Light on Lucrezia - By Plaidy, Jean Page 0,113

your time with others.”

“Your presence here, my love, would not prevent me spending my time with others.”

“And does not,” said Ippolito lightly.

She laughed. “You would be unique if you could alone satisfy me. But I am fond of you, my little Cardinal. That is why I warn you. Be ready to fly.”

There were times when he did not take her seriously; others when he did. When Alexander read letters from Ferrara and he saw the emotion in his face, he believed what Sanchia told him.

But the news was good. Lucrezia recovered. Bells rang throughout Rome, and the Pope went from church to church giving thanks that his treasure was spared him.

He was not going to wait any longer, he declared. He was going to Ferrara as soon as he had made his preparations to do so, and those preparations were to begin at once.

He went about Rome, a delighted smile on his face, a song on his lips. He was like a young man again; and watching, Ippolito was inclined to agree that there was something superhuman about these Borgias.

Cesare returned to Rome, and Ippolito prepared to welcome him, for there had been a time when friendship had blossomed between them; it was not long ago, at the time of Lucrezia’s departure for Ferrara, when they had discovered a mutual dislike for Cardinal’s robes.

Cesare came riding into Rome, and the faces of the people were averted and cautious while they hailed him as the conqueror. There were whispers of the cruelties he had inflicted on his victims, of the harsh rule of his new territories; and it was known throughout Rome that even Alexander now bowed to Cesare, and it was the son, not the father, who ruled the city.

Ippolito was with Sanchia when Cesare called on her. Tension was apparent, and Sanchia, chatting lightly with her two lovers, was aware of this.

Ippolito left her with Cesare. He was not a coward, but he could not escape that sense of threat which seemed now to emanate from Cesare wherever he went.

Cesare was clearly not pleased to find him with Sanchia, and it was obvious that any friendship which had ever existed between them was rapidly fading.

Sanchia sent for him a few hours later.

She put her arms about his neck, and her blue eyes were affectionate.

“Ippolito, my dear Cardinal,” she said, “I shall miss you bitterly, but take my advice and leave Rome at once.”

“Why so?” asked Ippolito.

“Because I have loved this handsome body of yours dearly, and I do not wish to think of it as a corpse. Go straight from here, take your friends and ride out of Rome. Ride for Ferrara as fast as you can. You may be in time to save your life.”

“From whom?”

“You waste time in asking. You know. He strikes quickly. He is so practiced. No need now to make plans. He merely says, Method number one, or two, or three … and the person who has irritated him is no more.”

“I have not irritated him.”

“You have been my lover. Occasionally Cesare decides that he does not like my lovers.”

Ippolito stood staring at her.

“Ippolito!” she cried. “You fool! Go … go while you have time. Give my love to Lucrezia. Tell her I miss her. But hesitate not a moment. I tell you, your life is in danger.”

Ippolito left her and went down to where his groom was waiting for him with two squires. They were nervous. He saw that. The whole of Rome was nervous, and all those who caused annoyance—however slight—to Cesare Borgia should beware.

Within an hour Ippolito was riding away from Rome.

Pietro Bembo was now recognized as Lucrezia’s court poet. They exchanged letters, cautiously written yet brimming over with love and devotion; they were both careful to keep their relationship on its Platonic footing, both fearing that to change it would in some measure degrade it.

Those were happy days for them both. They lived for each other; and Lucrezia felt that she had never been so peacefully happy as she was at this time.

She could not understand how she, who had taken such delight in physical love, could find this contentment in such a different relationship. Perhaps she missed her family very much; perhaps when she was with one who loved her carnally she remembered them too vividly. She was, after all, still seeking that escape, that opportunity to be herself—and herself alone—which had made her long to leave Rome for Ferrara.

Ippolito arrived and, although she had during the first weeks