He longed to turn back, to storm into the palace, to force her to leave them and come with him back to Pesaro where they would live away from the conflict of politics and the shadow of her scheming and unscrupulous family.

But who was he to dream such dreams? He was a small man; he was a coward who had always been afraid of someone or something, always trying to shake off the memory of humiliation.

No. It was too late. They had taken her from him and already she was estranged; already he had lost her.

Mists of anger danced before his eyes.

Francesco had turned to him.

“It grieves you,” he said, “to leave the Lady Lucrezia.”

Sforza laughed bitterly. “It does not grieve her,” he said. “She is happy enough to settle under the apostolic mantle.”

Francesco was looking at him oddly. Sforza, remembering past slights, could not stop himself from muttering savagely: “His Holiness is eager to be rid of me. He wishes to have the complete care of his daughter … he wishes to be husband as well as father.”

There was silence. Francesco was looking ahead of him; the cavalcade rode on.

On the balcony the Pope was looking fondly at his daughter.

“So Gonzaga rides away,” he said. “Now, my dearest, you must make preparations to greet your brother Goffredo and your sister-in-law Sanchia. It will not be long now before they are with us.”


SANCHIA OF ARAGON

The voluptuous Sanchia lay on her bed nibbling sweetmeats. Sprawling on the bed, helping themselves now and then from the dish were her three favorite ladies-in-waiting: Loysella, Francesca and Bernardina.

Sanchia was telling them about last night’s lover, for she enjoyed recounting details of her various love affairs, declaring that thus she acquired a double pleasure—first in actuality, then in memory.

Sanchia was strikingly beautiful, and one of her greatest attractions was the contrast between her dark hair, dark brows, olive skin and her startling blue eyes. Her features were bold, her nose aquiline and beautifully shaped; her mouth was soft and sensual. To look at Sanchia was to be reminded immediately of erotic pleasures; Sanchia knew this, and the frank sensuality of her smile suggested that she had made discoveries which were unknown to all others but which she would be delighted to impart to those at whom she was smiling, that they and they alone might share this secret.

Sanchia had had lovers for as long as she could remember and she knew that she would go on taking them until she died.

“I do not anticipate the journey with much pleasure,” she was saying now. “But what fun it will be when we arrive in Rome. I am halfway in love with Cesare Borgia already, and I have not even seen him. Oh, what a great passion awaits us!”

“You will make the Pope jealous of his own son,” suggested Francesca.

“I think not. I think not. I shall leave his Holiness to you, Loysella, or perhaps to little Bernardina. Together mayhap you will compensate him for his weariness of Madonna Giulia—she who is known as La Bella.”

Loysella said: “Madonna, you should not talk thus of the Holy Father.”

“He is but a man, my child. And do not look so shocked. It is not as though I suggest you should be bedfellow to that mad monk Savonarola.”

Loysella shivered, but Sanchia’s eyes were speculative. “I have never had a lover who was a monk,” she mused. “Perhaps on our journey we shall pass by some monastery.…”

“Oh, you are wicked, Madonna,” said Francesca with a giggle. “Are you not afraid to talk thus?”

“I am afraid of nothing,” retorted Sanchia. “I confess and I do my penances. When I am old I shall reform my ways and doubtless enter a nunnery.”

“It will have to be a monastery for you, wicked one,” said Loysella.

“Nay, nay, although I would try a monk, it would be but for once. I do not ask for monk night after night … day after day.”

“Hush!” said Francesca. “If our conversation were reported …”

“It matters not. No one attempts to make me change my ways. My father the King knew how I love men, yet what did he do? He said: ‘She is one of us. You cannot grow oranges on pear trees.’ My brother shakes his head and agrees; and even my old grandmother knew it was useless to try to reform me.”

“His Holiness will reform you. It is for this reason that he sends for you.”

Sanchia smiled wickedly. “From what I hear of His Holiness it is not to reform me that he invites me to Rome.”

Loysella pretended to stop her ears because she would not listen to such profanity, but Sanchia merely laughed and bade Francesca bring out the necklace of gold and rubies which her latest lover had brought her.

She leaped up and putting on the necklace paraded before them.

