Light on Lucrezia

II DUCHESS OF BISCEGLIE

Those Cardinals who had assembled for the Consistory were uneasy. They were wishing that they had followed the examples of their fellows and pleaded some excuse which would keep them from Rome at such a time.

The Pope, from his Papal throne, had greeted them with his accustomed benevolence, but those who knew Alexander well were aware of the determination beneath the benignity. Once again they would be presented with one of those outrageous demands such as Alexander made from time to time for the sake of his family; they would be faced with the knowledge that they were in honor bound to oppose the Borgia wish, and they knew that they would lack the courage to do so.

They remembered with chagrin the recent divorce when so many of them had been deceived by the innocent looks of Lucrezia Borgia. They were fully aware that the Pope and his family were going to score another triumph over them.

Alexander watched Cesare as he took his stand before the assembly, and did his best to subdue the pride within him. Cesare was right. He was the man made to rule Italy, and he could best achieve his ambitions in freedom from the Church.

In his slender fingers Cesare held the scroll on which Alexander and he had spent so much time, while he begged his fellow Cardinals to give him their attention.

Cesare’s voice was gentle. Alexander had warned him to be humble and, astonishingly, Cesare was obeying his father in this respect. Alexander was a man who must have his way but who always sought to have it peaceably if possible. There he differed from Cesare who was so impatient to achieve his desires that he often did not care how he did so.

“It was not of my own free will that I entered the Church,” he was saying now. “I have never had a vocation.”

Aware that many eyes were turned upon him, Alexander let his head fall on to his chest in an attitude of dejection as though what his son was saying caused him the utmost pain. In spite of his display of surprise and anguish, all knew of course that it was Alexander’s wish that Cesare should be released, and that he had composed the very words which Cesare was now uttering. They also knew that those Cardinals who refused to act in accordance with his wishes should beware of reprisals.

“My conscience demands that I lay these facts before you,” went on Cesare, “for I see no other course than to appeal to your mercy and goodness, and I trust that in your compassion you will see fit to release me from my vows.”

There was silence. The Cardinals had once more turned their gaze upon the Holy Father, who had now lifted his face so that all could see the concern thereon.

Cesare appealed to the Pope. “Were I free,” he cried, in loud and confident tones, “my life should be dedicated to my country. I would visit the French—from whom we all stand in great danger—and I would give my life to save our country from invasion, and bring peace to the land.”

Alexander spoke then. “That which is asked by the Cardinal Cesare Borgia of Valencia is a grave matter. It demands deep thought and deliberation from this assembly, so that a reply cannot at once be given.”

Cesare retired while the Cardinals discussed his case. There was not a man among them who did not regard the whole procedure as farcical. The Borgia Pope desired Cesare to be released from his vows; and who dared oppose the Borgia Pope?

Cesare went away with a light heart, knowing that before the week was out he would have achieved a lifelong ambition. He would be a soldier leading his armies, free of the restricting influence of the Church.

He came to his sister’s apartments where she was with her husband. Alfonso, the happy bridegroom, involuntarily moved closer to his wife as his brother-in-law came in.

“Ha!” cried Cesare. “The happy pair. Why sister, why brother, all Rome talks of your pleasure in each other. Do they speak truth?”

“I am very happy,” Lucrezia told him.

“We are happy in each other,” added Alfonso.

Cesare smiled his slow sardonic smile and as he looked at the handsome boy, a momentary anger possessed him. Such a boy! Scarce out of the nursery. Smooth-cheeked and pretty! Cesare’s once beautiful skin was marred now and would doubtless remain so for the rest of his life. It was strange that he, who felt that it would not be long before the whole of Italy was at his feet, should thus feel envy of the smooth cheeks of a pretty boy.

“Why,” he cried, “you do not seem pleased to see me!”

“We are always pleased to see you,” said Lucrezia quickly.

“Do not allow your wife to speak for you, brother,” put in Cesare, a faint sneer turning up the corners of his mouth. “You should be master, you know.”

“Nay,” said Alfonso, “it is not thus with us. I wish to please my wife, nothing more.”

“Devoted husband!” murmured Cesare. “Lucrezia, we are going to have days of celebration. Prepare yourself. What sort of fête shall I arrange for your pleasure?”

“There have been so many celebrations,” said Lucrezia. “Alfonso and I are happy enough without them. We have our hunting, our dancing and music.”

“And other pleasures in each other’s company I doubt not. Oh, but you are so newly wed. Nevertheless there shall be celebrations. Do you know, Lucrezia, that before long I discard my Cardinal’s robes?”

“Cesare!” She ran to him and threw herself into his arms. “But I am so happy. It is what you have wanted for so long. And at last it has come. Oh dearest brother, how I rejoice with you!”

“And you are ready to dance with me at a ball I shall give. You are ready to watch me kill a bull or two?”

“Oh Cesare … not that. It frightens me.”

He kissed her tenderly, and putting his arm about her he drew her to an embrasure; he stood looking at her, his back turned to Alfonso who, as Cesare intended he should, felt himself to be excluded.

Alfonso stood awkwardly, watching; and suddenly all his fears returned to him and he found he could not control his shivers. He could not take his eyes from them—the most discussed brother and sister in Italy, so graceful, both of them, with that faint resemblance between them, yet that vivid contrast. There was Cesare fierce and frightening, determined to dominate, and Lucrezia slender and clinging, wishing to be dominated. Seeing them thus, all Alfonso’s doubts and suspicions returned, and he wanted to beg Lucrezia to leave this place which now seemed to him evil. He wanted to rescue Lucrezia who, although she was born of them, was not one of them; he wanted to take her right away from her family and live in peace with her.

He heard their voices. “But you would not have me stand aside while others killed the bulls?”

“I would. Indeed I would.”

“But my dearest, you would then be ashamed of your brother.”

“I should never be ashamed of you. And you risk your life with the bulls.”

“Not I. I’m a match for any bull.”

Cesare turned and drew her to him and over her head smiled for a second of triumphant mockery at Alfonso. Then he released her suddenly and cried: “But we have forgotten your little bridegroom, Lucrezia. I declare he looks as though he is about to burst into tears.”

Alfonso felt the blood rush to his face. He started forward but Cesare stood between Lucrezia and her husband, legs apart, his hand playing with the hilt of his sword; and although Alfonso wanted to draw his own sword and challenge this man here and now to fight, and fight to the death if need be, he felt as though his limbs would not move, that he was in the presence of the devil, who had laid a spell upon him.

Cesare laughed and went out; and when he was no longer there Alfonso’s courage came back to him. He went to Lucrezia and took her by the shoulders. “I like not his manners,” he said. Lucrezia’s eyes were wide and innocent. “He … he is too possessive. It is almost as though …” But he could not say it. He had not the courage. There were questions he wanted to ask, and he was afraid to ask them. He had been so happy, and he wanted to go on being happy.

Lucrezia put her arms about his neck and kissed him in that gentle way which never failed to be a source of excitement to him.

“He is my brother,” she said simply. “We were brought up together. We have shared our lives and it has made us good friends.”

“It would seem when he is by that you are unaware of any other.”

She laid her head against his chest and laughed. “You are indeed a jealous husband.”

“Lucrezia,” he cried, “have I cause to be?”

Then she lifted her face to his and her eyes were still full of limpid innocence. “You know I want no other husband,” she said. “I was unhappy, desperately unhappy, and I thought never to laugh in joy again. Then you came, and since you came, I have found happiness.”

He kissed her with increasing passion. “Love me, Lucrezia,” he pleaded. “Love me … only.”

They clung together, but even in the throes of lovemaking Alfonso could not rid himself of the memory of Cesare.

Cesare was in the ring. The assembled company watched him with admiration, for he was the most able matador in Rome. His Spanish origin was obvious as, lithe and graceful, he twisted his elegant body this way and that, springing from the path of the onrushing bull at that precise moment in time when death seemed inevitable.

Alfonso, sitting beside Lucrezia and watching her fingers twisting the embroideries on her dress, was aware of the anxiety she was experiencing. Alfonso did not understand. He could have sworn that she was glad because Cesare would soon be leaving for France; yet now, watching his antics in the bullring, he was equally sure that she was conscious of no one but her brother.

Alfonso murmured: “God in Heaven, Holy Mother and all the saints, let him not escape. Let the furious bull be the instrument of justice—for many have died more horribly at his hands.”

Smiling coolly Sanchia watched the man who had been her lover. She thought: I hope the bull gets him, tramples him beneath those angry hoofs … not to kill him … no, but to maim him so that he will never walk or run or leap again, never make love to his Carlotta of Naples. Carlotta of Naples! Much chance he has! But let him lose his beauty, and his manhood be spoiled, so that I may go to him and laugh in his face and taunt him as he has taunted me.

Among those who watched there were others who remembered suffering caused them by Cesare Borgia, many who prayed for his death.

But had Cesare died that day there would have been three to mourn him with sincerity—the Pope who watched him with the same mingling of pride and fear as Lucrezia’s; Lucrezia herself; and a red-headed courtesan named Fiametta, who had sought to grow rich by his favors and found that she loved him.

But, for all the wishes among the spectators in the ring that day, Cesare emerged triumphant. He slew his bulls. He stood the personification of elegance, indolently accepting the applause of the crowds. And he seemed a symbol of the future, there with his triumph upon him. His proud gestures seemed to imply that the conqueror of bulls would be the conqueror of Italy.

The Pope sent for his son that he might impart the joyful news.

“Louis promises not to be ungenerous, Cesare,” he cried. “See what he offers you! It is the Dukedom of Valence, and a worthy income with the title.”

“Valence,” said Cesare, trying to hide his joy. “I know that to be a city on the Rhône near Lyons in Dauphiné. The income … what is that?”

“Ten thousand écus a year,” chuckled the Pope. “A goodly sum.”

“A goodly sum indeed. And Carlotta?”

“You will go to the French Court and begin your wooing at once.” The Pope’s expression darkened. “I shall miss you, my son. I like not to have the family scattered.”

“You have your new son, Father.”

“Alfonso!” The Pope’s lips curled with contempt.

“It would seem,” muttered Cesare, “that the only member of the family who is pleased with its new addition is Lucrezia.”

The Pope murmured indulgently: “Lucrezia is a woman, and Alfonso a very handsome young man.”

“It sickens me to see them together.”

The Pope laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go to France, my son. Bring back the Princess Carlotta as soon as you can.”

“I will do so, Father. And when Carlotta is mine I shall stake my claim to the throne of Naples. Father, no one shall prevent my taking that to which I have a claim.”

The Pope nodded sagely.

“And,” went on Cesare, “if I am heir to the crown of Naples, of what use to us will Lucrezia’s little husband be?”

“That is looking some way ahead,” said Alexander. “I came through my difficulties in the past because I did not attempt to surmount them until they were close upon me.”

“When the time comes we shall know how to deal with Alfonso, Father.”

“Indeed we shall. Have we not always known how to deal with obstacles? Now, my son, our immediate concern is your own marriage, and I shall not wish you to appear before the King of France as a beggar.”

“I shall need money to equip me.”

“Fear not. We’ll find it.”

“From the Spanish Jews?”

“Why not? Should they not pay for the shelter I have given them from the Spanish Inquisition?”

“They will pay … gladly,” said Cesare.

“Now my son, let us think of your needs … your immediate needs.”

They planned together, and the Pope was sad because he must soon say good-bye to his beloved son, and he was fearful too because he had once vowed that Cesare should remain in the Church, and now Cesare had freed himself. Alexander felt suddenly the weight of his years, and in that moment he knew that that strong will of his, which had carried him to triumph through many turbulent years, was becoming more and more subservient to that of his son Cesare.

The days of preparation were over. The goldsmiths and silversmiths had been working day and night on all the treasures which the Duke of Valence would take with him into France. The shops of Rome were denuded of all fine silks, brocades, and velvets, for nothing, declared the Pope, was too fine for his son Cesare; the horses’ shoes must be of silver, and the harness of the mules must be fashioned in gold; Cesare’s garments must be finer than anything he would encounter in France, and the most magnificent of the family jewels must be fashioned into rings, brooches and necklaces for Cesare. Nothing he used—even the most intimate article of toilet—must be of anything less precious than silver. He was going to France as the guest of a King, and he must go as a Prince.

He left Rome in the sunshine of an October day, looking indeed princely in his black velvet cloak (cut after the French fashion) and plumed hat. Beneath the cloak could be seen his white satin doublet, gold-slashed, and the jewels which glittered on his person were dazzling. Because he hated any to remember that he was an ex-Cardinal he had covered his tonsure with a curling wig which gave him an appearance of youth; for those who watched in the streets could not see the unpleasant blemishes, the result of the male francese, on his skin.

He was no longer Cardinal of Valencia, but Duke of Valentinois and the Italians called him Il Valentino.

The Pope stood on his balcony with Lucrezia beside him, and as the calvacade moved away and on to the Via Lata, the two watchers clasped hands and tears began to fall down their cheeks.

“Do not grieve. He will soon be with us once more, my little one,” murmured Alexander.

“I trust so, Father,” answered Lucrezia.

“Bringing his bride with him.”

Alexander had always been optimistic, and now he refused to believe that Cesare could fail. What if the King of Naples had declared his daughter should never go to a Borgia; what if it were impossible to trust sly Louis; what if all the Kings of Europe were ready to protest at the idea of a bastard Borgia’s marrying a royal Princess? Cesare would still do it, the Pope told himself; for on that day, as he watched the glittering figure ride away, in his eyes Cesare was the reincarnation of himself, Roderigo Borgia, as he had been more than forty years earlier.

With the departure of Cesare a peace settled on the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico, and the young married pair gave themselves up to pleasure. Alfonso forgot his fears of the Borgias; it was impossible to entertain them when the Pope was so affectionate and charming, and Lucrezia was the most loving wife in the world.

All commented on the gaiety of Lucrezia. She hunted almost every day in the company of Alfonso; she planned dances and banquets for the pleasure of her husband, and the Pope was a frequent participator in the fun. It seemed incredible to Alfonso that he could have been afraid. The Pope was so clearly a beloved father who could have nothing but the warmest feelings toward one who brought such happiness to his daughter.

Lucrezia was emerging as the leader of fashion; not only were women wearing golden wigs in imitation of her wonderful hair, they were carefully studying the clothes she wore and copying them. Lucrezia was childishly delighted, spending hours with the merchants, choosing materials, explaining to her dressmakers how these should be used, appearing among them in the greens, light blues and golds, in russet and black, all those shades which accentuated her pale coloring and enhanced her feminine daintiness.

Lucrezia felt recklessly gay. This was partly due to the discovery that, contrary to her belief, she could be happy again. Whole days passed without her thinking of Pedro Caldes, and even when she did so it was to assure herself that their love had been a passing fancy which could never have endured in the face of so much opposition. Her father was right—as always. She must marry a man of noble birth; and surely she was the happiest woman on Earth, because Alfonso was both noble and the husband she loved.

The household heard her laughing and singing, and they smiled among themselves. It was pleasant to live in the household of Madonna Lucrezia; it was comforting to know that she had given up all thought of going into a convent. A convent! That was surely not the place for one as gay and lovely, as capable of being happy and giving happiness, as Lucrezia.

They knew in their hearts that the peace of the household was due to the absence of one person, but none mentioned this. Who could doubt that an idle word spoken now might be remembered years hence? And Il Valentino would not remain forever abroad.

The days passed all too quickly, and when in December Lucrezia knew that she was going to have a baby, she felt that her joy was complete.

Alfonso was ridiculously careful of her. She must rest, he declared. She must not forget the precious burden she carried.

“It is soon yet to think of that, my dearest,” she told him.

“It is never too soon to guard one’s greatest treasures.”

She would lie on their bed, he beside her, while they talked of the child. They would ponder on the sex of the child. If it were a boy they would be the proudest parents on Earth; and if a girl, no less proud. But they hoped for a boy.

“Of course we shall have a boy,” Alfonso declared, kissing her tenderly. “How, in this most perfect marriage could we have anything else? But if she is a girl, and resembles her mother, then I think we shall be equally happy. I see nothing for us but a blissful life together.”

Then they loved and told each other of their many perfections and how the greatest happiness they had ever known came from each other.

“One day,” said Alfonso, “I shall take you to Naples. How will you like living away from Rome?”

“You will be there,” Lucrezia told him, “and there will be my home. Yet …”

He touched her cheek tenderly. “You will not wish to be long separated from your father,” he said.

“We shall visit him often, and perhaps he will visit us.”

