by Jean Plaidy
To whom could she appeal? There was, of course, her husband. He visited her nightly, so he must be pleased with her, and surely she might ask some favor of him.
She lay in the bed waiting for him. He would arrive soon; he had visited her every night since she had been in Ferrara. She guessed she was different from the women with whom it was his custom to associate, and that difference evidently provided a fillip to his passion.
He came singing, as he so often did. Surprisingly he had a good voice. She had not yet ceased to marvel that one, in other ways so insensitive, should have such a good ear for music and an apparent love of it.
He never wasted time in conversation, and there were nights when scarcely a word passed between them. He would undress, leap into the bed beside her, indulge in his animal passion and be gone when she awoke in the morning; but this night she was determined to talk to him.
She sat up in bed. “Alfonso, I have something to say.”
He looked surprised, raising those heavy brows as though reproving her for suggesting conversation at such a time.
“We scarcely ever speak to one another, let alone indulge in conversation. It is simply not natural, Alfonso.” He grunted. He was not giving her his full attention, she realized. “But tonight,” she went on, “I am determined to talk. Your father has said that my Spanish attendants are to leave Ferrara in the very near future. Alfonso, I want you to stop that happening. These are my friends. Do not forget that although I am your wife I am a stranger here. It is difficult to live in a strange land even when one’s friends are about one. There are different customs to which I must adjust myself. Alfonso, I beg of you, speak to your father. Alfonso, you are listening?”
“I did not come to talk,” said Alfonso reproachfully.
“But are we never to talk? Are we always to meet like this and nothing else?”
He looked at her in some surprise. “But what else?” he asked.
“I do not know you. You visit me at night and are gone in the morning. During the day I scarcely see you alone.”
“We do very well,” he said. “You’ll be with child before long. Perhaps you already are.”
There was a flash of spirit in Lucrezia’s voice as she retorted: “In that case would you not be wasting your time?”
“We can’t be sure yet,” said Alfonso speculatively.
Lucrezia felt hysterical. She began to laugh suddenly.
“You are amused?” asked Alfonso.
“It would seem I am a cow … brought to the bull.”
Alfonso grunted. He was ready now. He blew out the candle and got in beside her. She felt his heavy body suffocating her, and she wanted to cry out in protest.
But there was no one who would heed her cries.
The next day when the Spaniards left Ferrara, she did not protest. She accompanied the Duke and his court on a hunting expedition, which he had had the good taste to arrange for her so that she should not see the actual departure of the Spaniards.
She was docile, and Ercole, watching her, believed that he had discovered how to treat his daughter-in-law.
When the Spaniards reached Rome they went straight to the Vatican where Alexander received them immediately.
“What news of Ferrara?” he cried. “What letters do you bring me from my daughter?”
While they gave him letters, they warned him that life was not as glorious for his daughter in Ferrara as he would wish.
He listened eagerly to the tales of Lucrezia’s first days there, of the arrogance of Elizabetta and Isabella and the serenity of Lucrezia which had astonished all who beheld it.
The Pope’s face darkened. “None shall insult her with impunity,” he declared. “So the Duchess of Urbino received her coldly. That was a foolish thing to do. My son Cesare will not be pleased when he hears of that, and his temper is quick. He lacks his father’s calmer and more forgiving nature.”
He listened to an account of the festivities, of how Lucrezia had shone at them, her beauty dazzling all who beheld it, with everywhere women desperately trying to copy her dresses.
“We were dismissed, Holiness, and the Lady Lucrezia wept at our going.”
“It must have been sad, and I am sure she misses you, but tell me—what of her husband?”
“Holiness, he spends his nights with Madonna Lucrezia—at least part of his nights. His mistresses are numerous, and he has not deserted one of them even now that he has a wife.”
The Pope laughed. “But he visits his wife’s bed every night?”
“Every night, Holiness.”
“Then I swear she’ll be with child by Easter.”
“Yet, Most Holy Lord, her husband spends much time with other women.”
“Ah, youth!” said the Pope regretfully. “What a glorious thing is youth. So Alfonso has mistresses, eh, many of them. Well, that is as it should be. I would not want another impotent husband for my daughter. Why, as soon as Lucrezia is with child, Alfonso must come to Rome. I will make him very welcome.”
And the Spaniards went sorrowfully away, realizing that the Pope did not attach much importance to their dismissal from Ferrara.
Lucrezia had refurnished the little rooms, and they were now charming, opening as they did on to the balcony in which beautiful flowers were growing. There were three rooms—her bedroom, another room in which she entertained, and a third which was for her ladies. Here they seemed cut off from the rest of the castle; and if Lucrezia did not quarrel with the Ferrarese in her suite, she let them know that their allegiance, first to Isabella and then to Duke Ercole, had been noted by her and she did not trust them as her friends.
