When Isabella received that letter she was furious.
“Idiot!” she cried. “The young fool writes like a lover. From what we know of her reputation, mayhap he already is.”
She would show the letter to Alfonso, try to rouse some indignation in his sleepy mind.
While Lucrezia was at Rimini, that town where she had opened the ball with Ferrante, one of the servants rode into the castle with disquieting news.
Ferrante was the first person he saw, and he fell at the young man’s feet, declaring that Madonna Lucrezia was in terrible danger.
“How so?” asked Ferrante.
“Because, my lord, outside the town a company of men are waiting for her. These are led by Carracciolo.”
“Carracciolo!” cried Ferrante.
“May I refresh your lordship’s memory? Carracciolo was betrothed to Dorotea da Crema who was abducted by Cesare Borgia and has never been heard of since.”
“You mean that this man seeks to abduct Madonna Lucrezia?”
“It would seem so, my lord. Aye, and do to her what Cesare Borgia did to his betrothed.”
Ferrante lost no time in hurrying to Lucrezia, and telling her what he had heard. Lucrezia was terrified, for the thought of violence alarmed her.
Ferrante threw himself on his knees and declared that he would protect her with his life. She was not listening; she was thinking of Dorotea, who had set out on a journey very similar to this one she was making, and who had never reached her destination. She thought of Cesare, and she shivered.
She understood the feelings of this man Carracciolo. She knew what would happen to her if she fell into his hands.
Elizabetta came in, startling Ferrante from his knees.
He at once blurted out what he had heard.
Elizabetta shrugged her shoulders. “Doubtless it is merely some tale,” she said.
But she could not hide the expression of pleasure which briefly flitted across her face. She hates me, thought Lucrezia. She hopes I shall fall into Carracciolo’s hands.
She was horrified as much by the malice of this woman as by the fears this story had conjured up.
She thought then: I am a Borgia. The sins of my family are my sins. Can it be that now … they are catching up with me, that there is no real escape?
Lucrezia had spent a sleepless night. All through those hours as she tossed and turned she had expected to hear shouts of triumph from below, harsh voices demanding her surrender.
A thick fog lay over the town in the early morning, and she insisted that they slip away under cover of it. She was terrified of this place and could not bear to spend another hour in it.
So they left as quickly and as silently as they could, traveling along the Via Emilia toward Bologna.
When the fog lifted they were able to see the open country for miles round and there was no sign of a pursuing force.
Lucrezia’s relief was apparent, but Elizabetta was determined that she should not enjoy it.
“I have news for you,” she said. “Giovanni Sforza is coming to the wedding.”
“Oh, but he can’t do that!”
“He can. He has announced his intention of so doing. I have heard that he has already set out for Ferrara.”
Lucrezia looked sharply at her companion, and she believed then that Elizabetta and her friend Isabella, whom she had now realized was also an enemy, had arranged that Giovanni Sforza should be at the wedding so that she would be embarrassed.
Looking forward to her new life she saw that it would be peopled with those who wished to destroy her.
They came to Bologna where members of the reigning family, the Bentivoglio, set out to meet her; and she was led in triumph to their beautiful house on the outskirts of the town.
Great fires were burning, and it was with immense relief that Lucrezia and her entourage warmed themselves. Entertainments had been prepared, but Lucrezia had begged that they should be postponed. She and her fellow travelers were very fatigued and longed to rest for this first day.
It was pleasant to be within these frescoed walls, to stretch out before a blazing fire, to call for hot water, that the dust of the journey might be washed from her hair.
Angela and Girolama helped with her toilet, chatting excitedly, reminding her that they were on the very borders of Ferrara and very soon would reach their journey’s end.
Angela had been a little subdued since her encounter with Ippolito, but she was no less lovely for that.
They were talking of the receptions they had received, of the banners in morello and gold which had been hung out by the people, who knew how she favored these colors.
“It would seem, Lucrezia,” said Angela, “that the whole of Italy loves you. Surely only love could inspire such enthusiasm.”
“Love … or fear,” said Lucrezia grimly.
Girolama said: “I hear their voices in my sleep. I hear the chanting: ‘Duca! Duca! Duchessa!’ It goes on and on.”
“They loved you as soon as they saw you,” persisted Angela. “They take one look at you and catch their breath with wonder.”
“Rather is it surprise,” said Lucrezia, “because my hair is not serpents and I have not the eye of the Gorgon.”
“They love you the better because of the false rumors they have heard. You look … angelic. There is no other word for it.”
“You look at me with the eyes of a Borgia, little cousin; and I have come to believe that in Borgian eyes Borgias are perfect. Try looking with the eyes of others.”
Adriana came bustling in.
“Hurry!” she cried. “There is unexpected visitor. Oh … but look at your hair. Take off that robe quickly. Where is your striped morello? Oh, we shall never have time.”
“Who is it?” demanded Lucrezia, terror seizing her. She thought of Carracciolo, furious on account of the rape of his betrothed, vowing vengeance on the Borgias; she thought of Giovanni Sforza humiliated and insulted, determined on revenge.
Adriana was so excited she could scarcely find the words. “I had no notion that this would happen. Come … girls … quickly. Oh dear … oh dear … that we should be caught like this!”
“But Adriana, be calm. Pray tell us who the visitor is.”
“Alfonso is here. Your bridegroom is determined to see you before you make your state entry into Ferrara.”
“Alfonso …!” Lucrezia had begun to tremble.
She was aware of the distracted Adriana, searching for the right dress, of Angela, running a comb through her wet hair.
Then there were heavy footsteps outside the room, there was a deep voice commanding someone to stand aside.
The door was flung open and Alfonso d’Este stood looking at his bride.
He was tall and broad, his eyes gray-blue in color, his nose fiercely aquiline, and there was about him an air of brutal strength.
Lucrezia hastily rose to her feet and curtsied.
Those watching thought they had never seen her look so fair and fragile as she did beside her future husband.
“My lord,” she said, “if we had had news of your coming we should not have received you thus.”
“Ha!” he said. “ ’Twas my plan to surprise you.”
“You find me with my hair wet. We have but recently arrived here with the grime of the journey upon us.”
“I’m not so shocked by grime as are most.” He took a strand of the hair in his hand. “I had heard it shone like gold,” he said.
“It does so when it is dry. I am grieved that it should be wet when you first meet me.”
He twisted a handful of it and pulled it gently. “I like it,” he said.