Light on Lucrezia (31 page)

“You mock me.”

His expression softened a little. He remembered the first days of their marriage, his pride in her who had seemed to tower above all other women. Had he in those days accepted her own estimation of herself? Perhaps. But she had been handsome; she had been sprightly and intelligent. Ah, if Isabella had been more humble, what an enchanting person she might have been!

“Nay,” he said. “I do not mean to mock.”

“You have seen this girl. Tell me what she is like. These brothers of mine, and all those who report on her, seem to have been bemused by a display of velvet, brocade and fine jewels.”

“So you hope to dazzle by an even more splendid display of velvet and brocade, with finer jewels?”

“Tell me, when you saw the girl did she dazzle you?”

Francesco thought back to that day when he had passed through Rome as the hero of Fornovo—that battle which had driven the French from Italy and had later proved to be far from decisive. He remembered a pleasant creature; a child she had been then. He had heard that she was sixteen but he would have thought her younger. He conjured up a vague vision with long golden hair and light eyes, very striking because not often seen in Italy.

“I remember her but vaguely,” he answered. “She seemed a pleasant child.”

Isabella looked sharply at her husband. The “child,” if rumor did not lie, had been far from innocent even then. Isabella would have been interested to know what
she
had thought of Francesco who oddly, so it seemed to her, was so attractive to women. She could understand Ippolito’s popularity, or Ferrante’s and that of her bastard brother Giulio. But they were Estes. The fascination of her ugly husband was beyond her comprehension.

She shrugged aside such thoughts, for there was no time to think of anything but the coming wedding.

She said: “I must write at once to Elizabetta. I hear that the cortège will spend a little time at Urbino. I must put your sister on her guard against the Borgias.”

Francesco thought of his prim sister Elizabetta, who had married the Duke of Urbino, and he said: “The bride is not very old. She will be coming to a strange country. I doubt not that she will be filled with apprehension. If you write to Elizabetta, ask her to be kind to the girl.”

Isabella laughed. “Kind to Borgia! Is one kind to vipers? I shall certainly warn Elizabetta to be on her guard.”

Francesco shook his head. “You will hatch some scheme between yourselves to make her days in Ferrara as uncomfortable as you can, I doubt not.”

Francesco turned and strode away. Isabella looked after him. He seemed quite moved. Could he have felt some tender feeling for the girl when he had seen her? Impossible. It was so long ago and they had not met since. There was no doubt that this Lucrezia Borgia, in spite of her evil reputation (which Isabella was certain had been deserved), appealed to the chivalry in men.

But there was no time to think about Francesco’s foolish gallantries and his sympathy with the Borgia girl. He should know better than seek to champion such a woman who had no right to marry into the aristocracy of Italy. She wrote at once to her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Urbino. Poor Elizabetta! she would be expected to entertain the upstart, and Elizabetta should
be prepared. She should treat the girl with disdain. It was the only possible attitude in the circumstances.

A messenger brought a letter from her father.

She read it through quickly. It was the formal invitation to the wedding, and strangely enough it did not include Francesco.

There was a private letter in which the old Duke explained. He did not trust the Borgias. The marriage could have been arranged for the purpose of luring great lords to the wedding so that their domains might be left unprotected, for Cesare Borgia was eager to make a kingdom for himself, and Ercole thought they should be wary of the Duke of Romagna; therefore Francesco would be wise to stay at home in order to guard Mantua should the need arise.

Isabella nodded. She and her father had the same sagacious minds, and this suggestion was worthy of him.

Moreover she was rather pleased. She was determined to do everything in her power to make Lucrezia uncomfortable, and it would have been somewhat irritating to have to do so under Francesco’s critical eyes. Now she would go without her husband to Ferrara, and there she would enjoy herself without restraint, for she had no doubt whatever that in a conflict between herself and Lucrezia, she would be the victor.

When she showed Francesco her father’s letter, he was thoughtful.

“It is sound good sense, is it not?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “It is sound good sense. Any man would be a fool to leave his domain while Cesare Borgia is seeking to enlarge his.”

She slipped her arm through his and laughed up into his face. “I see that your kindness is all for the sister, and does not extend to the brother.”

“The brother,” he said, “is my affair.”

“It’s true, Francesco. Therefore the sister should be left to me.”

The journey to
Ferrara was slow. There were so many to welcome them on the way, and stage pageants for their amusement. When Cesare said good-bye and rode back to Rome, a sense of freedom from the past came to Lucrezia, but it was not without its apprehensions for the future. Ippolito had said good-bye, for he too must return to Rome—a hostage from Ferrara. Angela Borgia had behaved with haughty indifference toward the elegant Cardinal,
who had been slightly piqued and faintly amused, but his thoughts had mainly been on riding back to Rome where he could renew a most exciting friendship with Sanchia.

