Madonna of the Seven Hills (46 page)

“You comfort me most by removing yourself from my presence.”

It was the first time Cesare had seen his father unmoved by beauty.

“Please go now, you and Goffredo,” he said to Sanchia. Then, turning to Cesare, he went on: “I would have you stay.”

When they were alone they looked at each other, and there was no mistaking the meaning in Alexander’s eyes.

His voice broke as he said: “They shall search no more. I would not have them discover my son’s murderer now. I could bear no further misery.”

Cesare knelt and would have taken his father’s hand, but Alexander removed it. It was as though he could not bear to be touched by the hand which had slain Giovanni.

“I wish you to go to Naples,” he said. “You are appointed Cardinal Legate for the coronation of the new King.”

“Father, another could go,” protested Cesare.

“It is our wish that you should go,” said the Pope firmly. “Now, I pray you leave me. I would be alone with my grief.”

Pedro presented himself
daily at the convent. When Sister Girolama suggested his visits were too frequent he had his explanations: His Holiness was prostrate with grief; his one comfort was derived from his daughter’s messages. He did not wish her to return to the Vatican which was deep in mourning, but to stay where she was that he might write to her and she to him. He wished to hear details of her daily life. That was why Pedro called so frequently at the convent.

This was not true, but it was a good enough excuse. It might have been that the sisters had realized that the beautiful girl would never be one of them. Perhaps they sensed her innate worldliness and made no effort to combat it.

Lucrezia lived in her cells which she had converted into comfortable rooms, and if Pedro visited her there instead of in the cold bare room at first assigned to them, that was a matter between the Pope’s daughter and her visitor. Her maid would act as chaperone and, although the maid was a very frivolous creature, she was one who had been selected for the post by the Holy Father, and it was not for the Prioress to complain.

Lucrezia had changed, but the nuns were not conscious of physical appearances, and it was left to Pantisilea to tell her that her eyes were brighter and that she was a hundred times lovelier than she had been when she, Pantisilea, had first come to attend her.

“It is love,” said Pantisilea.

“It is such a hopeless love,” murmured Lucrezia. “Sometimes I wonder where it can lead us.”

But when Pedro was with her she ceased to ask herself such practical questions. All that mattered to Lucrezia was the fulfillment of her love, for she was fully alive now to her own sensuality.

That love had begun in sorrow. She remembered well the day when the terrible shock of Giovanni’s death had made her turn to Pedro. It was then, when he had put his arms about her, that she had realized how deeply in love with him she was.

Love! It was a precious thing. It was worth facing danger for the sake of love; and she had discovered this about herself: She would never again be one to deny love.

Love filled her life, filled the cell at the convent, touching austerity with a roseate light.

Sorrow passed, she found, for news came that even the Pope had come out of retirement, that he was no longer heard weeping and calling for Giovanni.

On the day when Pedro brought the news that the Pope had taken a mistress, they were all very lighthearted in Lucrezia’s room. Only Pantisilea was a little regretful, wishing she had been the one chosen to comfort the
Pope. But her place was with Lucrezia whom she hoped never to leave. Nor should she; Lucrezia had promised her that.

“You shall always be with me, dear Pantisilea,” Lucrezia told her. “When I leave this place you shall come with me. No matter where I go I shall take you with me.”

Pantisilea could be happy, for when they left this place she would still live close to His Holiness, and there was always hope that he might notice her again.

Weeks passed. The Pope seemed to have forgotten his grief completely. Cesare was on his way home from Naples, and Alexander was preparing a welcome for him.

Giovanni, the beloved son, was dead, but that was in the past, and the Borgias did not grieve forever.

Cesare stood before
his father, and now the Pope looked full into his son’s eyes.

“My son,” he said brokenly.

Cesare kissed his father’s hands; then turned his appealing eyes upon him.

Alexander had been too long alone, and having lost one son he did not intend to lose another.

Already, because he was Alexander, to him Giovanni had become a shadowy figure, and Cesare was here beside him, young, ambitious, strong.

He is the stronger of the two, mused Alexander. He will do great deeds before he dies. With him at its head, the house of Borgia will prosper.

“Welcome home, my son. Welcome home, Cesare,” said the Pope.

And Cesare exulted, for all that he had done, he now knew, had not been in vain.

Lucrezia and Pantisilea
were working on a piece of embroidery when Lucrezia dropped the work and let her hands lie idly in her lap.

“Does aught ail you, Madonna?” asked Pantisilea.

