Light on Lucrezia (44 page)

That letter was an admission of the love, bordering on the passionate, which existed between the two.

But Ippolito, always at her side, was making meetings more and more difficult.

There was secret correspondence between them now, and because Lucrezia
knew that she was surrounded by spies she signed herself as FF, by which she was to be known to Pietro in the future.

These difficulties and subterfuges were conducive to Platonic love, and Lucrezia’s happiness seemed to flower during those months.

Strozzi, seeing this
love affair, which had been of his making, drifting into a backwater, could not resist trying to change its course.

It was during the heat of August when he came to Lucrezia and found her with Ippolito. He had heard that Pietro Bembo was sick of a fever and he wondered how deep this Platonic love of Lucrezia’s went. Was it an idealistic dream of which Bembo merely happened to be material manifestation; or did she really care what became of him as a man?

It was too interesting a problem for Strozzi to ignore.

So he said in front of Ippolito: “I have bad news, Duchessa. Poor Pietro Bembo is sick, and it would seem that his life is in danger.”

Lucrezia rose; she had turned slightly pale.

“Poor fellow,” said Ippolito lightly, but he was alert.

“I must go to see that he has all he needs to help him recover,” said Lucrezia.

“My dear sister, you should not risk infection. Let some other do what is necessary.”

Strozzi was watching Lucrezia, watching the panic shown in her eyes.

She loves the man, thought Strozzi. Leave them together in his bedchamber and they will forget this elevated talk of spiritual love.

“He is my court poet,” said Lucrezia, recovering her poise. “I owe it to him to see that he has comfort now that he is sick.”

“Delegate someone to visit him,” suggested Ippolito.

Lucrezia nodded.

The streets were
quiet and deserted, the heat intense, as Lucrezia’s carriage made its way to Bembo’s lodgings. Hurriedly she left the carriage and entered the house.

He was lying in his bed, and his heart leaped at the sight of her.

“My Duchessa,” he cried. “But … you should not have come.”

“How could I do otherwise?” She took his burning hands and kissed them.

His eyes, wide with fever and passion, looked into hers.

She sat by his bed. “Now,” she said, “you must tell me exactly how you feel. I have brought herbs and ointments with me. I know how to make you well again.”

“Your presence is enough,” he told her.

“Pietro, Pietro, you must get well. How could I endure my life without you?”

“Take care, my beloved,” whispered Pietro. “There is plague in the city. It may be that I suffer from it. Oh, it was folly … folly for you to come here.”

“Folly,” she said, “to be with you?”

They held hands and thought of the dread plague from which he might be suffering and might impart to her. To pass together from this life in which they had loved with all purity and an emotion of the spirit, seemed a perfect ending to their perfect love.

But Lucrezia did not want to die. She wanted both of them to live, so she refused to consider this ending and busied herself with the remedies she had brought.

His eyes followed her as she moved about his apartment. He was sick—he believed himself to be dying—and he knew that he loved her with a love which was both spiritual and physical. Had he been less weak there would have been an end to their talk of Platonic emotion. His sickness was like a flaming sword which separated them from passion. He could only rejoice in it because it had brought her to his side, while he deplored it; and as he looked into her face he knew that she shared his thoughts and emotions.

“It will be known that you have been here,” he said.

“I care not.”

“We are spied on night and day.”

“What matters it? There is nothing to discover. We have never been what would be called lovers.”

They looked at each other longingly; then Pietro went on: “I shall never know the great joy now. Oh, Duchessa, Lucrezia, my love, I feel our love will remain forever unfulfilled.”

She was startled, and suddenly cried out in an access of passionate grief: “You must not die, Pietro. You
shall
not die.”

It was a promise. Pietro knew it, and a calmness seemed to settle upon him then; it was as though he were determined to throw off his fever, determined to live that he might enjoy that which so far had been denied him.

Pietro’s recovery was
rapid.

Within a few weeks he was ready to leave Ferrara, and Strozzi was at hand to offer his villa at Ostellato for the convalescence.

Before he left, Lucrezia had decided that she too would leave Ferrara for a short rest in the quiet of the country. Alfonso was once more visiting fortifications; Ippolito had his duties at court; and Giulio was the only member of the family who was free to accompany her. This he did with the utmost pleasure, since Angela was of the party.

