“I will visit Venice for a while,” said Pietro. “You have suffered enough and I would never forgive myself if I added to those sufferings.”
“You must not stay too long away from me,” Lucrezia implored. “You know how I rely on you now.”
Strozzi watched them with interest. This love affair, which he had planned, was ripening, he fancied. It had outgrown the Platonic stage, he was sure; and he would be interested to see what effect it had on Pietro’s work.
He must certainly make sure that Alfonso was not so irritated that he forbade the two to be together. Therefore it was wise for Pietro to disappear.
* * *
Alfonso arrived almost immediately after Pietro had left.
He was shocked by his wife’s appearance. Even her hair had lost its luster.
He remonstrated with her. “Why, it was many months since you had seen your father. Why should you make all this fuss now?”
“Can you not understand that I shall never … never see him again?”
“I understand it perfectly well. But you might not have done so in any case.”
She began to weep silently, because his reference to her father had brought back more tender memories.
“I did not come here to listen to your lamentations,” said Alfonso, who could not bear the company of weeping women.
“Then you should have left me to mourn alone,” she told him.
“Were you mourning … alone?” he asked.
“There is no one … no one … who can really share such grief with me.”
Alfonso, who was practical in the extreme, could not begin to understand the nature of the love which had existed between Alexander and Lucrezia. He knew that that mighty influence had been withdrawn and he imagined her grief to be partly due to fear for her own future. He could understand such alarm. The King of France had already hinted that if Alfonso wished to repudiate the marriage he would put no obstacle in the way. Ferrara had been forced to accept the Borgia as a bride but Ferrara should not be forced to keep her.
Did she know that the friendship of France for her family was a fickle thing? Was she weeping for the loss of that Apostolic mantle which had protected her so firmly all her life? To practical Alfonso it seemed that this must be so.
He sought to comfort her. “You need have no fear,” he said, “that we shall repudiate the marriage. We shall not take seriously the hints of the King of France.”
“What hints are these?” she asked.
“Is it possible that you do not know? Are you so shut away here at Medelana?”
“I have heard no news since I heard that which so overwhelmed me with grief that I could think of nothing else.”
He told her then of French animosity toward her family. “But have no fear,” said Alfonso; “we shall not repudiate the marriage for we should have to pay back the dowry if we did, and that is something my father would never do.”
He laughed aloud at the thought of his father’s parting with all those ducats which he loved so well. He placed an arm about Lucrezia and tried to jolly her toward an amorous mood, but she was unresponsive. She repeated: “The King of France would not dare.… Though my father is dead I still have my brother.”
“Your brother!” cried Alfonso.
She turned to him suddenly; she was vital again, her eyes suddenly brilliant, not with joy, but with a terrible fear. “Cesare!” she cried. “What of Cesare?”
“It was a sad thing for him that he fell sick at such a time. He needed his strength. But he was lying sick almost to death while your father’s enemies rioted in the streets, ransacked the Papal apartments and made off with jewels of great value—which, it seems, your brother’s servants had failed to put into safe keeping.”
“Where is he now?” asked Lucrezia in anguish.
“He went to Castel Sant’ Angelo for safety.”
“And the children?”
“They went with him. Your son Roderigo and the Infante Romano.” Alfonso burst out laughing. “Do not look so downcast. He had his ladies with him. Sanchia of Aragon was there and Dorotea, the girl he abducted. I wonder how they liked each other.”
“My brother … a prisoner!”
“Your brother a prisoner. How else could it be? He conquered many towns, and the whole of Italy feared him. He strutted about like a conqueror, did he not? But he took his power from the Papal standards, and suddenly … he finds himself a sick man and the Papal influence withdrawn from him.”
Lucrezia had taken her husband’s arm and was shaking it in her distress.
“Oh, tell me everything … everything!” she begged. “Can you not see that it is agony for me to remain in suspense?”
“The French King has withdrawn his support from your brother. All the small states are rising against him. Why should they not at such a time regain what was theirs? Even that first husband of yours, even Giovanni Sforza, is back in Pesaro.”
Lucrezia dropped his arm. She turned away from him that he might not see her face.
“Holy Mother of God,” she murmured. “I have been immersed in my own selfish grief while Cesare is in trouble, Cesare is in danger.”
Thus in the brutal frankness of a few minutes Alfonso had done more to make her forget her grief in her father’s death than Pietro had, with all the gentle comfort he had to offer, because in her fear for her brother she could best forget her sorrow for her father.
* * *
Fortunately for his peace of mind Cesare was too ill to realize the full extent of his defeat. The shock to his system, which drinking the diluted but poisoned wine had given it, although it was not fatal had deeply aggravated that other disease of which he had been a victim for so many years. During the sojourn in Castel Sant’ Angelo he was not only sick in body but in mind, and therefore only half aware of what was happening in the world outside.
A new Pope had been elected. At such a time of unrest it had seemed advisable to the Cardinals to elect a very old man until the situation became more stable. The old man, Pius III, was almost on his death-bed when elected and therefore not inclined to meddle in Cesare’s affairs. It was thus that the latter was able to earn that respite in Castel Sant’ Angelo. But Pius died after a reign of twenty-six days, and there was all the furore which attended a Papal election to begin again.
Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, that old enemy of the Borgias, now had his eyes on the Papacy; he had hoped for it at the time of Alexander’s election and he was determined to secure it now, for if he did not he would most certainly never do so.
He was shrewd; he was clever; he was, indeed, a man of immense vitality. He was of the same type as Alexander himself, and this may have been due to the fact that they had both been born poor, although each had possessed a powerful Pope for an uncle. Sixtus IV had advanced his nephew della Rovere even as Calixtus III had given his nephew Roderigo Borgia his start in life; and both of these nephews had decided that they would one day wear their uncles’ robes.
The time of Conclave was one of great tension for every Cardinal, as even to those who did not expect themselves to be elected Pope it was of the utmost importance which Pope was elected, since a friend or an enemy in the Vatican could make all the difference to their future.
Cesare, a sick man, with much of his conquered kingdom restored to those from whom he had taken it, was still a power in the Vatican, for Alexander had practiced nepotism as blatantly as any of his forbears, which meant that there were several Borgia Cardinals whose fates were so bound up with their family that they would vote for the man Cesare chose. Therefore Cesare still retained a certain influence, and della Rovere needed every vote he could lay his hands on.
He came to Rome and went to see Cesare.
He feigned shock at the sight of Cesare’s emaciated body and the ravages of sickness on his face; inwardly he was filled with exultation. He had always hated the Borgias. Alexander had been his great rival, and now he turned the full force of that hatred on Alexander’s son.
“This is a time,” said Cesare, “when men such as we are must be in Rome.”
“Ah, the election. Poor Pius! But he served his purpose. He gave us that breathing space which was so necessary.”
“It is to talk of the election that you have come to see me?” asked Cesare.
Della Rovere replied: “I will not deny it.”
“It surprises me that you should come to me for help.”
Cesare was looking back over the years. He knew that his father had never trusted this man, had looked upon him as one of his greatest enemies, had known how desperately he desired the papal chair; he remembered he had said that della Rovere was an enemy to be watched with care because he was one of the cleverest and therefore most dangerous men in Italy as far as the Borgias were concerned.
Della Rovere smiled with an air of candor. “Let us be frank. A few months have changed our positions. You were a short while ago Duke of a large territory and there was not a state in Italy which did not tremble at the mention of your name. My lord, your kingdom has shrunk since the death of your father.”
Cesare clenched his hands firmly. He retorted coldly: “Everything I have lost shall be regained.”
“It may be so,” answered della Rovere, “but you will need a friend in the Vatican to replace the one whom you have lost.”
“Could there ever be one to replace my father?”
“There could be one who would give help for help.”
“You mean … yourself?”
Della Rovere nodded. “My lord Duke, look clearly at the position before us. You have been sick. You have been near to death, and your enemies have taken advantage of that. But already you recover. Much power still lies in your hands. It is for you to strengthen that power. You could not make a Pope, but you could prevent any Cardinal’s election by withholding the votes you command through the Borgia Cardinals. You need help now. You need it desperately. I need your votes. Make me Pope and I will make you Gonfalonier and Captain-General of the Church.”
Cesare pondered in silence. Della Rovere had risen; he stood by Cesare’s couch, his arms folded, and Cesare saw in him that glowing vitality, that power which had been so much a characteristic of Alexander.
Cesare tried to see into the future. Gonfalonier and Captain-General of the Church? It would be a blow to his enemies. He saw himself marching to conquest; he was visualizing the recapture of all that he had lost; he could see his enemies cringing before him.
Della Rovere bent over him swiftly and murmured: “Think of it.”
Then he was gone.
Cesare lay thinking, and a letter was brought to him from Lucrezia. He read it and smiled; it was an expression of devotion. She had heard of his plight; she had forgotten her terrible grief over her father in her anxiety for him. She could find little support for his cause in Ferrara, but she herself would raise men; she had valuable jewels which she could sell.
He kissed the letter. It seemed to him symbolic that it should arrive close on the visit of della Rovere. It was a good omen. He had but to recover his health and the world was waiting, waiting for him to conquer.
When della Rovere was elected Pope and was reigning as Julius II, Cesare waited for him to fulfill his promises.
There were many men living—among them the great Machiavelli himself—who marveled at Cesare’s simplicity in trusting Julius. It seemed to these men that Cesare’s illness had indeed weakened his mind.
Cesare set out from Rome for that part of Romagna which his troops had been able to maintain. He was full of hope. He knew that the King of France had immediately on the death of Alexander withdrawn his support. The King of Spain had not forgiven the Borgias for their alliance with the French; and now Spain was in possession of a great part of Southern Italy. Cesare, his forces considerably depleted, stood alone, and his enemies watched him, wondering what he would do next. They were astonished that he did not seem to realize the desperate position in which he found himself. Rarely had a man been stripped of his power so quickly as had Cesare Borgia. Alexander had died, taking the Borgia glory with him; but Cesare, it seemed, had yet to learn this.
