Light on Lucrezia (53 page)

Lucrezia remembered those days when the Pope had left Rome and had placed her at the head of secular affairs. That experience stood her in good stead now, and she slipped naturally and calmly into the new position which was awaiting her.

She was conscious though of the tension which existed between the brothers, and she prayed that soon Alfonso would return.

In the meantime with her natural serenity and dignity she was able to keep the bubbling passions of the brothers at bay, while they waited for the return of Alfonso and the end of Ercole.

She was glad at that time of the company of her lively and beautiful though somewhat empty-headed cousin Angela Borgia, who could not conceal her delight in being back in Ferrara, since during the stay at Comacchio she had been deprived of the company of her lover, Giulio.

Angela, completely immersed in her own affairs, was unaware of the
dangerous discord which prevailed in the castle at this time. She had never forgiven Ippolito for turning from her to Sanchia when they had first met, and as her mind was completely occupied with her own attractiveness she could not forget the slight.

It was a different matter now. Ippolito was regretting his earlier conduct. Ippolito was a lover of women, and there was quite a scandal in Ferrara because of the way in which he caressed young girls as a lover might, while he feigned to be blessing them as a Cardinal.

Angela seemed far more desirable to him now than she had at the beginning of their acquaintance, and this was no doubt due in some measure to his knowledge that she had for some time been indulging in a passionate love affair with his half-brother Giulio.

Ippolito had long been irritated by Guilio; the young man’s vanity was maddening, particularly as, through Angela, he could flaunt it before the Cardinal.

He never lost an opportunity of talking of Angela before Ippolito, and the Cardinal felt his desire for Angela grow with his murderous feelings against Giulio.

Now Guilio had ostentatiously put himself on the side of Ferrante.

Ippolito longed to discountenance the conceited Giulio and, even at this time of anxiety, when Angela returned from Comacchio he made another attempt to take her from Giulio. He followed her into the gardens one day and asked for a few words with her.

“I am growing weary of your continual refusals,” he told her.

“There is one alternative, Eminence. If you cease to ask there would be no more refusals.”

“There will continue to be demands,” he declared angrily, “until what I ask is given.” She looked pensive, as though she were considering him, and he cried passionately: “Angela, you know that I love you. I have loved you earnestly since our first meeting.”

“I remember the occasion well,” she said. “No doubt Sanchia of Aragon remembers it also.”

“You were such a child,” he pleaded. “I respected your innocence.”

“That respect began,” she retorted, “when you set eyes on Sanchia. Do not imagine that I may be dropped for the sake of others and picked up when they are no longer available.”

“You are mistaken. You turn to that young fool Giulio …”

“Giulio is no fool. He loved me from the first and has done so ever since. Think of him—my lord Cardinal. Think of Giulio and think of yourself. Why, I love his beautiful eyes more than the whole of you and your wealth and all your fine promises. Understand that.”

Laughing she ran lightly across the grass to the castle.

As soon as
Alfonso heard that his father was dying, he made plans to return to Ferrara immediately; and no sooner had he set foot in the castle than the tension lessened. There was a quality of strength about Alfonso; he was practical in the extreme; he might lack the dignity of Ippolito but he was also without that blind arrogance; he might lack the vitality of Ferrante and the charm of Giulio, but he was possessed of a strength which inspired the confidence of all.

“How fares my father?” demanded Alfonso on his arrival.

“He lives, my lord,” he was told, “but he is very weak.”

Alfonso was relieved. He had reached home in time. He greeted his brothers and Lucrezia and immediately went to the sick-room.

Old Ercole’s expression lightened when he saw his eldest son, and Alfonso hurried to the bed and knelt to receive his blessing.

“My son Alfonso,” whispered the Duke. “I rejoice to see you here. Very soon Ferrara will pass into your hands. Never forget the Este traditions, Alfonso, and keep peace within the family.”

Ercole’s eyes went to those standing about his bed—his sons and the wife of Alfonso. He wanted to warn Alfonso against the ambitions of his brothers and the extravagance of his wife, but he was too tired. Alfonso sensed this, and remembered that one thing which he and his father had in common. “Father,” he said, “would you like a little music in your bedchamber?”

The Duke smiled. Music, which he had always loved; music to soothe him in his passing, to delight his mind so that it was lost in that pleasure which would prevent his worrying about the future of Ferrara.

