Light on Lucrezia (42 page)

Doctors came hurrying to her bedside, and all those fears which had been dispersed with the coming of Cesare were revived.

How could Lucrezia emerge alive from a seven-months birth after her recent illness? It seemed impossible.

Alfonso came to his wife’s bedchamber and knelt by her bed. Lucrezia smiled at him wanly, but he had no elixir of life to offer her comparable with that which, so all were certain, flowed from Il Valentino.

“Do not grieve, Alfonso,” she said. “If I die you will marry again … a woman who mayhap will be able to give you children.”

“Do not speak of dying,” cried Alfonso. “You must not die. You must live, Lucrezia. If you are spared I … I will make a pilgrimage to Loreto.”

She smiled. She realized that he was offering a great sacrifice in exchange for her recovery.

“On foot,” added Alfonso.

“Oh, Alfonso,” she murmured. “That is noble of you. But you must not grieve. I fear our child will be lost. They tell me that there is little hope that it will be born alive.”

“Let it not disturb you,” said Alfonso. “We are young, are we not? We will get more children. Boys … many of them.”

Now the sweat was on her forehead and the pains were growing more frequent. She cried out in her agony, and shortly afterward her daughter was born, dead.

All through the
night they waited, while Lucrezia lingered between life and death, and with the morning Cesare came riding once more to the castle. Hope soared at the sight of him for all believed in his supernatural powers, and that what he had achieved once he would achieve again.

Ercole and Alfonso greeted him with delight.

“I beg of you,” cried Alfonso, “save my wife. It would seem that you alone can do it.”

So Cesare went to the sick-room, and as Lucrezia’s dull eyes fell upon him they brightened. She knew him, although she had been unaware of those at her bedside until he came.

He knelt by the bed and embraced her; he demanded that they be left alone. He was instantly obeyed and when he eventually called to all those who were hovering at the door, he demanded that the doctors come forward to bleed his sister.

“No more,” moaned Lucrezia. “Let me rest. I am weary of remedies. I want only now to go in peace.”

Cesare answered her reproachfully in the Valencian language and, turning to those about the bed, said that his sister should now be bled.

The leeches were applied while Cesare watched; he held Lucrezia’s foot and talked to her while the bleeding took place. Although none knew what he said, it must have been amusing for from time to time Lucrezia would laugh, as those in the Este castle had thought never to hear her laugh again.

So Lucrezia recovered;
and went for peace and a change of scene to the Convent of Corpus Domini. The people of Ferrara crowded about her litter as she was carried thither from the castle, and wished her a complete return to health.

Meanwhile Alfonso set out on his pilgrimage to the Virgin of Loreto. He had sworn to go on foot, which would have taken up much valuable time when all heads of states should be looking after their dominions, and Alfonso wished he had not been so rash in making his vow. However, now that his daughter had recovered, the Pope felt benevolent to all the world and declared that Alfonso should have a dispensation, releasing him from part of his vow. He must go to Loreto, but he might make the journey on horseback.

In Corpus Domini Lucrezia began to think of returning to life, and to long for fine clothes and music, for the company of her friends, and a lover who was less crude than Alfonso.

W
hen Lucrezia returned to the little rooms
of the balcony Ercole Strozzi was waiting for her. Lucrezia had regained her fragile beauty, the hair-washings had been resumed and it was as golden as it had ever been, but she herself had changed subtly. She was more
spirituelle
.

She seemed pleased that Alfonso was not in the castle. After his return from the pilgrimage he was making a tour of the military fortifications of Ferrara, and as he probably felt that until Lucrezia was completely well again there would be small chance of getting a healthy heir for Ferrara, he would therefore be better occupied with the military and his stray mistresses.

Lucrezia was by no means unhappy at being left alone. The musical evenings continued. There was a truce between herself and the old Duke. She had sent to Rome for Jacopo di San Secondo, who was one of the most famous players of the viol in Italy; and the Duke often came to her apartments to hear the music of this man.

Strozzi continued to bring exquisite materials from Venice, and displayed
great interest in the making up of these. He could discuss clothes for hours and make suggestions which delighted Lucrezia.

He would read poetry to her and very often these verses were the composition of Pietro Bembo. He talked often of Pietro.

“Poor Pietro, he lives a lonely life now in my villa at Ostellato. It is good for his work, however. He speaks of you often.”

“That is because you have often spoken of me to him.”