Della Rovere had no intention of bestowing on Cesare the titles he had promised. He was secure in the Vatican and he wanted no more of Cesare Borgia. He was prepared however to let him escape from Rome, though for this concession he was going to demand the surrender of all that part of Romagna which was still in Cesare’s hands.
So when Cesare was ordered to surrender Romagna, and refused, he was taken prisoner by the Papal forces and imprisoned in a fortress at Ostia.
Here he was treated well, and did not believe he was in truth a prisoner. He would not believe it. He dared not. The new weakness within him frightened him so much that he would not contemplate it. From the battlements of the fortress he fired salvoes into the sea and shouted with mad ferocity as he did so. Those who were aware of what he did marveled at his conduct, yet they knew that he was in some way deceiving himself, deluding himself into believing that he was firing at an enemy.
Since Cesare refused to give up Romagna, della Rovere decided that he must be brought back to Rome. He must understand that the days of Borgia greatness were over, and that he was no longer a mighty conqueror.
So back to Rome he was brought while della Rovere considered what to do with him.
It was impossible to believe that this man was the brilliant Cesare Borgia. He seemed to have lost his sense of judgment completely. It was as though something of him had died with Alexander—his fire, his cunning; was there something superhuman about these Borgias? Were they different from all others? Was there some family unity which was not understood by ordinary men, so that when one died part of the others died also?
“His mind has been affected by his misfortunes,” said della Rovere. “We will have him put in those apartments where the young Duke of Bisceglie was lodged at the time of his murder. How will this weakened Cesare feel when he is forced to live with the ghost of a man he has murdered?”
It would suit della Rovere very well if Cesare Borgia went mad.
* * *
Lucrezia was back in Ferrara for the state visit of Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua.
Lucrezia, still in mourning for her father, had taken to wearing flowing robes in thin material which clung to her figure and made her look more slender than ever; she was once more washing her hair frequently, and against the dark draperies it seemed more golden than ever.
She was conscious of the lack of sympathy in the court; she longed for her solitary meetings with Bembo. But when they met, others were usually present and he had recently been called to Venice on the death of his young brother.
Both her husband and her father-in-law were irritated by her sadness; Ercole took no pains to hide his jubilation at the death of one whom he considered his old enemy, and it was obvious that but for the rich dowry he would have availed himself of the French King’s suggestion to annul the marriage. Alfonso was indifferent to his father’s rancor and his wife’s suffering. Both seemed to him a waste of time. His military duties and the work of his foundry occupied him fully; and he had his mistresses for his night time, as well as Lucrezia to get with child.
Both the Duke and his son were not very pleased by the coming visit of Gonzaga. They did not like him, and it was very rarely that he came to Ferrara although the distance between the Este territory and that of Mantua was not great.
The Este family thought that their Isabella was far too good for the Marquis of Mantua, and they made this plain. Clearly they thought he should have handed over the entire government of Mantua to the capable Isabella, and since—easy-going as he might be—Gonzaga had not done this, they were inclined to be resentful.
Thus the visit was to be a very formal one.
Francesco, as he rode with his cavalcade toward Ferrara, was thinking
of Lucrezia Borgia. He smiled wryly recalling his wife’s animosity at the time of the wedding. Not that it had decreased since. Isabella was furious because of the way in which Lucrezia kept the poet, Pietro Bembo, in Ferrara. Isabella believed that all poets and artists belonged to her. Often she had tempted Pietro to come to Mantua, and always he had refused.
Isabella had ranted and raged. “He is her lover, doubt it not! The sly-faced creature. So demure! So gentle! A Borgia! My brother should be warned lest she decide to introduce him to Cantarella. You must warn Alfonso when you are in Ferrara.”
He smiled. Did she think that because she had behaved badly to Alfonso’s bride he was going to be ordered to do the same?
He was chivalrous by nature, and, as he remembered her, there had been something fragile and feminine in that young Lucrezia whom he had met—it must be nearly ten years ago—which had appealed to his gallantry even then. It must have appealed a great deal because he could recall it vividly now.
And so he rode into Ferrara.
The old Duke, he thought, was ailing, and could not last much longer; Alfonso was as bucolic as ever; Ippolito even more haughty; Ferrante more thoughtless; Sigismondo more pious; and Giulio more vain. He was going to be somewhat bored in Ferrara.
Then he met Lucrezia. He caught his breath at the sight of her; she was more fair and fragile than he had been thinking her. Her grief was so recent that it seemed to hang about her in an aura of melancholy. Slender as a young girl in her flowing draperies, her jewels restricted to a few brilliant diamonds, she was almost unearthly in her beauty; and he was deeply moved by the sight of her.
He kissed her hands and managed to infuse a tender sympathy into the kiss. He felt that he wanted to make up for all the insults and humiliations which his wife had administered.
“It was with the utmost sorrow,” he said in a low and tender voice, “that I heard of your loss.”
Tears came to her eyes, and he hurried on: “Forgive me. I should not have recalled it.”
Light on Lucrezia Page 31