Alfonso gave orders that musicians should come to the bedchamber. Surprised, they came, and Alfonso then commanded that they play those pieces of music which his father had best loved. And thus, to the music of the harpsichord, Duke Ercole left Ferrara forever.

Alfonso’s vital personality
filled the castle.

Custom demanded that the new Duke should be crowned before the court went into mourning for the death of the old one, so the first task which lay before them was the coronation with all its attendant ceremony.

Now that he was among them none feared that the rivalry between his brothers would ever become serious. The new Duke of Ferrara was a man who would make all pause and consider very carefully before they crossed his will.

It was winter and the streets of Ferrara were icily cold as Alfonso rode out from the castle to the Cathedral to be crowned Duke of Ferrara; but in spite of the snowy weather the people turned out to cheer their new Duke.

And when he returned to the castle Lucrezia was waiting to greet him. She stood on the balcony, that the people might see her, wearing a great cloak of white watered silk lined with ermine about her shoulders, and, as the people cheered her and she bowed and waved her acknowledgments, the crimson and gold jewel-spattered gown beneath the cloak became visible.

The people did not seem to hate her, for their cheers were spontaneous; but she was wise enough now to know that they could cheer one day and call for her banishment the next.

Everything depended on Alfonso, and she realized suddenly that she knew very little about this husband of hers. How could it be otherwise when their acquaintance had seemed to begin and end in the bedchamber? And even there he had never confided to her his hopes and ambitions, his likes and dislikes. All she had known was that he wished for sons, and during the time they had been married she had disappointed him in that respect.

He was entering the castle now, and she came down from the balcony to greet him. She was at the entrance of the castle as he reached it and before the eyes of many eager spectators who, she knew, were as curious concerning her future as she was apprehensive, she knelt and kissed her husband’s hand.

Alfonso laid his hands under her armpits and raised her as easily as though she were a child. He kissed her cheeks and everyone applauded. But his kiss, Lucrezia noted, was as cold as the snowflakes which fluttered down upon them.

Then he took her hand and led her in to the banquet; and those festivities
began which would go on until the next day when they must put off all signs of rejoicing, change white and red and gold for black, and conduct the old Duke to his last resting place.

The celebrations both
of the coronation of the new Duke and the funeral of the old were over, and for the first time, it seemed to Lucrezia, she and her husband were alone together.

Here was the well-known routine. Alfonso, saying nothing, treating her merely as the means of getting children.

After the idyllic relationship with Pietro she was in revolt against this man, and yet when she thought of those sunny hours with Pietro at Medelana and Comacchio there seemed about them an air of unreality; they were light and transient; they could never be repeated.

She realized now that she was afraid of the future, and the knowledge that it lay within the power of this prosaic and cold man was alarming.

Never until this moment had she felt so alone. She thought of those who had stood between her and the ruthless cruelty of the world and, by their own ruthless cruelty which exceeded that of all others, had protected her from evil.

“Oh my father,” she wanted to cry. “You have left me undefended. Cesare is a prisoner and I am alone … at the mercy of Ferrara.”

Alfonso had taken her into his rough embrace.

“It is important now,” he said, “that we should have sons.”

His words seemed to beat on her brain. Did they convey a warning? Sons … sons … and you are safe.

It was like a reprieve.

In a few
weeks Lucrezia was pregnant. The Duke expressed his pleasure. Not that he had had any doubt that this would soon be so. He had had numerous children, and Lucrezia had already shown herself capable of bearing them.

He was waiting now for the birth of the heir of Ferrara.

Once my son is born, thought Lucrezia, my place here will be firm.

She knew that Isabella was receiving reports on her conduct; she had made several attempts to lure Pietro Bembo to Mantua and, now that she knew she could not, she was writing to her brother urging him to put an end to the love affair between his wife and the poet.

If you do not, she implied, when your child is born you will have all Ferrara looking for the features of a poet rather than those of a soldier.

Alfonso grunted as he read Isabella’s warning. He knew that the child Lucrezia now carried was his because she had not seen Bembo since long before its conception. He had known of his wife’s fanciful friendship with the poet and had cared not a jot for it. But Isabella was right when she said that the world might suspect his Duchess of foisting on to Ferrara a child not his.