Виктория Холт - Madonna of the Seven Hills

“There is no hurry,” said the man. “Your mistress will have a long sleep. She is exhausted.”

“I would rather proceed at once to our destination.”

“Very well, Pantisilea.”

He leaped down from his horse.

“Whither are you going?” she asked.

His answer was to lift her from the horse. She looked about her for some dwelling where Pedro might be sheltering, but she could see none.

The man said: “How small you are, Pantisilea, and so young.”

He bent his head and kissed her lips.

She was astonished, but not displeased. It was long since a man had caressed her.

She laughed softly and said: “It is not the time. I wish to be taken at once to Pedro Caldes.”

“You have spoken, Pantisilea,” said the man.

He put his hands tenderly on her head and moved them slowly down to her ears, caressing them. She looked up into his face; he was not looking at her; he seemed to be staring at the moonlit river. His eyes were fixed and glassy, and suddenly a terrible fear took hold of Pantisilea.

For in a moment of blinding understanding she knew, even before it happened.

Then she felt the hands slide down to her throat.

* * *

Lucrezia awoke. It was daylight.

She had been dreaming. She was in a beautiful garden in the country; her baby boy lay in his cradle, and she and his father were bending over it looking at the child.

A happy dream, but only a dream. And here was the day, and she was awake.

She was not alone in her room; a man sat on either side of her bed, and she was conscious of the dull thudding of her heart. Pedro had been promised her; and he had not come; and where was Pantisilea?

She struggled up.

“You should rest,” said Alexander. “You need your strength, my dear.”

“Father,” she murmured; and then she turned to that other figure. “And Cesare,” she added.

“We have come to tell you that all is well,” said Cesare. He spoke in stern clipped tones, and she knew that he was angry. She shrank from him toward her father. Alexander’s voice had been as kind and tender as it ever was.

“I want my child,” she said. “Father, it is a boy. You will love him.”

“Yes,” said the Pope. “In a few years he shall be with us.”

She smiled. “Oh, Father, I knew I could rely on you to look after me.”

The beautiful white hand patted hers. “My little one,” murmured Alexander. “My wise little one.”

She took his hand and kissed it.

“Now,” said Alexander briskly, “there is nothing to worry about. Everything has been settled. You will in a short while resume your normal life, and this little affair, although there have been some ugly rumors, will have been forgotten.”

“Father, Pedro …”

“Do not speak his name,” said Cesare harshly.

“Cesare, dearest brother, understand me. I love Pedro. He is the father of my child and soon to be my husband. Our father has arranged that it shall be so.”

“My dearest,” said the Pope, “alas, that cannot be.”

She struggled up in her alarm.

“My dear daughter,” murmured the Pope. “It is time you knew the truth.”

“But I love him, Father, and you said …”

Alexander had turned away and put a kerchief to his eyes.

Cesare said almost viciously: “Pedro Caldes’ body was recovered from the Tiber yesterday. You have lost your lover, sister; lost him to death.”

She fell back on her pillows, her eyes closed. The Pope leaned over her lovingly. “It was too sudden,” he said. “My sweet, sweet child, I would I could bear your pains for you.”

A smile of sarcasm twisted Cesare’s lips as he looked at his father.

He wanted to shout: “At whose orders was the chamberlain murdered? At mine and yours. Rightly so. Has she not disgraced our name enough by consorting with servants!”

Instead he said: “There is another who has joined him there … your maid Pantisilea. You will never see her face again.”

Lucrezia covered her face with her hands; she wanted to shut out the sight of this room and the men who sat on either side of her. They were her guardians; they were her jailors. She had no life which was not designed by them. She could not take a step without them; if she attempted to do so, they arranged that she should meet only disaster.

Pedro in the river! She thought of him with the wounds on his body or perhaps the bruises on his throat; perhaps neither. Perhaps they had poisoned him before they had given him to the river.

Pedro, the handsome boy. What had he done but love Lucrezia?

And little Pantisilea. Never to see her again. She could not endure it. There was a limit to the sorrow one could suffer.

“Go … go from me,” she stammered. “Have my child brought to me … and go … go, I say.”

There was silence in the room. Neither Cesare nor Alexander moved.

