Jean Plaidy_Lucrezia Borgia 01

by Madonna of the Seven Hills

  She explained to Pantisilea that the sisters would not have approved of her washing her hair as often as had been her custom. They would accuse her of vanity.

  “Madonna,” said Pantisilea slyly, “they have not golden hair like yours. I pray you let me wash it, only to remind you how it will shine.”

  What harm was there in washing her hair? She allowed Pantisilea to do so.

  When it was dry, Pantisilea laughed with pleasure, took strands of it in her hands and cried: “But look, Madonna, it is pure gold again. It is the color of the gold in your green and gold brocade gown. Madonna, I have the dress here. Put it on.”

  Lucrezia smiled at the girl. “To please you, little Pantisilea.”

  So the green and gold dress was put on and, as Lucrezia stood with her golden hair about her shoulders, one of the nuns came to tell her that Pedro Caldes had arrived at the convent with letters from the Pope.

  Lucrezia received him in the cold bare room.

  He stared at her, and she watched the slow flush creep up from his neck to the roots of his hair. He could not speak, but could only stare at her.

  She said: “Why, Pedro Caldes, is aught wrong?”

  He stammered: “Madonna, it would seem that I am in the presence of a goddess.”

  It was so pleasant to be wearing beautiful clothes again, and to sense the admiration of this young man. He was personable and she had been too long without admiration.

  After that she did not wear her black habit again and her hair was always gleaming like gold.

  She could never be sure when Pedro would call, bringing messages from her family; and she was determined that this young man, who so admired her, should always see her at her best.

  Pantisilea was a merry companion, and Lucrezia wondered how she had endured the long days before the coming of this bright girl.

  They would sit together in rooms allotted to them and work at a piece of embroidery, although Pantisilea liked better to sing to the accompaniment of Lucrezia’s lute. Pantisilea had brought the lute with her; she had also had some tapestry sent so that the bare walls were hung with this and it no longer seemed like a cell. She continually talked of the outside world. She was amusing and a little indiscreet; and perhaps, thought Lucrezia, that was what made her company so exciting; she felt now that she would go to sleep in that of the kindly but somber sisters.

  Pantisilea, delightedly shocked, gossiped about Cesare’s anger against his brother and how Sanchia was alternately the mistress of each. There had never been anyone at the Papal Court like Sanchia, she declared. The brothers visited her openly, and the whole of Rome knew that they were her lovers. And there was little Goffredo too, delighted that his wife should be causing so much controversy, and helping his brother Cesare prevail over his brother Giovanni.

  She had a story to tell of a lovely girl from Ferrara who was betrothed.

  “His lordship of Gandia set eyes on her and greatly coveted her,” said Pantisilea; “but her father was determined on her marriage, for it was a good one. She had a big dowry and that together with her beauty, was irresistible. But the Duke of Gandia was determined to make her his mistress. It is all very secret, Madonna; but now the marriage has been postponed and there are some who say that the masked companion who is seen often with the Duke of Gandia is this lady.”

  “My brothers are alike in that what they want they are determined to have.”

  “Indeed it is so, and there is much gossip throughout Rome concerning the Duke’s mysterious love affair.”

  “And the masked one is this girl?”

  “No one can be sure. All that is known is that in the company of the Duke of Gandia there is invariably a masked figure. They ride together—sometimes pillion. The clothes worn by the Duke’s companion are all-concealing, so that it is impossible to say whether it is man or woman.”

  “How like Giovanni to attract attention to himself thus. And my brother Cesare? Has he a masked mistress?”

  “No, my lady. The Lord Cardinal has not been seen except at the church ceremonies. There is talk that he no longer cares for Madonna Sanchia, and that because of this, harmony has been restored between the two brothers.”

  “I trust it is so.”

  “They have been seen, walking together, arms linked like true friends.”

  “It does me good to hear it.”

  “And, Madonna, what will you wear? The green velvet with the pink lace is becoming to your beauty.”

  “I am well enough as I am.”

  “Madonna, what if Pedro Caldes should come?”

  “What if he should?”

  “It would be wonderful for him to see you in the green velvet and pink lace.”

  “Why so?”

  Pantisilea laughed her merry laugh. “Madonna, Pedro Caldes loves you. It is there in his eyes for anyone to see—but perhaps not for anyone. Not for Sister Cherubino.” Pantisilea made a wry face that was a fair imitation of the good sister. “No, she would not recognize the signs. But I do. I know that Pedro Caldes is passionately but hopelessly in love with you, Madonna.”

  “What nonsense you talk!” said Lucrezia.

  He was in love with her.

  She knew that Pantisilea was right. It was in every gesture, in the very tone of his voice. Poor Pedro Caldes! What hope was there for him?

  But she looked forward to his visits, and was taking as much interest in her appearance as she ever had.

  The merry serving-maid was an intrigante. Frivolous and sentimental, it seemed to her inevitable that Lucrezia should indulge in a love affair. Continually she talked of Pedro—of his handsome looks, of his courtly manners.

  “Oh, what a tragedy if the Holy Father decided to employ another messenger!” she cried.

  Lucrezia laughed at her. “I believe you are in love with this young man.”

