Виктория Холт - Light on Lucrezia

“Oh my father,” she wanted to cry. “You have left me undefended. Cesare is a prisoner and I am alone … at the mercy of Ferrara.”

Alfonso had taken her into his rough embrace.

“It is important now,” he said, “that we should have sons.”

His words seemed to beat on her brain. Did they convey a warning? Sons … sons … and you are safe.

It was like a reprieve.

* * *

In a few weeks Lucrezia was pregnant. The Duke expressed his pleasure. Not that he had had any doubt that this would soon be so. He had had numerous children, and Lucrezia had already shown herself capable of bearing them.

He was waiting now for the birth of the heir of Ferrara.

Once my son is born, thought Lucrezia, my place here will be firm.

She knew that Isabella was receiving reports on her conduct; she had made several attempts to lure Pietro Bembo to Mantua and, now that she knew she could not, she was writing to her brother urging him to put an end to the love affair between his wife and the poet.

If you do not, she implied, when your child is born you will have all Ferrara looking for the features of a poet rather than those of a soldier.

Alfonso grunted as he read Isabella’s warning. He knew that the child Lucrezia now carried was his because she had not seen Bembo since long before its conception. He had known of his wife’s fanciful friendship with the poet and had cared not a jot for it. But Isabella was right when she said that the world might suspect his Duchess of foisting on to Ferrara a child not his.

Poets were not the sort of men he felt much sympathy with. As for Lucrezia he had little interest in her apart from the nightly encounters in the bedchamber. She was worthy of his attention then; he did not deny her beauty; she was responsive enough; but he would always prefer the tavern women; Lucrezia’s perpetual washing of her hair and bathing of her body vaguely irritated him. A little grime, a little sweat would have been a fillip to his lust.

Now that she was pregnant he was less frequently in her bedchamber; but he did like to visit her now and then for a change.

Pietro came back to Ferrara, and Lucrezia was delighted to see him, for it was wonderful to be with one who shared her love of poetry, whose manners were gracious and charming and who treated her as though she were a goddess, only part human, which was very different from the way in which Alfonso treated her.

Alfonso was alert. Never before, it seemed, had he shown so much interest in his wife. He gave her new attendants and they were all Farrarese.

“I have my women,” she told him. “I am satisfied with them.”

“I am not,” he retorted. “These women shall be in attendance on you in future.”

They were not her friends; they were his spies.

She wondered why Alfonso thought it necessary to spy on her. And one day she heard the sound of workmen near her apartments and, when she went to discover what was happening, she found that they were making a new passage.

“But why are you doing this?” she wanted to know.

“We have orders from the Duke, Duchessa.”

“Are you merely making this one passage?” she asked.

“That is so, Duchessa.”

“And how long is it to be?”

“Oh … it merely runs from the Duke’s apartments to your own.”

A passage … so that he could reach her quickly and silently.

What had happened to Alfonso that he was preparing to spy on her?

It was impossible that such mundane matters should touch the love she had shared with Pietro, which had no place in this castle with its secret passages through which an angry husband could hurry to confront an erring wife.

Lucrezia shuddered at the possibility of Alfonso’s discovering her and Pietro Bembo together. No matter how innocently they were behaving Alfonso would suspect the worst. What could he—that great bull of a man—understand of love such as she and Pietro shared?

She was careful never to be seen alone with Pietro; and it was only when they met, surrounded by others in the great hall of the castle, and he implored her to tell him what had changed their relationship that she could trust herself to explain, and tell him about the passage which Alfonso was having made.

“Soon,” she said, “it will be completed. Then he will be able to come swiftly and silently to my bedchamber unheralded, unannounced. He has had this made so that he may try to catch me in some misdemeanor.”

“Where can we meet and be safe?”

“Nowhere in Ferrara … that is certain.”

“Then come again to Medelana, to Comacchio.…”

“It is different now,” she answered sadly. “I am in truth the Duchess of Ferrara. Alfonso needs an heir. Do you not understand that I must produce that heir, and he must come into a world which is satisfied that he can be no other than the son of Alfonso?”

“But if we cannot meet in Ferrara, and if you cannot leave Ferrara, where shall we meet?”

“My dearest Pietro,” she whispered, “do you not see—this is the end.”

“The end? How could there be an end for us?”

“The end of meetings. The end of our talks … the end of physical love. I shall love you always. I shall think of you always. But we must not meet, for if we did and we were discovered I know not what would happen to either of us. Our love remains, Pietro. It is as beautiful as it ever was. But it is too beautiful to be subjected to the harshness of everyday life.”

He was staring at her with dumb anguish in his eyes.

Too beautiful, she thought. And too fragile.

Pietro was lost to her. The tender relationship was over, as were the flowers which had bloomed so beautifully in the gardens which had provided its background.

Lucrezia was trying to give all her thoughts to the child who was due to be born in September. Her pregnancy was a difficult one and she often felt very ill. Alfonso, who could not endure sickness in women, left her very much alone, and now that Pietro had gone from Ferrara the suspicious husband no longer made his unheralded visits through the corridor.

