at once to her father, Duke Ercole, and told him that on no account must Lucrezia Borgia join the family. It was preposterous. These upstart Borgias … who were they to think of mingling their blood with the best in Italy?

She could tell him a great deal about the Borgias. Giovanni Sforza, Lucrezia’s first husband, had been staying in her court and the tales he had to tell would have been past belief if they had not concerned the Borgias.

The divorce had been arranged, so said Isabella, because the Pope was jealous of Lucrezia’s husband and wanted her all to himself. Incredible? But these were Borgias. It was said that Lucrezia had been the mistress of all her brothers. That too seemed absurd. Must she remind him again that these were Borgias? Had he heard the latest scandal? Dorotea da Crema, on her way to meet her bridegroom, had been waylaid by Cesare Borgia and taken off to be raped. The poor girl had not been heard of since. And it was a member of that brute’s family to whom her father was thinking of marrying the heir of Ferrara!

Isabella was right, mused Ercole. He wanted no Borgia in his family; but he must be very careful how he worded his refusal to the Pope.

There had been a time when a marriage between Alfonso and Louise d’Angoulême had been suggested. Therefore Ercole wrote, greatly regretting having to refuse the offer made by the Pope, but explaining that his son Alfonso had already made promises to this lady and was consequently not in a position to consider the brilliant marriage with His Holiness’s daughter which the Pope so generously offered.

Ercole settled down in peace. Alfonso must marry soon. But it should not be with a Borgia.



When Alexander received Ercole’s letter he became pensive. It was clear to him that Ercole was not eager to ally his house with the Borgias. Then he grew angry.

There were other matters which gave cause for thought. The abduction and rape of Dorotea was arousing indignation throughout Italy, and even Louis of France had added his protest to the rest, sending, as a gesture of disapproval, Yves d’Allegre to Cesare to protest. Louis had been really angry, because the heartbroken bridegroom, Carracciolo, declared his intention of leaving Venice and searching through the whole country until he found his bride. As the Venetian army was under his command and there was fear of an invasion from Maximilian of Austria, there was great consternation among the French at the prospect of Carracciolo’s desertion in order to conduct his purely personal affairs.

Cesare, confronted by the envoys of the King of France, denied all knowledge of the whereabouts of Dorotea.

“I have as many women as I want,” he retorted. “Why should I cause such trouble by abducting this one?”

Many pretended to accept his word, realizing that to appear to doubt it would do little to help; but Carracciolo vowed vengeance on the Borgias, being certain that the man who had robbed him of his bride was Cesare.

In the Vatican, the Pope loudly proclaimed Cesare’s innocence in the affair of Dorotea; but he was very perturbed by the refusal of the Duke of Ferrara to accept Lucrezia as a bride for his son.

He pondered on the Duke, whose main characteristic he deemed to be his meanness. Ercole would go to great lengths to avoid spending money; but if there was anything he would hate to part with more than money it was a single yard of the territory over which he ruled.

The Pope wrote to Ercole that it saddened him to think Alfonso was already engaged with another lady; but he was sure that great good could come to their houses by a marriage which would unite them, and he thought they should not lightly dismiss the plan. Alfonso was not available; Ippolito was a man of the Church; so he would give Lucrezia to Ferrara’s third son, Ferrante. Now his daughter was very rich, and he must have a kingdom for her. It was his suggestion—and his wish, he implied—that Ferrante should be given that portion of Ferrara known as Modena, which could be made the State of Modena and ruled over by Ferrante and Lucrezia.

“Carve up Ferrara!” was the old Duke’s comment. “Never!”

But he feared that the Pope would be adamant. He was certain of this when, appealing to the French for help (Ferrara had been an ally of the French for many years) he was told by Louis that a marriage between Este and Borgia was not displeasing to the French, and Louis’ advice was to continue with negotiations.

Ercole knew then that Louis wished for the Pope’s help in conquering Naples; France was the ally of the Vatican and as a consequence, Ferrara must suffer.

