Light on Lucrezia

by Виктория Холт

  “Ah! Lucrezia Borgia. Tell me, is she a monster?”

  Strozzi laughed. “She is the daintiest, most sensitive creature I ever set eyes on. Exquisite. Golden-haired, eyes that are so pale they take their color from her gowns. Delicate. Quite charming. And a lover of poetry.”

  “One hears such tales!”

  “False. All false. It is an ill fate which has married her to that boor Alfonso.”

  “She feels it to be an ill fate?”

  Strozzi’s eyes were thoughtful. “I do not entirely understand her. She has learned to mask her thoughts. It would seem that Alfonso perturbs her little; and when I think of him—uncouth, ill-mannered—and her—so sensitive, so delicate—I shudder. Yet there is a strength within her.”

  “You are bewitched by your Duchess.”

  “As you would be, had you seen her.”

  “I admit a certain curiosity as to the Borgia.”

  “Perhaps one day you will meet.”

  The poet was thoughtful. “A delicate goddess married to Alfonso d’Este! One would say Poor Lucrezia, if one did not know Lucrezia.”

  “You do not know Lucrezia. Nor do I. I am not certain that Lucrezia knows herself.”

  “You are cryptic.”

  “She makes me thus.”

  “I see she absorbs you. I have never known you so absentminded before. I declare you are longing to go back to Ferrara with your silks and tabbies.”

  Strozzi smiled. “But let us talk of you. You are restless. You weary of Helena. Why do you not go to my Villa at Ostellato?”

  “What should I do there?”

  “Be at peace to write your poetry.”

  “You would come and see me there?”

  “I would. Mayhap I would induce Lucrezia to ride that way. It is not far from Ferrara.”

  The poet smiled, and Strozzi saw that the exquisitely lovely Duchessa of such evil reputation, whom he had described as sensitive and unformed, was catching at Pietro’s imagination as she had caught at his.

  Strozzi was pleased. He wished to mold those two. He wished to put them together in his great villa at Ostellato and watch the effect they had on each other.

  * * *

  When Strozzi returned to Ferrara he found that the heat of the summer was proving very trying to Lucrezia. She was suffering a great deal of discomfort in her pregnancy, and her relations with Duke Ercole had worsened.

  She was delighted with the velvets, silks and tabbies which Strozzi had brought her, and they did lift her spirits for a while. She was interested too in his account of the poet, Pietro Bembo, and she gave a party during which Strozzi read the young man’s newest verses.

  But these were isolated incidents, and Strozzi saw that she was suffering too much discomfort to feel really interested in either fine materials or absent poets.

  She ordered a handsome cradle to be made in Venice so that she could have it well before the baby was due. “It is a great extravagance,” she said, “and I know full well that the Duke will be shocked when he sees it. But I care not. I have come to think that the only pleasure I have in this heat is from shocking the Duke.”

  Alexander had now heard of Duke Ercole’s offer of 10,000 ducats as his daughter’s annual income, and he was incensed.

  “My daughter cannot be expected to live on a pittance,” he cried, and reminded that old Duke of the 100,000 ducats he had received as dowry, besides all other benefits.

  The Duke retorted that marriage into aristocratic families could not be attained by those of lower status without high costs; this infuriated Alexander, and all benefits from the Papacy immediately ceased.

  Alexander wrote that he had heard that Lucrezia had been treated with scant respect at the time of the wedding, and he would like Duke Ercole to know that he was far from pleased.

  But from the stronghold of Ferrara the Duke snapped his fingers at the Papacy; Lucrezia declared that she would rather starve than accept the miserly 10,000 ducats a year. She gave a banquet for the Duke in her apartments and at this she used the goblets and silver-ware which were marked with the emblem of the Grazing Bull, the arms of Naples and those of the Sforzas. She wished the Duke to know that she was not dependent upon him. She had the relics of a less penurious past, and the Grazing Bull was much in evidence.

  The Duke’s reactions were that, as she had so much, he need not worry about her. He was content to save his money.

