by Jean Plaidy
Strozzi guessed that Alfonso was thinking that it was time they attempted to get an heir for Ferrara, and decided it would be interesting to see how Lucrezia kept these two relationships apart—that entirely physical one which she would be forced to share with her husband, and the Platonic one with Bembo.
It seemed that Lucrezia had discovered the art of dividing her personality. She showed no revulsion for Alfonso, and at the same time she preserved that unworldly air of a woman spiritually in love with an ideal.
Duke Ercole’s agreement to pay her 12,000 ducats a year was proving to be a small victory for Lucrezia since he paid the difference in kind, as he had said he would; and there was continual complaint about the quality and short weight of the goods he supplied.
Lucrezia however, immersed in her devotion to her poet, could not concern herself, as she had previously, with material matters; she accepted the stinginess of Duke Ercole without complaint; and while she continued to receive Bembo at her gatherings Duke Ercole left the court for a quiet sojourn in Belriguardo, taking with him the State ledgers so that in the peace of his retreat he could go over his accounts and try to discover a way of saving money.
In Rome Cardinal Ippolito was learning how dangerous life could be for those who incurred the dislike of the Borgias, and those days when Lucrezia lay between life and death were very difficult for him, as the Pope made no secret of his suspicions regarding the Este family. He railed against Duke Ercole in the presence of Ippolito, and it was not easy to stand by and listen to complaints against one’s own father.
The Pope had given Ippolito an income of 3,000 ducats a year that he might live in the style expected of him during his stay in Rome, but he did not allow Ippolito to forget that he was a hostage for the good behavior of the Este family toward Lucrezia.
“I begin to doubt,” said the Pope ominously one day, “whether my daughter is being treated with due consideration in Ferrara.”
Ippolito shivered at those words. He was not a coward, but the rumors concerning the Borgias’ methods of disposing of their enemies were enough to make anyone who might be deemed an enemy shiver. The terrible Cantarella was not a myth. During his stay in Rome Ippolito had seen strange things happen to men who ate at the Borgia table. Others disappeared, to be discovered later in the Tiber. It was slyly said of Alexander in Rome that he was the true successor of St. Peter, for without doubt he was a fisher of men.
Sanchia, Ippolito’s mistress, warned him.
“If Lucrezia dies you should not stay another hour in Rome,” she told him.
“Of what use would my death be to them?” demanded Ippolito. “Could it bring Lucrezia back to health?”
Sanchia looked steadily at her lover. “If Lucrezia dies,” she said, “the Borgia will no longer be the Grazing Bull. It will be the mad bull and the devil himself could not protect a man who stood in the way of that animal.”
“The Pope is a man of good sense. He would see that my death could avail him nothing.”
“Do you know nothing of the affection between members of this family? They are not normal, I tell you. They are a trinity … an unholy trinity if you like, but they are as one. If you have not seen them together, then you would not understand.”
“It would seem,” said Ippolito lightly, “that you are tired of your lover and would wish him gone, so that you might spend your time with others.”
“Your presence here, my love, would not prevent me spending my time with others.”
“And does not,” said Ippolito lightly.
She laughed. “You would be unique if you could alone satisfy me. But I am fond of you, my little Cardinal. That is why I warn you. Be ready to fly.”
There were times when he did not take her seriously; others when he did. When Alexander read letters from Ferrara and he saw the emotion in his face, he believed what Sanchia told him.
But the news was good. Lucrezia recovered. Bells rang throughout Rome, and the Pope went from church to church giving thanks that his treasure was spared him.
He was not going to wait any longer, he declared. He was going to Ferrara as soon as he had made his preparations to do so, and those preparations were to begin at once.
He went about Rome, a delighted smile on his face, a song on his lips. He was like a young man again; and watching, Ippolito was inclined to agree that there was something superhuman about these Borgias.
Cesare returned to Rome, and Ippolito prepared to welcome him, for there had been a time when friendship had blossomed between them; it was not long ago, at the time of Lucrezia’s departure for Ferrara, when they had discovered a mutual dislike for Cardinal’s robes.
Cesare came riding into Rome, and the faces of the people were averted and cautious while they hailed him as the conqueror. There were whispers of the cruelties he had inflicted on his victims, of the harsh rule of his new territories; and it was known throughout Rome that even Alexander now bowed to Cesare, and it was the son, not the father, who ruled the city.
Ippolito was with Sanchia when Cesare called on her. Tension was apparent, and Sanchia, chatting lightly with her two lovers, was aware of this.
Ippolito left her with Cesare. He was not a coward, but he could not escape that sense of threat which seemed now to emanate from Cesare wherever he went.
Cesare was clearly not pleased to find him with Sanchia, and it was obvious that any friendship which had ever existed between them was rapidly fading.
Sanchia sent for him a few hours later.
She put her arms about his neck, and her blue eyes were affectionate.
“Ippolito, my dear Cardinal,” she said, “I shall miss you bitterly, but take my advice and leave Rome at once.”
“Why so?” asked Ippolito.
