Alexander wrestled with his thoughts and pondered his choices. If he consented to the marriage of Cesare and Charlotte, must he now cut free not only from Spain and Naples, but his beloved daughter as well? For her husband, Alfonso, was a prince of Naples, and a French alliance would no doubt destroy Lucrezia’s marriage. Yet what would happen to his family if he refused France? For surely this king would invade with or without his permission—and install Cardinal della Rovere as Pope.
If the French came through Milan, Alexander was certain, Ludovico would run without a fight. More important, though, once Naples had to take up arms, what would become of his son Jofre and his wife, Sancia?
The Pope searched desperately for just one reason to choose Spain over France, to deny Cesare his French wife. But after kneeling, praying, and pacing for hours, Alexander could find none. On the other hand, if the well-trained French soldiers rode with Cesare to overtake the territories now run by local barons and warlords, he could be crowned duke of the Romagna. The Borgia family would then be safe and the papacy secure.
He stayed all night, watching the flickering candles and pleading for divine inspiration. And when he left the chapel in the early hours of the morning, he had arrived at his decision, though reluctantly.
Duarte Brandao was waiting in the Pope’s chambers on his return, for he understood Alexander’s struggle.
“Duarte, my friend,” the Pope said. “I have considered this as carefully as I am able. And I have come to a conclusion. I need one piece of parchment so that I may pen my reply in order that I may lay my head on a pillow and finally rest.”
Duarte watched the Pope sit at his desk, and for the first time he looked aged and tired. He handed the Pope his pen.
Alexander’s hand was firm, but his message to Cesare was short. It said only, “My dearest son. Match excellent. Proceed.”
The holy city of Rome held great festivities on the day of Cesare Borgia’s marriage to Charlotte d’Albret in France. The Pope ordered a huge display of fireworks, a gigantic streaming light show to brighten the sky, and bonfires to be set to lighten the streets. Ah, such jubilation!
Lucrezia, at home in Santa Maria in Portico with Prince Alfonso, watched in horror as one of the largest fires was lit before her palace. Not that she wasn’t happy for her brother, for she loved him dearly—but what of her dear husband, for whom this new political alliance could only mean disaster?
When word reached them that Cardinal Ascanio Sforza had fled the city, accompanied by several other cardinals aligned with Naples, Alfonso was filled with fear and confusion about his future.
He pulled Lucrezia into his arms to hold her as he watched the fires rage. “My family is in danger if there is a French invasion,” he said softly. “I must go to Naples to command the troops. My father and uncle will need me.”
Lucrezia clung tight to him. “But the Holy Father assures me that we will not be in danger, for he will never let political discord interfere with our love.”
Alfonso, though only eighteen, looked at Lucrezia with deep sadness. He brushed her hair from her eyes. “And you believe this, my sweet Lucrezia?”
That night, after they made love, they lay awake a long time before Lucrezia was able to fall asleep. And once Alfonso heard the soft sound of her easy breathing, he sneaked out of bed and walked carefully to the stables. There he mounted his horse and made his way south into the countryside, to the castle of the Colonna; from there, in the morning, he would leave for Naples.
But the Pope sent papal police to hound him, and he was forced to stay at the castle or return to Rome, for otherwise he would be carried back by papal troops. Day after day Alfonso wrote Lucrezia, begging her to join him, but his letters never reached her for they fell into the hands of the Vatican messengers and were brought instead to the Pope.
Lucrezia was more unhappy than she had ever been. She could not understand why Alfonso did not write, for she missed him desperately. If she had not been six months pregnant, she would have followed him to Naples. But now she dared not make such a strenuous trip, for she had already lost one baby early in that year, when she had fallen off a horse. And even to attempt such a journey would mean having to sneak out in the night past her father’s guards—for they surrounded her palace.
Cesare stayed in France—not only long enough to marry Charlotte, but to spend months with her in a small château in the beautiful Loire Valley.
Charlotte was as beautiful and intelligent as the king had promised, and Cesare finally felt some peace. She radiated a remarkable serenity, and their lovemaking calmed Cesare. But each day he struggled with himself, for in his heart he still longed for Lucrezia.
