Light on Lucrezia (30 page)

The dowry was
being carefully counted by those officers from Ferrara who had been sent to collect it. There was much haggling about the size of the ducats, and at times it seemed that in spite of the fact that the marriage celebrations had taken place there would be some hitch and Lucrezia would not leave for Ferrara after all.

The nuns were giving Lucrezia a great deal of trouble. The women were terrified, never having traveled before. Some of them were very young and not without attraction. The lusty soldiers who were to accompany the cortège were already joking together and making bets with one another as to who would be the first to seduce a nun.

Lucrezia appealed to the Pope, who was inclined to laugh the matter off.

Let the women be seduced, was his suggestion. It would be something for them to think about for the rest of their days.

But Lucrezia was determined to please her new family, and she believed that if aught amiss befell the nuns, her father-in-law would blame her for it. She knew that Giovanni Sforza had been given shelter by Isabella the Marchesa of Mantua, and that her new sister-in-law would be ready to believe the worst of her. The three brothers had given her some indication of the temperament of the lady, and Lucrezia was already suffering qualms on her account. She must therefore placate Duke Ercole; she knew that she had to live down an evil reputation; she knew that Isabella was going to find fault with her wherever possible; so she determined that Ercole’s band of nuns should arrive in Ferrara as virtuous as when they came to Rome.

Therefore she arranged that they should travel in carriages and leave several days in advance. She even arranged at some expense to herself that the carriages should have a covering, so that the nuns would be protected from the weather.

Thus she felt she would show her new father-in-law that she intended to be a good and docile daughter.

Meanwhile in the counting houses the 100,000 golden ducats were changing hands.

There were the
last farewells.

Lucrezia visited her mother in her vineyard outside the city.

Vannozza embraced her daughter fondly, but she could not hide her pleasure. This golden-haired beauty was a Duchess, and Duchess of Ferrara, now a member of one of the oldest families in Italy, a real aristocrat. And such a thought could not give Vannozza any feeling but pleasure.

If it had been Cesare who was going away she would have wept bitterly, but in Lucrezia’s glorious departure she could feel nothing but pride.

“I shall be in the streets, my daughter,” she said, “to watch you leave Rome.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“I shall be proud … so proud.”

Lucrezia kissed her mother, and her emotion was as slight as Vannozza’s.

It was different saying good-bye in the nurseries. That was heartrending. Little Giovanni, the
Infante Romano
, in the few weeks he had been at the Vatican, had learned to love her. He had quickly forgotten his previous home, for he was only three years old; and it seemed to him that he had always lived in the splendor to which he had now become accustomed.

He was a little uneasy however to learn that Lucrezia was going away.

Fortunately little Roderigo, being only a year old, was too young to understand.

She embraced the little boys in turn as well as she could; their stiff little figures in rich brocade and the harness, which was worn by children of high degree, to make them grow straight and prevent rickets, stopped her from embracing them as she would have wished.

And at length she must face the most poignant farewell of all. Alexander received her in his private apartments and they were alone.

The Pope took his daughter into his arms and their tears mingled.

“I cannot let you go,” he cried. “I will not.”

“Oh my Father,” she answered him. “Most Holy, most sacred and most loving Father, what will our lives be without each other?”

“I know not. I know not.”

“But Father, you will come to Ferrara.”

He forced himself to picture it. The journey was long for an old man to undertake, but he would undertake it. He was no ordinary man. He could only endure this parting if he believed that at any time he could set out for Ferrara and she for Rome.

“Yes,” he said, “we shall meet often … often. How could it be otherwise with two who love as we do? You will write to me, my darling.”

“Every day, Father.”

“No matter what duties there are? Can you do that, my beloved one?”

“Yes, Father. I shall write every day.”

“I wish to know everything, my sweet child. Every detail. The compliments they pay you, the dresses you wear, when you wash your hair, all about your friends; and if any should annoy you, then I wish to know that too, for I tell you this, Lucrezia, oh my love, if any so much as hurt one of these beautiful golden hairs it will go ill with them … very ill indeed.”

“Did any woman ever have such a loving father?”

“Never, my daughter. Never.”

Outside in the square the cavalcade was waiting, the horses pawing the ground, and the soldiers and members of the household were swinging their arms to keep warm in the cold January air.

Cesare came to the apartment and looked sadly from his father to his sister.

“You feel this, even as I do, my son,” said the Pope.

Cesare placed his arm about his sister. “She is going from us, Father, but it is not good-bye. She will come to Rome before long. Ferrara is not all that distant from us.”

“That is right, my son. I am in need of comfort.”

The three of them spoke together then in the Valencian tongue, which
they delighted to use when together. It enclosed them in a cozy intimacy and ensured that any, who by chance overheard, would not understand.

“Within the year,” said Alexander, “I shall be in Ferrara.”

“And,” added Cesare, “woe betide any there who does not treat my sister with respect.”

Alexander smiled proudly from son to daughter. “Cesare will protect you and your rights, dearest,” he said. “You have not only a father who loves you, but a mighty brother, and your welfare is his greatest concern.”

Then Cesare embraced her, and he cried out like an animal in pain: “How can we let you go! How can we! How can we!” His eyes were wild. “Let us keep her here, Father. Let us make a divorce. I will take an army against Ferrara if need be. But we cannot part with her.”

The Pope shook his head sadly, and Cesare drew Lucrezia passionately into his arms.

