Light on Lucrezia (62 page)

He was passing a humble dwelling, and as he did so, a beautiful girl stepped into the street. She was carrying a box—the sort which was used for bonnets—and she walked with grace.

Alfonso immediately felt interested, and so great was that interest that he forgot his resentment against his wife.

He followed the girl. She went into one of the big houses, but he knew she would soon come out since he guessed that she was delivering a bonnet to the lady of that house.

He was right. She soon emerged. Alfonso had rarely seen a face and figure which appealed to him more strongly. She walked with a feline grace although she was large of hip and bosom. Her long hair fell to her waist; it was unkempt, perhaps a little greasy; and her skin was brown. She might have appealed because she was so very different from the elegant wife whom he had just left.

He caught up with her.

“You are in a hurry,” he said, laying his hand on her bare arm.

She turned a startled gaze on him. Her large eyes were soft and without anger.

“I am in no hurry,” she said.

“It is well, because I would talk with you.”

“I must return to my mother’s house,” she said.

“The bonnet-maker?” he asked. “I saw you leave with the box on your arm.”

She recognized him suddenly; she turned to him and dropped a curtsey.

“You know me?”

“I have seen you riding in the streets, my lord Duke.”

“Do not be frightened,” he said softly. “I would know your name.”

“It is Laura Dianti.”

“Laura Dianti, the bonnet-maker’s daughter,” he repeated. “I think we shall be friends.”

They had reached the little house. She pushed open the door. It was dark inside.

“There is no one at home,” she said. “My mother is at the house of a lady, making a bonnet.…”

“So much the better,” laughed Alfonso.

He laid hold of her. She was unresisting, earthy, the woman he needed to make him forget his frustrated anger against Lucrezia.

He was well content; and so it seemed was Laura Dianti, the bonnet-maker’s daughter.

Lucrezia soon recovered
from her miscarriage. There was so much now to make her gay. Cesare was a free man; she had constantly believed so firmly in his destiny, so godlike had he always seemed to her, that she was inwardly convinced that he would now achieve all his desires.

When a few of the younger Cardinals rode into Ferrara from the suite of Julius which was now installed in neighboring Bologna, Lucrezia was as lively as she had been since she came to Ferrara. She forgot Alfonso’s threats because, surrounded by Cardinals, she was reminded of the old days in Rome; and the homage these men paid her made her feel young and important again.

Francesco was passing through Ferrara once more, and this time she was determined that there should be some means of meeting privately. She began feverishly designing new dresses and spent so much time on these frivolities that Friar Raffaela da Varese, a strict priest of the Court, began preaching sermons against the wickedness of feminine vanity, and even condemned the use of cosmetics.

Lucrezia and her ladies pretended to listen to him gravely, but they ignored his warnings of hell-fire. There was gaiety in the little apartments of the balcony; and always at the side of Lucrezia was the lame poet, Ercole Strozzi.

Alfonso disliked him; he had no use for poets and, since he had ruled in his father’s place, life had gone less smoothly for Strozzi. Certain lands which had been bestowed on him by Duke Ercole had been reclaimed by Alfonso. Strozzi could have forgiven him that, but what angered him was Alfonso’s attitude toward his literary work.

Alfonso would laugh slyly when poetry was read, and there were many in the court who were ready to follow the example of the Duke.

Moreover Strozzi was a great friend of Francesco Gonzaga, and Francesco and Alfonso had never been fond of each other; now that Francesco desired Alfonso’s wife they were less likely to be so.

The proprietary attitude which Strozzi had assumed over Lucrezia, during the affair with Pietro Bembo, persisted. There was a strong bond between Strozzi and Lucrezia which neither of them understood. There was deep affection, although there had never been any suggestion of their being lovers.

Strozzi was now entirely devoted to the beautiful Barbara Torelli whom Lucrezia, when she had heard her sad story, had taken under her protection.

Strozzi was an artist; he longed to create, and because he felt a certain inadequacy in his poetry he wished to use his creative ability to mold the lives of the people he loved.

Barbara Torelli had appealed to his pity, for hers had been a very tragic story. She had been married to Ercole, one of the Bentivoglios of Bologna, the lowest sort of sensualist, in whom Barbara’s cultured manners inspired a great desire to humiliate her. He had therefore set about making her life as miserable as he possibly could and his greatest pleasure was in devising means of insulting her. There came a time when he invited a Bishop to his home and offered to rent Barbara to him for a period, for the sum of 1,000 ducats. Barbara refused to agree to the transaction; whereupon her husband told her that if she did not he would publicly accuse her of attempting to poison him. Barbara’s reply to that was to leave him. She found refuge in Mantua and stayed in a convent under the protection of Francesco Gonzaga.

It was Francesco who had made her story known, and although he could not induce Ercole Bentivoglio to return her dowry, a great deal of sympathy was aroused for Barbara.

The poetic Strozzi was deeply moved by her story; he sought her acquaintance, and her charm and dignity in adversity so moved him that he fell deeply in love with and married her. As for Barbara, she found this second Ercole such a contrast to the first that she began to return his affection, and the passionate and tender love between Ercole Strozzi and Barbara Torelli became an inspiration for many of the poets of the day.

