Madonna of the Seven Hills (50 page)

“Father, Pedro …”

“Do not speak his name,” said Cesare harshly.

“Cesare, dearest brother, understand me. I love Pedro. He is the father of my child and soon to be my husband. Our father has arranged that it shall be so.”

“My dearest,” said the Pope, “alas, that cannot be.”

She struggled up in her alarm.

“My dear daughter,” murmured the Pope. “It is time you knew the truth.”

“But I love him, Father, and you said …”

Alexander had turned away and put a kerchief to his eyes.

Cesare said almost viciously: “Pedro Caldes’ body was recovered from the Tiber yesterday. You have lost your lover, sister; lost him to death.”

She fell back on her pillows, her eyes closed. The Pope leaned over her lovingly. “It was too sudden,” he said. “My sweet, sweet child, I would I could bear your pains for you.”

A smile of sarcasm twisted Cesare’s lips as he looked at his father.

He wanted to shout: “At whose orders was the chamberlain murdered? At mine and yours. Rightly so. Has she not disgraced our name enough by consorting with servants!”

Instead he said: “There is another who has joined him there … your maid Pantisilea. You will never see her face again.”

Lucrezia covered her face with her hands; she wanted to shut out the sight of this room and the men who sat on either side of her. They were her guardians; they were her jailors. She had no life which was not designed by them. She could not take a step without them; if she attempted to do so, they arranged that she should meet only disaster.

Pedro in the river! She thought of him with the wounds on his body or perhaps the bruises on his throat; perhaps neither. Perhaps they had poisoned him before they had given him to the river.

Pedro, the handsome boy. What had he done but love Lucrezia?

And little Pantisilea. Never to see her again. She could not endure it. There was a limit to the sorrow one could suffer.

“Go … go from me,” she stammered. “Have my child brought to me … and go … go, I say.”

There was silence in the room. Neither Cesare nor Alexander moved.

Then Alexander spoke, still in those gentle soothing tones. “The child is being well looked after, Lucrezia. You have nothing to fear on his account.”

“I want my son,” she cried. “I want my baby. I want him here … in my arms. You have murdered the man I love. You have murdered my friend. There is nothing I want now of you but to give me my child. I will go away. I will live alone with my child … I want never to see this place again.…”

Cesare said: “Is this Lucrezia speaking? Is this Lucrezia Borgia?”

“Yes,” she cried. “It is I, and no other.”

“We have been wrong,” said Alexander quickly. “We have broken this news too sharply. Believe me, dearest daughter, there are times when one sharp cut of the knife is best. Then the healing can begin at once. It was wrong of you—a Borgia, our own beloved daughter—so to conduct yourself with a servant. And that there should be a child, was … criminal. But we love you dearly and we understand your emotions. We forgive them as we would forgive all your sins. We are weak and we love you tenderly. We have saved you from disgrace and disaster, as we always should. You are our dearest treasure and we love you as we love none other. I and your brother feel thus toward you, and together we have saved you from the consequences of great sin and folly. Those who shared this adventure are no more; so there is no danger of their betraying you. As for the child, he is a beautiful boy and already I love him. But you must say good-bye to him—oh, only for a short while. As soon as it can be arranged I shall have him brought back to us. He is a Borgia. He kicked and screamed at me. Bless him. He is in the best of hands; he has a worthy foster-mother. She will tend him as her own—nay better. She’ll not dare let any harm come to our little Borgia. And this I promise you, Lucrezia: in four years … nay, in three, we’ll have him with us, we’ll adopt our lusty boy, and thus none will be able to point a finger at him and say, ‘There is the bastard of Lucrezia and a poor chamberlain.’ ”

She was silent. The dream had disappeared; she could not grasp the reality. Not yet. But she knew she would. She knew that she could do no other.

Cesare had taken her hand, and she felt his lips touch it.

“Dearest,” he said, “we shall arrange a grand marriage for you.”

She shivered.

“It is too soon to talk of such things,” reproved Alexander. “That comes later.”

Still she did not speak.

They continued to sit there. Each held one of her hands and now and then would stoop to kiss it.

She felt bereaved of all happiness; and yet she was conscious of a vague comfort which came to her through those kisses.

She was growing aware of the inevitability of what had happened. She was beginning to realize how foolish her dreams had been.

THE SECOND BRIDEGROOM

L
ucrezia was being dressed for her wedding. Her
women stood about her, admiring the dress, heavy with golden embroidery and sewn with pearls. Rubies glittered about her neck, and the design on the dress was the mingling arms of Aragon and the Borgias.

It was but a few months since she had given birth to her son, yet now she had recovered her outward placidity; and as she stood in her apartment while she was dressed in her finery, she appeared to have no thought for anything but the ceremony about to take place.

Sanchia was with her.

Lucrezia turned slowly and smiled at her sister-in-law. Who would have thought that it should be Sanchia who would bring such comfort in her misery?

It was Sanchia who had talked of her numerous love affairs, who had explained that in the beginning one felt so intensely. Did not one remember one’s first ball, one’s first jewels? Thus it was with love affairs. Did not Sanchia know? Was not Sanchia a connoisseur of love?

