Light on Lucrezia

II

DUCHESS OF BISCEGLIE



Those Cardinals who had assembled for the Consistory were uneasy. They were wishing that they had followed the examples of their fellows and pleaded some excuse which would keep them from Rome at such a time.

The Pope, from his Papal throne, had greeted them with his accustomed benevolence, but those who knew Alexander well were aware of the determination beneath the benignity. Once again they would be presented with one of those outrageous demands such as Alexander made from time to time for the sake of his family; they would be faced with the knowledge that they were in honor bound to oppose the Borgia wish, and they knew that they would lack the courage to do so.

They remembered with chagrin the recent divorce when so many of them had been deceived by the innocent looks of Lucrezia Borgia. They were fully aware that the Pope and his family were going to score another triumph over them.

Alexander watched Cesare as he took his stand before the assembly, and did his best to subdue the pride within him. Cesare was right. He was the man made to rule Italy, and he could best achieve his ambitions in freedom from the Church.

In his slender fingers Cesare held the scroll on which Alexander and he had spent so much time, while he begged his fellow Cardinals to give him their attention.

Cesare’s voice was gentle. Alexander had warned him to be humble and, astonishingly, Cesare was obeying his father in this respect. Alexander was a man who must have his way but who always sought to have it peaceably if possible. There he differed from Cesare who was so impatient to achieve his desires that he often did not care how he did so.

“It was not of my own free will that I entered the Church,” he was saying now. “I have never had a vocation.”

Aware that many eyes were turned upon him, Alexander let his head fall on to his chest in an attitude of dejection as though what his son was saying caused him the utmost pain. In spite of his display of surprise and anguish, all knew of course that it was Alexander’s wish that Cesare should be released, and that he had composed the very words which Cesare was now uttering. They also knew that those Cardinals who refused to act in accordance with his wishes should beware of reprisals.

“My conscience demands that I lay these facts before you,” went on Cesare, “for I see no other course than to appeal to your mercy and goodness, and I trust that in your compassion you will see fit to release me from my vows.”

There was silence. The Cardinals had once more turned their gaze upon the Holy Father, who had now lifted his face so that all could see the concern thereon.

Cesare appealed to the Pope. “Were I free,” he cried, in loud and confident tones, “my life should be dedicated to my country. I would visit the French—from whom we all stand in great danger—and I would give my life to save our country from invasion, and bring peace to the land.”

Alexander spoke then. “That which is asked by the Cardinal Cesare Borgia of Valencia is a grave matter. It demands deep thought and deliberation from this assembly, so that a reply cannot at once be given.”

Cesare retired while the Cardinals discussed his case. There was not a man among them who did not regard the whole procedure as farcical. The Borgia Pope desired Cesare to be released from his vows; and who dared oppose the Borgia Pope?

Cesare went away with a light heart, knowing that before the week was out he would have achieved a lifelong ambition. He would be a soldier leading his armies, free of the restricting influence of the Church.



He came to his sister’s apartments where she was with her husband. Alfonso, the happy bridegroom, involuntarily moved closer to his wife as his brother-in-law came in.

“Ha!” cried Cesare. “The happy pair. Why sister, why brother, all Rome talks of your pleasure in each other. Do they speak truth?”

“I am very happy,” Lucrezia told him.

“We are happy in each other,” added Alfonso.

Cesare smiled his slow sardonic smile and as he looked at the handsome boy, a momentary anger possessed him. Such a boy! Scarce out of the nursery. Smooth-cheeked and pretty! Cesare’s once beautiful skin was marred now and would doubtless remain so for the rest of his life. It was strange that he, who felt that it would not be long before the whole of Italy was at his feet, should thus feel envy of the smooth cheeks of a pretty boy.

“Why,” he cried, “you do not seem pleased to see me!”

“We are always pleased to see you,” said Lucrezia quickly.

“Do not allow your wife to speak for you, brother,” put in Cesare, a faint sneer turning up the corners of his mouth. “You should be master, you know.”

“Nay,” said Alfonso, “it is not thus with us. I wish to please my wife, nothing more.”

“Devoted husband!” murmured Cesare. “Lucrezia, we are going to have days of celebration. Prepare yourself. What sort of fête shall I arrange for your pleasure?”

“There have been so many celebrations,” said Lucrezia. “Alfonso and I are happy enough without them. We have our hunting, our dancing and music.”

“And other pleasures in each other’s company I doubt not. Oh, but you are so newly wed. Nevertheless there shall be celebrations. Do you know, Lucrezia, that before long I discard my Cardinal’s robes?”

“Cesare!” She ran to him and threw herself into his arms. “But I am so happy. It is what you have wanted for so long. And at last it has come. Oh dearest brother, how I rejoice with you!”

“And you are ready to dance with me at a ball I shall give. You are ready to watch me kill a bull or two?”

“Oh Cesare … not that. It frightens me.”

He kissed her tenderly, and putting his arm about her he drew her to an embrasure; he stood looking at her, his back turned to Alfonso who, as Cesare intended he should, felt himself to be excluded.