There were whole days when she would not emerge from the little apartments, and the sound of laughter and singing would be heard coming from them. Spanish customs prevailed in the little rooms, it was said. Lucrezia rarely left her bed until noon. Then after Mass she would eat a leisurely meal and chat with her women about the dresses she possessed and the new ones she would have. They sang songs and read poetry. There was of course her hair to be washed; and she liked to bathe her body in scented water. Often when she, Angela, Nicola and Girolama found themselves alone they could call to the little maid, Lucia, to bring in a great bath of scented water; then they would undress, put their hair into nets and leap into the bath, laughing and splashing each other, washing each other’s backs, while little Lucia kept heating more water which she perfumed and added so that they could lie in the bath in scented comfort for as long as they wished.
Then they would get out, vigorously dry each other’s bodies and put on silk shirts of the Moorish fashion which had been made for this purpose. They would stretch themselves out on couches and talk of poetry and love, of fine materials, of new styles in dresses and jewels, through the long afternoons, while Lucia burned sweet-scented incense in the braziers.
Lucrezia did not know that little Lucia was bribed with bonbons by El Prete, and that she gave detailed descriptions of what happened in the apartments to him, which he in turn passed on to his mistress Isabella.
“It is pagan, quite pagan!” stormed Isabella from Mantua; and she declared that she would write to her father about the extraordinary behavior of his new daughter-in-law.
Ercole read those letters from Isabella, and it hurt him so much to think of money being wasted so lavishly that he felt he must curb Lucrezia’s extravagance. It was no use speaking to Alfonso who declared that his duties began and ended in the bed, and defied any to suggest he did not perform those with zeal.
Ercole had to act. He would not allow Spanish customs to be brought to Ferrara. He therefore forbade the wearing of zaraguelles, and there was now a law that the police might arrest any woman wearing these. But how, since these garments could be completely hidden by a gown, were the police to know they were worn? It would be possible, it was pointed out to Ercole, for women to defy the law under the very eyes of the police.
Ercole was in a difficulty. The law had been made and must be carried out, but he
was not the man to give his police a chance of behaving lewdly. He could not allow them to arrest women suspected of wearing these strange garments and submit them to a search. Then how could it be ascertained whether or not a woman was wearing zaraguelles?
Ercole then declared that the police might discover by examination whether women were wearing the forbidden garments; but if they put an innocent woman to the test, if they were to submit her to the search only to discover she was without the offending garment, then the hand which had made the search was to be cut off. It was the only curb Ercole could put on possible immorality—which would offend him even as much as the introduction of Spanish customs to his court.
In the little rooms there was laughter. Lucrezia and her ladies continued to wear their zaraguelles of softest silk delicately embroidered; for what man was going to risk the loss of his hand to discover what was worn beneath a woman’s gown?
The law against zaraguelles had been made to placate Isabella. But there was something else on Ercole’s mind.
He made his way to the little apartments one day.
There was an immediate scuffle when he was known to be approaching, for fine materials had to be put away, aromatic baths concealed.
Lucrezia received him graciously, but inwardly she smiled to notice his dismay at the lavish decoration of her apartments.
“Welcome, my lord Duke,” she said, and gave him her scented hand to kiss.
Musk! thought the Duke. The price of musk today is high and of what use is scent? What purpose does it serve?
“I pray you sit beside me,” said Lucrezia. “I would make you comfortable. Will you drink some wine?” She clapped her hands.
“I am in no need of wine,” said the old Duke, “being fully refreshed. My dear daughter, you are more than comfortable here.”
“I have made these rooms very like those I occupied in Santa Maria in Portico.”
“They must have been very richly decorated.”
“They were comfortable enough.”
“You live extravagantly here, daughter, and it is for this reason that you and I must have a talk. We do not like debts in Ferrara.”
“Debts! But I have my money … my own money. I ask nothing of Ferrara!”
“But surely you cannot afford to live as you are living on 8,000 ducats a year.”
“8,000 ducats a year! But certainly I could not live on 8,000 ducats a year.”
“It is a goodly sum, and it is what I have decided shall be your income.”
“My lord Duke, you joke.”
“I am in great earnest.”
“I could not live on 8,000 ducats a year. I must have at least 12,000, and I should not consider that princely.”
“You have been brought up very extravagantly, I fear,” said the Duke sternly.
“Moreover,” said Lucrezia with spirit, “my father has paid you a handsome dowry. This was to enable you to give me an income which would compare with that to which I have been accustomed.”
“Ferrara is not Rome, my daughter. I am not a rich man as your father is. In Ferrara we consider 8,000 ducats a goodly income. I pray you, adjust your ideas and consider it so, for it is all you will get.”
“I cannot accept it,” said Lucrezia. “It would be penury.”
“I doubt it not, if there must be so many gowns, so much costly scent. You have many of these luxuries. Be more careful with them, and they will last you a very long time.”
Lucrezia’s expression was blank. She said: “I am and my household cannot live on 8,000 ducats a year.”
“How vulgar is this talk of money,” sighed the Duke. “Now that you belong to our noble family you should learn that we speak only of such matters with discretion.”
