Madonna of the Seven Hills

by Виктория Холт

  Now Lucrezia was beginning to know herself. She was envious of Sanchia. She herself wished to be known as the most beautiful woman in Italy; she wished men to look at her and become her slaves; and she longed to be suspected of witchcraft because of her extraordinary powers.

  And she was jealous … deeply jealous because of the attention Cesare and her father had given to this woman.

  * * *

  Now the day had arrived. Very soon Sanchia of Aragon would be riding up the Appian Way. Very soon Lucrezia would see whether rumor had lied.

  She felt vaguely unhappy. She had not wanted to go to meet her sister-in-law, but her father had insisted: “But of course, my dearest, you must go to meet her. It is the respect due to your sister. And what a pleasant picture you will make—you and your ladies, she and hers. You two must be the most lovely creatures in the country.”

  “I have heard it said that she is. Do you not think that she will put me in the shade?”

  The Pope pinched his daughter’s cheek affectionately, murmuring: “Impossible! Impossible!”

  But his eyes were gleaming and she, who had observed his absorption in Giulia at the beginning, knew that his thoughts were with Sanchia, not with his daughter.

  Lucrezia wanted to stamp her foot, to shout at him: “You go and meet her, since you’re so eager for her arrival.” But being Lucrezia she merely bowed her head and suppressed her feelings.

  So now she was preparing herself.

  She stood in her apartment while her green and gold brocade dress was slipped over her head. There was a murmur of admiration from her women.

  “Never, never, Madonna, have you looked so lovely,” she was told.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, “here in the apartment among you all who are dressed without splendor. But how shall I look when we meet at the Lateran Gate? Suppose she is dressed more splendidly? How shall I look then, for they say she is the most beautiful woman in Italy, and that means in the world?”

  “How can that be, Madonna, when you hold that title?”

  Characteristically she allowed herself to be soothed; and indeed, when she looked at herself in green and gold, when her eyes went to the feathered bonnet which so became her, when she looked at her glistening golden hair, she was appeased. Nobody had hair like hers, except Giulia, and Giulia was out of favor.

  Her train was ready and she had selected it with care. There were twelve girls in beautiful dresses—not beautiful girls but beautiful dresses; one did not want too much competition—and her pages wore mantles of red and gold brocade.

  Lucrezia did not feel that she was going out to meet a sister-in-law, but a rival. She knew that while she murmured polite welcoming words she would really be thinking, Is she more beautiful than I? Are my father and my brother going to give all their attention to this newcomer and forget Lucrezia?

  In the May sunshine, the retinues of the Cardinals were waiting for her, all splendidly clad, all glittering in the clear bright air; the ambassadors were present, and the palace guards were on duty.

  The people cried out in admiration as Lucrezia with her twelve girls appeared. She certainly looked charming, her fair hair rippling about her shoulders beneath the feathered hat, and the green and gold brocade sparkling with jewels. But as they approached the Lateran Gate Lucrezia caught sight of the girl who had caused her so many jealous thoughts, and she realized that Sanchia was indeed a formidable rival.

  Surrounded by the retinue which, as Princess of Squillace, Sanchia had brought with her—her halberdiers and equerries, her women and men, her slaves, her jesters—she rode with Goffredo at her side.

  A quick look was enough to tell Lucrezia that Goffredo, although he had grown up a little, was still a boy. People might admire his pretty looks and his beautiful auburn hair, but it was toward the woman who rode beside him that every eye would be turned.

  This was Sanchia, dressed solemnly in black—as was Goffredo—to remind all who beheld them that they were Spanish. Sanchia’s dress was heavily embroidered and her sleeves were wide; her blue-black hair rippled over her shoulders and her eyes were brilliantly blue in contrast.

  Suddenly the green and gold brocade seemed girlish—pretty enough, but lacking the elegance of an embroidered black Spanish gown.

  Sanchia’s dark eyebrows had been plucked a little, after the fashion, but they were still plentiful and her face was heavily painted; there were murmurings in the crowd that she looked older than nineteen.