“How dearly you love him! There are times when I think you love him beyond all others.”

Lucrezia answered: “It is you, my husband, whom I love beyond all others. Yet I love my father in a different way. Perhaps as one loves God. He has always been there, wise and kind. Oh Alfonso, I cannot tell you of the hundred kindnesses I have received at his hand. I do not love him as I love you … you are part of me … I am completely at ease with you. You are my perfect lover. But he … is the Holy Father of us all, and my own tender father. Do not compare my love for him with that I have for you. Let me be happy, in both my loves.”

Alfonso was reminded suddenly of the loud sardonic laughter of Cesare, and he had an uncanny feeling that the spirit of Cesare would haunt him all his life, mocking him in his happiest moments, besmirching the brightness of his love.

But he did not mention Cesare.

He, like Lucrezia, often had the feeling that they must hold off the future. They must revel in the perfect happiness of the present. It would be folly to think of what might come, when what was actually happening gave them so much pleasure. Did one think of snowstorms when one picnicked on warm summer evenings in the vineyards about the Colosseum? One did not spoil those perfect evenings by saying: “It will be less pleasant here two months hence.”

Sanchia was restless. She missed her passionate meetings with Cesare. She assured herself that she hated him, and she had taken many lovers since his departure, but none satisfied her.

She constantly thought of him in France, courting Carlotta, the legitimate daughter of her uncle; and the humiliation she suffered was intense. She, who had been accused of witchcraft because of her power over men, she who had never yet been deserted by a lover, was insulted, and openly so because everyone had known that at one time it had been the intention of Cesare to marry her.

Now with his French dukedom and his French estates and riches, he found himself too important for marriage with an illegitimate princess, and sought a higher prize.

She might rage before her women; in the secrecy of her apartments she might at midnight stick pins into his waxen image, but at the same time she wept for a lost lover, knowing that no other man could so enthrall her.

Sanchia might feign gaiety in public, seeking to hide her chagrin, but many at the Papal Court were aware of her feelings, and there was one who sought to turn the situation to his advantage.

Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, brother of Ludovico, Duke of Milan, and cousin of that Giovanni Sforza from whom Lucrezia had been recently divorced, watched Sanchia closely and believed that he could use her in the political game he intended to play. The Sforzas had been very uneasy since it had become apparent to them that the bonds between France and the Papacy were being made more secure. The Sforzas had never trusted Alexander, and now with Il Valentino a French Duke hoping to marry a Princess who, although she was the daughter of the King of Naples, had a French mother and was being brought up at the French Court, it seemed that before long there would be an alliance between France and the Papal State. It was only logical to suppose that French ambitions had not abated with the death of King Charles, and that one day there would be another French invasion. If this happened, Milan—to which the French believed they had a claim through the House of Orléans—would be the first target. Ludovico had lost his kingdom once and was eager not to do so again; therefore the Sforzas were uneasy to see Cesare Borgia going to France as the guest of their foremost enemy.

Women had a great influence on the Pope. It was inevitable in the case of a man who, shrewd diplomatist though he was, had been known as the most carnal man in all Italy. He had always found feminine appeals irresistible, so with Cesare away, it seemed to Ascanio Sforza that the Pope might be reached through the women of his Court.

He therefore called on Sanchia and was soon able to test to the full the measure of her rancor against Cesare.

“I understand,” he began slyly, “that your uncle is overwhelmed by the honor about to be done to him by Il Valentino!”

Sanchia was unable to control her anger. “Honor!” she cried. “My uncle will not look upon his aspirations as such. He may ask for Carlotta’s hand, but he’ll not get it.”

“The Borgias have a way of asking which can be irresistible.”

“Not when it comes to the marriage of my uncle’s daughter.”

“But it is a mighty alliance—this of France and the Papacy.”

Sanchia’s eyes blazed. “An unholy alliance!” she cried. “It is not long since the French were invading Italy. I remember well how they took possession of Naples and turned my father off his throne. He went mad because of it. I remember how we had to take refuge on the island of Ischia. It seems a strange thing that there should be this friendship between Il Valentino and those who brought so much misery to Italy.”

“A very strange thing, a very unhappy thing,” murmured Ascanio. “It is something which those who are most affected should do all in their power to hinder. Do you not agree?”

“I agree with all my heart,” said Sanchia.

“We Sforzas of Milan are uneasy.”

“And well you may be!”

“And you of Naples have suffered also from the French.”

Sanchia agreed.

“Naples and Milan have been enemies in the past,” said Ascanio, “but old differences should be forgotten when a mighty enemy threatens both.”

It was true. Sanchia wanted to fill her days with intrigue, and that intrigue was to be directed against her faithless lover. She was excited, realizing that Ascanio Sforza could do more toward bringing about the downfall of Cesare Borgia than those incantations she muttered while sticking pins into a figure of wax.

She had a new interest. Ascanio Sforza was a constant visitor.

Lucrezia and Alfonso now had their own little court, and there was gaiety in the apartments in Santa Maria in Portico. Alfonso and Lucrezia had discovered a mutual love of music and poetry, and their encouragement of poets and musicians meant that an intellectual group was beginning to form about them.

One day Sanchia came to their soirée bringing Cardinal Ascanio Sforza with her.

Lucrezia received him graciously but she was surprised to see him in the company of Sanchia, for the enmity between Milan and Naples was of long standing. Lucrezia, however, gave no indication of her feelings, and, while she was playing the lute for the Cardinal’s pleasure, Alfonso took his sister aside and asked her what had possessed her to bring Cardinal Sforza to them, for the Sforzas were not only the enemies of the Aragonese but one of them had been Lucrezia’s first husband, and in view of the slander he had spread about her, it seemed tasteless to bring a relative of his here as a guest.

Sanchia smiled affectionately at her brother, as she explained: “Alfonso, you love Lucrezia dearly, and Lucrezia loves you. You are happy and at peace. Have you forgotten your feelings as you rode into Rome not so long ago?”

“That was before I knew Lucrezia.”

“It was not only Lucrezia you feared.”

“The Pope has been my good friend, and Cesare is no longer here.”

“The Pope’s moods are variable, brother, and Cesare will not remain forever in France. He plans to marry our cousin Carlotta. And when he has done so, he will return.”

Alfonso shook his head impatiently. He was loath to have his pleasure spoilt, and the thought of Cesare’s return could spoil it. “He’ll not be allowed to marry Carlotta.”

“No,” cried Sanchia. “But he’ll be back, and when he comes, mayhap he’ll bring the French with him. Alfonso, have you forgotten our flight to Ischia? Do you remember our return to Naples? Do you remember what we saw … the tales we heard? If the French come, that will happen again and Cesare Borgia might well march with them, the ally of the French.”

“The Borgias against Naples …”

“Against Naples and Milan, and all Italy. They are treacherous, and Cesare does not love you, brother.”

“Oh, forget him. Mayhap he’ll have an accident in France. I cannot believe the French will love him.”

“You are not a child, Alfonso. Face the truth. We have to stand against Cesare. Naples, Milan … and as many states as we can find to help us. That is why Ascanio Sforza comes to these apartments. He is our new friend and there will be others. Alfonso, this shall be their meeting place. Here, while there is dancing and music and reading of poetry, we shall gather our friends together and we shall be firm and ready should the time come when it is necessary to break the Borgian and French alliance.”

“These are politics,” murmured Alfonso. “I dislike them. Why should there be this talk of war and fighting when there are poetry and music and love?”

“Idiot brother!” chided Sanchia. “If you will continue to enjoy the good things of life you must learn to protect them.”

Alfonso was frowning. He did not want to think of unpleasantness, yet Sanchia’s words reminded him of all he had feared as he had ridden along the road to Rome.

“And what think you His Holiness will say when he knows that men and women assemble here, not to talk of music and poetry, but of politics … dangerous politics?”

“Why should he know?”

“Because he might be here when such things are talked of.”

“We would not be so foolish as to talk of them when he was here.”

“His spies would carry tales to him.”

“That is where we shall outwit him. We shall tell our secrets only to those who are with us. That is why we must be careful with Lucrezia. She would be loyal always to the Pope and her brother. That family have a devotion to each other which would be past belief if we did not see it every day. We must be careful of Lucrezia.”

“But this is her palace. I am her husband. You are asking me to have secrets from her!”

“Come out of your lover’s dream, foolish brother. Do you want them to take Lucrezia from you? They will, if you are of no use to them; and if there should be a French invasion and the Pope were friendly with the French, what do you think would happen to you? They would scarcely say your marriage had not been consummated. You have made it obvious how you spend your nights. No, you would not escape with divorce, brother.”

Alfonso began to tremble; she was bringing back all his terrors. At the beginning of his marriage he had suffered from nightmares, waking in a cold sweat to clutch Lucrezia and beg for comfort. He had dreamed that the naked sword which had been held over them during their wedding was slowly descending, and that the hand which held it was that of Cesare, and that the Pope looked on smiling his affectionate and benign smile which in its strange way was commanding Cesare to murder him.

Sanchia was bringing back all his fear of the Borgias.

“But Alfonso, my dear brother, we have a period in which to work. If we stand together, we can defeat the French. They would never have come against us if the whole of Italy had been united. They were victorious because the small kingdoms stood aloof while, one by one, each was swallowed up by the French monster. We are going to work together; we shall make a strong party and we will follow closely all that happens between France and Rome. We will have our spies in the Vatican who will keep us informed. And Milan and Naples shall stand together against this alliance which, to gain French estates and our cousin Carlotta, Cesare Borgia is making with the French.”

“But what am I to do?” asked Alfonso in despair.

“Work with us. Talk to Lucrezia when you are alone. Gradually make her one of us, lightly, subtly, so that she does not know she is working against her father. She might be induced to ask certain favors of His Holiness. You know he can deny her nothing.”

Alfonso winced, and Sanchia laughed at him.

“We’ll be bold, Alfonso. Life is good, eh? But remember how quickly it can change, how quickly it once changed for us. We will not let it change again. We will keep that which we have. You are beginning to understand, I think?”

Alfonso nodded.

Lucrezia was calling him. She wanted him to sing to her accompaniment on the lute; and as he smiled and went to her Sanchia was pleased to see how he was able to hide his uneasiness.

Alfonso realized the wisdom of his sister’s words; in the weeks which followed he talked now and then with Lucrezia, touching very lightly on the excellent qualities of Ascanio Sforza who was not to be blamed for the shortcomings of his relative Giovanni. He talked of the desirability of friendship between Naples and Milan, and the possibility of union, so that, should there be another French invasion, they would stand together.

“There will be no French invasion,” Lucrezia had said, “because my brother Cesare is the friend of the French King, and it is to prevent such a calamity that he has primarily gone to France.”

Alfonso repeated then what Ascanio had whispered.

Cesare had been long in France and there was no news of his marriage. It would be well not to say such things to the Pope, for all knew how he doted on his son, but might it not be that the French looked upon Cesare as a hostage as, although he was apparently fêted in France, the wily French King seemed as though he wanted to keep him there.

Lucrezia was truly alarmed, and Alfonso felt a rising resentment because of her immediate preoccupation with her family.

Now she would be worrying about Cesare, thinking of her brother perhaps held against his will in France, instead of the love and passion which they shared.

Was Cesare always to be a shadow across their married life?

But she had seen his point about not alarming the Pope and she, who loved peace all around her, was very ready to believe that friendship between Naples and Milan would be advantageous.

It was thus that during those months Lucrezia’s apartments became the focus of a new party, the main object of which was to unite the states of Milan and Naples against the French—while the Papacy was the friend of France.

In the great hall the marriage festivities were in progress. At the head of the table sat the King of France, content because the woman he had desired to marry was at last his wife. Beside him was Queen Anne herself, young, beautiful, her shrewd eyes showing her satisfaction.

She, the widow of dead King Charles, had shown no great desire to become the wife of reigning King Louis; but all were aware of the satisfaction she must be feeling at finding herself twice Queen of France.

She was a rich woman, and some might say that her estates of Brittany were the prize Louis sought. But that was not all. Poor humpbacked Jeanne had not only been plain and dull but—unforgivable sin in royalty—infertile.

Anne knew herself for a prize and was proud of it. At twenty-three she was in the full flush of her charms and hoped to give Louis the sons he needed. She was optimistic about their future, for Louis, although he seemed older, was but thirty-seven, and there were many years before them for the begetting of children.

Among the guests was that strange man, Cesare Borgia, known in France as the Duc de Valentinois. He was a dangerous man, this Valentinois; and perhaps because of this Louis had decided to treat him with caution. Louis was a cautious man; he was often jeered at for what was called his miserliness, but Louis said that he would rather make his courtiers laugh at his stinginess than his subjects weep for his extravagance. Thus it was that even at his wedding he had scarcely the look of a King, and the most magnificently clad and bejeweled man in the company was the Duc de Valentinois.

Cesare was hopeful on this night, more so than he had been since he had begun to understand the French attitude toward him, for Carlotta was at the ball tonight and when he lifted his eyes he could see her—young, adequately pretty with something about her to remind him of Sanchia. Brought up at the court of Anne of Brittany she was prudish according to Cesare’s standards, but he found that aspect of her intriguing. He had little doubt that once he was allowed to meet the girl he would sweep her off her feet; he would marry her no matter what opposition he was called upon to meet.

He distrusted the French. They were subtle, clever people, and it was a new experience to be among those who showed no fear of him. He had been made to realize as soon as he had stepped ashore at Marseilles that he was in a country where the emblem of the grazing bull did not strike immediate terror into all who beheld it. His reputation had gone before him; these people knew him as a murderer and a politically ambitious man; but they did not fear him.

Now as he watched the shabby King, contented with his newly married wife, he remembered again the journey into this country, himself so splendid with his magnificent retinue and silver-shod horses, with his dazzling clothes—brocade and velvet slashed with satin, his cloth of gold and jewels, each of which was worth a fortune. More than all this splendor he had carried with him the Bull of Divorce, which he in person was to hand to Louis—a gift from his Holiness. No, not a gift, a favor for which Louis must pay dearly.

But the people had come out of their farms and cottages to stare at him as he rode by. He believed that they laughed behind his back at his haughty looks, and he heard murmurs which he knew he was intended to hear.

“All these riches, and for a bastard!”

“Is it to provide jewels for the Pope’s bastard that we have rewarded our priests? Have we paid for our indulgences that these jewels might be bought?”

“What splendor! Our mighty King is as a beggar beside this one—and he a petty Duke of Valence!”

They were hostile. He should have come more humbly, had he wished to impress the French.

Cesare felt from the first moment that they were sneering at him, that Louis’ old wool cloak and stained beaver hat were worn to call attention to the tastelessness of the upstart Duke—who was but a bastard. Cesare was among foreigners and he was made to feel it.

He vividly remembered his first meeting with the King at Chinon where the French Court was at that time. Louis was too clever to reproach him for his splendor or to show that he had noticed it; but he told Cesare that Carlotta of Naples was with Anne of Brittany and it would depend on the future Queen when they would be allowed to meet.

Cesare suspected treachery, and withheld the Bull of Divorce.

Was it not a business arrangement? Was not the price of the Bull, marriage as well as French titles and estates?

That was not so, Louis pointed out when Cesare continued to withhold the Bull; for he was a man to keep his word, and how could he bargain with that which was not his to offer? Cesare had his estates. He was indeed Duke of Valence; and he had what Louis had promised, his permission to seek marriage with Carlotta. Louis had paid in full; he now demanded the Bull of Divorce.

It was then that Cesare began to respect these people, and to realize that he must be more discreet in his demands. There was nothing to do but hand over the Bull to Louis, who, delighted with what he had got, set about making plans for his marriage, and told Cesare that he too was free to go ahead with his courtship.

But the months had passed and opportunities were denied Cesare. Anne of Brittany had promised him nothing, she implied. She did not greatly desire marriage. It was the King who was the ardent suitor.

Cesare did not doubt that, once he had a chance to woo the girl, she would soon be his wife. He was conscious of the whispering that went on around him; he guessed what was being said in Rome, and that his enemies there, who would not have dared to mention his name while he was in Rome, would now be writing their epigrams on the walls.

Carlotta was conscious of him now. Her eyes often strayed in his direction. He smiled at her and brought into full play all that fascination which had been wont to bring Italian women at his bidding.

She sat eating, pretending to be absorbed in her food and the conversation of the man at her side. How insulting of the King and Queen to let her sit beside that man! And who was he? He was fair-haired and smooth-skinned. Cesare was conscious nowadays of others’ skins, because his had never regained its youthful smoothness, and this defect, although mitigated by his strikingly handsome features, irritated him.

