Виктория Холт - Madonna of the Seven Hills

She did not answer. Desperately she was seeking for courage to tell them of her condition, to explain why they must put aside all thought of a grand marriage for her, how she loved Pedro and that he was the father of the child she carried.

She had imagined herself telling them, again and again as she lay in her converted cell and, although it had seemed a great ordeal which lay before her, it had not seemed impossible. Facing them, she found that she had underestimated the fear and awe in which she held them, the power which they held over her.

Alexander’s smile was almost roguish. “There are many clamoring for your hand, daughter.”

“Father … I do not wish to think of them.”

Cesare had moved swiftly toward her and put an arm about her. “What ails you, Lucrezia? You look ill. I fear you have suffered privation in your convent.”

“No … no. I have been comforted there.”

“It is no place for such as you are.”

“But you are pale and you look exhausted,” said the Pope.

“Let me sit down a moment,” Lucrezia begged.

Both men watched her intently. Only Alexander realized how frightened she was, and he motioned her to a stool.

Cesare told her of the men who were eager to marry her. “Francesco Orsini … Ottaviano Riario … and there is Sanchia’s brother, the little Duke of Bisceglie.”

Alexander said suddenly: “This has been an ordeal for the child. She needs rest now. Your apartments have been prepared for you, my dear. You shall go to them at once.”

Cesare was about to protest, but the Pope was his old firm self. He was clapping his hands and slaves were appearing.

“Madonna Lucrezia’s women should conduct her to her apartments,” he said.

When he wasalone, Alexander stood before the shrine in his apartments. He was not praying; he was staring at it, and there were furrows in his brow and the rich purple blood stained his face, while in his temples a pulse throbbed visibly.

It was impossible. But it was not impossible at all. What had been happening in the convent all these months? He had heard stories of what could and did happen in convents. But not that of San Sisto.

He had not dared voice his supicions before Cesare. Oh yes, he was afraid of his son. If Cesare had guessed what was in his mind he might have done anything, however reckless. Cesare must not know yet … if it were true. But this monstrous thing which he suspected must not be true.

He thanked the saints that Cesare’s mind was so constantly on his own affairs that he had failed to be as perceptive as his father. Cesare had been dreaming of release from the Church and marriage to Carlotta of Naples, even as Lucrezia stood before them, and he had not noticed how complete was the change in Lucrezia. Could all those months of quiet life at San Sisto’s have wrought such a change? Not they alone.

But he must be careful. He must remember his fainting fits. It would not do for him to be ill now, because if what he suspected were true he would need all his wits to deal with it.

He must wait. He must recover his equanimity; he must remind himself that he was Alexander, who had emerged triumphant after the death of Calixtus—Alexander who on every occasion turned defeat into victory.

At length he made his way to his daughter’s apartment.

Lucrezia was lying on her bed, and only Pantisilea sat beside her. There were tears on Lucrezia’s cheeks, and the sight of them filled Alexander’s heart with tenderness.

“Leave us, my dear,” he said to Pantisilea; and the girl’s dark eyes were fearful and yet adoring as they met his. It was as though she implored him, out of his great tenderness, his power and understanding, to save her dear mistress.

“Father!” Lucrezia would have risen, but Alexander put a hand on her shoulder and gently forced her back on to the pillows.

“What have you to tell me, my child?” he asked.

She looked at him appealingly, but she could not speak.

“You must tell me,” he said gently. “Only if you do, can I help you.”

“Father, I am afraid.”

“Afraid of me? Have I not always been benevolent to you?”

“The kindest father in the world, Most Holy Lord.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“Who is he?” he asked.

Her eyes opened wide and she shrank against her pillows.

“Do you not trust me, child?”

She sprang up suddenly and threw herself into his arms; she began to sob wildly; never had he seen his serene little Lucrezia so moved.

“My dearest, my dearest,” he murmured, “you may tell me. You may tell me all. I shall not scold you whatever you have to tell. Do I not love you beyond all else in the world? Is not your happiness my most constant purpose?”

“I thank the saints for you,” sobbed Lucrezia.

“Will you not tell me? Then must I tell you. You are to have a child. When, Lucrezia?”

“It should be in March.”

The Pope was astounded. “That is but three months hence. So soon! I should not have believed it.”

“Pantisilea has been so clever … oh, such a comfort, Father. Thank you for sending her. I could not have had a dearer friend. I shall always love her … as long as I live.”

“She is a dear creature,” said the Pope. “I am glad that she comforted you. But tell me, who is the father of your child?”

“I love him, Father. You will permit our marriage?”

“It is difficult for me to deny my daughter anything.”

“Oh Father, beloved Father, would I had come to you before. How foolish I was! I was afraid. When you were not with me, I did not see you as you really are. I saw you as the powerful Pope determined to make a politically advantageous marriage for me. I had forgotten that the Holy Father of us all was first my own dear father.”

“Then it is time we were together again. The name of the man?”

“It is your chamberlain, Pedro Caldes.”

The Pope rocked her to and fro in his arms.

“Pedro Caldes,” he repeated. “A handsome boy. One of my favorite chamberlains. And he visited you in your convent, of course.”

“It was when he brought me news of Giovanni’s death, Father, and I was so unhappy. He comforted me.”

The Pope held her fiercely against him; for a moment his face was distorted with rage and anguish. My beloved Giovanni murdered, he was thinking; my daughter pregnant with the child of a chamberlain!

But when Lucrezia looked at him, his face wore its habitual expression of tenderness and benignity.

“My dear child,” he said, “I will confess that I am startled.”

She took his hands and covered them with kisses. How appealing she was, looking at him with those adoring yet frightened eyes; she reminded him of her mother at the height of their passion.

“Father, you will help me?”

“Do you doubt it … for one moment? Shame, Lucrezia! But we must be cautious. You have been divorced in the belief that your husband is impotent and you are a virgin.” In spite of the Pope’s horror at the situation with which he was confronted he he could not refrain from smiling. It was a situation which, in any circumstances, must seem to him essentially humorous. “What will our good Cardinals say, think you, if they discover that the charming innocent young virgin, who appeared before them so decorously, was six months pregnant? Oh Lucrezia, my clever one, my subtle one, it would not do at all. We might even have Sforza claiming the child and swearing it was his. Then where would be our divorce? We have to act now with the utmost caution. The matter must be kept secret. Who knows of it?”

“None but Pedro and Pantisilea.”

The Pope nodded.

“None must know, my child.”