Light on Lucrezia (4 page)

Loysella, Francesca, and Bernardina laughed with delight. Their mistress’s adventures were a source of great pleasure to them and were emulated by them to the best of their ability.

She had made them swear to secrecy, and this they had done.

“Your future husband is at the door,” whispered Loysella.

Sanchia tapped her cheek playfully. “Then you had better leave me. I asked him to come. I demanded that he should.”

“You must get him accustomed to obedience,” laughed Bernardina.

But Cesare was already in the room and even their frivolity was stemmed. He looked at them imperiously, not assessing their obvious charms as he sometimes did, but impatiently as though they were inanimate objects which offended his eyes. They might joke about him when he was not present, but as soon as he made his appearance they were conscious of that power within him to strike terror.

They curtsied hurriedly and went out of the room, leaving him alone with their mistress.

Sanchia lifted a hand. “Come, Cesare,” she said, “sit beside my couch.”

“You wished to see me?” he asked, sitting down.

“I did. I am not very pleased with you, Cesare.”

He raised his eyebrows haughtily, and her blue eyes shone with sudden anger as she went on: “My brother is in Rome. He has been here a whole day and night, yet you have ignored him. Is this the courtesy you have to show to a Prince of Naples?”

“Oh … but a bastard,” murmured Cesare.

“And you … my fine lord … what are you, pray?”

“Soon to be the ruler of Italy.”

Her eyes flashed. It would be so. She was sure of it, and she was proud of him. If any could unite Italy and rule it, that man was Cesare Borgia. She would be beside him when he reigned supreme. Cesare Borgia would need a queen, and she was to be that queen. She was exultant and intensely happy, for there was one man to whom she longed to be married, and that was this man,
Cesare Borgia. And it would be so. As soon as she was divorced their marriage would take place, and the whole of Italy would soon have to recognize her as its Queen.

He was looking at her now, and she held out her arms. He embraced her, but even as she put her arms about his neck she sensed his absentmindedness.

She withdrew herself and said: “But I demand that you pay my brother the respect due to him.”

“That have I done. He merits little.”

She brought up her hand and slapped his face. He took her by the wrist and a smile of pleasure crossed his face as he twisted her arm until she squealed with the pain.

“Stop,” she cried. “Cesare, I implore you. You will break my bones.”

“ ’Twill teach you not to behave like a beggar on the Corso.”

Freed, she looked angrily at the marks on her wrist.

“I ask you,” she said sullenly, “to call on my brother, to welcome him to Rome.”

Cesare shrugged aside her request.

“If,” she went on, “he is to be your brother in very truth …”

“I never looked on Lucrezia’s first husband as my brother. Nor shall I on her second.”

“Jealous!” snapped Sanchia. “Insanely jealous of your sister’s lovers. It is small wonder that there is scandal concerning your family throughout Italy.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling slowly, “we are a scandalous family. I fancy, my dear Sanchia, that scandal has not grown less since you joined us.”

“I insist that you welcome my brother.”

“It is enough that my father sent for him and that he is here.”

“But Cesare, you must do him some small honor. You must show the people that you do so—if not because he is to be Lucrezia’s husband, then because he is my brother.”

“I do not understand,” said Cesare with cruel blankness.

“But if I am divorced … if I am free of Goffredo and we are married …”

Cesare laughed. “My dear Sanchia,” he said, “I am not going to marry you.”

“But … there is to be a divorce.”

“His Holiness is not eager for another divorce in the family. The Church
deplores divorce, as you know. Nay, you shall stay married to your little Goffredo. Of what can you complain in him? Is he not a kind and complaisant husband? As for myself, when I am free of these garments, I shall seek me a wife elsewhere.”

Sanchia could not speak; it seemed to her that her fury was choking her.

“Moreover,” went on Cesare, savoring her efforts to keep that fury under control, “when I acquire my titles—and I can assure you they will be mighty titles—I must look farther than an illegitimate Princess, Sanchia. You will readily understand that.”

Still she could not speak. Her face was white, and he noticed her long slender fingers plucking at the skirt of her dress. He could still feel the sting of those fingers on his cheek; he could still see the mark of his on her wrist. Their relationship had always been a fiery one; they had inflicted their passion on one another, and many of their most satisfactory encounters had begun with a fight.

“My bride,” went on Cesare, flaying those wounds he had laid open with the whip of humiliation likely to cause most pain, “will doubtless be a near relative of yours: the daughter of your uncle, the King of Naples, his legitimate daughter, the Princess Carlotta.”

“My cousin Carlotta!” cried Sanchia. “You deceive yourself, Cardinal Borgia! Bastard Borgia! Do you think my uncle the King would allow
you
to marry his daughter?”

“His Holiness and I have very good reason to believe that he is eager for the match.”

“It is a lie.”

Cesare lifted his shoulders lightly. “You will see,” he said.

“See! I shall not see. It will never come to pass. Do you think
you
will have Carlotta? My uncle will want a prize for her.”

“It might be,” Cesare retorted, “that he will be wise enough to see in me what he seeks for her.”

In the ante-room her women, hearing Sanchia’s wild laughter, trembled. There was something different about this encounter. This was surely not one of those violent quarrels which ended in that fierce lovemaking which set their mistress purring like a contented cat while they combed her hair and she told them of Cesare’s virility.