He demanded of his neighbor: “Who is that man seated next to the Lady Carlotta?”

The answer was a lift of the shoulder. “Some Breton baron, I believe.”

Clearly, thought Cesare, a man of no importance.

And when the feasting was over and there was dancing, the Queen evidently remembered her obligations, for she called Carlotta to sit beside her and when she was seated there she sent for Cesare to come to her.

Carlotta of Naples looked at the man of whom she had heard so much, Cesare Borgia whose scandalous behavior with her cousin Sanchia had been spoken of even in France. She compared him with the gentle Breton baron, and she said to herself: “Never … never! I’d rather die.”

Cesare bowed over her hand. His eyes would have alarmed her had she not been in this crowded ballroom and felt the cool protectiveness of the Queen.

“Have we Your Majesty’s permission to dance?” asked Cesare of the Queen.

Anne replied: “My lord Duke, you have mine if you have the lady’s.”

Cesare took Carlotta’s hand and almost pulled her to her feet. Carlotta was too astonished to protest; Cesare clearly did not understand the etiquette of the French Court. No matter. She would dance with him, but never, never would she marry him.

He was graceful; she had to admit that.

He said: “These French dances, how think you they compare with our Italian ones—or our Spanish ones?”

“Your Italian ones! Your Spanish ones!” she answered. “I have spent so long in France that I say my French ones.”

“Do you not feel that it is time you left France and returned to your home?”

“I am happy here. The Queen is kind to me and I love her dearly. I have no wish to leave her service.”

“You lack the spirit of adventure, Carlotta.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“But that is wrong of you. There is so much in life to be enjoyed if you go out to seek it.”

“I am fortunate in having found so much that I do not have to seek,” she answered.

“But you are so young. What do you know of the adventures and pleasures which the world has to offer?”

“You mean such as those you enjoy with my cousin?”

“You have heard stories of me then?”

“Your fame has reached France, my lord Duke.”

“Call me Cesare.”

She did not answer but appeared to be concentrating on their steps.

“You know why I am here,” he said.

“Yes. You come to collect your dues—the price asked for the King’s divorce!”

“How French you are! All decorum one moment; all impetuosity the next. I confess I find the combination fascinating.”

“Then, as my frankness does not offend you, I will be even more so. I know your intentions concerning myself.”

“That pleases me. Now we can dispense with a long courtship.”

“My lord Duke, I have had no word from my father that I may look upon you as a suitor.”

“We shall soon have that.”

“In that you are mistaken.”

“You do not know me. I do not flinch at a little opposition.”

“Yet you, my lord, who feel such devotion toward legitimacy—for if you do not, why did you not wait for my cousin Sanchia who is so much more beautiful than I and for whom, if rumor does not lie, you have already some affection—seem to have so little regard for the same devotion in others.”

He flushed angrily. The girl, for all her prudery, had a sharp tongue and he was in no mood for a protracted wooing; he had dallied long enough, and he was becoming a laughing stock—which he found intolerable—both in France and in Italy.

“Legitimacy,” he retorted, “is invaluable to those who lack qualities which make it unimportant.”

“And you, my lord, are richly endowed with such qualities?”

He gripped her hand and she winced. “You will soon discover how richly,” he retorted.

He relaxed his grip on her hand and she murmured: “You scowl, my lord Duke. I pray you do not. It will appear that you are not satisfied with your partner. If that is the case, I beg of you, conduct me to the Queen.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” he answered, “until I have had an opportunity—for which I have been waiting ever since I set foot in this country—of talking to you.”

“Then, my lord, I pray you talk.”

“My first purpose in coming to France is to make you my wife.”

“You forget, my lord, that I am a Princess of Naples and that you should not speak thus to me unless you have first obtained the consent of my father.”

“It is the wish of His Holiness.”

“I did not mean the Holy Father. I mean the King, my father.”

“He knows it is the Pope’s wish that our marriage should take place.”

“Nevertheless, my lord, I have received no instructions that I may listen to you.”

“They will come.”

“My lord will understand that, as an obedient daughter, I must wait for those instructions.”

“You are clearly a lady of strong character. I can see that you are one who would make up her own mind.”

“You are right. I have made up my mind to wait for my father’s instructions. I see that the Queen signs for me to return to her. Will you conduct me to her?”

“No,” said Cesare.

She had, however, disengaged herself and, dropping a curtsey, she turned slowly and walked back to the Queen.

Cesare stood for a few seconds glowering after her; then he realized that amused eyes were watching him. He found a bold-eyed girl and turned his attentions to her, but all the time he was seething with rage which he was finding it difficult to hide for he was still conscious of Carlotta who was being much more charming to the insignificant Breton nobleman than she had been to him.

Louis summoned Cesare to his presence. The shrewd eyes of the French King took in the elaborate doublet, the jewels which glittered on hands and neck. Cesare found it difficult to suppress irritation when he was in the presence of the King of France. That determined lack of expression was more galling than jeers would have been. Cesare believed that the King’s mild appraisement of his finery meant: We understand why you must deck yourself so, my bastard Dukeling. These gewgaws would seem very precious to a bastard, who has just escaped from his Cardinal’s robes.

In France Cesare had had to learn restraint, and that was not easy for one of his temperament.

He knelt before the King, and he fancied that Louis took a sly delight in keeping him on his knees longer than he would another.

At length he was bidden to rise. Then Louis said: “The news is not good, my lord Duke, and deeply I regret that it should be my task to impart it.”

Louis’ expression was commiserative but Cesare could not rid himself of the idea that behind it was a certain pleasure.

“It’s from Naples,” he went on. “Federico stubbornly refuses to consent to your marriage with his daughter.”

“Why so, Sire?” demanded Cesare, and the imperious tones sent the royal eyebrows up a fraction.

There was silence, then Cesare added: “I pray Your Majesty, tell me on what grounds the King of Naples objects to my marriage with his daughter.”

“On the grounds of your birth.”

“My birth! I am the son of the Pope.”

Louis’ mouth lifted slightly at the corners. “It is a sad but nevertheless logical conclusion, my lord, that the sons of Popes must be illegitimate.”

Cesare clenched his right fist and banged it into the palm of his left hand. He found it difficult to refrain from taking this man by the shoulders and shaking him, King though he was.

“This is folly,” he cried out.

The King nodded sadly.

“And,” went on Cesare, “I doubt not, in Your Majesty’s power and determination to fulfill your contract with my father, you will ignore the objections of this petty monarch.”

“My lord Duke, you forget that I have carried out my part of the bargain. I gave you your estate and title and my consent for you to woo the lady. I cannot take a father’s place when she has a father living.”

“We could be married here, Sire, and then what could her father do?”

Louis allowed a profoundly shocked expression to cross his face. “You would ask me to come between a daughter and her father? No, not even for my friends could I do it. Moreover I have received protests from all over Europe. There is one here from my brother of England—King Henry VII. He sends word that he is deeply shocked that there is a possibility that bastardy should be linked with royalty, and that a son of His Holiness should marry with the legitimate daughter of a King.” Louis smiled. “I fancy our brother of England is a little shocked that His Holiness should even possess a son—but that is beside the point.”

“And he a Tudor!” cried Cesare, his rage refusing to be controlled. “Can the Tudors feel so certain of their own legitimacy?”

Again the King’s eyebrows were raised, and his expression was so cold that Cesare was immediately made aware that he might be a hostage in a foreign land.

“I could not discuss my brother’s affairs with you,” said Louis sharply. He waved his hand to indicate that the interview was over.

Cesare angrily left the apartment. His attendants, who had been waiting for him at a respectful distance, followed him. He looked at them sharply. Did they know that he had been humiliated?

He resisted an impulse to take one of the men by the ear, to drag him to his apartments and there order that his tongue be cut out. He was determined that none should carry tales back to Rome of what he had suffered in France. First to be flouted by that foolish girl; then to be treated as a man of no account by the King! And what the King did today his friends would do tomorrow.

But caution restrained him. A moment ago he had had a glimmer of understanding as to what his position was. What if he decided to leave France at once? Would he be allowed to go? Was he going to marry Carlotta when it seemed that the whole of France and Europe was against him? Was he going to return to Rome, a laughing stock?

He had to be careful, never forgetting for an instant that he could not behave in France as he did in Italy.

Therefore he noted the face of that man who he fancied had been amused to see his master humiliated. He would remember; but the man must be allowed to keep his tongue while they remained on French soil.

Now that she was to have a child, Lucrezia told herself that this was the happiest time of her life. She refused to look back; she refused to look ahead. The present was all-satisfying.

Each day her love for her husband seemed strengthened; and the Pope, seeing that love, seemed eager to assure her that he also had a great affection for his son-in-law.

In the apartments at Santa Maria in Portico, Cardinals and men of letters continued to assemble; there were whisperings and insinuations, and the political intent of those meetings grew more insistent. The anti-Papal and anti-French party was growing and, since the meetings took place in Lucrezia’s apartments, Alfonso would appear to be one of the leaders of it.

But like Lucrezia, Alfonso quickly wearied of politics. He was barely eighteen and there were so many more interesting things in life than intrigue. He was faintly impatient of men such as Ascanio Sforza who must continually—or so it seemed to him—be watching the behavior of others for slights, insults, innuendoes. Life was good. Enjoy it. That was Alfonso’s motto.

The Pope was so charming, so solicitous of their happiness. None had been more delighted than he to learn of Lucrezia’s pregnancy, and it astonished Alfonso to see this amazing man turn from the dignities of his holy office to the tender care of his daughter. He would walk with the pair in the Vatican gardens and make plans for their child, and he would talk to them in that rich musical voice, so that Alfonso could almost see the wonderful little boy playing in the gardens there in the years to come.

It seemed incredible that anyone would want to be the enemy of such a man; and as long as Cesare remained in France Alfonso was sure he would be completely happy.

One day the Pope said to him: “You and I in company with two of my Cardinals will go on a hunting expedition toward Ostia, for the woods there are full of game and we shall find good sport.” He had laughed to see Alfonso’s expression. “As for Lucrezia, she must stay quietly behind for a few days and rest. I fancy she looks a little tired lately, and we must think of the child. And, my son, all the time you are enjoying the hunt you will be looking forward to the pleasure of reunion with Lucrezia! Oh, you are a fortunate young man.”

Lucrezia had declared he must go, for she knew how he enjoyed a long hunt and he would only be away for a few days. So Alfonso went in the company of the Pope and Cardinals Borgia and Lopez; and he saw yet another side of the character of this man who was his father-in-law, the sportsman and hunter; and he began to believe in those rumors he had heard which declared that Alexander VI was possessed of magical powers; what he believed he now learned was that these did not come from the Devil but from God.

Alfonso would never forget the return from that hunt, the joy of riding into Rome in pale February sunshine and seeing Lucrezia on the balcony watching for their approach.

She ran down to greet them and stood among them, slender and golden-haired, for two months’ pregnancy was not apparent; and there, among the stags and wild goats and other booty of that hunt, he embraced his wife with tenderness and delight which brought tears to the eyes of the Pope and his Cardinals.

Alfonso had cried out: “I am happy … happy to be home.”

And he marveled, realizing what he was now calling his home was that City to which, but a short while ago, he had come with no little dread.

She had missed him, she told him when they were alone. She had been counting the hours to his return.

“Did you ever believe there could be happiness such as this?” asked Alfonso.

“No,” she told him. “I did not believe it.” It was true, for during her love affair with Pedro Caldes she had always known that they could never enjoy delights such as this. She had dreamed of a small house far from Rome in which she, Pedro and their child would live; she had known that if she had gained her happiness with Pedro she would have lost much of that which she shared with her father. Now she had lost nothing. She was completely happy; she was sure that when her baby was born she would cease to dream about that other child who had once been as much to her as the one she now carried.

She said to Alfonso: “No, I did not think there could be such happiness, but now I believe there can be even greater happiness than this. That will be on the day when I hold our child in my arms.”

They lay sleeping, arms entwined; and in their sleep they looked like two innocent children.

The next day brought realization to Lucrezia of what a flimsy thing happiness could be.

Sanchia came to her apartments in the morning.

“It is going to be a sunny day,” she said. “We should prepare for the journey to the vineyards of Cardinal Lopez.”

Lucrezia remembered. Last night the Cardinal had issued the invitation to the ladies, and they had accepted joyfully.

“Why,” said Sanchia, “pregnancy suits you, Lucrezia. You look more beautiful than you did two months ago.”

“It is happiness that suits me,” Lucrezia answered.

“You are not disappointed in my little brother?” Sanchia asked.

“You know my feelings for him.”

“Take care of him, Lucrezia. Take care of him when Cesare comes home.”

“You have news of Cesare?”

“I know that he is not going to marry Carlotta, but I knew that before he went.”

Lucrezia smiled sadly at her sister-in-law. Sanchia had been jealous, she knew, and she was sorry for Sanchia’s unhappiness.

Sanchia said fiercely: “He went in October. It is now February. Yet he remains unmarried. I tell you this, Lucrezia: Cesare is nothing more than a hostage of the French. The bonds are silken, shall we say, but they are nevertheless bonds. Why does Cesare not marry? Because the King of France wishes to keep him in France!”

“You mean he is so attached to Cesare …”

Sanchia laughed. “Do you think the whole world loves your brother as you do? No! The King of France is planning an attack on Italy, and if he holds the Pope’s beloved son as hostage he can be sure that he will be free from Papal interference when he makes the attack.”

“Cesare … a hostage!”

“Why not? He was once before, remember. He escaped at Velletri and thus inflicted humiliation on the French which they will not easily have forgotten. Mayhap they remember it still.”

“But the King of France greatly honors my brother. We constantly hear of the entertainments he gives for his pleasure.”

Sanchia put her face close to Lucrezia’s and whispered: “One of those who accompanied Cesare to France has written that the honors paid to Cesare are like those paid to Christ on Palm Sunday, when less than a week later there were cries of ‘Crucify him.’ ”

“Sanchia! You mean Cesare is in danger!”

“I doubt not that he will know how to look after himself. But he’ll not get Carlotta.” Sanchia lifted her shoulders. “Come, which bonnet will you wear?”

Lucrezia tried to turn her attention to the bonnets. She would not believe that Cesare was in any danger. If he did not marry Carlotta, then he would have someone else. Soon he would be home. She was not going to let fears for her brother cloud her happiness.

So they set out for the vineyards of Cardinal Lopez. They were very beautiful in the pale February sunshine and Lucrezia was determinedly merry, eager to banish the uneasy thoughts which Sanchia had set in motion.

Cardinal Lopez and his household had prepared a feast for the visitors, and they sat watching races or joined in the outdoor games which he had arranged for their entertainment. There was much laughter, but every now and then Lucrezia felt a longing to be with Alfonso that she might tell him of Sanchia’s words which had made her a little uneasy, and seek reassurance. She would not tell her father because, although he would dismiss the rumors, he might in the secrecy of his mind brood on them; but Alfonso, she was sure, would dismiss them as ridiculous because he would know that was what she wanted him to do.

Longing to be with Alfonso, she cried out as they were walking down one of the sloping paths to the stables: “Do hurry. Let us race!”

Bernardina, who was close behind her, gave a whoop of joy and, pulling at Francesca’s gown, shouted: “Come along. I’ll be at the stables first.”

Lucrezia cried: “Not you!” And sped away.

She was leading when her foot tripped over a stone and, as her ankle twisted under her, she fell; Bernardina unfortunately was too close on her heels to pull up and, as Lucrezia went down, fell on top of her. Francesca fell over Bernardina and for a few seconds the pair lay on Lucrezia, their full weight pressing her to the ground. They were laughing as they leaped to their feet; then suddenly they stopped, for Lucrezia had not moved. She was lying, her body twisted and still, exactly as she had fallen.

The Pope sat by his daughter. They had carried her back to her palace, and put her to bed; then they had taken the news to the Vatican that there had been an accident and that the doctors feared the consequences might be serious. Lucrezia lay white and still; she had lost the baby.

It was comforting, when she opened her eyes, to see her father beside her. She put out a hand and he took it. She knew immediately what had happened, because she was aware of the sorrow in his eyes. The loss of a grandchild could make him more unhappy than the news that the French were at the outskirts of Rome.

“Dearest Father …” she began.

Now he was smiling, ready to soothe her.

“You will get better, my daughter,” he murmured. “Your weakness will pass.”

