Duke Ercole decided he would not be able to discuss the matter with Alfonso.
His children, he was beginning to realize, were becoming unmanageable. Was that a discovery which must be made by all old men? Ippolito, elegant and handsome, was chafing against his Cardinal’s robes. Ferrante, his third son, was wild, and he could never be sure what mad adventure he would undertake. Sigismondo was quiet, seemed to lack the ambition of his brothers and was clearly the one who should have worn the Cardinal’s robes. Then there was Giulio of the wonderful dark eyes, his natural son—gay and handsome—a prime favorite with women. Ercole sighed. He had done his best to procure a high position in the Church for Giulio, but Giulio was not eager and had early in his life discovered a method of getting his own way.
There was also a daughter—Isabella—who had married Francesco Gonzaga and was now Marchesa of Mantua. Isabella should have been a man. Ercole would have enjoyed having her with him now to discuss this proposed marriage. Doubtless she had heard of it in her castle, on the Mincio; and how furious she would be. He pictured her with pride … there in her castle which contained some of the best sculpture in Italy together with paintings, books, and any object which had claim to beauty. Isabella was what Ercole had wished all his children to be—intellectual. She should have been a man of course. Still, she ruled Mantua, it was said, as any man might, governing her husband and their subjects; and she was referred to as “the first woman of her age.” Isabella called attention to herself all the time. She made it known that her court was a refuge for artists; she must be unique; even her clothes were different from those worn by others, being designed by herself and made in the finest and most brilliantly patterned cloth. These clothes were copied, but by that time Isabella had discarded them.
Yes indeed, Ercole wished that Isabella was in Ferrara to give her opinion of the proposed marriage.
But she was not; so he must perforce go to the foundry to discuss it with Alfonso.
He made his way there. Alfonso was not in the building; he was lying out in the shade, eating a hunk of bread and an onion. His workmen lay beside him, and as he approached Ercole shivered with disgust, for it was impossible to tell which of those men was the heir of Ferrara and which his workmen. Alfonso was laughing heartily, possibly at some crude joke, and was fully at ease. But then he was always at ease. He did not care if the courtiers considered his manners crude; they were as Alfonso wished them to be and he made no apology for them. He would not even think of them. But at the same time he was clearly happier with the common people.
At the approach of the old Duke the workmen scrambled to their feet, and stood shambling and shuffling, not knowing how to act.
“Why, ’tis my father,” cried Alfonso. “Have you come to see the cannon fired, Father?”
“No,” said the Duke. “I have come to talk to you.” He waved a white and imperious hand at the workmen, who glanced sheepishly at Alfonso and, on receiving a nod from him, moved off.
“Come Father, sit here in the shade,” said Alfonso, patting the ground beside him.
The Duke hesitated, but he was hot and tired; and there was something endearing about this great bear of a man who was his eldest son, little as they had in common.
He looked about him for a moment and then sat down on the grass.
Alfonso turned his face toward him and as Ercole shrank from the strong odor of onion, he noticed that Alfonso’s hands were grimy, and there was a rim of thick dirt under his nails.
“If ever an enemy came to Ferrara,” he said, “I’d blast him out with my cannon.”
“I trust it would be effective,” said the Duke, flicking at a fly which had alighted on his brocade sleeve. “I have heard from the Pope. He hints that a marriage between you and his daughter would be desirable.”
Alfonso went on chewing onion, quite unperturbed. His mind was on his cannon.
How insensitive! thought the Duke. What would a bride think of him? What had his first wife thought of him? Poor Anna Sforza! But perhaps he should not have said Poor Anna. Anna had known how to take care of herself. She had not been to Alfonso’s taste. Not a feminine woman, but big and handsome. She had not had a chance against the greasy sluts of serving-girls who had claimed Alfonso’s attention. Had she turned shuddering from those grimy hands, from that onion-tainted breath, from a husband who was full of animal desire and completely without the niceties of refined living? Alfonso never wasted his time wooing; he saw a girl, seduced her and, if the experience pleased him, repeated the performance. Otherwise the affair was forgotten. Alfonso was a hearty, virile man.
Anna Sforza had not really been disturbed. She had her own tastes and, although as wife to the heir of Ferrara, she had been ready to bear him children, she was clearly glad when Alfonso spent his nights with a humble mistress and left her to dally with that pretty Negress whom she adored.
But Anna oddly enough, in an attempt to do her duty, had met her death. She had died in childbed. Not the first nor the last woman to do so; yet in Anna’s case it seemed doubly tragic.
“Well, Alfonso, what have you to say?”
“There has to be a marriage,” murmured Alfonso absently.
“But with the Borgias!”
Alfonso shrugged.
“And she a bastard!” went on Ercole.
“You’ll doubtless get a good dowry with her, Father,” said Alfonso with a grin. “That should please you.”
“Not for the biggest dowry in the world would I wish to see the house of Ferrara joined with that of the Borgias. Yet, if we refuse, we’ll have the Papacy against us. You realize what that will mean in these days of unrest.”
Alfonso’s eyes were shining. “We’ll use the cannon on any who come this way.”
“Cannon!” cried Ercole. “Of what use are your cannon against the Pope’s armies? And yet … and yet …”
“You’d be surprised if you saw them in action, Father.”
“The Pope’s armies …”
“No, no! My cannon. In days to come the cannon I shall make will have first place on the battlefield.”
“It is of this marriage that I wish to talk. Oh Alfonso, have you no sense of the fitness of things?”
It was the old cry. Some years ago this son of his had been wagered that he would not walk through the streets of Ferrara naked, with a sword in his hand. He had accepted the wager and done this thing. He had not understood that the people who had watched his progress would never forget what the heir of Ferrara had done.
Oh, why was not Ippolito the eldest son? But Ippolito might have made trouble. Or Ferrante? Ferrante was reckless. Sigismondo? One did not want a priest to rule a dukedom. Giulio was a bastard and Giulio had been spoilt because of his beauty. But what was the use of railing against these sons of his? Alfonso was the eldest and for all his crudeness he was at least a man.
“Well, you do not seem in the least perturbed,” said the Duke.
“There’ll be compensations, I doubt not,” murmured Alfonso. His thoughts were back in the foundry; at this time of day—unless some luscious girl crossed his path—cannons were so much more interesting than women.
“Oh, there might be compensations,” agreed the Duke, rising, “but none would be great enough for me to welcome union with that notorious family.”
He rose and walked away and, as he did so, he heard Alfonso, whistling—in the coarsest possible manner—to his men.
It was carnival time in Urbino, and Guidobaldo di Montefeltre, the Duke found himself forced to entertain Cesare Borgia while he was waiting for the surrender of the town of Faenza.