Now Alexander became brisk and businesslike, as he knew he must at such times. Slyly he reminded Cesare of the advantages of the match; he discussed the welfare of little Roderigo and Giovanni.

“You, Cesare,” he said, “have a little longer with her than I, since you are to ride with her part of the way.”

The Pope drew her gold-colored mantle about her and touched its soft ermine lining.

“Keep this mantle wrapped well about you, dearest,” he said. “Outside the snow is falling.” He drew the hood up so that her face was almost hidden. “Protect this sweet face and this beloved body from the rigors of the journey.”

Then he held her to him for the last time, and released her abruptly as though he could bear no more.

He accompanied her then to the waiting cavalcade. He watched her mount her mule, and he called aloud to her so that all might hear: “God go with you, daughter. The Saints preserve you. Though you are far away from me, I shall do as much for you as though you were here at my side.”

All knew that that was an assurance for Lucrezia, a threat to themselves. If any do harm to my daughter, the wrath of the Vatican will descend upon him.

Slowly the cavalcade moved out of St. Peter’s Square, followed by the 150 carts which contained Lucrezia’s gowns and treasure.

Alexander, from a window of the Vatican, watched Lucrezia on her mule and would not move until she was out of sight.

Then he turned away from the window and shut himself into his private apartments.

“I may never see her again,” he whispered, and for a short while gave himself up to an agony of grief such as he had experienced at the time of Giovanni’s death.

At length he roused himself, shook off his forebodings, and called to his attendants.

“Ferrara,” he said, “is not so very far from Rome.”

I
n her castle which overlooked the River Mincio
, Isabella d’Este was growing more and more uneasy with every report which reached her.

She had placed in the retinue which had left Ferrara for Rome a spy whom she could trust, a man who had at one time been a priest. His letters to her were signed El Prete, and he had sworn before he left that he would attach himself to the suite of the lady Lucrezia and that nothing which concerned her should escape his watchful attention. He would send details of every dress she wore, of every word she spoke, so that Isabella should know as much as if she were present.

Isabella soundly rated all her women; during these weeks of preparation her temper, always uncertain, had been more difficult than usual and they had been at their wits’ end to placate her.

Isabella was furious that the Borgia match was to take place; she was also desperately afraid that this girl, of whose attractions her brothers—even pious Sigismondo—wrote so consistently, was going to prove a rival.

“She has dresses such as you have never seen,” wrote Ferrante. And there were El Prete’s descriptions of mulberry velvets, blue brocades and slashed sleeves from which cascades of lace flowed like waterfalls.

Where did she get such dresses? Who made them? she demanded. The lady Lucrezia took great pleasure in planning her own dresses, she was told, and superintended the making of them.

Isabella had looked upon herself as the most elegant lady in Italy. The King of France had asked her to send him dolls wearing exact replicas of her designs. And here was Ferrante writing that she could never have seen such splendid dresses as those worn by the lady Lucrezia!

“I will show her what elegance means!” cried Isabella.

She summoned all her dressmakers to the castle. Rich stuffs were delivered for her approval. There was not a great deal of time if she was to be at the wedding with a wardrobe to put that of the Borgia woman in the shade.

Night and day she kept her sewing women busy while she designed garment after garment. Pearls were sewn on to rich brocade and capes of cloth of gold were lined with blonde lynx. Satins lay draped over tables, in the richest colors procurable.

Isabella paced up and down the great workroom reading extracts from the letters of her brothers and the priest.

“And what is she like?” she cried. “It would seem they are so bemused by her that they cannot write clearly. ‘She is tall and slender and greatly do the gowns she designs herself become her.’ ”

Tall and slender! Isabella ran her hands over her somewhat ample hips.

Her women pacified her as best they might. “She cannot be more slender than you, Marchesa. If she is, she must be hideously thin.”

Isabella’s dark eyes flashed with anger and apprehension. It was bad enough to bring a Borgia into the family, but to have to accept her as a rival—a successful rival—even in only one of the talents at which Isabella excelled, was going to be intolerable.

Although her courtiers might tell her that she was ethereal, that she was slender as a young girl, she knew better. Therefore she began work on dresses which would make her appear taller and more slender than she was.

Ippolito wrote of the graceful manner in which Lucrezia danced. So Isabella must summon a dancing master to the castle and practice dancing.

Lucrezia played charmingly on the lute which accompanied her sweet singing voice. Very well, Isabella must play her lute, practice her singing more constantly than ever.

There was one who looked on with aloof amusement at all these preparations. This was Isabella’s husband, Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua.

The man irritated Isabella. Lazy as he was, there had been occasions when he had reminded her that he was ruler of Mantua, and she never forgot them; and, feeling herself to be his superior, the fact that she was forced on such occasions to acknowledge his supremacy was galling. Many people in Italy considered him a great soldier, a man of some importance; but to Isabella there was only one important family in Italy—her own, the Estes—and the rest should consider themselves highly honored to mate with them. Her dislike of the Borgia marriage had its roots in this belief, and lazy Francesco was fully aware of her feelings.

He understood her too well, this soldier husband; and to see his supercilious smiles at her fear of Lucrezia was decidedly irritating.

She stormed at him: “It is very well for you. What do you care! I tell you this, I do not enjoy seeing my family so demean itself.”

“You should be pleased to see it so enrich itself, my dear,” said gentle Francesco.

“Ducats! What are they in exchange for this … this misalliance?”

“Ask your father, Isabella. He has a mighty respect for the ducat. And ducats are ducats, whether they come from the Papal coffers or those of Ferrara.”