For a time, Charlotte’s presence in his life balanced Cesare’s fierce urge to succeed, to achieve, to conquer. The young couple spent days together taking long walks, boating on the placid river, reading together. And they laughed in great measure as Cesare tried to teach Charlotte to swim and to fish.
One evening during this time, Charlotte confessed, “I truly love you as I have loved no other man.”
Despite his usual cynicism, Cesare found he believed her—and yet her words did not matter as much as they should. It was puzzling: though he tried to fall in love again, something seemed to be standing in his way. As they spent their nights together making love by the fire and holding each other in comfort, Cesare began to wonder if he had been cursed, as his sister had suggested. Had his father truly sacrificed him to the serpent that first time in the Garden?
On the very night that Charlotte told him she was pregnant with his child, he received an urgent message from the Pope.
“Return to Rome immediately to fulfill your duties,” it read. “The vicars are conspiring, and the Sforza have invited Spain to Italy.”
Cesare told Charlotte that he must return to Rome to lead the papal armies, to claim the territories in the Romagna and establish a strong central government for the papacy. Until he secured the Borgia power so completely that it would endure beyond his life and the life of the Pope, she and their children would be in danger. In the meantime, he told her that she and the child she was carrying must remain in France.
On the day Cesare left Charlotte tried to be gracious, but in the end she clung fiercely and tearfully to him as he mounted his horse. He stepped down, held her in his arms, and felt her body tremble. “My dear Lottie,” he said, “I’ll send for you and the infant as soon as I am able. And have no fear, for there is not an Italian alive who can kill me.” He bent and kissed her gently.
Then Cesare mounted his sleek white charger, and with one last wave to Charlotte he rode through the castle gate.
19
ALEXANDER COULD NOT bear Lucrezia’s tears. And while she wore a brave face in public, each time they were alone she spoke little and then only in the most polite terms. Even his invitation to Julia and Adriana, who brought Lucrezia’s firstborn to stay with her, didn’t seem to lift her despair. Now, most evenings, they all sat in silence. He missed their lively conversations, and Lucrezia’s enthusiasm—its absence weighed on him.
Lucrezia once again felt helpless to change her destiny, and though she did not blame her father for his alliance with France, she understood her husband’s need to aid his family. Still, she mourned the truth—that because of political differences, she and her unborn babe were forced to do without Alfonso. It seemed an impossible plight. She tried to reason with her heart, but it refused all reason. And she asked herself one hundred times each day why her dear husband did not send a message.
After several weeks of witnessing his daughter’s despair, Alexander was beside himself. And so he devised a plan that he believed might help. Lucrezia was an intelligent woman, gracious and blessed with many of his own leadership qualities. She certainly had inherited his charm, even if it had not been apparent of late.
Nonetheless, in his larger plan, he had always considered granting her some territories in the Romagna—once Cesare had conquered them—and so he reaso
ned that some practice in governing would provide an advantage in the future and take her mind off her immediate distress. That foolish husband of hers was still ensconced in the Colonna castle, stubbornly refusing to return to Rome. There was no question that he missed his wife, but having heard nothing from her in months, he believed she had forsaken him. The Pope was obliged to send Cervillon, the Spanish captain who held the sword over them at their wedding ceremony, to enlist the help of the king of Naples to recover Alfonso.
Of all this emotion Alexander was impatient. Though he was anything but stoic in his own love life, his suffering seemed more worthy than the suffering of these two young people. For God knows how many more lovers each would have in a lifetime! If one suffered over each to the same degree, there would be no time left to do one’s work, or God’s.
And so, after much deliberation and discussion with Duarte, Alexander determined that he would send Lucrezia to rule over the land called Nepi, a beautiful territory he had reclaimed from Cardinal Ascanio Sforza once he had fled to Naples.
