He dozed and was awakened by the clatter of horses’ hoofs. He heard voices in the distance.

“The Duke! He is here? Then I pray you take me to him at once.”

Did he guess during those brief seconds before the messenger reached him?

Elizabetta was right when she said a man was a fool to trust a Borgia. He had laid his territory open to the Borgia, and at this moment Il Valentino and his ruthless troops might be in the city itself.

The messenger was kneeling before him. “My lord, there is not a moment to lose. Il Valentino has entered Urbino. He has taken possession of the city. He is sacking the palace. He is sending his soldiers to find you, and he knows that you are here. To horse … my lord Duke. Fly for your life!”

So Guidobaldo di Montefeltre, twice deceived by the Borgias, took horse and rode toward Mantua with all the speed his crippled body would allow.


* * *

He found that the news had preceded him. Elizabetta had retired to her apartments worn out with grief and worry. Isabella and Francesco consoled him, making him very welcome and insisting that he must rest.

“A curse on these Borgias!” cried Isabella.

But when she was alone with her husband, Francesco saw the speculative look in her eyes.

“Guidobaldo was a fool to allow Il Valentino free entry into Urbino,” she declared. “What has come over him?”

“He is war-weary. He is no longer young. That is what has happened to Guidobaldo.”

Isabella stalked up and down the apartment. She was visualizing the Urbino palace and Elizabetta’s wonderful collection of statues which she had always envied. She had asked Michelangelo to make something similar to his Sleeping Cupid for her, but artists would not work to order. It was the same with Leonardo da Vinci; he could not be induced to produce anything beautiful at this time, being concerned with a new drainage system which he was sure would be the means of disposing of many of the causes of periodic plague. At least, thought Isabella, the Borgia would not destroy anything which was beautiful.

Francesco watched her, that wise expression in his sleepy eyes.

She turned on him in her rage. “How can you smile? Do you not realize what this means to Guidobaldo and Elizabetta?”

Francesco became serious. “Too well,” he said. “I smiled because I thought of what it might mean to you.”

“I do not understand you. What could it mean but a share in their grief?”

“It could also mean a share in their treasures.”

She wanted to slap his face. He was too clever, with his habit of reading her thoughts.

She was loud in her denunciation of Cesare Borgia, but at the same time she secretly dispatched messages to Urbino, and her attitude would appear to be friendly. She had heard—she wrote—that Cesare had taken possession of the Urbino palace, and there was a statue there which she coveted beyond all others. She had longed to possess it and now, if Il Valentino were kind, she had a hope of doing so. It was the Sleeping Cupid which Michelangelo had made. She and Cesare were related since his sister’s marriage to her brother. If he could find it in his heart to grant her this request, she doubted not that they could be friendly as relations should be.

The message was dispatched; she set about comforting Elizabetta and poor Guidobaldo, and her denunciation of the Borgias rang through the Castle.


* * *

Cesare was not one to give friendship lightly. He found the Sleeping Cupid and its beauty moved him deeply; it surely was one of the most exquisite pieces of workmanship in Italy, and it was small wonder that Isabella wanted it. Should he send it to Lucrezia? That would infuriate Isabella.

Cesare laughed aloud. His first impulse was to despatch the cupid to Ferrara, but he hesitated. He was the ruler of his own dominion now, and he dreamed of extending that dominion. He must not therefore give way to stupid whims. Isabella of Mantua was important in his schemes because she was a clever woman of wide influence, and at this time it was better to be friends with such as she.

He began to see the significance of this beautiful object. It was beyond price.

If he gave such a gift, what should he ask in return? The Duke and Duchess of Urbino were now sheltering in Mantua. They must be banished. Cesare’s daughter by Charlotte d’Albret should have a husband. The heir of Mantua was reputed to be one of the loveliest little boys in Italy. He knew that poor Charlotte’s child was ill-favored because he had read between the lines of all the reports that had come to him. She was intelligent enough, but her nose, young as she was, was ill-shaped and over-large. If she grew up ugly, a very large dowry might be demanded for her. Better to get her settled now while she was still a baby. And why should she not marry into one of the aristocratic families of Italy; why not the heir of Mantua?

Isabella had despised the Borgias and had shown this during the wedding at Ferrara. He would avenge Lucrezia and secure a prize for himself at the same time.

Smiling at the cupid, he assured himself that his terms would be accepted: The banishment from Mantua of the Duke and Duchess of Urbino; the betrothal of his daughter to handsome little Federigo, the heir of Mantua. And for that, Isabella should have her cupid.


* * *

Lucrezia had left her scented bath and was lying on a couch in her Moorish shirt when the news was brought to her.

Angela, who was with her, watched her with startled eyes, for she received the news without a word, and when the messenger had gone she lay still, staring before her.

Angela ran to her and embraced her. “Why should you grieve?” she demanded.

“They gave me hospitality,” answered Lucrezia. “The Duke was kind to me.”

“His Duchess was not. Hateful creature! In her black velvet hat and black velvet gown, she was like an old crow.”

“He asked for free passage through Urbino,” said Lucrezia, “and it was given. And when there was no one to defend the place … he took it. Oh, why does he do such things? Why does he make me cringe in shame?”

