Light on Lucrezia: A Novel of the Borgias Read online

  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.

  Now that she was to have a child, Lucrezia told herself that this was the happiest time of her life. She refused to look back; she refused to look ahead. The present was all-satisfying.

  Each day her love for her husband seemed strengthened; and the Pope, seeing that love, seemed eager to assure her that he also had a great affection for his son-in-law.

  In the apartments at Santa Maria in Portico, Cardinals and men of letters continued to assemble; there were whisperings and insinuations, and the political intent of those meetings grew more insistent. The anti-Papal and anti-French party was growing and, since the meetings took place in Lucrezia’s apartments, Alfonso would appear to be one of the leaders of it.

  But like Lucrezia, Alfonso quickly wearied of politics. He was barely eighteen and there were so many more interesting things in life than intrigue. He was faintly impatient of men such as Ascanio Sforza who must continually—or so it seemed to him—be watching the behavior of others for slights, insults, innuendoes. Life was good. Enjoy it. That was Alfonso’s motto.

  The Pope was so charming, so solicitous of their happiness. None had been more delighted than he to learn of Lucrezia’s pregnancy, and it astonished Alfonso to see this amazing man turn from the dignities of his holy office to the tender care of his daughter. He would walk with the pair in the Vatican gardens and make plans for their child, and he would talk to them in that rich musical voice, so that Alfonso could almost see the wonderful little boy playing in the gardens there in the years to come.

  It seemed incredible that anyone would want to be the enemy of such a man; and as long as Cesare remained in France Alfonso was sure he would be completely happy.

  One day the Pope said to him: “You and I in company with two of my Cardinals will go on a hunting expedition toward Ostia, for the woods there are full of game and we shall find good sport.” He had laughed to see Alfonso’s expression. “As for Lucrezia, she must stay quietly behind for a few days and rest. I fancy she looks a little tired lately, and we must think of the child. And, my son, all the time you are enjoying the hunt you will be looking forward to the pleasure of reunion with Lucrezia! Oh, you are a fortunate young man.”

  Lucrezia had declared he must go, for she knew how he enjoyed a long hunt and he would only be away for a few days. So Alfonso went in the company of the Pope and Cardinals Borgia and Lopez; and he saw yet another side of the character of this man who was his father-in-law, the sportsman and hunter; and he began to believe in those rumors he had heard which declared that Alexander VI was possessed of magical powers; what he believed he now learned was that these did not come from the Devil but from God.

  Alfonso would never forget the return from that hunt, the joy of riding into Rome in pale February sunshine and seeing Lucrezia on the balcony watching for their approach.

  She ran down to greet them and stood among them, slender and golden-haired, for two months’ pregnancy was not apparent; and there, among the stags and wild goats and other booty of that hunt, he embraced his wife with tenderness and delight which brought tears to the eyes of the Pope and his Cardinals.

  Alfonso had cried out: “I am happy … happy to be home.”

  And he marveled, realizing what he was now calling his home was that City to which, but a short while ago, he had come with no little dread.

  She had missed him, she told him when they were alone. She had been counting the hours to his return.

  “Did you ever believe there could be happiness such as this?” asked Alfonso.

  “No,” she told him. “I did not believe it.” It was true, for during her love affair with Pedro Caldes she had always known that they could never enjoy delights such as this. She had dreamed of a small house far from Rome in which she, Pedro and their child would live; she had known that if she had gained her happiness with Pedro she would have lost much of that which she shared with her father. Now she had lost nothing. She was completely happy; she was sure that when her baby was born she would cease to dream about that other child who had once been as much to her as the one she now carried.

  She said to Alfonso: “No, I did not think there could be such happiness, but now I believe there can be even greater happiness than this. That will be on the day when I hold our child in my arms.”

  They lay sleeping, arms entwined; and in their sleep they looked like two innocent children.

  The next day brought realization to Lucrezia of what a flimsy thing happiness could be.

  Sanchia came to her apartments in the morning.

  “It is going to be a sunny day,” she said. “We should prepare for the journey to the vineyards of Cardinal Lopez.”

  Lucrezia remembered. Last night the Cardinal had issued the invitation to the ladies, and they had accepted joyfully.

  “Why,” said Sanchia, “pregnancy suits you, Lucrezia. You look more beautiful than you did two months ago.”

  “It is happiness that suits me,” Lucrezia
answered.

  “You are not disappointed in my little brother?” Sanchia asked.

  “You know my feelings for him.”

  “Take care of him, Lucrezia. Take care of him when Cesare comes home.”

  “You have news of Cesare?”

  “I know that he is not going to marry Carlotta, but I knew that before he went.”

  Lucrezia smiled sadly at her sister-in-law. Sanchia had been jealous, she knew, and she was sorry for Sanchia’s unhappiness.

  Sanchia said fiercely: “He went in October. It is now February. Yet he remains unmarried. I tell you this, Lucrezia: Cesare is nothing more than a hostage of the French. The bonds are silken, shall we say, but they are nevertheless bonds. Why does Cesare not marry? Because the King of France wishes to keep him in France!”

  “You mean he is so attached to Cesare …”

  Sanchia laughed. “Do you think the whole world loves your brother as you do? No! The King of France is planning an attack on Italy, and if he holds the Pope’s beloved son as hostage he can be sure that he will be free from Papal interference when he makes the attack.”

  “Cesare … a hostage!”

  “Why not? He was once before, remember. He escaped at Velletri and thus inflicted humiliation on the French which they will not easily have forgotten. Mayhap they remember it still.”

  “But the King of France greatly honors my brother. We constantly hear of the entertainments he gives for his pleasure.”

  Sanchia put her face close to Lucrezia’s and whispered: “One of those who accompanied Cesare to France has written that the honors paid to Cesare are like those paid to Christ on Palm Sunday, when less than a week later there were cries of ‘Crucify him.’ ”

  “Sanchia! You mean Cesare is in danger!”

  “I doubt not that he will know how to look after himself. But he’ll not get Carlotta.” Sanchia lifted her shoulders. “Come, which bonnet will you wear?”