“How could I help that? My thoughts of you occupy a large part of my waking life.”

“My dear Ercole, I cannot tell you what your friendship has meant to me. Knowing you has changed my life here in Ferrara.”

“There are many jealous of my favor with you.”

“There will always be those to watch my actions and hate me for them.”

“There is one who envies me more than any other. Can you guess who? No, you will not, I see. It is Pietro Bembo. I will confess something. Those verses I read to you today—they were written for you.”

“But he has never seen me. How could he write such verses for one he has never seen?”

“I have talked of you so much that he has a clear picture of you. If you visited him he would know you at once.”

“I cannot believe it.”

Ercole Strozzi looked at her slyly. “Why not put it to the test?”

“Call him to Ferrara!”

“Then he would know you at once. No, I mean visit him at Ostellato.”

“How could I do that!”

“It is simple. A short journey by barge. There is peace and solitude in my villa at Ostellato. Why should you not make the journey? Surprise him.”

She laughed. “I should enjoy seeing our poet,” she answered. She turned to Strozzi. “I believe you are continually trying to plan pleasures for me.”

Strozzi smiled. He wanted to see them together—the amorous poet with his neo-Platonic leanings; this Lucrezia, fresh from the pains of childbirth and fever, whose husband could never give her anything but physical satisfaction.

It would be interesting to watch the reaction of these two; so interesting that Strozzi had long planned it, for he knew it would be irresistible.

Bembo was wearying
of the quiet life, although it was true that when he was in Venice he had longed for it. He had come here on Strozzi’s invitation mainly to escape from his Helena. She was charming but she was demanding, and he was satiated with physical love. Handsome and famous, sought after by courtiers and rich women, he had felt the solitude of the country to be inviting.

He would stay until Strozzi came again, and then he would explain to him his feelings. It would be churlish not to explain in person to his friend after he had offered him the hospitality of his villa.

He was sitting in the shade, murmuring verses to himself, when he heard the sound of voices. There was music too, and feminine laughter. A party was sailing down the river. He did not bother to go and look, and suddenly he was aware of her coming toward him. She was dressed in cloth of gold and there was an emerald on her forehead; her long golden hair was caught in a net which was sewn with pearls.

She said: “Good day to you, poet. You know me?”

He knelt at her feet, took her musk-scented hand and kissed it. “There is only one who could look thus, Duchessa.”

“Strozzi said you would know me. I have so enjoyed your poems. I could not resist the opportunity of telling you so.”

“You have come with friends?”

“Some of my women and other attendants. They await me in the barge.”

“Then you have come in simplicity. I am glad. For I live simply.”

“I know. Strozzi told me.”

“He has told you much about me?”

“So much that I cannot believe we are now meeting for the first time. I also know you through your works.”

“I am so overwhelmed that I forget the duties of a host. You will take refreshment?”

“Perhaps a goblet of wine.”

He clapped his hands and commanded a slave that it should be brought to them in the garden; they sat in the shade drinking, and talking mainly of his poetry.

She enchanted him. She was ethereal, so different from the woman rumor had painted for him. She was so gentle, even more fragile than usual after her recent illness, and that she should be one of the notorious Borgias seemed incongruous while it added to her attractions.

“I cannot stay long,” she told him. “We must get back to Ferrara before dark.”

He said he would show her the herb gardens; he was interested in herbs and had made additions to Strozzi’s collection. And as they walked through the gardens he made poetry for her, and this told her that her coming was something he would never forget as long as he lived.

“You will visit me again here?” he asked.

She smiled a little sadly. “I could not come often. It would be noticed. Then, I do not doubt that I should be forbidden to come. But why should you not come to Ferrara? You could meet your friend Strozzi, and there are often parties in my apartments. You would be very welcome.”

He took her hand and kissed it fervently. Then he walked with her to the barge.

She stood looking back as they glided away; he stood watching. They were both aware of a tremendous attraction, different from that which either had ever felt for any other person.

Pietro Bembo came
to Ferrara, and he was seen each night in the little rooms of the balcony.

As he was famous thoughout Italy his presence added luster to those gatherings. Bembo was accustomed to adulation and it affected him little as he was completely absorbed in his friendship with Lucrezia. For the first time in their lives each was indulging in an absorbing friendship which was as yet Platonic. It was a friendship of the mind, of spiritual love; and it was felt by both that should it descend to a physical level it would deteriorate and become another love affair such as each had known before.