Jean Plaidy_Lucrezia Borgia 01

by Madonna of the Seven Hills

  The journey was long and tedious; the weather was not good, as it was November; but the gaiety of Giulia was infectious, and it was a merry party which traveled along the road to Viterbo.

  Suddenly Laura pointed and cried out that she could see houses ahead of them. They pulled up to look, and there sure enough on the horizon was the town of Viterbo.

  “It will not be very long now,” cried Giulia. “More than half the journey is done. I shall write to His Holiness when we reach Viterbo and tell him that we are on the way.”

  “Listen!” said Adriana.

  “What was that?” asked Giulia.

  “I thought I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs.”

  They waited. They could hear nothing, and Giulia laughed at her mother-in-law. “You are nervous. Did you imagine Orsino was galloping after us to take us back by force?”

  Laura began to cry at the thought. “I want to see my father.”

  “And so you shall, my darling. Have no fear. We shall be with him shortly. Come, let us waste no more time but ride with all speed into Viterbo.”

  They started off, but this time it was Giulia who fancied she heard the sound of galloping horses.

  They stopped again. This time there was no mistake. Giulia looked fearfully at her little party, mostly women.

  “Let us go on with all speed,” she said. “We do not know whom we might meet on these roads at such times.”

  They put spurs to their horses but it was not long before one of the women cried out that cavalry were advancing upon them.

  They rode desperately on but nearer and nearer came their pursuers, and they were almost a mile from Viterbo when they were surrounded.

  Adriana’s lips moved in silent prayer; Giulia was horrified when she recognized the uniform of the French invaders.

  It was a desperate moment as they were forced to stop while the men surrounded them, and Giulia felt several pairs of eyes fixed upon her, knowing too well what those looks meant.

  “Fair lady,” said the commander, “whither do you go in such a hurry?”

  He spoke in French, and Giulia did not understand him very well. She turned to Adriana who was so terrified that she could only murmur prayers almost involuntarily while her mind ran on, visualizing the horrible things which could happen to the women at the hands of the invaders.

  Laura, who was riding with her mother, suddenly cried out and flung her arms about Giulia as though to protect her from the strangers.

  “By the saints,” said one man, “she’s a beauty!”

  “Keep your eyes from her,” answered another. “She’ll be for the Captain. If you’re wise you’ll look more closely at one of the other girls—and be satisfied.”

  Giulia said imperiously: “I am Giulia Farnese, wife of Orsino Orsini. You would be wise to allow me to pass. The Pope is my friend.”

  One of the men pushed his way through to her and touched her golden hair wonderingly. She slapped his hand aside, and the man growled ominously.

  Then someone said: “Look out. Here comes the Captain.”

  A tall handsome man came riding up, and Giulia’s spirits rose at the sight of him, for he had an air of natural nobility about him, and there was a certain gentleness in his face which was very comforting at such a time.

  “What have we here?” he cried.

  The men, who had been handling some of the women, dropped back.

  “A party of women and their servants, sir,” said the man who had led the band. “One’s a real beauty, sir.”

  The commanding officer looked at Giulia and said slowly: “So I perceive.” Then he bowed and spoke in fluent Italian, with the faintest trace of a French accent.

  “My lady, forgive my men’s roughness. I trust they have not insulted you.”

  “But they have,” said Giulia. “And I would have you know that I am Giulia Farnese, the wife of Orsino Orsini. You have doubtless heard of me.”

  He bowed again. “Who has not heard of the most beautiful woman in Italy? I see now that rumors have not lied. Madame La Bella, accept my apologies for what has passed. My name is Yves d’Allegre, at your service.”

  “I am pleased to see you here, Monsieur d’Allegre,” said Giulia. “And now I am sure you will tell your men not to be foolish. We are in a hurry.”

  “Alas, alas,” sighed Yves d’Allegre. “These roads are unsafe for beautiful ladies.”

  “Then accompany us to Viterbo, and there perhaps it can be arranged that we shall have soldiers to protect us. A message to His Holiness the Pope telling him of our plight will call forth an immediate response.”

  “I am sure it would,” said the Frenchman, his gaze taking in the beauty of her exquisite figure. “There is not a man in Italy or in France who would not serve you.”

  Giulia’s fear was rapidly disappearing. The man was so charming. The French were notoriously gallant and the Captain had even more than French gallantry to offer. She was beginning to enjoy the adventure.

  “Alas,” he went on, “your beauty is such, Madame, that it may so madden those who behold it that they forget the respect and honor due to a lady of your rank. I shall ask you to allow me to ride beside you into Montefiascone, when I shall protect you with my sword.”

  “I thank you,” said Giulia. “But it is to Viterbo that we wish to go.”

  “Alas, I am a soldier, with duties to perform. What a hard taskmistress duty is when she conflicts with pleasure! A thousand apologies, but I must take you and your party into Montefiascone.”

  Giulia shrugged her shoulders. “Well then, when we are there, will you do this for me? Will you have a message sent to His Holiness to tell him what has befallen us?”

  Yves bowed and said that he would certainly do that.

  So, taking Giulia’s horse by the bridle and placing it at the head of the little band, with her beside him he led the party toward Montefiascone.