Because Lucrezia was in the late stages of her pregnancy, Alexander knew they must take special care and allow more time for her journey. He would offer a large envoy to accompany her, a golden-covered litter in the event that riding her horse became too uncomfortable. He would send Michelotto to guard her in the early weeks and to make certain the territory was safe. Of course, she must also have an advisor when she arrived in Nepi, to teach her to govern.
Pope Alexander knew there were some in the church who would object, for she was, after all, a woman. But Lucrezia had been born and raised to statesmanship, and there was no reason to let her waste her gifts just because she had not been born a man. The Borgia blood coursed through her veins, and so her gifts must be utilized.
He felt no such fondness for his youngest son, Jofre, and was in fact quite angry with his wife, Sancia. Of course he realized that some of his ill will was due to his extreme displeasure at her uncle, the king of Naples, whose daughter Rosetta refused to marry the Pope’s son. It was an unbelievable arrogance. What gall! Moreover, Alexander was not fooled. He understood that a king could order his daughter to marry Cesare, and yet he had not. So it was the king, he concluded, who had rejected his son.
Sancia, the princess from Naples that his youngest son had married, was always a stubborn, willful girl; even more to the point, she had not yet given Jofre an heir. She was a seductress as well. They all would have fared far better had Jofre become the cardinal and Cesare become Sancia’s husband—for he, no doubt, could have tamed her.
Alexander now called seventeen-year-old Jofre into his chambers. His son entered with a broad smile on his pleasant face, and though he did not complain, he was limping badly.
“What has happened?” Alexander asked him, without his usual concern or even a perfunctory embrace.
“It is nothing, Father,” Jofre answered, head bowed. “I was injured in the thigh while fencing.”
Alexander tried to keep himself from sounding impatient, but incompetence made him irritable.
Jofre had blond hair and an open countenance. His eyes did not hold the sparkling intelligence of his sister’s, the dark glow of cunning his brother Juan’s had had, or the fiery ambition one could see in the eyes of Cesare. In fact when the Pope looked into this son’s eyes he saw nothing, and that he found disconcerting.
“I wish you to accompany your sister to Nepi,” Alexander said. “She will need the company of someone she cares about, and some protection. She is a woman alone, about to bear a child, and she must have a man present she can count on.”
Jofre smiled and nodded his head. “I will enjoy that, Your Holiness,” he said. “And my wife will enjoy it, for she is quite fond of Lucrezia, and she is due a change of scenery.”
Alexander watched to see if the expression on his son’s face would change when he dealt him the next blow, though he was willing to bet that it wouldn’t. “I said nothing about your wife, as you call her, accompanying you. She will not be going, for I have other plans where she is concerned.”
“I will tell her,” Jofre said dully, “but I am certain she will not be pleased.”
Alexander smiled, for he had expected nothing from this son and his son had not disappointed.
One could not say the same, however, for Sancia. That afternoon, the moment she heard the news, she raged at Jofre. “Will you never become more my husband and less your father’s son?” she shouted.
Jofre studied her, puzzled by her words. “He is not only my father,” Jofre defended. “He is the Holy Father as well. There is more at stake if I refuse to obey him.”
“There is more at stake if he forces me to stay and you to go, Jofre,” Sancia warned, and then she began to cry with frustration. “I hated marrying you when I was made to, but now I’ve actually grown fond of you—and still you let your father keep you from me?”
Jofre smiled, but for the first time it was a cunning smile. “There were times where you were more than willing to be kept away . . . times you spent with my brother Juan.”
Sancia stood perfectly still and stopped her tears. “You were a child, and I was lonely. Juan comforted me; it was nothing more.”
Jofre remained calm. “I believe you loved him, for you cried more at his funeral than any other.”
Sancia said, “Don’t be a fool, Jofre. I cried because I was frightened for myself. I have never believed your brother died at the hands of a stranger.”
Jofre looked alert. His eyes took on a look of cold intelligence and he looked taller, his shoulders broader, his stance stronger. “And are you suggesting then that you know who killed my dear brother?” he asked.
In that moment, Sancia recognized that something had changed about her husband. He now stood as someone completely different from the boy she knew. She moved toward him, and reached up to put her arms around his neck. “Don’t let him send you away from me,” she pleaded. “Tell him I must be with you.”
