“I want my baby,” she whispered to herself. “Now … here in my arms … I want him now. What right have they to take him from me?”

The right of might, was the answer. She had been powerless in their hands. While she lay helpless they had lured Pedro to his death; she, a woman weak from childbirth, lay exhausted, and they had stolen her baby from her.

There was a commotion without and one of her women said: “It is Madonna Sanchia coming to visit you, Madonna.”

And there was Sanchia with her three constant attendants, Loysella, Bernardina, and Francesca; Sanchia merry and vivacious, Sanchia from Naples who snapped her fingers at Roman etiquette.

Lucrezia never looked at Sanchia without astonishment, for Sanchia was the most arrestingly beautiful woman Lucrezia had ever seen. Lucrezia with her golden hair, pale eyes, delicate skin, serene expression and that slightly receding chin which gave her a look of perpetual innocence, was considered to be a beauty, but beside black-haired, blue-eyed Sanchia she seemed colorless. It was said of Sanchia that she dabbled in witchcraft, and that was why she was possessed of that extraordinary beauty which men found irresistible. Lucrezia could believe that Sanchia would be capable of anything.

But during recent months there had grown a bond between them, for it was Sanchia who had comforted her as no one else could. Lucrezia had found it strange to discover unsuspected depths in Sanchia’s character. Sanchia, who had a host of lovers, could smile at Lucrezia’s tragic relationship with Pedro, and her advice was: “Take more lovers. That is the way to forget.”

They were different though. Sanchia must understand that.

Sanchia was now frowning at the needlework in Lucrezia’s hands.

“You sit there stitching, when at any moment my brother may be here.”

Lucrezia smiled gently. “One would think it was your husband who was coming, rather than your brother.”

Sanchia grimaced; she sat on one of the high-backed chairs and her three women drew up stools and sat at her feet. Lucrezia’s women had withdrawn themselves, yet hoping that they would not be dismissed for Sanchia’s conversation was invariably racy and indiscreet; so if Lucrezia forgot to dismiss them—and she had been absentminded of late—they might stay and garner much interesting news.

“Ah, my husband!” said Sanchia. “Do not mistake me, dear sister. I love your brother, my little Goffredo, but I am a woman who asks more of a husband than that he should be a pretty little boy.”

“My brother is happy to be your husband,” murmured Lucrezia.

“But he is so young. Far too young for me.”

“He is sixteen now.”

“But I am twenty-one and he still seems a child to me. You know he has never been a husband to me.…”

Sanchia’s voice was low but penetrating. She was aware of the listening women. She wanted them to hear her; she wanted the news spread throughout Rome that her marriage had not been consummated. It was not true, and unfortunately for Sanchia, that consummation had been witnessed by the King of Naples and a Cardinal. However, Sanchia’s thoughts were on divorce, and she knew that if it was declared firmly enough that the marriage had not been consummated then such declaration could be accepted.

“Poor little Goffredo,” said Lucrezia.

Sanchia dismissed the subject abruptly. “How brightly your hair shines. Smile, Lucrezia. It would seem that you are contemplating a funeral rather than a wedding.”

“It is because she has not yet seen the Duke,” said Loysella.

“When you have seen him you will be enchanted,” Sanchia told her. “He is very like his sister in appearance.” Sanchia laughed. “Now you are hoping that our resemblance is in appearance only. That’s so, is it not?”

“Oh Sanchia,” said Lucrezia, and she put out her hand and touched that of her sister-in-law. Sanchia looked at her in alarm. Poor Lucrezia! she thought. She has suffered too much over that affair of Pedro Caldes. She must stop brooding. Alfonso will be here perhaps this day; he must not find a sad Lucrezia brooding on the death of her murdered lover.

“I would talk to Madonna Lucrezia alone,” she said on impulse.

“Alone!” Loysella, Francesca and Bernardina looked at her reproachfully.

“Yes,” Sanchia told them firmly, “I mean alone.”

Sanchia, illegitimate daughter of a King of Naples, could suddenly put on the dignity of royalty, and when she did this her intimate women knew that she expected immediate obedience, so they rose and left the apartment, Lucrezia’s attendants following them.

“Now,” said Sanchia, “they are gone and we can speak freely. Lucrezia, stop grieving. Stop grieving, I say.”

Lucrezia shook her head and said in a broken voice: “How can one … at will?”

Sanchia ran to her and put her arms about her. “Lucrezia, it is so long ago.”

“Three months,” Lucrezia’s smile was a twisted one. “We swore to be faithful forever, and you say three months is long.”

“All lovers swear eternal fidelity,” said Sanchia impatiently. “It means ‘I will be true to you as long as our love lasts.’ That is the most that can be expected.”

“Our love was different.”

“All loves are different. Had your Pedro lived, you would have forgotten him by now. It is because they murdered him … because they made a martyr of him … that you remember.”

“I would remember him all my life, no matter what had happened.”

“Lucrezia, he was your first lover. That man they married you to—Giovanni Sforza!” Sanchia wrinkled her nose with disgust. “You never loved him.”

“It is true,” said Lucrezia. “I never loved him, and now … I think I hate him.”

“He is no friend of yours. Who could expect it? He is branded as impotent. He’ll never forgive you that, Lucrezia. He’ll be your enemy for life.”

“I lied,” said Lucrezia. “I signed the document because they insisted and I was weak. Perhaps God punishes me because of the lie I told.”

Sanchia shook her head impatiently. “You had no alternative but to sign the document. Had not His Holiness and Cesare determined that you should sign?”

