Jean Plaidy_Lucrezia Borgia 01
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She took his hand and kissed it and her eyes had lost their mildness as she raised them to his. She had never seen him look quite so happy as he did then. He had cast aside all resentment; he had forgotten that he was an Archbishop and Giovanni a Duke. The crowd was acclaiming him, and Lucrezia was telling him of the depth and breadth of her love for him.
Lucrezia planned a ball in honor of her brave matador.
“And what of the hero of the joust?” demanded Giovanni.
“For him also,” said Lucrezia fondly.
She wanted them to be together; it was only when she was conscious of their intense rivalry that she could feel she was back in her childhood.
So at the ball she danced with Giovanni while Cesare glowered, and with Cesare while Giovanni looked on with smoldering jealousy. Often the Pope would be present on such occasions and there was astonishment among the spectators that the Holy Father could look on smiling while his sons and daughter danced the strangely erotic Spanish dances, and that he could witness the jealous passion of these two brothers—and the sister’s pleasure in it—with such tolerant amusement.
Lucrezia would be seen riding between her brothers to Monte Mario to watch the noblemen trying out their falcons, laughing, laying wagers as to which of the birds would win the prize.
As for Giovanni Sforza, he lived like an outsider in this strange household. The marriage was not yet to be consummated. At that he shrugged his shoulders. He was not a man deeply interested in such pleasures, and his needs could be supplied by the occasional summoning of a courtesan. But there were occasions when he resented the continual presence of those two overbearing young men, and on one of these he ventured to protest to his wife. She had returned with her brothers from riding and when she went to her apartment he followed her there; he turned and waved a dismissal at her attendants. They obeyed the signal and did not enter the room.
Lucrezia smiled tentatively at him. Wishing to live on good terms with all, she was always polite to her husband.
Sforza then said to his wife: “This is a strange life you lead. You are constantly in the company of one of your brothers—or both.”
“Is it strange?” she asked. “They are my brothers.”
“Your conduct is talked of throughout Rome.”
Lucrezia’s eyes were wide with surprise.
“Do you not understand what is being said?”
“I have not heard it.”
“One day,” said Sforza, “you will be my wife in very truth. I would have you remember that that day must surely come. I would ask you to see less of your brothers.”
“They would never allow it,” said Lucrezia. “Even if I wished it.”
There was a sound of laughter from without and the brothers entered the room. They stood side by side, legs thrust apart, and it was not their obvious strength and vigor which sent a twinge of alarm through Sforza. He felt then that there was something to fear which was as yet unseen, and that any normal man who made an enemy of them must certainly go in fear of his life.
They were not scowling, and Sforza felt it might have been better if they were. They were smiling, and Lucrezia and her husband might not have been in the room, for all the notice the brothers took of them.
Giovanni said, as his hand rested lightly on his sword: “This man our sister has married … it has come to my ears that he resents our presence in her house.”
“He should have his tongue cut out if he has made such a monstrous suggestion,” drawled Cesare.
“And doubtless will,” added Giovanni, half drawing his sword from its sheath and letting it fall back again. “Who is this man?”
“A bastard son of the tyrant of Pesaro, I have heard.”
“And Pesaro, what is Pesaro?”
“But a small town on the Adriatic coast.”
“A beggar … little more, eh? I remember he came to his wedding in a borrowed necklace.”
“What should we do to such a one if he became insolent?”
Giovanni Borgia laughed softly. “He will not become insolent, brother. Beggar he may be, bastard he is, but he is not such a fool as all that.”
Then they laughed and turned to the door.
Lucrezia and Sforza heard them shouting and laughing as they went out. Lucrezia ran to the window. It was a strange sight to see the Borgia brothers walking together like friends.
Sforza was still standing where he had been when the door had opened. During the time when the brothers had been speaking he had felt unable to move, so strongly had he been aware of an overwhelming sense of evil.
Lucrezia had turned from the window and was looking at him. There was compassion in her gaze and the compassion was for him; for the first time since she had seen him Lucrezia was aware of some feeling for him, and he for her.
He knew that she too was conscious of that evil which had seemed to emanate from her brothers.