She whispered: “My baby …”

“Oh, but it is an unfortunate accident, nothing more. Two people in love, such as you and Alfonso are, will get many more children. As for this one … we do not even know that it was a boy.”

“Boy or girl, I loved it.”

“Ah, we loved it. But it was not to be.” He leaned over the bed. “And dearest daughter, you are safe. Soon you will be well. I praise the saints for that mercy. Shall I grieve because of an unborn grandchild, when my dearest is spared to me? When they brought me the news of your accident terrible fears beset me, and I cried out that if aught happened to my Lucrezia I would have no more interest in life. I prayed for your life as I never prayed before; and you see, Lucrezia, my prayers have been answered. My beloved is safe. And the child … But I tell you there will be more children.”

“Father,” she said, “stay near me. Do not leave me yet.”

He smiled and nodded.

She lay back and tried to think of the children she and Alfonso would have; when they had a child, a living child, she would cease to mourn for this one; she wanted to think of the future; she wanted to forget the uneasy words she had heard concerning her brother Cesare.

Meanwhile Cesare remained unsatisfied in France. He was wishing that he had never set out on the French adventure. He had been humiliated, he considered, as he never had been before in all his life. Carlotta of Naples hated him, and she had declared to all her friends, who had made sure that her comments should reach his ears, that she would never be known as Madame la Cardinale, as she surely would if she married the Borgia.

When they met, which they did frequently, she would endeavor to appear guileless and imply that he must not blame her for his lack of success in his courtship; she merely obeyed her father who was upheld in his determination by all the royalty of Europe—except of course the King of France.

It was a galling position, but Cesare must control his anger and pretend that he was not perturbed, not growing more and more worried with every passing week.

The King sent for him one day. His Queen was with him and he did not dismiss those few ministers who stood near his throne; which Cesare felt to be an added insult.

“I have grave news for you, my lord Duke,” said Louis, and Cesare was aware that some of those men about the throne were hard pressed to hold back their smiles.

“Sire?” said Cesare, fighting for control with all his might.

“Two of our subjects have married,” said Louis, “and I fear this is not going to please you.”

“Have I any special interest in these subjects of Your Majesty?” asked Cesare.

“A great interest. One is the Princess Carlotta.”

Cesare felt the uncontrollable twitch in his lips; the hot blood flooding his face; he was clenching his fists so tightly that his nails, which were buried in his palms, drew blood.

He heard himself stammering, and his voice seemed to begin in a whisper and end in a roar. “Married, Your … Majesty?”

“Yes, the minx has married her Breton nobleman.” The King lifted his shoulders. “Of course, she had her father’s consent to the marriage, and the Queen and I consider that in these circumstances the matter was out of our hands.”

“His Majesty, the King of Naples, seems very pleased with his daughter’s match,” said Anne of Brittany quickly.

Cesare’s fingers itched to seize his sword and attack the royal pair there and then. They were his enemies; they had arranged this. And to think that it was he who had brought them the Bull which enabled them to marry! They were deliberately insulting him, telling him that the King of Naples did not object to a Breton nobleman of no great importance, whereas he would not accept Cesare Borgia, son of the Pope, as his son-in-law.

It was unendurable. They were asking him to suffer too much humiliation.

Perhaps Louis realized this, because he said quickly: “Ah, my lord Duke, there are other ladies at our Court. Perhaps they would be less capricious.”

“Holy Mother,” prayed Cesare, “keep me calm. Stop this mad racing of my blood which bids me murder.”

He managed to say: “What lady has Your Majesty in mind?”

Louis smiled pleasantly. “This is a bitter disappointment. But I have a good match in mind for you. My kinsman, the King of Navarre, has a fair young daughter. What say you to marriage with young Charlotte of Navarre?”

Cesare felt his heartbeats quicken. He had set his heart on Carlotta, but Charlotte was no mean alternative.

“Alain d’Albret,” went on the King, “come forth, cousin, and tell us what you would say to a match between our good friend the Duke of Valentinois and your little Charlotte.”

The King of Navarre came and stood before the King of France. His looks were sullen. He said: “It does not seem meet to me, Sire, that a Cardinal has a right to marry.”

“The Duke is no longer a Cardinal,” the King reminded him.

Cesare cried: “I have been freed from my vows. I am as fit and able to marry as any man.”

“I should need to be sure that a man who had once been a Cardinal was free of all ecclesiastical ties, before I gave him a daughter of mine,” said Alain d’Albret stubbornly.

Cesare cried out: “You are a fool! The whole world knows I am free.”

There was silence all about him. Louis’ looks were cold. This foreigner had forgotten the strictness of Court etiquette in France.

Cesare said quickly: “I crave pardon. But these matters could be proved to you.”

“They would need to be proved,” said rough Alain.

“You must forgive his caution,” added the King, looking from Alain to Cesare. “He is a father with a father’s feelings.”

“Your Majesty can explain to him that I am free.”

“We will give him full proof,” said the King. “But this will take a little time.”

“I shall need the utmost proof, Your Majesty,” declared Alain.

The King rose and going to Alain put his arm through his; then he turned and beckoned to Cesare, and linking his other arm through Cesare’s he walked with the two of them to an embrasure where he spoke in whispers while those who had watched the previous scene talked among themselves, respecting the King’s wish for privacy.

“The proof will come,” said the King to Alain. “His Holiness will lose no time in supplying it.” He turned to Cesare. “Charlotte’s brother Amanieu will be your brother, my lord Duke. He has long desired his Cardinal’s hat. A Cardinal’s hat, Alain! I feel that, if you saw your son in possession of that, you would hasten your decision, would you not?”

“Proof, Sire,” said Alain. “I must have proof … proof for myself, and a Cardinal’s hat for my son; and then … I should not be averse to accepting a husband for my daughter.”

Cesare was silent. He must have a bride. He could not face the humiliation of returning to Rome without one. And Charlotte d’Albret was the daughter of a King, even as Carlotta was.

He saw in this marriage a means of saving his face, but at the same time he was wary.

Was it true, that which was being whispered throughout the Court: “The King keeps Cesare Borgia here as a hostage”?

Had he suggested this marriage to delay Cesare’s departure from France, to make him a willing visitor rather than an unwilling one? Cesare believed that Louis was even now planning an attack on Milan. Was he, the great Cesare, to be put in the humiliating position of hostage once more?

Yet marriage with a kinswoman of France would serve him well.

He determined then to marry Charlotte as quickly as possible.

The Court of France was at Blois, and the occasion was the wedding of Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, and Charlotte d’Albret.

The King was delighted. He was invariably delighted to be in this beautiful château on the banks of the Loire, so grand yet so exquisite, built as it was on different gradients which made it both picturesque and majestic. Louis loved Blois best of all his châteaux because it was here that he had been born one June day in the year 1462, and it was in the same château on an April night as recent as 1498 that a messenger had brought news to him of the death of King Charles, and kneeling before him had cried: “Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!”

Blois had very special memories for him.

Therefore he was pleased that this marriage should take place at Blois. His armies were ready to march against Milan, and he had succeeded in detaining the Pope’s beloved son on French soil for seven months. His marriage would keep him here for several more months as he would not leave France until his wife was pregnant. Moreover the Borgias were now bound by marriage to the French Royal House—a great honor for them, which they would most certainly recognize.

When Louis was ready to invade Italy he would find that he had the mighty influence of the Pope on his side, and he could congratulate himself on a diplomacy to equal that of Alexander VI. He had obtained his divorce and the support of the Pope—all for Alain d’Albret’s daughter and a paltry estate and title.

So he felt satisfied and benign as he watched the celebrations. And what celebrations these were! Let the Borgia pay. He wanted splendor, so let him have it. His father was one of the richest men in the world. Let these Borgias parade their wealth before the eyes of French cynics. Better for them to spend it on wedding festivities than on armies to hold out against the French.

The weather was warm and sunny and the fields about the castle delightful. It was acclaimed as an excellent idea to have the celebrations out of doors, and tapestries embroidered with flowers were set up in the fields forming square tents without any top covering, so that the clear blue sky was visible. These tapestried walls made a palace of the meadows with a great banqueting hall and ball-room—grass for carpet and the sky for a ceiling.

The Pope, delighted with the arrangements, had sent caskets of jewels for the bride; and little Charlotte, who had been brought up simply, was dazzled.

She was sixteen and young even for her years. She was a quiet little bride and, as her frightened eyes met his, even Cesare was moved by her simplicity. He realized too that she would be ready to admire him, as he seemed very splendid to her and, shut away from the world as she had been, she had not heard of his reputation.

As Cesare sat beside her at the banquet and danced with her under the blue sky in the tapestry-enclosed ball-room, he decided to make her happy while he was with her, for he had already made up his mind that as soon as she was pregnant he would return to Rome.

His ambitions were as strong as ever. He had his plans for conquering Italy. He would get her with child and leave her as chatelaine of his French estates; then he would return to make himself conqueror of his native land and perhaps of the world.

But he did not tell her this, and as he danced, looking very handsome in his wedding garments, he fascinated the simple girl with his witty conversation and his tender looks. Those who knew him well marveled at the change in him, and for a while forgot to be sorry for little Charlotte d’Albret.

As for Charlotte, she was far from sorry for herself. She was the bride of one of the most discussed men in the world, and she had found him charming, gay yet sentimental, tender yet passionate.

So under that May sky at Blois, the bride and bridegroom dreamed of their future, and the bride would have been surprised had she known that in the dreams of this witty yet tender husband she figured scarcely at all.

Lucrezia was by this time pregnant once more, and visiting her father every day.

When Cesare’s messenger Garcia came hot-foot to Rome with the news that the marriage had indeed taken place Alexander was as excited as though it were his own marriage. He sent for Lucrezia immediately and had Garcia brought at once to him although the poor man, exhausted with the fatigue of the journey, collapsed at the Pope’s feet.

Alexander, seeing his condition, had a comfortable chair brought for him, sent for wine and food to refresh him, but would not let him out of his sight until he had recounted what was happening in Blois.

“The marriage has been celebrated, Most Holy Lord,” gasped Garcia.

“And the consummation?”

“That also, Holiness. I waited until morning that I might bring news of this.”

“How many times?” asked the Pope.

“Six, Holiness.”

“A worthy son of his father,” Alexander cried, laughing. “My beloved boy, I am proud of you.”

“His Majesty the King of France congratulated my lord Duke on his prowess, Holiness.”

That made Alexander laugh still more.

“Saying, O Most Holy Lord, that my lord Duke had beaten His Majesty.”

“Poor Louis! Poor Louis!” cried the Pope. “Did he expect Valois to rival Borgia!”

Then he must hear every detail of the ceremony, going on to the consummation of which he liked to hear again and again.

He was heard murmuring for days afterward: “Six times! Not bad … not bad at all, my son.”

He enjoyed telling the story. He repeated it again and again to any who had not heard, and often to those who had, embroidering here and there, multiplying the jewels and the splendor and never leaving out that “six times”; and laughing aloud until the tears came to his eyes.

It was wonderful, thought Lucrezia, to see him so contented. It was but a month since the conception of her child, but she was feeling completely happy again. Her father was delighted; Cesare had a wife; and she had her beloved Alfonso, and they were to have a child. What more in the world could she want?

Sanchia was uneasy. She waylaid her brother as he came from his wife’s apartments.

Alfonso was humming a gay tune which Lucrezia often played on her lute, and the sight of his contented—almost ecstatic—expression irritated Sanchia.

“Alfonso,” she cried, “come into this little room where we can be quiet. I must talk to you.”

Alfonso opened his beautiful eyes, so like her own, in surprise, and said: “You sound disturbed, Sanchia.”

“Disturbed! Of course I’m disturbed. So would you be if you had any sense.”

Alfonso was a little impatient. Sanchia had changed since Cesare had gone away. None of her lovers pleased her and she was continually dissatisfied.

“Well,” said Alfonso stubbornly, “what ails you?”

“The French are planning an invasion.”

Alfonso wanted to yawn; he suppressed the desire with an effort.

“It is no use turning away from what I have to say because you find it unpleasant, Alfonso. You must listen to me. Ascanio Sforza is alarmed.”

“He is always alarmed.”

“Because he is a man of sound sense with his ears attuned to what is going on about him.”

“What goes on about him?”

“Intrigue.”

“Of a truth, Sanchia, you were always a lover of intrigue. I confess it was more amusing when they were intrigues of love.”

“What is going to happen when Cesare comes back?”

“I’ll swear he’ll be your lover in spite of his French wife.”

“He is now firmly allied with the King of France, and the French have always wanted Milan and … Naples. We belong to Naples. Do not forget it, Alfonso. Cesare will never forgive our uncle for refusing him Carlotta. He will band with the French against Uncle Federico. I would not care to be in Naples when Cesare enters with his troops.”

“We are of Naples,” said Alfonso, “and are the son and daughter-in-law of His Holiness, who is our friend.”

“Alfonso, you fool … you fool!”

“I am weary, Sanchia.”

“Oh, go to your wife,” cried Sanchia. “Go … and revel in your love, for what little time is left to you. Alfonso, be warned. You must take great care when Cesare returns to Italy.”

“He has just got him a wife,” cried Alfonso, his brow wrinkling.

“All husbands are not as devoted as you, brother. Some have ambitions beyond making love.” She caught his arm suddenly. “You are my brother,” she said, “and we stand together, as we always have.”

“Yes, Sanchia, indeed yes.”

“Then … do not be lulled into false security. Keep your ears and eyes open, brother. There is danger near us … danger to our house … and do not forget, although you are Lucrezia’s husband, you are also a Prince of Naples.”

Goffredo, who was now seventeen, was aware of the tension and determined not to be left out. The Pope showed great delight in the marriage of Cesare and the pregnancy of Lucrezia, and it seemed to Goffredo that he had little time to be interested in his younger son. People were often less respectful to him than they had ever dared be to Cesare and the dead Giovanni. Goffredo knew why. It was because many declared he was not the son of the Pope, and Goffredo had an uneasy feeling that Alexander himself was inclined to take the same view.

Goffredo admired the Borgias with an intensity of feeling which he could feel for no one else. He believed that if he were not accepted as one of them, life would have no meaning for him.

He determined therefore to draw attention to the similarity between himself, Cesare and the late Giovanni, and took to roaming the streets after dark in the company of his attendants, entering taverns, seeking out women and causing brawls among the men. This had been a particularly favorite pastime of Giovanni before he had died, and Goffredo longed to hear people say: “Oh, he is going the way of his brothers.”

One night as he and his men were roystering on the Bridge of St. Angelo, the guard called to them to halt.

Goffredo, a little alarmed, but determined to acquit himself like a Borgia, swaggered forward, demanding to know what this low fellow thought he was doing in obstructing the pleasure of a Borgia.

The guard drew his sword and two of his soldiers came quickly to his side. Goffredo would have preferred to retire, but that was something which neither Cesare nor Giovanni would ever have done.

The guard, however, was a brave man; moreover it was well known throughout Rome that the Pope was not so fanatically devoted to Goffredo as he was to the other members of his family. Cesare was in France; Giovanni was dead; and the guards of the City of Rome had decided that they would not allow this youngest member of the family to strike terror into the hearts of good Roman citizens, and he should be taught a lesson.

“I ask you, my lord,” said the man civilly, “to go quietly on your way.”

“And I ask you,” blustered Goffredo, “to mind your manners.”

“I mind my duty,” retorted the guard, “which is to defend the citizens of Rome.”

Thereupon Goffredo had no alternative but to fly at the man in a rage which he hoped matched that so often displayed by Cesare; but the guard was waiting for him. His sword pierced Goffredo’s thigh and the young man fell groaning to the ground.

When Sanchia saw Goffredo carried home she thought he was dying. His wound was bleeding profusely as he lay inert on a hastily constructed bier, his face without color, his eyes closed.

Sanchia demanded to know what had happened, and was told that the guard had attacked her husband because he refused to go quietly on his way.

“Why,” declared one of his men, “had there not been so many of us to surround him and protect him he would doubtless have met the same fate as his brother, the Duke of Gandia, and we should have had to dredge the Tiber for his body.”

Sanchia was incensed. First she called the physicians to attend her husband, and when she was assured that his life would be saved she gave vent to her anger. None would have dared attack Cesare or Giovanni as they had Goffredo. It was a sign that her husband was not accorded the respect due to the Pope’s son.

She determined therefore that the guard who had attacked Goffredo should be severely punished as a warning to all who might think they could ill-treat her husband with impunity.