So Lucrezia set out for the villa of Medelana, which was close to Strozzi’s at Ostellato; thus during that convalescence the lovers could frequently enjoy each other’s companionship.

There, in the scented gardens or under the cool shade of trees, they could be together undisturbed. Lucrezia would set out for the Strozzi villa with Angela and Giulio in attendance; but when they arrived and Pietro came out to meet them, Guilio and Angela would wander off and leave Pietro and Lucrezia together.

Thus in those golden days of August they mingled the spiritual with the physical, and Lucrezia believed that she had come at last to perfect happiness.

During those warm days in the gardens at Ostellato she lived solely in the present, taking each day as it came, refusing to look beyond it, because she dared not.

She would treasure, as long as she lived, the scents of the flowers, the softness of the grass at Ostellato; she would remember the words he had written for her, the words he spoke to her.

“If I died now,” he told her, “if so great a desire, so great a love were ended, the world would be emptied of love.”

She believed him; she assured him that the love he felt for her was no
greater than that she felt for him. Each was conscious that there was so much to be lived through in a short time.

And so passed the happy days of Pietro’s convalescence and Lucrezia’s escape from Ferrara.

In Rome Alexander
was preparing for his visit to Ferrara. He felt younger than ever. He had numerous mistresses and he had proved that he was still capable of begetting children. Never had seventy-two years sat more lightly on a man than they did on Alexander. He was beginning to believe that he was immortal. The prospect of the long and tedious journey did not give him a twinge of uneasiness. He felt that he was at the very pinnacle of his powers.

Cesare came to Rome. He stayed with his father and there were many intimate encounters. Cesare declared that he would remain in Rome that he might join in the celebrations which were to be given in honor of Alexander’s eleventh anniversary as Pope. This was not quite true. Cesare’s relations with the French were not so cordial as they had been. Spain was beginning to play a bigger part in Italian politics. She had been content to look on while Southern Italy was in the hands of the Aragonese, but if they were unable to hold the territory, then the King of Spain must step in to prevent its falling under French domination.

If Spain was to be victorious over the French their King decided that it was imperative for the Borgias to cut their alliance with France—and what more natural than they should turn to the Spanish who were, in no small measure, their own people? In this uncertain state of affairs it might be that Cesare would have to rely on his own efforts to hold the kingdom of Romagna, and he was going to miss French support quite disastrously.

This meant that he was going to need a great deal of money to keep his armies intact, and accordingly Alexander fell back on the old method of creating Cardinals who were ready to pay dearly for their hats. In this way he made a profit of 150,000 ducats in a very short time.

There were other methods of raising money, and it was noticed that, at this time when the Borgias were hard-pressed, many rich people died mysteriously.

The very rich Venetian Cardinal, Michiel, was given a poisoned draught by a certain Asquinio Colloredo who had been paid to administer it by the Borgias. Michiel died, and his vast fortune went to the Pope and proved very useful.

But a great deal of money was required for the armies of the new Duke of Romagna, and Cantarella had a big part to play in obtaining it.

There was a feeling of perpetual insecurity among those who knew their deaths could bring profit to the Borgias. Cardinal Gian Battista Orsini was suddenly accused of plotting to poison the Pope and lodged in Castel Sant’ Angelo. He denied this charge and was tortured in the hope that he would confess. It would have pleased Cesare and his father to be able at this time to pin the charge, of which they had so often been suspected, on someone else. But Cardinal Orsini refused, even under torture, to confess; and the powerful Orsini family were infuriated that one of them should be so treated. They realized however that the Papal State was now under the complete domination of Cesare, and that this brutal man led his father in all things.

They knew that the real reason for these persecutions was the fact that the Orsini family were rich, so they offered a great reward for the release of the Cardinal. The Cardinal’s mistress loved him dearly and it happened that in the possession of this woman was a pearl of great price, so famous that it was known throughout Italy. The woman appeared before the Pope and offered him this pearl for the release of her lover.

The Pope, gallant always, smiled at the woman, for she was very beautiful: “I envy the Cardinal,” he said, “in his possession of your love. This pearl you offer is unique. You know that.”

“Give him back to me, and it is yours.”

“I could refuse you nothing,” answered the Pope.