Then suddenly Francesco threw off his melancholy. In that moment the great campaigner was in command and the servile husband of Isabella subdued. A curse on Isabella! She had put herself in command in Mantua, and like a fool he had a hundred times given way to her. But this was not Mantua.
Deliberately he wrote a note to his wife telling her that he had not asked her to make the journey to Borgoforte, and had no intention of doing so. She had recently recovered from an attack of fever, and was not in a position to travel. Not only would he refuse to invite her … he would forbid her to come.
He sent off the note and turned his thoughts to the decorating of the fortress.
But Isabella could not be dismissed from his thoughts as easily as that.
Francesco searched his soul and had to admit that he was afraid of his masterful wife.
Therefore he wrote to her once more, telling her that one of his guests was her sister-in-law, Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara, who would call at Borgoforte on her way back from Reggio to Ferrara. Perhaps it would be a pleasant gesture if he invited her to visit Mantua on her journey. He was sure Alfonso would be delighted if his sister entertained his wife.
Having dispatched the message, Francesco asked himself whether he was a fool or not. If, during Lucrezia’s stay at Borgoforte, he advanced his relationship with her as he intended to, would it not be visible to the alert eyes of Isabella?
Slowly the barge drifted down the Po toward Borgoforte. Surrounded by his muscians whom he had commanded to play sweet music, Francesco saw it take shape through the mist as it glided past the banks thick with birch trees.
As the barge came nearer he saw the brilliant colors of the women’s dresses, and there in their midst Lucrezia herself, her freshly washed hair golden about her shoulders, and a smile of pleasure on her face. As she stepped ashore, he took her hands in his and his heavy-lidded eyes shone with emotion as he studied her slender figure. She seemed more frail than ever, and sorrow had seemed to give her an appearance of even greater childishness.
Francesco had never before felt such pity mingle with desire. Poor child! he thought. Poor, poor child, how she has suffered!
He realized that her stay at Borgoforte was not going to be the merry one he had anticipated; he doubted whether she would become his mistress while there. Quite suddenly that seemed unimportant; the only thing that mattered was to make this young girl gay again.
The gay music seemed out of place in the misty meadow.
He said: “I knew you loved music. I but wished you to know that, while you stay at my poor fortress, I mean to do everything I can to make you happy.”
She had placed her hand in his and had given him that childlike smile.
“I have felt happier since I received your invitation,” she said. “I feel happier still now that I have seen you again.”
He led her into the fortress. She was astonished at its magnificence.
“But you have gone to much trouble,” she said.
“It was of small account,” he told her.
“But no, it is of great account. It was done to cheer me. I know it.”
“Then if it has cheered you one little bit, the effort was well worth while. I have arranged a banquet for this night. You and I will dance a measure.”
She shook her head and the tears filled her eyes. “It seems such a short while since I held my baby in my arms.”
“It is over,” he answered her. “No grieving can change it. You must try to be happy again. If I could make you so, I should be the happiest man on Earth.”
“It is in no man’s power to make me happy, I fear.”
“You speak with your grief fresh upon you. There shall be no dancing if you do not wish it.”
They went into the hall which, with its cleverly painted murals, gave an impression of vistas opening out beyond the walls of the room. She was effusive in her praise, and that pleased him for it showed her awareness of all he had done to attempt to charm her. But still she was sad, and her mind dwelt on the child she had lost.
He could not make love to her. He could not even speak of love. He could only show by actions that he cared for her, that her fragility appealed to him, that her insecurity made him long to protect her.
It was not easy to be alone with her at the fortress. They could only talk during the banquet or while the guests danced together.
“You know,” he said earnestly, “that if you should need my help I would come to you at once.”
“Why should I need your help?” she asked.
“My dearest Lucrezia, you, who were a short time ago protected by the most powerful relations, are now alone.” She was immediately melancholy, thinking of her father’s death, of Cesare’s captivity; and the last thing he had wanted to do was increase her sadness. But he persisted: “Alfonso wants an heir … needs an heir.”
“And I have failed him once more.”
“Do not brood on that. Understand now, that should you need my help at any time and send word to me, no matter where I should be, I would hasten to your side.”
“You are good to me,” she told him.
He did not touch her, but she saw the smoldering light in those heavy-lidded eyes that seemed suddenly robbed of their sleepiness. “It shall always be my greatest joy in life … being good to you.”
“Why are you so good?” she asked. And when he was silent for a few seconds she laughed a little uncertainly. “During my first days in Ferrara I came to know your wife as my most bitter enemy.”
His eyes smoldered. “She was cruel to you. I could hate her for it.”
“You … hate Isabella, your wife!”
“Do you not understand why?” Lucrezia’s heart had begun to beat a little faster; this man was succeeding in making her feel alive again. She waited for the answer. “It is because I am falling in love with you.”
“Oh no! It cannot be so.”
“I was a fool not to know it before. Do you remember our first meeting? Do you remember how you made me talk of my battles? I thought you a child then … an enchanting one, but only a child.”
“I remember it well.”
“And you stood on the balcony and watched me ride away.”
“Giovanni Sforza was there … my first husband.”
Francesco nodded. “He spoke slander against you even then, and I hated him. Yet I did not know why I hated him.”
“I thought what a great soldier you were, and if Giovanni Sforza had been like you I might have felt differently toward him.”
“Lucrezia …”
“You must not misunderstand me. There can be no love between us two.”
“But there is love between us two.”
She shook her head.
“Have I not told you that I love you?”
“They are the words of a courtier.”
“They are spoken from my heart.”
“But of what use is love if only one feels it? Love must be shared to be beautiful.”
“It shall be. It shall be,” he cried passionately.
But she only shook her head once more.
“I will show you the extent of my love,” he told her.
“I pray you do not. Did you not know that the men who love me are unlucky?”
“Alfonso …”
“Alfonso never loved me.” She turned to him smiling. “But it is good of you to show me such kindness. You know how heavy my heart is. You know of the sorrow which has befallen me during this most tragic year. You seek to make me light-hearted. That is so kind of you. I do not forget how kind.”
“You do not believe that I love you truly, and that my love is greater than any you have ever known before. Do not think that poets, who have a gift for flowery speech, can love with the same passion as a soldier. My verses make you smile—or would, had you not the kindest heart in the world; but love does not consist of writing verses. I will show by my deeds that I love you. You have a brother on whose behalf you suffer much pain.”