Bembo tried to lure her back to talk of poetry, but the magic which the early days of their association had brought with them was lost to her.

There came a day when messengers arrived from Ferrara. They had come to warn Lucrezia that old Duke Ercole was very ill and there seemed little hope that he would recover. Her brothers-in-law, Ippolito, Ferrante, Sigismondo and Giulio, thought that she should return at once to Ferrara.

She was preparing to leave when she saw Bembo coming across the garden to her, and the sight of him, his poems in his hands, walking quietly across the gardens, seemed to her so utterly peaceful that she was filled with a longing to spend the rest of her life at Comacchio or some other quiet retreat.

“I love Pietro,” she murmured. “Oh, that I were free to marry him.” And her mind went back to Pedro Caldes whom she had once loved so dearly, the father of little Giovanni, and she thought, had I been allowed to marry him when I wanted to, had I been allowed to live peacefully with him, our lives would surely have been lived in surroundings such as this. And Pietro and Pedro seemed in that moment like one and the same person; and she loved that person dearly.

She ran out to meet him, for she was overcome by a longing to stroll once more round the gardens, to snare the happy moments she had enjoyed in this place that she might preserve them in her mind forever; she knew that the death of Duke Ercole was going to make a great deal of difference to her life, and that when she was truly Duchess of Ferrara—if Alfonso decided to keep her as his wife, and if he did not she could not begin to imagine what would become of her—she would not be allowed to leave Ferrara to indulge in an idyllic love affair with a poet.

In the shelter of the trees Pietro embraced her fervently. “We cannot guess,” he said, “what his death will mean to us. But know this, my beloved, always I shall love you, always cherish these hours we have spent together.”

She dared not delay now. In the absence of her husband her brothers-in-law had summoned her, and she guessed that Ippolito was already aware of her love affair with Pietro.

So she rode out to Ferrara, but before she came into the town a letter was delivered to her. As she read it a faint flush rose to her cheeks and she felt a tremor of excitement within her as she recalled the ugly charming face of the man who had lately intruded on her thoughts and refused to be dismissed.

He had written that news of what was happening in Ferrara had reached him. If she should be in need of a friend, he, Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, would be ready to come at once to her aid.

She rode on, her spirits lightened; such was the power of that man to comfort her.


* * *

There was an atmosphere of tension in the castle of Ferrara when Lucrezia arrived. Alfonso was, unfortunately, traveling in England, and Ippolito was watchful of Ferrante, Ferrante of Ippolito. Giulio, hot-headed and haughty, was already putting himself at the disposal of Ferrante with whom he had always been on terms of friendship, which had grown deeper out of his hatred for Ippolito. Sigismondo spent his time praying that no discord befall Ferrara on the death of the Duke.

Lucrezia was received with pleasure and relief by her brothers-in-law. As Alfonso’s wife she was, in his absence, acknowledged as the most important person at court; for it pleased the brothers, in this time of uncertainty, to have a figurehead whom they could regard as temporary head of the state.

Lucrezia remembered those days when the Pope had left Rome and had placed her at the head of secular affairs. That experience stood her in good stead now, and she slipped naturally and calmly into the new position which was awaiting her.

She was conscious though of the tension which existed between the brothers, and she prayed that soon Alfonso would return.

In the meantime with her natural serenity and dignity she was able to keep the bubbling passions of the brothers at bay, while they waited for the return of Alfonso and the end of Ercole.

She was glad at that time of the company of her lively and beautiful though somewhat empty-headed cousin Angela Borgia, who could not conceal her delight in being back in Ferrara, since during the stay at Comacchio she had been deprived of the company of her lover, Giulio.

Angela, completely immersed in her own affairs, was unaware of the dangerous discord which prevailed in the castle at this time. She had never forgiven Ippolito for turning from her to Sanchia when they had first met, and as her mind was completely occupied with her own attractiveness she could not forget the slight.

It was a different matter now. Ippolito was regretting his earlier conduct. Ippolito was a lover of women, and there was quite a scandal in Ferrara because of the way in which he caressed young girls as a lover might, while he feigned to be blessing them as a Cardinal.

Angela seemed far more desirable to him now than she had at the beginning of their acquaintance, and this was no doubt due in some measure to his knowledge that she had for some time been indulging in a passionate love affair with his half-brother Giulio.

Ippolito had long been irritated by Guilio; the young man’s vanity was maddening, particularly as, through Angela, he could flaunt it before the Cardinal.

He never lost an opportunity of talking of Angela before Ippolito, and the Cardinal felt his desire for Angela grow with his murderous feelings against Giulio.

Now Guilio had ostentatiously put himself on the side of Ferrante.

Ippolito longed to discountenance the conceited Giulio and, even at this time of anxiety, when Angela returned from Comacchio he made another attempt to take her from Giulio. He followed her into the gardens one day and asked for a few words with her.

“I am growing weary of your continual refusals,” he told her.

“There is one alternative, Eminence. If you cease to ask there would be no more refusals.”

“There will continue to be demands,” he declared angrily, “until what I ask is given.” She looked pensive, as though she were considering him, and he cried passionately: “Angela, you know that I love you. I have loved you earnestly since our first meeting.”