  Her manner was both royal and insolent. It was haughty, and yet as always there was that look of promise in her expression for every personable young man who caught her eye.

  Lucrezia had drawn up her horse before that of her brother and sister-in-law, and their greeting was affectionate enough to satisfy all who beheld them.

  Then they turned their horses and rode together toward the Vatican.

  “I rejoice that we meet at last,” said Sanchia.

  “I also rejoice,” answered Lucrezia.

  “I am sure we shall be friends.”

  “It is my ardent wish.”

  “I have long desired to meet the members of my new family.”

  “Particularly Cesare,” put in Goffredo. “Sanchia has asked endless questions about our brother.”

  “He is as eager to see you. Reports of you have reached us here in Rome.”

  Had she been alone with Lucrezia, Sanchia would have burst into loud laughter. As it was, she said: “Tales of you all have reached me. What beautiful hair you have, sister!”

  “I must say the same of yours.”

  “I have never seen hair so golden.”

  “You will see it often now. The women of Rome are having silken wigs made, and we see them walking in the streets wearing them.”

  “In honor of you, dear sister.”

  “They are mostly courtesans.”

  “Beauty is their business, and they try to look like you.”

  Lucrezia smiled faintly but she was unable to hide the apprehension this young woman aroused in her.

  She did not hear the whispers behind her.

  “Madonna Lucrezia does not like to have a rival in the Vatican.”

  “And what a rival!”

  * * *

  Alexander had been unable to wait with the Cardinals to greet the procession, as formality demanded. He had been in a room which overlooked the piazza, impatiently looking out, so eager was he for the first glimpse of this girl who was reputed to be more beautiful than any woman in Italy and as free with her favors as any courtesan.

  Now as he saw her at the head of the procession, and riding beside her his golden-haired daughter—raven-haired and golden-haired—the sight enchanted him. How beautiful they were—both of them! What a contrast, a delightful contrast!

  He must hurry down to be in his place to greet them when they arrived. He was all impatience to embrace the beautiful creature.

  He stood beneath the golden vault, on which was depicted the story of Isis, as he waited for his daughter-in-law to come to him. About him were ranged the Cardinals, and Alexander knew a moment of great content. He reveled in all the pageantry, the ceremony, which as Holy Father he encountered at every hour of his daily life; he loved life; it had everything to offer him for which he craved and he was one of those rare beings who could be satisfied with each moment as it came. He was a happy man; and never happier than at moments such as this.

  She was approaching now—beautiful, dark-haired, and so bold; her eyes were downcast, but she could not hide her boldness. She had all the arrogance of a woman who knows herself to be desired; she had all the charm of her sex for a man such as himself.

  He was in a fever of excitement as she, with little Goffredo beside her, knelt to kiss his toe.

  Now she had stepped back and the others came forward, those ladies of hers—all delicious, all worthy to be her handmaidens, thought Alexander. He studied them all in turn, and he felt anew his pleasure in having them with him.

  Now they had
taken their places; Goffredo was standing by Cesare, and Cesare had his speculative eyes on his brother’s bride; and on the steps of the throne, kneeling on two red velvet cushions, were Lucrezia and Sanchia.

  Oh, this is a happy moment, thought Alexander; and he wished quickly to dispense with solemn ceremony that he might talk with his daughter-in-law, make her laugh, make her understand that, although he was her father-in-law and head of the Church, he was none the less a merry man and one who knew how to be gallant to the ladies.

  One of the Cardinals who watched turned to another and said: “Brother and father have eyes on Goffredo’s wife.”

  Another whispered: “All have eyes on Goffredo’s wife.”

  The answer came back: “Mark my words, Madonna Sanchia will bring trouble to the Vatican.”

  * * *

  Sanchia came into Lucrezia’s apartment and with her were her three handmaidens.

  Lucrezia was a little startled by the intrusion. It was Whit Sunday, two days after the arrival of Sanchia and Goffredo, and Lucrezia was being dressed for the service at St. Peter’s.

