“Never, my daughter. Never.”
Outside in the square the cavalcade was waiting, the horses pawing the ground, and the soldiers and members of the household were swinging their arms to keep warm in the cold January air.
Cesare came to the apartment and looked sadly from his father to his sister.
“You feel this, even as I do, my son,” said the Pope.
Cesare placed his arm about his sister. “She is going from us, Father, but it is not good-bye. She will come to Rome before long. Ferrara is not all that distant from us.”
“That is right, my son. I am in need of comfort.”
The three of them spoke together then in the Valencian tongue, which they delighted to use when together. It enclosed them in a cozy intimacy and ensured that any, who by chance overheard, would not understand.
“Within the year,” said Alexander, “I shall be in Ferrara.”
“And,” added Cesare, “woe betide any there who does not treat my sister with respect.”
Alexander smiled proudly from son to daughter. “Cesare will protect you and your rights, dearest,” he said. “You have not only a father who loves you, but a mighty brother, and your welfare is his greatest concern.”
Then Cesare embraced her, and he cried out like an animal in pain: “How can we let you go! How can we! How can we!” His eyes were wild. “Let us keep her here, Father. Let us make a divorce. I will take an army against Ferrara if need be. But we cannot part with her.”
The Pope shook his head sadly, and Cesare drew Lucrezia passionately into his arms.
Now Alexander became brisk and businesslike, as he knew he must at such times. Slyly he reminded Cesare of the advantages of the match; he discussed the welfare of little Roderigo and Giovanni.
“You, Cesare,” he said, “have a little longer with her than I, since you are to ride with her part of the way.”
The Pope drew her gold-colored mantle about her and touched its soft ermine lining.
“Keep this mantle wrapped well about you, dearest,” he said. “Outside the snow is falling.” He drew the hood up so that her face was almost hidden. “Protect this sweet face and this beloved body from the rigors of the journey.”
Then he held her to him for the last time, and released her abruptly as though he could bear no more.
He accompanied her then to the waiting cavalcade. He watched her mount her mule, and he called aloud to her so that all might hear: “God go with you, daughter. The Saints preserve you. Though you are far away from me, I shall do as much for you as though you were here at my side.”
All knew that that was an assurance for Lucrezia, a threat to themselves. If any do harm to my daughter, the wrath of the Vatican will descend upon him.
Slowly the cavalcade moved out of St. Peter’s Square, followed by the 150 carts which contained Lucrezia’s gowns and treasure.
Alexander, from a window of the Vatican, watched Lucrezia on her mule and would not move until she was out of sight.
Then he turned away from the window and shut himself into his private apartments.
“I may never see her again,” he whispered, and for a short while gave himself up to an agony of grief such as he had experienced at the time of Giovanni’s death.
At length he roused himself, shook off his forebodings, and called to his attendants.
“Ferrara,” he said, “is not so very far from Rome.”
V
INTO FERRARA
I n her castle which overlooked the River Mincio, Isabella d’Este was growing more and more uneasy with every report which reached her.
She had placed in the retinue which had left Ferrara for Rome a spy whom she could trust, a man who had at one time been a priest. His letters to her were signed El Prete, and he had sworn before he left that he would attach himself to the suite of the lady Lucrezia and that nothing which concerned her should escape his watchful attention. He would send details of every dress she wore, of every word she spoke, so that Isabella should know as much as if she were present.
Isabella soundly rated all her women; during these weeks of preparation her temper, always uncertain, had been more difficult than usual and they had been at their wits’ end to placate her.
Isabella was furious that the Borgia match was to take place; she was also desperately afraid that this girl, of whose attractions her brothers—even pious Sigismondo—wrote so consistently, was going to prove a rival.
“She has dresses such as you have never seen,” wrote Ferrante. And there were El Prete’s descriptions of mulberry velvets, blue brocades and slashed sleeves from which cascades of lace flowed like waterfalls.
Where did she get such dresses? Who made them? she demanded. The lady Lucrezia took great pleasure in planning her own dresses, she was told, and superintended the making of them.
Isabella had looked upon herself as the most elegant lady in Italy. The King of France had asked her to send him dolls wearing exact replicas of her designs. And here was Ferrante writing that she could never have seen such splendid dresses as those worn by the lady Lucrezia!
“I will show her what elegance means!” cried Isabella.
She summoned all her dressmakers to the castle. Rich stuffs were delivered for her approval. There was not a great deal of time if she was to be at the wedding with a wardrobe to put that of the Borgia woman in the shade.
Night and day she kept her sewing women busy while she designed garment after garment. Pearls were sewn on to rich brocade and capes of cloth of gold were lined with blonde lynx. Satins lay draped over tables, in the richest colors procurable.
Isabella paced up and down the great workroom reading extracts from the letters of her brothers and the priest.
“And what is she like?” she cried. “It would seem they are so bemused by her that they cannot write clearly. ‘She is tall and slender and greatly do the gowns she designs herself become her.’ ”
Tall and slender! Isabella ran her hands over her somewhat ample hips.
Her women pacified her as best they might. “She cannot be more slender than you, Marchesa. If she is, she must be hideously thin.”
