Виктория Холт - Light on Lucrezia

“Poor little Goffredo,” said Lucrezia.

Sanchia dismissed the subject abruptly. “How brightly your hair shines. Smile, Lucrezia. It would seem that you are contemplating a funeral rather than a wedding.”

“It is because she has not yet seen the Duke,” said Loysella.

“When you have seen him you will be enchanted,” Sanchia told her. “He is very like his sister in appearance.” Sanchia laughed. “Now you are hoping that our resemblance is in appearance only. That’s so, is it not?”

“Oh Sanchia,” said Lucrezia, and she put out her hand and touched that of her sister-in-law. Sanchia looked at her in alarm. Poor Lucrezia! she thought. She has suffered too much over that affair of Pedro Caldes. She must stop brooding. Alfonso will be here perhaps this day; he must not find a sad Lucrezia brooding on the death of her murdered lover.

“I would talk to Madonna Lucrezia alone,” she said on impulse.

“Alone!” Loysella, Francesca and Bernardina looked at her reproachfully.

“Yes,” Sanchia told them firmly, “I mean alone.”

Sanchia, illegitimate daughter of a King of Naples, could suddenly put on the dignity of royalty, and when she did this her intimate women knew that she expected immediate obedience, so they rose and left the apartment, Lucrezia’s attendants following them.

“Now,” said Sanchia, “they are gone and we can speak freely. Lucrezia, stop grieving. Stop grieving, I say.”

Lucrezia shook her head and said in a broken voice: “How can one … at will?”

Sanchia ran to her and put her arms about her. “Lucrezia, it is so long ago.”

“Three months,” Lucrezia’s smile was a twisted one. “We swore to be faithful forever, and you say three months is long.”

“All lovers swear eternal fidelity,” said Sanchia impatiently. “It means ‘I will be true to you as long as our love lasts.’ That is the most that can be expected.”

“Our love was different.”

“All loves are different. Had your Pedro lived, you would have forgotten him by now. It is because they murdered him … because they made a martyr of him … that you remember.”

“I would remember him all my life, no matter what had happened.”

“Lucrezia, he was your first lover. That man they married you to—Giovanni Sforza!” Sanchia wrinkled her nose with disgust. “You never loved him.”

“It is true,” said Lucrezia. “I never loved him, and now … I think I hate him.”

“He is no friend of yours. Who could expect it? He is branded as impotent. He’ll never forgive you that, Lucrezia. He’ll be your enemy for life.”

“I lied,” said Lucrezia. “I signed the document because they insisted and I was weak. Perhaps God punishes me because of the lie I told.”

Sanchia shook her head impatiently. “You had no alternative but to sign the document. Had not His Holiness and Cesare determined that you should sign?”

“But I should have stood out against them. Our marriage was consummated … many times.”

“Hush! It is something we know but never mention. And you are divorced now, sister, free of Sforza. Never say aloud those words, never admit your marriage was consummated. But Lucrezia, do stop grieving. Pedro is dead; nothing can bring him back, and that is an episode which is over. Learn to forget. He was your first love, I know, and you remember. But when you have had many lovers you will find it hard to remember what he looked like.”

“You forget—you, Sanchia, who have had lovers since you were a child, who have known so many that you cannot remember them all—you forget that we planned to marry, that we have a child.”

“You should not grieve for the child. He will be taken good care of.”

“Don’t you understand, Sanchia? Somewhere a baby lives … my baby. Some strange woman feeds him and soothes him when he cries. He is my baby … my own son—and you ask me to forget him!”

“You should not have had the child, Lucrezia.” Sanchia laughed suddenly. “I cannot help it. I think of you, standing before the dignitaries, solemnly swearing that your marriage to Sforza had not been consummated, and as a consequence you were virgo intacta , when actually you were pregnant … and in three months’ time your child would be born.”

“Do not speak of it, Sanchia; it is more than I can bear.”

“Dear sister, it is because you are young that you suffer so deeply. I tell you this, that when my brother comes it will be a different story. Oh, why is he not here! Shall I weary you with the stories of his many virtues, and how he and I were such good friends when we were very young? Shall I tell you how we escaped to the island of Ischia at the time of the French invasion? But I have told you of these matters before. I will tell you something else, Lucrezia. Yes, I will talk of myself, that you may forget your own sorrows. I and Goffredo are to be divorced.”

“That cannot be so.”

Sanchia’s blue eyes sparkled. “Oh, but it is! That is why I sent the women away. It is not yet the moment to let them into this secret.”

“Goffredo will be heartbroken. He worships you.”

“His future is being taken care of, and he’ll be pleased to pass me over to my new husband.”

“And why so?”

“Because my new husband is to be one whom he adores: Cesare.”

“But that is not possible,” said Lucrezia quickly.

“If the Pope and Cesare decide that they desire it, it will be done.”

“Cesare has long wished to leave the Church, and always our father has opposed it.”

Sanchia came a little closer to Lucrezia and spoke in a whisper: “Do you know who is the master now?”

Lucrezia was silent. Sanchia had done what she had set out to do; she had diverted Lucrezia’s thoughts from her own unhappiness.

“I have noticed often,” said Sanchia, “how His Holiness defers to Cesare, how he seeks always to please him. It seems that Cesare is loved even more than Giovanni Borgia was ever loved. Have you not noticed it? Cesare wants a wife, and who is more suited to be his wife than I?” Sanchia laughed slyly, her eyes looking beyond Lucrezia so that the younger girl knew that she was thinking of many passionate encounters with Cesare, the strongest and most feared personality in Rome, the most fascinating of men, the only one whom Sanchia considered worthy to be her husband.

“Do you mean,” said Lucrezia, “that they are seriously considering this matter?”

Sanchia nodded.

“But my father always wished one of his sons to follow him to the Papal chair. That was what Cesare was to do.”

“Well, there is Goffredo.”

“The Cardinals will never agree.”

“Do you not know your family yet, Lucrezia?”

Lucrezia shivered. She did know them: she knew them too well, for the murderers of her lover had been her father and her brother.

Sanchia stretched herself like a cat in the sunshine, and the gesture was erotic and expectant.

Lucrezia, watching, felt renewed fear of the future.

In his apartmentsat the Vatican the Pope received his son Cesare, and when his attendants had bowed themselves out and father and son were alone, Alexander laid his hand on Cesare’s shoulder and, drawing him close, murmured: “My son, I think our little plan is going to work out in a manner which will be pleasing to you.”

Cesare turned and gave his father a dazzling smile which warmed the Pope’s heart. Since the mysterious death of his son Giovanni, Alexander had redoubled his devotion toward Cesare. Giovanni had been Alexander’s favorite son, yet, although Alexander knew that Cesare was his brother’s murderer, this son of his had been given that affection which had previously been Giovanni’s, together with the honors which had substantiated it.