Виктория Холт - Light on Lucrezia

“I should have been there,” she whispered. “I would have nursed him. I would have saved him. And while he was dying I was here, making merry with a lover. He was dying, dying, and I did not know it.”

Pietro Bembo seemed remote. This Platonic love, which had blossomed into passion during the summer weeks of his convalescence, what was it compared with a lifelong devotion, a deep abiding love of Borgia daughter for Borgia father?

I should have been at his side, she told herself again and again.

Now she must think of the last time he had held her in his arms. That room in the Vatican when he had held her as though he would never let her go; outside, the snowy street, the impatient horses champing their bits and pawing the ground. The last farewell!

How could life ever be the same again?

* * *

They were afraid for her. They did not know how to comfort her. She would not eat; she would not sleep. She remained in her apartments, crouching on the floor, looking back into the past, remembering; her golden hair falling loose about her, just as it had been when Ippolito had brought her the news.

When Pietro Bembo came riding to the villa her women were relieved. Here was one who might comfort her.

He went to her and found her crouching on the floor.

“Lucrezia!” he cried. “My love, my love!”

She burst into wild sobbing then, and buried her face in her hands.

He knelt and put an arm about her shoulders. “I have heard,” he whispered. “I have come to share this grief with you.”

But she shook her head. “It is mine,” she said. “Mine alone. None can share it or understand its depth.”

“My dearest, to see you thus, so steeped in wretchedness, breaks my heart. Do you not see that it is I who am in need of comfort?”

She shook her head.

“Leave me,” she said. “I pray you leave me. There is nothing you can do to help me but leave me with my grief.”

He tried again to comfort her, but there was no comfort for Lucrezia. There was none who could understand the depth of her grief. There was none who could realize the height, the depth and breadth of that love of Borgia for Borgia.

Those weeks which followed her father’s death were like an evil dream to Lucrezia. She could not escape from the memory of her loss; she grew pale and thin, for she still could eat little and her nights remained sleepless. Often she would sit crying quietly, and sometimes she would talk of her father, recalling every incident which proclaimed his devotion to her.

“Something within me has died,” she said. “I shall never be the same again.”

There was no sympathy for her from Ferrara. Duke Ercole openly rejoiced. The court, he declared, should not mourn one who had never been a true friend to Ferrara; and he added that for the honor of the Lord God and benefit of Christendom he had often prayed that the scandalous Pope should be removed from the Church. Now God had seen fit to answer his prayers, so there was little for him to mourn about.

It was Pietro who provided the comfort she needed. It was natural that he should. To whom else could she turn?

He would present himself at the villa each day, waiting for her to ask for him; and at length she did ask, and there he was waiting to offer comfort.

He was the one person to whom she could talk of her grief. He listened tenderly; he wept with her; he told of his undying love, and he wrote verses to commemorate it.

“Oh Pietro, Pietro,” she cried. “What should I do without you?”

* * *

Ercole Strozzi arrived at Ostellato one day.

He came to Medelana with Pietro. He had not seen Lucrezia since he had heard the news of her father’s death, and he kissed her hands tenderly and commiserated with her.

“But I come,” he said, “to give warning. Alfonso intends to visit you here. It may be that he has heard of Pietro’s visits and the friendship between you two. It would be wise if Pietro left Ostellato before Alfonso arrives.”

“He does not care who my friends are,” said Lucrezia.

“My lady Duchessa, I beg of you take care. The death of your father weakens your position and it will be necessary to act with the utmost caution.”

“I will visit Venice for a while,” said Pietro. “You have suffered enough and I would never forgive myself if I added to those sufferings.”

“You must not stay too long away from me,” Lucrezia implored. “You know how I rely on you now.”

Strozzi watched them with interest. This love affair, which he had planned, was ripening, he fancied. It had outgrown the Platonic stage, he was sure; and he would be interested to see what effect it had on Pietro’s work.

He must certainly make sure that Alfonso was not so irritated that he forbade the two to be together. Therefore it was wise for Pietro to disappear.