Alfonso stood awkwardly, watching; and suddenly all his fears returned to him and he found he could not control his shivers. He could not take his eyes from them—the most discussed brother and sister in Italy, so graceful, both of them, with that faint resemblance between them, yet that vivid contrast. There was Cesare fierce and frightening, determined to dominate, and Lucrezia slender and clinging, wishing to be dominated. Seeing them thus, all Alfonso’s doubts and suspicions returned, and he wanted to beg Lucrezia to leave this place which now seemed to him evil. He wanted to rescue Lucrezia who, although she was born of them, was not one of them; he wanted to take her right away from her family and live in peace with her.

He heard their voices. “But you would not have me stand aside while others killed the bulls?”

“I would. Indeed I would.”

“But my dearest, you would then be ashamed of your brother.”

“I should never be ashamed of you. And you risk your life with the bulls.”

“Not I. I’m a match for any bull.”

Cesare turned and drew her to him and over her head smiled for a second of triumphant mockery at Alfonso. Then he released her suddenly and cried: “But we have forgotten your little bridegroom, Lucrezia. I declare he looks as though he is about to burst into tears.”

Alfonso felt the blood rush to his face. He started forward but Cesare stood between Lucrezia and her husband, legs apart, his hand playing with the hilt of his sword; and although Alfonso wanted to draw his own sword and challenge this man here and now to fight, and fight to the death if need be, he felt as though his limbs would not move, that he was in the presence of the devil, who had laid a spell upon him.

Cesare laughed and went out; and when he was no longer there Alfonso’s courage came back to him. He went to Lucrezia and took her by the shoulders. “I like not his manners,” he said. Lucrezia’s eyes were wide and innocent. “He … he is too possessive. It is almost as though …” But he could not say it. He had not the courage. There were questions he wanted to ask, and he was afraid to ask them. He had been so happy, and he wanted to go on being happy.

Lucrezia put her arms about his neck and kissed him in that gentle way which never failed to be a source of excitement to him.

“He is my brother,” she said simply. “We were brought up together. We have shared our lives and it has made us good friends.”

“It would seem when he is by that you are unaware of any other.”

She laid her head against his chest and laughed. “You are indeed a jealous husband.”

“Lucrezia,” he cried, “have I cause to be?”

Then she lifted her face to his and her eyes were still full of limpid innocence. “You know I want no other husband,” she said. “I was unhappy, desperately unhappy, and I thought never to laugh in joy again. Then you came, and since you came, I have found happiness.”

He kissed her with increasing passion. “Love me, Lucrezia,” he pleaded. “Love me … only.”

They clung together, but even in the throes of lovemaking Alfonso could not rid himself of the memory of Cesare.



Cesare was in the ring. The assembled company watched him with admiration, for he was the most able matador in Rome. His Spanish origin was obvious as, lithe and graceful, he twisted his elegant body this way and that, springing from the path of the onrushing bull at that precise moment in time when death seemed inevitable.

Alfonso, sitting beside Lucrezia and watching her fingers twisting the embroideries on her dress, was aware of the anxiety she was experiencing. Alfonso did not understand. He could have sworn that she was glad because Cesare would soon be leaving for France; yet now, watching his antics in the bullring, he was equally sure that she was conscious of no one but her brother.

Alfonso murmured: “God in Heaven, Holy Mother and all the saints, let him not escape. Let the furious bull be the instrument of justice—for many have died more horribly at his hands.”

Smiling coolly Sanchia watched the man who had been her lover. She thought: I hope the bull gets him, tramples him beneath those angry hoofs … not to kill him … no, but to maim him so that he will never walk or run or leap again, never make love to his Carlotta of Naples. Carlotta of Naples! Much chance he has! But let him lose his beauty, and his manhood be spoiled, so that I may go to him and laugh in his face and taunt him as he has taunted me.

Among those who watched there were others who remembered suffering caused them by Cesare Borgia, many who prayed for his death.

But had Cesare died that day there would have been three to mourn him with sincerity—the Pope who watched him with the same mingling of pride and fear as Lucrezia’s; Lucrezia herself; and a red-headed courtesan named Fiametta, who had sought to grow rich by his favors and found that she loved him.

But, for all the wishes among the spectators in the ring that day, Cesare emerged triumphant. He slew his bulls. He stood the personification of elegance, indolently accepting the applause of the crowds. And he seemed a symbol of the future, there with his triumph upon him. His proud gestures seemed to imply that the conqueror of bulls would be the conqueror of Italy.



The Pope sent for his son that he might impart the joyful news.

“Louis promises not to be ungenerous, Cesare,” he cried. “See what he offers you! It is the Dukedom of Valence, and a worthy income with the title.”

“Valence,” said Cesare, trying to hide his joy. “I know that to be a city on the Rhône near Lyons in Dauphiné. The income … what is that?”

“Ten thousand écus a year,” chuckled the Pope. “A goodly sum.”

“A goodly sum indeed. And Carlotta?”

“You will go to the French Court and begin your wooing at once.” The Pope’s expression darkened. “I shall miss you, my son. I like not to have the family scattered.”

“You have your new son, Father.”

“Alfonso!” The Pope’s lips curled with contempt.

“It would seem,” muttered Cesare, “that the only member of the family who is pleased with its new addition is Lucrezia.”

The Pope murmured indulgently: “Lucrezia is a woman, and Alfonso a very handsome young man.”

“It sickens me to see them together.”

The Pope laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go to France, my son. Bring back the Princess Carlotta as soon as you can.”

