“But you have gone to much trouble,” she said.

“It was of small account,” he told her.

“But no, it is of great account. It was done to cheer me. I know it.”

“Then if it has cheered you one little bit, the effort was well worth while. I have arranged a banquet for this night. You and I will dance a measure.”

She shook her head and the tears filled her eyes. “It seems such a short while since I held my baby in my arms.”

“It is over,” he answered her. “No grieving can change it. You must try to be happy again. If I could make you so, I should be the happiest man on Earth.”

“It is in no man’s power to make me happy, I fear.”

“You speak with your grief fresh upon you. There shall be no dancing if you do not wish it.”

They went into the hall which, with its cleverly painted murals, gave an impression of vistas opening out beyond the walls of the room. She was effusive in her praise, and that pleased him for it showed her awareness of all he had done to attempt to charm her. But still she was sad, and her mind dwelt on the child she had lost.


* * *

He could not make love to her. He could not even speak of love. He could only show by actions that he cared for her, that her fragility appealed to him, that her insecurity made him long to protect her.

It was not easy to be alone with her at the fortress. They could only talk during the banquet or while the guests danced together.

“You know,” he said earnestly, “that if you should need my help I would come to you at once.”

“Why should I need your help?” she asked.

“My dearest Lucrezia, you, who were a short time ago protected by the most powerful relations, are now alone.” She was immediately melancholy, thinking of her father’s death, of Cesare’s captivity; and the last thing he had wanted to do was increase her sadness. But he persisted: “Alfonso wants an heir … needs an heir.”

“And I have failed him once more.”

“Do not brood on that. Understand now, that should you need my help at any time and send word to me, no matter where I should be, I would hasten to your side.”

“You are good to me,” she told him.

He did not touch her, but she saw the smoldering light in those heavy-lidded eyes that seemed suddenly robbed of their sleepiness. “It shall always be my greatest joy in life … being good to you.”

“Why are you so good?” she asked. And when he was silent for a few seconds she laughed a little uncertainly. “During my first days in Ferrara I came to know your wife as my most bitter enemy.”

His eyes smoldered. “She was cruel to you. I could hate her for it.”

“You … hate Isabella, your wife!”

“Do you not understand why?” Lucrezia’s heart had begun to beat a little faster; this man was succeeding in making her feel alive again. She waited for the answer. “It is because I am falling in love with you.”

“Oh no! It cannot be so.”

“I was a fool not to know it before. Do you remember our first meeting? Do you remember how you made me talk of my battles? I thought you a child then … an enchanting one, but only a child.”

“I remember it well.”

“And you stood on the balcony and watched me ride away.”

“Giovanni Sforza was there … my first husband.”

Francesco nodded. “He spoke slander against you even then, and I hated him. Yet I did not know why I hated him.”

“I thought what a great soldier you were, and if Giovanni Sforza had been like you I might have felt differently toward him.”

“Lucrezia …”

“You must not misunderstand me. There can be no love between us two.”

“But there is love between us two.”

She shook her head.

“Have I not told you that I love you?”

“They are the words of a courtier.”

“They are spoken from my heart.”

“But of what use is love if only one feels it? Love must be shared to be beautiful.”

“It shall be. It shall be,” he cried passionately.

But she only shook her head once more.

“I will show you the extent of my love,” he told her.

“I pray you do not. Did you not know that the men who love me are unlucky?”

“Alfonso …”

“Alfonso never loved me.” She turned to him smiling. “But it is good of you to show me such kindness. You know how heavy my heart is. You know of the sorrow which has befallen me during this most tragic year. You seek to make me light-hearted. That is so kind of you. I do not forget how kind.”

“You do not believe that I love you truly, and that my love is greater than any you have ever known before. Do not think that poets, who have a gift for flowery speech, can love with the same passion as a soldier. My verses make you smile—or would, had you not the kindest heart in the world; but love does not consist of writing verses. I will show by my deeds that I love you. You have a brother on whose behalf you suffer much pain.”

She had clasped her hands together in an agony of expectation, and he smiled believing he had found the way to her heart.

“I have some influence in this land and in that of Spain. If I sent an envoy to the court of Spain begging for your brother’s release, my request might not go unheeded. What would you say to me then, Lucrezia?”

“I should say you were the kindest man in Italy.”

“Is that all?”

“I could, I believe, begin to love one who could bring so much good to me.”

“How you love this brother of yours!”

“We were brought up together. There are family ties. We have always been of great importance to each other.”

“I have heard that said. I believe, Lucrezia,” he went on seriously, “that there will never be happiness for you while your brother is in captivity.”

“It is as though we are one person,” she said. “While he is a prisoner, so am I.”

“The prisoner of your own emotions, Lucrezia,” he said. “There shall be one in your life who means so much to you that even your love for your brother will seem of small significance. I intend to be that one.”

“You forget Isabella,” she said. “Isabella and Alfonso.”

“I forgot nothing,” he answered. “You will see in time. Tomorrow I send that envoy to Spain.”

“How can I thank you?”