As the brothers walked away they knew that Lucrezia was at the window watching them.
Cesare said: “That will doubtless make the fool think twice before he speaks slightingly of us again.”
“Did you see him quail before us?” said Giovanni with a laugh. “I tell you, brother, it was all I could do to prevent myself drawing my sword and giving him a prick or two.”
“You showed great restraint, brother.”
“You also.”
Giovanni glanced sideways at Cesare. Then he said: “Strange looks come our way. Have you noticed?”
“We have rarely been seen walking thus amicably together. That is the reason.”
“Before you begin to scowl at me, Cesare, let me say this: There are times when you and I should stand together. All Borgias must do this sometimes. You hate me as my father’s favorite, for my dukedom and the bride I shall have. The bride is no beauty, if that is any consolation to you. She has a long horse-face. You would fancy her no more than I do.”
“I would take her and the dukedom of Gandia in exchange for my Archbishopric.”
“That you would, Cesare, that you would. But I will keep her, and my dukedom. I would not be an Archbishop even though the Papal throne was to be mine in the future.”
“Our father has a long life before him.”
“I pray Heaven that it is so. But, Archbishop … nay, do not glower so … Archbishop, let us continue this friendship just for one hour. We have our common enemies. Let us consider them as we did the Sforza a short while ago.”
“And these enemies?”
“The accursed Farnese. Is it not a fact that that woman, Giulia Farnese, demands what she will of our father and it is granted her?”
“ ’Tis true enough,” murmured Cesare.
“Brother, shall we allow this state of affairs to continue?”
“I agree with you, my lord Duke, that it would be well to put an end to it.”
“Then, my lord Archbishop, let us put our heads together and bring about that happy state of affairs.”
“How so?”
“She is but a woman, and there are other women. I have in my suite a nun from Valencia. She has beauty, grace and the charm of a nun. She has given me great pleasure. I think I shall put her to the service of my father. I have a Moorish slave also, a dusky beauty. They make a satisfactory pair—the nun and the slave; the one all vestal reluctance, the other … insatiably passionate. We will go to our father, you and I, and we will tell him of the virtues of these two. He will wish to share … and sharing, who knows, he may forget the beautiful Giulia. At least she will not be the sole playmate of his leisure hours. There is safety in numbers; it is when there is one—and rarely any other—that one sees danger ahead.”
“Let us visit him now. Let us tell him of your nun and your slave. He will at least be eager to see them and, if they are all you say … well, it might be that we can loosen the hold of the Farnese on our Holy Father.”
The two young men went across the square to the Vatican while many eyes followed them, marvelling at this new friendship.
Vannozza, happy with her husband, Carlo Canale, was dizzy with joy. Often her children came to see her and nothing delighted her more than to give intimate little parties for their entertainment. Her talk was mostly of her children; my son, the Duke, my son, the Archbishop, my daughter, the Countess of Pesaro. And now she would be able to talk equally proudly of her Goffredo. He would be a Duke or a Prince very shortly as the Pope was to make a grand marriage for him.
This showed clearly, thought Vannozza, that Alexander no longer doubted that Goffredo was his son. But this was not so; Alexander continued to doubt. Yet he was of the opinion that the more brilliant the marriages he could make for his children, the better for the Borgias generally; he wished he had a dozen sons; therefore it was expedient to thrust aside all doubt and, at least in the eyes of the world, accept Goffredo as his.
The moment was propitious to arrange a new Borgia marriage. Ferrante, the King of Naples, had watched with concern the growing friendship between the Vatican and the Sforzas of Milan.
Alexander, sensualist though he was, was also a clever diplomat. He preferred to be on good terms with the rival houses of Milan and Naples. Moreover, Spain was naturally favorable to the ruling house of Naples, which was Spanish in origin and maintained the Spanish customs at the Court.
Ferrante was aware of the Pope’s desire for friendship and had sent his son, Federico, to Rome with proposals to lay before the Holy Father.
Ferrante’s elder son, Alfonso, who was heir to the throne of Naples, had a natural daughter, Sanchia, and Ferrante’s suggestion was that Sanchia should be betrothed to the Pope’s youngest son. That Goffredo was but eleven years and Sanchia sixteen was no handicap; nor was her illegitimacy, for illegitimacy was not considered an important stigma in fifteenth-century Italy, although of course legitimate children took precedence over natural ones. Goffredo himself was illegitimate; therefore it seemed a good match.
