Jean Plaidy_Lucrezia Borgia 01

by Madonna of the Seven Hills

  The Pope laid his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “You will know how to do what is best for our family,” he said.

  It was foolish to harbor sentimental feelings.

  Cesare paced up and down his own apartments. It was unlike him to delay when he knew something must be done which would redound to his advantage. And yet, memories would keep recurring. He could see himself riding behind that stalwart figure; he could feel again the admiration he had known.

  Virginio Orsini, the man who had made life at Monte Giordano tolerable; Virginio who had wanted to make a soldier of him.

  There was no time for delay. A message must be taken at once to Naples. A small quantity of a white powder must be carried there and instructions given.

  Virginio Orsini would soon be taking his last meal in the prison.

  If it were another I would not hesitate, thought Cesare. I would not give the matter a second thought. But Virginio! Oh nonsense, nonsense! What was a boy’s hero-worship?

  Yet he had been kind.

  Kind! What had kindness to do with Cesare Borgia?

  Still he continued to pace up and down his apartment.

  “Not Virginio,” he murmured, “not Virginio Orsini.”

  In the streets the Carnival was at its height, and the people of Rome were bent on enjoying themselves. The Pope, with that mental dexterity which amazed all who came into contact with it, had once more brought diplomatic victory out of military defeat with the sleight of hand of a conjuror. The Orsinis had been the victors. But what had they won? A cessation of hostilities merely. They had paid heavily to regain their castles; and the head of their family, Virginio Orsini, although the Pope had granted his release, had died suddenly a few hours before he was due to leave his prison.

  The people laughed at the wily ways of the Holy Father as they gave themselves up to enjoying themselves.

  Men and women in masks and fancy dress filled the streets. Processions passed along, among which some carried grotesque figures held high over the heads of the revelers; others manipulated fantastic bizarre figures, puppets which performed lewd gestures to the immense amusement of the crowd. There was music, dancing and general revelry, and wars and political intrigue seemed far away.

  From his apartment Cesare looked out on the revelers in the square and was angry with himself because he could not erase the memory of Virginio Orsini from his mind; when he slept he would awake startled, imagining that the tall stern figure stood at his bedside watching him reproachfully.

  It was foolish, unlike him. He wanted entertainment. He wished Lucrezia was in Rome. He and his father must bring her back, and they must free her from that provincial boor, Giovanni Sforza. He hated the fellow. There was comfort in hating.

  Now he would go along to Sanchia’s apartment. He would indulge with her in such an orgy of sensuality that he would forget all the shadows which hung over him, the thought of Sforza and Lucrezia, the memory of Virginio Orsini.

  He found Loysella alone in Sanchia’s apartment and demanded to know where her mistress was.

  “My lord,” answered Loysella, throwing glances at him from under lowered lids, “the Princess went out some time since with Francesca and Bernardina to look at the carnival. Your lordship should not be dismayed. They were masked.”

  He was not dismayed; only slightly irritated.

  He was in no mood to go out into that seething crowd to search for her.

  He looked at Loysella; Loysella was hopeful.

  Then suddenly he turned away in disgust. It was as though he were a boy again, and Virginio stood beside him, reproaching him for some breach of manners.

  Abruptly he left the apartment; he went to his own and in vain tried to shut out the sounds of carnival.

  Sanchia’s mask only partially concealed her beauty. Through it her blue eyes regarded the scene about her. Her black hair escaped from the hood of her cloak.

  Francesca and Bernardina were similarly masked; and they were giggling because they knew that as they left the palace they were being followed.

  “What excitement! What a grand carnival!” breathed Francesca. “There were never such carnivals in Naples.”

  “Let us wait here and watch the crowds go by,” suggested Sanchia, knowing that the three men were standing behind them.

  She glanced over her shoulder and a pair of brilliant eyes beneath a mask met hers and held them.

  “I think,” she said, “that we were unwise to come out alone, unescorted by any gentlemen. Why, anything … just anything might happen to us.”