Jofre stroked her hair and kissed her on the nose. “You may tell him,” Jofre said, realizing then that after all this time he was still angry about her and Juan. “Say whatever you must, and let us see if you fare any better than the others who tried to argue with the Holy Father.”
And so Sancia took herself over to the Pope’s chambers and demanded an audience with him.
Alexander was sitting on his throne when she entered, having just finished a discussion with the ambassador from Venice, who left him in quite a foul humor.
Sancia stood before him, after the smallest of bows and without the kiss of respect to his ring or his holy foot. But for what he was about to do, he could forgive her those small slights.
Sancia spoke without waiting for permission, for after all she was the daughter and the granddaughter of kings. On this particular day she more closely resembled her grandfather, King Ferrante, than any other; her black hair was free and loose, unkempt and unrestrained. Her green eyes were penetrating, her voice accusing, when she spoke. “What is this I hear? I am not being sent with my husband and his sister to Nepi? Am I meant to stay in the Vatican without the company of those I enjoy?”
Alexander yawned deliberately. “You are meant, my dear, to do as you are requested, which is something that apparently does not come easily to you.”
Sancia stamped her foot in a rage she could not control. This time he had gone too far. “Jofre is my husband, and I am his wife. My place is with him, for it is to him that I owe my loyalty.”
The Pope laughed, but his eyes were steely. “My dear Sancia. You belong in Naples. With that foolhardy uncle of yours, in the land of that animal who was your grandfather, Ferrante. And I will send you there at once if you do not hold your tongue.”
“You do not frighten me, Your Holiness,” she said. “For I believe in a power higher than yours. And it is to my God that I pray.”
“Beware of your words, child,” Alexander warned. “For I can have you hanged or burned for heresy, and then your reunion wi
th your dear husband will take even longer.”
Sancia’s jaw was set tight, and she was angry to the point of recklessness. “I will cause a scandal and you can burn me, if you wish, but that will not keep me from telling the truth. For nothing in Rome is what it seems, and the truth shall be known.”
When Alexander stood, he was such an imposing figure that Sancia instinctively backed away. In a moment she regained her composure, marshaled her will, and held her ground. But when she refused to look down, to be intimidated by the Pope’s holy gaze, he became infuriated with her. If his son couldn’t tame her, then he would. “You will leave for Naples tomorrow,” the Pope said. “And you will carry a message from me to the king. Tell him if he wants nothing of mine, I want nothing of his.”
Before she left, with the smallest of escorts and almost no money to take on her trip, she told Jofre, “Your father has more enemies than you know. This will come to a bad end one day. I only pray that I am here to see it.”
King Louis, clothed in rich brocade embroidered with golden bees, rode into Milan with Cesare at his side. They were accompanied by Cardinal della Rovere, Cardinal d’Amboise, the duke of Ferrara, Ercole d’Este, and a force of forty thousand occupation troops.
Ludovico Sforza, Il Moro, had reduced himself to poverty hiring mercenary soldiers, but they were no match for the skilled soldiers of the French army. Knowing his defeat was near, Ludovico had sent his two sons and his brother, Ascanio, to Germany to be placed under the protection of his sister’s husband, the Emperor Maximilian.
And so it was that after an easy victory King Louis of France was declared the true duke of Milan. And for his help in the invasion, the king was thankful for the Pope’s blessings—as well as for the help of his son Cesare.
In his inspection of the city, the first place the king visited was the great Sforza castle. There he searched for the oaken chests with the special locking devices designed by Leonardo da Vinci, which were rumored to be filled with precious jewels and gold. On opening them, the king found them empty. It appeared that Ludovico took the best of the jewels, and over 240,000 ducats, with him as he fled. But still there was enough of value left in the fortress to impress King Louis with the grandeur of Ludovico’s court—from the Sforza stables, with their dazzling and detailed portraits of prize horses, to Leonardo’s wall painting of the Last Supper in the Monastery of Santa Maria.