“I will do so, Father. And when Carlotta is mine I shall stake my claim to the throne of Naples. Father, no one shall prevent my taking that to which I have a claim.”

The Pope nodded sagely.

“And,” went on Cesare, “if I am heir to the crown of Naples, of what use to us will Lucrezia’s little husband be?”

“That is looking some way ahead,” said Alexander. “I came through my difficulties in the past because I did not attempt to surmount them until they were close upon me.”

“When the time comes we shall know how to deal with Alfonso, Father.”

“Indeed we shall. Have we not always known how to deal with obstacles? Now, my son, our immediate concern is your own marriage, and I shall not wish you to appear before the King of France as a beggar.”

“I shall need money to equip me.”

“Fear not. We’ll find it.”

“From the Spanish Jews?”

“Why not? Should they not pay for the shelter I have given them from the Spanish Inquisition?”

“They will pay … gladly,” said Cesare.

“Now my son, let us think of your needs … your immediate needs.”

They planned together, and the Pope was sad because he must soon say good-bye to his beloved son, and he was fearful too because he had once vowed that Cesare should remain in the Church, and now Cesare had freed himself. Alexander felt suddenly the weight of his years, and in that moment he knew that that strong will of his, which had carried him to triumph through many turbulent years, was becoming more and more subservient to that of his son Cesare.



The days of preparation were over. The goldsmiths and silversmiths had been working day and night on all the treasures which the Duke of Valence would take with him into France. The shops of Rome were denuded of all fine silks, brocades, and velvets, for nothing, declared the Pope, was too fine for his son Cesare; the horses’ shoes must be of silver, and the harness of the mules must be fashioned in gold; Cesare’s garments must be finer than anything he would encounter in France, and the most magnificent of the family jewels must be fashioned into rings, brooches and necklaces for Cesare. Nothing he used—even the most intimate article of toilet—must be of anything less precious than silver. He was going to France as the guest of a King, and he must go as a Prince.

He left Rome in the sunshine of an October day, looking indeed princely in his black velvet cloak (cut after the French fashion) and plumed hat. Beneath the cloak could be seen his white satin doublet, gold-slashed, and the jewels which glittered on his person were dazzling. Because he hated any to remember that he was an ex-Cardinal he had covered his tonsure with a curling wig which gave him an appearance of youth; for those who watched in the streets could not see the unpleasant blemishes, the result of the male francese, on his skin.

He was no longer Cardinal of Valencia, but Duke of Valentinois and the Italians called him Il Valentino.

The Pope stood on his balcony with Lucrezia beside him, and as the calvacade moved away and on to the Via Lata, the two watchers clasped hands and tears began to fall down their cheeks.

“Do not grieve. He will soon be with us once more, my little one,” murmured Alexander.

“I trust so, Father,” answered Lucrezia.

“Bringing his bride with him.”

Alexander had always been optimistic, and now he refused to believe that Cesare could fail. What if the King of Naples had declared his daughter should never go to a Borgia; what if it were impossible to trust sly Louis; what if all the Kings of Europe were ready to protest at the idea of a bastard Borgia’s marrying a royal Princess? Cesare would still do it, the Pope told himself; for on that day, as he watched the glittering figure ride away, in his eyes Cesare was the reincarnation of himself, Roderigo Borgia, as he had been more than forty years earlier.



With the departure of Cesare a peace settled on the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico, and the young married pair gave themselves up to pleasure. Alfonso forgot his fears of the Borgias; it was impossible to entertain them when the Pope was so affectionate and charming, and Lucrezia was the most loving wife in the world.

All commented on the gaiety of Lucrezia. She hunted almost every day in the company of Alfonso; she planned dances and banquets for the pleasure of her husband, and the Pope was a frequent participator in the fun. It seemed incredible to Alfonso that he could have been afraid. The Pope was so clearly a beloved father who could have nothing but the warmest feelings toward one who brought such happiness to his daughter.

Lucrezia was emerging as the leader of fashion; not only were women wearing golden wigs in imitation of her wonderful hair, they were carefully studying the clothes she wore and copying them. Lucrezia was childishly delighted, spending hours with the merchants, choosing materials, explaining to her dressmakers how these should be used, appearing among them in the greens, light blues and golds, in russet and black, all those shades which accentuated her pale coloring and enhanced her feminine daintiness.

Lucrezia felt recklessly gay. This was partly due to the discovery that, contrary to her belief, she could be happy again. Whole days passed without her thinking of Pedro Caldes, and even when she did so it was to assure herself that their love had been a passing fancy which could never have endured in the face of so much opposition. Her father was right—as always. She must marry a man of noble birth; and surely she was the happiest woman on Earth, because Alfonso was both noble and the husband she loved.

The household heard her laughing and singing, and they smiled among themselves. It was pleasant to live in the household of Madonna Lucrezia; it was comforting to know that she had given up all thought of going into a convent. A convent! That was surely not the place for one as gay and lovely, as capable of being happy and giving happiness, as Lucrezia.

They knew in their hearts that the peace of the household was due to the absence of one person, but none mentioned this. Who could doubt that an idle word spoken now might be remembered years hence? And Il Valentino would not remain forever abroad.

The days passed all too quickly, and when in December Lucrezia knew that she was going to have a baby, she felt that her joy was complete.