  And after that, when he visited her, he found the doors of the little rooms closed against him.

  But he did not wish them to be so obviously bad friends, and these little quarrels were patched up, although he remained adamant—and so did Lucrezia—about money.

  Lucrezia was finding this pregnancy more exhausting than the others. She lost a little of her sweet temper and although she did not keep up the intense hostility between herself and the Duke, she was less forgiving than previously.

  She spent a few weeks at the Este palace of Belriguardo and when she left this palace to return to Ferrara, the Duke, who was becoming disturbed by the spreading rumors of hostility between them, set out to meet her on the road.

  Knowing that he was coming to greet her, Lucrezia deliberately delayed so that the Duke was kept waiting in the heat of the sun. When she came, fresh and cool from having rested in the shade, and expressed little concern to see him hot and angry, he realized that there was another side to the soft and gentle Lucrezia.

  * * *

  Guidobaldo di Montefeltre, Duke of Urbino, sat in the convent gardens outside the city walls. It was June and delightful to sit in the shade. He was suffering less pain than usual and was thinking how pleasant it was to enjoy that freedom from discomfort, to sense the peace all about him.

  Elizabetta, his wife, was visiting Mantua. She and Isabella, he guessed, would put their heads together and discuss the latest Borgia scandal. Isabella was urging her father to stand firm and not to give the bride a ducat over 10,000 a year.

  How those two hated the bride of Ferrara! He could understand Elizabetta in some measure, but in Isabella’s case it was jealousy. He had urged Elizabetta to forget her rancor before she set out on her visit to Mantua.

  “I suffer the fortunes of war,” he had said. “It is wrong to blame young Lucrezia for what happened to me.”

  Then Elizabetta had cried out: “You went away young and healthy. You came back crippled. Alexander could have brought you back to me … as you went away. But he let you stay in that filthy prison. It was no concern of his, he said. You were no longer of use to him. Do you think I shall ever forget that?”

  “Still, Elizabetta,” he had said, “it is wrong to blame the girl.”

  “I blame them all. I would like to see all Borgias suffer as they have made us suffer.”

  Guidobaldo now shook his head, remembering. What joy was there in life if one nursed hatreds? To live peacefully one must forget past insults and injuries; and that was what he had tried to do. Even at this moment Cesare Borgia was passing through Urbino on his way from Romagna to Rome. He had asked permission to do so. Elizabetta would have refused, even though she knew that to have refused would have plunged Urbino into war. She would have cried: “I’ll not give one concession to these Borgias, however small. Let him make a long march round Urbino. Let him know that we do not forget. He has laughed at you for your lost manhood, yet he must know that it was his father who destroyed it.” Then he would have had to placate her, to tell her that to refuse would mean war. He was glad therefore that she was in Mantua and that they had avoided one of those unpleasant emotional scenes during which he was reminded how much his infirmity meant to her.

  Sipping his wine he wondered where this would end. Would it happen, as some prophesied, that as the territory of Il Valentino grew so would his longing to make it bigger? Would he rest content until the whole of Italy was his?

  Wretched thoughts. There had been too much war. The old soldier was weary, no longer being fit for battle. Thus he could enjoy the good wine, the plea
sant shade and the thought that Elizabetta was away in Mantua.

  He dozed and was awakened by the clatter of horses’ hoofs. He heard voices in the distance.

  “The Duke! He is here? Then I pray you take me to him at once.”

  Did he guess during those brief seconds before the messenger reached him?

  Elizabetta was right when she said a man was a fool to trust a Borgia. He had laid his territory open to the Borgia, and at this moment Il Valentino and his ruthless troops might be in the city itself.

  The messenger was kneeling before him. “My lord, there is not a moment to lose. Il Valentino has entered Urbino. He has taken possession of the city. He is sacking the palace. He is sending his soldiers to find you, and he knows that you are here. To horse … my lord Duke. Fly for your life!”

