Sforza did not care to pursue the subject. He only knew that if he had a suspicion of Alexander he felt even more uneasy regarding his son.
But now the greeting was friendly; the welcome warm.
Through the Campo di Fiore went the cavalcade, the young men in its center—Cesare, Sforza and Giovanni—across the Bridge of St. Angelo to pause before the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico.
Sforza lifted his eyes. There on the loggia, her hair shining like gold in the glittering sunshine, was a young girl in crimson satin decorated with rubies and pearls. She was gripping a pillar of the loggia and the sunlight rested on her hands adazzle with jewels.
She looked down on her brothers and the man who was to be her husband.
She was thirteen and those about her had not succeeded in robbing her of her romantic imaginings. She smiled and lifted her hands in welcome.
Sforza looked at her grimly. Her youthful beauty did not move him. He was conscious of her brothers on either side of him; and he continued to wonder how far he could trust them and the Pope.
The Palace of Santa Maria was in a feverish state of excitement; there was whispering and shouting, the sound of feet running hither and thither; the dressmakers and hairdressers filled the anteroom; Lucrezia’s chaplain had been with her for so long, preparing her spiritually, that those who must prepare her physically were chafing with impatience.
The heat was intense—it was June—and Lucrezia felt crushed by the weight of her wedding gown heavily embroidered with gold thread and decorated with jewels which had cost fifteen thousand ducats. Her golden hair was caught in a net ornamented with glittering precious stones. Adriana and Giulia had personally insisted on painting her face and plucking her eyebrows that she might appear as an elegant lady of fashion.
Lucrezia had never felt so excited in the whole of her life. Her dress may have been too heavy for comfort on this hot day, but she cared little for that, for she delighted in adorning herself.
She was thinking of the ceremony, of the people who would crowd to see her as she crossed from the Palace to the Vatican, of herself, serenely beautiful, the heroine of this splendid occasion, with her pages and slaves to strew garlands of sweetsmelling flowers before her as she walked. She gave scarcely a thought to her bridegroom. Marriage was not, she gathered from what she had seen of those near her, a matter about which one should concern oneself overmuch. Giovanni Sforza seemed old, and he did not smile very often; his eyes did not flash like Cesare’s and Giovanni’s. He was different; he was solemn and looked a little severe. But the marriage was not to be consummated and, Giulia had told her, she need not be bothered with him if she did not want to be. She would continue to stay in Rome—so for Lucrezia marriage meant merely a brilliant pageant with herself as the central figure.
Giulia clapped her hands suddenly and said: “Bring in the slave that Madonna Lucrezia may see her.”
The servants bowed and very shortly a dwarf Negress was standing before Lucrezia. She was resplendent in a gold dress, her hair caught in a jeweled net, and her costume was an exact replica of her dazzlingly beautiful mistress’s. Lucrezia cried out in delight, for this Negress’s black hair and skin made that of Lucrezia seem more fair than ever.
“She will carry your train,” said Adriana. “It will be both amusing and delightful to watch.”
Lucrezia agreed and turning to a table on which was a bowl of sweetmeats, she picked up one of these and slipped it into the Negress’s mouth.
The dark eyes glistened with the affection which most of the servants—and particularly the slaves—had for Madonna Lucrezia.
“Come,” said Adriana sternly, “there is much to do yet. Madalenna, bring the jeweled pomanders.”
As Madalenna made for the door she caught her breath suddenly, for a man had entered, and men should not enter a lady’s chamber when she was being dressed; but the lord Cesare obeyed no rules, no laws but his own.
“My lord …” began Adriana, but Cesare silenced her with a frown.
“Cesare, what do you think of my dress?” cried Lucrezia. “Tell me whether you admire me now.”
Cesare ignored her and, looking straight at Adriana, said: “I wish to speak to my sister … alone.”
“But, my lord, the time is short.”
“I wish to speak to her alone,” he repeated. “Do I not make my meaning clear?”
Even Adriana quailed before this arrogant young man of eighteen. Rumors of his life at the universities of Perugia and Pisa had reached her, and the strangeness of the stories had made her shudder. Accidents often happened to those who opposed this arrogant son of the Pope and she was not so powerful that she could risk offending him.
“Since you ask it, it shall be,” she temporized, “but my lord, I beg of you remember that we must not arrive late at the Vatican.”
He nodded his head, and Adriana signed to all the attendants to leave with her.
When they had gone Lucrezia cried: “Cesare, there is little time. I should be prepared.…”
“You should be prepared to give me a little of your time. Have you forgotten, now that you have a bridegroom, how you swore that you would never love any as you loved me?”
“I do not forget, Cesare. I never shall.” She was thinking of herself crossing the square, imagining the cries of admiration; she could smell the incense and the scent of flowers.
“You are not thinking of me,” said Cesare. “Who does? My father thwarts me, and you … you are as light-minded as any harlot.”
“But Cesare, this is my wedding day.”
“It is little to rejoice in. Sforza! Do you consider him a man? Yet I would rather see you married to him, than to some, for I swear he is little more than a eunuch.”
“Cesare, you must not be jealous.”
Cesare laughed. He came to her and gripped her neck in the gesture she remembered so well. She cried out in alarm because she was afraid for her jeweled net.
“The marriage shall not be consummated.” He laughed. “I made our father see the wisdom of that. Why, who knows, if the scene changes these Sforzas may not be worthy of our friendship, and then it may well be that the Holy Father will wish he had not been so eager to get his daughter married.”
“Cesare, why are you upset about this marriage? You know I have to marry, and it makes no difference to my love for you. I could never love any as I love you.”
He continued his hold on her neck; his fingers would mark it—they always did—and she longed to beg him to release his hold, but she dared not. She enjoyed being with him as she always did, but now, as ever, that excitement which he aroused had its roots in a certain fear which she did not understand and which repelled her while it enticed.
“I believe that to be so,” he said. “No matter what happens to you or to me … there will always be this bond between us. Lucrezia and Cesare … we are one, little sister, and no husband of yours, nor wife of mine could ever change that.”
“Yes, yes,” she said breathlessly. “It is true. I know it is true.”
“I shall not be at the supper party after the ceremony,” said Cesare.
“Oh, but you must, brother. I so look forward to dancing with you.”
Cesare looked down at his Archbishop’s robes. “It is not meet, sister, that men of the Church should dance. You will be dancing with your brother, the Duke of Gandia. He will make a splendid partner, I doubt not.”