“I can tell you,” screamed Sanchia, “that you will never have Carlotta.”

“I beg of you, do not scream. You will have your women thinking I am murdering you.”

“They could easily suspect it. What is one more murder in your life? Murderer! Liar! Bastard! Cardinal!”

He stood by the couch, laughing at her.

She sprang up and would have scratched his face, but he was ready for her; he had her by the wrist, and she spat at him.

“Is it the time for you to think of marriage?” she cried. “By the marks on your face I should think not.”

He shook her. “You should control your temper, Sanchia,” he warned her.

“Are you so calm, Cesare,” she demanded.

“Yes, for once I am.”

“Do not think you may come here and treat me as your mistress while you make these plans for Carlotta.”

“I had not thought of it,” he said. “You weary me, Sanchia. With your ambitions you weary me.”

“Get out of here,” she cried.

And to her astonishment he threw her back on to her couch and left her.

She stared after him. She was bitterly wounded for he had hurt her where she was most vulnerable.

Her women came in and found her weeping quietly. They had never seen her quiet; they had never before seen her so unhappy.

They coaxed her, combed her hair, smoothed unguents into her hot forehead, told her she must not cry so and spoil her beautiful eyes.

And at length she ceased to cry and, springing up, swore revenge on Cesare Borgia, swore that she would use all her powers to prevent his marriage with her cousin. She would make a wax image of Cesare; she would stick red-hot pins into its heart. Evil should come to him because he had wounded her deeply and had exulted in the wounding.

“By all the saints!” she cried. “I will be revenged on you, Cesare Borgia.”

This was Lucrezia’s
wedding day—her second wedding day.

That other, which had taken place five years before when she was thirteen,
seemed now like some haunting scene from a nightmare—horrible and unreal. She did not want to think of it. Then she had been too young to consummate the marriage, and the man beside her had been grim and unattractive, a widower who had seemed quite unimpressed by her beauty.

She wanted to be happy. She realized now how like her father she was. She knew how bitterly he had suffered when Giovanni, his best-loved son, had been murdered. Thus had she felt when the news had been brought to her that Pedro Caldes’ body had been taken from the Tiber. Then she had cried to the saints: “Out of your goodness, let me die.” Alexander must have uttered similar words.

He had recovered quickly. He had turned from memories of the dead to delight in the living. He was wise; she believed him to be the wisest man on Earth; his conduct in crises had always been an example. Now she understood more than she ever had before that she needed to follow his example.

She wanted to love her bridegroom. Was it very difficult? He was young and handsome and, although they had first met but three days ago, he was already becoming ardent. He had had fears of what he would find; those fears were dispersed. Thus should her misery disappear. In the arms of Alfonso, her legitimate lover, she would forget that passion for Pedro Caldes which had been doomed from its beginning.

How glad she was that he had come unceremoniously to Rome, thus enabling them to make each other’s acquaintance before the wedding day. She was delighted when Alfonso had whispered to her: “You are so different from the wife I expected to find waiting for me.”

“You are pleased with what you find?” she had asked, and he had answered: “I am bemused with delight.”

She believed that he spoke with the sincerity of youth rather than with the flattery of a courtier.

Lucrezia was right. Alfonso was happy; he was thinking only of her. He knew that Cesare hated him because he was to be Lucrezia’s husband, and he did not seem to care. The Papal guards made bets on how long it would be before the Pope decided that his new son-in-law was useless to his aims, and how long after that Alfonso would cease to exist; for a second divorce would provide something of a scandal, and indeed might be difficult even for the wily Alexander to procure. Still, Alfonso did not care. He was to marry Lucrezia, and that was all he had time to think about.

Her women were dressing Lucrezia in a gold-colored gown which was heavy with pearls comprising the mingling arms of Borgia and Aragon. About her neck were priceless rubies, and the lustrous emerald which adorned her forehead gave some of its color to her pale eyes. She looked very little older than she had on the day she married Giovanni Sforza.

She was conducted with her attendants to the Pope’s private apartments in the Vatican, to that room, which she knew so well, with the Pinturicchio murals and the ceiling on which was carved the gilded bull and the papal crown.

Here Alfonso was waiting for her and, as she looked at him in his magnificent wedding garments, there was no doubt in her mind that he was the most handsome man in Italy.

The Pope smiled benignly at the young couple, and he was amused because of what he saw in their eyes.

They knelt before the Papal throne and the wedding ceremony took place and, in accordance with the ancient custom, a naked sword was held over the heads of the bride and groom. This duty fell to a Spanish captain, Juan Cervillon, and as he stood very still, his sword held high above this beautiful pair, many eyes were turned to that gleaming blade, and the question was in many minds: How long before it will descend on our little bridegroom?

The ceremony was
over, and it was time for the feasting and celebration. Lucrezia walked by her husband’s side and even her dress, stiff with embroidery and pearls and heavy with jewels, could not impair her grace. Dainty and elegant, as she was, she seemed aloof from the coarse jests, which were encouraged by the Pope. Her bridegroom was enchanted with her and he and she seemed apart from the company. All noticed their absorption in each other, and the Pope pointed it out to all who came near him.