“You are too sensitive. This is war, of which we know nothing.”

“But we do know. I know that my brother’s ambition is like a wild animal let loose. It attacks, destroys … destroys all … men, women, children—and self-respect. I would I had never gone to Urbino.”

“The Duke and Duchess are safe. Your sister-in-law Isabella will look after her dear Elizabetta.”

Lucrezia confined herself to her apartments. She would see no one, and there was no longer music or laughter in the little rooms. She was ashamed and unhappy.

Angela, Adriana, Girolama and Nicola all sought to comfort her.

“They are safe at least,” they repeated. “They reached Mantua. There they will find refuge.”

They had not yet heard that the Duke and Duchess of Urbino were being requested to leave Mantua for Venice. They did not know that the little heir of Mantua was being betrothed to Cesare’s daughter.

Meanwhile Isabella stood looking at the exquisite work of art, and its beauty brought tears to her eyes.

Francesco watched her and murmured: “It is indeed beautiful. It should give you great pleasure. You paid a very big price for it, Isabella.”


* * *

It was the middle of July and the heat was intense.

There was plague in Ferrara and, to the horror of all within the palace, one of the maids went down with it. Angela Borgia caught it, but mildly, and Lucrezia was in great fear. They might isolate the patient but the damage was done.

Ceccarella, one of Lucrezia’s maids, died shortly after taking it and another, Lisabetta, was smitten with a serious attack.

Then Lucrezia caught it.

When the news reached Rome there was panic throughout the Vatican. The Pope became hysterical with fear. He paced up and down his apartment calling to the saints to watch over his beloved child and swearing to take a punitive expedition into Ferrara if she did not survive. He also sent her several physicians in whom he had great confidence.

He dispatched further messages to Cesare, begging him to add his prayers to those of his father that the greatest calamity which could befall them both might be averted.

Lucrezia’s condition was aggravated by her pregnancy which had already given some cause for alarm, and the doctors shook their heads over her. They feared the worst would happen.

“The burden of the child will be too much for her to bear,” was their verdict. “The best thing that could happen would be a still-birth; then we might reduce the fever.”

Lucrezia herself, tossing on her bed, was barely conscious. The old Duke visited her and wept over her condition. If she would recover, he declared, he would meet her wishes as to her income. She should have her 12,000 ducats a year. “But part of it shall be in goods,” he added quickly.

Lucrezia smiled vaguely at him; she was not fully aware who he was.

Furious messages came from Rome.

“The Duke of Ferrara has brought about my daughter’s low condition by his meanness,” cried the hysterical Alexander. “If aught happens to my beloved daughter I shall know whom to blame.”

The Duke grew anxious. The recent conquest of Urbino had been alarming; where would Cesare Borgia turn next? everyone was asking.

Alfonso had been on a mission to Pavia where Louis of France was installed. The heir of Ferrara had gone there as his father’s ambassador in order to placate the French King; and, Francesco Gonzaga had said, they must placate the French and with the French, Louis’ ally, Il Valentino, for if they did not they would be hanged one after another and be unable to do anything about it. They could only hope that their territory was not the next on the list for invasion.

Duke Ercole sent an urgent message to Alfonso that his wife was near to death and he must return at once; and as soon as Alfonso arrived in Ferrara he hurried to the bedside of his wife.

Alfonso was ill at ease in the sick room. The sight of Lucrezia, pale and wan, her eyes glazed and unrecognizing, filled him with dismay.

He could think of nothing to say to her. He knelt by the bed and took her hands in his. Hers were dry and feverish.

“You’ll be well,” said Alfonso. “You’ll get better. We’ll have a big family … handsome boys … even if you lose this one.”

But Lucrezia only looked at him with unseeing eyes, and Alfonso rose hopelessly to his feet.

She was dying, it was whispered throughout the castle. Her pregnancy had been a difficult one from the start, and now she had contracted this fever, what hope was there for her?

Furious and sorrowful messages came from the Pope. He was imploring them to save his Lucrezia’s life and at the same time threatening them.

My daughter’s death will not suit the Borgias at all, he wrote; and the Este family should be very careful how they acted, for he, Alexander, did not think it was going to suit them very well either.

The old Duke harangued his doctors. They must save his daughter-in-law. It was imperative that they do so. They must take every precaution, apply every cure—no matter how expensive—but they must not let her die.

In the draughty corners of the castle men and women whispered together. If she dies, the Borgias will come against us. More than all their possessions the Pope and Il Valentino love this girl.

But each day Lucrezia’s condition worsened, and it was said: “She cannot last the night.”

As she lay unconscious, half dead, unaware of what was going on about her, there was suddenly heard the sound of galloping horses.

A little band of riders was seen, and at the head of them rode a tall and elegant man who leaped from his horse, flung the reins to a groom and called: “Take me at once to the Duchess of Ferrara.”

One of the servants ran out to this man and cried: “It is impossible, my lord. The Duchess lies near to death and there is plague in the castle. If you value your life you should not come here.”

“Stand aside,” was the answer, “and if you value your life conduct me with all speed to the bedchamber of your Duchess.”

Others came running forward, and there were some who recognized the newcomer. One man threw himself on his knees and cried: “My lord, there is plague in the castle.”