From the peperino casements she would be able to look out across that strange country from the city walls of dark red tufa to the rushing water in the deep chasms, to the oak forests, black and forbidding on the horizon. From the topmost turret of the castle she could see the great volcanoes and the mountains of Viterbo; she could see Soracte and the sloping plateau which led down to the gleaming Tiber; and beyond, in a mist of blue haze, the Sabine mountains.

There was one comfort in her life now—her little Roderigo; and she rejoiced that he was too young to appreciate his loss.

All her attendants who accompanied her to Nepi were subdued, and behaved in accordance with the Spanish custom of mourning, which was more ceremonious than that of Italy.

Lucrezia dressed herself in black and took her meals off earthenware plates. She would shut herself into her apartment for hours and mentally reconstruct those happy two years which she had spent with Alfonso, reliving little details—the first time they had met, their wedding ceremony, the birth of Roderigo. And all the time she was trying not to remember that horrifying moment when she and Sanchia had returned from the Pope’s apartment to find him lying across the bed … murdered.

But how could she shut out the memory? It was ever present. She would wake from sleep, thinking he was beside her. She would call his name and put out a hand to feel for him. The loneliness was unbearable.

The sorrow was with her every waking hour, and when she signed her letters she called herself The Unhappy Princess of Salerno.


* * *

Giovanni Sforza was watching the march of events with horror. He knew that what had happened to Lucrezia’s second husband might so easily have happened to her first. Disgruntled as he was, continually cursing the Pope, who had placed upon him the stigma of impotence, he realized that he had some reason to rejoice, for at least his life had been spared.

But even so, it was in danger.

Cesare Borgia was intent on setting up the Dukedom of Romagna for himself, and one of his strongholds would be the town of Pesaro, of which Giovanni Sforza was the Lord.

He knew, that September day, that Cesare was marching relentlessly forward. He knew that he would be powerless against him. And what would await Giovanni Sforza when he came face to face with Cesare Borgia? Giovanni had been the husband of Cesare’s sister, and Cesare, who had murdered her second husband and had planned to murder her first, would not hesitate when he had that first husband within his power. And what sort of death could he expect at the hands of Cesare Borgia? The tales of the scandalous life led by the Borgias, many declared, had been started by Giovanni Sforza. It was true there had always been murmurings against them, but he had added plausibility to those tales.

If they had branded him as impotent, he had retaliated by branding them with the stigma of incestuous conduct.

Clearly, with Cesare’s armies closing in, Pesaro was no place for him.

Whither could he go?

To Milan? The French had recaptured Milan once more, and his relative, Ludovico Sforza, was Louis’ prisoner. He thought then of the Gonzagas of Mantua, as his first wife had been the sister of Francesco Gonzaga, that Marquis of Mantua who had won the victory at Fornovo which had been responsible for driving the armies of Charles VIII out of Italy after the previous French invasion.

So to Mantua went Giovanni Sforza, and there he was welcomed by Isabella d’Este who was the wife of Francesco Gonzaga.

Francesco was a great soldier who had won renown for his bravery, but his wife Isabella was a strong-minded woman with such a high opinion of her family, the Estes, that she deemed all others inferior to them. She was clever, politically acute, cultured and handsome; but there was in her a cold determination to dominate all who came within her sphere of influence.

When she had married him ten years before, Francesco had adored her. She had seemed to him quite wonderful, combining handsome looks with a clever brain. As for herself, she tolerated him. She considered him far from prepossessing, for although he was tall and had a good figure he bore unmistakably the mark of his German ancestors; and the Hohenzollern features did not appeal to Isabella’s sense of beauty. His nose had the appearance of being flattened out; his eyes looked sleepy; his forehead immense. His charm did not touch Isabella, and she was surprised that other women should be deeply conscious of it.

It was necessary to Francesco to indulge in love affairs outside his marriage as he was a deeply sensual man and, in any case in his time, men who did not so indulge were often accused of impotence.

What did it matter what mistresses he took, Isabella asked herself, as long as she produced sons for the glorification of her family and his?

Rumor had it that when, immediately after the birth of one of her children, she discovered it to be a girl, she rose from her bed and removed it from the elaborate cradle which had been prepared, as she pointed out, for a male child.

She was a strong woman, accustomed to rule, sharp-tongued, witty, elegant, admired and respected, but loved by few.

She had heard much about the women who were beloved by the Pope, and she was envious of them; therefore she was ready to grant asylum to Giovanni Sforza, when he came riding to Mantua to beg it, and received him with as much warmth as he could expect from a woman of her character.

“My dear Marchesa,” he said, bowing over her hand, “I come to you as a beggar, knowing that the brother of my dear dead Maddalena would not turn me away.”

“Certainly he shall not turn you away,” said Isabella. “Certainly you shall have refuge here. There must be some place where those who have suffered at the hands of these outrageous Borgias should find rest.”

“How happy I am that I came!”

Isabella looked at him with some scorn, since he was a weak man and she despised weakness. On the other hand she was looking forward to talking with him at her little court, and drawing from him further scandalous stories concerning the infamous Borgias.