Alfonso was ridiculously careful of her. She must rest, he declared. She must not forget the precious burden she carried.

“It is soon yet to think of that, my dearest,” she told him.

“It is never too soon to guard one’s greatest treasures.”

She would lie on their bed, he beside her, while they talked of the child. They would ponder on the sex of the child. If it were a boy they would be the proudest parents on Earth; and if a girl, no less proud. But they hoped for a boy.

“Of course we shall have a boy,” Alfonso declared, kissing her tenderly. “How, in this most perfect marriage could we have anything else? But if she is a girl, and resembles her mother, then I think we shall be equally happy. I see nothing for us but a blissful life together.”

Then they loved and told each other of their many perfections and how the greatest happiness they had ever known came from each other.

“One day,” said Alfonso, “I shall take you to Naples. How will you like living away from Rome?”

“You will be there,” Lucrezia told him, “and there will be my home. Yet …”

He touched her cheek tenderly. “You will not wish to be long separated from your father,” he said.

“We shall visit him often, and perhaps he will visit us.”

“How dearly you love him! There are times when I think you love him beyond all others.”

Lucrezia answered: “It is you, my husband, whom I love beyond all others. Yet I love my father in a different way. Perhaps as one loves God. He has always been there, wise and kind. Oh Alfonso, I cannot tell you of the hundred kindnesses I have received at his hand. I do not love him as I love you … you are part of me … I am completely at ease with you. You are my perfect lover. But he … is the Holy Father of us all, and my own tender father. Do not compare my love for him with that I have for you. Let me be happy, in both my loves.”

Alfonso was reminded suddenly of the loud sardonic laughter of Cesare, and he had an uncanny feeling that the spirit of Cesare would haunt him all his life, mocking him in his happiest moments, besmirching the brightness of his love.

But he did not mention Cesare.

He, like Lucrezia, often had the feeling that they must hold off the future. They must revel in the perfect happiness of the present. It would be folly to think of what might come, when what was actually happening gave them so much pleasure. Did one think of snowstorms when one picnicked on warm summer evenings in the vineyards about the Colosseum? One did not spoil those perfect evenings by saying: “It will be less pleasant here two months hence.”



Sanchia was restless. She missed her passionate meetings with Cesare. She assured herself that she hated him, and she had taken many lovers since his departure, but none satisfied her.

She constantly thought of him in France, courting Carlotta, the legitimate daughter of her uncle; and the humiliation she suffered was intense. She, who had been accused of witchcraft because of her power over men, she who had never yet been deserted by a lover, was insulted, and openly so because everyone had known that at one time it had been the intention of Cesare to marry her.

Now with his French dukedom and his French estates and riches, he found himself too important for marriage with an illegitimate princess, and sought a higher prize.

She might rage before her women; in the secrecy of her apartments she might at midnight stick pins into his waxen image, but at the same time she wept for a lost lover, knowing that no other man could so enthrall her.

Sanchia might feign gaiety in public, seeking to hide her chagrin, but many at the Papal Court were aware of her feelings, and there was one who sought to turn the situation to his advantage.

Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, brother of Ludovico, Duke of Milan, and cousin of that Giovanni Sforza from whom Lucrezia had been recently divorced, watched Sanchia closely and believed that he could use her in the political game he intended to play. The Sforzas had been very uneasy since it had become apparent to them that the bonds between France and the Papacy were being made more secure. The Sforzas had never trusted Alexander, and now with Il Valentino a French Duke hoping to marry a Princess who, although she was the daughter of the King of Naples, had a French mother and was being brought up at the French Court, it seemed that before long there would be an alliance between France and the Papal State. It was only logical to suppose that French ambitions had not abated with the death of King Charles, and that one day there would be another French invasion. If this happened, Milan—to which the French believed they had a claim through the House of Orléans—would be the first target. Ludovico had lost his kingdom once and was eager not to do so again; therefore the Sforzas were uneasy to see Cesare Borgia going to France as the guest of their foremost enemy.

Women had a great influence on the Pope. It was inevitable in the case of a man who, shrewd diplomatist though he was, had been known as the most carnal man in all Italy. He had always found feminine appeals irresistible, so with Cesare away, it seemed to Ascanio Sforza that the Pope might be reached through the women of his Court.

He therefore called on Sanchia and was soon able to test to the full the measure of her rancor against Cesare.

“I understand,” he began slyly, “that your uncle is overwhelmed by the honor about to be done to him by Il Valentino!”

Sanchia was unable to control her anger. “Honor!” she cried. “My uncle will not look upon his aspirations as such. He may ask for Carlotta’s hand, but he’ll not get it.”

“The Borgias have a way of asking which can be irresistible.”

“Not when it comes to the marriage of my uncle’s daughter.”

“But it is a mighty alliance—this of France and the Papacy.”

Sanchia’s eyes blazed. “An unholy alliance!” she cried. “It is not long since the French were invading Italy. I remember well how they took possession of Naples and turned my father off his throne. He went mad because of it. I remember how we had to take refuge on the island of Ischia. It seems a strange thing that there should be this friendship between Il Valentino and those who brought so much misery to Italy.”

“A very strange thing, a very unhappy thing,” murmured Ascanio. “It is something which those who are most affected should do all in their power to hinder. Do you not agree?”

“I agree with all my heart,” said Sanchia.

