Light on Lucrezia (8 page)

“But what am I to do?” asked Alfonso in despair.

“Work with us. Talk to Lucrezia when you are alone. Gradually make her one of us, lightly, subtly, so that she does not know she is working against her father. She might be induced to ask certain favors of His Holiness. You know he can deny her nothing.”

Alfonso winced, and Sanchia laughed at him.

“We’ll be bold, Alfonso. Life is good, eh? But remember how quickly it can change, how quickly it once changed for us. We will not let it change again. We will keep that which we have. You are beginning to understand, I think?”

Alfonso nodded.

Lucrezia was calling him. She wanted him to sing to her accompaniment on the lute; and as he smiled and went to her Sanchia was pleased to see how he was able to hide his uneasiness.

Alfonso realized the wisdom of his sister’s words; in the weeks which followed he talked now and then with Lucrezia, touching very lightly on the excellent qualities of Ascanio Sforza who was not to be blamed for the shortcomings of his relative Giovanni. He talked of the desirability of friendship between Naples and Milan, and the possibility of union, so that, should there be another French invasion, they would stand together.

“There will be no French invasion,” Lucrezia had said, “because my brother Cesare is the friend of the French King, and it is to prevent such a calamity that he has primarily gone to France.”

Alfonso repeated then what Ascanio had whispered.

Cesare had been long in France and there was no news of his marriage. It would be well not to say such things to the Pope, for all knew how he doted on his son, but might it not be that the French looked upon Cesare as a hostage as, although he was apparently fêted in France, the wily French King seemed as though he wanted to keep him there.

Lucrezia was truly alarmed, and Alfonso felt a rising resentment because of her immediate preoccupation with her family.

Now she would be worrying about Cesare, thinking of her brother perhaps held against his will in France, instead of the love and passion which they shared.

Was Cesare always to be a shadow across their married life?

But she had seen his point about not alarming the Pope and she, who loved peace all around her, was very ready to believe that friendship between Naples and Milan would be advantageous.

It was thus that during those months Lucrezia’s apartments became the focus of a new party, the main object of which was to unite the states of Milan and Naples against the French—while the Papacy was the friend of France.

In the great
hall the marriage festivities were in progress. At the head of the table sat the King of France, content because the woman he had desired to marry was at last his wife. Beside him was Queen Anne herself, young, beautiful, her shrewd eyes showing her satisfaction.

She, the widow of dead King Charles, had shown no great desire to become the wife of reigning King Louis; but all were aware of the satisfaction she must be feeling at finding herself twice Queen of France.

She was a rich woman, and some might say that her estates of Brittany were the prize Louis sought. But that was not all. Poor humpbacked Jeanne had not only been plain and dull but—unforgivable sin in royalty—infertile.

Anne knew herself for a prize and was proud of it. At twenty-three she was in the full flush of her charms and hoped to give Louis the sons he needed. She was optimistic about their future, for Louis, although he seemed older, was but thirty-seven, and there were many years before them for the begetting of children.

Among the guests was that strange man, Cesare Borgia, known in France as the Duc de Valentinois. He was a dangerous man, this Valentinois; and perhaps because of this Louis had decided to treat him with caution. Louis was a cautious man; he was often jeered at for what was called his miserliness, but Louis said that he would rather make his courtiers laugh at his stinginess than his subjects weep for his extravagance. Thus it was that even at his wedding he had scarcely the look of a King, and the most magnificently clad and bejeweled man in the company was the Duc de Valentinois.

Cesare was hopeful on this night, more so than he had been since he had begun to understand the French attitude toward him, for Carlotta was at the ball tonight and when he lifted his eyes he could see her—young, adequately pretty with something about her to remind him of Sanchia. Brought up at the court of Anne of Brittany she was prudish according to Cesare’s standards, but he found that aspect of her intriguing. He had little doubt that once he was
allowed to meet the girl he would sweep her off her feet; he would marry her no matter what opposition he was called upon to meet.

He distrusted the French. They were subtle, clever people, and it was a new experience to be among those who showed no fear of him. He had been made to realize as soon as he had stepped ashore at Marseilles that he was in a country where the emblem of the grazing bull did not strike immediate terror into all who beheld it. His reputation had gone before him; these people knew him as a murderer and a politically ambitious man; but they did not fear him.

Now as he watched the shabby King, contented with his newly married wife, he remembered again the journey into this country, himself so splendid with his magnificent retinue and silver-shod horses, with his dazzling clothes—brocade and velvet slashed with satin, his cloth of gold and jewels, each of which was worth a fortune. More than all this splendor he had carried with him the Bull of Divorce, which he in person was to hand to Louis—a gift from his Holiness. No, not a gift, a favor for which Louis must pay dearly.

But the people had come out of their farms and cottages to stare at him as he rode by. He believed that they laughed behind his back at his haughty looks, and he heard murmurs which he knew he was intended to hear.

“All these riches, and for a bastard!”

“Is it to provide jewels for the Pope’s bastard that we have rewarded our priests? Have we paid for our indulgences that these jewels might be bought?”

“What splendor! Our mighty King is as a beggar beside this one—and he a petty Duke of Valence!”

They were hostile. He should have come more humbly, had he wished to impress the French.

Cesare felt from the first moment that they were sneering at him, that Louis’ old wool cloak and stained beaver hat were worn to call attention to the tastelessness of the upstart Duke—who was but a bastard. Cesare was among foreigners and he was made to feel it.

He vividly remembered his first meeting with the King at Chinon where the French Court was at that time. Louis was too clever to reproach him for his splendor or to show that he had noticed it; but he told Cesare that Carlotta of Naples was with Anne of Brittany and it would depend on the future Queen when they would be allowed to meet.

Cesare suspected treachery, and withheld the Bull of Divorce.

Was it not a business arrangement? Was not the price of the Bull, marriage as well as French titles and estates?

That was not so, Louis pointed out when Cesare continued to withhold the Bull; for he was a man to keep his word, and how could he bargain with that which was not his to offer? Cesare had his estates. He was indeed Duke of Valence; and he had what Louis had promised, his permission to seek marriage with Carlotta. Louis had paid in full; he now demanded the Bull of Divorce.

It was then that Cesare began to respect these people, and to realize that he must be more discreet in his demands. There was nothing to do but hand over the Bull to Louis, who, delighted with what he had got, set about making plans for his marriage, and told Cesare that he too was free to go ahead with his courtship.

But the months had passed and opportunities were denied Cesare. Anne of Brittany had promised him nothing, she implied. She did not greatly desire marriage. It was the King who was the ardent suitor.

Cesare did not doubt that, once he had a chance to woo the girl, she would soon be his wife. He was conscious of the whispering that went on around him; he guessed what was being said in Rome, and that his enemies there, who would not have dared to mention his name while he was in Rome, would now be writing their epigrams on the walls.

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.”