Madonna of the Seven Hills (17 page)

Giovanni sighed, but the Pope put his arm about him. “Come, see what wedding presents I have for you and your bride.”

Giovanni looked almost sullenly at the furs and jewels, and the chests which were decorated with beautiful paintings. In the last weeks all the best jewelers of Rome had been busy buying the best stones, and resetting them in exquisite ornaments for the Duke of Gandia. Alexander opened a chest and showed his son sables and ermine and necklaces of pearls and
rubies until he made the young man’s eyes glisten with eagerness to wear them.

“You see, my son, you will go to Spain in all the splendor of a Prince. Does not that delight you?”

Giovanni admitted grudgingly that it did. “But,” he added, “there is still much I regret leaving.”

The Pope embraced him. “Be assured, my beloved, that you do not hate going more than I hate to see you go.” Alexander put his face close to his son’s. “Marry your Maria,” he said; “get her with child. Get yourself an heir … and then, why should you not come back to Rome? Rest assured none here will scold you for not remaining once you have done your duty.”

Giovanni smiled. “I will do it, Father,” he said.

“And remember, Giovanni, while you are in Spain you must behave as a Spaniard.”

“They are so solemn.”

“On ceremonious occasions only. I ask nothing more of you but this, my dearest boy: Marry, get an heir and conduct yourself in a manner not to offend the Court of Spain. Apart from that … do as you will. Enjoy your life. Your father would have you happy.”

Giovanni kissed his father’s hand and left him to join Djem who was waiting for him.

They rode out into the City on one of their adventures, more gay, more bizarre than ever. Giovanni felt he must cram as much excitement as possible into the short time left to him.

When his son had gone, the Pope sent for two men: Ginès Fira and Mossen Jayme Pertusa.

“You are making your preparations?” asked the Pope.

“We are ready to leave for Spain at a moment’s notice, Most Holy Lord,” answered Ginès.

“That is well. Keep close to my son and report to me everything that happens to him; however insignificant, I wish to hear of it.”

“We are your servants, Holiness.”

“If I should discover that you have withheld any detail—however small—I shall excommunicate you, and you may look forward to eternal damnation.”

The men grew pale. Then they fell to their knees and swore that, as
far as it was in their power, they would report every detail of the life of the Duke of Gandia; they had no wish on Earth but to serve his Holiness.

Lucrezia had been
riding out to Monte Mario to watch the falcons and, as she returned to the Palace, a slave ran to her to tell her that Madonna Adriana was looking for her.

Lucrezia made her way to the apartment where she found Adriana somewhat disturbed.

“The Holy Father wishes you to go to him,” she said. “There is news of some sort.”

Lucrezia’s eyes widened and her lips fell slightly apart, a characteristic expression which, with her receding chin, made her look more like a girl of ten than one approaching fourteen.

“Bad news?” she asked, fear creeping into her eyes.

“It is news from Spain,” said Adriana. “I know nothing else.”

News from Spain must involve Giovanni. Indeed during the last months no one had been able to forget Giovanni. Alexander was preoccupied at all times by thoughts of his beloved son.

When bad news came from Spain he shut himself away and wept, and he would be quite unhappy for perhaps a day—which was a long time for him to grieve; then he would brighten and would say: “One cannot believe all one hears. Such a magnificent Prince must naturally have enemies.”

The news had always been bad, so Lucrezia was fearful as she heard of the summons to go to her father.

She said: “I will take off my habit and go to him at once.”

“Do so,” said Adriana; “he is impatient for you.”

She went to her apartments and Giulia followed her there. Giulia was pleased because she had regained all her old power over the Pope. She had learned that she must shrug aside his light preference for Spanish nuns or Moorish slaves; such desires passed. Lucrezia had told her of her mother’s attitude toward her father’s lighter loves; Vannozza had laughed indulgently, and he had always cared for Vannozza; he had given her two husbands, and Canale was treated as a member of the family; even Cesare had some regard for him out of respect for their mother. And look how
the Pope had loved Vannozza’s children, showering on them such loving care that could not have been exceeded even if he had been able to marry Vannozza and they were his legitimate offspring.

Lucrezia was right; and Giulia was determined that her little Laura should be treated with the same loving care. Alexander certainly doted on the little girl, and as a sign of his love of her mother had promised to bestow the Cardinal’s hat on Alessandro Farnese. Her family could not tell her often enough how they admired her and depended on her.

But now Giulia wondered about this news which the Pope wished to impart to his daughter. In the old days she would have been rather piqued that he had not told her first, but now she was able to adapt herself and hide any resentment she felt.

“My father awaits me,” said Lucrezia as her slave helped her to take off her riding habit.

“I wonder what fresh trouble there has been,” said Giulia.

“It may not be trouble,” said Lucrezia. “It could be good news.”

Giulia laughed at her. “You do not change at all,” she said. “You have been married nearly a year and yet you are the same as you were when we first met.”

Lucrezia was not listening; she was thinking of all the preparations previous to Giovanni’s departure. She knew how important Giovanni was to Alexander; she knew that he had gone to the utmost trouble to ensure that his son should please the Spanish Court; she knew about the Bishop of Oristano, into whose care the Pope had put Giovanni from the moment he stepped on to Spanish soil; she knew of the orders which had been issued to Ginès Fira and Pertusa. Poor men, how could they prevent Giovanni from disobeying his father’s orders!