“We Sforzas of Milan are uneasy.”

“And well you may be!”

“And you of Naples have suffered also from the French.”

Sanchia agreed.

“Naples and Milan have been enemies in the past,” said Ascanio, “but old differences should be forgotten when a mighty enemy threatens both.”

It was true. Sanchia wanted to fill her days with intrigue, and that intrigue was to be directed against her faithless lover. She was excited, realizing that Ascanio Sforza could do more toward bringing about the downfall of Cesare Borgia than those incantations she muttered while sticking pins into a figure of wax.

She had a new interest. Ascanio Sforza was a constant visitor.



Lucrezia and Alfonso now had their own little court, and there was gaiety in the apartments in Santa Maria in Portico. Alfonso and Lucrezia had discovered a mutual love of music and poetry, and their encouragement of poets and musicians meant that an intellectual group was beginning to form about them.

One day Sanchia came to their soirée bringing Cardinal Ascanio Sforza with her.

Lucrezia received him graciously but she was surprised to see him in the company of Sanchia, for the enmity between Milan and Naples was of long standing. Lucrezia, however, gave no indication of her feelings, and, while she was playing the lute for the Cardinal’s pleasure, Alfonso took his sister aside and asked her what had possessed her to bring Cardinal Sforza to them, for the Sforzas were not only the enemies of the Aragonese but one of them had been Lucrezia’s first husband, and in view of the slander he had spread about her, it seemed tasteless to bring a relative of his here as a guest.

Sanchia smiled affectionately at her brother, as she explained: “Alfonso, you love Lucrezia dearly, and Lucrezia loves you. You are happy and at peace. Have you forgotten your feelings as you rode into Rome not so long ago?”

“That was before I knew Lucrezia.”

“It was not only Lucrezia you feared.”

“The Pope has been my good friend, and Cesare is no longer here.”

“The Pope’s moods are variable, brother, and Cesare will not remain forever in France. He plans to marry our cousin Carlotta. And when he has done so, he will return.”

Alfonso shook his head impatiently. He was loath to have his pleasure spoilt, and the thought of Cesare’s return could spoil it. “He’ll not be allowed to marry Carlotta.”

“No,” cried Sanchia. “But he’ll be back, and when he comes, mayhap he’ll bring the French with him. Alfonso, have you forgotten our flight to Ischia? Do you remember our return to Naples? Do you remember what we saw … the tales we heard? If the French come, that will happen again and Cesare Borgia might well march with them, the ally of the French.”

“The Borgias against Naples …”

“Against Naples and Milan, and all Italy. They are treacherous, and Cesare does not love you, brother.”

“Oh, forget him. Mayhap he’ll have an accident in France. I cannot believe the French will love him.”

“You are not a child, Alfonso. Face the truth. We have to stand against Cesare. Naples, Milan … and as many states as we can find to help us. That is why Ascanio Sforza comes to these apartments. He is our new friend and there will be others. Alfonso, this shall be their meeting place. Here, while there is dancing and music and reading of poetry, we shall gather our friends together and we shall be firm and ready should the time come when it is necessary to break the Borgian and French alliance.”

“These are politics,” murmured Alfonso. “I dislike them. Why should there be this talk of war and fighting when there are poetry and music and love?”

“Idiot brother!” chided Sanchia. “If you will continue to enjoy the good things of life you must learn to protect them.”

Alfonso was frowning. He did not want to think of unpleasantness, yet Sanchia’s words reminded him of all he had feared as he had ridden along the road to Rome.

“And what think you His Holiness will say when he knows that men and women assemble here, not to talk of music and poetry, but of politics … dangerous politics?”

“Why should he know?”

“Because he might be here when such things are talked of.”

“We would not be so foolish as to talk of them when he was here.”

“His spies would carry tales to him.”

“That is where we shall outwit him. We shall tell our secrets only to those who are with us. That is why we must be careful with Lucrezia. She would be loyal always to the Pope and her brother. That family have a devotion to each other which would be past belief if we did not see it every day. We must be careful of Lucrezia.”

“But this is her palace. I am her husband. You are asking me to have secrets from her!”

“Come out of your lover’s dream, foolish brother. Do you want them to take Lucrezia from you? They will, if you are of no use to them; and if there should be a French invasion and the Pope were friendly with the French, what do you think would happen to you? They would scarcely say your marriage had not been consummated. You have made it obvious how you spend your nights. No, you would not escape with divorce, brother.”

Alfonso began to tremble; she was bringing back all his terrors. At the beginning of his marriage he had suffered from nightmares, waking in a cold sweat to clutch Lucrezia and beg for comfort. He had dreamed that the naked sword which had been held over them during their wedding was slowly descending, and that the hand which held it was that of Cesare, and that the Pope looked on smiling his affectionate and benign smile which in its strange way was commanding Cesare to murder him.

Sanchia was bringing back all his fear of the Borgias.

“But Alfonso, my dear brother, we have a period in which to work. If we stand together, we can defeat the French. They would never have come against us if the whole of Italy had been united. They were victorious because the small kingdoms stood aloof while, one by one, each was swallowed up by the French monster. We are going to work together; we shall make a strong party and we will follow closely all that happens between France and Rome. We will have our spies in the Vatican who will keep us informed. And Milan and Naples shall stand together against this alliance which, to gain French estates and our cousin Carlotta, Cesare Borgia is making with the French.”