She sought an early audience with Alexander, and was immediately angered because of his lack of concern in the fate of Goffredo. He did not dismiss his attendants nor did he give her that warm and tender smile which he habitually bestowed on all beautiful women.

“Holiness,” cried Sanchia, “is nothing being done to bring this fellow to justice?”

The Pope looked astonished.

“I refer,” went on Sanchia, “to this soldier who dared attack my husband.”

The Pope looked sad. “I regret that little Goffredo is wounded. It is a sorry matter. But the guard who attacked him was but doing his duty.”

“Duty to strike my husband! To wound him nigh to death!”

“We know full well that Goffredo was acting in an unseemly manner, and that when he was politely asked to go quietly on his way, he refused and in his refusal made ready to attack the guard. To my mind there was only one thing for our man to do. He must defend himself … and the peace of Rome.”

“Do you mean he is to go unpunished?”

“Punishment has already been meted out. Goffredo was the offender; his was the punishment.”

“This is your own son!”

The Pope lifted his shoulders and allowed a doubtful expression to creep across his face, which infuriated Sanchia. That he should deny the paternity of her husband, here before others, was intolerable. She lost control of her feelings.

“He is your bastard!” she cried.

“It is a matter of which there has always been some doubt.”

“Doubt! How can there be doubt? He looks like you. He behaves like you. How like a Borgia to roam the streets in search of women to rape!”

“My dear Sanchia,” said the Pope, “we know you are only part royal, and that only as a bastard; but I pray you do not expose your base blood in unseemly brawling.”

“I will speak the truth,” cried Sanchia. “You may be Pope, but you are the father of countless children. It ill becomes you to deny the rights of any of them; but one as close to you as Goffredo …”

The Pope silenced her. “I ask you to go, Sanchia.”

“I’ll not go!” she cried, although she was aware of the amazement and acute interest, perhaps delight, of all those within earshot. “You did not despise my birth when you married me to Goffredo.”

“You are a fitting bride for Goffredo,” said the Pope. “I am uncertain who his father was. It may be that your mother was not certain who yours was.”

“I am the daughter of a King of Naples.”

“So says your mother. A little divergence from the truth has been known to take place on certain occasions, and from your conduct it might seem that this was one of them.”

Sanchia’s blue eyes blazed. This was an insult to her birth and her beauty. Never before had the Pope been known to show such anger toward a beautiful woman.

He said coldly now: “Will you leave me of your own accord?”

It was a threat and, looking round at the two stalwart men who were coming forward, and having no desire to further her humiliation by being hustled from the Pope’s presence, she bowed coldly and retired.

Feeling calmer in her own apartments she told herself that this was an indication of the acute danger in which her country stood. The Pope must intend to stand firmly with the French. She had been insulted; what fate was there in store for her brother? Even Lucrezia would not be able to save him. Had she saved Pedro Caldes?

Very shortly after her interview with the Pope, Ascanio Sforza came to see her.

News of her encounter with the Pope had reached him and he, like Sanchia, was filled with misgivings.

“It is certain,” he said, “that invasion is imminent.”

Sanchia agreed. “What should I do?” she asked.

“For yourself, stay where you are, discover all you can. Remain the friend of Lucrezia, for through her it may be possible to learn what is happening here in Rome. I shall leave as soon as possible for Milan. My brother Ludovico must begin his preparations immediately, and I will be there to help him. As for your brother …”

“Yes,” said Sanchia eagerly. “What of my brother?”

“It is difficult to guess what fate they have in store for him.”

“The Pope is full of affection toward him at this moment.”

“And ready to insult his sister before members of his suite.”

“It may be that I goaded him. I was very angry.”

“No, he would not have treated you as he did if he cared for the goodwill of Naples. Do not trust his friendship for your brother. When the French come Cesare will be with them, and when Cesare is in Rome they will seek to dispose of your brother. Cesare always hated Lucrezia’s husbands, and the fact that Lucrezia is really devoted to this one will not make Cesare hate him less.”

“You think my brother is in immediate danger?”

Ascanio nodded slowly. “He will be when it is known that I have left for Milan. The Pope knows of our meetings; it would be impossible to keep them secret from him. He has his spies everywhere, so he will know that we are on the alert. From the moment I leave Rome, Alfonso’s danger will be increased.”

“Then the wisest thing would be for him to leave at once for Naples?”

“Try to persuade him to leave without delay.”

“It will not be easy. He’ll find it difficult to tear himself from Lucrezia.”

“As you love him,” warned Ascanio, “bid him fly for his life.”

Lucrezia was lying on her bed while her women combed her hair. She was nearly six months pregnant and was easily exhausted.

But she was happy. Three months, she told herself, and our child will be born. She was planning the cradle she would have.

“Is it too soon?” she asked her women. “Why should I not have the pleasure of seeing it beside me when I wake, so that I may say to myself: ‘Only eighty-four days … eighty-three days … eighty-two days.…’ ”

Her women hastily crossed themselves. “It would seem like tempting Providence, Madonna,” said one.

“All will be well this time,” Lucrezia said quickly.

Then she was back on one of those unhappy journeys into the past. She saw herself six months pregnant as now, dressed in the voluminous petticoats which Pantisilea, the little maid who had attended her in her convent, had provided for her, standing before the Cardinals and Envoys and swearing that she was virgo intacta in order that she might be divorced from Giovanni Sforza.

“Perhaps,” she told herself, “I am unlucky. My first child unknown to me, being brought up in the care of some woman in this city! (Holy Mother, make her kind to my little one.) And then that little one who was lost to me before I knew whether it was girl or boy.”

But this was different. This child should be given the greatest care. It was alive within her—lively and strong; and everything indicated that this was a healthy pregnancy.

“My lord is late,” she said. “I had expected him before this.”

“He will be with you before long, Madonna,” she was told.

But she waited and he did not come. She dozed. How tired this healthy little one within her could make her feel; she touched her swollen body lightly and smiled tenderly.

“This time all will be well. It is a boy,” she murmured, “certainly a boy. He shall be called Roderigo after the best and most loving father a woman ever had.”

She heard voices in the ante-room, and sat up to listen. Why was it possible to tell by the tone of voices that something was wrong?

“The Madonna is sleeping. Wait until she wakes.”

“She would want to know at once.”

“No … no. She is happier in ignorance. Let her sleep out her sleep.”

She rose and putting a robe about her went to the ante-room. A group of startled people stared at her.

“Something has happened,” she said. “I pray you tell me quickly.”

No one spoke immediately, and she looked appealingly at them.

“I command you to tell me,” she said.

“Madonna, the Duke of Bisceglie …”

Her hand went to the drapery of her throat, and she clutched it as though for support. The faces of those people seemed to merge into one and recede, as one of her women ran to her and put an arm about her.

“He is well, Madonna. No harm has come to him,” the woman assured her. “It is merely that he has left Rome.”

Lucrezia repeated: “Left Rome!”

“Yes, Madonna, he rode out with a small party a few hours ago; he was seen riding South at full speed.”

“I … I understand,” she said.

She turned and went back into her room. Her women followed.

There was a letter from Alfonso.

It was brought to Lucrezia an hour after she had heard the news of his departure. She seized it eagerly; she knew that he would not willingly have run away from her without a word.

She read it.

He loved her. His life had no meaning without her. But he had been forced to leave her. News had reached him of plots to take his life. He knew that if these plots succeeded they would bring the greatest unhappiness in the world to her, and he was more concerned for the unhappiness his death would inflict on her than for anything else, since if he were dead of what consequence would anything be to him? He was unsafe in Rome, as he had always known he must be, but he had allowed his happiness to blind him to his danger; now that danger was so close that he dared wait no longer. It broke his heart to leave her, but they should not long be separated. He implored her to ride out from Rome, as he had done, and join him in Naples. There they would be safe to pursue their idyll of happiness.

Lucrezia read the letter through several times; she wept over it; and she was still reading it when the Pope was announced.

He would not let her rise; he came to her bedside and taking her in his arms, pressed passionate kisses upon her.

He dismissed her women, and then she saw how angered he was by the flight of Alfonso.

“He is a young fool, a frightened young fool,” stormed Alexander; and Lucrezia was aware then that Alexander had lost some of that magnificent calm which had been his chief weapon in the days of his early triumphs. “Why does he run away from a young and beautiful wife like you?”

“He has not run from me, Father.”

“All will say he has run from you. Giovanni Sforza will be amused, I doubt not, and make sure that the whole world is aware of his amusement. And you to have his child in three months! The young idiot has no sense of the position he holds through marriage into our family.”

“Father, dearest and Most Holy Father, do not judge him harshly.”

“He has hurt you, my child, I would judge any harshly who did that.”

“Father, what do you propose to do?”

“Bring him back. I have already sent soldiers after him. I trust that they will soon restore the foolish boy to us.”

“He is uneasy, Father.”

“Uneasy! What right has he to be uneasy? Has he not been treated as one of us?”

“Father, there is trouble brewing. Cesare’s friendship with the French …”

“My little Lucrezia, you must not bother this golden head with such unsuitable matters. It was meant to delight the eye, not muse on politics. This husband of yours has wandered into a maze of misunderstanding because he thought he understood matters which are beyond his comprehension. It is that sister of his and her friends, I doubt not. I trust they have not contaminated you with their foolish notions.”

“Would these notions be so foolish, Father, if there were war with the French?”

“Have no fear. I would always protect you. And I will bring your husband back to you. This is what you want, is it not?”

Lucrezia nodded. She had begun to cry and although she knew that the Pope hated tears she could not suppress hers.

“Come, dry your eyes,” he begged; and as she moved to obey him, Alfonso’s letter, which had been beneath the bed covering, was exposed and the Pope saw it.

He picked it up. Lucrezia hastily took it from him. Alexander’s expression showed that he was a little hurt, and Lucrezia said quickly: “It is a letter from Alfonso.”

“Written since he went away?”

“He wrote it before he went and sent a messenger back with it. It explains why he has gone and … and …”

The Pope clearly longed to lay hands on the letter, and waited for his daughter to show it to him; but when Lucrezia did not, he was too clever a diplomatist to demand it and perhaps be refused. He did not want any unpleasantness with Lucrezia, and he knew now that her husband considered himself his enemy; therefore Lucrezia would be urged in two directions. The Pope was determined to keep his hold on his daughter and knew that he could best do this by continuing to be her benevolent and understanding father.

“I wonder he did not take you with him,” said Alexander. “He professes to love you dearly, yet he leaves you.”

“It is because of the child I carry. He feared that the journey must be made in such haste that harm might come to me and the child.”

“Yet he decides to leave you!”

“He wants me to join him as soon as possible in Naples.”

The hardening of the Pope’s mouth was not perceptible to Lucrezia. Alexander was determined Lucrezia should never be allowed to leave her father for her husband.

He hesitated for a few seconds, then he said: “He cannot be as anxious for your condition as I am. But perhaps he is young and does not realize that child-bearing can be a hazardous experience. I should not allow you, my dearest, to travel so far until your child is born.”

Their eyes met, and Alexander knew then that Lucrezia was no longer a child, and that he had underestimated her. She knew of the existence of rivalries; she was fully aware of the possessive nature of his love for her, and that Alfonso had every reason to mistrust his intentions toward him.

Lucrezia began to cry once more. She could not stop the tears. They were tears of misery and helplessness.

And Alexander, who could not bear tears, kissed her forehead lightly and went quietly away.

Alfonso reached Naples and, in spite of the fact that the Pope demanded that he return at once, he refused to do so; nor would his uncle, King Federico, give him up.

This infuriated the Pope who knew that the whole of Italy would be aware that Alfonso had good reason for being afraid, since he was prepared to leave a wife with whom, it was common knowledge, he was deeply in love.

Alexander had been suffering from fainting fits more frequently during the last year, and there were occasions when the purple blood would flood his face, when the veins would knot at his temples and he would find it difficult to regain that composure which he knew was one of his greatest assets.

This was one of the occasions when he found it impossible to remain calm.

He sent for Sanchia and told her that she might prepare to leave at once for Naples; since the King was determined to retain her brother he could have her also.

Sanchia was astounded. She had no wish to leave Rome, and she immediately made this clear to the Pope.

He did not look at her, and his voice was cold. “We are not discussing your wishes, but mine,” he told her.

“Holiness, my place is here with my husband.”

“Your place is where I say it shall be.”

“Most Holy Lord, I beg of you, consider this.”

“I have already considered, and this is my decision.”

Sanchia lost her temper. “I refuse to go,” she said.

“Then,” reiterated the Pope, “it will be necessary to remove you by force.”

Gone was the urbane charmer of women. Her beauty meant nothing to him. She had never believed this would be possible.

She cried out in humiliated rage: “If I go, I shall take Goffredo with me.”

“Goffredo remains in Rome.”

“And Lucrezia!” she cried. “I shall take Lucrezia and Goffredo with me. They’ll come. Lucrezia longs to join her husband. If my place is in Naples, then so is hers.”

And with a certain satisfaction, for she saw that she had alarmed him, she left him.

Outside the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico a brilliant cortège was preparing to leave. There were forty-three coaches, and among them a splendid litter with embroidered mattresses of crimson satin and a canopy of damask. This was to carry Lucrezia, and had been designed by the Pope himself to afford the utmost comfort to a pregnant woman during a long and tedious journey.

Now Lucrezia was reclining in the litter, and Goffredo had mounted his horse; together at the head of the cortège they would ride out of Rome for Spoleto.

Standing in the Benediction loggia was Alexander himself, determined to see the last of his daughter before she left Rome; his smile was tender and full of affection and he raised his hand three times to bless them before they departed.

Lucrezia was glad to leave Rome. The past few days had been very uneasy. Sanchia had been forced to return to Naples very much against her will, and Lucrezia was aware that this journey to Spoleto was being undertaken because her father feared that Lucrezia and Goffredo might escape him and join their husband and wife in Naples.

They were in benign and tender custody; there was no doubt of it. Surrounding them were attendants who had sworn they would not let them out of their sight, and who would have to answer to the Pope if they escaped.

The Pope had told Lucrezia of this journey she was to make to Spoleto. She was his beloved daughter, he said, and he wished to do honor to her. He was going to make her Governor of Spoleto and Foligno, a position which usually fell to the lot of Cardinals or high-raking priests. But he wanted all the world to know that he respected his daughter as deeply as he loved her; and that was why he was going to invest her with this duty.

Lucrezia knew that this was but half the reason. He was afraid she would run away, and he could not have borne that; he did not wish to make her his prisoner in Rome. So he made her his prisoner in Spoleto. There she would live in what was tantamount to a fortress, and Spoleto—being a hundred and fifty miles north—put a greater distance between Lucrezia and Alfonso than there would have been had she remained in Rome.

She knew too that her continual tears wearied him. He wanted her to laugh a great deal, to sing to him, to amuse him; he could not endure tears.

The journey was arduous, and it took six days to reach Spoleto. There was much discomfort to be faced for one in her condition, even in her crimson mattressed litter and the satin palanquin which the Pope had had the foresight to equip with a footstool.

Yet she was happier than she had been since she heard of Alfonso’s departure, because her father had told her that he would do all in his power to bring her husband to her, and he doubted not that he would bring about this happy state of affairs within a few weeks by sending Alfonso along to Spoleto to keep her company.

It was impossible to doubt Alexander’s ability to achieve what he set out to do, and she believed that before long Alfonso really would be with her.

And when they crossed the meadows and she saw the great castle, dour and formidable, standing high above the town, she felt as though she were going to a real prison; but, she told herself, if Alfonso should join her there, she would be a very happy prisoner.

In the town the citizens were waiting to greet her; they had crowded into the streets to see her entry in her litter under the canopy of gold damask. They were all eagerness to gape at this Lucrezia Borgia of whom they had heard such tales, both shocking and romantic.

Smiling she was carried under the arches of flowers, and listened with intent pleasure—in spite of her weariness—to the speeches of welcome. Although it was early in the afternoon when she reached Spoleto she did not pass between the Torretta and Spiritata Tower until the sun was about to set.

Inside the castle she was taken into the court of honor with its many arcades, where she handed the briefs, given her by the Pope, to the dignitaries assembled there. She listened to more speeches; she was acclaimed as Governor of Spoleto; and while she listened and smiled so charmingly on all, she was praying: “Holy Mother of God, send Alfonso to me here.”

She would stand at a window, looking down on the town or across the ravine to Monte Luco, watching for Alfonso.