“But I should have stood out against them. Our marriage was consummated … many times.”

“Hush! It is something we know but never mention. And you are divorced now, sister, free of Sforza. Never say aloud those words, never admit your marriage was consummated. But Lucrezia, do stop grieving. Pedro is dead; nothing can bring him back, and that is an episode which is over. Learn to forget. He was your first love, I know, and you remember. But when you have had many lovers you will find it hard to remember what he looked like.”

“You forget—you, Sanchia, who have had lovers since you were a child, who have known so many that you cannot remember them all—you forget that we planned to marry, that we have a child.”

“You should not grieve for the child. He will be taken good care of.”

“Don’t you understand, Sanchia? Somewhere a baby lives … my baby. Some strange woman feeds him and soothes him when he cries. He is my baby … my own son—and you ask me to forget him!”

“You should not have had the child, Lucrezia.” Sanchia laughed suddenly. “I cannot help it. I think of you, standing before the dignitaries, solemnly swearing that your marriage to Sforza had not been consummated, and as a consequence you were virgo intacta, when actually you were pregnant … and in three months’ time your child would be born.”

“Do not speak of it, Sanchia; it is more than I can bear.”

“Dear sister, it is because you are young that you suffer so deeply. I tell you this, that when my brother comes it will be a different story. Oh, why is he not here! Shall I weary you with the stories of his many virtues, and how he and I were such good friends when we were very young? Shall I tell you how we escaped to the island of Ischia at the time of the French invasion? But I have told you of these matters before. I will tell you something else, Lucrezia. Yes, I will talk of myself, that you may forget your own sorrows. I and Goffredo are to be divorced.”

“That cannot be so.”

Sanchia’s blue eyes sparkled. “Oh, but it is! That is why I sent the women away. It is not yet the moment to let them into this secret.”

“Goffredo will be heartbroken. He worships you.”

“His future is being taken care of, and he’ll be pleased to pass me over to my new husband.”

“And why so?”

“Because my new husband is to be one whom he adores: Cesare.”

“But that is not possible,” said Lucrezia quickly.

“If the Pope and Cesare decide that they desire it, it will be done.”

“Cesare has long wished to leave the Church, and always our father has opposed it.”

Sanchia came a little closer to Lucrezia and spoke in a whisper: “Do you know who is the master now?”

Lucrezia was silent. Sanchia had done what she had set out to do; she had diverted Lucrezia’s thoughts from her own unhappiness.

“I have noticed often,” said Sanchia, “how His Holiness defers to Cesare, how he seeks always to please him. It seems that Cesare is loved even more than Giovanni Borgia was ever loved. Have you not noticed it? Cesare wants a wife, and who is more suited to be his wife than I?” Sanchia laughed slyly, her eyes looking beyond Lucrezia so that the younger girl knew that she was thinking of many passionate encounters with Cesare, the strongest and most feared personality in Rome, the most fascinating of men, the only one whom Sanchia considered worthy to be her husband.

“Do you mean,” said Lucrezia, “that they are seriously considering this matter?”

Sanchia nodded.

“But my father always wished one of his sons to follow him to the Papal chair. That was what Cesare was to do.”

“Well, there is Goffredo.”

“The Cardinals will never agree.”

“Do you not know your family yet, Lucrezia?”

Lucrezia shivered. She did know them: she knew them too well, for the murderers of her lover had been her father and her brother.

Sanchia stretched herself like a cat in the sunshine, and the gesture was erotic and expectant.

Lucrezia, watching, felt renewed fear of the future.


* * *

In his apartments at the Vatican the Pope received his son Cesare, and when his attendants had bowed themselves out and father and son were alone, Alexander laid his hand on Cesare’s shoulder and, drawing him close, murmured: “My son, I think our little plan is going to work out in a manner which will be pleasing to you.”

Cesare turned and gave his father a dazzling smile which warmed the Pope’s heart. Since the mysterious death of his son Giovanni, Alexander had redoubled his devotion toward Cesare. Giovanni had been Alexander’s favorite son, yet, although Alexander knew that Cesare was his brother’s murderer, this son of his had been given that affection which had previously been Giovanni’s, together with the honors which had substantiated it.

There was a bond between these Borgias which seemed incomprehensible to those outside the family. No matter what its members did, whatever suffering they brought on one another, the bond was not slackened. Between them all was a feeling so strong—in most cases it was love, but in that of Giovanni and Cesare it had been hate—that all other emotion paled before this family feeling.

Now Alexander looked at this son of his who was known as the most vicious man in Italy, and had no wish to please him. Cesare was handsome—all the Pope’s children were handsome—and his hair had the auburn coloring which was shared by Goffredo. His features were bold, his body graceful, his manners those of a king; his skin at this time was slightly marred—the aftermath of an attack of the male francese.

Cesare wore his Cardinal’s robes with an arrogant disdain; but there was now a light in his eyes because he had great hopes of discarding those robes before long. And Alexander was happy because he was going to make Cesare’s wish come true.

“Well, Father?” said Cesare, the faintest hint of impatience in his voice.

“I am beginning to feel that it was a happy event when French Charles decided he would watch a game of tennis after his dinner.” The Pope smiled. “Poor Charles! I picture him with his Queen at Amboise. Who would have thought that such an innocent diversion as watching a game of tennis could have been so important to him … and to us?”

“I know,” said Cesare, “that he went into the fosses of the castle at Amboise and passed through the opening in the gallery and that it was very low—that opening—and our little Charles struck his head against the arch.”