“But what am I to do?” asked Alfonso in despair.

“Work with us. Talk to Lucrezia when you are alone. Gradually make her one of us, lightly, subtly, so that she does not know she is working against her father. She might be induced to ask certain favors of His Holiness. You know he can deny her nothing.”

Alfonso winced, and Sanchia laughed at him.

“We’ll be bold, Alfonso. Life is good, eh? But remember how quickly it can change, how quickly it once changed for us. We will not let it change again. We will keep that which we have. You are beginning to understand, I think?”

Alfonso nodded.

Lucrezia was calling him. She wanted him to sing to her accompaniment on the lute; and as he smiled and went to her Sanchia was pleased to see how he was able to hide his uneasiness.

Alfonso realized the wisdom of his sister’s words; in the weeks which followed he talked now and then with Lucrezia, touching very lightly on the excellent qualities of Ascanio Sforza who was not to be blamed for the shortcomings of his relative Giovanni. He talked of the desirability of friendship between Naples and Milan, and the possibility of union, so that, should there be another French invasion, they would stand together.

“There will be no French invasion,” Lucrezia had said, “because my brother Cesare is the friend of the French King, and it is to prevent such a calamity that he has primarily gone to France.”

Alfonso repeated then what Ascanio had whispered.

Cesare had been long in France and there was no news of his marriage. It would be well not to say such things to the Pope, for all knew how he doted on his son, but might it not be that the French looked upon Cesare as a hostage as, although he was apparently fêted in France, the wily French King seemed as though he wanted to keep him there.

Lucrezia was truly alarmed, and Alfonso felt a rising resentment because of her immediate preoccupation with her family.

Now she would be worrying about Cesare, thinking of her brother perhaps held against his will in France, instead of the love and passion which they shared.

Was Cesare always to be a shadow across their married life?

But she had seen his point about not alarming the Pope and she, who loved peace all around her, was very ready to believe that friendship between Naples and Milan would be advantageous.

It was thus that during those months Lucrezia’s apartments became the focus of a new party, the main object of which was to unite the states of Milan and Naples against the French—while the Papacy was the friend of France.



In the great hall the marriage festivities were in progress. At the head of the table sat the King of France, content because the woman he had desired to marry was at last his wife. Beside him was Queen Anne herself, young, beautiful, her shrewd eyes showing her satisfaction.

She, the widow of dead King Charles, had shown no great desire to become the wife of reigning King Louis; but all were aware of the satisfaction she must be feeling at finding herself twice Queen of France.

She was a rich woman, and some might say that her estates of Brittany were the prize Louis sought. But that was not all. Poor humpbacked Jeanne had not only been plain and dull but—unforgivable sin in royalty—infertile.

Anne knew herself for a prize and was proud of it. At twenty-three she was in the full flush of her charms and hoped to give Louis the sons he needed. She was optimistic about their future, for Louis, although he seemed older, was but thirty-seven, and there were many years before them for the begetting of children.

Among the guests was that strange man, Cesare Borgia, known in France as the Duc de Valentinois. He was a dangerous man, this Valentinois; and perhaps because of this Louis had decided to treat him with caution. Louis was a cautious man; he was often jeered at for what was called his miserliness, but Louis said that he would rather make his courtiers laugh at his stinginess than his subjects weep for his extravagance. Thus it was that even at his wedding he had scarcely the look of a King, and the most magnificently clad and bejeweled man in the company was the Duc de Valentinois.

Cesare was hopeful on this night, more so than he had been since he had begun to understand the French attitude toward him, for Carlotta was at the ball tonight and when he lifted his eyes he could see her—young, adequately pretty with something about her to remind him of Sanchia. Brought up at the court of Anne of Brittany she was prudish according to Cesare’s standards, but he found that aspect of her intriguing. He had little doubt that once he was allowed to meet the girl he would sweep her off her feet; he would marry her no matter what opposition he was called upon to meet.

He distrusted the French. They were subtle, clever people, and it was a new experience to be among those who showed no fear of him. He had been made to realize as soon as he had stepped ashore at Marseilles that he was in a country where the emblem of the grazing bull did not strike immediate terror into all who beheld it. His reputation had gone before him; these people knew him as a murderer and a politically ambitious man; but they did not fear him.

Now as he watched the shabby King, contented with his newly married wife, he remembered again the journey into this country, himself so splendid with his magnificent retinue and silver-shod horses, with his dazzling clothes—brocade and velvet slashed with satin, his cloth of gold and jewels, each of which was worth a fortune. More than all this splendor he had carried with him the Bull of Divorce, which he in person was to hand to Louis—a gift from his Holiness. No, not a gift, a favor for which Louis must pay dearly.

But the people had come out of their farms and cottages to stare at him as he rode by. He believed that they laughed behind his back at his haughty looks, and he heard murmurs which he knew he was intended to hear.

“All these riches, and for a bastard!”

“Is it to provide jewels for the Pope’s bastard that we have rewarded our priests? Have we paid for our indulgences that these jewels might be bought?”

“What splendor! Our mighty King is as a beggar beside this one—and he a petty Duke of Valence!”

They were hostile. He should have come more humbly, had he wished to impress the French.