Then Alexander spoke, still in those gentle soothing tones. “The child is being well looked after, Lucrezia. You have nothing to fear on his account.”

“I want my son,” she cried. “I want my baby. I want him here … in my arms. You have murdered the man I love. You have murdered my friend. There is nothing I want now of you but to give me my child. I will go away. I will live alone with my child … I want never to see this place again.…”

Cesare said: “Is this Lucrezia speaking? Is this Lucrezia Borgia?”

“Yes,” she cried. “It is I, and no other.”

“We have been wrong,” said Alexander quickly. “We have broken this news too sharply. Believe me, dearest daughter, there are times when one sharp cut of the knife is best. Then the healing can begin at once. It was wrong of you—a Borgia, our own beloved daughter—so to conduct yourself with a servant. And that there should be a child, was … criminal. But we love you dearly and we understand your emotions. We forgive them as we would forgive all your sins. We are weak and we love you tenderly. We have saved you from disgrace and disaster, as we always should. You are our dearest treasure and we love you as we love none other. I and your brother feel thus toward you, and together we have saved you from the consequences of great sin and folly. Those who shared this adventure are no more; so there is no danger of their betraying you. As for the child, he is a beautiful boy and already I love him. But you must say good-bye to him—oh, only for a short while. As soon as it can be arranged I shall have him brought back to us. He is a Borgia. He kicked and screamed at me. Bless him. He is in the best of hands; he has a worthy foster-mother. She will tend him as her own—nay better. She’ll not dare let any harm come to our little Borgia. And this I promise you, Lucrezia: in four years … nay, in three, we’ll have him with us, we’ll adopt our lusty boy, and thus none will be able to point a finger at him and say, ‘There is the bastard of Lucrezia and a poor chamberlain.’ ”

She was silent. The dream had disappeared; she could not grasp the reality. Not yet. But she knew she would. She knew that she could do no other.

Cesare had taken her hand, and she felt his lips touch it.

“Dearest,” he said, “we shall arrange a grand marriage for you.”

She shivered.

“It is too soon to talk of such things,” reproved Alexander. “That comes later.”

Still she did not speak.

They continued to sit there. Each held one of her hands and now and then would stoop to kiss it.

She felt bereaved of all happiness; and yet she was conscious of a vague comfort which came to her through those kisses.

She was growing aware of the inevitability of what had happened. She was beginning to realize how foolish her dreams had been.

Lucrezia was being dressed for her wedding. Her women stood about her, admiring the dress, heavy with golden embroidery and sewn with pearls. Rubies glittered about her neck, and the design on the dress was the mingling arms of Aragon and the Borgias.

It was but a few months since she had given birth to her son, yet now she had recovered her outward placidity; and as she stood in her apartment while she was dressed in her finery, she appeared to have no thought for anything but the ceremony about to take place.

Sanchia was with her.

Lucrezia turned slowly and smiled at her sister-in-law. Who would have thought that it should be Sanchia who would bring such comfort in her misery?

It was Sanchia who had talked of her numerous love affairs, who had explained that in the beginning one felt so intensely. Did not one remember one’s first ball, one’s first jewels? Thus it was with love affairs. Did not Sanchia know? Was not Sanchia a connoisseur of love?

Sanchia had talked of her little brother. He was gentle; he was beautiful; and all loved him. Lucrezia would bless the day that she had taken Sanchia’s brother, Alfonso Duke of Bisceglie, to husband.

Sanchia was excited at the prospect of her brother’s arrival in Rome, and inspired Lucrezia with that enthusiasm. Oh, thought Lucrezia, how glad I am to have Sanchia with me at this time!

She was a Borgia. She must not forget it. Everywhere she looked she was confronted by the emblem of the grazing bull. We must not dream of simple love and marriage, she told herself. That is for simple people, people without a great destiny.

She was the beloved of her father and brother. It was as though they had forgotten she had ever attempted to defy them. Somewhere in Rome—perhaps not even in Rome—a little boy was being brought up by his foster-parents, and in a few years he would come to the Vatican. He was all that remained of that brief idyll which had given him life and brought such suffering to his mother, and death to two who had loved her dearly.