“Why,” he cried, “you do not seem pleased to see me!”
“We are always pleased to see you,” said Lucrezia quickly.
“Do not allow your wife to speak for you, brother,” put in Cesare, a faint sneer turning up the corners of his mouth. “You should be master, you know.”
“Nay,” said Alfonso, “it is not thus with us. I wish to please my wife, nothing more.”
“Devoted husband!” murmured Cesare. “Lucrezia, we are going to have days of celebration. Prepare yourself. What sort of fête shall I arrange for your pleasure?”
“There have been so many celebrations,” said Lucrezia. “Alfonso and I are happy enough without them. We have our hunting, our dancing and music.”
“And other pleasures in each other’s company I doubt not. Oh, but you are so newly wed. Nevertheless there shall be celebrations. Do you know, Lucrezia, that before long I discard my Cardinal’s robes?”
“Cesare!” She ran to him and threw herself into his arms. “But I am so happy. It is what you have wanted for so long. And at last it has come. Oh dearest brother, how I rejoice with you!”
“And you are ready to dance with me at a ball I shall give. You are ready to watch me kill a bull or two?”
“Oh Cesare … not that. It frightens me.”
He kissed her tenderly, and putting his arm about her he drew her to an embrasure; he stood looking at her, his back turned to Alfonso who, as Cesare intended he should, felt himself to be excluded.
Alfonso stood awkwardly, watching; and suddenly all his fears returned to him and he found he could not control his shivers. He could not take his eyes from them—the most discussed brother and sister in Italy, so graceful, both of them, with that faint resemblance between them, yet that vivid contrast. There was Cesare fierce and frightening, determined to dominate, and Lucrezia slender and clinging, wishing to be dominated. Seeing them thus, all Alfonso’s doubts and suspicions returned, and he wanted to beg Lucrezia to leave this place which now seemed to him evil. He wanted to rescue Lucrezia who, although she was born of them, was not one of them; he wanted to take her right away from her family and live in peace with her.
He heard their voices. “But you would not have me stand aside while others killed the bulls?”
“I would. Indeed I would.”
“But my dearest, you would then be ashamed of your brother.”
“I should never be ashamed of you. And you risk your life with the bulls.”
“Not I. I’m a match for any bull.”
Cesare turned and drew her to him and over her head smiled for a second of triumphant mockery at Alfonso. Then he released her suddenly and cried: “But we have forgotten your little bridegroom, Lucrezia. I declare he looks as though he is about to burst into tears.”
Alfonso felt the blood rush to his face. He started forward but Cesare stood between Lucrezia and her husband, legs apart, his hand playing with the hilt of his sword; and although Alfonso wanted to draw his own sword and challenge this man here and now to fight, and fight to the death if need be, he felt as though his limbs would not move, that he was in the presence of the devil, who had laid a spell upon him.
Cesare laughed and went out; and when he was no longer there Alfonso’s courage came back to him. He went to Lucrezia and took her by the shoulders. “I like not his manners,” he said. Lucrezia’s eyes were wide and innocent. “He … he is too possessive. It is almost as though …” But he could not say it. He had not the courage. There were questions he wanted to ask, and he was afraid to ask them. He had been so happy, and he wanted to go on being happy.
Lucrezia put her arms about his neck and kissed him in that gentle way which never failed to be a source of excitement to him.
“He is my brother,” she said simply. “We were brought up together. We have shared our lives and it has made us good friends.”
“It would seem when he is by that you are unaware of any other.”
She laid her head against his chest and laughed. “You are indeed a jealous husband.”
“Lucrezia,” he cried, “have I cause to be?”
Then she lifted her face to his and her eyes were still full of limpid innocence. “You know I want no other husband,” she said. “I was unhappy, desperately unhappy, and I thought never to laugh in joy again. Then you came, and since you came, I have found happiness.”
He kissed her with increasing passion. “Love me, Lucrezia,” he pleaded. “Love me … only.”
They clung together, but even in the throes of lovemaking Alfonso could not rid himself of the memory of Cesare.
Cesare was in the ring. The assembled company watched him with admiration, for he was the most able matador in Rome. His Spanish origin was obvious as, lithe and graceful, he twisted his elegant body this way and that, springing from the path of the onrushing bull at that precise moment in time when death seemed inevitable.
Alfonso, sitting beside Lucrezia and watching her fingers twisting the embroideries on her dress, was aware of the anxiety she was experiencing. Alfonso did not understand. He could have sworn that she was glad because Cesare would soon be leaving for France; yet now, watching his antics in the bullring, he was equally sure that she was conscious of no one but her brother.
Alfonso murmured: “God in Heaven, Holy Mother and all the saints, let him not escape. Let the furious bull be the instrument of justice—for many have died more horribly at his hands.”
Smiling coolly Sanchia watched the man who had been her lover. She thought: I hope the bull gets him, tramples him beneath those angry hoofs … not to kill him … no, but to maim him so that he will never walk or run or leap again, never make love to his Carlotta of Naples. Carlotta of Naples! Much chance he has! But let him lose his beauty, and his manhood be spoiled, so that I may go to him and laugh in his face and taunt him as he has taunted me.
Among those who watched there were others who remembered suffering caused them by Cesare Borgia, many who prayed for his death.
But had Cesare died that day there would have been three to mourn him with sincerity—the Pope who watched him with the same mingling of pride and fear as Lucrezia’s; Lucrezia herself; and a red-headed courtesan named Fiametta, who had sought to grow rich by his favors and found that she loved him.
But, for all the wishes among the spectators in the ring that day, Cesare emerged triumphant. He slew his bulls. He stood the personification of elegance, indolently accepting the applause of the crowds. And he seemed a symbol of the future, there with his triumph upon him. His proud gestures seemed to imply that the conqueror of bulls would be the conqueror of Italy.
The Pope sent for his son that he might impart the joyful news.
“Louis promises not to be ungenerous, Cesare,” he cried. “See what he offers you! It is the Dukedom of Valence, and a worthy income with the title.”
“Valence,” said Cesare, trying to hide his joy. “I know that to be a city on the Rhône near Lyons in Dauphiné. The income … what is that?”
“Ten thousand écus a year,” chuckled the Pope. “A goodly sum.”
“A goodly sum indeed. And Carlotta?”
“You will go to the French Court and begin your wooing at once.” The Pope’s expression darkened. “I shall miss you, my son. I like not to have the family scattered.”
“You have your new son, Father.”