  “I should be, were it of any use,” declared Pantisilea. “But his love is for one and one only.”

  Lucrezia found that she enjoyed these conversations. She could grow as excited as Pantisilea, talking of Pedro. There in their little room, which was becoming more and more like a small chamber of one of the palaces, they sat together gossiping and laughing. When Lucrezia heard the bells, when she looked out of her window and saw the nuns passing to the chapel, and when she heard their singing of Complines, sometimes she would start guiltily out of her reverie. Yet the sanctified atmosphere of the convent made the visits of Pedro seem more exciting.

  One day when she went into the cold bare room to receive him, she noticed that he was quiet, and she asked him if anything had happened to sadden him.

  “Madonna,” he said earnestly, “I am sad indeed, so sad that I fear I can never be happy again.”

  “Something very tragic has happened to you, Pedro?”

  “The most tragic thing that could happen to me.”

  She was at his side, touching his sleeve with gentle and tender fingers. “You could tell me, Pedro. You know that I would do all in my power to help.”

  He looked down at her hand resting on his sleeve, and suddenly he took that hand and covered it with kisses; then he fell on his knees and hid his face against her billowing skirts.

  “Pedro,” she said softly. “Pedro, you must tell me of this tragic thing.”

  “I can come here no more,” he said.

  “Pedro! You are weary of these visits. You have asked my father to send another in your place.” There was reproach in her voice, and he sprang to his feet. She noticed the shine in his eyes and her heart leaped with exultation.

  “Weary!” he cried. “These visits are all that I live for.”

  “Then Pedro …”

  He had turned away. “I cannot look at you, Madonna,” he murmured. “I dare not. I shall ask His Holiness to replace me. I dare not come again.”

  “And your tragedy, Pedro?”

  “Madonna, it is that I love you … the saints preserve me!”

  “And it makes you sad? I am sorry, Pedro.”

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nbsp; He had turned to her, his eyes blazing. “How could it make me anything but sad? To see you as I do … to know that one day the order will come, and you will return to the Vatican; and when you are there I shall not dare to speak to you.”

  “If I returned to my palace it would make no difference to our friendship, Pedro. I should still ask you to come and see me, to entertain me with your conversation and tales of your beautiful country.”

  “Madonna, it is impossible. I crave leave to depart.”

  “It is granted, Pedro,” she said. “But … I shall expect you to visit me still, because I should be so unhappy if any other came in your place.”

  He fell on his knees and, taking her hands, covered them with kisses.

  She smiled down at him, and she noticed with pleasure how the fine dark hair curled on his neck.

  “Oh yes, Pedro,” she said. “I should be very unhappy if you ceased to visit me, I insist that you continue to do so. I command it.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “My lady is kind,” he murmured. Then he looked at her with a hunger in his eyes which enthralled her. “I … I dare stay no longer,” he said.

  He left her, and when he had gone she marvelled that in this convent of San Sisto she had known some of the happiest hours of her life.

  Cesare rode to his mother’s house to pay her one of his frequent visits. He was thoughtful, and those about him had noticed that of late there had been a certain brooding quietness in his demeanor.

  He had ceased to court Sanchia; he had ceased to brood on his sister’s voluntary retreat to the convent; he had become quite friendly with his brother Giovanni.

  When Vannozza saw her son approaching, she clapped her hands vigorously and several of her slaves came running to do her bidding.

  “Wine, refreshment,” cried Vannozza. “I see my son, the Cardinal comes this way. Carlo,” she called to her husband, “come quickly and greet my lord Cardinal.”

  Carlo came running to her side. Carlo was well satisfied with his lot, which had brought marriage with the Pope’s ex-mistress and mother of his children. Many privileges had come his way, and he was grateful for them. He showed his gratitude by his profound respect for the Pope and the Pope’s sons.

  Cesare embraced his mother and his stepfather.

  “Welcome, welcome, dearest son,” said Vannozza with tears of pride in her eyes. It never ceased to astonish her that these wonderful sons of hers should visit their comparatively humble mother. All her adoration shone in her eyes, and Cesare loved her for that adoration.

  “My mother,” murmured Cesare.

  Carlo declared: “It is a great day for us when my lord Cardinal honors our house.”

  Cesare was gracious. He sat with his mother and his step-father, and as they drank from the silver goblets which had been hastily taken from the credenza, Vannozza was regretting that she had not been warned of her son’s coming and had not had time to hang the tapestries on the walls and bring out the majolica and pewter ornaments. They talked of Lucrezia and of the impending divorce.

  “Your father will do what is best for you all,” said Vannozza. “Oh, my son, I would that I were not such a humble woman and could do more for you.”

  Cesare laid his hand over hers and smiled at her; and when Cesare smiled his face was beautiful. It was real affection which he had for his mother; and Vannozza, because she knew how others feared him, valued that affection the more.

  After they had refreshed themselves, Cesare asked that she would show him her flowers, of which she was justly proud, and they went into the gardens.

  They wandered among her plants, Cesare’s arm about her waist; and since he was so affectionate, Vannozza found courage to tell him how pleased she was that he and his brother Giovanni seemed to be better friends.