Several weeks passed; August was over. It was September, and in November her baby was due to be born.

She thought of Alfonso constantly; she longed for him. And one day in the middle of the month her women aroused her from her sleep, and she heard the trills of joy in their voices. She had not time to rise from her bed before the door was flung open and Alfonso had her in his arms.

They clung together, speechlessly, while Lucrezia’s trembling hands examined his face as though to assure herself that he was Alfonso in the flesh and not some phantom, conjured up in a dream.

“Alfonso,” she murmured at last. “So … you have come.”

He was a little shamefaced at first. “Lucrezia, I don’t know how I could have left you, but I thought it best. I thought …”

She was never one for recriminations. “Perhaps it was for the best,” she said; and now that he was with her, she wanted to forget that he had ever left her.

“Lucrezia, I thought you would join me. Had I known we should be separated so long I would never have gone.”

“It is over. We are together again,” she told him. “Oh, Alfonso, my beloved husband, I believe I shall never again allow you to pass out of my sight.”

Food was brought to them and eaten on Lucrezia’s bed. There was laughter in the apartment. Some of the noblemen and ladies came in and danced there, and while Lucrezia played her lute, Alfonso sang. They were together again, their hands clinging at odd moments, as though they were determined never more to be parted.

The lovers were happy in Spoleto. Alfonso was with her and it was not in either of their natures to alarm themselves by thought of what the future might hold. The Pope had made it possible for them to enjoy this happiness and they accepted him as their loving father.

They consequently did not allow the fact that the French had invaded Italy to worry them. They heard that Ludovico, unable to get help from his ally Maximilian Emperor of Austria, who was fighting the Swiss, had fled from Milan, taking his brother Ascanio with him, and leaving Milan open to the French. Brilliant politician though Ludovico was, he was no fighter, as he had shown during the previous invasion; he could plan, but he needed military leadership if those plans were to be carried out. It seemed as though Louis was going to have a victory as easy as that of Charles a few years earlier.

There came news which did arouse the lovers from their passionate devotion. Cesare was in Milan.

“I shall soon see my beloved brother again,” cried Lucrezia. “I long to hear about his adventures in France. I wonder his bride could bear to part with him.”

And Alfonso, listening, felt again that cold shadow over his life. It had always been Cesare who had alarmed him more than any.

But it was so easy to forget. Lucrezia would bring out her lute; Goffredo would sing with them and they would call in the men and women for the dancing.

Alexander felt elated. Cesare was home, and it would not be long now before he held his beloved son in his arms. The French were in possession of Milan and the Neapolitans were alarmed; but the Pope in the Vatican was well content. Cesare was a kinsman of the King of France, and the French and the Borgias would now be allies.

Alexander had already formed his plans for the future Borgia kingdom which would be his. The time was at hand when it should be seized; Milan, Naples, Venice, all the Italian States and kingdoms would be concerned with protecting themselves from the French. Now was the time for Cesare to step in with the Papal armies. Now was the time to form the State of Romagna. Towns such as Imola, Forlì, Urbino, Faenza and Pesaro (oh yes, certainly Pesaro; they would be revenged on Giovanni Sforza for the rumors he had circulated concerning the Borgia family) should all fall to Cesare. And here was Cesare, in Italy with his French allies, waiting to seize his Kingdom.

There was only one thing which irked Alexander at this time; this was his separation from his daughter. So he sent messages to Spoleto commanding Alfonso to take his wife to Nepi (that town which, at the time of his election to the Papal Chair, he had given to Ascanio Sforza in exchange for his support, and which he had since retaken from him) where he, Alexander, would join them.

Why should not Cesare ride to Nepi from Milan? There he and Alexander could discuss their plans for the future.

Cesare set out from Milan, eager for the reunion with his family. He longed to see Lucrezia again—even though he would have to see her husband as well; he wanted to bask in the warmth of Goffredo’s admiration; but chiefly he wished to hear his father’s plans for his advancement.

At last Cesare was doing what he had always made up his mind to do: he was a soldier, and the Papal forces were to be at his command.

It was exhilarating to feel the Italian air on his face again. In France he had always been conscious that he was in a strange land and that he was continually watched. The French had disliked him; they had inflicted many humiliations on him, and Cesare was not one to forget humiliations.

As he rode along the road from Milan to Nepi he thought of what he would like to do to the students of the Sorbonne, if it were only in his power to punish them. They had staged a comedy based on Cesare’s marriage, and they had taken particular delight in defaming Cesare and the Pope. Louis had declared his wish that this should be stopped, for the comedy, performed many times, was the talk of Paris; he had even sent two of his officials to the capital to prevent its presentation, but the students, six thousand strong, had refused to stop their performance, and Louis himself had at length gone to Paris to prohibit this insult to one who should have been an honored guest.

Cesare could not be revenged on the students, but he would on others. He had a mental dossier of all those who had offended him, even if it was but by a slighting word or a look. They should all die—in one way or another—for it was Cesare’s doctrine that none should insult him and live.

But revenge must wait. First he had his kingdom to conquer, and the great dream of his life had to be realized.

Lucrezia was watching for him as he rode to the castle of Nepi, and was the first to greet him. She was large with child—the birth was a few weeks away—and this irritated him even as he embraced her, as it reminded him of Alfonso, her husband, and all the rumors he had heard of the affection between these two.

“It has been so long, Cesare, so very long,” she cried.

He took her face in his hands and studied it intently. Her face at least had changed little.

“You had your husband and this child to think of,” he told her.

“Do you think anything would stop me thinking of you?”

It was the answer he expected; the sort of answer she had learned to give in nursery days.

The Pope was ready to greet him, taking him in his arms, kissing him fondly, his face quivering with emotion.

“My beloved son, at last … at last!”

“Father, I would it had been earlier.”

“No matter, now you are here, and we are contented.”

Cesare had nothing more than a curt greeting for his brother-in-law; Alfonso was taken aback, the smile of welcome freezing on his face. He glanced quickly at Lucrezia, but Lucrezia, with whom he had shared all emotions since he had rejoined her at Spoleto, was unaware of him. He was conscious of the pride shining in her eyes, pride in this brother of hers.

The Pope and Cesare were closeted together. They bent over maps as they sketched in the kingdom of Romagna.

“One by one these towns should fall to us,” said the Pope. “No doubt some, terrified of war, will surrender without a fight.”

“I shall know how to terrify them,” Cesare told him.

“The Italians are a pleasure-loving people,” went on the Pope. “Charles’s invasion taught us that. They like to parade in fine uniforms; that is beauty and color, and they are great lovers of beauty and color. They love carnivals, mock-battles; they like the parade of conquering heroes … but the true battle … no! I do not think our task will be difficult.”

“I shall accomplish it with ease.”

“You are confident, my son.”

“Should not all generals be confident before the battle? To believe in defeat is to court disaster.”

“You are going to be a great general, my son.”

“Did I not always tell you so? Do not forget, Father, that I have much time to make up for.” His gaze was accusing, and the Pope flinched, feeling suddenly old, as though he had given over the reins to this headstrong son of his and bidden him drive their chariot.

Alexander looked down at the map and traced a line with his finger.

“We shall subdue all the Roman barons,” he said. “They shall all come under Papal authority. You are Gonfalonier of the Church, my son.”

Cesare’s brilliant eyes looked into those of his father. Yes, Romagna would be under Papal control and, as the Pope would be under the control of his son, Cesare would soon be ruler of those States. Nor would his ambition end there.

Cesare intended to unite all Italy and rule as King.

In their bedroom at Nepi Alfonso and Lucrezia lay together. It was early morning and Lucrezia was conscious of the restlessness of her husband.

“Alfonso,” she whispered. “What ails you?”

“I cannot sleep,” he answered.

“Why not, Alfonso?”

He was silent; she raised herself on her elbow and, although she could not see his face, she touched it lightly with her fingers. He took her hand and kissed it passionately. His was trembling.

“What ails you, Alfonso?” she asked again.

He hesitated. Then he lied. “I know not. It must have been some nightmare.”

She kissed him again and lay down beside him.

He knew how deeply she loved her brother—too deeply, so many had said—and he could not bring himself to say to her, “It is the presence of your brother here at Nepi. While he is here I find it impossible to be at peace. It is as though the castle is full of shadows—fantastic, grotesque and horrible—that hang over me. There are warning shadows and threatening shadows. And I dream of Cesare, standing over me with the naked sword in his hand and that half-smile on his face which mocks me and is so cruel.”

There was rejoicing throughout the Vatican, for Lucrezia had come safely through childbirth and the baby was a boy.

He was to be called Roderigo after the Pope, and no one seemed more delighted than the child’s grandfather, who immediately inspected the baby and declared that the little one resembled him in more than name. Pacing up and down Lucrezia’s chamber with young Roderigo in his arms he seemed to have regained all his lost youth. He was already making plans for the boy’s future, and demanded of all those present if they had ever seen a more healthy boy than this grandson of his.

Lucrezia lying back in her magnificent bed in Santa Maria in Portico, content in her child though she was, was exhausted for her labor had been long and arduous. Alfonso remained by her bed, her hand in his, smiling his delight to see the Pope’s pleasure in the child.

Cesare had not accompanied them on their return to Rome, and Alfonso could forget those nights of terror now Cesare was far away.

Outside in St. Peter’s Square were the sounds of soldiers at their drill, for the Papal armies were preparing to march; and although the Pope showed himself enchanted with this new baby, his soldiers were the enemies of the child’s paternal relatives.

Sanchia was in Rome, as Lucrezia had begged the Pope to allow her sister-in-law to return; and unable to deny his daughter her whims Alexander placed no obstacle in the way of Sanchia’s return, and when she came back treated her as though there had been no differences between them.

Lucrezia was delighted to have her with her; Alfonso was more than delighted; he was relieved. He could not have too many friends about him and he trusted his sister completely.

This was the day of the christening of the infant Roderigo, and there was great ceremony in the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico. No one would have guessed that so recently the Pope had declared that the lords of Pesaro, Forlì, Urbino, Imola and Faenza had forfeited their rights to these dominions because they had failed to pay their tithes to the Church, and that this declaration was the sign for Cesare to begin his series of attacks.

All was gaiety in Lucrezia’s palace for the christening of her baby boy. She was too weak to be up, so she lay in her bed among her pillows of red satin embroidered with gold; and the room in which she lay had been hung with velvet of that delicate blue made fashionable by Lucrezia herself and called Alexandrine blue.

Guests came to her bedside—all the most important men and women of Rome; they brought gifts and compliments, and they all declared their good wishes for the baby’s health and prosperity.

Lucrezia was very tired, but she sat up on her cushions bravely smiling while her father looked on with approval. This was his way of showing his love for her child, of telling her that this little Borgia should have his share of that indefatigable love and devotion which Lucrezia knew so well because she had shared it.

Many Cardinals had gathered in the chapel, and when the time for the christening drew near they went in a splendid procession from the palace chapel to the Sistine Chapel which was adorned with Botticelli’s Daughters of Jethro and Perugino’s Handing over of the Keys.

Holding the baby was Juan Cervillon, the brave Spanish Captain whom Lucrezia had come to look upon as her friend; and very splendid was the little Roderigo in his ermine-edged gold brocade.

At the altar the Archbishop of Cosenza (Francesco Borgia) took the baby from Cervillon and carried it at the font while Cardinal Carafa performed the baptismal ceremony.

It had been the Pope’s wish that after the ceremony the baby should be handed to a member of the Orsini family, that all present might take this as a sign of his desire for friendship with them.

The effect was spoilt when the young Roderigo, having behaved perfectly from the moment he left Santa Maria in Portico and all through the ceremony in the Sistine Chapel, set up a wail of anguish as the Orsini took him, and continued to cry fiercely until he was taken into another pair of arms.

An evil omen, said the watchers. The Orsinis should beware of the Holy Father and he of them.

The days which followed the baptism were uneasy, and even Lucrezia and Alfonso could not escape the tension.

Lucrezia’s friend, Juan Cervillon, came to her the day after the baptism and told her that he had been long from his home, and wanted to return to Naples that he might see his wife and family.

“You must go, Juan,” Lucrezia told him. “It is not to be expected that you should be separated from them for so long.”

“I have asked the permission of His Holiness,” he told her.

“And it has been given?”

“Yes, but somewhat reluctantly.”

Alfonso, who had joined them and stood listening, said: “That is to be understood. You have served him well.”

“I shall never forget,” said Lucrezia, “that it was you, Juan, who persuaded King Federico to allow my husband to come to me at Spoleto.”

“I was merely the ambassador of His Holiness.”

“But you worked well for us, I know, dear Juan. Do not slip away without saying good-bye to us; and when you say good-bye I shall want you to promise that you will not stay long away from us.”

He kissed her hand. “I promise that,” he said.

That day Cesare came home. He was eager to raise more money for his campaign, and spent long periods shut in with the Pope discussing his plans.

He came to see Lucrezia, told her that she looked wan, and was curt to Alfonso as though he blamed him for Lucrezia’s fragility; and he scarcely looked at the baby.

It was reported to Lucrezia that he had cut short the Pope’s eulogies on his grandson.

“He is jealous,” said Alfonso to Lucrezia, and she noticed that the fear was back in his eyes and that when Cesare was near he was a changed man. “He is jealous of my love for you and yours for me, of your father’s love for you and our child.”

“You are wrong,” soothed Lucrezia. “He is over-anxious because I have taken so long to recover from little Roderigo’s birth. We have always been such an affectionate family.”

“An affectionate family!” cried Alfonso. “So affectionate that one brother murders another.”

She looked at him with that hurt expression in her eyes which made him hasten to soothe her. “I spoke without thinking. I repeated idle gossip. Forgive me, Lucrezia. Let us forget I have spoken. Let us forget everything but that we love and are together.”

But how was it possible to forget those fears when a terrible tragedy occurred two days later.

Alfonso heard of it and came pale-faced and trembling to Lucrezia.

“It is Juan Cervillon,” he stammered; “he will never go home to Naples now. His wife and children will never see him, as they hoped. He was stabbed to death late last night when leaving a supper party.”

“Juan … dead! But it was only yesterday that he was with us.”

“Men die quickly in Rome.”

“Who has done this terrible thing?” cried Lucrezia.

Alfonso looked at her but did not answer.

“They will bring his murderers to justice,” Lucrezia said.

Alfonso shook his head and said bitterly: “People recall the death of your brother, the Duke of Gandia. He died after he left a supper party. Juan has already been buried in Santa Maria in Transpontina in the Borgo Nuovo, and it is said that none was allowed to see his wounds.”

Lucrezia covered her face with her hands. Alfonso went on almost hysterically: “He was heard, shortly before he died, talking scathingly of the affair of Sanchia and your brother Cesare, and it is said that he knew too many Papal secrets to be allowed to take them out of Rome.”

Lucrezia kept her face hidden. She did not want to see the haunting fear in her husband’s.

The death of Juan seemed to be the beginning of a new terror. There were several deaths—from stabbing, in alleys after dark; some bodies were recovered from the river; and there were many who passed mysteriously away and in such a manner that none could say how they had died. They were attacked by sicknesses of varying symptoms; some seemed to become intoxicated and die in their sleep. There was one fact which was the same in the cases of many mysterious deaths; those who suffered from them had supped at the Borgia table not long before their deaths.

The Borgias had a new weapon; all Rome knew what it was: Poison. They had their special apothecaries working for them, compounding and perfecting from their poisons recipes, it was said, which they had brought with them from Borja, their native town on the borders of Aragon, Castile and Navarre; and these secrets they had learned from the Moors. Spanish Moors and subtle Italians, a formidable combination, and from it was concocted Cantarella, that powder which was becoming feared by all whose daily life brought them into contact with the Borgias.

Ferninando d’Almaida, the Portuguese Bishop of Ceuta, was the next victim of note. He had been with Cesare in France, and it was said that he had seen Cesare humiliated more than once. He died mysteriously in camp with Cesare.

Meanwhile Cesare’s military operations were going forward with the utmost success, and he was now ready to turn his attention to Forlì which was in the hands of the Countess of Forlì, Caterina Sforza, reputed to be one of the bravest women in Italy.

She was fully aware that she could not hold out against Cesare. Imola, Caterina’s first stronghold, had already fallen to his troops, and she sent messengers from Forlì to Rome imploring the Pope for mercy.

The Pope had no intention of granting mercy since Forlì must fall to Cesare, and was chosen to be an important part of the Kingdom of Romagna; so he had the messengers arrested, and when they were tortured they “confessed” that the letter they brought to the Pope had been treated with a poison which was intended to bring about his speedy death.