Little Goffredo was delighted. He came hurrying to Lucrezia, as soon as he heard the news, to impart it to her.
“I, sister, I too am to be married. Is not that great good news? I am to go to Naples and marry a Princess.”
Lucrezia embraced him and wished him happiness, and the little boy ran about the apartment dancing with an imaginary bride, going through the ceremony which he had seen Lucrezia perform with her husband.
Cesare and Giovanni called on their sister, and Goffredo ran to them and told them the news. Lucrezia knew that they had already heard; she was aware of this because of Cesare’s sullen looks. This was another reminder that he was the only one of them who must remain unmarried.
“What a bridegroom you will be!” said Giovanni. “An eleven-year-old bridegroom of a sixteen-year-old bride who is, unless rumor lies … but no matter. Your Sanchia is a beauty—a great beauty, my brother—so whatever else she may be she will be forgiven.”
Goffredo began to walk about the apartment on his toes to make himself look taller. He stopped suddenly, his eyes questioning; then he looked toward Cesare.
“Everybody is pleased,” he said, “except my lord brother.”
“You know why he is ill-pleased, do you not?” cried Giovanni. “It is because as a holy man of the Church there can be no bride for him.”
Goffredo’s face puckered suddenly, and he went to Cesare. “If you wish for a bride, my lord,” he said, “I would give you mine; for I should find no pleasure in her if by possessing her I should cause you pain.”
Cesare’s eyes glinted as he looked at the boy. He had not known until that moment how firmly Goffredo admired him. The little boy standing there clearly implied that he thought Cesare the most wonderful person in the world; and with Lucrezia and his young brother, to admire him thus, Cesare felt suddenly happy.
He did not care for Giovanni’s taunts. He gloried in his rivalry with Giovanni because he had made up his mind that one day Giovanni was going to pay for every insult, just as any other man or woman would.
“You are a good boy, Goffredo,” he said.
“Cesare, you believe I am your brother … entirely your brother, do you not?”
Cesare embraced the boy and assured him that he did; and Lucrezia watching saw all the cruelty and the hardness leave her brother’s face. Like that, she thought, my brother Cesare is surely the most beautiful person in the world.
Lucrezia longed for peace between them all. They were all together now, and Cesare was delighted by the artless words of the boy. If Giovanni would only join then in their happy circle, they could dispense with rivalry; they could be as she longed to see them, in complete harmony.
“I will play wedding songs on my lute, and we will sing,” she cried. “We will pretend we are already at Goffredo’s wedding.”
She clapped her hands and a slave brought her lute; then she sat on cushions, her golden hair falling about her shoulders; and as her fingers touched the lute she began to sing.
Goffredo stood behind her, and laying his hands on her shoulders sang with her.
The brothers watched them, listening; and for a short while peace was with them all.
Now there was more merrymaking at the Vatican in honor of the formal betrothal of Goffredo and Sanchia of Aragon which took place in the Pope’s apartments, Federico, Prince of Altamura and uncle of the bride, taking her place. This was conducted in the presence of the Pope with all the ceremony of a true marriage.
There was a great deal of merriment because little Goffredo as the husband looked so incongruous beside the Prince who was taking the place of the bride, and ribald comments soon broke out; nor were these checked by the presence of the Holy Father who in fact laughed more heartily than anybody and even added to the quips.
There was nothing Alexander liked better than what he called a good joke, and by good he meant bawdy. Federico, finding himself the butt of all the amusement and being something of an actor, then began to amuse the company by playing the part of bride with such fluttering of eyelashes and coy gestures that what took place in the Vatican was more like a masque than a solemn ceremony.
Federico continued with his acting at the feasting and balls which followed; it was a joke of which no one seemed to tire, and the fun was increased when a member of Federico’s retinue took an opportunity of whispering to the Pope that he would be even more amused if he had seen Sanchia.
“How so?” asked Alexander. “I have heard she is a beauty.”
