Light on Lucrezia (59 page)

It was a long time before she could bring herself to tell Giulio that Angela had married and gone away.

Lucrezia intercepted Alfonso
on his way to Giulio’s apartment. “Alfonso,” she cried, “I must speak to you … about Giulio.”

Alfonso studied his wife. He supposed she was very beautiful; he had heard it said that she was; it was a pity she was not his type. He liked fleshy women. Not that he was averse to doing his duty by her; but it did seem as though she was going to prove disappointingly infertile.

“Something must be done for Giulio,” she said.

Alfonso raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“All these weeks have passed and there is no attempt to administer justice. This harbors dangerous thoughts in Giulio … in Ferrante.”

“So they are plotting together!”

“They do not plot. They fret for justice.”

“You are a fool,” he said, “if you think I can afford to estrange Ippolito.”

“You mean you will shrug your shoulders at what he has done?”

“You speak of Cardinal Ippolito d’Este. I could not show favor to a bastard at his expense.”

“Favor! I did not suggest favor. Only justice.”

Alfonso looked exasperated and Lucrezia for once abandoned her serenity. “Oh, I know I am only a woman,” she cried. “I am here to bear children … nothing more. But I tell you this, Alfonso; if you do not administer justice in some form you will have trouble between your brothers.”

“Trouble in the family must be avoided at all cost,” said Alfonso. “I plan to bring my brothers together; there shall be a reconciliation.”

“You think Giulio will ever be reconciled to Ippolito!”

“He must be … for the sake of Ferrara.”

Eventually Alfonso prevailed
upon them to meet each other. He stood between them—the mighty brother to whom they both owed allegiance.

“Ippolito, Giulio, my brothers,” he said. “This has been the saddest thing I ever witnessed. I would have given ten years of my life that it should not have happened.”

“Do not look at me,” said Giulio bitterly. “I was but the victim.”

“Giulio, I am asking you to forget your wrongs. I am asking you to forgive your brother.”

“Why does he not speak for himself?”

“I am very displeased that this has happened,” said Ippolito, inclining his haughty head.

“Displeased!” cried Giulio. “I would describe my own feelings in stronger terms.” He snatched up a torch and held it to his face. “Look at me, Alfonso; and you, Cardinal, look at your work. This hideous thing you see before you is your once handsome brother, Giulio.”

Alfonso’s voice was broken with emotion as he cried: “Stop, I beg of you. Giulio, my dear brother, stop.” He went to him and embraced him. “Giulio, I grieve for you, brother. But think now of Ferrara. Think of our family and, for the sake of our ancestors, who made Ferrara great, and of all those who will follow us, make no trouble now. Forgive your brother.”

And Giulio, weeping in Alfonso’s arms, murmured: “I forgive him. It is over and done with. Long live Ferrara!”

It was easy
to say one forgave; it was difficult to continue in that noble attitude. He must lie, poor Giulio, in his darkened room, for even after some time passed he could not bear to face the light. He listened to the sound of distant music from other parts of the castle and brooded on the old days.

Ippolito would be flashing his brilliant robes, making assignations with beautiful women. Ippolito who had ruined his brother’s life and thought he had made amends by lowering his haughty head and saying he was sorry.

There was only one comfort in his life: Ferrante.

Ferrante spent most of his time in Giulio’s room, where they talked of past adventures. Ferrante could often make his brother laugh, but such laughter was always followed by melancholy. What could memories of the joyous past do but lead to the melancholy present? Why should they not talk
of the future? What was the future for him? Giulio demanded. He would spend long hours in a dark room, and if he ventured abroad he would have to be masked to hide his hideous face; even then people would turn from him, shuddering.

There was only one way to bring Giulio out of his melancholy, and that was to talk of revenge. Revenge on Ippolito the author of his miseries; revenge on Alfonso who had taken Ippolito’s side against his brother.

It amused them to make plots—wild plots which they knew they could never carry out.

Ferrante, always reckless, sought means of enlivening his brother’s fancies, and one day Giulio in a fit of depression cried: “What fools we are with our pretences! Our plots were never meant to be carried out. They are idle games which we play.”

