Light on Lucrezia: A Novel of the Borgia - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,43
have proved fatal to most men of his age, he was sitting up in bed, as merry as he had ever been, with the members of his family about him, his intellectual powers undiminished, receiving ambassadors, conducting matters of Church and State with a vigor which would have been astonishing in a man twenty years his junior. His eyes dwelt more fondly on one member of the family than on any other: his beloved daughter Lucrezia. Cesare was conscious of this.
Alexander had been aware of Cesare’s alarm and grief but he knew the reason for his hysterical emotion was in a large measure due to fear of the loss of that great protective canopy of Papal influence under which Cesare was sheltering. Cesare knew, as did every head of state in Italy, that once that canopy was removed, Cesare and all his brilliant triumphs would not last four days. Cesare had every good reason to keep his father alive.
But the fear in Lucrezia’s eyes was not for her own future. Dear improvident child! she did not think of that. She had laid her hands against his chest and wept in her emotion of love. She had said: “Most beloved, Most Holy Father, how could I endure my life without you!”
It was gratifying to know that his son realized the worth of his father’s protection; but the knowledge of his daughter’s disinterested love was more precious than anything in Alexander’s life at this time.
He loved her more deeply than ever before. His eyes followed her about the room, and he was uneasy when she was not there.
He declared: “I will have none but my daughter to nurse me.”
And when she threw herself beside his bed and declared with tears in her eyes that she would be near him night and day, they mingled their tears, and then because the Pope had never encouraged tears in himself or his family, he held her to him and cried: “For what do we weep? We should laugh, daughter, sing songs of joy, for what father in this world was ever blessed with such a daughter, and what daughter ever had such love from a father as I give to you?”
She must leave Santa Maria in Portico and stay in the Vatican. An apartment must be made ready for her next his own. Then he would rest easily knowing that at any hour of the day or night he had only to call to bring her to his bedside.
There were two who watched with dissatisfaction. Cesare because he could see that his sister’s influence with their father could at any moment outstrip his own; Alfonso because Lucrezia had moved to the Vatican where he was not allowed to join her, and this meant that he must, temporarily, give up his wife to her father.
Alfonso fretted and spent a great deal of time with his friends, those men and women with whom he had associated in Lucrezia’s apartments before the French invasion. They were mostly Neapolitans, who were on the alert, measuring the extent of the alliance between the Borgias and the French.
Cesare, knowing this, told himself that Alfonso was more than an irritation. He was a danger. Lucrezia was devoted to him; what might he not ask of her, and knowing her influence with the Pope, what might come of it?
It seemed to Cesare that Alfonso—insipid youth though he was—was one of his most dangerous enemies.
During that July of the Jubilee year 1500 there were many pilgrims in Rome. Christians were arriving from every part of Europe and many of them, either because of poverty or piety, spent their nights sleeping against the walls of St. Peter’s.
It was a night of moonshine and starlight, and Alfonso was taking supper with Lucrezia in her apartments of the Vatican. They were alone together and Alfonso, saying his last farewell complained bitterly of the need to leave her.
“Very soon, dearest, my father will be recovered,” said Lucrezia. “Then I shall be with you in Santa Maria.”
“He is well enough now for you to leave him,” retorted Alfonso sulkily.
“He needs me here … for a little longer. Be patient, my dear husband.”
Alfonso kissed her. “I miss you so much, Lucrezia.”
She touched his face tenderly. “As I do you.”
“Dearest Lucrezia, the nights seem long without you. I dream still …!”
“Your nightmares, dearest? Oh that I were there to comfort you and tell you there is nothing to fear. But soon, Alfonso … perhaps next week.”