“You will remember that my accursed brother, Ippolito, had the insolence to imprison one of my chaplains. I could not allow that so I have stormed the man’s prison and freed him. What my brother Ippolito will say when he discovers I can well imagine.”

“He would like to have you imprisoned for what he would call violating the sanctity of his castle,” said Angela shortly.

“One day,” said Giulio, “I shall have followers to equal those of proud Ippolito. Then I shall stand and face him, and if it be necessary to fight to the death I will do this. It would seem to me that there is not room for the two of us in Ferrara.”

Angela’s eyes shone with admiration for her lover, but Lucrezia was sad.

“I wish for an end to these troubles,” she said. “I should like to see you friends.”

Angela and Giulio smiled at each other. Dear Lucrezia! they thought. What did she know of passionate love and passionate hate?


* * *

Plague and famine were sweeping across Italy and, as Lucrezia came into the town of Reggio where she was to rest for the birth of her child, no banners were hung out, no shouting crowds waited to welcome her. The hot streets were deserted and the people hid themselves behind their shutters.

It was depressing for Lucrezia who was always conscious of the miseries of others, and she remained melancholy as she awaited the birth of her child.

She longed for an encouraging message from Alfonso. None came. It was as though Alfonso implied: Produce the heir of Ferrara, and then I shall congratulate you. Before you have done that, what is there to congratulate you about?

There were tender letters from two men, and she knew that she was continually in their thoughts. One of these penned her exquisite lines of poetry—that was Pietro Bembo; the other wrote as a soldier whose arms were always at her disposal. This was Francesco Gonzaga.

These letters brought great comfort. She was delighted that Pietro should continue to think of her. She could not help laughing, when she remembered the cold welcome which had been accorded her by Isabella at the time of her marriage, to consider how solicitous and tender toward her was Isabella’s husband. This seemed Fate’s revenge for all the slights which she had received at Isabella’s hands. Lucrezia was convinced that the proud and domineering woman, while she accepted her husband’s infidelities with other women, would be very put out if she knew that he had some tender feeling for the woman whom she hated and whose position she had resolved to undermine.

But of what importance were these matters? All that mattered now was that she should come through this difficult pregnancy, escape the plague and give Ferrara a healthy heir.

Messengers brought her a letter from Alfonso.

She seized it eagerly. At last he seemed to have remembered her existence. But as she read the letter her eyes clouded with disappointment, for there was scarcely a reference in it to herself.

She threw it aside and asked Angela to bring Giulio to her; and when he came she said, “I have bad news for you both. I am very sorry.”

They waited breathlessly and she went on: “It is from Alfonso. Ippolito has complained about your storming of his castle and freeing your chaplain who, Ippolito claims, insulted him. Alfonso is weary of the strife within the family, and he says that Giulio must immediately leave us. You are to go far away from trouble, Giulio, far away from us all.”

Angela let out a wail, and Giulio’s eyes flashed. “I’ll not go,” he declared.

“Giulio, Angela, you must think of your future. You must obey Alfonso. Only if you do, shall I be able to persuade him to agree to your marriage.”

And after a passionate leave-taking of Angela, Giulio left.


* * *

During the heat of September Lucrezia’s baby was born. She called him Alexander, for as she held him in her arms she believed that he might bring her a joy which would help her to forget the loss of that other Alexander.

But the baby was very small. He did not cry; he lay very still; he did not want to be fed. There was surely something wrong with a child who did not cry and did not want his food.

She longed for a word from Alfonso but there were only the letters from Pietro and Francesco to bring comfort.

And one morning when Alexander was scarcely four weeks old Lucrezia awoke with a terrible sense of foreboding. She knew that her baby was dead.


* * *

A letter from Francesco Gonzaga brought her out of her melancholy.

His condolences, his most tender thoughts, he sent to her. He knew how she must be suffering. He thought of her constantly in that gloomy town of Reggio. If she would forgive the presumption, he would say that she was unwise to stay there. Let her leave Reggio and all its memories; she should not remain, brooding on her tragedy. She should return to Ferrara, and she should do this by barge, which would be so much more comfortable in her present circumstances. He would suggest that she break her journey at Borgoforte, a small fortress in his possession, on the banks of the Po. It would give him the utmost pleasure there to wait upon her, and entertain her. He was a rough soldier and was no poet to charm her with words, but he could offer something of equal value, he believed. For instance he knew how she suffered on account of her brother’s imprisonment. If they met they could discuss this sad matter. Who knew, he—as a soldier—might be able to suggest some means of alleviating her brother’s suffering. And this he would be at great pains to do, because he knew that the suffering of her brother was hers also.

That letter roused her out of her apathy.

She read it through and read it again, and she found that a smile was curving her lips because she was comparing his blunt phrases with those flowery ones of the poet, Pietro Bembo.

But Francesco was right. What she needed now was a soldier’s help for Cesare. Only in helping her brother could she forget her own misery.