  Sanchia had begun by ignoring all rules of etiquette and Lucrezia saw that she was determined to behave here in Rome as though she were at the lax court of Naples.

  Sanchia’s dress was black, but she looked far from demure; the blue eyes were almost cynical, thought Lucrezia; it was as though Sanchia was weaving plans, secret subtle plans.

  “And how is my dear sister this day?” asked Sanchia. “Ready for the ceremony? I hear we are to listen to a Spanish prelate.” She grimaced. “Spanish prelates are apt to be over-devout and therefore to deliver over-long sermons.”

  “But we must attend,” Lucrezia explained. “My father will be present, and so will all the dignitaries of the Papal Court. It is an important occasion and …”

  “Oh yes … oh yes … we must attend.”

  Sanchia, putting her arm about Lucrezia and drawing her to a mirror, looked at their reflections. “I do not look as though I am about to attend a solemn service, do I? And, when I look closer, nor do you. Oh Lucrezia, how innocent you look with your lovely light eyes and your golden hair? But are you innocent, Lucrezia? Are you?”

  “Innocent of what?” asked Lucrezia.

  “Oh, life … of what you will. Oh Lucrezia, thoughts go on inside that golden head, of which you say nothing. You look startled. But I am right, am I not? One as lovely as you are cannot be so remote from … from all that makes the world so interesting.”

  “I am afraid I do not understand.”

  “Are you such a child then? What of Cesare? He will be at this solemn service. Do you know, sister, I have longed to meet you all, and you are the only one with whom so far I have been alone.”

  “There have been so many ceremonies,” murmured Lucrezia, uncertain of the girl who was so outspoken and who therefore said those things which embarrassed and would have been so much better left unsaid.

  “Oh yes. Later I shall know you all very well, I doubt not. Cesare is not exactly as I would have imagined him. He is as handsome in person as rumor says he is. But there is a strangeness about him, a brooding resentment.…”

  “My brother wished to be a great soldier.”

  “I see. I see. He does not take kindly to the robes of the Church.”

  Lucrezia looked uneasily about her. She said to her servants: “That will be enough. Leave us now.”

  She looked at Sanchia, expecting her to dismiss her women.

  “They are my friends,” said Sanchia. “I hope they will be yours. They admire you. Do you not?” she demanded of the trio.

  “We all agree that Madonna Lucrezia is quite lovely,” said Loysella.

  “Now tell me about Cesare,” insisted Sanchia. “He is angry … a very angry man. I know it.”

  “Cesare will always succeed in the end,” said Lucrezia. “He will always do what he sets out to do.”

  “You are very fond of your brother?”

  “It is impossible not to admire him more than anyone on Earth, as he excels all others.”

  Sanchia smiled knowledgeably. Now she understood. There was something in these rumors she had heard, of the strange and passionate attachments which existed in the Borgia family.

  She knew that Lucrezia was suspicious of her, jealous because she feared Sanchia might attract the Pope and Cesare so that they ceased to be so eager for Lucrezia’s company. It was a novel situation and one which appealed to Sanchia.

  Moreover it was comforting to think that Cesare Borgia did not have all his own way. He hated the robes of the Church yet he was forced to wear them, and that was why she had seen that smoldering anger in his eyes. She, as the illegitimate daughter of the King of Naples, forced to take second place to her half-sister, understood his feelings. It drew her closer to Cesare, and his vulnerability intrigued her.

  As they set out for St. Peter’s she felt almost recklessly gay; she put her arm lovingly through Lucrezia’s as they entered the church. How long the ceremony was! There was the Holy Father, seeming quite a different person from the jovial father who had been so affectionate during last night’s banquet. She had been right about the Spanish prelate; his sermon went on and on.

  “I am tired,” she whispered to Lucrezia.

  Lucrezia’s pale face turned slightly pink. The Princess from Naples seemed to have no understanding as to how to conduct herself during a solemn ceremony.

  Lucrezia said nothing.

