Madonna of the Seven Hills (42 page)

He stood before the convent, at the foot of the Aventine, and looked up at the building. He felt then that this was a fateful moment in his life; he was to have a chance to win the friendship of Lucrezia, a chance which he had never thought would be his.

He was allowed to enter, and the nuns who passed him in the corridors hurried along with downcast eyes, scarcely looking at the stranger. He was conducted to a small room. How quiet it was!

He looked about him at the stone floor and the bare walls on which there was nothing but a crucifix. The furniture in the room consisted of
a rough bench and a few stools. Outside the brilliant sun seemed far away for it was so cool behind those thick walls.

And suddenly Lucrezia came and stood before him. She was dressed in a long black robe, such as the nuns wore, but there was no covering on her head, and her golden hair streamed down her back. It was symbolic, thought Pedro. The display of all that golden beauty meant that she had not yet decided to take the veil. He would know when she had, because then he would not be allowed to see her golden hair.

He bowed; she held out her hand and he kissed it.

“I come from the Holy Father,” he said.

“You have brought letters?”

“Yes, Madonna. And I hope to take a reply back to him.”

“You are welcome.” He noticed how eagerly she took the letters.

He hesitated, then said: “Madonna, it is the wish of His Holiness that I should linger awhile and talk with you, that you might ask me for news of the Vatican.”

“That is kind of him,” said Lucrezia with a dazzling smile. “I pray you sit down. I would offer you refreshment, but …”

He lifted a hand. “I want none, Madonna. And I could not sit in your presence unless you sat first.”

She laughed and sat down facing him. She had laid the letters on the bench, but kept her hands on them as though her fingers were longing to open them.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

“It is Pedro Caldes.”

“I have seen you often. You are one of my father’s chamberlains, and you come from Spain.”

“I am honored to have been noticed by the lady Lucrezia.”

“I notice those who serve my father well.”

The young man flushed with pleasure.

“It is a double delight for me to be here,” he said, “for not only has His Holiness entrusted me with the mission, but it is the pleasantest I ever undertook.”

Lucrezia laughed suddenly. “It pleases me to hear a compliment again.”

“There are rumors which have greatly disturbed your eminent father,
Madonna. Some are hinting that it is your intention to remain here for the rest of your life.” She was silent, and there was alarm in Pedro’s eyes as he went on: “Madonna Lucrezia, that would be wrong … wrong!”

He paused, waiting to be dismissed for his insolence, but there was nothing arrogant about Lucrezia. She merely smiled and said: “So you think it would be wrong. Tell me why?”

“Because,” he said, “you are too beautiful.”

She laughed with pleasure. “There are some beautiful nuns.”

“But you should be gracing your father’s Court. You should not hide your beauty in a convent.”

“Did my father tell you to say that?”

“No, but he would be deeply wounded if you made such a decision.”

“It is pleasant to talk to someone who cares what I do. You see, I came here for refuge and I found it. I wanted to shut myself away from … so many things. I do not regret coming here to dear Sister Girolama.”

“It was a pleasant refuge, Madonna, but a temporary one. May I tell His Holiness that you are looking forward to the day when you will be reunited with your family?”

“No, I do not think you may. I am as yet undecided. There are times when the peace of this place overwhelms me, and I think how wonderful it is to rise early in the morning, and to wait for the bells to tell me what to do. Life here is simple and I sometimes long to live the simple life.”

“Forgive me, Madonna, but you would deny your destiny were you to stay here.”

She said: “Talk of other things, not of me. I am weary of my problems. How fares my father?”

“He is lonely because you are not with him.”

“I miss him too. I long for his letters.” She glanced at them.

“Would you wish me to leave you that you might read them in peace?”

She hesitated. “No,” she said. “I will keep them. They will be something to look forward to when you have left. How are my brothers?”

Again Pedro hesitated. “All is much as it was when you left them.”

She nodded sadly, thinking of them and their passion for Sanchia of which they were making another issue on which to build their hatred.

“Will you return to Spain one day?”

“I hope so, Madonna.”

“You are homesick?”

“As all must be who belong to Spain and leave her.”

“I fancy I should feel the same if I were forced to leave Italy.”

“You would love my country, Madonna.”

“Tell me of it.”

“Of what shall I tell you—of Toledo which is set on a horse’s shoe of granite, of the Tagus and the mighty mountains? Of Seville where the roses bloom all through the winter, of the lovely olive groves, of the wine they make there? It is said, Madonna, that those whom God loves live in Seville. I should like to show you the Moorish palaces, the narrow streets; and never did oranges and palms grow so lush as they do in Seville.”

“You are a poet, I believe.”

“I am inspired.”

“By your beautiful country?”

“No, Madonna. By you.”

Lucrezia was smiling. It was useless to pretend that she did not enjoy the young man’s company, that she did not feel revived by this breath of the outside world; she felt as though she had slept long and deep when she needed sleep, but now the sounds of life were stirring about her and she wanted to wake.

“I long to see your country.”

“His Holiness hinted that when the Duke of Gandia returns to Spain he might take you with him.”

To Spain! To escape the gossip, the shame of divorce! It seemed a pleasant prospect.

“I should enjoy it … for a while.”

“It would be for a while, Madonna. His Holiness would never allow you to stray long from his side.”

