“Tell me of it.”
“Of what shall I tell you—of Toledo which is set on a horse’s shoe of granite, of the Tagus and the mighty mountains? Of Seville where the roses bloom all through the winter, of the lovely olive groves, of the wine they make there? It is said, Madonna, that those whom God loves live in Seville. I should like to show you the Moorish palaces, the narrow streets; and never did oranges and palms grow so lush as they do in Seville.”
“You are a poet, I believe.”
“I am inspired.”
“By your beautiful country?”
“No, Madonna. By you.”
Lucrezia was smiling. It was useless to pretend that she did not enjoy the young man’s company, that she did not feel revived by this breath of the outside world; she felt as though she had slept long and deep when she needed sleep, but now the sounds of life were stirring about her and she wanted to wake.
“I long to see your country.”
“His Holiness hinted that when the Duke of Gandia returns to Spain he might take you with him.”
To Spain! To escape the gossip, the shame of divorce! It seemed a pleasant prospect.
“I should enjoy it … for a while.”
“It would be for a while, Madonna. His Holiness would never allow you to stray long from his side.”
“I know it.”
“And so solicitous is he for your happiness that he is concerned to think of you here. He asks: ‘Is your bed hard? Do you find the food tasteless? Do the convent rules irk you?’ And he wonders who combs your hair and washes it for you. He says he would like to send you a companion, someone whom he would choose for you. She would be young, a friend as well as a servant. He asks me to bring him word as to whether you would like him to do this.”
Lucrezia hesitated. Then she said: “I pray you convey my deep devotion to my father. Tell him that the love he bears me is no more than that I bear him. Tell him that I pray each night and morning that I may be worthy of his regard. And tell him too that I am happy here, but that I have enjoyed your visit and look forward to receiving one whom he will send me to be my servant and companion.”
“And now, Madonna, you would wish me to retire and leave you with your letters?”
“How kind you are,” she said. “How thoughtful!”
She extended her hand and he kissed it.
His lips lingered on her hand and she was pleased that this should be so. The nuns were her good friends, but Lucrezia bloomed under admiration.
She was still safe in her refuge; but she had enjoyed that breath of air from the outside world.
The Pope sent for the girl whom he had chosen to be Lucrezia’s companion in the Convent of San Sisto.
She was charming, very pretty and small, with brilliant dark eyes and a dainty figure. Alexander had thought her charming when he first saw her. He still thought so, but at the moment he admired red hair such as that of his favorite mistress.
He held out his arms as the girl approached. “Pantisilea,” he said, “my dear child, I have a mission for you.”
Pantisilea lowered those wonderful eyes and waited. She was afraid that the Holy Father was going to send her away. She had been dreading this. She had known that their relationship could not continue indefinitely; the Pope’s love affairs were fleeting, and even that with Giulia Farnese had not lasted forever.
Pantisilea had had dreams. Who in her place would not? She had pictured herself as a lady of substance like Vannozza Catanei or Giulia Farnese.
Now she was beginning to understand that she had been lightly selected to charm a weary hour or two.
“You are trembling, my child,” said Alexander kindly.
“It is in terror, Holy Lord, of being sent away from you.”
Alexander smiled kindly. He was always kind to women. He fondled the dark curls absentmindedly; he was thinking of his red-headed mistress.
“You shall not go far from us, my dear; and, when you hear for what mission I have selected you, you will rejoice, knowing that I could give this task—not only to one I loved, but one whom I respected and trusted.”
“Yes, Holiness.”
“You are going to the Convent of San Sisto, there to attend my daughter Lucrezia.”
Pantisilea’s relief was obvious. The lady Lucrezia was a gentle mistress, and all those who served her considered themselves fortunate to do so.
“There,” said the Pope. “You are delighted, for you are aware of the honor I do you.”
“Yes, Holiness.”
“You must be prepared to leave this day. My daughter is lonely, and I want you to comfort her, and be her friend.” He pinched the girl’s soft cheek tenderly. “And at the same time, my sweet child, you will constantly let her know how grieved her father is because he does not have her with him. You will wash her hair for her and take some of her fine clothes and jewels with you. You will persuade her to wear them. Pantisilea, my dear, it is said that my daughter wishes to become a nun. I know this to be but talk; but my daughter is young and impressionable. It is your task to remind her of all the joys outside a convent walls. Girls’ chatter, gossip, fine clothes! My Lucrezia loved them all. See, my child, that she does not lose that love. The sooner you bring her from that place, the greater will be your reward.”
“Holy Father, my ambition is to serve you.”
“You are a good child. You are beautiful too.”
The Pope took her into his arms in a farewell embrace which was one of mingled approval and passion.
Lucrezia was ready to be very fond of Pantisilea. She was excited to have someone who laughed readily, and enjoyed gossiping. Serafina and the others were too sober, believing that there was something sinful in laughter.
Pantisilea opened trunks and showed Lucrezia the dresses she had brought with her.
“These become you far more than that black habit, Madonna.”
“I have no heart for them in this quiet place,” Lucrezia explained. “They would look incongruous here, Pantisilea.”
Pantisilea appeared bitterly disappointed. “And your hair, Madonna!” she persisted. “It is not as golden as it used to be.”
Lucrezia looked slightly alarmed. It was sinful to care for worldly matters such as the adornment of her person, the sisters had told her; and she had tried not to regret that her hair was left unwashed.
She explained to Pantisilea that the sisters would not have approved of her washing her hair as often as had been her custom. They would accuse her of vanity.
“Madonna,” said Pantisilea slyly, “they have not golden hair like yours. I pray you let me wash it, only to remind you how it will shine.”
What harm was there in washing her hair? She allowed Pantisilea to do so.
When it was dry, Pantisilea laughed with pleasure, took strands of it in her hands and cried: “But look, Madonna, it is pure gold again. It is the color of the gold in your green and gold brocade gown. Madonna, I have the dress here. Put it on.”
Lucrezia smiled at the girl. “To please you, little Pantisilea.”
So the green and gold dress was put on and, as Lucrezia stood with her golden hair about her shoulders, one of the nuns came to tell her that Pedro Caldes had arrived at the convent with letters from the Pope.
Lucrezia received him in the cold bare room.
He stared at her, and she watched the slow flush creep up from his neck to the roots of his hair. He could not speak, but could only stare at her.
She said: “Why, Pedro Caldes, is aught wrong?”
He stammered: “Madonna, it would seem that I am in the presence of a goddess.”
It was so pleasant to be wearing beautiful clothes again, and to sense the admiration of this young man. He was personable and she had been too long without admiration.