When Ercole received that intimation from the French he knew that he had to accept that which he hated.

But he would never carve up Ferrara. It was better to forget old contracts with Louise d’Angoulême. It was better for the marriage—since marriage there must be—to be between Alfonso and Lucrezia.

The Pope, walking with Lucrezia in the gardens of the Vatican, kept his arm in hers as they strolled among the flowers.

“It makes me happy to see you yourself again,” he was telling her. “Lucrezia sad was like another being, not my bright daughter. And now I know you are pleased with this marriage which your loving father has arranged for you.”

“Yes, Father,” she answered, “I am pleased.”

“I grieve that you must go so far from home.”

“But you will visit me, and I you, Father. We shall never be separated for long.”

He pressed her arm tenderly.

“You will be Duchess of Ferrara, my precious one. From the moment of the marriage the title will be yours. Fortunately old Ercole has no wife living, so you will be entitled to call yourself Duchess of Ferrara.”

“Yes, Father.”

“A fine title which will make you equal with the Princesses of Italy. That was what I always wanted for my little girl.”

She was silent, thinking: How strange that I should look forward to this marriage. How strange that I should want to go away from my home.

This elation within her was due to the fact that escape was imminent. She was about to tear herself free from the bonds. She had imagined them like the threads of a spider’s web, but they were made of flesh and blood and the wrenching apart would be painful.

And this husband of hers? She had seen his picture. He was big; he looked strong; but what had appealed to her most on examining that picture was the certain knowledge that he would not be a man to disturb her innermost self. She would give him children, and that would satisfy him; he would never want to know how much she had cared for his predecessors, how much she had suffered when that other Alfonso was murdered; he would never seek to discover the secret of that strange relationship between herself and Cesare, herself and her father. He was a practical man; he had his workshop and a host of mistresses. Many of the children in the villages of Ferrara were begotten by him. He was unrefined, he was called crude, yet, oddly enough, all that she heard of him pleased her. She would know her duty and she would perform it; and her secret life would be left inviolate. She would be alone in Ferrara, able to ponder on her life, to understand herself.

It was not the marriage to which she was looking forward; it was to freedom, to what she scarcely dared to think of as escape. But she let the Pope believe that it was the marriage which pleased her.

“They have made a hard bargain with us, Lucrezia,” mused Alexander. “A dowry of 100,000 ducats and treasure worth 75,000 ducats, as well as the castles of Pieve and Cento.”

“It is a great deal to ask of you, Father, for ridding you of your daughter.”

“Ah!” laughed Alexander. “But it is the marriage I always wanted for you. Duchess of Ferrara, Lucrezia, my love! Alfonso, your husband, the legitimate heir of his father. It is a fine match, a grand match. And my beloved is worthy of it.”

“But it is a high price for it.”

“There is more than that. They insist on their tithes being reduced—4,000 ducats to 100. What impudence! But wily old Ercole knows how I have set my heart on this match. He is also asking for further honors for Ippolito. And this will not be all.”

“It is too much.”

“Nay. I’d give my tiara for your happiness, if need be.”

She smiled at him, thinking: It is true. You would give much to buy me a grand marriage. But you could not mourn with me one hour when my husband was murdered.

Little Roderigo, in the gardens with his nurse, came toddling toward them.

“Ho!” cried Alexander, and picked up the little boy, and swung him above his head. Roderigo’s fat hand reached for Alexander’s not inconsiderable nose and tried to pull it. “Such impudence! Such sacrilege!” went on Alexander. “Do you know, young sir, that that is the sacred nose you mishandle so, eh?”

Roderigo crowed with pleasure, and Alexander, in a sudden passion of love, held the boy tight against him, so tightly that Roderigo set up a noisy protest. Alexander kissed him and put him down. He smiled at the nurse, a pretty creature, and murmuring a blessing, he let his hand rest on her soft hair.

“Take care of my grandson,” he said tenderly. He would visit the nursery this evening. There he would find a double pleasure—the company of the boy and his nurse.