  Some passing revelers halted as they saw three girls, for there was that in their bearing which attracted immediate attention.

  One young man, carnival-bold, approached Sanchia and seized her hand. “There is a very fair lady cowering beneath that mask, I’ll swear,” he said. “Come, fair one … join us.”

  Sanchia said: “I do not wish it.”

  “This is carnival, lady, and such as you must not stand aloof.”

  She screamed as he took her arm, and one of the men who had been standing behind her cried out: “Dispatch the insolent dog.”

  The young man who had first spoken to her turned pale under his mask as one of the trio stepped forward, his sword in his hand. The young man stammered: “ ’Tis carnival time. No harm was meant.…” Then as the other raised his sword and pricked his arm, he cried out and ran, followed by the members of his party.

  “Shall I give pursuit, my lord?” asked he who had drawn his sword.

  “Nay,” said a languid voice. “It is enough.”

  Sanchia turned to him. “I thank you, my lord,” she said. “I shudder to think what might have befallen me and my women had you not been at hand to save us.”

  “It is our great pleasure to save such as you,” said the man.

  He kissed her hand.

  She knew him and she was fully aware that he knew her also. But this was a pleasant game they were playing; it had begun with his return from the wars. She was also aware that it was partly due to his hatred of Cesare that he was determined to pursue her; and although she had no intention of allowing herself to become a symbol between them, she was determined to make Cesare’s brother her lover.

  He was handsome—in his way handsomer than Cesare; his reputation was as evil but in a different way. She was going to teach the Duke of Gandia a lesson; she was going to show him that his need of Sanchia of Aragon would exceed his desire for revenge on his brother. That need was going to be the most important thing in his life.

  But at the moment it pleased them to pretend, masked as they were, that they were unaware of each other’s identities.

  He kept her hand in his.

  “Shall we join the revelers?”

  “I am not sure that it would be fitting for us to do that,” replied Sanchia. “We merely came out to watch from a distance.”

  “Impossible to watch carnival from a distance as you have learnt from the conduct of those insolent dogs. Come, let me show you the carnival. You need have no fear. I am here to protect you.”

  “We must keep together—my ladies and I,” she murmured. “I should never forgive myself if aught happened to them.”

  She was smiling slyly. What she meant was: I do not trust to your protection, Giovanni. Were there danger, you might run away. But with your attendants close at hand I shall be happier.

  “We will keep with our little party,” said Giovanni. He signed to the two men, one of whom immediately took Francesca’s hand the other Bernardina’s. “Now,” he went on, “whither shall we go? To the Colosseum? There will be great revelry there. Or to see the racing in the Corso?”

  “Escort us whither you will,” said Sanchia.

  “Then may I suggest, my lord,” put in one of the men, “that we find our way out of the crowd. These delicate ladies are in danger of being trampled underfoot by the plebs.”

  “You speak wisely,” said Giovanni.

  “There is a little albergo near
the Via Serpenti. A place where we can be free of the clamor of the common people.”

  “Then to it,” said Giovanni.

  Sanchia turned to Francesca and Bernardina. “No,” she said, “I do not think I and my ladies should accompany you to this inn. If you will take us to St. Peter’s Square, we shall be safe enough and …”

  “Come,” said Giovanni, his eyes shining through his mask, “put yourself in my hands, fair lady. You will regret nothing.”

  Sanchia pretended to shiver. “I am a little uneasy.…”

  But Giovanni had his arm about her and started off at a run, taking her with him. She looked fearfully over her shoulder, but Francesca and Bernardina were being similarly treated. They gave little shrieks of feigned horror, but their cavaliers ignored them as they followed Giovanni and Sanchia.

  “Make way! Make way!” shouted Giovanni as he forced his way through the crowds. Many called after him; some attempted to stop him. Spirits and tempers ran high in carnival time.