“I know it.”

“And so solicitous is he for your happiness that he is concerned to think of you here. He asks: ‘Is your bed hard? Do you find the food tasteless? Do the convent rules irk you?’ And he wonders who combs your hair and washes it for you. He says he would like to send you a companion, someone whom he would choose for you. She would be young, a friend as well as a servant. He asks me to bring him word as to whether you would like him to do this.”

Lucrezia hesitated. Then she said: “I pray you convey my deep devotion to my father. Tell him that the love he bears me is no more than that I bear him. Tell him that I pray each night and morning that I may be worthy of his regard. And tell him too that I am happy here, but that I have enjoyed your visit and look forward to receiving one whom he will send me to be my servant and companion.”

“And now, Madonna, you would wish me to retire and leave you with your letters?”

“How kind you are,” she said. “How thoughtful!”

She extended her hand and he kissed it.

His lips lingered on her hand and she was pleased that this should be so. The nuns were her good friends, but Lucrezia bloomed under admiration.

She was still safe in her refuge; but she had enjoyed that breath of air from the outside world.

The Pope sent
for the girl whom he had chosen to be Lucrezia’s companion in the Convent of San Sisto.

She was charming, very pretty and small, with brilliant dark eyes and a dainty figure. Alexander had thought her charming when he first saw her. He still thought so, but at the moment he admired red hair such as that of his favorite mistress.

He held out his arms as the girl approached. “Pantisilea,” he said, “my dear child, I have a mission for you.”

Pantisilea lowered those wonderful eyes and waited. She was afraid that the Holy Father was going to send her away. She had been dreading this. She had known that their relationship could not continue indefinitely; the Pope’s love affairs were fleeting, and even that with Giulia Farnese had not lasted forever.

Pantisilea had had dreams. Who in her place would not? She had pictured herself as a lady of substance like Vannozza Catanei or Giulia Farnese.

Now she was beginning to understand that she had been lightly selected to charm a weary hour or two.

“You are trembling, my child,” said Alexander kindly.

“It is in terror, Holy Lord, of being sent away from you.”

Alexander smiled kindly. He was always kind to women. He fondled the dark curls absentmindedly; he was thinking of his red-headed mistress.

“You shall not go far from us, my dear; and, when you hear for what mission I have selected you, you will rejoice, knowing that I could give this task—not only to one I loved, but one whom I respected and trusted.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“You are going to the Convent of San Sisto, there to attend my daughter Lucrezia.”

Pantisilea’s relief was obvious. The lady Lucrezia was a gentle mistress, and all those who served her considered themselves fortunate to do so.

“There,” said the Pope. “You are delighted, for you are aware of the honor I do you.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“You must be prepared to leave this day. My daughter is lonely, and I want you to comfort her, and be her friend.” He pinched the girl’s soft cheek tenderly. “And at the same time, my sweet child, you will constantly let her know how grieved her father is because he does not have her with him. You will wash her hair for her and take some of her fine clothes and jewels with you. You will persuade her to wear them. Pantisilea, my dear, it is said that my daughter wishes to become a nun. I know this to be but talk; but my daughter is young and impressionable. It is your task to remind her of all the joys outside a convent walls. Girls’ chatter, gossip, fine clothes! My Lucrezia loved them all. See, my child, that she does not lose that love. The sooner you bring her from that place, the greater will be your reward.”

“Holy Father, my ambition is to serve you.”

“You are a good child. You are beautiful too.”

The Pope took her into his arms in a farewell embrace which was one of mingled approval and passion.

Lucrezia was ready
to be very fond of Pantisilea. She was excited to have someone who laughed readily, and enjoyed gossiping. Serafina and
the others were too sober, believing that there was something sinful in laughter.

Pantisilea opened trunks and showed Lucrezia the dresses she had brought with her.

“These become you far more than that black habit, Madonna.”

“I have no heart for them in this quiet place,” Lucrezia explained. “They would look incongruous here, Pantisilea.”

Pantisilea appeared bitterly disappointed. “And your hair, Madonna!” she persisted. “It is not as golden as it used to be.”

Lucrezia looked slightly alarmed. It was sinful to care for worldly matters such as the adornment of her person, the sisters had told her; and she had tried not to regret that her hair was left unwashed.

She explained to Pantisilea that the sisters would not have approved of her washing her hair as often as had been her custom. They would accuse her of vanity.

“Madonna,” said Pantisilea slyly, “they have not golden hair like yours. I pray you let me wash it, only to remind you how it will shine.”

What harm was there in washing her hair? She allowed Pantisilea to do so.

When it was dry, Pantisilea laughed with pleasure, took strands of it in her hands and cried: “But look, Madonna, it is pure gold again. It is the color of the gold in your green and gold brocade gown. Madonna, I have the dress here. Put it on.”

Lucrezia smiled at the girl. “To please you, little Pantisilea.”

So the green and gold dress was put on and, as Lucrezia stood with her golden hair about her shoulders, one of the nuns came to tell her that Pedro Caldes had arrived at the convent with letters from the Pope.

Lucrezia received him in the cold bare room.

He stared at her, and she watched the slow flush creep up from his neck to the roots of his hair. He could not speak, but could only stare at her.