And poor Giovanni! Not to go out at night. Not to play at dicing. To keep his wife company and sleep with her every night until a child was conceived. To wear gloves all the time he was at sea because salt was harmful to the hands, and in Spain a nobleman was expected to have soft white hands.

And Giovanni, of course, had disobeyed his father. Letters came from Fira and Pertusa telling of these matters, and those letters plunged the Pope into gloom—temporary gloom, it was true—before he roused himself and said that in spite of everything he knew his dearest son would do all that was expected of him.

There had been gloomy letters from Giovanni. His marriage had taken place at Barcelona, and the King and Queen of Spain had been present, which was a great honor and showed in what esteem they held Maria; but wrote Giovanni, he had no taste for his wife; she was dull and her face was too long; she repelled him.

Lucrezia tried not to think of that day the letter came from Fira and Pertusa saying that Giovanni had refused to consummate the marriage and that, instead of sleeping with his bride, he took a few companions and prowled about the town at night looking for young girls to seduce or rape.

This was terrible, for if the Pope made excuses for his son, the King of Spain would not, and Giovanni’s bride was of the royal house and must not be humiliated thus.

For the first time Alexander wrote angrily to Giovanni, and bade Cesare write on the same lines to his brother; this Cesare was only too eager to do.

Lucrezia was saddened by this state of affairs. She knew that her father was as worried as he possibly could be; it was not as much as most parents would have been, of course, but Lucrezia loved him so dearly that she could not bear to think of his being even mildly distressed.

She had wept in his presence and he had embraced her and kissed her passionately. “My darling, my darling,” he had cried. “You would never hurt your father in this way, my sweet, sweet girl.”

“Never, Father,” she had assured him. “I would die rather than hurt you.”

He had held her against him, called her his dear, dear love, and he could scarcely bear her to be out of his sight for a whole day.

But the storms passed and Alexander was soon his gay benign self again, for there was a letter from Giovanni declaring that by writing as he had his father had caused him great unhappiness—the greatest he had ever suffered.

At which Alexander wept and reproached himself.

He read Giovanni’s letter aloud to Lucrezia, having sent for her on receipt of it.

“ ‘I cannot understand how you can believe in such sinister reports which were written by malicious people who have no regard for the truth.…’ ”

“You see?” Alexander had cried jubilantly. “We have misjudged him.”

“Then,” said Lucrezia, “Fira and Pertusa have lied?”

Lights of fear came into the gray-blue eyes to disturb their mildness. She was afraid for those two men who had done, she knew, what the Holy Father had asked of them, and who might have to be punished to prove Giovanni right.

Alexander waved his hand. “No matter. No matter,” he said. He did not want to discuss the two men whom he trusted to tell him the truth; he did not want to have to admit that he knew Giovanni’s words to be lies. It was so much pleasanter to make believe that they were true.

“His marriage has been more than consummated,” cried the Pope, continuing to read the letter. He burst out laughing. “Indeed it has. I know my Giovanni!”

Alexander went on reading:

“ ‘If I have prowled at night, oh my Father, I did so with my father-in-law, Enrico Enriques, and other friends of His Most Catholic Majesty. It is the custom to take a stroll by night in Barcelona.’ ”

Then Alexander had walked about the apartment, talking about Giovanni, telling Lucrezia that he was always certain that his children would never fail him; but Lucrezia had been conscious of an uneasiness. And so, when this message came, she was afraid that there was further alarming news about her brother.

When she reached her father’s presence she knew that she had been worrying unduly; she was taken into his arms and kissed fervently.

“My dearest daughter,” cried the Pope; “here is the best possible news. We shall celebrate this with a banquet this very night. Listen to what I have to say, my darling: Your brother is soon to be a father. What do you say to that, Lucrezia? What do you say to that?”

She clasped her arms about him. “Oh Father, I am so happy; I can think of no words to express my joy.”

“As I knew you would be. Let me look at you. Oh, how your eyes shine and sparkle! How beautiful you are, my daughter! I knew the joy this would give you; that is why I would let no other impart the news to you. I would tell none until you knew first.”

“I rejoice for Giovanni,” said Lucrezia. “I know how happy this will
make him; and I rejoice also for your Holiness, because I believe the pleasure it gives you is even greater than that which it will bring to Giovanni.”

“So my little daughter cares deeply for her father?”

“How could it be otherwise?” demanded Lucrezia, as though astonished that he should ask.

“I loved you dearly since the first day when I held you in my arms, a red-faced baby with a gleam of silvery down on your head; and I have loved you steadily since. My Lucrezia … my little one … who would never willingly cause me a moment’s anxiety!”

She took his hand and kissed it. “ ’Tis true, Father,” she said. “You know me well.”

He put his arm about her and led her to a chair.

“Now,” he said, “we will see that all Rome rejoices in this news. You and Giulia must put your lovely heads together and devise a banquet to outdo all banquets.”

Lucrezia was smiling
when she returned to her apartments. She was surprised to find her husband there.

“My lord?” she said.

He laughed. “It is strange to see me here, I know,” he answered grimly. “It should not be, Lucrezia. You are my wife, you know.”

Sudden fear seized her. She had never seen Sforza thus. There was something in his eyes which she did not understand.