Lucrezia, watching, thought it was like the old pattern she remembered so well. Alexander did not change; thus had he visited that nursery on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo, where she and her two brothers had eagerly awaited his coming, even as young Roderigo would wait now. Had there been a pretty nurse then to catch his attention? Perhaps not; Vannozza, their mother, would have made sure that there was not.

“You will miss Roderigo when we leave for Ferrara,” said Lucrezia.

There was a short silence, and Lucrezia was aware of a sudden fear.

Alexander said gently: “If it were necessary for you to leave him behind, you would know he was receiving the best of care.”

So it had been arranged. She was to leave Roderigo behind her. It was hardly likely that they would have allowed her to take him. The Estes would not want this child of a former marriage. Why, oh why, had this not occurred to her before she had shown her willingness for the match!

The Pope was looking at her anxiously. Her face, she guessed, showed her misery, and he would remember the weeks when she had mourned the murdered Alfonso. He was afraid now that she was going to be sad and he wanted her so desperately to be gay.

“Oh Father,” she said impulsively, “perhaps after all this marriage will bring no happiness to me.”

He caught her hand and kissed it. “It will bring great happiness, my Duchess. You have nothing to fear. You can trust me to care for Roderigo, for is he not your son! Does he not belong to us?”

“Father …” she faltered.

But he interrupted her. “You think that perhaps I shall not always be here.”

“Do not speak of such a thing. It is more than I can bear.”

He laughed. “Your father is an old man, Lucrezia. He is close to seventy years of age. Few live as long, and those who do cannot hope for much longer.”

“We cannot think of it,” she cried. “We dare not think of it. When we were little, it was you … Uncle Roderigo then … from whom all blessings flowed. It has not changed. Father, if you died, what would become of us? We should be only half alive, I believe.”

He enjoyed such talk. He knew that it was not flattery; there was no hyperbole … or perhaps but a little. They did need him—now as they always had. His delicate Lucrezia, his strong Cesare.

“I am strong and have much life in me yet,” he said. “But, my dearest, to satisfy you, the little one shall have another guardian besides myself. What think you of our kinsman, Francesco Borgia? The Cardinal is gentle; he loves you; he loves the child. Would you feel happier then, Lucrezia?”

“I would trust Francesco,” she said.

“Then so shall it be.”

He took her hand and noticed that it was trembling. “Lucrezia,” he said, “you are no longer a child. I shall be making a short tour of the territories very soon. I am going to leave you in charge, to take over my secular duties.”

She was aghast. “But … I am a woman, and this is a task for your most important Cardinals.”

“I would show them all that my daughter is equal to any task with which, as a Borgia, she may be faced.”

She smiled tremulously; she knew that he understood her fears of the new life which was stretching out before her. He wanted her to prove herself; he wanted to inspire her with the courage she would need.

He loved her with a devotion as great as he could feel for any and she loved him. She loved him fiercely, passionately; and she asked herself then: Is there some curse on us Borgias, that our love must be of such an intensity that there comes a point in our lives when we must turn from it, fly from it?



Rome was gay; the streets were crowded, everyone in the City wished to catch a glimpse of Lucrezia on her way to Santa Maria del Popolo, where she was going to give thanks because the Duke of Ferrara had at last signed the marriage contract between herself and his heir, Alfonso.

The Pope had wanted to make a grand occasion of this and, with that Borgian love of showmanship, he had arranged a pageant to dazzle even the eyes of Romans. As with all these spectacles the occasion was not only serious but gay, not only a solemn ceremony, but a masquerade. The cannons of St. Angelo were booming, and the bells were ringing all over the seven hills of Rome. Lucrezia, glittering with jewels, her dress trimmed with gold and precious stones, the net which held her hair being composed of gold and jewels, rode in triumph through the streets; with her were the ladies and noblemen of her court, three hundred in all, together with the ambassadors of Spain and France.

The people crowded about the doorway of the church as Lucrezia entered and made her way to Alexander’s impressive marble tabernacle where she knelt to thank God for bringing this great honor to her.