  But always those two men would be close to Giovanni, and was it something they said, or were they known? However, it was apparent every time that those who challenged them soon slunk away in fear.

  Then Sanchia noticed that Giovanni’s cloak was caught together by a brooch on which was emblazoned the grazing bull. His men carried the emblem too, one in his hat, the other on his doublet. Sanchia laughed inwardly. Giovanni would not venture into the streets masked at any time without some indication of who he was, prominently displayed on his person. There might be many to attack a young braggart who made himself unpleasant, but who would dare to raise an arm against a Borgia?

  She was enjoying her evening. Cesare was to be taught a lesson. He had been far more interested in his brother’s humiliation than in her, and such slights must be paid for. She knew of a way which would infuriate him more than any. That was the way in which Cesare should pay for the slights he had given her.

  There had been understanding glances between herself and Giovanni during the last few days; but this was the most amusing way to allow those little innuendoes to reach their climax.

  When they reached the Via Serpenti they hurriedly slipped through a maze of alleys. The noise of the merrymakers seemed muted now as one of Giovanni’s men pushed open the door of an inn and they all went in.

  Giovanni shouted: “Bring food. Bring wine … plenty of it.”

  The innkeeper came running to them. He bowed low and looked very frightened as his eyes rested on the brooch which Giovanni was wearing.

  “Good sirs,” he began.

  “You heard us ask for wine and food. Bring it quickly,” said Giovanni.

  “With the greatest speed, my lord.”

  Giovanni sat on a couch and pulled Sanchia down beside him.

  “I am determined,” he whispered, “that you shall enjoy the hospitality … all the hospitality … which the innkeeper can offer.”

  Sanchia said: “My lord, I think I should tell you that I am no humble woman to be seized in carnival time.”

  “Your voice, your manner betray you,” he said. “But women who venture into the streets at carnival time ask to be seized.”

  His men laughed, and applauded everything he said.

  “We will drink wine with you and then we shall leave you here,” declared Sanchia.

  “We are eager to enjoy all the pleasures that the carnival can offer,” ventured one of the men, keeping his eyes on Giovanni.

  “All,” echoed Giovanni.

  The innkeeper came hurrying in with wine.

  “Is this the best you have?” demanded Giovanni.

  “The very best, my lord.”

  “Then it should be good, and if it is not I may grow angry.”

  The innkeeper was visibly trembling.

  “Now,” cried Giovanni, “bolt all doors. We would be alone … completely alone, you understand me?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “As for food, do not bring it after all. I find I am not hungry. Wine will suffice. You have some comfortable rooms in your inn?”

  “I can vouch for them,” said one of the men with a snigger, “having already used them.”

  “Now leave us, fellow,” said Giovanni. And turning to the ladies: “We will drink to the joy this day will bring us all.”

  Sanchia had risen.

  “My lord …” she began. Giovanni put his arms about her and embraced her. She struggled, but Giovanni was fully aware that her struggling was feigned, that she knew who he was and that she had been as determined that this should happen as he was.

  He put down his goblet and said: “At such a time, I have no need of wine.” He picked up Sanchia in his arms shouting: “Landlord! Take me to the best of your chambers … and delay not, for I am in a hurry.”

  Sanchia kicked prettily and ineffectually. Bernardina and Francesca clung together while their two prospective lovers seized them and Sanchia and Giovanni disappeared.

  The room was small; its ceiling low; but it was as clean as could be expected.

  “Not the couch I would have chosen for you, my Princess,” said Giovanni. “But it will suffice.”

  “You should know who I am,” Sanchia told him.

  He took off her mask. “I was as wise before,” he answered, “as you were. Why, sweet Sanchia, did you wish me to stage this pretty little show of rape? Mutual agreement to meet the inevitable would have been so much more comfortable.”

  “Considerably less amusing,” she said.

  “I have a notion,” he challenged, “that you are afraid of Cesare.”

  “Why should I be?”