* * *

Alfonso arrived almost immediately after Pietro had left.

He was shocked by his wife’s appearance. Even her hair had lost its luster.

He remonstrated with her. “Why, it was many months since you had seen your father. Why should you make all this fuss now?”

“Can you not understand that I shall never … never see him again?”

“I understand it perfectly well. But you might not have done so in any case.”

She began to weep silently, because his reference to her father had brought back more tender memories.

“I did not come here to listen to your lamentations,” said Alfonso, who could not bear the company of weeping women.

“Then you should have left me to mourn alone,” she told him.

“Were you mourning … alone?” he asked.

“There is no one … no one … who can really share such grief with me.”

Alfonso, who was practical in the extreme, could not begin to understand the nature of the love which had existed between Alexander and Lucrezia. He knew that that mighty influence had been withdrawn and he imagined her grief to be partly due to fear for her own future. He could understand such alarm. The King of France had already hinted that if Alfonso wished to repudiate the marriage he would put no obstacle in the way. Ferrara had been forced to accept the Borgia as a bride but Ferrara should not be forced to keep her.

Did she know that the friendship of France for her family was a fickle thing? Was she weeping for the loss of that Apostolic mantle which had protected her so firmly all her life? To practical Alfonso it seemed that this must be so.

He sought to comfort her. “You need have no fear,” he said, “that we shall repudiate the marriage. We shall not take seriously the hints of the King of France.”

“What hints are these?” she asked.

“Is it possible that you do not know? Are you so shut away here at Medelana?”

“I have heard no news since I heard that which so overwhelmed me with grief that I could think of nothing else.”

He told her then of French animosity toward her family. “But have no fear,” said Alfonso; “we shall not repudiate the marriage for we should have to pay back the dowry if we did, and that is something my father would never do.”

He laughed aloud at the thought of his father’s parting with all those ducats which he loved so well. He placed an arm about Lucrezia and tried to jolly her toward an amorous mood, but she was unresponsive. She repeated: “The King of France would not dare.… Though my father is dead I still have my brother.”

“Your brother!” cried Alfonso.

She turned to him suddenly; she was vital again, her eyes suddenly brilliant, not with joy, but with a terrible fear. “Cesare!” she cried. “What of Cesare?”

“It was a sad thing for him that he fell sick at such a time. He needed his strength. But he was lying sick almost to death while your father’s enemies rioted in the streets, ransacked the Papal apartments and made off with jewels of great value—which, it seems, your brother’s servants had failed to put into safe keeping.”

“Where is he now?” asked Lucrezia in anguish.

“He went to Castel Sant’ Angelo for safety.”

“And the children?”

“They went with him. Your son Roderigo and the Infante Romano.” Alfonso burst out laughing. “Do not look so downcast. He had his ladies with him. Sanchia of Aragon was there and Dorotea, the girl he abducted. I wonder how they liked each other.”

“My brother … a prisoner!”

“Your brother a prisoner. How else could it be? He conquered many towns, and the whole of Italy feared him. He strutted about like a conqueror, did he not? But he took his power from the Papal standards, and suddenly … he finds himself a sick man and the Papal influence withdrawn from him.”

Lucrezia had taken her husband’s arm and was shaking it in her distress.

“Oh, tell me everything … everything!” she begged. “Can you not see that it is agony for me to remain in suspense?”

“The French King has withdrawn his support from your brother. All the small states are rising against him. Why should they not at such a time regain what was theirs? Even that first husband of yours, even Giovanni Sforza, is back in Pesaro.”

Lucrezia dropped his arm. She turned away from him that he might not see her face.

“Holy Mother of God,” she murmured. “I have been immersed in my own selfish grief while Cesare is in trouble, Cesare is in danger.”

Thus in the brutal frankness of a few minutes Alfonso had done more to make her forget her grief in her father’s death than Pietro had, with all the gentle comfort he had to offer, because in her fear for her brother she could best forget her sorrow for her father.