From that moment Ferrante decided that they should have a real plot, and he set about finding conspirators who would join them. It was not difficult to find men who believed they had been ill-treated by Alfonso; it was even easier to find those who resented Ippolito’s high-handed ways. There was a certain Albertino Boschetti who had lost some of his lands to Alfonso; and his son-in-law Gherardo de Roberti, who was a captain in Alfonso’s army, was ready to join in the plot. They would meet with a few others and discuss the Borgia methods of poisoning and wonder whether they could lure Lucrezia into becoming one of them. This they abandoned as impossible; but a priest, Gian Cantore di Guascogna, who was possessed of a beautiful voice and for this reason had been favored by Duke Ercole, joined the plotters for his own reasons. It might have been that he realized the plots were not serious but merely a simple means of bringing a little excitement into Giulio’s life. The priest had received nothing but friendship from Alfonso, and indeed had accompanied him on many of his amorous jaunts.

Giulio lived for the meetings which were held in his dark room; often the sounds of laughter would be heard coming from his apartment. One day Lucrezia, hearing them, smiled with relief. She did not know what was causing the laughter.

Giulio was saying: “As for Alfonso, it should not be so difficult. You, my dear Gian, often accompany him to his low brothels. So what could be easier? Take some of the girls into your confidence. Pay them well. They will do anything for ducats. And when he has drunk deep, tie him to his bed, and then … 
it should not be difficult to find those who, with their daggers, would be ready to do to him what has been done to me.”

The woman was
to Alfonso’s taste. She was voluptuous and silent. He preferred silent women. They had drunk deeply and he was drowsy; he lay stretched on the bed waiting for the woman, while she hovered about the room.

“Come, hurry, woman,” he growled.

But she laughed at him, and he half regretted that he had drunk so deeply that he felt disinclined to rise. She was kneeling at the foot of the bed.

He cried: “What do you there?”

And still she laughed.

She did not know that he was the ruler of Ferrara. Part of the pleasure in these nightly jaunts was that he ventured forth incognito.

He jerked his foot. It did not move. But he felt too listless to care, and the woman was now flitting to the head of the bed.

He reached out an arm to catch her; she took it at the wrist and held it. She had moved behind him and, keeping his arm outstretched, she kissed it at intervals.

He grew impatient; he was never a man to fancy the preliminaries of lovemaking. He implied that he was a practical man; he made no secret of the purpose which had brought him here. Therefore delay irritated him. But tonight he was strangely listless.

Then he found that his feet and hands were securely tied to the bedposts, and he was at the mercy of this woman.

Now he was alert. For what purpose had she tied him thus? How could he have been so foolish as to have lain supine while this was done to him? Suddenly he understood. Something had been slipped into his wine to produce this lassitude.

He was in danger, and the thought of danger, and the need for prompt action, cut through the fumes in his head.

Then the door burst open and there was Gian Cantore di Guascogna, the rascally priest with the divine voice who, like his master, enjoyed a tour of the brothels.

“Free me, you rogue,” shouted Alfonso.

The priest came and stood by the bed. He had taken his dagger from his belt. He lifted his hand as though he were about to plunge the knife into the Duke’s heart.

“Enough!” cried Alfonso. “Come, you old rogue. Cut these ropes at once. ’Twas a good enough joke, and I its victim, but ’tis over.”

Alfonso had been accustomed to command all his life, and there was authority in his voice. His laughter rumbled in his throat, and the priest, under the spell of that strong personality, leaned over the bed and cut the ropes.

Alfonso jumped up; he was laughing heartily, slapping Gian on the back, calling him Scoundrel.

Then he pushed Gian from the room. Gian stood outside the door trembling.

With the coming
of the spring Alfonso left Ferrara for one of his missions abroad and, as was the custom, appointed Lucrezia as Regent. Ippolito being so powerful in Ferrara—the most important man next to Alfonso—could not be ignored, so that it was necessary that he should be co-Regent.