Light on Lucrezia - By Plaidy, Jean Page 0,63

made of flesh and blood and the wrenching apart would be painful.

And this husband of hers? She had seen his picture. He was big; he looked strong; but what had appealed to her most on examining that picture was the certain knowledge that he would not be a man to disturb her innermost self. She would give him children, and that would satisfy him; he would never want to know how much she had cared for his predecessors, how much she had suffered when that other Alfonso was murdered; he would never seek to discover the secret of that strange relationship between herself and Cesare, herself and her father. He was a practical man; he had his workshop and a host of mistresses. Many of the children in the villages of Ferrara were begotten by him. He was unrefined, he was called crude, yet, oddly enough, all that she heard of him pleased her. She would know her duty and she would perform it; and her secret life would be left inviolate. She would be alone in Ferrara, able to ponder on her life, to understand herself.

It was not the marriage to which she was looking forward; it was to freedom, to what she scarcely dared to think of as escape. But she let the Pope believe that it was the marriage which pleased her.

“They have made a hard bargain with us, Lucrezia,” mused Alexander. “A dowry of 100,000 ducats and treasure worth 75,000 ducats, as well as the castles of Pieve and Cento.”

“It is a great deal to ask of you, Father, for ridding you of your daughter.”

“Ah!” laughed Alexander. “But it is the marriage I always wanted for you. Duchess of Ferrara, Lucrezia, my love! Alfonso, your husband, the legitimate heir of his father. It is a fine match, a grand match. And my beloved is worthy of it.”

“But it is a high price for it.”

“There is more than that. They insist on their tithes being reduced—4,000 ducats to 100. What impudence! But wily old Ercole knows how I have set my heart on this match. He is also asking for further honors for Ippolito. And this will not be all.”

“It is too much.”

“Nay. I’d give my tiara for your happiness, if need be.”

She smiled at him, thinking: It is true. You would give much to buy me a grand marriage. But you could not mourn with me one hour when my husband was murdered.

Little Roderigo, in the gardens with his nurse, came toddling toward them.

“Ho!” cried Alexander, and picked up the little boy, and swung him above his head. Roderigo’s fat hand reached for Alexander’s not inconsiderable nose and tried to pull it. “Such impudence! Such sacrilege!” went on Alexander. “Do you know, young sir, that that is the sacred nose you mishandle so, eh?”

Roderigo crowed with pleasure, and Alexander, in a sudden passion of love, held the boy tight against him, so tightly that Roderigo set up a noisy protest. Alexander kissed him and put him down. He smiled at the nurse, a pretty creature, and murmuring a blessing, he let his hand rest on her soft hair.

“Take care of my grandson,” he said tenderly. He would visit the nursery this evening. There he would find a double pleasure—the company of the boy and his nurse.

Lucrezia, watching, thought it was like the old pattern she remembered so well. Alexander did not change; thus had he visited that nursery on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo, where she and her two brothers had eagerly awaited his coming, even as young Roderigo would wait now. Had there been a pretty nurse then to catch his attention? Perhaps not; Vannozza, their mother, would have made sure that there was not.

“You will miss Roderigo when we leave for Ferrara,” said Lucrezia.

There was a short silence, and Lucrezia was aware of a sudden fear.

Alexander said gently: “If it were necessary for you to leave him behind, you would know he was receiving the best of care.”

So it had been arranged. She was to leave Roderigo behind her. It was hardly likely that they would have allowed her to take him. The Estes would not want this child of a former marriage. Why, oh why, had this not occurred to her before she had shown her willingness for the match!

The Pope was looking at her anxiously. Her face, she guessed, showed her misery, and he would remember the weeks when she had mourned the murdered Alfonso. He was afraid now that she was