Light on Lucrezia (11 page)

The Court of
France was at Blois, and the occasion was the wedding of Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, and Charlotte d’Albret.

The King was delighted. He was invariably delighted to be in this beautiful
château on the banks of the Loire, so grand yet so exquisite, built as it was on different gradients which made it both picturesque and majestic. Louis loved Blois best of all his châteaux because it was here that he had been born one June day in the year 1462, and it was in the same château on an April night as recent as 1498 that a messenger had brought news to him of the death of King Charles, and kneeling before him had cried:
“Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!”

Blois had very special memories for him.

Therefore he was pleased that this marriage should take place at Blois. His armies were ready to march against Milan, and he had succeeded in detaining the Pope’s beloved son on French soil for seven months. His marriage would keep him here for several more months as he would not leave France until his wife was pregnant. Moreover the Borgias were now bound by marriage to the French Royal House—a great honor for them, which they would most certainly recognize.

When Louis was ready to invade Italy he would find that he had the mighty influence of the Pope on his side, and he could congratulate himself on a diplomacy to equal that of Alexander VI. He had obtained his divorce and the support of the Pope—all for Alain d’Albret’s daughter and a paltry estate and title.

So he felt satisfied and benign as he watched the celebrations. And what celebrations these were! Let the Borgia pay. He wanted splendor, so let him have it. His father was one of the richest men in the world. Let these Borgias parade their wealth before the eyes of French cynics. Better for them to spend it on wedding festivities than on armies to hold out against the French.

The weather was warm and sunny and the fields about the castle delightful. It was acclaimed as an excellent idea to have the celebrations out of doors, and tapestries embroidered with flowers were set up in the fields forming square tents without any top covering, so that the clear blue sky was visible. These tapestried walls made a palace of the meadows with a great banqueting hall and ball-room—grass for carpet and the sky for a ceiling.

The Pope, delighted with the arrangements, had sent caskets of jewels for the bride; and little Charlotte, who had been brought up simply, was dazzled.

She was sixteen and young even for her years. She was a quiet little bride and, as her frightened eyes met his, even Cesare was moved by her simplicity. He realized too that she would be ready to admire him, as he seemed very
splendid to her and, shut away from the world as she had been, she had not heard of his reputation.

As Cesare sat beside her at the banquet and danced with her under the blue sky in the tapestry-enclosed ball-room, he decided to make her happy while he was with her, for he had already made up his mind that as soon as she was pregnant he would return to Rome.

His ambitions were as strong as ever. He had his plans for conquering Italy. He would get her with child and leave her as chatelaine of his French estates; then he would return to make himself conqueror of his native land and perhaps of the world.

But he did not tell her this, and as he danced, looking very handsome in his wedding garments, he fascinated the simple girl with his witty conversation and his tender looks. Those who knew him well marveled at the change in him, and for a while forgot to be sorry for little Charlotte d’Albret.

As for Charlotte, she was far from sorry for herself. She was the bride of one of the most discussed men in the world, and she had found him charming, gay yet sentimental, tender yet passionate.

So under that May sky at Blois, the bride and bridegroom dreamed of their future, and the bride would have been surprised had she known that in the dreams of this witty yet tender husband she figured scarcely at all.

Lucrezia was by
this time pregnant once more, and visiting her father every day.

When Cesare’s messenger Garcia came hot-foot to Rome with the news that the marriage had indeed taken place Alexander was as excited as though it were his own marriage. He sent for Lucrezia immediately and had Garcia brought at once to him although the poor man, exhausted with the fatigue of the journey, collapsed at the Pope’s feet.

Alexander, seeing his condition, had a comfortable chair brought for him, sent for wine and food to refresh him, but would not let him out of his sight until he had recounted what was happening in Blois.

“The marriage has been celebrated, Most Holy Lord,” gasped Garcia.

“And the consummation?”

“That also, Holiness. I waited until morning that I might bring news of this.”

“How many times?” asked the Pope.

“Six, Holiness.”

“A worthy son of his father,” Alexander cried, laughing. “My beloved boy, I am proud of you.”

“His Majesty the King of France congratulated my lord Duke on his prowess, Holiness.”

That made Alexander laugh still more.

“Saying, O Most Holy Lord, that my lord Duke had beaten His Majesty.”

“Poor Louis! Poor Louis!” cried the Pope. “Did he expect Valois to rival Borgia!”

Then he must hear every detail of the ceremony, going on to the consummation of which he liked to hear again and again.

He was heard murmuring for days afterward: “Six times! Not bad … not bad at all, my son.”

He enjoyed telling the story. He repeated it again and again to any who had not heard, and often to those who had, embroidering here and there, multiplying the jewels and the splendor and never leaving out that “six times”; and laughing aloud until the tears came to his eyes.