  “Oh, Mother, how senseless quarrels are! Giovanni and I are brothers. We should be friends.”

  “They were merely brotherly quarrels,” soothed Vannozza. “Now you are growing older you realize the futility of them.”

  “It is so, Mother. I want the whole of Rome to know that Giovanni and I are now friends. When you next give a supper party let it be an intimate one … for your sons only.”

  Vannozza stood still, smiling delightedly. “I shall give the party at once,” she said. “For you and Giovanni. It is too hot in the city. It shall be an alfresco supper in my vineyards. What think you, Cesare, of that idea?”

  “It is excellent. Make it soon, dearest Mother.”

  “Say when you wish it to be, oh my beloved, and it shall be then.”

  “Tomorrow is too soon. The day after that?”

  “It shall be so.”

  “Mother, you are my very good friend.”

  “And should I not be, my best beloved son who has cherished and honored me at all times?”

  She closed her eyes and remembered what Cesare had done to all those who, he had been able to discover, had taken part in the raiding of her house during the French invasion. He had been brutal and many had suffered, and Vannozza was a woman who did not care to see great suffering; but this showed the measure of Cesare’s love for her. “Nothing,” he had cried, “nothing … is too severe for those who sought to dishonor my mother by desecrating her house.”

  “You will be glad to see Giovanni with me at your supper party,” said Cesare. “You love him too, remember. It is a pity Lucrezia will not be with us.”

  “I should take great pleasure in seeing my daughter, and I agree that I shall be happy to have Giovanni with me. But, my son, of all my children there is one who delights me as none other could. It is you, my dearest.”

  He kissed her hand with that extravagant show of love which the family displayed toward each other.

  “I know you speak truth, dear Mother. I swear to you here and now that no harm shall ever come your way while there is power in this body to prevent it. I will inflict torture and death on any who dare whisper a word against you.”

  “My dearest, do not be so vehement on my poor account. I need nothing to make me happy but to see you often. Bless me with your presence as frequently as is possible—although I know that you have your destiny, and I must not let my selfish love interfere with that—and I shall be the happiest woman on Earth.”

  He held her against him, and then they continued their walk among the flowers, planning the supper party.

  Cesare walked through the streets, his cloak concealing his fine clothes, his mask hiding his features, so that none would have guessed his identity. Reaching the Ponte district he sauntered into a narrow street, slipped into another and paused before a house. Looking about him to make sure that he was not followed, he walked through the open door shutting it behind him, and descending the stone steps to a room with wooden panelling and flagstone floor, clapped his hands as he did so.

  A servant appeared, and when Cesare removed his mask the man bowed low.

  “Your mistress is here?” asked Cesare.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Conduct me to her at once.”

  He was led to a room which was typical of many such rooms, furnished with a canopied bed, wooden chairs with carved backs, and the statue of the Madonna with the lamp burning before it.

  A very beautiful young girl, tall and slender, who had risen at Cesare’s entry, fell on her knees before him.

  “My lord,” she murmured.

  “Rise,” said Cesare impatiently. “My brother is not here?”

  “No, my lord. He comes two hours from now.”

  Cesare nodded.

  “The time has come for you to fulfill your duty,” he said.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Cesare looked at her shrewdly. “You are beloved by my brother. What are your feelings for him?”

  “I serve one master,” she said.

  His fingers closed about her ear. It was a gesture both tender and threatening. “Remember it,” he said. “I reward those from whom I demand service, and the reward depends on the natur
e of their service.”

  The girl shivered, but she repeated firmly: “I serve one master.”

  “That is well,” said Cesare. “I will tell you quickly what is required of you. You will present yourself at the vineyard of Vannozza Catanei at midnight on a date which I shall give you. You will be cloaked and masked as usual when you ride with my brother. You will leap on to his horse and ride away with him.”

  “Is that all, my lord?”

  Cesare nodded. “Except this one thing. You will insist on taking him to an inn which you have discovered, and where you will tell him you have planned to stay until morning.”

  “And this inn?”

  “I will give you its name. It is in the Jewish quarter.”

  “We are to ride there after midnight!”

  “You have nothing to fear if you obey my instructions.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her lingeringly. “If you do not, my beautiful one …” He laughed. “But you will remember, will you not, that you serve one master.”

  Vannozza, still a very beautiful woman, greeted her guests in her vineyard on the summit of the Esquiline. The table was heavily laden with good food, and the wine was of the best. Carlo Canale was beside her to do honor to the distinguished guests.

  “You think we shall be merry enough with only your sons’ cousin, the Cardinal of Monreale, and a few other relations?”

  “When my sons come to me they like to escape from all the pomp which usually surrounds their daily life.”

  Canale kept sipping the wine to assure himself that it was of the very best; Vannozza nervously surveyed her table and shouted continually to the slaves; but when the guests arrived she gave all her attention to them.

  “My dearest sons,” she murmured, embracing them; but the embrace she gave Cesare was longer than that she had for Giovanni, and Cesare would notice this.

  The warm summer night was enchanting; they could look down on the city, while the cool sweet air and the scent of flowers from the meadows about the Colosseum wafted up to them.