  So Guidobaldo di Montefeltre, twice deceived by the Borgias, took horse and rode toward Mantua with all the speed his crippled body would allow.

  * * *

  He found that the news had preceded him. Elizabetta had retired to her apartments worn out with grief and worry. Isabella and Francesco consoled him, making him very welcome and insisting that he must rest.

  “A curse on these Borgias!” cried Isabella.

  But when she was alone with her husband, Francesco saw the speculative look in her eyes.

  “Guidobaldo was a fool to allow Il Valentino free entry into Urbino,” she declared. “What has come over him?”

  “He is war-weary. He is no longer young. That is what has happened to Guidobaldo.”

  Isabella stalked up and down the apartment. She was visualizing the Urbino palace and Elizabetta’s wonderful collection of statues which she had always envied. She had asked Michelangelo to make something similar to his Sleeping Cupid for her, but artists would not work to order. It was the same with Leonardo da Vinci; he could not be induced to produce anything beautiful at this time, being concerned with a new drainage system which he was sure would be the means of disposing of many of the causes of periodic plague. At least, thought Isabella, the Borgia would not destroy anything which was beautiful.

  Francesco watched her, that wise expression in his sleepy eyes.

  She turned on him in her rage. “How can you smile? Do you not realize what this means to Guidobaldo and Elizabetta?”

  Francesco became serious. “Too well,” he said. “I smiled because I thought of what it might mean to you.”

  “I do not understand you. What could it mean but a share in their grief?”

  “It could also mean a share in their treasures.”

  She wanted to slap his face. He was too clever, with his habit of reading her thoughts.

  She was loud in her denunciation of Cesare Borgia, but at the same time she secretly dispatched messages to Urbino, and her attitude would appear to be friendly. She had heard—she wrote—that Cesare had taken possession of the Urbino palace, and there was a statue there which she coveted beyond all others. She had longed to possess it and now, if Il Valentino were kind, she had a hope of doing so. It was the Sleeping Cupid which Michelangelo had made. She and Cesare were related since his sister’s marriage to her brother. If he could find it in his heart to grant her this request, she doubted not that they could be friendly as relations should be.

  The message was dispatched; she set about comforting Elizabetta and poor Guidobaldo, and her denunciation of the Borgias rang through the Castle.

  * * *

  Cesare was not one to give friendship lightly. He found the Sleeping Cupid and its beauty moved him deeply; it surely was one of the most exquisite pieces of workmanship in Italy, and it was small wonder that Isabella wanted it. Should he send it to Lucrezia? That would infuriate Isabella.

  Cesare laughed aloud. His first impulse was to despatch the cupid to Ferrara, but he hesitated. He was the ruler of his own dominion now, and he dreamed of extending that dominion. He must not therefore give way to stupid whims. Isabella of Mantua was important in his schemes because she was a clever woman of wide influence, and at this time it was better to be friends with such as she.

  He began to see the significance of this beautiful object. It was beyond price.

  If he gave such a gift, what should he ask in return? The Duke and Duchess of Urbino were now sheltering in Mantua. They must be banished. Cesare’s daughter by Charlotte d’Albret should have a husband. The heir of Mantua was reputed to be one of the loveliest little boys in Italy. He knew that poor Charlotte’s child was ill-favored because he had read between the lines of all the reports that had come to him. She was intelligent enough, but her nose, young as she was, was ill-shaped and over-large. If she grew up ugly, a very large dowry might be demanded for her. Better to get her settled now while she was still a baby. And why should she not marry into one of the aristocratic families of Italy; why not the heir of Mantua?

  Isabella had despised the Borgias and had shown this during the wedding at Ferrara. He would avenge Lucrezia and secure a prize for himself at the same time.

  Smiling at the cupid, he assured himself that his terms would be accepted: The banishment from Mantua of the Duke and Duchess of Urbino; the betrothal of his daughter to handsome little Federigo, the heir of Mantua. And for that, Isabella should have her cupid.

  * * *

  Lucrezia had left her scented bath and was lying on a couch in her Moorish shirt when the news was brought to her.