Isabella’s dark eyes flashed with anger and apprehension. It was bad enough to bring a Borgia into the family, but to have to accept her as a rival—a successful rival—even in only one of the talents at which Isabella excelled, was going to be intolerable.
Although her courtiers might tell her that she was ethereal, that she was slender as a young girl, she knew better. Therefore she began work on dresses which would make her appear taller and more slender than she was.
Ippolito wrote of the graceful manner in which Lucrezia danced. So Isabella must summon a dancing master to the castle and practice dancing.
Lucrezia played charmingly on the lute which accompanied her sweet singing voice. Very well, Isabella must play her lute, practice her singing more constantly than ever.
There was one who looked on with aloof amusement at all these preparations. This was Isabella’s husband, Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua.
The man irritated Isabella. Lazy as he was, there had been occasions when he had reminded her that he was ruler of Mantua, and she never forgot them; and, feeling herself to be his superior, the fact that she was forced on such occasions to acknowledge his supremacy was galling. Many people in Italy considered him a great soldier, a man of some importance; but to Isabella there was only one important family in Italy—her own, the Estes—and the rest should consider themselves highly honored to mate with them. Her dislike of the Borgia marriage had its roots in this belief, and lazy Francesco was fully aware of her feelings.
He understood her too well, this soldier husband; and to see his supercilious smiles at her fear of Lucrezia was decidedly irritating.
She stormed at him: “It is very well for you. What do you care! I tell you this, I do not enjoy seeing my family so demean itself.”
“You should be pleased to see it so enrich itself, my dear,” said gentle Fr
ancesco.
“Ducats! What are they in exchange for this … this misalliance?”
“Ask your father, Isabella. He has a mighty respect for the ducat. And ducats are ducats, whether they come from the Papal coffers or those of Ferrara.”
“You mock me.”
His expression softened a little. He remembered the first days of their marriage, his pride in her who had seemed to tower above all other women. Had he in those days accepted her own estimation of herself? Perhaps. But she had been handsome; she had been sprightly and intelligent. Ah, if Isabella had been more humble, what an enchanting person she might have been!
“Nay,” he said. “I do not mean to mock.”
“You have seen this girl. Tell me what she is like. These brothers of mine, and all those who report on her, seem to have been bemused by a display of velvet, brocade and fine jewels.”
“So you hope to dazzle by an even more splendid display of velvet and brocade, with finer jewels?”
“Tell me, when you saw the girl did she dazzle you?”
Francesco thought back to that day when he had passed through Rome as the hero of Fornovo—that battle which had driven the French from Italy and had later proved to be far from decisive. He remembered a pleasant creature; a child she had been then. He had heard that she was sixteen but he would have thought her younger. He conjured up a vague vision with long golden hair and light eyes, very striking because not often seen in Italy.
“I remember her but vaguely,” he answered. “She seemed a pleasant child.”
Isabella looked sharply at her husband. The “child,” if rumor did not lie, had been far from innocent even then. Isabella would have been interested to know what she had thought of Francesco who oddly, so it seemed to her, was so attractive to women. She could understand Ippolito’s popularity, or Ferrante’s and that of her bastard brother Giulio. But they were Estes. The fascination of her ugly husband was beyond her comprehension.
She shrugged aside such thoughts, for there was no time to think of anything but the coming wedding.
She said: “I must write at once to Elizabetta. I hear that the cortège will spend a little time at Urbino. I must put your sister on her guard against the Borgias.”
Francesco thought of his prim sister Elizabetta, who had married the Duke of Urbino, and he said: “The bride is not very old. She will be coming to a strange country. I doubt not that she will be filled with apprehension. If you write to Elizabetta, ask her to be kind to the girl.”
Isabella laughed. “Kind to Borgia! Is one kind to vipers? I shall certainly warn Elizabetta to be on her guard.”
Francesco shook his head. “You will hatch some scheme between yourselves to make her days in Ferrara as uncomfortable as you can, I doubt not.”
Francesco turned and strode away. Isabella looked after him. He seemed quite moved. Could he have felt some tender feeling for the girl when he had seen her? Impossible. It was so long ago and they had not met since. There was no doubt that this Lucrezia Borgia, in spite of her evil reputation (which Isabella was certain had been deserved), appealed to the chivalry in men.
But there was no time to think about Francesco’s foolish gallantries and his sympathy with the Borgia girl. He should know better than seek to champion such a woman who had no right to marry into the aristocracy of Italy. She wrote at once to her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Urbino. Poor Elizabetta! she would be expected to entertain the upstart, and Elizabetta should be prepared. She should treat the girl with disdain. It was the only possible attitude in the circumstances.
A messenger brought a letter from her father.
She read it through quickly. It was the formal invitation to the wedding, and strangely enough it did not include Francesco.
There was a private letter in which the old Duke explained. He did not trust the Borgias. The marriage could have been arranged for the purpose of luring great lords to the wedding so that their domains might be left unprotected, for Cesare Borgia was eager to make a kingdom for himself, and Ercole thought they should be wary of the Duke of Romagna; therefore Francesco would be wise to stay at home in order to guard Mantua should the need arise.