Cesare felt from the first moment that they were sneering at him, that Louis’ old wool cloak and stained beaver hat were worn to call attention to the tastelessness of the upstart Duke—who was but a bastard. Cesare was among foreigners and he was made to feel it.

He vividly remembered his first meeting with the King at Chinon where the French Court was at that time. Louis was too clever to reproach him for his splendor or to show that he had noticed it; but he told Cesare that Carlotta of Naples was with Anne of Brittany and it would depend on the future Queen when they would be allowed to meet.

Cesare suspected treachery, and withheld the Bull of Divorce.

Was it not a business arrangement? Was not the price of the Bull, marriage as well as French titles and estates?

That was not so, Louis pointed out when Cesare continued to withhold the Bull; for he was a man to keep his word, and how could he bargain with that which was not his to offer? Cesare had his estates. He was indeed Duke of Valence; and he had what Louis had promised, his permission to seek marriage with Carlotta. Louis had paid in full; he now demanded the Bull of Divorce.

It was then that Cesare began to respect these people, and to realize that he must be more discreet in his demands. There was nothing to do but hand over the Bull to Louis, who, delighted with what he had got, set about making plans for his marriage, and told Cesare that he too was free to go ahead with his courtship.

But the months had passed and opportunities were denied Cesare. Anne of Brittany had promised him nothing, she implied. She did not greatly desire marriage. It was the King who was the ardent suitor.

Cesare did not doubt that, once he had a chance to woo the girl, she would soon be his wife. He was conscious of the whispering that went on around him; he guessed what was being said in Rome, and that his enemies there, who would not have dared to mention his name while he was in Rome, would now be writing their epigrams on the walls.

Carlotta was conscious of him now. Her eyes often strayed in his direction. He smiled at her and brought into full play all that fascination which had been wont to bring Italian women at his bidding.

She sat eating, pretending to be absorbed in her food and the conversation of the man at her side. How insulting of the King and Queen to let her sit beside that man! And who was he? He was fair-haired and smooth-skinned. Cesare was conscious nowadays of others’ skins, because his had never regained its youthful smoothness, and this defect, although mitigated by his strikingly handsome features, irritated him.

He demanded of his neighbor: “Who is that man seated next to the Lady Carlotta?”

The answer was a lift of the shoulder. “Some Breton baron, I believe.”

Clearly, thought Cesare, a man of no importance.

And when the feasting was over and there was dancing, the Queen evidently remembered her obligations, for she called Carlotta to sit beside her and when she was seated there she sent for Cesare to come to her.

Carlotta of Naples looked at the man of whom she had heard so much, Cesare Borgia whose scandalous behavior with her cousin Sanchia had been spoken of even in France. She compared him with the gentle Breton baron, and she said to herself: “Never … never! I’d rather die.”

Cesare bowed over her hand. His eyes would have alarmed her had she not been in this crowded ballroom and felt the cool protectiveness of the Queen.

“Have we Your Majesty’s permission to dance?” asked Cesare of the Queen.

Anne replied: “My lord Duke, you have mine if you have the lady’s.”

Cesare took Carlotta’s hand and almost pulled her to her feet. Carlotta was too astonished to protest; Cesare clearly did not understand the etiquette of the French Court. No matter. She would dance with him, but never, never would she marry him.

He was graceful; she had to admit that.

He said: “These French dances, how think you they compare with our Italian ones—or our Spanish ones?”

“Your Italian ones! Your Spanish ones!” she answered. “I have spent so long in France that I say my French ones.”

“Do you not feel that it is time you left France and returned to your home?”

“I am happy here. The Queen is kind to me and I love her dearly. I have no wish to leave her service.”

“You lack the spirit of adventure, Carlotta.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“But that is wrong of you. There is so much in life to be enjoyed if you go out to seek it.”

“I am fortunate in having found so much that I do not have to seek,” she answered.

“But you are so young. What do you know of the adventures and pleasures which the world has to offer?”

“You mean such as those you enjoy with my cousin?”

“You have heard stories of me then?”

“Your fame has reached France, my lord Duke.”

“Call me Cesare.”

She did not answer but appeared to be concentrating on their steps.

“You know why I am here,” he said.

“Yes. You come to collect your dues—the price asked for the King’s divorce!”

“How French you are! All decorum one moment; all impetuosity the next. I confess I find the combination fascinating.”

“Then, as my frankness does not offend you, I will be even more so. I know your intentions concerning myself.”

“That pleases me. Now we can dispense with a long courtship.”

“My lord Duke, I have had no word from my father that I may look upon you as a suitor.”

“We shall soon have that.”

“In that you are mistaken.”

“You do not know me. I do not flinch at a little opposition.”

“Yet you, my lord, who feel such devotion toward legitimacy—for if you do not, why did you not wait for my cousin Sanchia who is so much more beautiful than I and for whom, if rumor does not lie, you have already some affection—seem to have so little regard for the same devotion in others.”

He flushed angrily. The girl, for all her prudery, had a sharp tongue and he was in no mood for a protracted wooing; he had dallied long enough, and he was becoming a laughing stock—which he found intolerable—both in France and in Italy.

“Legitimacy,” he retorted, “is invaluable to those who lack qualities which make it unimportant.”

“And you, my lord, are richly endowed with such qualities?”

He gripped her hand and she winced. “You will soon discover how richly,” he retorted.