“I have heard you speak of them with fervor many times,” retorted Lucrezia.
The Duke looked pained. “Then I beg of you, let us drop the subject.”
“That,” said Lucrezia, “I cannot do until you agree to give me at least 12,000 ducats a year. It is the least I can live on.”
The Duke rose abruptly and left her. He was murmuring something about upstart families who married into the aristocracy.
It was an open break.
Lucrezia very soon became certain that she was pregnant. She called her women to her and imparted the news.
They were delighted.
“Now,” said Angela, “you will be in a position to bargain with the mean old Duke. He will surely not deny the income she deserves to the mother of his grandchild!”
“I doubt it,” cried Adriana. “He is a miser, that man; and he is even now wondering how he can best rid the court of us.”
“I’d die rather than leave,” declared Angela, thinking of handsome Giulio, who was her lover.
“I’ll not let you go,” declared Lucrezia. “Moreover I shall not accept a ducat less than 12,000.”
Alfonso was delighted when he heard the news. He strutted about the castle declaring that he would have been very surprised if she had remained barren longer.
His habits changed slightly; having achieved his object he no longer came so regularly to her by night.
The old Duke was, as had been anticipated, delighted with this early proof of Lucrezia’s ability to bear sons for Ferrara, and he relented a little. “I think,” he said, “that we might allow you an income of 10,000 ducats.”
But Lucrezia was unimpressed. She told him firmly that she could not possibly live on less than 12,000 and she considered even that beggarly.
The Duke stumped away in anger, reiterating that this preoccupation with money was downright vulgar.
One would need to be insensitive, thought Lucrezia, to endure meekly this new state of affairs in the Este palace. The continual haggling with the old Duke over money was indeed undignified; it was being made perfectly clear to her that she had been accepted into the family merely because her wealthy father was willing to buy her position; Alfonso, now that she was pregnant, showed clearly that he preferred his low-bred mistress. There was continual bickering between her intimate attendants and the Ferrarese, and the little rooms of the balcony became like a separate court.
Lucrezia then decided that she would do what she had done once before when she had found her position intolerable.
It was Easter week and she decided to find refuge in the quiet of convent life; there she could be at peace; she could meditate on her position; she could look at her life clearly and make up her mind how she should act.
So, a few weeks after her wedding, she entered the Convent of the Poor Clares, and in the quiet cell allotted to her and among the gentle nuns she considered her problems.
It was not possible for the wife of the heir of Ferrara to remain shut away, and Lucrezia’s spell of peaceful contemplation with the Poor Clares was brief.
Soon she was back in the rooms of the balcony to find that nothing had been changed by her absence. There were still the same conflicts between her attendants and the Ferrarese; her husband’s visits remained spasmodic and he showed quite clearly that he had no intention of trying to smooth out matters between herself and his father; and that his duty, which was to get her with child, had been expeditiously performed.
The Duke visited her in his somewhat ceremonious fashion but he did not come to discuss her income. He had, he considered, been quite magnanimous when he offered 10,000 ducats a year; he implied that, if he had taken a great deal from her father, it was because Este dignity was impaired by accepting a Borgia into its intimate family circle, and for this a great price must naturally be demanded.
But he came with further complaints.
“My daughter,” he said, “there are two maids of yours whose levity is giving some cause for scandal in my court.”
“And who are these?” she asked.
“Your cousin, Angela Borgia, and Nicola the Sienese.”
“I beg of you, my lord Duke, tell me in what way these ladies have offended.”
“My sons, Ferrante and Giulio, are ena
mored of them, I hear, and these two ladies are less virtuous than they should be.”
“It is to be hoped,” said Lucrezia, “that they are not as lacking in virtue as their two admirers, or I should tremble for the consequences.”
“Ferrante and Giulio are men. There is a difference, you must understand. There could be no marriage between my sons and these ladies. I would prefer that there should be no scandal either.”
“You forbid them to meet? Then, my lord, I must ask you to tell your sons of your displeasure. You have more authority in this respect than I could possibly have.”
“I have already made my wishes clear. They are not to visit these apartments each night, as they have been doing.”
“So you would forbid them to come here.”
“I do not forbid. I have told them that they may come here not more than twice a week, and then only when others are present.”
“I will respect your wishes as far as is in my power,” said Lucrezia. “But you must understand that while I may command my ladies I have no power over your sons.”
“I know it,” said the Duke. “But I ask you not to encourage their frolics.”
Lucrezia bowed her head.
The Duke took one look at the extravagant hangings, and Lucrezia could see that he calculated the cost as he did so. She smiled ruefully and bowed him out of the apartment.
It was impossible to restrain the young princes in their love affairs. Giulio was particularly ardent and Angela was by no means discouraging. How far had that affair gone? Lucrezia asked herself. She dared not ask Angela; nor did she wish to pry. It was not in her nature to administer strictures which were going to bring unhappiness to lovers. So she turned aside from asking awkward questions and let matters take their course.