Isabella nodded. She and her father had the same sagacious minds, and this suggestion was worthy of him.
Moreover she was rather pleased. She was determined to do everything in her power to make Lucrezia uncomfortable, and it would have been somewhat irritating to have to do so under Francesco’s critical eyes. Now she would go without her husband to Ferrara, and there she would enjoy herself without restraint, for she had no doubt whatever that in a conflict between herself and Lucrezia, she would be the victor.
When she showed Francesco her father’s letter, he was thoughtful.
“It is sound good sense, is it not?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “It is sound good sense. Any man would be a fool to leave his domain while Cesare Borgia is seeking to enlarge his.”
She slipped her arm through his and laughed up into his face. “I see that your kindness is all for the sister, and does not extend to the brother.”
“The brother,” he said, “is my affair.”
“It’s true, Francesco. Therefore the sister should be left to me.”
* * *
The journey to Ferrara was slow. There were so many to welcome them on the way, and stage pageants for their amusement. When Cesare said good-bye and rode back to Rome, a sense of freedom from the past came to Lucrezia, but it was not without its apprehensions for the future. Ippolito had said good-bye, for he too must return to Rome—a hostage from Ferrara. Angela Borgia had behaved with haughty indifference toward the elegant Cardinal, who had been slightly piqued and faintly amused, but his thoughts had mainly been on riding back to Rome where he could renew a most exciting friendship with Sanchia.
Riding beside Lucrezia was Adriana Mila, with whom Lucrezia had spent so much of her childhood. Adriana was in charge of Lucrezia’s attendants and it was comforting to have her there; Lucrezia was grateful also for the company of her two cousins, young Angela and Girolama Borgia who was the wife of Fabio Orsini. It was very comforting, when going to a strange land, to have old friends about one.
And now the time had come to say good-bye to Francesco Borgia, the Cardinal of Cosenza, in whose kind hands she was leaving the care of her little Roderigo.
She could not prevent herself from weeping before them all when she said her good-bye to the old man, imploring him once more to care for her little boy; and this he again swore he would do. She knew that he would keep his promise for, although he was a Borgia (he was a son of Calixtus III) he lacked that overwhelming ambition which was possessed by her father and brother. In his hands Lucrezia felt she could best leave the welfare of her son, and this she told him while he assured her that her trust should not be misplaced.
Sorrowfully she watched him ride away, realizing that yet another link with the past had broken. Now they must continue the journey, since the Duke and Duchess of Urbino were waiting to receive them.
* * *
At the gates of the town of Gubbio in the territory of the Duke of Urbino, the Duke and his wife Elizabetta were waiting to greet Lucrezia.
Elizabetta was filled with an anger which she could not entirely suppress. Her husband had assured her that it was necessary to do honor to Lucrezia Borgia; Cesare had turned his eyes on rich Urbino and any excuse would be enough for him to descend upon it. Therefore they must give him no opportunity for enmity, and must offer his sister all the honors they would give to a visiting aristocrat.
Elizabetta, who had been in close correspondence with her sister-in-law, Isabella d’Este, found it difficult to compose her features as she waited.
She thought—as she had a thousand times—of all the misery the Borgias had brought into her life. When her husband Guidobaldo had been called into service to go into battle with the Pope’s son, Giovanni Borgia, their troubles had begun. For one thing, Guidobaldo (acknowledged to be, with her
brother Francesco Gonzaga, one of the greatest soldiers in Italy), had been obliged to serve under the Borgia. Of all the incompetent commanders who had ever dared command an army Giovanni had been the most incompetent, and as a result of obeying his orders, Guidobaldo had been wounded, taken prisoner by the French and kept in a dark dank prison while his family had strained all their resources to provide the ransom demanded for his release. The Borgia Pope could have paid that ransom, but he had been too busy slyly making his peace terms with the French and covering up the follies of his son.
And when Guidobaldo had returned home he was a different man from the husband Elizabetta had known. He was crippled with rheumatism and suffered piteously from gout. A young man had left his home in the service of the Papal armies; the wreck of that young man had returned. He walked slowly and there were days when he could scarcely walk at all; he was bent double, his face yellow and lined.
Elizabetta had grown bitter. Guidobaldo might forgive the Borgias, for he had a sweet and gentle nature which was the result of an inability to see evil until it was right upon him. Elizabetta would never forgive them.
She looked at him now crouched painfully on his horse, ready to bestow on the daughter of the man who was responsible for his present state that courtesy for which he was famous. He would be telling himself, if he even remembered past injuries: It was not this girl’s fault. It would be churlish of me to show by look or word that I remember her father’s ill-treatment of me.
But I, thought Elizabetta, shall do all in my power to show these upstarts that we accept them only because it is expedient to do so.
And here was the girl, looking fragile and very feminine, gentle and pretty, so that it was difficult even for one determined to hate her, to believe the evil stories concerning her.
The Duke bowed over her hand; his Duchess was gracious but Lucrezia, looking up into the prim face under the black broad-brimmed hat, at the black velvet garments which were not designed for decoration, was conscious of the Duchess’s dislike.
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