“Because I have loved this handsome body of yours dearly, and I do not wish to think of it as a corpse. Go straight from here, take your friends and ride out of Rome. Ride for Ferrara as fast as you can. You may be in time to save your life.”
“From whom?”
“You waste time in asking. You know. He strikes quickly. He is so practiced. No need now to make plans. He merely says, Method number one, or two, or three … and the person who has irritated him is no more.”
“I have not irritated him.”
“You have been my lover. Occasionally Cesare decides that he does not like my lovers.”
Ippolito stood staring at her.
“Ippolito!” she cried. “You fool! Go … go while you have time. Give my love to Lucrezia. Tell her I miss her. But hesitate not a moment. I tell you, your life is in danger.”
Ippolito left her and went down to where his groom was waiting for him with two squires. They were nervous. He saw that. The whole of Rome was nervous, and all those who caused annoyance—however slight—to Cesare Borgia should beware.
Within an hour Ippolito was riding away from Rome.
Pietro Bembo was now recognized as Lucrezia’s court poet. They exchanged letters, cautiously written yet brimming over with love and devotion; they were both careful to keep their relationship on its Platonic footing, both fearing that to change it would in some measure degrade it.
Those were happy days for them both. They lived for each other; and Lucrezia felt that she had never been so peacefully happy as she was at this time.
She could not understand how she, who had taken such delight in physical love, could find this contentment in such a different relationship. Perhaps she missed her family very much; perhaps when she was with one who loved her carnally she remembered them too vividly. She was, after all, still seeking that escape, that opportunity to be herself—and herself alone—which had made her long to leave Rome for Ferrara.
Ippolito arrived and, although she had during the first weeks of their meetings been attracted by him, she was disturbed by his presence at court.
He was determined to be her devoted brother-in-law. All her brothers-in-law were her devoted friends, but Ferrante and Giulio were always busy with their love
affairs, and Sigismondo with his religion, so that they had no time to pry into her affairs.
Ippolito however was ready to be very interested, and she feared his curiosity concerning her friendship with Pietro. There was scarcely a person at court who would believe in its Platonic nature, and Lucrezia was aware that there were many who would like to catch the lovers in a compromising situation so that they might explode this story of Platonic love between a poet and a Borgia.
Moreover the Ippolito who returned did not seem the same man as the Ippolito whom she had known in Rome. Nor was he. He had run away from Cesare Borgia and he was ashamed of himself. Always haughty and quick tempered, these qualities seemed to have been magnified by what had happened to him. He was charming to Lucrezia and bore her no grudge because it was her brother who had made him run from Rome, but his conduct in Ferrara was at times rather like that of Cesare himself. For instance when he imagined himself insulted by one of Alfonso’s soldiers he flogged the man so unmercifully that he almost beat him to death. Alfonso was furious, but the harm was done before he could intervene, and Alfonso was not one to make much of what could not be mended.
It seemed to all in Ferrara that the Cardinal must be treated with the utmost respect lest his anger should be aroused and that happen to them which had happened to Alfonso’s soldier; which was exactly the impression Ippolito had wished to create.
Ippolito was now at Lucrezia’s side most of the day, which made it difficult for her to snatch those precious hours alone with Pietro, but Strozzi was doing his best to make communication easy between the lovers; one day he wrote a letter to Pietro in which he described conversations between himself—Strozzi—and Lucrezia, and told of the flattering things which had been said of Pietro. Lucrezia read the letter before it was sent and, because Strozzi had deliberately not signed it, she wrote her name at the bottom so that it should be known that she endorsed all that it contained.
That letter was an admission of the love, bordering on the passionate, which existed between the two.
But Ippolito, always at her side, was making meetings more and more difficult.
There was secret correspondence between them now, and because Lucrezia knew that she was surrounded by spies she signed herself as FF, by which she was to be known to Pietro in the future.
These difficulties and subterfuges were conducive to Platonic love, and Lucrezia’s happiness seemed to flower during those months.
Strozzi, seeing this love affair, which had been of his making, drifting into a backwater, could not resist trying to change its course.
It was during the heat of August when he came to Lucrezia and found her with Ippolito. He had heard that Pietro Bembo was sick of a fever and he wondered how deep this Platonic love of Lucrezia’s went. Was it an idealistic dream of which Bembo merely happened to be material manifestation; or did she really care what became of him as a man?
It was too interesting a problem for Strozzi to ignore.
So he said in front of Ippolito: “I have bad news, Duchessa. Poor Pietro Bembo is sick, and it would seem that his life is in danger.”
Lucrezia rose; she had turned slightly pale.
“Poor fellow,” said Ippolito lightly, but he was alert.
“I must go to see that he has all he needs to help him recover,” said Lucrezia.
“My dear sister, you should not risk infection. Let some other do what is necessary.”
Strozzi was watching Lucrezia, watching the panic shown in her eyes.
She loves the man, thought Strozzi. Leave them together in his bedchamber and they will forget this elevated talk of spiritual love.
“He is my court poet,” said Lucrezia, recovering her poise. “I owe it to him to see that he has comfort now that he is sick.”