  Montefiascone was already in the hands of the French and, as they approached the place, soldiers hurried out to look at them. There were shouts of delight when they saw the women, and many eyes were on Giulia. But Yves d’Allegre shouted stern orders. His prisoner was no ordinary woman. Any laying hands on her or her party would suffer immediate and drastic punishment.

  The men fell back. They thought they understood. The Captain had selected the beautiful captive for himself.

  Giulia herself believed this to be so and, as she looked at the handsome man riding beside her, she shivered, not without a certain pleasure, wondering what lay before her.

  Yves rode with her into the town and, after he had had a short conversation with his superior officers, Giulia and her party were received with the greatest respect and lodged in one of the most comfortable houses of the town.

  Giulia sent Laura to rest in the care of her nurse, and went to the room which had been allotted to her. She took off her cloak and shook her hair out of its net. She lay on the bed, thinking of all the strange things which had befallen her since she left Rome. Her mind went with distaste to the episode with Orsino; she told herself that she had been forced to participate in that affair, and was glad it had come to an ignoble end.

  This … this would also be force majeure. The man was so charming, so handsome.…

  But she waited in vain for the coming of Yves d’Allegre, for, while she was waiting, he was penning a note to the Pope telling him that La Bella Giulia was a captive in the hands of the French and that a ransom of 3,000 scudi was demanded for her safe conduct to Rome.

  When Alexander heard the news he became frantic with anxiety that some ill might befall his mistress. He hastily collected the money, which was despatched at once. Then, trembling with anticipation, he found he could not wait patiently in the Vatican for the return of Giulia.

  He must go to meet her. No matter if the French were at his gate; no matter if the whole world were laughing at an old man’s passion (and that man a Pope) for a young woman, he could not remain in the Vatican. He must ride out to greet her.


  He was like a man of twenty. He ordered that fine clothes be brought to him. He wore a black doublet with a border of gold brocade; about his waist was a beautiful belt of Spanish leather, in which was a jeweled sword and dagger. On his feet were Spanish boots, and he wore his velvet beret at a jaunty angle.

  Thus he rode out to greet Giulia and bring her back to Rome.

  Giulia was delighted to see him. She now felt humiliated by her encounter with Orsino and piqued by that with Yves d’Allegre, but here was Alexander, the most important man in Italy—despite all the evil rumors of late—and he was her passionate and most devoted lover.

  “Giulia, my darling!” cried the Pope.

  “Most Holy Lord!” murmured Giulia submissively.

  And if there was laughter throughout Rome because the Holy Father, dressed as a Spanish grandee, had behaved like a young man of twenty with his mistress, little Alexander cared. His position was precarious, the French were almost in Rome, he had his crown to fight for—but that seemed little to a man of his immense genius for statecraft. His mistress was delighted to be back, turning away from younger lovers to be with him.

  There remained one other thing necessary to his complete content. Lucrezia must be brought back to Rome.

  Alone in her husband’s palace at Pesaro, Lucrezia eagerly waited for news. Sometimes a wandering friar would come begging for food and a night’s lodging; sometimes a messenger would arrive with letters from her father; Lucrezia welcomed such visitors warmly, and listened eagerly to all they had to tell, for she felt shut away from the world behind the hills which encircled Pesaro.

  She heard that the conflict was growing, that Charles of France was on his way to Rome; she heard of Giulia’s capture and release, and of the ransom which the Pope had gladly paid. She heard that her father had ridden out to meet his mistress dressed like a young man, a gallant Spanish grandee, and how happy he was to have Giulia with him once more.

  Others might sneer at her father’s behavior. Lucrezia did not. She would sit at her window, looking out across the sea envying Giulia the affection and passion she inspired in the Pope, and thinking how different Alexander was from the cold man she had married.

  But when she heard that the French were almost at the gates of Rome she trembled for her father.

  There was no one in Rome who remained calmer than Alexander, as he considered the little King with his magnificent army, and the Italians who were eager to dress up and play at soldiers, but who were not so anxious to fight.

  Cesare was with him at this time, sardonic because he had been denied the pleasure of defeating the French, losing no opportunity to point out to his father that had he been in charge of his condotta there would have been at least one company ready to hold back the invader.

  He laughed scornfully and beat his fists against his chest.

  “Oh, no! I must stay in the Church. I … who might have saved Rome, who might have saved Italy and would certainly have saved you from your present humiliating position, am not allowed to fight.”

  “My dear son,” chid the Pope, “you are too impetuous. Let us not be so hasty. The battle is not over yet.”

  “Is Your Holiness aware,” said Cesare, “that the French have stormed Civita Vecchia and that in a day or so they will be at the very gates of Rome?”

  “I know it,” replied the Pope.

  “And you intend to remain here so that the King can make you his prisoner and present you with his terms, to which you will have to agree?”

  “You go too fast, my son. I am not yet little Charles’s prisoner. And I have no intention of being so. Wait awhile. See who, in a few months’ time, is the victor of the campaign. Do not, I pray you, make the mistake of placing yourself among my enemies who, from the moment the first French foot stepped onto Italian soil, have been telling themselves and each other that I am a defeated man.”