Riding beside Lucrezia was Adriana Mila, with whom Lucrezia had spent so much of her childhood. Adriana was in charge of Lucrezia’s attendants and it was comforting to have her there; Lucrezia was grateful also for the company of her two cousins, young Angela and Girolama Borgia who was the wife of Fabio Orsini. It was very comforting, when going to a strange land, to have old friends about one.

And now the time had come to say good-bye to Francesco Borgia, the Cardinal of Cosenza, in whose kind hands she was leaving the care of her little Roderigo.

She could not prevent herself from weeping before them all when she said her good-bye to the old man, imploring him once more to care for her little boy; and this he again swore he would do. She knew that he would keep his promise for, although he was a Borgia (he was a son of Calixtus III) he lacked that overwhelming ambition which was possessed by her father and brother. In his hands Lucrezia felt she could best leave the welfare of her son, and this she told him while he assured her that her trust should not be misplaced.

Sorrowfully she watched him ride away, realizing that yet another link with the past had broken. Now they must continue the journey, since the Duke and Duchess of Urbino were waiting to receive them.

At the gates
of the town of Gubbio in the territory of the Duke of Urbino, the Duke and his wife Elizabetta were waiting to greet Lucrezia.

Elizabetta was filled with an anger which she could not entirely suppress. Her husband had assured her that it was necessary to do honor to Lucrezia Borgia; Cesare had turned his eyes on rich Urbino and any excuse would be enough for him to descend upon it. Therefore they must give him no opportunity for enmity, and must offer his sister all the honors they would give to a visiting aristocrat.

Elizabetta, who had been in close correspondence with her sister-in-law, Isabella d’Este, found it difficult to compose her features as she waited.

She thought—as she had a thousand times—of all the misery the Borgias
had brought into her life. When her husband Guidobaldo had been called into service to go into battle with the Pope’s son, Giovanni Borgia, their troubles had begun. For one thing, Guidobaldo (acknowledged to be, with her brother Francesco Gonzaga, one of the greatest soldiers in Italy), had been obliged to serve
under
the Borgia. Of all the incompetent commanders who had ever dared command an army Giovanni had been the most incompetent, and as a result of obeying his orders, Guidobaldo had been wounded, taken prisoner by the French and kept in a dark dank prison while his family had strained all their resources to provide the ransom demanded for his release. The Borgia Pope could have paid that ransom, but he had been too busy slyly making his peace terms with the French and covering up the follies of his son.

And when Guidobaldo had returned home he was a different man from the husband Elizabetta had known. He was crippled with rheumatism and suffered piteously from gout. A young man had left his home in the service of the Papal armies; the wreck of that young man had returned. He walked slowly and there were days when he could scarcely walk at all; he was bent double, his face yellow and lined.

Elizabetta had grown bitter. Guidobaldo might forgive the Borgias, for he had a sweet and gentle nature which was the result of an inability to see evil until it was right upon him. Elizabetta would never forgive them.

She looked at him now crouched painfully on his horse, ready to bestow on the daughter of the man who was responsible for his present state that courtesy for which he was famous. He would be telling himself, if he even remembered past injuries: It was not this girl’s fault. It would be churlish of me to show by look or word that I remember her father’s ill-treatment of me.

But I, thought Elizabetta, shall do all in my power to show these upstarts that we accept them only because it is expedient to do so.

And here was the girl, looking fragile and very feminine, gentle and pretty, so that it was difficult even for one determined to hate her, to believe the evil stories concerning her.

The Duke bowed over her hand; his Duchess was gracious but Lucrezia, looking up into the prim face under the black broad-brimmed hat, at the black velvet garments which were not designed for decoration, was conscious of the Duchess’s dislike.

She realized then that this was but a foretaste of what might be waiting
for her in her new home; she had to fight prejudice; she had to win the affection or at least tolerance of people who had made up their minds before they met her that they would dislike her.

Guidobaldo had put
his castle at the disposal of Lucrezia, and he had planned masques, banquets and lavish entertainments; he was courteous and kind; but Lucrezia was constantly aware of the disapproval of Elizabetta; and it was with Elizabetta that she must travel to Ferrara, as it had been arranged (and it was the Pope’s urgent desire that this should be so) that she and Elizabetta should share the magnificent litter.

Alexander had warned his daughter that she must spend as much time as possible in the company of Elizabetta and Isabella. She must study their clothes, their manners, their gestures; she must remember that they were aristocratic ladies belonging to the most noble families in Italy.

“Nothing will delight me more,” Alexander had said, “since I cannot have my dearest daughter with me, than to think of her in the company of these Princesses. Do as they do. Speak as they speak. For, Lucrezia, my beloved, you have become a Princess even as they are.”