“She has beauty, Holiness, to make all others seem plain beside her. But our Prince behaves as a coy virgin. There is nothing coy about Madonna Sanchia … and nothing of the virgin either. She has had a host of lovers.”
The Pope’s eyes glistened with merriment. “Then this makes the joke even better,” he said. He called Cesare and Giovanni to him. “Did you hear that, my sons? Did you hear what was said of Madonna Sanchia, our coy virgin?”
The brothers laughed heartily at the joke.
“I deeply regret,” said Giovanni, “that young Goffredo is to go to Naples, and that Sanchia will not join him here.”
“Ah, my son, I should not give much for poor Goffredo’s chances if she set eyes on you.”
“We should be rivals for the lady,” said Cesare lightly.
“A pleasant state of affairs indeed!” said the Pope. “Mayhap since she is such an obliging lady she would be wife to three brothers.”
“And to their father mayhap,” added Giovanni.
This amused the Pope immensely, and his eyes rested fondly on Giovanni.
Cesare decided then that if ever Sanchia came to Rome she should be his mistress before she was Giovanni’s.
Then his eyes narrowed and he said sharply: “So our little Goffredo is to be a husband. I myself am to be denied that pleasure. It is strange that
Goffredo should be married before you, brother.”
Giovanni’s eyes flashed hatred, for he immediately understood Cesare’s meaning.
Alexander was saddened. He turned to Giovanni. “Alas,” he said, “you must soon return to Spain for your marriage, my dear son.”
“My marriage will wait,” said Giovanni sullenly.
“Ah, my son, time does not stand still. I shall be well pleased when I hear that your wife is the mother of a fine boy.”
“In time … in time,” said Giovanni shortly.
But Cesare was smiling secretly. Alexander’s mouth was set along firm lines. When his ambition was concerned he could be adamant, and as Cesare had been forced to the Church so Giovanni would be forced to go to his Spanish wife.
It seemed to Cesare an even better joke than Federico’s miming of Madonna Sanchia. Once he had longed to be in Giovanni’s shoes that he might go to Spain to receive great honors including a Spanish dukedom; he had been forced to stay behind and enter the Church. Now Giovanni wanted nothing so much as to stay in Rome, and he would be forced to leave as certainly as Cesare had been forced into the Church.
Cesare laughed inwardly as he watched his brother’s sullen looks.
Giovanni was angry. Life in Rome suited his temperament far better than the Spanish mode of living. In Spain a man of rank was stifled by etiquette; and Giovanni had no fancy for the pallid, long-faced bride, Maria Enriques, whom he had inherited from his dead brother. It was true that Maria was a cousin of the King of Spain and that marriage with her would forge a strong link with the Spanish Royal house and secure for him royal protection. But what did Giovanni care for that? He wanted to be in Rome, which he thought of as home.
He would rather be recognized as the son of the Pope than cousin, by marriage, to the King of Spain. He had felt homesick while he was away. He had imagined himself riding about Rome, and, cynic though he was concerning most things, tears would come to his eyes when he thought of entering the Porta del Popolo and watching the races to the Piazza Venezia in Carnival week. There seemed nothing like it in Spain—the Spanish were a melancholy people compared with the gay Italians. He had found great pleasure and sadness in thinking of the crowds, in the grand stand in the Piazza del Popolo, who had assembled to watch the race of riderless horses. How he had enjoyed those races, how he had shouted with glee to see the frightened beasts let loose, with pieces of metal tied to them to make a noise and frighten them still further as they galloped, the devilish type of spurs fastened midway between withers and shoulders, leaded and pear-shaped, the heavy end having seven spikes which prodded the horse at every step! The terrified horses, as they thundered along the Corso, provided a sight not to be missed. Yet in Spain he had sadly missed it. He had longed to wander along the Via Funari where the rope-makers lived, and the Via Canestrari where the basket-makers lived, to the Via dei Serpenti; to gaze at the Capitol and think of the heroes of Rome who had been crowned with glory there, and to see the Tarpeian Rock from which guilty men were thrown; to laugh at the old saying that glory was but a short way from disgrace, and to answer it with: Not for a Borgia; not for the son of the Pope!