“What should you think?” asked Lucrezia sharply.

“I thought you seemed … over-pensive, Madonna. I have noticed it of late.”

Lucrezia was silent. Pantisilea was looking at her in some alarm.

“You have guessed,” said Lucrezia.

“It cannot be, Madonna. It must not be.”

“It is so. I am to have a child.”

“Madonna!”

“Why do you look so shocked? You know that it can easily happen when one has a lover.”

“But you and Pedro! What will your father say? What will your brother do?”

“I dare not think, Pantisilea.”

“How long?”

“It is three months.”

“Three months, Madonna! So it happened in the beginning.”

“It would seem so.”

“June, July, August,” counted Pantisilea. “And it is now the beginning of September. Madonna, what shall we do?”

“I do not know, Pantisilea. I think mayhap I shall go away somewhere in secret. These things have happened before. Perhaps Pedro will come with me.” Lucrezia flung herself into the arms of Pantisilea. “Lucky one!” she cried. “If you loved you might marry; you might live with your husband and children, happy for the rest of your life. But for one such as I am there is nothing but the marriage which will bring advantage to my family. They betrothed me twice and then they married me to Giovanni Sforza.” Now that she loved Pedro she shuddered at the memory of Giovanni Sforza.

“They will soon divorce you from him,” soothed Pantisilea. “Mayhap then you will marry Pedro.”

“Would they allow it?” asked Lucrezia, and all the melancholy had left her face.

“Who knows … if there is a child? Children make so much difference.”

“Oh Pantisilea, how you comfort me! Then I shall marry Pedro and we shall go away from Rome; we shall have a house like my mother’s and I
shall have my
credenza
in which I shall store my silver goblets, my majolica. Pantisilea, how happy we shall be!”

“You will take me with you, Madonna?”

“How could I manage without you? You shall be there, and mayhap I’ll find a husband for you. No, I shall not find you one. You shall find your own and you must love him as I love Pedro. That is the only way to marry, Pantisilea, if you would live happily.”

Pantisilea nodded, but she was apprehensive.

Lucrezia had yet to be divorced, and she was to be divorced because she was
virgo intacta
on account of her husband’s being unable to consummate the marriage. Pantisilea believed that Lucrezia would have to appear before the Cardinals, perhaps submit to an examination. “Holy Mother of God,” thought Pantisilea, “protect us.”

But she loved Lucrezia—how she loved her! No one had ever been so kind to her before. She would lie for Lucrezia; she would do anything to make her happy. To be with Lucrezia was to share her philosophy of life, to believe that everything must come right and that there was really nothing about which to worry oneself. It was a delightful philosophy. Pantisilea planned to live with it for the rest of her life.

“Pantisilea, should I go to my father, should I tell him that I am to have Pedro’s child? Shall I tell him that Pedro is my husband in all but name and that he must let us marry?”

When Lucrezia talked thus, Pantisilea felt herself jerked roughly into reality.

“His Holiness has had a shock, Madonna. The death of your brother is but three months away. Let him recover from one shock before he is presented with another.”

“This should mean happiness for him. He loves children and he longs for us to have them.”

“Not the children of chamberlains, Madonna. I beg of you, take the advice of Pantisilea. Wait awhile. Choose the right moment to tell His Holiness. There is time yet.”

“But, people will notice.”

“The sisters? They are not very observant. I will make you a dress with voluminous petticoats. In such a dress your child could be about to be born and none know it.”

“It is strange, Pantisilea, but I am so happy.”

“Dearest Madonna, you were meant to have children.”

“I think that is so. When I think of holding this child in my arms, of showing him to Pedro, I am so happy, Pantisilea, that I forget all my troubles. I forget Giovanni. I forget my father’s grief, and I forget Cesare and … But no matter. It is wrong of me to feel so happy.”

“Nay, it is always right to be happy. Happiness is the true meaning of life.”

“But my brother so recently murdered, my father bowed down with grief, and myself a wife already to another man!”

“The time passes and the grief of His Holiness with it. And Giovanni Sforza is no husband to you and never was … so the Pope would have it.”

Pantisilea did not press that subject. She knew that Lucrezia would have to appear before the gathering of Cardinals and declare herself a virgin. The petticoats would have to be very wide.

The Pope and
his elder son were often together now. It was said in the Vatican: “His Holiness has already forgotten his vow to end nepotism; he has forgotten his son Giovanni, and all the affection he had for him is now given to Cesare.”