Her secular regency during Alexander’s absence had been a great success; she had dealt with all matters which were not ecclesiastical, and the Cardinals had all been astonished by her gravity and grasp of affairs.

For the first time in her life Lucrezia had been aware of responsibility, and she enjoyed the experience. Cardinal Giorgio Costa, who was eighty-five, had made himself her adviser in particular and delighting in her youth had done a great deal to make the regency a success. It seemed impossible for these Cardinals, when they contemplated this serenely beautiful girl who so desired to please and listened so gravely to their advice, to believe those evil rumors they had heard concerning her. When the Pope returned he was immediately aware of the respect she had won, and knew that it had been a masterly stroke of his to appoint Lucrezia Regent.

Now she came out of the church. It was growing dusk and as she rode back to the Vatican the people shouted: “Long live the Duchess of Ferrara! Long live Alexander VI!”

As soon as it was dark the firework display began; and Lucrezia’s dwarfs, all brilliantly clad, ran through the crowds, shouting “Long live the Duchess of Ferrara!” and singing songs about her virtue and her beauty.

The people, who loved a spectacle of this nature more than anything, were quite ready to forget old scandals and cry aloud “Long live the virtuous Duchess of Ferrara!”

The Pope was in the center of the celebrations, presiding over the banquet, making sure that the ambassadors and all those emissaries from foreign courts should know how he esteemed his daughter; this was a mark of his affection; it was also a warning to the Estes of how great his wrath would be if they attempted to slide out of their agreement or, when his daughter arrived in Ferrara, they did not give her all the respect due to their Duchess.

And the next day, after the traditional custom, Lucrezia gave her dress to her jester, who put it on and rode through the city, shouting “Hurrah for the Duchess of Ferrara!” The crowds followed him, shrieking with delight to see the fool so clad, making obscene gestures to the “bride”; all of which was watched by Lucrezia and the Pope with great amusement.

Now that the marriage agreement was signed by Ercole there was one matter which the Pope had long wished to settle and at this time felt he was able to do so. He sent for Lucrezia one day and, when she came to him and he had received her with his usual affection, he dismissed all attendants and said to her: “My daughter, I have something to show you!”

She was expecting a jewel, some piece of rich brocade, some article which was to be yet another wedding present for her, but she was mistaken.

The Pope went to the door of an ante-room and spoke to someone who was waiting there. “You may go,” he said. “I will take the child.”

Then he returned to Lucrezia and he was holding by the hand a beautiful little boy aged about three years.

As Lucrezia stared at the child she felt the blood rush to her face. Those beautiful dark eyes were like a pair she had once known, and memory came rushing back to her. She was in the convent of San Sisto where a dark-eyed Spaniard had visited her—handsome, charming, passionate.

“Yes,” said the Pope, “it is he.”

Lucrezia knelt down and would have taken the boy into her arms, but he drew back, watching her solemnly, a little distrustful, bewildered.

Lucrezia thought: And how could it be otherwise? It is three years since he was born … and all those years he has not seen his mother.

“Come, my little man,” said the Pope. “What have you to say to the beautiful lady?”

“She is beautiful,” said the boy, putting out a brown finger to touch the jewels on Lucrezia’s fingers. He put his face down to those hands and made little clucking sounds of pleasure. He liked the smell of musk with which she scented her hands.

“Look at me, little one,” said Lucrezia, “not at my trinkets.”

Then the solemn eyes surveyed her cautiously, and she was unable to resist taking him into her arms and covering his face with kisses.

The Pope looked on, benign and happy. His greatest joy was in bringing pleasure to his loved ones; and this little boy—like most children and especially those who had Borgia blood in their veins—had immediately captivated him.

“Please,” said the boy, “I do not like being kissed.”

That amused the Pope. “Later you will, my son,” he cried. “Later you will not spurn the kisses of beautiful women.”

“Don’t like to be kissed,” reiterated the boy.

“Have you not been kissed much?” asked Lucrezia.

He shook his head.