There was consternation in the Vatican. When Lucrezia heard the news she ran to her father and burst unceremoniously into his presence. She flung herself into his arms and kissed him again and again.

“There, there!” soothed Alexander, stroking the long golden hair. “What is there to feel so excited about?”

“They might have killed you!” cried Lucrezia.

“Ah,” said Alexander, “it is worth the risk to see how much my beloved daughter cares for her father.”

“Father, life without you would be intolerable.”

“And you a wife! And you a mother!”

His eyes were alert, watching. The desired answer was: What are these to me without my beloved, my sacred Holy Father, my affectionate earthly father?

She kissed his hands and he felt her warm tears on them. Such tears did not displease him.

“All is well, my dearest,” he murmured. “All is well. We are too wily for them, we Borgias.”

“That they should dare!” she cried.

Then she stopped, as she remembered the rumors she had heard of how men supped at the Borgia tables and said good-bye to life. She thought of poor Juan Cervillon, who had been so gay and happy one day, anticipating his return to his family, and whose body was in the grave less than twenty-four hours later.

Cesare marched on Forlì, determined to revenge the threat to his father’s life. He would have no mercy on Forlì, whose Countess had dared attempt to give the Borgias a dose of their own medicine. She must understand the might of the Grazing Bull.

From the battlements of her castle Caterina watched the soldiers encamped below. Her case was hopeless but she was not going to give way until she had inflicted great damage on the enemy. It was not in Caterina’s nature to give way without a fight. She was the illegitimate daughter of Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza, and thus her ancestor was the famous condottiere, Francesco Sforza. She had been only sixteen when she was married to Gerolamo Riario, nephew of Pope Sixtus who made him Count of Forlì. This man had been notorious for his cruelty and, shortly after his marriage to Caterina, the people had risen against him, entered his castle, stripped him and thrown his naked body from the towers. She was afterward married to Giacomo de Feo who met a similar fate at the hands of the mob; but this time Caterina was older and, determined on revenge, assembled her soldiers and pursued her husband’s murderers to their village, where she ordered that every man, woman and child in that village should be hacked to pieces; and this was done. That was the sort of woman Caterina had become.

Now she stood in the forefront of the battle directing her soldiers, fighting till the last, extracting every sacrifice from Cesare and his men, knowing that in the end, because of their superior weapons and numbers, they must defeat her.

When Cesare broke through and forced his way into the castle she was waiting for him, her long hair falling in disorder about her shoulders, a mature woman but a tempestuous and beautiful one.

“I surrender,” she said with dignity.

“Having no alternative,” Cesare reminded her.

Cesare came close to her and stood watching her; their eyes met and his were full of latent cruelty.

This was the woman who had attempted to poison his father, so her messengers had said when the Question was applied to them. He would let her see what befell those who thought they could oppose the Borgias.

Caterina measured her opponent. She had heard stories of the chivalry of the French, and she remembered that when Giulia Farnese had fallen into the hands of Yves d’Allegre, that gallant French captain, she had emerged unscathed.

“I demand,” she went on, “that I be handed over to the French.”

“Why so?” said Cesare. “Are you not my prisoner? Do not imagine that I shall let you go.”

Caterina thought in that moment how glad she was that she had sent her children away. For herself, she was a woman who had enjoyed many adventures and it had been said with some truth that since the death of her husbands she had surrounded herself with men who would work wholeheartedly for her, their only reward being a share of her bed.

She understood the meaning in those eyes of his. She was not alarmed; in fact she was excited; although she would not let him know this. His very cruelty and the rumors she had heard of his barbarism made an appeal to her wild nature.

“What would you have of me?” she asked, putting out a hand to ward him off.

He struck down the hand and she winced.

“I demand the droit de seigneur.”

Caterina’s eyes flashed. “Not content with the rape of my city you would rape my person?”

“I see you understand your predicament perfectly,” said Cesare.

“I ask you to leave me.”

“It is not for you to ask, but to submit,” said Cesare, his eyes glowing with sudden lust as he seized her by the shoulder. She would fight, this wild woman, and he would enjoy an encounter such as those he had shared with Sanchia.

He called aloud: “You may all leave me with the Countess.”

She sought to evade him, and the struggle began.

Cesare’s laughter was demoniacal. She would fight, and she must surely be the loser. She should remember that he had stormed the castle; she should know that every stronghold must fall before him.

It was more than a sexual adventure, this; it was a symbol.

Cesare was returning to Rome. He came as a conquering hero, and the Pope was preparing a magnificent ceremony that all might realize his pride in his son.

In truth Cesare was returning in a far from triumphant mood. It was merely to raise money and change his plans that he had been forced to return to Rome, for unexpectedly, Ludovico, being helped by Maximilian of Austria, had reconquered Milan and the French had found it necessary to recall all their troops to the troubled area of Lombardy. As Cesare had been fighting his battles with the help of his French allies he suddenly found his armies so denuded that he had scarcely enough men to leave guarding the towns which he had conquered. Accordingly there was nothing he could do but return to Rome.

But he was not eager for the world to know how much he had relied on the French; therefore Cesare must return in triumph as the victorious Romans had done in the past.

Cesare’s motto was Caesar aut nihil. He was determined to hold what he had gained and gain still more.

Soon after the capture of Forlì, Cardinal Giovanni Borgia had come to the town in order to congratulate his kinsman on his victory; he had however been suddenly seized with a violent sickness, and died within a few hours of being taken ill.

There were whispers of Cantarella and, although there seemed to be little motive, Cesare was suspected of murdering his kinsman. It was known that Cesare needed little motive—a look would suffice to annoy him and bring him to the decision that the one who had given it was unfit to live.

On account of the Cardinal’s death, Cesare decided to enter Rome in mourning. It was an effective spectacle and the people who watched it did so in silence. The carriages—one hundred of them—which came in advance of the soldiers were draped in black; there were no drums nor fifes, and the only sound heard in the streets of Rome was the tramp of feet and the roll of carriage wheels. The Swiss guards wore black velvet, and the great black plumes in their hats made them look like menacing birds of prey as they marched.

Cesare himself was a somber figure in black velvet, its darkness accentuating the bright auburn of his hair and beard. Beside him rode his brother Goffredo with Alfonso who, on the Pope’s instructions, had gone to the gates of the city to ride with Cesare.

Above the soldiers, floated the banners with their emblems of the Grazing Bull and the Golden Lilies of France.

Lucrezia, watching from the balcony, could not take her eyes from the three men—all of them so handsome—Cesare in the center, aloof in his black velvet doublet from the brilliantly clad and bejeweled young men on either side of him.

Lucrezia saw that her handsome husband was nervous. There was in his eyes that expectancy, that furtive horror, which she had noticed before when he was in the company of her brother Cesare.

Cesare had arrived in Carnival time, and the people were given a subject for their revelry which was certain to please the Pope. There were masques depicting Cesare’s victories over his enemies; poems and songs were written of his brilliant soldiery and his daring campaigns.

Cesare was in good spirits. He had no doubt that he would achieve his destiny. He danced with Lucrezia in the presence of his father and their dances were those of Spain. He had renewed his pursuit of Sanchia, and it was reported throughout Rome that they were lovers again. Goffredo worshipped his brother and sought to copy him in everything; he was delighted that his wife pleased the great Cesare, and took to himself great credit for having married her that he might provide Cesare with the best mistress he had ever had.

As for Sanchia, her feelings toward him were mingled; she hated him yet she found him irresistible; and as before, her hatred increased her passion.

But there was one thing which struck Cesare during this time. Lucrezia was no longer a child, no longer so pliable; and he realized with a shock that her loyalty to her husband might prove greater than that which she had for him.

Lucrezia had been present at those occasions when members of the Neapolitan and Milanese factions had put their heads together and plotted against Cesare Borgia. Lucrezia, his own sister, might be working against him!

Cesare noted the Pope’s devotion to his grandson. If the baby was in the Vatican gardens, Alexander would find some pretext for going out to him. He was becoming almost foolish in his adoration of his grandchild, and this was to a certain extent the measure of his love for Lucrezia.

With growing suspicion Cesare began to reassess the state of affairs in the Vatican. His sister’s husband was his enemy and had great influence with his sister, who in her turn had great influence with the Pope.

There was only one person who must be allowed to dominate the Pope; and there was only one whom his sister must serve: Cesare Borgia.

He began to make plans concerning that very handsome but very weak boy to whom they had married Lucrezia.

He found it difficult to be polite to the young fool, and increasingly irksome to see them together, to witness a hundred little signs of their fond and foolish love. The thought of their eagerness for each other drove Cesare to something like a madness, from which even the inordinate sensuality of Sanchia could not relieve him.

He would sit in his rooms above the Pope’s in the Vatican, for on his return to Rome he had not gone to his own palace, and there he would make plans. He would look out over Rome, of which he was now master, as his troops were camped all around the city and in their hands was the law. If any committed a misdemeanor—and a misdemeanor could be an idle word spoken in a tavern against Cesare Borgia—they would not repeat it. The gallows on the St. Angelo’s Bridge was well supplied with hanging corpses, a lesson for all to see.

He was lord of Rome. He was Cesare.

So why should he allow an insignificant and foolish youth to irritate him?

Thunder and lightning rent the darkness over the eternal city. It was the Feast of St. Peter, and there was not a soul to be seen in the streets, for all had scuttled to safety as the first great raindrops had begun to fall. The rain splashed down in the streets and danced back as though in fury. Overhead the sky was black; and in their houses the people trembled.

Alexander was in his apartments with the Bishop of Capua and his chamberlain, Gasparre, executing some formal and unimportant business.

“How dark it is!” he said, looking up. “I cannot see to read.”

“The storm grows fierce, Most Holy Lord,” said the Bishop.

“We shall have to have lights,” replied the Pope. “And see, the rain is coming in through the windows.”

Gasparre was on his way across the apartment to call for lights and the Bishop had gone to the window when the roof immediately above the Papal chair collapsed.

Gasparre cried out in alarm and he and the Bishop, choking with the dust which filled the air, ran to that spot where the Pope had been sitting.

They could not lift the heavy beams, so they ran from the apartment shouting for help.

“The Pope is dead,” cried Gasparre. “The roof has collapsed and he in the chair is buried beneath the masonry.”

Guards and officials were running into the apartments; and it was not long before the news was spreading through Rome: “The Pope is dead. This is the work of God. He has been struck down because of his evil deeds. God has taken his life, as he and his son have taken the lives of so many.”

The people were preparing to riot, as they invariably did on the death of the Pope. The wise ones barricaded themselves in their houses; and guards were placed at the gates of the Vatican.

In the Pope’s apartment men worked hard to lift the fallen masonry.

“He cannot be alive,” they said.

They crossed themselves; they believed that what they saw was the work of God. They were astonished though that God had not taken Cesare with his father. Cesare’s rooms above the Pope’s had been hit; his floor had collapsed and it was under this that the Pope now lay buried; but Cesare had left his apartments only a few moments before the lightning had struck a chimney and a thunderbolt had crashed through the roof.

Cesare heard the news and came hurrying to his father’s apartment.

He was horrified. In those moments he realized that he needed his father as much now as he had needed him all his life. If the Pope died there would be a new Pope, and what of Cesare’s grandiose plans then? How could he carry them out without the help of the Holy Father? Who would respect him without the might of his father behind him?

“Oh my father,” he cried. “You must not die. You shall not die.”

Calling for shovels and axes, he tore at the masonry, his hands bleeding, the sweat pouring down his face.

“My lord,” gasped Gasparre, “His Holiness cannot be alive.”

Cesare turned and struck the chamberlain across the face.

“Work harder!” he shrieked. “He is under there and he is not dead. He is not dead, I tell you.”

Under his orders the men obeyed; sweating and panting they lifted the great beams and at length Cesare discovered a corner of the Pope’s cloak. He seized it with a shout of triumph and in a few breathless minutes Alexander, unconscious and bleeding from cuts, was exposed to their view. Cesare shouted orders. “Help me carry him to his bed. Send for physicians. Let no one delay. If my father dies, so shall you all.”

Alexander was very weak, but he was not dead and, when Cesare knelt down and called aloud his thanks to God and the saints for his father’s escape, he opened his eyes and smiled at his son.

“Oh my father,” cried Cesare, “you are still with us. You must not leave us. You must not.”

His voice had risen to a hysterical cry which the Pope seemed to interpret as a call for help; slowly he smiled, a beautiful smile of reassurance; and those watching said: “These Borgias are not human. They have powers of which we know nothing.”

The doctors said that the Pope had sustained a great shock, that he was suffering from an acute fever, and that there must be more bleeding.

“Then bleed him,” cried Cesare. His eyes glinted threateningly. “His life is in your hands. Forget it not, for I never will.”

He sent for Lucrezia and they sat together in the sickroom, their arms about each other, fearful for the life of the beloved man in the bed.

“You will nurse him, Lucrezia; you only,” insisted Cesare, his eyes wide with fear; for he believed that there might be some to seize this opportunity and attempt to do that to the Pope which he and his son had done to so many. Cesare put his face against his sister’s. “You, I … and our father … we are as one,” he went on. “We must be together … always. Therein lies our strength and our happiness.”

“Yes, Cesare,” she answered.

“Do not forget it, sister. We may be Pope … we may be General … we may be wife and mother … but first—always first—we are Borgias.”

She nodded, and she was afraid. She had seen lights in Cesare’s eyes which terrified her.

But at this time there must be no thought in her head but that of her father’s well-being. It would be her duty and her pleasure to nurse him back to health.

Alexander was a Titan. A few days after the accident, which would have proved fatal to most men of his age, he was sitting up in bed, as merry as he had ever been, with the members of his family about him, his intellectual powers undiminished, receiving ambassadors, conducting matters of Church and State with a vigor which would have been astonishing in a man twenty years his junior. His eyes dwelt more fondly on one member of the family than on any other: his beloved daughter Lucrezia. Cesare was conscious of this.

Alexander had been aware of Cesare’s alarm and grief but he knew the reason for his hysterical emotion was in a large measure due to fear of the loss of that great protective canopy of Papal influence under which Cesare was sheltering. Cesare knew, as did every head of state in Italy, that once that canopy was removed, Cesare and all his brilliant triumphs would not last four days. Cesare had every good reason to keep his father alive.

But the fear in Lucrezia’s eyes was not for her own future. Dear improvident child! she did not think of that. She had laid her hands against his chest and wept in her emotion of love. She had said: “Most beloved, Most Holy Father, how could I endure my life without you!”

It was gratifying to know that his son realized the worth of his father’s protection; but the knowledge of his daughter’s disinterested love was more precious than anything in Alexander’s life at this time.

He loved her more deeply than ever before. His eyes followed her about the room, and he was uneasy when she was not there.

He declared: “I will have none but my daughter to nurse me.”

And when she threw herself beside his bed and declared with tears in her eyes that she would be near him night and day, they mingled their tears, and then because the Pope had never encouraged tears in himself or his family, he held her to him and cried: “For what do we weep? We should laugh, daughter, sing songs of joy, for what father in this world was ever blessed with such a daughter, and what daughter ever had such love from a father as I give to you?”

She must leave Santa Maria in Portico and stay in the Vatican. An apartment must be made ready for her next his own. Then he would rest easily knowing that at any hour of the day or night he had only to call to bring her to his bedside.

There were two who watched with dissatisfaction. Cesare because he could see that his sister’s influence with their father could at any moment outstrip his own; Alfonso because Lucrezia had moved to the Vatican where he was not allowed to join her, and this meant that he must, temporarily, give up his wife to her father.

Alfonso fretted and spent a great deal of time with his friends, those men and women with whom he had associated in Lucrezia’s apartments before the French invasion. They were mostly Neapolitans, who were on the alert, measuring the extent of the alliance between the Borgias and the French.

Cesare, knowing this, told himself that Alfonso was more than an irritation. He was a danger. Lucrezia was devoted to him; what might he not ask of her, and knowing her influence with the Pope, what might come of it?

It seemed to Cesare that Alfonso—insipid youth though he was—was one of his most dangerous enemies.

During that July of the Jubilee year 1500 there were many pilgrims in Rome. Christians were arriving from every part of Europe and many of them, either because of poverty or piety, spent their nights sleeping against the walls of St. Peter’s.