  “Will the man never end?”

  Loysella smothered a giggle, and Bernardina whispered: “For the love of the saints, Madonna, be quiet!”

  “But it is too long to stand,” complained Sanchia. “Why should we not be seated? Look, there are empty pews.”

  Lucrezia said in an agonized whisper: “They are for canons when they sing the gospel.”

  “They shall be for us now,” said Sanchia.

  Several heads turned on account of the whispering voices, so many saw this beautiful young woman climb into the pews with a rustling of silk and the exposure of very shapely legs. Loysella, Francesca and Bernardina, who followed their mistress in all things, did not hesitate. Where Sanchia went, so did they.

  Lucrezia, watching them for a second, was aware of a rising excitement within her. She knew that these girls lived colorful lives, and she herself longed for the sort of adventures which she knew to be theirs; she wanted to identify herself with them.

  Without hesitation, she followed, climbing into the pews, settling down beside them with a rustle of garments, an unusually mischievous smile on her lips, the laughter rising within her.

  They had settled down in their pews and Sanchia had forced a look of mock piety on to her face. Loysella dropped her head hurriedly to hide her mirth, and Lucrezia needed all her willpower to stop herself breaking into hysterical laughter.

  * * *

  They had shocked the Papal Court.

  Never, complained the Cardinals, had such behavior been seen during a solemn service. The woman from Naples was clearly nothing more than a Court harlot. The glances she distributed confirmed the reputation which had preceded her.

  Girolamo Savonarola declaimed long and loudly from the pulpit of San Marco in Florence that the Papal Court was a disgrace to the world, and the Pope’s women behaved with great impropriety and were the disgrace and scandal of the people.

  The Cardinals tentatively approached the Holy Father.

  “Your Holiness will have suffered great sadness,” said one. “The spectacle of those young women’s behavior during the Whitsuntide ceremonies horrified all who beheld it.”

  “Is that so?” said Alexander. “I noticed many an eye glistened as it turned in their direction.”

  “With disgust, Holiness.”

  “I saw no disgust, but I did see some delight.”

  The Cardinals looked grim. “Your Holiness will doubtless deal adequately with the offenders?”

  “Oh come, come, what offense is there in the pranks of girls? Young g
irls are by nature high-spirited. I for one would not have them otherwise. And who among you was not a little bored by our worthy preacher?”

  “Nevertheless, to bring the manners of Naples to Rome!”

  The Pope nodded placatingly. He would speak to the girls.

  He did. He put an arm about Sanchia and another about Lucrezia, and composed his features into an expression of mock reproach. He kissed them tenderly and smiled benignly at Loysella, Bernardina and Francesca who stood before him, their heads bowed—but not so low as to prevent their glancing upwards occasionally at the Holy Father.

  “You have shocked the community,” he said, “and if you were not so beautiful, I should be forced to scold you, and so I am sure bore you as thoroughly as did your Spanish prelate.”

  “But you understand, Most Holy Lord,” said Sanchia, looking at him from under her dark lashes with those bluest of blue eyes.

  “I understand this,” said the Pope, giving her a passionate look. “It gives me the greatest pleasure in the world to see so much brightness and beauty at my Court; and should I as much as frown on you I should be the most ungrateful man on Earth.”

  Whereupon they all laughed, and Sanchia said they would sing for him, for he was not only their Holy Father but their greatly beloved one.

  So Sanchia sang to the accompaniment of Lucrezia’s lute, and the girls ranged themselves about him, Loysella, Bernardina, Francesca on stools at his feet, raising wondering and admiring eyes, while Sanchia and Lucrezia leaned against his knees.

  Scold these lovely creatures! thought Alexander. Never! Their little pranks could only amuse such a benevolent father.

  * * *

  That night Sanchia danced with Cesare. His eyes held hers and she was conscious of that smoldering resentment against the world which had afflicted herself. She was of a different temperament, and it was because of this that she had been able to shrug aside the slights and enjoy her life. But there was a bond between them.