Lucrezia had been equally moved by Barbara’s story and Strozzi’s devotion
to her, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should offer her protection to Barbara. So Barbara was a frequent member of Lucrezia’s circle, and Strozzi yearned to repay her and Francesco for all they had done for Barbara while at the same time he sought vengeance on Alfonso, who had not only deprived him of his property but was so uncouth that he could not appreciate his poetry.

Thus, when Francesco came to Ferrara once more, Strozzi determined to use all his ingenuity so that the lovers might meet in the intimacy they desired.

Lucrezia’s love affair with the attractive soldier blossomed under Strozzi’s care, and there were meetings between the lovers while Strozzi, Barbara and those few intimate and trusted friends made the necessary cover.

During those weeks Lucrezia began to love Francesco with the strength which came with maturity. Francesco declared his one desire was to make her happy; she believed him; and so those idyllic weeks passed.

It was night, and Cesare with his army was encamped about the Castle of Viana.

A terrible melancholy came to him as he went to the door of his tent and looked out at the starry sky. There was a knowledge within him that his dreams would never be anything but dreams, that he had lived his life recklessly and had failed to see the truth, which was that all his greatness had come from his father.

Now in this little camp, the little commander in this little war was a disappointed man, a man of no account.

He, Cesare Borgia, must this tragic night see himself as he really was.

He had offered his services to his brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, and this was the task assigned to him: he must break the siege of the Castle of Viana and defeat the traitor Louis de Beaumont. It might be, if he could prove that he was still the same Cesare Borgia who had struck terror into the hearts of so many during the lifetime of his father, that he would yet get the help he needed to win back his kingdom.

But what was the use? He must face the truth. What had become of the Borgias now? Who cared for the emblem of the Grazing Bull? Alexander, that most fortunate of men, had died in power; but he had taken the might of the Borgias with him.

Cesare’s wife, Charlotte d’Albret, had made no effort to help him. Why
should she? He had forgotten her when he did not need that help. He had escaped from the King of Spain, and the King of France had become his enemy. What was his standing with his brother-in-law? He had no illusions. Should the King of France demand him to be delivered up, the King of Navarre would not refuse.

He was alone and friendless. There was only one in the world whom he could trust; she would give everything to help him, his beloved Lucrezia.

But what of Lucrezia? Her power had waned with his, for they were bound together as Borgias, and his danger was hers. Lucrezia would give her life for him, he knew; but that was all she could give.

“Little Lucrezia,” he murmured, looking up at the stars. “What big dreams we had in our nursery, did we not? And bigger dreams when our father ruled the Vatican. Dreams, my dearest, only dreams. I would not accept this fact before tonight. It is significant that I do so now. Cesare Borgia believed himself capable of ruling the world, but I see these idle fancies of mine as dreams.”

There was sudden tumult within the camp. One of his men shouted that the enemy were taking stores into the castle under cover of darkness.

“To horse!” cried Cesare, and he leaped into the saddle.

He could see the party riding with great speed toward the castle; he shouted to his men to follow him, and he was off.

He rode with such mad fury that he outstripped all his followers. He reached the raiding force which was now joined by men from the castle who, realizing what had happened, had come out to do battle.

Cesare rode into their midst, slaying right and left, shouting triumphantly as he did so. But he knew that the others were far behind, and that he was alone … alone and surrounded by the enemy.

He laughed within himself. In that mad moment, when the need for action had intruded on his reverie, he had determined on this.

They were all about him; he heard their blood-thirsty laughter. He heard his own, loud, demoniacal. He raised his sword and slashed furiously.

He was brave, they said; but what was one among so many?

He went down, the mad and bitter laughter on his lips; and as he lay bleeding from his many wounds Louis de Beaumont rode up to see who this man was who had so eagerly sought death.

There were many to bend over him, to strip him of his shining armor and his fine raiment.

When they had done this they left him naked for the buzzards; and the thirty-one-year-old Duke of Romagna and Valentinois, the dreaded Cesare Borgia, was no more.

Lucrezia was dreaming
of Francesco in her apartments, asking herself if he would come again, when into the courtyard there came a dusty rider.

Lucrezia did not know that he had come, and it was Friar Raffaela who brought her the news.

He came to her, and there were tears in his stern eyes as he laid his hands on her shoulders and blessed her.

“You are so solemn,” said Lucrezia; “you are so tender that I am afraid.”

“I would ask you to prepare yourself for tragic news.”

Lucrezia waited tense.

“Il Valentino has been killed in battle.”

She did not speak; she stood staring at him, her expression blank as though she refused to believe him.

“It is true, my daughter,” said the friar.

She shook her head. “It is false … false!” she cried.

“Nay. It is true. He died bravely and in battle.”

“Not my brother, not Cesare. He would not die in battle. He could not. He was a match for all.”

“Would you like me to pray with you? We will ask for courage that you may bear this grief.”

“Prayer! I want no prayers. There has been a mistake. Good friar, you must go to Navarre. You must bring me the truth. There has been a mistake. I know it.”

He looked at her sadly and shook his head.

Then he led her to her bed and signed to her women to help her. She seemed limp until they laid hands on her. Then she threw them off.