“How dare you!” cried Dorotea. “Release me at once.”
Her captor only laughed, and there was something devilish in his laughter which filled her with terror.
She looked back; she could see the group on the road, the soldiers surrounding her party, preventing pursuit; and she knew that the masked man who had abducted her was Cesare Borgia; she knew the meaning of this and that Gian Battista Carracciolo would wait in vain for his bride, for Cesare Borgia had seen her, desired, waylaid her that his lust might be satisfied.
Isabella d’Este, when she heard of her brother’s proposed marriage with Lucrezia, was furious.
She wrote at once to her father, Duke Ercole, and told him that on no account must Lucrezia Borgia join the family. It was preposterous. These upstart Borgias … who were they to think of mingling their blood with the best in Italy?
She could tell him a great deal about the Borgias. Giovanni Sforza, Lucrezia’s first husband, had been staying in her court and the tales he had to tell would have been past belief if they had not concerned the Borgias.
The divorce had been arranged, so said Isabella, because the Pope was jealous of Lucrezia’s husband and wanted her all to himself. Incredible? But these were Borgias. It was said that Lucrezia had been the mistress of all her brothers. That too seemed absurd. Must she remind him again that these were Borgias? Had he heard the latest scandal? Dorotea da Crema, on her way to meet her bridegroom, had been waylaid by Cesare Borgia and taken off to be raped. The poor girl had not been heard of since. And it was a member of that brute’s family to whom her father was thinking of marrying the heir of Ferrara!
Isabella was right, mused Ercole. He wanted no Borgia in his family; but he must be very careful how he worded his refusal to the Pope.
There had been a time when a marriage between Alfonso and Louise d’Angoulême had been suggested. Therefore Ercole wrote, greatly regretting having to refuse the offer made by the Pope, but explaining that his son Alfonso had already made promises to this lady and was consequently not in a position to consider the brilliant marriage with His Holiness’s daughter which the Pope so generously offered.
Ercole settled down in peace. Alfonso must marry soon. But it should not be with a Borgia.
When Alexander received Ercole’s letter he became pensive. It was clear to him that Ercole was not eager to ally his house with the Borgias. Then he grew angry.
There were other matters which gave cause for thought. The abduction and rape of Dorotea was arousing indignation throughout Italy, and even Louis of France had added his protest to the rest, sending, as a gesture of disapproval, Yves d’Allegre to Cesare to protest. Louis had been really angry, because the heartbroken bridegroom, Carracciolo, declared his intention of leaving Venice and searching through the whole country until he found his bride. As the Venetian army was under his command and there was fear of an invasion from Maximilian of Austria, there was great consternation among the French at the prospect of Carracciolo’s desertion in order to conduct his purely personal affairs.
Cesare, confronted by the envoys of the King of France, denied all knowledge of the whereabouts of Dorotea.
“I have as many women as I want,” he retorted. “Why should I cause such trouble by abducting this one?”
Many pretended to accept his word, realizing that to appear to doubt it would do little to help; but Carracciolo vowed vengeance on the Borgias, being certain that the man who had robbed him of his bride was Cesare.
In the Vatican, the Pope loudly proclaimed Cesare’s innocence in the affair of Dorotea; but he was very perturbed by the refusal of the Duke of Ferrara to accept Lucrezia as a bride for his son.
He pondered on the Duke, whose main characteristic he deemed to be his meanness. Ercole would go to great lengths to avoid spending money; but if there was anything he would hate to part with more than money it was a single yard of the territory over which he ruled.
The Pope wrote to Ercole that it saddened him to think Alfonso was already engaged with another lady; but he was sure that great good could come to their houses by a marriage which would unite them, and he thought they should not lightly dismiss the plan. Alfonso was not available; Ippolito was a man of the Church; so he would give Lucrezia to Ferrara’s third son, Ferrante. Now his daughter was very rich, and he must have a kingdom for her. It was his suggestion—and his wish, he implied—that Ferrante should be given that portion of Ferrara known as Modena, which could be made the State of Modena and ruled over by Ferrante and Lucrezia.
“Carve up Ferrara!” was the old Duke’s comment. “Never!”
But he feared that the Pope would be adamant. He was certain of this when, appealing to the French for help (Ferrara had been an ally of the French for many years) he was told by Louis that a marriage between Este and Borgia was not displeasing to the French, and Louis’ advice was to continue with negotiations.
Ercole knew then that Louis wished for the Pope’s help in conquering Naples; France was the ally of the Vatican and as a consequence, Ferrara must suffer.
When Ercole received that intimation from the French he knew that he had to accept that which he hated.
But he would never carve up Ferrara. It was better to forget old contracts with Louise d’Angoulême. It was better for the marriage—since marriage there must be—to be between Alfonso and Lucrezia.
The Pope, walking with Lucrezia in the gardens of the Vatican, kept his arm in hers as they strolled among the flowers.
“It makes me happy to see you yourself again,” he was telling her. “Lucrezia sad was like another being, not my bright daughter. And now I know you are pleased with this marriage which your loving father has arranged for you.”
“Yes, Father,” she answered, “I am pleased.”
“I grieve that you must go so far from home.”
“But you will visit me, and I you, Father. We shall never be separated for long.”
He pressed her arm tenderly.
“You will be Duchess of Ferrara, my precious one. From the moment of the marriage the title will be yours. Fortunately old Ercole has no wife living, so you will be entitled to call yourself Duchess of Ferrara.”
“Yes, Father.”
“A fine title which will make you equal with the Princesses of Italy. That was what I always wanted for my little girl.”
She was silent, thinking: How strange that I should look forward to this marriage. How strange that I should want to go away from my home.
This elation within her was due to the fact that escape was imminent. She was about to tear herself free from the bonds. She had imagined them like the threads of a spider’s web, but they were made of flesh and blood and the wrenching apart would be painful.
And this husband of hers? She had seen his picture. He was big; he looked strong; but what had appealed to her most on examining that picture was the certain knowledge that he would not be a man to disturb her innermost self. She would give him children, and that would satisfy him; he would never want to know how much she had cared for his predecessors, how much she had suffered when that other Alfonso was murdered; he would never seek to discover the secret of that strange relationship between herself and Cesare, herself and her father. He was a practical man; he had his workshop and a host of mistresses. Many of the children in the villages of Ferrara were begotten by him. He was unrefined, he was called crude, yet, oddly enough, all that she heard of him pleased her. She would know her duty and she would perform it; and her secret life would be left inviolate. She would be alone in Ferrara, able to ponder on her life, to understand herself.