Light on Lucrezia: A Novel of the Borgias Read online

  Lucrezia tried to turn her attention to the bonnets. She would not believe that Cesare was in any danger. If he did not marry Carlotta, then he would have someone else. Soon he would be home. She was not going to let fears for her brother cloud her happiness.

  So they set out for the vineyards of Cardinal Lopez. They were very beautiful in the pale February sunshine and Lucrezia was determinedly merry, eager to banish the uneasy thoughts which Sanchia had set in motion.

  Cardinal Lopez and his household had prepared a feast for the visitors, and they sat watching races or joined in the outdoor games which he had arranged for their entertainment. There was much laughter, but every now and then Lucrezia felt a longing to be with Alfonso that she might tell him of Sanchia’s words which had made her a little uneasy, and seek reassurance. She would not tell her father because, although he would dismiss the rumors, he might in the secrecy of his mind brood on them; but Alfonso, she was sure, would dismiss them as ridiculous because he would know that was what she wanted him to do.

  Longing to be with Alfonso, she cried out as they were walking down one of the sloping paths to the stables: “Do hurry. Let us race!”

  Bernardina, who was close behind her, gave a whoop of joy and, pulling at Francesca’s gown, shouted: “Come along. I’ll be at the stables first.”

  Lucrezia cried: “Not you!” And sped away.

  She was leading when her foot tripped over a stone and, as her ankle twisted under her, she fell; Bernardina unfortunately was too close on her heels to pull up and, as Lucrezia went down, fell on top of her. Francesca fell over Bernardina and for a few seconds the pair lay on Lucrezia, their full weight pressing her to the ground. They were laughing as they leaped to their feet; then suddenly they stopped, for Lucrezia had not moved. She was lying, her body twisted and still, exactly as she had fallen.

  The Pope sat by his daughter. They had carried her back to her palace, and put her to bed; then they had taken the news to the Vatican that there had been an accident and that the doctors feared the consequences might be serious. Lucrezia lay white and still; she had lost the baby.

  It was comforting, when she opened her eyes, to see her father beside her. She put out a hand and he took it. She knew immediately what had happened, because she was aware of the sorrow in his eyes. The loss of a grandchild could make him more unhappy than the news that the French were at the outskirts of Rome.

  “Dearest Father …” she began.

  Now he was smiling, ready to soothe her.

  “You will get better, my daughter,” he murmured. “Your weakness will pass.”

  She whispered: “My baby …”

  “Oh, but it is an unfortunate accident, nothing more. Two people in love, such as you and Alfonso are, will get many more children. As for this one … we do not even know that it was a boy.”

  “Boy or girl, I loved it.”

  “Ah, we loved it. But it was not to be.” He leaned over the bed. “And dearest daughter, you are safe. Soon you will be well. I praise the saints for that mercy. Shall I grieve because of an unborn grandchild, when my dearest is spared to me? When they brought me the news of your accident terrible fears beset me, and I cried out that if aught happened to my Lucrezia I would have no more interest in life. I prayed for your life as I never prayed before; and you see, Lucrezia, my prayers have been answered. My beloved is safe. And the child … But I tell you there will be more children.”

  “Father,” she said, “stay near me. Do not leave me yet.”

  He smiled and nodded.

  She lay back and tried to think of the children she and Alfonso would have; when they had a child, a living child, she would cease to mourn for this one; she wanted to think of the future; she wanted to forget the uneasy words she had heard concerning her brother Cesare.

  Meanwhile Cesare remained unsatisfied in France. He was wishing that he had never set out on the French adventure. He had been humiliated, he considered, as he never had been before in all his life. Carlotta of Naples hated him, and she had declared to all her friends, who had made sure that her comments should reach his ears, that she would never be known as Madame la Cardinale, as she surely would if she married the Borgia.

  When they met, which they did frequently, she would endeavor to appear guileless and imply that he must not blame her for his lack of success in his courtship; she merely obeyed her father who was upheld in his determination by all the royalty of Europe—except of course the King of France.

  It was a galling position, but Cesare must control his anger and pretend that he was not perturbed, not growing more and more worried with every passing week.

  The King sent for him one day. His Queen was with him and he did not dismiss those few ministers who stood near his throne; which Cesare felt to be an added insult.

  “I have grave news for you, my lord Duke,” said Louis, and Cesare was aware that some of those men about the throne were hard pressed to hold back their smiles.

  “Sire?” said Cesare, fighting for control with all his might.

  “Two of our subjects have married,” said Louis, “and I fear this is not going to please you.”