“He said: ‘Only the best is worthy to adorn that perfect body.’ ”

She grimaced and looked at the necklace. “I hope it is of the best,” she said.

“The workmanship is exquisite,” Francesca cried, examining it.

“You may try it on,” said Sanchia. “All of you. Ah,” she went on, “last night was wonderful. To-night perhaps will be as exciting, but perhaps not. It is the voyage of discovery which enchants me. The second night is like crossing a sea which has already been traversed. Not the same surprises … not the same discoveries. How I wish I had been here when the French soldiers were in Naples!”

Francesca pretended to shiver. “There have been such tales. You would not have escaped. They would have seized on you.”

“That would have been exciting. And they say the French are good lovers, and so chivalrous, so gallant. To think that while we were cowering on that dull, dull island of Ischia, such exciting things were going on in Naples.”

“You might have hated it,” suggested Bernardina. “There was one woman who, pursued by soldiers, killed herself by leaping from the roof of her house.”

“I can think of better resting places than the courtyard stones,” said Sanchia. “Oh yes, I wish I had been here to meet the gallant French. I was angry … quite angry when we were hustled away to live in exile. That is why I must take so many lovers now. There is much time to be made up. You understand?”

“Our lady makes up for lost time very creditably,” Loysella murmured.

“At least,” said Sanchia, “the rumors have not lied. His Holiness writes to my father that accounts of my conduct, which have reached him in Rome, have most seriously disturbed him.”

“Madonna … Sanchia, take care … take care when you reach Rome.”

“Take care! Nay, I’ll take Cesare instead.”

“I have heard much talk of Cesare,” said Loysella.

“Strange talk,” put in Francesca.

“It is said,” went on Loysella, “that when he casts his eyes on a woman and says ‘Come hither,’ she dare not disobey. If she does, she is taken by force and punished for having dared delay in obeying the lord Cardinal.”

“I have heard,” added Bernardina, “that he roams the streets looking for suitable virgins to fill his harem. I have heard that any who stand in his way die mysteriously; none knows how.”

Sanchia clasped her hands at the back of her neck, threw back her rippling black hair and laughed. “He sounds more exciting than any man I have ever met. I long to see him face to face.”

“Take care, Sanchia,” begged Bernardina. “Take care when you come face to face with Cesare Borgia.”

“I would have you take care,” said Sanchia with a laugh. “I pray you keep my little Goffredo busy this evening. I do not want him strolling into my bedchamber when I am entertaining visitors. It is bad for the dear little creature’s morals.”

The girls laughed.

“Dear Goffredo. He’s a darling, and so pretty. I long to pet him,” declared Francesca.

“You may pet him all you wish,” Sanchia promised her. “But I pray you keep him from my bedchamber. Where is he now? Let us have him come to us and tell us about his brother. After all, he knows more of Cesare Borgia than any one of us.”

They helped Sanchia into her gown, and she was lying back on her pillows when Goffredo came in.

He was very pretty and looked younger than his years, for he was nearly fourteen.

He ran to the bed and threw himself down beside his wife. She put out an arm and held him against her while she stroked his beautiful hair, which was touched with tints of copper. His long-lashed eyes looked at his wife with admiration. He knew that he had married a woman who was said to be the most lovely in all Italy. He had heard her beauty compared with that of his sister, Lucrezia, and his father’s mistress, Giulia; and most of those who had seen the three beauties declared that Sanchia had beauty to equal the others and something more—there was a witchery about Sanchia, something which made her unique. She was insatiably sensual; she scattered promises of undreamed-of delight on all those of the opposite sex who came near her. Thus, although the golden beauty of Lucrezia and Giulia was admired, the dark beauty of Sanchia was more than admired; it was never forgotten.

“And what has my little husband been doing this day?” asked Sanchia.

He put up his face to kiss the firm white chin. “I have been riding,” he said. “What a pretty necklace!”

“It was given me last night.”

“I did not see you last night. Loysella said I must not disturb you.”

“Wicked Loysella,” said Sanchia lightly.

“You had a lover with you,” stated Goffredo. “Was he pleasing?”

She kissed his head absently, thinking of last night’s lover.

“I have known worse, and I have known better,” she pronounced judgment.