said Lucrezia.
“Little thinking,” cried Sanchia, “that it would give you the excuse you sought.”
Cesare ignored Sanchia. He said: “There have been plots … plots against me … plots against the Papacy. Dearest sister, you have been an innocent dupe. They have been concocted in your own apartments; while you chatted of art and music, of poetry and sculpture, your late husband and his friends made their plans. His death was just.”
“You admit to the murder?” said Sanchia.
“I admit to the justifiable killing of Alfonso of Bisceglie; and so shall die all traitors. Lucrezia, I come to you to say this: Dry your tears. Do not grieve for one who was your family’s enemy, who plotted against your father and your brother.” He came to her and took her by the shoulders. “Many members of your household are being placed under arrest. It is necessary, Lucrezia. My little one, do not forget. Have you not said that, whatever else we are, we are Borgias first of all.”
He was trying to make her smile, but her expression was stony.
She said: “Cesare, leave me. I beg you, I implore you … go from me now.”
He dropped his hands, and turning walked abruptly from the room.
The Pope sent for his daughter, and received her with a certain amount of reserve; her blank expression and the marks of grief on her face vaguely irritated him. Alfonso was dead; no amount of grief could bring him back. She was twenty, beautiful, and he was going to see that a worthy marriage was arranged for her. Why should she continue to grieve?
He kissed her and held her against him for a few seconds. The gesture was enough, in Lucrezia’s emotional state, to set her weeping.
“Oh, come, come, my daughter,” protested Alexander, “there have been tears enough.”
“I loved him so much, Father,” she cried. “And I blame myself.”
“You … blame yourself! Now that is foolish.”
“I had sworn to watch over him … and I left him … I left him long enough for my brother’s murderers to kill him.”
“I like not such talk,” said the Pope.
She cried out: “It’s true, Father.”
“Your husband, my child, was a traitor to us. He received our enemies and plotted with them. He brought his own death upon himself.”
“Father … you can say that!”
“My dear, I must say what I believe to be true.”
“In your eyes Cesare can do no wrong.”
He stared at her in amazement.
“My child, you would criticize us … your brother and your father … and all because of this infatuation for … a stranger!”
“He was my husband,” she reminded him.
“He was not one of us. I am shocked. I am amazed. I never thought to hear you talk thus.”
She did not run to him and beg his pardon, as she would have done a few months before. She stood still, her expression stony, caring little for the disapproval of her family so great was her grief, so overwhelming her sense of loss.
“Father,” she said at length, “I pray you to give me leave to retire.”
“I beg of you, retire at once, since it is your wish,” said the Pope, and never before had he spoken so coldly to his daughter.
Alexander was growing more irritated. The position was a delicate one. The King of Naples was demanding to know how his kinsman had died. All the states and kingdoms were considering this matter of the murder of the Bisceglie. The murder of Giovanni, the Duke of Gandia, was recalled. “Cesare Borgia has murdered his brother and now his brother-in-law,” it was said. “To whom will Il Valentino turn next? It would not be safe to enter that family.”
And, mused Alexander, it is now necessary to find another bridegoom for Lucrezia; but this will have to be delayed until some of the more virulent rumors have died down.
But who would ever forget that disgrace of Lucrezia’s first husband, the murder of her second?
The old Alexander would have blamed Cesare for his rash action in having had his brother-in-law murdered in such a way that it was obvious who was the murderer. The new Alexander did no such thing; he used his shrewd mind to fabricate excuses for his son.
He called Cesare to him, and they discussed the matter.
“We are being watched by every state and kingdom in the land,” he began. “It is being said that there was no plot against us, and the murder was one of spite and hate, and that Alfonso was an innocent man.”
“What care we for