  The calmness of Alexander had a soothing effect, even on Cesare.

  But when the Pope saw the vanguard of the French army camping on Monte Mario, he knew that he must immediately, with his family, take refuge in the fortress of St. Angelo.

  The entry into Rome of the French King was spectacular. It was growing dark when he and his army came marching into the City, and in the twilight they seemed more terrifying than they would by day. They came by the light of a thousand torches, and the Romans shivered to behold them. The Germans and Swiss, who earned their livelihood by fighting other people’s wars, were all stalwart men, strong and rough, as was to be expected. The French were fine soldiers and so far they had met nothing but easy victory. There were numerous noblemen accompanying the soldiers, and these were decked out with many a glittering jewel, mostly plunder, which had been picked up on the way to Rome. The Army took six hours to march past; there were the archers from Gascony and d’Aubigny’s Scotsmen whose pipers played stirring music as they marched; there were the macebearers and crossbowmen, and thirty-six bronze cannon. With the procession came the King, the least awe-inspiring of any. Surrounded by his victorious army, the deformed and stunted Charles looked pathetic in his golden armor.

  Through the Via Lata went the column to the Palace of Saint Mark, where the King was to have his lodging; and the cannon were formidably drawn up in the piazza.

  From his fortress Alexander and his entourage heard the shouts in the city of “Francia! Rovere!”

  Cesare stood beside his father, clenching and unclenching his fists. He knew, as Alexander knew, that when night fell it would go hard with the citizens of Rome. There were tempting treasures in the houses—gold and silver plate, ornaments of majolica and pewter. And there were the women.

  Rome, the eternal city, was about to be sacked.

  And as they waited they heard the shouts, the screams, and the thousand tortured cries of a ravished city.

  “There is my mother’s house,” said Cesare in a low voice.

  “Grieve not for a house,” said the Pope. “Your mother will not be in it.”

  “Where is my mother?” cried Cesare.

  “Have no fear. I arranged that she should leave Rome with her husband some days ago.”

  How could he be so calm? Cesare wondered. The fate of the Borgias was in danger; yet he who had made the name great could stand there listening to the sounds of horror, serene, as though this was nothing but a passing thunder-storm.

  Cesare cried: “I will have my revenge on those brutes who enter my mother’s house.”

  “I doubt not that you will,” said Alexander quietly.

  “But what are you doing? Oh my father, how can you remain so calm?”

  “There is nothing else to be done,” said Alexander. “We must wait for a propitious moment to make terms with il Re Petito.”

  Cesare was astounded, for it seemed to him almost as though Alexander did not understand what was happening. But Alexander was thinking of another crisis in his life. Then his uncle had lain dying and the whole of Rome was crying out against the friends of Calixtus. Alexander’s brother, Pedro Luis, had fled from Rome and consequently had never realized his great ambitions. Alexander had stayed, counting on his dignity and bold strategy; and Alexander had lived to succeed in his ambitions.

  This was what he would do again.

  In the Borgia apartments of the Vatican the little French King fidgeted. He paced up and down looking out of the windows across the gardens, beyond the orange trees and pines to Monte Mario.

  He felt somewhat aggrieved. He came as a conqueror. Should he be expected to wait for the conquered? But this was no ordinary victim of a conquering army. This was the Holy Father himself, the head of the Catholic Church throughout the world. Charles was Catholic, his country was devoutly so; and Charles would never be able to cast aside the respect he felt for the Holy Father.

  At last the Pope had agreed to discuss terms. What else could he do? The north of Italy was conquered; Charles was in command of Rome, ready to fight his way south to Naples and achieve his country’s great ambition.
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  The Pope had been forced to make terms. He had been besieged in Castle St. Angelo, but when a bullet had pierced the walls of that seemingly impregnable fortress, he had felt it was time to come out and talk peace terms. And those terms, decided the French King, would be his terms, for the Holy Father, a prisoner in his own city, would be forced to agree to them.

  The January sun was shining on the gold and enamel of Pinturicchio’s murals, as yet not completed, and here portrayed were members of the Borgia family. Charles was studying them when he heard a movement in the room and turning saw a splendid figure in a golden mantle. For a moment he thought he was in the presence of a supernatural being and that one of the paintings on the walls had come to life. It was Alexander who had entered through a low and narrow doorway, and as the Pope advanced into the room, Charles fell to his knees immediately conscious of that great dignity.

  Alexander bade him rise; his manner was paternal and benign.

  “So, my son,” he said, “we meet.”

  And from that moment he was in command; Charles could not think of himself as the conqueror in this presence; he could only speak with the utmost respect to the Holy Father who spoke to his son, as though bidding him take courage in spite of the predicament in which he found himself.

  It was quite ridiculous, but nevertheless Charles stammered that he wished free passage through the Papal States, and that he had come to demand it.

  The Pope’s eyebrows shot up at the word demand, but even as Charles was speaking he heard sounds of looting in the streets below and was brought back to reality, remembering that he was a conqueror and that the Pope was in his power.

  “So you would ask for free passage,” mused the Pope. He looked beyond the French King, and he was smiling serenely as though he were looking into the future.