  Angela, who was with her, watched her with startled eyes, for she received the news without a word, and when the messenger had gone she lay still, staring before her.

  Angela ran to her and embraced her. “Why should you grieve?” she demanded.

  “They gave me hospitality,” answered Lucrezia. “The Duke was kind to me.”

  “His Duchess was not. Hateful creature! In her black velvet hat and black velvet gown, she was like an old crow.”

  “He asked for free passage through Urbino,” said Lucrezia, “and it was given. And when there was no one to defend the place … he took it. Oh, why does he do such things? Why does he make me cringe in shame?”

  “You are too sensitive. This is war, of which we know nothing.”

  “But we do know. I know that my brother’s ambition is like a wild animal let loose. It attacks, destroys … destroys all … men, women, children—and self-respect. I would I had never gone to Urbino.”

  “The Duke and Duchess are safe. Your sister-in-law Isabella will look after her dear Elizabetta.”

  Lucrezia confined herself to her apartments. She would see no one, and there was no longer music or laughter in the little rooms. She was ashamed and unhappy.

  Angela, Adriana, Girolama and Nicola all sought to comfort her.

  “They are safe at least,” they repeated. “They reached Mantua. There they will find refuge.”

  They had not yet heard that the Duke and Duchess of Urbino were being requested to leave Mantua for Venice. They did not know that the little heir of Mantua was being betrothed to Cesare’s daughter.

  Meanwhile Isabella stood looking at the exquisite work of art, and its beauty brought tears to her eyes.

  Francesco watched her and murmured: “It is indeed beautiful. It should give you great pleasure. You paid a very big price for it, Isabella.”

  * * *

  It was the middle of July and the heat was intense.

  There was plague in Ferrara and, to the horror of all within the palace, one of the maids went down with it. Angela Borgia caught it, but mildly, and Lucrezia was in great fear. They might isolate the patient but the damage was done.

  Ceccarella, one of Lucrezia’s maids, died shortly after taking it and another, Lisabetta, was smitten with a serious attack.

  Then Lucrezia caught it.

  When the news reached Rome there was panic throughout the Vatican. The Pope became hysterical with fear. He paced up and down his apartment calling to the saints to watch over his beloved child and swearing to take a punitive expedition into Ferrara if she did not survive. He also sent her several ph
ysicians in whom he had great confidence.

  He dispatched further messages to Cesare, begging him to add his prayers to those of his father that the greatest calamity which could befall them both might be averted.

  Lucrezia’s condition was aggravated by her pregnancy which had already given some cause for alarm, and the doctors shook their heads over her. They feared the worst would happen.

  “The burden of the child will be too much for her to bear,” was their verdict. “The best thing that could happen would be a still-birth; then we might reduce the fever.”

  Lucrezia herself, tossing on her bed, was barely conscious. The old Duke visited her and wept over her condition. If she would recover, he declared, he would meet her wishes as to her income. She should have her 12,000 ducats a year. “But part of it shall be in goods,” he added quickly.

  Lucrezia smiled vaguely at him; she was not fully aware who he was.

  Furious messages came from Rome.

  “The Duke of Ferrara has brought about my daughter’s low condition by his meanness,” cried the hysterical Alexander. “If aught happens to my beloved daughter I shall know whom to blame.”

  The Duke grew anxious. The recent conquest of Urbino had been alarming; where would Cesare Borgia turn next? everyone was asking.

  Alfonso had been on a mission to Pavia where Louis of France was installed. The heir of Ferrara had gone there as his father’s ambassador in order to placate the French King; and, Francesco Gonzaga had said, they must placate the French and with the French, Louis’ ally, Il Valentino, for if they did not they would be hanged one after another and be unable to do anything about it. They could only hope that their territory was not the next on the list for invasion.

  Duke Ercole sent an urgent message to Alfonso that his wife was near to death and he must return at once; and as soon as Alfonso arrived in Ferrara he hurried to the bedside of his wife.