It was wonderful, thought Lucrezia, to see him so contented. It was but a month since the conception of her child, but she was feeling completely happy again. Her father was delighted; Cesare had a wife; and she had her beloved Alfonso, and they were to have a child. What more in the world could she want?

Sanchia was uneasy
. She waylaid her brother as he came from his wife’s apartments.

Alfonso was humming a gay tune which Lucrezia often played on her lute, and the sight of his contented—almost ecstatic—expression irritated Sanchia.

“Alfonso,” she cried, “come into this little room where we can be quiet. I must talk to you.”

Alfonso opened his beautiful eyes, so like her own, in surprise, and said: “You sound disturbed, Sanchia.”

“Disturbed! Of course I’m disturbed. So would you be if you had any sense.”

Alfonso was a little impatient. Sanchia had changed since Cesare had gone away. None of her lovers pleased her and she was continually dissatisfied.

“Well,” said Alfonso stubbornly, “what ails you?”

“The French are planning an invasion.”

Alfonso wanted to yawn; he suppressed the desire with an effort.

“It is no use turning away from what I have to say because you find it unpleasant, Alfonso. You must listen to me. Ascanio Sforza is alarmed.”

“He is always alarmed.”

“Because he is a man of sound sense with his ears attuned to what is going on about him.”

“What goes on about him?”

“Intrigue.”

“Of a truth, Sanchia, you were always a lover of intrigue. I confess it was more amusing when they were intrigues of love.”

“What is going to happen when Cesare comes back?”

“I’ll swear he’ll be your lover in spite of his French wife.”

“He is now firmly allied with the King of France, and the French have always wanted Milan and … Naples. We belong to Naples. Do not forget it, Alfonso. Cesare will never forgive our uncle for refusing him Carlotta. He will band with the French against Uncle Federico. I would not care to be in Naples when Cesare enters with his troops.”

“We are of Naples,” said Alfonso, “and are the son and daughter-in-law of His Holiness, who is our friend.”

“Alfonso, you fool … you fool!”

“I am weary, Sanchia.”

“Oh, go to your wife,” cried Sanchia. “Go … and revel in your love, for what little time is left to you. Alfonso, be warned. You must take great care when Cesare returns to Italy.”

“He has just got him a wife,” cried Alfonso, his brow wrinkling.

“All husbands are not as devoted as you, brother. Some have ambitions beyond making love.” She caught his arm suddenly. “You are my brother,” she said, “and we stand together, as we always have.”

“Yes, Sanchia, indeed yes.”

“Then … do not be lulled into false security. Keep your ears and eyes
open, brother. There is danger near us … danger to our house … and do not forget, although you are Lucrezia’s husband, you are also a Prince of Naples.”

Goffredo, who was
now seventeen, was aware of the tension and determined not to be left out. The Pope showed great delight in the marriage of Cesare and the pregnancy of Lucrezia, and it seemed to Goffredo that he had little time to be interested in his younger son. People were often less respectful to him than they had ever dared be to Cesare and the dead Giovanni. Goffredo knew why. It was because many declared he was not the son of the Pope, and Goffredo had an uneasy feeling that Alexander himself was inclined to take the same view.

Goffredo admired the Borgias with an intensity of feeling which he could feel for no one else. He believed that if he were not accepted as one of them, life would have no meaning for him.

He determined therefore to draw attention to the similarity between himself, Cesare and the late Giovanni, and took to roaming the streets after dark in the company of his attendants, entering taverns, seeking out women and causing brawls among the men. This had been a particularly favorite pastime of Giovanni before he had died, and Goffredo longed to hear people say: “Oh, he is going the way of his brothers.”

One night as he and his men were roystering on the Bridge of St. Angelo, the guard called to them to halt.

Goffredo, a little alarmed, but determined to acquit himself like a Borgia, swaggered forward, demanding to know what this low fellow thought he was doing in obstructing the pleasure of a Borgia.

The guard drew his sword and two of his soldiers came quickly to his side. Goffredo would have preferred to retire, but that was something which neither Cesare nor Giovanni would ever have done.

The guard, however, was a brave man; moreover it was well known throughout Rome that the Pope was not so fanatically devoted to Goffredo as he was to the other members of his family. Cesare was in France; Giovanni was dead; and the guards of the City of Rome had decided that they would not allow this youngest member of the family to strike terror into the hearts of good Roman citizens, and he should be taught a lesson.

“I ask you, my lord,” said the man civilly, “to go quietly on your way.”

“And I ask you,” blustered Goffredo, “to mind your manners.”

“I mind my duty,” retorted the guard, “which is to defend the citizens of Rome.”

Thereupon Goffredo had no alternative but to fly at the man in a rage which he hoped matched that so often displayed by Cesare; but the guard was waiting for him. His sword pierced Goffredo’s thigh and the young man fell groaning to the ground.