Alfonso had many difficulties to contend with in those months and little time to spare even for his foundry. The plague had been more devastating than usual during the hot summer days; and the results of famine in Ferrara had been alarming; moreover the death of old Ercole seemed to have brought certain festering sores to a head. These were the petty jealousies and rivalries between the brothers.

The most disturbing of these brothers was the bastard Giulio. The very fact of being a bastard made Giulio constantly anxious to prove that he was every bit as important as his brothers. It was unfortunate that Giulio happened to be the most handsome member of the family; he was also the wittiest, and he had the gift of ingratiating himself with the people. He was more popular than any of his brothers, although the solid worth and practical ability of Alfonso were appreciated.

Ferrante was like a pale shadow of Giulio, almost as madly reckless, but lacking that quick wit of the bastard. And it now seemed that Ferrante and Giulio were ranging themselves against Ippolito. Sigismondo however could be ignored; his ideas were becoming more and more mystic, and he would never be a menace to the dukedom.

In his new position Alfonso was quick to realize that harmony within his dukedom was essential, and he tried to placate Giulio by presenting him with a palace and a good income such as he could never have possessed under the rule of mean Duke Ercole.

This however, while it made Giulio more arrogant than ever, also aroused the jealousy of Ippolito, who showed his rancour by arresting a chaplain who belonged to Giulio’s household. The man may have slighted Ippolito; no one but Ippolito was sure of this, but what did seem obvious was that Ippolito was trying to show Giulio, and Ferrara, that his upstart bastard brother must remember his place in the dukedom and that therein he must behave with due respect to his legitimate brothers.

This was the state of affairs during that hot summer when the city, with a hundred noisome smells, was the breeding place of plague.

It would be folly, Lucrezia decided, to remain there for the birth of her precious heir; and she called her women to her and told them that she planned to leave for Modena where, in more suitable conditions, her child should be born.

She noticed that her cousin Angela seemed to have lost her usual high spirits, and she wondered whether this was due to the fact that she would be leaving Giulio.

She decided to speak to her, and eventually sent all her women away with the exception of Angela; and when they were alone she said: “Now, cousin, you had better tell me about it.”

Angela began to protest vigorously—too vigorously—that nothing was wrong; then she broke down and sobbing blurted out: “I’m going to have a baby.”

“Giulio?” said Lucrezia at length.

“Who else?” demanded Angela fiercely.

“Giulio knows?”

Angela nodded.

“And what says he, my dear?”

“He says that we must marry.”

“Well, then you should be happy.”

“We are afraid that there will be obstacles. Alfonso’s permission must be obtained.”

“I doubt not that he will give it.”

“Ippolito will do all in his power to frustrate us. He hates Giulio.”

“And you, my pretty cousin, are in part responsible for that.”

Angela, always the coquette, smiled through her tears. “Was it my fault?”

Lucrezia smiled gently. “Well, do not be distressed. I doubt not that all will be well for you. But in the meantime I would advise caution. It would not be wise for you to marry without Alfonso’s consent, as Giulio would then arouse the enmity of his eldest brother as well as that of Ippolito. Heaven knows, enough trouble is caused by the quarrels between himself and Ippolito. Now listen to me. Keep this matter secret for the present and ask Giulio to do the same. Believe me, this is the best way if you would marry in the end. Your pregnancy can be kept secret for a while. We will make a new fashion for skirts. Leave it to me.”

“Dearest and beloved cousin, how I adore you!” cried Angela. “What should we do without you?”

“You will need more than my help,” said Lucrezia. “You have urgent need of more discretion on your own part.”

And looking at Angela she wondered how she was suddenly to acquire that valuable asset in which so far she had shown herself to be entirely lacking.

* * *

Lucrezia and her party set out for Modena. When Lucrezia traveled a large retinue went with her. There were her dressmakers and many personal servants, her jesters, dwarfs, musicians.

Angela had regained her spirits and seemed to have reconciled herself to parting with Giulio, in a manner which surprised Lucrezia. But when a few miles from Ferrara they were overtaken by a small party of horsemen at the head of whom rode Giulio, she understood the reason for Angela’s contentment. He looked very handsome, very sure of himself, his dark eyes flashing as he scanned the company for a glimpse of Angela.

“Guilio!” cried Lucrezia. “What are you doing here? Why have you followed us?”

He brought his horse alongside hers and taking her hand kissed it tenderly.

“Sweet Duchessa,” he said, “how could I bear to be separated from you!”

“Your soft words do not deceive me,” Lucrezia told him with a smile. “You have other reasons.”

“Allow me to ride with you, dear Duchessa, and I will tell you why I have found it necessary to fly from Ferrara, although, my dear, dear Duchessa, I insist on your understanding this: Whether it had been necessary for me to fly or not, I should have followed you, for how could I bear to cut myself off from the light of your bright eyes?”

“And Angela’s?” she added softly.

“Ah, and my sweet Angela’s,” he answered.

“You and I must have a talk about that matter soon,” said Lucrezia quietly. “But not here.”

“The saints preserve you for your sweet goodness, Duchessa.”

Angela had taken her place beside Lucrezia, and she and Giulio exchanged passionate glances.

They were reckless, thought Lucrezia, but how could she blame them for that? As they rode, Giulio told them why he had found it necessary to ride full speed out of Ferrara.