“He is well, Madonna. No harm has come to him,” the woman assured her. “It is merely that he has left Rome.”
Lucrezia repeated: “Left Rome!”
“Yes, Madonna, he rode out with a small party a few hours ago; he was seen riding South at full speed.”
“I … I understand,” she said.
She turned and went back into her room. Her women followed.
There was a letter from Alfonso.
It was brought to Lucrezia an hour after she had heard the news of his departure. She seized it eagerly; she knew that he would not willingly have run away from her without a word.
She read it.
He loved her. His life had no meaning without her. But he had been forced to leave her. News had reached him of plots to take his life. He knew that if these plots succeeded they would bring the greatest unhappiness in the world to her, and he was more concerned for the unhappiness his death would inflict on her than for anything else, since if he were dead of what consequence would anything be to him? He was unsafe in Rome, as he had always known he must be, but he had allowed his happiness to blind him to his danger; now that danger was so close that he dared wait no longer. It broke his heart to leave her, but they should not long be separated. He implored her to ride out from Rome, as he had done, and join him in Naples. There they would be safe to pursue their idyll of happiness.
Lucrezia read the letter through several times; she wept over it; and she was still reading it when the Pope was announced.
He would not let her rise; he came to her bedside and taking her in his arms, pressed passionate kisses upon her.
He dismissed her women, and then she saw how angered he was by the flight of Alfonso.
“He is a young fool, a frightened young fool,” stormed Alexander; and Lucrezia was aware then that Alexander had lost some of that magnificent calm which had been his chief weapon in the days of his early triumphs. “Why does he run away from a young and beautiful wife like you?”
“He has not run from me, Father.”
“All will say he has run from you. Giovanni Sforza will be amused, I doubt not, and make sure that the whole world is aware of his amusement. And you to have his child in three months! The young idiot has no sense of the position he holds through marriage into our family.”
“Father, dearest and Most Holy Father, do not judge him harshly.”
“He has hurt you, my child, I would judge any harshly who did that.”
“Father, what do you propose to do?”
“Bring him back. I have already sent soldiers after him. I trust that they will soon restore the foolish boy to us.”
“He is uneasy, Father.”
“Uneasy! What right has he to be uneasy? Has he not been treated as one of us?”
“Father, there is trouble brewing. Cesare’s friendship with the French …”
“My little Lucrezia, you must not bother this golden head with such unsuitable matters. It was meant to delight the eye, not muse on politics. This husband of yours has wandered into a maze of misunderstanding because he thought he understood matters which are beyond his comprehension. It is that sister of his and her friends, I doubt not. I trust they have not contaminated you with their foolish notions.”
“Would these notions be so foolish, Father, if there were war with the French?”
“Have no fear. I would always protect you. And I will bring your husband back to you. This is what you want, is it not?”
Lucrezia nodded. She had begun to cry and although she knew that the Pope hated tears she could not suppress hers.
“Come, dry your eyes,” he begged; and as she moved to obey him, Alfonso’s letter, which had been beneath the bed covering, was exposed and the Pope saw it.
He picked it up. Lucrezia hastily took it from him. Alexander’s expression showed that he was a little hurt, and Lucrezia said quickly: “It is a letter from Alfonso.”
“Written since he went away?”
“He wrote it before he went and sent a messenger back with it. It explains why he has gone and … and …”
The Pope clearly longed to lay hands on the letter, and waited for his daughter to show it to him; but when Lucrezia did not, he was too clever a diplomatist to demand it and perhaps be refused. He did not want any unpleasantness with Lucrezia, and he knew now that her husband considered himself his enemy; therefore Lucrezia would be urged in two directions. The Pope was determined to keep his hold on his daughter and knew that he could best do this by continuing to be her benevolent and understanding father.
“I wonder he did not take you with him,” said Alexander. “He professes to love you dearly, yet he leaves you.”
“It is because of the child I carry. He feared that the journey must be made in such haste that harm might come to me and the child.”
“Yet he decides to leave you!”
“He wants me to join him as soon as possible in Naples.”
The hardening of the Pope’s mouth was not perceptible to Lucrezia. Alexander was determined Lucrezia should never be allowed to leave her father for her husband.
He hesitated for a few seconds, then he said: “He cannot be as anxious for your condition as I am. But perhaps he is young and does not realize that child-bearing can be a hazardous experience. I should not allow you, my dearest, to travel so far until your child is born.”
Their eyes met, and Alexander knew then that Lucrezia was no longer a child, and that he had underestimated her. She knew of the existence of rivalries; she was fully aware of the possessive nature of his love for her, and that Alfonso had every reason to mistrust his intentions toward him.
Lucrezia began to cry once more. She could not stop the tears. They were tears of misery and helplessness.
And Alexander, who could not bear tears, kissed her forehead lightly and went quietly away.
Alfonso reached Naples and, in spite of the fact that the Pope demanded that he return at once, he refused to do so; nor would his uncle, King Federico, give him up.
This infuriated the Pope who knew that the whole of Italy would be aware that Alfonso had good reason for being afraid, since he was prepared to leave a wife with whom, it was common knowledge, he was deeply in love.
Alexander had been suffering from fainting fits more frequently during the last year, and there were occasions when the purple blood would flood his face, when the veins would knot at his temples and he would find it difficult to regain that composure which he knew was one of his greatest assets.
This was one of the occasions when he found it impossible to remain calm.
He sent for Sanchia and told her that she might prepare to leave at once for Naples; since the King was determined to retain her brother he could have her also.
Sanchia was astounded. She had no wish to leave Rome, and she immediately made this clear to the Pope.
He did not look at her, and his voice was cold. “We are not discussing your wishes, but mine,” he told her.
“Holiness, my place is here with my husband.”
“Your place is where I say it shall be.”
“Most Holy Lord, I beg of you, consider this.”
“I have already considered, and this is my decision.”
Sanchia lost her temper. “I refuse to go,” she said.
“Then,” reiterated the Pope, “it will be necessary to remove you by force.”
Gone was the urbane charmer of women. Her beauty meant nothing to him. She had never believed this would be possible.
She cried out in humiliated rage: “If I go, I shall take Goffredo with me.”
“Goffredo remains in Rome.”
“And Lucrezia!” she cried. “I shall take Lucrezia and Goffredo with me. They’ll come. Lucrezia longs to join her husband. If my place is in Naples, then so is hers.”