Sanchia had talked of her little brother. He was gentle; he was
beautiful; and all loved him. Lucrezia would bless the day that she had taken Sanchia’s brother, Alfonso Duke of Bisceglie, to husband.

Sanchia was excited at the prospect of her brother’s arrival in Rome, and inspired Lucrezia with that enthusiasm. Oh, thought Lucrezia, how glad I am to have Sanchia with me at this time!

She was a Borgia. She must not forget it. Everywhere she looked she was confronted by the emblem of the grazing bull. We must not dream of simple love and marriage, she told herself. That is for simple people, people without a great destiny.

She was the beloved of her father and brother. It was as though they had forgotten she had ever attempted to defy them. Somewhere in Rome—perhaps not even in Rome—a little boy was being brought up by his foster-parents, and in a few years he would come to the Vatican. He was all that remained of that brief idyll which had given him life and brought such suffering to his mother, and death to two who had loved her dearly.

As a Borgia one did not brood. The past was as nothing, the present and the future all-important.

She was ready now to go to her bridegroom.

TURN THE PAGE TO READ AN EXCERPT FROM JEAN PLAIDY’S SECOND BOOK IN THE NOVELS OF THE BORGIAS SERIES:

LIGHT ON LUCREZIA

LIGHT ON LUCREZIA

978-0-307-88754-2

$15.00

THE BRIDEGROOM FROM NAPLES

A
t the head of the cavalcade which was traveling
northward from Naples to Rome, rode an uneasy young man of seventeen. He was very handsome and richly dressed. His doublet was embroidered with gold and he wore a necklace of rubies; those who rode with him showed a deep respect when they addressed him, and it was obvious that he was of high rank.

Yet his mood was reflected in his followers who did not sing or shout to one another as they habitually did; there was among them an atmosphere of reluctance, almost of dread which indicated that although they rode steadily on, they were longing to go back along the road they had come.

“We cannot be far from Rome now,” the young man called to a member of his guard.

“Less than a day’s ride, my lord,” came the answer.

The words seemed to echo through the company like a distant rumble of thunder.

The young man looked at his men, and he knew that there was not
one of them who would wish to change places with him. What did they whisper to one another? What was the meaning of their pitying glances? He knew. It was: Our little Duke is riding straight into the net.

Panic possessed him. His fingers tightened on the reins. He wanted to pull up, to address them boyishly, to tell them that they were not going to Rome after all; he wanted to suggest that as they dared not return to Naples they should form themselves into a little band and live in the mountains. They would be bandits. The King of Naples would be their enemy. So would His Holiness the Pope. But, he would cry, let us accept their enmity. Anything is preferable to going to Rome.

Yet he knew it was useless to protest; he knew that he must ride on to Rome.

A few months
ago he had had no notion that his peaceful life would be disturbed. Perhaps he had stayed too long in childhood. It was said that he was young for his seventeen years. Life had been so pleasant. He had hunted each day, returning at night with the kill, pleasurably exhausted, ready to feast and sleep and be fit for the next day’s hunting.

He should have known that a member of the royal house of Aragon could not go on indefinitely leading such a pleasant but, as his uncle the King would say, aimless life.

There had come that day when he had been summoned to the King’s presence.

Uncle Federico had welcomed him in his jovial way and had been unable to suppress his smiles, for he was fond of a joke; and what he had to tell his nephew seemed to him a very good one.

“How old are you, Alfonso?” he had asked. And when Alfonso had told him, he had continued to smile. “Then, my boy,” he cried, “it is time you had a wife.”

There had been nothing very alarming in that statement. Alfonso had known that he would soon have a wife. But Uncle Federico, the joker, had not told all. “You are not sufficiently endowed, my nephew, to satisfy the bride I have in mind for you,” he went on. “Oh no! A bastard sprig, even of our noble house, is not good enough. So we shall ennoble you. Alfonso
of Aragon, you shall be Duke of Bisceglie and Prince of Quadrata. What say you to that?”

Alfonso had declared his delight in his new titles. But he was eager, he said, to know the name of his bride.

“All in good time, all in good time,” murmured Federico, as though he wanted to keep the joke to himself a little longer. Alfonso remembered, although he had only been a very little boy at that time, how Uncle Federico—not King then but only brother of the King—had come to Naples from Rome and told how he had stood proxy for Alfonso’s sister Sanchia at her marriage with Goffredo Borgia, and how he had amused the company vastly—and in particular the Pope—by his miming of a reluctant virgin as the bride. As all knew that Sanchia had been far from a reluctant virgin for quite a long time before her marriage to little Goffredo, that was a great joke; it was the sort of joke which Uncle Federico, and doubtless others, reveled in.

Alfonso then wondered whether it was a similar joke which was now amusing his uncle.

“You are seventeen,” said Federico. “Your bride is a little older, but only a little. She is eighteen, nephew, and reputed to be one of the loveliest girls in Italy.”

“And her name, sire?”

Federico had come close to his nephew and put his mouth to his ear. “Nephew,” he said, “Duke of Bisceglie and Prince of Quadrata, you are to marry His Holiness’s daughter, Lucrezia Borgia.”