Alfonso’s neglect—he was clearly annoyed by the death of the boy and seemed to blame her, first for bringing a sickly child into the world and then losing it—had hurt her deeply, and this gallant soldier’s tender interest soothed her, wiped away her humiliation.

She called her servants together and cried: “Make ready to leave. I am weary of this place. We shall travel back to Ferrara by barge. But first we shall stop at Borgoforte.”

There was bustle throughout the apartment. The atmosphere had lightened.

Everybody knew that they would now begin to move away from the tragedy which had been wrought by the death of little Alexander.


* * *

Francesco was hastily trying to transform the meagre fortress—which was all he possessed at Borgoforte—into a palace worthy to receive the woman he was hoping to make his mistress.

He had not been so excited since the days of his early youth. Lucrezia was different from all other women. That mingling of latent passion, that serenity—they were such an odd combination.

The enchantment of Lucrezia lay partly in the fact that there could not be a woman less like Isabella in the whole of Italy.

The gentle Lucrezia … the domineering Isabella. How different! He believed he was on the verge of the greatest love affair he had ever experienced.

Recently she had been said to be the mistress of a poet. Was she in truth his mistress? Had there been physical love between those two? No one had proved that. They had wandered in gardens together and he had written verses to her; they had set the verses to music and sung them together. It seemed to this rough soldier a poor way of conducting a love affair.

Still he did not dismiss Pietro. He wanted to say to Lucrezia: I can give you all your poet gave you, and more also.

He had even written sonnets to her. He blushed to recall them. Yet all poetry seemed to him equally foolish, so why should his be more so than any other?

If only he had a palace to offer her instead of a miserable fortress! But he could not invite her to his palace of Mantua for Isabella would be there and her alert eyes would be upon them; and although she allowed him a mistress or two, she would never tolerate a love affair between himself and Lucrezia.

But love affair there should be, even though it must flower in a fortress.

His servants were now draping magnificent tapestry about the pillars; the musicians were arriving; and a messenger had come with a letter. He frowned as he took it, for he saw that it was from Isabella.

News had been brought to her, wrote his wife, that he was making an effort to transform the fortress of Borgoforte into a palace in order to entertain some friends. She was surprised that she had had to hear of her husband’s activities from others than himself. Would it not have been more seemly, more gracious, if he himself had told her of his plans? Should she not have been invited to welcome his friends?

Francesco was melancholy. He pictured Isabella’s arrival, her determination to humiliate Lucrezia as she had at every opportunity during the wedding celebrations in Ferrara. This visit he had planned as a preliminary to seduction. Isabella could have no part in such a plan.

Then suddenly Francesco threw off his melancholy. In that moment the great campaigner was in command and the servile husband of Isabella subdued. A curse on Isabella! She had put herself in command in Mantua, and like a fool he had a hundred times given way to her. But this was not Mantua.

Deliberately he wrote a note to his wife telling her that he had not asked her to make the journey to Borgoforte, and had no intention of doing so. She had recently recovered from an attack of fever, and was not in a position to travel. Not only would he refuse to invite her … he would forbid her to come.

He sent off the note and turned his thoughts to the decorating of the fortress.

But Isabella could not be dismissed from his thoughts as easily as that.

Francesco searched his soul and had to admit that he was afraid of his masterful wife.

Therefore he wrote to her once more, telling her that one of his guests was her sister-in-law, Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara, who would call at Borgoforte on her way back from Reggio to Ferrara. Perhaps it would be a pleasant gesture if he invited her to visit Mantua on her journey. He was sure Alfonso would be delighted if his sister entertained his wife.

Having dispatched the message, Francesco asked himself whether he was a fool or not. If, during Lucrezia’s stay at Borgoforte, he advanced his relationship with her as he intended to, would it not be visible to the alert eyes of Isabella?


* * *

Slowly the barge drifted down the Po toward Borgoforte. Surrounded by his muscians whom he had commanded to play sweet music, Francesco saw it take shape through the mist as it glided past the banks thick with birch trees.

As the barge came nearer he saw the brilliant colors of the women’s dresses, and there in their midst Lucrezia herself, her freshly washed hair golden about her shoulders, and a smile of pleasure on her face. As she stepped ashore, he took her hands in his and his heavy-lidded eyes shone with emotion as he studied her slender figure. She seemed more frail than ever, and sorrow had seemed to give her an appearance of even greater childishness.

Francesco had never before felt such pity mingle with desire. Poor child! he thought. Poor, poor child, how she has suffered!

He realized that her stay at Borgoforte was not going to be the merry one he had anticipated; he doubted whether she would become his mistress while there. Quite suddenly that seemed unimportant; the only thing that mattered was to make this young girl gay again.

The gay music seemed out of place in the misty meadow.

He said: “I knew you loved music. I but wished you to know that, while you stay at my poor fortress, I mean to do everything I can to make you happy.”

She had placed her hand in his and had given him that childlike smile.

“I have felt happier since I received your invitation,” she said. “I feel happier still now that I have seen you again.”

He led her into the fortress. She was astonished at its magnificence.