“Between us,” he said, “there shall be no formal gratitude. You will see that I shall put my life at your service and in exchange …”

“Yes?” she asked. “In exchange you will require?”

“Only that you love me.”


* * *

Isabella was waiting to receive her sister-in-law at Mantua. She was suspicious. Why had Francesco suddenly become so bold as to forbid her to attend the two days’ festivities at Borgoforte? And who were the guests? Lucrezia and her miserable attendants! All that fuss, all that preparation for the Borgia woman!

Yes, Isabella was very suspicious indeed.

She had been almost unbearable to her servants that day. She had been dressed three times before her appearance satisfied her.

She was assured that no dress in Italy could compare with the one she was wearing. The Borgia woman in her morello and gold would look coarse beside her; she was so slender, so dainty. Isabella cuffed the woman who said that. “Am I a fool?” she demanded. “Can I deny the evidence of my eyes? I am neither slender nor dainty. These are the Borgia’s qualities. But I fancy I have as good a shape as any woman in Italy.”

The more apprehensive she grew, the more she wished to flaunt her superiority. She practiced her singing and dancing steps, as she had before the wedding; she went through her galleries admiring her works of art. The woman would never have seen such treasures, not even in the Vatican. That rogue, her father, had collected women rather than art treasures.

But what annoyed her more than anything was the thought of her husband Francesco’s daring to dance attendance on a woman who she had decided to hate.

She sent for two of her women who she knew had been his mistresses. They were quite handsome still and she bore them no grudge. She had, though he had not known this, chosen them for him. She complimented herself that she knew him so well that she was aware of those occasions when he was ready to go, as she called it, a-roving. That did not worry her. All she asked was to rule Mantua, and if he was deep in a love affair he was more likely to leave her in command than if he were concerned with matters of state. She liked him to have his mistresses in the household so that she could watch the progress of his affairs. What she would not tolerate was that he should choose his own women.

“We must show the Duchess of Ferrara that we can give as good a banquet here as ever she enjoyed in the Vatican,” said Isabella. “And you two shall have new dresses. There is not time for me to design them for you, so I shall select from my own store what most becomes you.”

The women were delighted. They understood, and she knew she could rely on them to use all their wiles to lure the Marquis of Mantua from any fresh love.


* * *

Isabella took Lucrezia in her arms and gave her the kiss of Judas.

“How it delights me to see you here!” she exclaimed.

Lucrezia’s smile betrayed nothing. She stood before Isabella, child-like yet self-contained; not in a dress of morello striped with gold but in dark draperies which clung to her figure and which were even more becoming than the bright colors had been. In spite of her troubles she was still a slender and lovely girl.

“Come,” said Isabella, leading the way into the castle, “I long to show you my treasures. I trust my husband entertained you in a manner suited to you?”

Isabella’s eyes were mocking and cruel, full of suggestions, hinting that she suspected Lucrezia of being her husband’s mistress.

Lucrezia replied: “The Marquis and his friends gave me a hearty welcome at Borgoforte. I fear my low spirits disappointed them.”

“Then I trust they were able to raise them a little.”

“It is always comforting to have good friends.”

“Alfonso was not pleased by your sojourn there as my husband’s guest, I gather. He is a jealous husband.”

“He has no need to be.”

Isabella’s laughter rang out.

“The Duchessa has had a long journey,” said Francesco, “and she has not yet fully recovered her health.”

“Forgive me,” said Isabella. “I am forgetful. We will refresh ourselves, and later I will show you my paintings and statues. I’ll swear you have rarely seen a better collection. I pride myself on it.”

Isabella would not leave Lucrezia’s side; she watched her husband’s two ex-mistresses waiting upon him, and Isabella had to admit that they seemed gross beside the newcomer.

It was clear to Isabella that Francesco either had made or determined to make the woman his mistress. Lucrezia with her air of innocence might suggest that she was unaware of this, but she did not deceive Isabella. She is a Borgia, thought Isabella, and therefore a monster.

The light of battle was in Isabella’s eyes. There shall be no love affair between those two, she told herself. I’d see Francesco dead first. He may have all the women in the world if he wishes to—but not that one.

It was a situation which was quite intolerable to Isabella. What was going on behind those sly meek eyes? Was the girl laughing at her? Was she thinking to take her revenge for what had happened at the wedding?

She took Lucrezia’s arm and with a party they toured the castle, for Isabella had a great longing to show Lucrezia the treasures she possessed. She wanted to accentuate the fact that she, Lucrezia Borgia, was no longer a power in Italy, and that even the possessions still left to her were held insecurely.

Francesco was in the party, so were the two women whom she had dressed in two of her most becoming gowns. They were chattering as coquettishly as they knew how, but Francesco was scarcely aware of them.

Lucrezia must gasp in admiration at the beautiful works of art which Isabella had to show her, and even Isabella gloating over them briefly forgot her enmity toward Lucrezia.

Isabella was a born collector with a sincere love of what was beautiful, and as she stood before the glorious Mantegna painting of the Triumphs of Julius Caesar her eyes filled with tears.

Lucrezia was similarly affected, and for a moment they were drawn together.