“I think I should be tempted to kiss you often,” she told him; which made him move hastily away from her and closer to the Pope.

“Little Giovanni likes his new home, does he not?” asked the Pope.

Little Giovanni’s eyes lighted as he looked up into the impressive countenance, which might have been terrifying, but which was redeemed by that beautiful expression which enchanted young and old.

“Giovanni wants to stay with the Holy Father,” he said.

Alexander’s lips twitched with pleasure and emotion; the white hands caressed the child’s thick curly hair. “Then you shall, my son, you shall, for His Holiness is as delighted with Giovanni as Giovanni is with His Holiness.”

“Holiness, Holiness,” chanted Giovanni.

“Come,” said the Pope, “tell the lady your name.”

“It is Giovanni.”

“Giovanni what?”

“Giovanni Borgia.”

“Borgia indeed! Never forget that. It is the most important part. There are thousands of Giovannis in Italy, but few Borgias; and that is the name you will be proud to bear.”

“Borgia …!” repeated Giovanni.

“Oh Giovanni,” cried Lucrezia, “did you mind leaving your old home?”

Giovanni’s eyes clouded slightly. “This is a better one,” he said.

“Of a certainty it is,” said the Pope. “It contains His Holiness and the beautiful Madonna Lucrezia.”

“Madonna Lucrezia,” murmured the boy almost shyly.

Alexander picked him up and kissed him.

“There,” he said. “You have seen him.”

“He is to stay here now?”

The Pope nodded. “He shall stay with his Holy Father who loves him, for that is what he wishes.”

Giovanni nodded gravely.

“Now we will return him to his nursery, and then you and I will have a little talk. I would wish you to see how happy he is there, and how well he gets on with his little friend and kinsman.”

So, carrying young Giovanni, the Pope led the way to the nursery, where little Roderigo was seated on the floor playing with bricks which he was trying to build into a tower. When he saw Lucrezia he got to his feet and came stumbling toward her.

She lifted him in her arms and he showed no resentment at her kisses. Then he pointed to Giovanni and said: “Giovanni.”

Lucrezia’s voice was broken with emotion as she said: “So you love little Giovanni?”

“Big Giovanni,” Roderigo reminded her; then his attention was caught by the great ruby she wore in her necklace, and his fingers closed over it and his big eyes started in wonder.

She hugged him and felt the tears rushing to her eyes.

Alexander saw them and said: “Let us leave the children with their nurses. I have something to say to you.”

So they left the nursery and Alexander put his arm about her as he led her back to his apartment.

“You see,” he told her. “I kept my promise. I have sent for him that he may be brought up as one of us.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“I fear I let this break upon you too suddenly. I should have prepared you. But I hoped to give you a great pleasure, and I could not keep the treat hidden any longer. He is a beautiful boy—already I see the Borgia in him.”

She turned to him suddenly and threw herself into his arms. “I’m sorry, Father, but it brings it all back … so vividly.”

He stroked her hair gently. “I know, my beloved. I saw that in your face. And these tears of yours are tears of joy, are they not. You see the boy has been well looked after. You need never worry on that score. I shall give him an estate and titles. He shall be as one of us. Have no fear for his future, Lucrezia. It is in my hands.”

She kissed those hands. “The kindest and most capable hands in the world,” she murmured.

“Their greatest joy is in making happiness for my dear daughter.”

“But Father, he is my son, even as Roderigo is, and it saddens me to have to leave them.”

“True, you cannot take them with you into Ferrara; but you know they are safe here.”

“You wanted your children to grow up round you, Father. I want the same.”

He was silent. “I know this.” Then he smiled brilliantly. “Why should you not have them with you … in time, eh, Lucrezia? I know that you are full of wiles; you are charming and beautiful. When you wanted something of me, did you not invariably get it? Why? Because you were enchanting and I loved you so much that I could not refuse. I doubt not that you will soon learn to get what you want from your husband, as you do from your father.”

“You mean in time I may persuade him to let me have the boys with me.”

He kissed her tenderly. “I doubt it not,” he said.