“I remember the occasion well,” she said. “No doubt Sanchia of Aragon remembers it also.”

“You were such a child,” he pleaded. “I respected your innocence.”

“That respect began,” she retorted, “when you set eyes on Sanchia. Do not imagine that I may be dropped for the sake of others and picked up when they are no longer available.”

“You are mistaken. You turn to that young fool Giulio …”

“Giulio is no fool. He loved me from the first and has done so ever since. Think of him—my lord Cardinal. Think of Giulio and think of yourself. Why, I love his beautiful eyes more than the whole of you and your wealth and all your fine promises. Understand that.”

Laughing she ran lightly across the grass to the castle.


* * *

As soon as Alfonso heard that his father was dying, he made plans to return to Ferrara immediately; and no sooner had he set foot in the castle than the tension lessened. There was a quality of strength about Alfonso; he was practical in the extreme; he might lack the dignity of Ippolito but he was also without that blind arrogance; he might lack the vitality of Ferrante and the charm of Giulio, but he was possessed of a strength which inspired the confidence of all.

“How fares my father?” demanded Alfonso on his arrival.

“He lives, my lord,” he was told, “but he is very weak.”

Alfonso was relieved. He had reached home in time. He greeted his brothers and Lucrezia and immediately went to the sick-room.

Old Ercole’s expression lightened when he saw his eldest son, and Alfonso hurried to the bed and knelt to receive his blessing.

“My son Alfonso,” whispered the Duke. “I rejoice to see you here. Very soon Ferrara will pass into your hands. Never forget the Este traditions, Alfonso, and keep peace within the family.”

Ercole’s eyes went to those standing about his bed—his sons and the wife of Alfonso. He wanted to warn Alfonso against the ambitions of his brothers and the extravagance of his wife, but he was too tired. Alfonso sensed this, and remembered that one thing which he and his father had in common. “Father,” he said, “would you like a little music in your bedchamber?”

The Duke smiled. Music, which he had always loved; music to soothe him in his passing, to delight his mind so that it was lost in that pleasure which would prevent his worrying about the future of Ferrara.

Alfonso gave orders that musicians should come to the bedchamber. Surprised, they came, and Alfonso then commanded that they play those pieces of music which his father had best loved. And thus, to the music of the harpsichord, Duke Ercole left Ferrara forever.


* * *

Alfonso’s vital personality filled the castle.

Custom demanded that the new Duke should be crowned before the court went into mourning for the death of the old one, so the first task which lay before them was the coronation with all its attendant ceremony.

Now that he was among them none feared that the rivalry between his brothers would ever become serious. The new Duke of Ferrara was a man who would make all pause and consider very carefully before they crossed his will.

It was winter and the streets of Ferrara were icily cold as Alfonso rode out from the castle to the Cathedral to be crowned Duke of Ferrara; but in spite of the snowy weather the people turned out to cheer their new Duke.

And when he returned to the castle Lucrezia was waiting to greet him. She stood on the balcony, that the people might see her, wearing a great cloak of white watered silk lined with ermine about her shoulders, and, as the people cheered her and she bowed and waved her acknowledgments, the crimson and gold jewel-spattered gown beneath the cloak became visible.

The people did not seem to hate her, for their cheers were spontaneous; but she was wise enough now to know that they could cheer one day and call for her banishment the next.

Everything depended on Alfonso, and she realized suddenly that she knew very little about this husband of hers. How could it be otherwise when their acquaintance had seemed to begin and end in the bedchamber? And even there he had never confided to her his hopes and ambitions, his likes and dislikes. All she had known was that he wished for sons, and during the time they had been married she had disappointed him in that respect.

He was entering the castle now, and she came down from the balcony to greet him. She was at the entrance of the castle as he reached it and before the eyes of many eager spectators who, she knew, were as curious concerning her future as she was apprehensive, she knelt and kissed her husband’s hand.

Alfonso laid his hands under her armpits and raised her as easily as though she were a child. He kissed her cheeks and everyone applauded. But his kiss, Lucrezia noted, was as cold as the snowflakes which fluttered down upon them.

Then he took her hand and led her in to the banquet; and those festivities began which would go on until the next day when they must put off all signs of rejoicing, change white and red and gold for black, and conduct the old Duke to his last resting place.


* * *

The celebrations both of the coronation of the new Duke and the funeral of the old were over, and for the first time, it seemed to Lucrezia, she and her husband were alone together.

Here was the well-known routine. Alfonso, saying nothing, treating her merely as the means of getting children.

After the idyllic relationship with Pietro she was in revolt against this man, and yet when she thought of those sunny hours with Pietro at Medelana and Comacchio there seemed about them an air of unreality; they were light and transient; they could never be repeated.

She realized now that she was afraid of the future, and the knowledge that it lay within the power of this prosaic and cold man was alarming.

Never until this moment had she felt so alone. She thought of those who had stood between her and the ruthless cruelty of the world and, by their own ruthless cruelty which exceeded that of all others, had protected her from evil.