  “Because you have been his mistress since you came into Rome, and he is reputed to be a jealous lover.”

  “I am afraid of no man.”

  “Cesare is unlike other men. Sanchia … insatiable Sanchia. You cannot look at a man without wishing to know him. I saw your looks … I saw your speculation. At the moment we first met I saw it. You were determined that we should be together thus, but you thought to play safe. ‘Let Giovanni take all the blame,’ you said. ‘Therefore let it be rape.’ ”

  “Do you think I care what my old lovers think?”

  “Even you are afraid of Cesare.”

  “I will be dictated to by none.”

  “There you are mistaken. In this room, the door locked behind us, I shall be your dictator.”

  “You forget that a moment ago you accused me of arranging this.”

  “Let us not argue about that. Sanchia … Sanchia!”

  She laughed. “How masterful you are! Why, if you had shown the same determination against the Orsini as you do toward three defenseless women …”

  He caught her by the shoulders and shook her, temporarily angered. Then he laughed at her. “You do not want a gentle lover, Madonna Sanchia. I understand.”

  “I am thinking of Francesca and Bernardina.”

  “They will be in their lovers’ arms by now. They have been watching each other for days; ever since you decided that you would change brothers, those four people have been waiting for this day. Come, why procrastinate?”

  “Why, indeed!” she murmured.

  Cesare was furious, for it was not long before his spies brought news to him that Sanchia and Giovanni were constantly together.

  He went to Sanchia’s apartments while her women were combing her hair. Bursting in upon them he found them giggling over their adventures with their lovers. He strode to Sanchia, swept the dish of sweetmeats from the table and, waving his arms, shouted to her women: “Get out!”

  They left her fearfully, for they thought they saw murder in Cesare’s eyes.

  “So, you harlot,” he said, “I hear that you are my brother’s mistress.”

  Sanchia lifted her shoulders reflectively. “And does that surprise you?”

  “That you give yourself to any who asks, no! But that you dare to arouse my anger, yes!”

  “It surprises me that you have time to be angry with me … you who waste so
much of it being jealous of Giovanni’s dukedom, and Giovanni’s favor with your father.”

  “Be silent. Do you think I shall allow you to insult and degrade me in this way?”

  “I cannot see, Cesare, that you can do very much about it.”

  She had turned and was smiling at him, her blue eyes blazing with desire for him. When he had this mad rage upon him she found him more interesting than she did when he was an affectionate lover.

  “You will see, Sanchia,” he said. “I only ask you to have patience.”

  “I am not a very patient person.”

  “You are a harlot, I know, the most notorious harlot in Rome. One brother’s wife, and mistress of the other two. Do you know that the whole of the city talks of your behavior?”

  “And of yours, dear brother … and of Giovanni’s … and of the Holy Father’s. Yes, and even of Lucrezia’s.”

  “Lucrezia is innocent of all scandal,” he said sharply.

  “Is that so?” she asked lightly.

  Cesare strode to her and gave her a stinging blow on the side of her face, she caught his hand and dug her teeth into it, watching the blood spurt while she put her hand to her burning cheek.

  It was as though the sight of blood maddened him. Anger leaped into his eyes as he caught her by the wrist, and she cried out in pain. “Do not think,” he said, “that you can treat me as you may have treated others.”

  “Cesare, take your hands from me. You are causing me pain.”

  “It delights me to hear it. It is exactly what I intend.” Again those sharp teeth were dug into his hand; he caught her by the shoulder and, as his grip on her wrist was released, she scratched his face. The excitement of battle was on them both. He tried to grasp her hands again; but she had him by the ear and was twisting it.

  In a few moments they were rolling on the floor together, and inevitably, with two such people, desire and brutality mingled.

  She resisted; not because she wished to resist but because she wished to prolong the battle. He called her bastard, harlot, every name that he could think of which would hurt one as proud as she. She retaliated. Was he not a bastard? she screamed. “Brute! Cardinal!” she sneered.