It was a night of moonshine and starlight, and Alfonso was taking supper with Lucrezia in her apartments of the Vatican. They were alone together and Alfonso, saying his last farewell complained bitterly of the need to leave her.

“Very soon, dearest, my father will be recovered,” said Lucrezia. “Then I shall be with you in Santa Maria.”

“He is well enough now for you to leave him,” retorted Alfonso sulkily.

“He needs me here … for a little longer. Be patient, my dear husband.”

Alfonso kissed her. “I miss you so much, Lucrezia.”

She touched his face tenderly. “As I do you.”

“Dearest Lucrezia, the nights seem long without you. I dream still …!”

“Your nightmares, dearest? Oh that I were there to comfort you and tell you there is nothing to fear. But soon, Alfonso … perhaps next week.”

“Next week, you think?”

She nodded. “I will speak to my father.”

“I long for next week.”

They embraced and, as it was approaching midnight, he left her.

With his gentlemen-in-waiting, Tomaso Albanese and his squire, he left the Vatican and came into the Square. It was very quiet, as the place was deserted except for a group of pilgrims who huddled on the steps of St. Peter’s.

“It may well be,” said Alfonso to Albanese, “that this time next week we shall no longer have to make these journeys. My wife will be with me in Santa Maria.”

“I rejoice, my lord,” answered Albanese.

They had moved a little nearer to the group of pilgrims. Alfonso scarcely glanced at them because they were such a common sight; but as he walked on there was a sudden movement, a rustle, the sound of quick footsteps and, startled, Alfonso and his two men suddenly found themselves surrounded.

It happened in a few seconds. The pilgrims had thrown back their ragged cloaks, and their swords were poised ready for action. Alfonso realized that he had been ambushed and that his life was in imminent danger. But he was young and strong, and expert with the sword.

“On guard,” he shouted, and drew his sword, but even as he gave the order his shoulder was pierced, and the hot blood was streaming down the gold embroidery of his doublet.

Albanese and the Squire had drawn their swords and were giving a good account of themselves against the attackers; but the latter had the advantage in numbers, and Alfonso was already faint from loss of blood.

A sword of one of his assailants pierced his thigh, and with a groan he fell fainting to the ground. Two of the “pilgrims” then tried to pick him up and hustle him to a waiting horse, but the gallant Albanese and the Squire, while calling loudly for the Papal Guards, threw themselves into an attack against those who were seeking to remove Alfonso.

There was a shout from the precincts of the Vatican followed by the sound of running feet.

“Disperse!” cried one of the attackers, and they all leaped on to their horses and galloped away as the first of the Papal Guards made his appearance.

“We have been attacked!” cried Albanese. “Our master is in urgent need of attention.”

They picked up Alfonso and, with the help of the guards, carried him into the Vatican.

“My wife …” murmured the fainting Alfonso. “Take me to my wife … and no other.”

Lucrezia was with her father, sitting on one side of his bed while Sanchia sat on the other, and thus it was into the Pope’s bedchamber that Alfonso was carried.

Lucrezia gave a cry of horror as they laid Alfonso on the floor, and then with Sanchia she rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Alfonso … my dearest!” cried Lucrezia.

Alfonso’s eyes were glazed. He looked appealingly into Lucrezia’s face. “Save me, Lucrezia,” he murmured. “Do not let him come near me …”

Sanchia gave orders to the men: “Call the physicians without delay. Some of you help us to get him to a bed. Bring hot water and bandages! Oh my brother, have no fear. We will save you.”

But he kept his eyes on Lucrezia as he said distinctly so that all could hear: “I know who has sought to kill me. It is your brother … Cesare!”

Then he closed his eyes; and all those in the room believed that he would never open them again.

Alfonso lay in the Borgia Tower, in a room the walls of which had been decorated by Pinturicchio. Sanchia was with him; so was Lucrezia; they had cut away his doublet and staunched the flow of blood while they waited for the physicians to come and dress his wounds.

“Together and alone we will nurse him,” said Sanchia to Lucrezia. “It is the only way if he is to live.”

Lucrezia agreed. She was conscious now of the reality of that terror which had overshadowed Alfonso’s happiness and she was determined to nurse him back to health. She knew against whom she had to protect him, and she was determined to do this.

“I will have beds made for us in this room,” she said.

“Beds for both of us,” added Sanchia. “Lucrezia, if he lives after this night’s outrage, we alone must prepare his food, and we must not leave the room together. One of us must always be here.”

“It shall be so,” said Lucrezia.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the Neapolitan ambassador.

“How fares my lord?” he asked.

“We cannot say yet,” answered Sanchia.

“His Holiness is insistent that I remain while the physicians dress his wounds.”

Sanchia nodded.

“Why are the doctors so long in coming?” cried Lucrezia. “Do they not understand that delay is dangerous?”

Sanchia put her arm about Lucrezia. “My dear sister,” she said, “you are overwrought. They will be here soon … and if he lives through this night … we will save him. You and I together.”

When the physicians came Sanchia drew Lucrezia to a corner of the room while Alfonso’s wounds were dressed and the ambassador looked on.

Sanchia’s voice was cold and angry as she whispered: “Lucrezia, you understand what this means … all that this means?”

“I heard his words,” Lucrezia replied.

“We have to fight him! We have to fight your brother and my lover for Alfonso’s life.”

“I know it.”

“They would have taken him to the Tiber, as they did your brother Giovanni. It is the same method … so successful before. Thank God it failed this time.”

“Thank God,” whispered Lucrezia.

“There will be other attempts.”

“They shall not succeed,” declared Lucrezia fiercely.

“The Pope understands. That is why he insists on the Neapolitan ambassador’s watching the dressing of the wounds. He does not want it said that poison was inserted into his blood by the Papal doctors. You love him, do you not? He is your husband and should be more to you than any other. Can I trust you with my little brother?”

“Can I trust you with my husband?”

Then they began to cry and comforted each other, until Sanchia said: “It is not the time for tears. If he recovers we will have a stove brought into this room, and all that he eats shall be prepared by us. We will stand guard over him, Lucrezia … my little brother, your beloved husband.”

“It is wonderful, Sanchia,” said Lucrezia, “at such a time to have someone whom one can trust.”

“I feel that too,” answered Sanchia.

In the streets the people stood in little groups, discussing the attempt on the life of Alfonso of Bisceglie. In the Vatican there was much whispering and hurrying to and fro.

In the sick-room Alfonso hovered between life and death, and two women with a fierce fanaticism in their eyes stood guard over him. In a corner of that room two beds had been placed, although they were not occupied at the same time. When Sanchia slept Lucrezia was on guard and Lucrezia slumbered while Sanchia watched Alfonso. They had had a field-stove brought into the apartment in readiness, to prepare his food.

Sanchia had demanded that the guards placed outside the apartment should be those whom she was sure she could trust—members of her own household and her brother’s. She sent messages to her uncle, King Federico, telling him what happened, and as a result Messer Galeano da Anna, a noted Neapolitan surgeon, arrived in the company of Messer Clemente Gactula, Federico’s own physician.

By this time it seemed almost certain that Alfonso would live, and now that he was well enough to realize that either Lucrezia or Sanchia was constantly with him and that his doctors were those sent by his uncle, he felt a new confidence and with this came a new strength.

The Pope was a little irritated by his daughter’s desertion of his own sick-room for that of her husband. He hinted that it was a little melodramatic of the two women to watch over Alfonso as though his life were still in danger.

But Alexander was worried. He was fully aware who was responsible for the attack, and this meant that he could only pretend that he wanted his son-in-law’s would-be murderers brought to justice.

It was said in the Vatican and in the streets that if Alfonso recovered from this attack it would not be long before he met with another, for it was clear that Cesare Borgia, the dreaded Il Valentino, was behind this attempt on his life.

They were very anxious days for Lucrezia. How could she help recalling that period of great anguish when she had learned that her lover’s body had been found in the Tiber? She knew who had arranged poor Pedro’s death. It was the same one who had tried to strike down Alfonso.

Sometimes Alfonso would call out in his sleep and she would rush to his bedside to soothe him. She knew that his nightmares were always of threatening danger, and there was one name which he never failed to whisper—Cesare!

Lucrezia decided that she must see her brother; she must make him understand how devotedly she loved Alfonso. Cesare loved her. Had they not always been close? Surely he could not continue to plot Alfonso’s death if he understood how much she loved her husband.

She left Sanchia with Alfonso and went to Cesare’s apartments.

Her brother’s eyes shone with mingled affection and speculation. “My dearest sister, it is rarely that you have given me this pleasure of late.”

“I have been nursing my husband.”

“Ah, yes. And how fares he?”

“He will live, Cesare, if his attacker does not make another and successful attempt.”

“How could that be while his two guardian angels watch over him?” said Cesare lightly. “You look tired, my beloved. You should rest. Or better still, ride with me. What say you … out to Monte Mario?”

“No, Cesare. I must go back to my husband.”

He took the back of her neck in his hands and squeezed gently. “Have you no time for your family?”

“Our father is well again,” she said; “you do not need me, and my husband has been wounded nigh to death. Oh Cesare!” Her voice broke suddenly. “There is a great deal of scandalous talk. People say …” She faltered, and his hands on her neck tightened. He put his face close to hers, and the gleam in his eyes frightened her.

“What do people say?” he demanded.

“They say that he who was behind the killing of the Duke of Gandia was behind the attempted killing of Alfonso.”

She lifted her face and forced herself to look into his eyes.

“Cesare,” she insisted, “what have you to say to that?”

She saw his mouth tighten; she was aware of the intense cruelty in that face, as he answered brutally: “If it was so, there is no doubt that he had his reasons; and I am certain that your little husband deserved his wounds.”

She had been trying to tell herself, against her better judgment, that it could not be Cesare, but she found it impossible to deceive herself longer.

Cesare pulled her to him, his fingers still on her neck, and she suddenly felt that he saw her as a kitten, a pretty playful kitten whose charming ways delighted him when he deigned to be amused by them. He kissed her. “You must not tire yourself,” he said. “But I shall not insist on your riding with me today. I would have you come of your own free will.”

“That will be when Alfonso is quite well,” she answered firmly, disengaging herself.

“In the meantime,” he said, “you and the militant Sanchia will guard him well, knowing that what fails at noon may be successful at night.”

She lowered her eyes and did not answer. Her throat was constricted with an emotion which she ascribed to fear.

Back in the apartment she consulted Sanchia.

“I have been with Cesare, and I know that he will not rest until he has killed Alfonso.”

“I know it too,” replied Sanchia.

“He will make another attempt, Sanchia. What can we do?”

“We are here to prevent that attempt.”

“Is it possible, Sanchia?”

“I do not think,” said Sanchia, “that while you and I are near any will come to attack him. Cesare is suspect. If any were taken in the act and put to the Question they might confess. A confession involving Cesare would not please him.”

“But, knowing Cesare is involved, my father would never allow the murderers to be brought to justice.”

“It would be difficult to murder Alfonso here in the Vatican itself. No, I believe they will wait until he is well, and then they will lure him to some lonely spot. They will attack then. It is later that we have to fear such an attack. What we must guard against now is poison.”

“Sanchia, I am frightened. I see shadows all about me. It is like being alone in the dark when I was very young and peering into the shadows, waiting for wild beasts and ghosts to spring at me.”

“There is a vast difference,” said Sanchia grimly. “These are not ghosts.”

“Sanchia, we must get him out of Rome.”

“I have been turning over plans in my mind for days.”

“Can we do it?”

“We will. As soon as he is well we will have him smuggled out of Rome. We’ll disguise him as one of the chamberlains and send him with a letter which I will write to my uncle Federico. We will do it, Lucrezia.”

“Thank you, Sanchia, thank you for all you have done for my husband.”

“Who,” Sanchia reminded her, “is also my brother. Listen, Lucrezia. When the doctors come tomorrow we will consult with them. You know that little hunchback from Alfonso’s household?”

“He who loves Alfonso so much, and has waited outside this room ever since it happened?”

Sanchia nodded. “We can trust him. He will be able to have horses ready, and as soon as Alfonso’s wounds are healed, he shall escape. Tomorrow we will begin preparations to put the plan into action.”

She sat by Alfonso’s bed, holding his hand. He had just awakened from one of his nightmares.

She put her face close to his. “Alfonso, my dearest, all is well. It is I … Lucrezia.”

He opened his blue eyes and she felt a surge of tenderness, for he looked very like little Roderigo.

“Lucrezia,” he murmured, “stay close.”

“I am here. I shall remain here. Try to sleep, my darling.”

“I am afraid of sleep. I dream, Lucrezia.”

“I know, my love.”

“He is always there … in my dreams. He bends over me … that cruel smile on his lips … that gleam in his eyes, and his sword raised. There is blood on that sword, Lucrezia. Not my blood. His brother’s blood.…”

“You distress yourself.”

“But he will not rest until he is rid of me, Lucrezia. He is your brother and you have loved him. You have loved him too much. Your father protects him. You all protect him.”

“I have one thought only, Alfonso—to protect you, to make you well. Listen, my dearest, there are plans afoot. As soon as you are well enough you are going to slip away from Rome.”

“And you?”

“I shall follow you.”

“Come with me, Lucrezia.”

“And our baby?”

“We must all go together. No more separations.”

She thought, the three of us to escape; that would not be easy. But she would not disturb him now by pointing out the difficulties. Let him dream of their escape. Let him replace his nightmare with that happy dream.

“The three of us,” she said. “We will go together.”

“I long for that night. ’Twill be at night, will it not? You and I … and the child, riding away to safety, Lucrezia. When … when?”

“When you are well enough.”

“But it will take so long.”

“No. Your wounds are healing. You are very healthy, they tell me. Your blood is good. Few would have recovered as quickly as you have. It will not be long now. Think of it, Alfonso. Think of it all the time.”

He did think of it; and when he slept there was a happy smile on his lips.

Alfonso was now able to walk about the apartment. He would sit on the balcony overlooking the Vatican gardens, and feel the warm sun on his face. The doctors said that he would soon be ready to sit his horse.

He was longing for that day.

Sanchia or Lucrezia had first held his arm as he tottered about the apartment, and it was a great day when he walked unaided to the balcony.

“Soon,” Lucrezia whispered.

“We must wait,” Sanchia said, “until he is strong enough to endure a long journey.”

So he took exercise, and waited, and longing began to take the place of fear in Alfonso’s blue eyes.

The little hunchback, whom he had befriended and who was ready to give his life for him if need be, was constantly in attendance and one day, when he, Alfonso, was sitting on the balcony, he called to the little fellow to bring him a cross-bow so that he could discover whether he had strength to shoot a bird in the gardens.

The cross-bow was brought, and he tried it.

He missed the bird and sent the hunchback down into the gardens to retrieve the bolt.

Cesare was walking in the gardens with Don Micheletto Corella, one of his Captains, when he saw the hunchback running swiftly across the grass to retrieve the bolt.

“Is that not the servant of my brother-in-law?” he asked.

“It is indeed, my lord, and do you not see your lord-ship’s brother-in-law at the window now, the cross-bow in his hands?”

“By all the saints!” cried Cesare. “We have narrowly escaped death.”

The Captain returned his master’s smile. “Had the bolt pierced one of our hearts, my lord, we should indeed not be alive.”

“So … he would attempt my life!”

“None could blame your lordship if, in the circumstances, you demanded his.”

Cesare laid his hand on the man’s shoulder; they smiled. It was the opportunity they had been waiting for.

It was afternoon and many were sleeping in the August heat. Alfonso was resting on his bed. The exercise of the morning had tired him. Lucrezia and Sanchia sat on either side of the bed. They were dozing lightly.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside the room, and Sanchia went to see what was happening, Lucrezia following her. At the door they saw soldiers arresting the guards.

“What is this?” demanded Sanchia.

“If it please the Madonna,” explained Captain Micheletto Corella, “these men are all accused of a plot against the Pope.”

“It is not possible,” cried Lucrezia.

“These are my orders, Madonna,” was the answer.

“What is this plot?” demanded Sanchia.

“I do not know, Madonna. I merely obey orders.” He looked at them with respectful kindness, as though he were disturbed to see two such beautiful ladies in distress. He went on: “His Holiness is but two doors away. Why do you not go to him and ask him to release these men, if you are so sure of their innocence?”

Lucrezia and Sanchia ran toward the Pope’s apartments.

He was not there.

Then suddenly they looked at each other and, without a word, ran back as fast as they could to Alfonso.

They were too late.

Alfonso lay across his bed. He had been strangled by the cruel hands of Micheletto Corella.