Light on Lucrezia - By Plaidy, Jean Page 0,3

at Sanchia without astonishment, for Sanchia was the most arrestingly beautiful woman Lucrezia had ever seen. Lucrezia with her golden hair, pale eyes, delicate skin, serene expression and that slightly receding chin which gave her a look of perpetual innocence, was considered to be a beauty, but beside black-haired, blue-eyed Sanchia she seemed colorless. It was said of Sanchia that she dabbled in witchcraft, and that was why she was possessed of that extraordinary beauty which men found irresistible. Lucrezia could believe that Sanchia would be capable of anything.

But during recent months there had grown a bond between them, for it was Sanchia who had comforted her as no one else could. Lucrezia had found it strange to discover unsuspected depths in Sanchia’s character. Sanchia, who had a host of lovers, could smile at Lucrezia’s tragic relationship with Pedro, and her advice was: “Take more lovers. That is the way to forget.”

They were different though. Sanchia must understand that.

Sanchia was now frowning at the needlework in Lucrezia’s hands.

“You sit there stitching, when at any moment my brother may be here.”

Lucrezia smiled gently. “One would think it was your husband who was coming, rather than your brother.”

Sanchia grimaced; she sat on one of the high-backed chairs and her three women drew up stools and sat at her feet. Lucrezia’s women had withdrawn themselves, yet hoping that they would not be dismissed for Sanchia’s conversation was invariably racy and indiscreet; so if Lucrezia forgot to dismiss them—and she had been absentminded of late—they might stay and garner much interesting news.

“Ah, my husband!” said Sanchia. “Do not mistake me, dear sister. I love your brother, my little Goffredo, but I am a woman who asks more of a husband than that he should be a pretty little boy.”

“My brother is happy to be your husband,” murmured Lucrezia.

“But he is so young. Far too young for me.”

“He is sixteen now.”

“But I am twenty-one and he still seems a child to me. You know he has never been a husband to me.…”

Sanchia’s voice was low but penetrating. She was aware of the listening women. She wanted them to hear her; she wanted the news spread throughout Rome that her marriage had not been consummated. It was not true, and unfortunately for Sanchia, that consummation had been witnessed by the King of Naples and a Cardinal. However, Sanchia’s thoughts were on divorce, and she knew that if it was declared firmly enough that the marriage had not been consummated then such declaration could be accepted.

“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 …