“Delegate someone to visit him,” suggested Ippolito.
Lucrezia nodded.
The streets were quiet and deserted, the heat intense, as Lucrezia’s carriage made its way to Bembo’s lodgings. Hurriedly she left the carriage and entered the house.
He was lying in his bed, and his heart leaped at the sight of her.
“My Duchessa,” he cried. “But … you should not have come.”
“How could I do otherwise?” She took his burning hands and kissed them.
His eyes, wide with fever and passion, looked into hers.
She sat by his bed. “Now,” she said, “you must tell me exactly how you feel. I have brought herbs and ointments with me. I know how to make you well again.”
“Your presence is enough,” he told her.
“Pietro, Pietro, you must get well. How could I endure my life without you?”
“Take care, my beloved,” whispered Pietro. “There is plague in the city. It may be that I suffer from it. Oh, it was folly … folly for you to come here.”
“Folly,” she said, “to be with you?”
They held hands and thought of the dread plague from which he might be suffering and might impart to her. To pass together from this life in which they had loved with all purity and an emotion of the spirit, seemed a perfect ending to their perfect love.
But Lucrezia did not want to die. She wanted both of them to live, so she refused to consider this ending and busied herself with the remedies she had brought.
His eyes followed her as she moved about his apartment. He was sick—he believed himself to be dying—and he knew that he loved her with a love which was both spiritual and physical. Had he been less weak there would have been an end to their talk of Platonic emotion. His sickness was like a flaming sword which separated them from passion. He could only rejoice in it because it had brought her to his side, while he deplored it; and as he looked into her face he knew that she shared his thoughts and emotions.
“It will be known that you have been here,” he said.
“I care not.”
“We are spied on night and day.”
“What matters it? There is nothing to discover. We have never been what would be called lovers.”
They looked at each other longingly; then Pietro went on: “I shall never know the great joy now. Oh, Duchessa, Lucrezia, my love, I feel our love will remain forever unfulfilled.”
She was startled, and suddenly cried out in an access of passionate grief: “You must not die, Pietro. You shall not die.”
It was a promise. Pietro knew it, and a calmness seemed to settle upon him then; it was as though he were determined to throw off his fever, determined to live that he might enjoy that which so far had been denied him.
Pietro’s recovery was rapid.
Within a few weeks he was ready to leave Ferrara, and Strozzi was at hand to offer his villa at Ostellato for the convalescence.
Before he left, Lucrezia had decided that she too would leave Ferrara for a short rest in the quiet of the country. Alfonso was once more visiting fortifications; Ippolito had his duties at court; and Giulio was the only member of the family who was free to accompany her. This he did with the utmost pleasure, since Angela was of the party.
So Lucrezia set out for the villa of Medelana, which was close to Strozzi’s at Ostellato; thus during that convalescence the lovers could frequently enjoy each other’s companionship.
There, in the scented gardens or under the cool shade of trees, they could be together undisturbed. Lucrezia would set out for the Strozzi villa with Angela and Giulio in attendance; but when they arrived and Pietro came out to meet them, Guilio and Angela would wander off and leave Pietro and Lucrezia together.
Thus in those golden days of August they mingled the spiritual with the physical, and Lucrezia believed that she had come at last to perfect happiness.
During those warm days in the gardens at Ostellato she lived solely in the present, taking each day as it came, refusing to look beyond it, because she dared not.
She would treasure, as long as she lived, the scents of the flowers, the softness of the grass at Ostellato; she would remember the words he had written for her, the words he spoke to h
er.
“If I died now,” he told her, “if so great a desire, so great a love were ended, the world would be emptied of love.”
She believed him; she assured him that the love he felt for her was no greater than that she felt for him. Each was conscious that there was so much to be lived through in a short time.
And so passed the happy days of Pietro’s convalescence and Lucrezia’s escape from Ferrara.
In Rome Alexander was preparing for his visit to Ferrara. He felt younger than ever. He had numerous mistresses and he had proved that he was still capable of begetting children. Never had seventy-two years sat more lightly on a man than they did on Alexander. He was beginning to believe that he was immortal. The prospect of the long and tedious journey did not give him a twinge of uneasiness. He felt that he was at the very pinnacle of his powers.
Cesare came to Rome. He stayed with his father and there were many intimate encounters. Cesare declared that he would remain in Rome that he might join in the celebrations which were to be given in honor of Alexander’s eleventh anniversary as Pope. This was not quite true. Cesare’s relations with the French were not so cordial as they had been. Spain was beginning to play a bigger part in Italian politics. She had been content to look on while Southern Italy was in the hands of the Aragonese, but if they were unable to hold the territory, then the King of Spain must step in to prevent its falling under French domination.
If Spain was to be victorious over the French their King decided that it was imperative for the Borgias to cut their alliance with France—and what more natural than they should turn to the Spanish who were, in no small measure, their own people? In this uncertain state of affairs it might be that Cesare would have to rely on his own efforts to hold the kingdom of Romagna, and he was going to miss French support quite disastrously.