He relaxed his grip on her hand and she murmured: “You scowl, my lord Duke. I pray you do not. It will appear that you are not satisfied with your partner. If that is the case, I beg of you, conduct me to the Queen.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” he answered, “until I have had an opportunity—for which I have been waiting ever since I set foot in this country—of talking to you.”

“Then, my lord, I pray you talk.”

“My first purpose in coming to France is to make you my wife.”

“You forget, my lord, that I am a Princess of Naples and that you should not speak thus to me unless you have first obtained the consent of my father.”

“It is the wish of His Holiness.”

“I did not mean the Holy Father. I mean the King, my father.”

“He knows it is the Pope’s wish that our marriage should take place.”

“Nevertheless, my lord, I have received no instructions that I may listen to you.”

“They will come.”

“My lord will understand that, as an obedient daughter, I must wait for those instructions.”

“You are clearly a lady of strong character. I can see that you are one who would make up her own mind.”

“You are right. I have made up my mind to wait for my father’s instructions. I see that the Queen signs for me to return to her. Will you conduct me to her?”

“No,” said Cesare.

She had, however, disengaged herself and, dropping a curtsey, she turned slowly and walked back to the Queen.

Cesare stood for a few seconds glowering after her; then he realized that amused eyes were watching him. He found a bold-eyed girl and turned his attentions to her, but all the time he was seething with rage which he was finding it difficult to hide for he was still conscious of Carlotta who was being much more charming to the insignificant Breton nobleman than she had been to him.

Louis summoned Cesare to his presence. The shrewd eyes of the French King took in the elaborate doublet, the jewels which glittered on hands and neck. Cesare found it difficult to suppress irritation when he was in the presence of the King of France. That determined lack of expression was more galling than jeers would have been. Cesare believed that the King’s mild appraisement of his finery meant: We understand why you must deck yourself so, my bastard Dukeling. These gewgaws would seem very precious to a bastard, who has just escaped from his Cardinal’s robes.

In France Cesare had had to learn restraint, and that was not easy for one of his temperament.

He knelt before the King, and he fancied that Louis took a sly delight in keeping him on his knees longer than he would another.

At length he was bidden to rise. Then Louis said: “The news is not good, my lord Duke, and deeply I regret that it should be my task to impart it.”

Louis’ expression was commiserative but Cesare could not rid himself of the idea that behind it was a certain pleasure.

“It’s from Naples,” he went on. “Federico stubbornly refuses to consent to your marriage with his daughter.”

“Why so, Sire?” demanded Cesare, and the imperious tones sent the royal eyebrows up a fraction.

There was silence, then Cesare added: “I pray Your Majesty, tell me on what grounds the King of Naples objects to my marriage with his daughter.”

“On the grounds of your birth.”

“My birth! I am the son of the Pope.”

Louis’ mouth lifted slightly at the corners. “It is a sad but nevertheless logical conclusion, my lord, that the sons of Popes must be illegitimate.”

Cesare clenched his right fist and banged it into the palm of his left hand. He found it difficult to refrain from taking this man by the shoulders and shaking him, King though he was.

“This is folly,” he cried out.

The King nodded sadly.

“And,” went on Cesare, “I doubt not, in Your Majesty’s power and determination to fulfill your contract with my father, you will ignore the objections of this petty monarch.”

“My lord Duke, you forget that I have carried out my part of the bargain. I gave you your estate and title and my consent for you to woo the lady. I cannot take a father’s place when she has a father living.”

“We could be married here, Sire, and then what could her father do?”

Louis allowed a profoundly shocked expression to cross his face. “You would ask me to come between a daughter and her father? No, not even for my friends could I do it. Moreover I have received protests from all over Europe. There is one here from my brother of England—King Henry VII. He sends word that he is deeply shocked that there is a possibility that bastardy should be linked with royalty, and that a son of His Holiness should marry with the legitimate daughter of a King.” Louis smiled. “I fancy our brother of England is a little shocked that His Holiness should even possess a son—but that is beside the point.”

“And he a Tudor!” cried Cesare, his rage refusing to be controlled. “Can the Tudors feel so certain of their own legitimacy?”

Again the King’s eyebrows were raised, and his expression was so cold that Cesare was immediately made aware that he might be a hostage in a foreign land.

“I could not discuss my brother’s affairs with you,” said Louis sharply. He waved his hand to indicate that the interview was over.

Cesare angrily left the apartment. His attendants, who had been waiting for him at a respectful distance, followed him. He looked at them sharply. Did they know that he had been humiliated?

He resisted an impulse to take one of the men by the ear, to drag him to his apartments and there order that his tongue be cut out. He was determined that none should carry tales back to Rome of what he had suffered in France. First to be flouted by that foolish girl; then to be treated as a man of no account by the King! And what the King did today his friends would do tomorrow.

But caution restrained him. A moment ago he had had a glimmer of understanding as to what his position was. What if he decided to leave France at once? Would he be allowed to go? Was he going to marry Carlotta when it seemed that the whole of France and Europe was against him? Was he going to return to Rome, a laughing stock?

He had to be careful, never forgetting for an instant that he could not behave in France as he did in Italy.

Therefore he noted the face of that man who he fancied had been amused to see his master humiliated. He would remember; but the man must be allowed to keep his tongue while they remained on French soil.