  “Have I any special interest in these subjects of Your Majesty?” asked Cesare.

  “A great interest. One is the Princess Carlotta.”

  Cesare felt the uncontrollable twitch in his lips; the hot blood flooding his face; he was clenching his fists so tightly that his nails, which were buried in his palms, drew blood.

  He heard himself stammering, and his voice seemed to begin in a whisper and end in a roar. “Married, Your … Majesty?”

  “Yes, the minx has married her Breton nobleman.” The King lifted his shoulders. “Of course, she had her father’s consent to the marriage, and the Queen and I consider that in these circumstances the matter was out of our hands.”

  “His Majesty, the King of Naples, seems very pleased with his daughter’s match,” said Anne of Brittany quickly.

  Cesare’s fingers itched to seize his sword and attack the royal pair there and then. They were his enemies; they had arranged this. And to think that it was he who had brought them the Bull which enabled them to marry! They were deliberately insulting him, telling him that the King of Naples did not object to a Breton nobleman of no great importance, whereas he would not accept Cesare Borgia, son of the Pope, as his son-in-law.

  It was unendurable. They were asking him to suffer too much humiliation.

  Perhaps Louis realized this, because he said quickly: “Ah, my lord Duke, there are other ladies at our Court. Perhaps they would be less capricious.”

  “Holy Mother,” prayed Cesare, “keep me calm. Stop this mad racing of my blood which bids me murder.”

  He managed to say: “What lady has Your Majesty in mind?”

  Louis smiled pleasantly. “This is a bitter disappointment. But I have a good match in mind for you. My kinsman, the King of Navarre, has a fair young daughter. What say you to marriage with young Charlotte of Navarre?”

  Cesare felt his heartbeats quicken. He had set his heart on Carlotta, but Charlotte was no mean alternative.

  “Alain d’Albret,” went on the King, “come forth, cousin, and tell us what you would say to a match between our good friend the Duke of Valentinois and your little Charlotte.”

  The King of Navarre came and stood before the King of France. His looks were sullen. He said: “It does not seem meet to me, Sire, that a Cardinal has a right to marry.”

  “The Duke is no longer a Cardinal,” the King reminded him.

  Cesare cried: “I have been freed from my vows. I am as fit and able to marry as any man.”

  “I should need to be sure that a man who had once been a Cardinal was free of all ecclesiastical ties, before I gave him a daughter of mine,” said Alain d’Albret stubbornly.

  Cesare cried out: “You are a fool! The whole world knows I am free.”

  There was silence all about him. Louis’ looks were cold. This foreigner had forgotten the strictn
ess of Court etiquette in France.

  Cesare said quickly: “I crave pardon. But these matters could be proved to you.”

  “They would need to be proved,” said rough Alain.

  “You must forgive his caution,” added the King, looking from Alain to Cesare. “He is a father with a father’s feelings.”

  “Your Majesty can explain to him that I am free.”

  “We will give him full proof,” said the King. “But this will take a little time.”

  “I shall need the utmost proof, Your Majesty,” declared Alain.

  The King rose and going to Alain put his arm through his; then he turned and beckoned to Cesare, and linking his other arm through Cesare’s he walked with the two of them to an embrasure where he spoke in whispers while those who had watched the previous scene talked among themselves, respecting the King’s wish for privacy.

  “The proof will come,” said the King to Alain. “His Holiness will lose no time in supplying it.” He turned to Cesare. “Charlotte’s brother Amanieu will be your brother, my lord Duke. He has long desired his Cardinal’s hat. A Cardinal’s hat, Alain! I feel that, if you saw your son in possession of that, you would hasten your decision, would you not?”

  “Proof, Sire,” said Alain. “I must have proof … proof for myself, and a Cardinal’s hat for my son; and then … I should not be averse to accepting a husband for my daughter.”

  Cesare was silent. He must have a bride. He could not face the humiliation of returning to Rome without one. And Charlotte d’Albret was the daughter of a King, even as Carlotta was.

  He saw in this marriage a means of saving his face, but at the same time he was wary.

  Was it true, that which was being whispered throughout the Court: “The King keeps Cesare Borgia here as a hostage”?

  Had he suggested this marriage to delay Cesare’s departure from France, to make him a willing visitor rather than an unwilling one? Cesare believed that Louis was even now planning an attack on Milan. Was he, the great Cesare, to be put in the humiliating position of hostage once more?

  Yet marriage with a kinswoman of France would serve him well.

  He determined then to marry Charlotte as quickly as possible.

  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 feelin
g 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.”