So Giovanni was made welcome, and he found the cultured court of Mantua to his taste. Here wars were not considered of the greatest importance. Literature was discussed; matters of the mind. The Duke, with his military glory, might be an outsider, but let him go to his stables where he was breeding those horses which were fast becoming known as not only the best in Italy but in the world.

There was nothing which delighted Isabella more than to gather about her the wittiest people of Mantua and many of those from all parts of Italy who visited her court. She wished to be known, not as the virtual governor of Mantua only, but as patroness of the arts.

Conversation in her apartments must be witty; and she must reign indisputably queen—she, Isabella d’Este Gonzaga. Her father, the Duke of Ferrara, and her brothers all respected her political genius; they always had; and thus she had habitually visualized herself as the most brilliant member of the most important family in Italy. It was small wonder that she felt piqued to see the rise of another family and the power which the women of that family seemed to possess over its head.

Now with Giovanni Sforza in her salon she led the conversation to the affairs of the Borgias and declared that Giovanni Sforza, who had intimate experience of that strange family, would be able to tell them whether those tales they heard of the scandalous Borgias were really true.

So Giovanni told the stories which Isabella wished him to tell.

He had been forced to divorce Lucrezia! Why? Because His Holiness was so enamored of his daughter that he could not endure her having a husband. The marriage had not been consummated! Lies … all lies. It had been consummated a thousand times. And the golden-haired, innocent Lucrezia, who had stood before the assembly so demurely and declared herself still a virgin was then truly pregnant. But the child was not his.

The apartments of Mantua rang with laughter. Old scandals were revived; and Giovanni felt his vanity soothed in some measure. He could not fight the Borgias with arms, but he could with his tongue.


* * *

Lucrezia, shut in her apartments in the castle of Nepi, bent over the cradle of her child. Each time she looked at him she must be vividly reminded of all the wonderful plans she and Alfonso had made together; and she would weep afresh, telling herself that this little one would never know his father.

Her women had given up trying to comfort her; they wished that Madonna Sanchia were with them. She had been stricken in her grief also; but the two ladies would have done much to comfort each other.

And then suddenly one of the pages came running to Lucrezia’s apartments to tell her that soldiers were approaching the castle.

Lucrezia threw back her hair which was less bright than usual (she had forgotten to wash it so frequently); her gown was black and plain; and she looked unlike the gay Lucrezia who had taken such pride in the elegant garments which she had worn in Rome.

She ran to her window that she might see who these soldiers were who had come to disturb the peace of Nepi.

A brilliant sight met her eyes as she looked down on the advancing men. They were singing as they came; and there was laughter in their ranks. Ahead of them were carried the yellow and red banners; and as she looked the heralds blew triumphal notes on their silver trumpets, and there was in those notes a joyous sound which seemed to shatter the melancholy of Nepi.

And then she saw him; he was riding at their head—the condottiere in his brilliant uniform—and her heart leaped with pride to behold him thus; and, for the first time in the six weeks since the most tragic day, Lucrezia smiled.

Then she hurried down to greet her brother.

He had leaped from his horse, throwing the reins to one of his men; he ran to her, picked her up in his arms and laughed into her face.

She looked at him for a moment; then she took his face in her hands and cried: “Cesare … oh, Cesare!”

But almost immediately it was as though Alfonso was with her, and she recalled that apartment in the Borgia Tower and Alfonso’s limp body lying across the bed.

“Cesare,” she said, “why have you come?”

“A strange question, sister. How could I pass within a few miles of your stronghold and resist the temptation of seeing you?”

“I had thought you would not come here,” she answered dully.

He had put her on her feet and, placing his arm about her, he said: “I am hungry. We are all hungry. Can you not feed us?”

“We are unprepared,” she said. She called to one of the dwarfs who stood watching the scene with astonishment. “Go to the kitchens. Bid them cook all they have. It would seem we have an army to feed.”

The dwarf disappeared, and Cesare turned to one of his captains and gave him orders to look after the men, and find suitable billets in the town. He would stay the night at the Castle of Nepi.

When his captain had departed, he asked her to take him to that room where she spent most of her time, and she did so. They stood side by side, looking out on the awe-inspiring scenery.

“How are you faring in your battles?” she asked.

“So well,” he replied, “that soon I shall be in possession of my kingdom.”

“Did I not always say you would achieve your desires?”

“You did, sister.”

“I remember so well how you railed against your Cardinal’s robes.”

“You see,” said Cesare earnestly, “all such irritations pass. Like grief they loom large when they are close; they are infinitesimal in the distance. Look at the Sabine mountains … nothing but a chain of blue mist from this window. But stand beneath those towering peaks; there is a different story.”

She smiled in agreement, and he put his hand under her chin and turned up her face to his.

“Thus it will be with you, sister.”

She shook her head and would not meet his eyes, and for a moment anger shone in them. “Are you still moping here, Lucrezia?” he demanded. “Oh, it is wrong of you.”

“I loved my husband,” she answered. “You, who have never loved a wife as I loved him, cannot understand why his death should affect me as it does.”

He laughed suddenly. “Before I leave here,” he said, “you shall be gay once more.”