He suspects! thought Cesare. He knows.
Then he remembered those words which the Pope had spoken when he heard of Giovanni’s death. “To those who have dealt death to him so shall they be dealt with. Nothing shall be too bitter for them to endure.”
“Father,” said Cesare, “we must stand together after a tragedy such as this. We must not forget that, whatever happens to any of us, the family must go on.”
“We would be alone,” said the Pope. “Go from us now.”
Cesare went uneasily.
He sought out Sanchia. “I would Lucrezia were here,” he said. “She might comfort our father. But he did not ask even for her. He does not seem to want any of us now. He thinks of nothing but Giovanni.”
But Cesare could find no peace with Sanchia. He must go to his father once more. He must know whether he had read aright the accusation in those eyes.
He went to the Pope’s apartments, taking Sanchia and Goffredo with him, and after a long delay they were admitted.
Sanchia knelt at Alexander’s feet and lifted her beautiful blue eyes to his face. “Father, be comforted,” she said; “it is double grief to your children to see you so.”
The Pope looked at her with cold eyes. He said: “They quarrelled over you—he and his brother. Go from me. I am arranging that you shall leave Rome. You will be departing shortly, with your husband, for Squillace.”
“But Father,” began Sanchia, “we would comfort you in your bitter loss.”
“You comfort me most by removing yourself from my presence.”
It was the first time Cesare had seen his father unmoved by beauty.
“Please go now, you and Goffredo,” he said to Sanchia. Then, turning to Cesare, he went on: “I would have you stay.”
When they were alone they looked at each other, and there was no mistaking the meaning in Alexander’s eyes.
His voice broke as he said: “They shall search no more. I would not have them discover my son’s murderer now. I could bear no further misery.”
Cesare knelt and would have taken his father’s hand, but Alexander removed it. It was as though he could not bear to be touched by the hand which had slain Giovanni.
“I wish you to go to Naples,” he said. “You are appointed Cardinal Legate for the coronation of the new King.”
“Father, another could go,” protested Cesare.
“It is our wish that you should go,” said the Pope firmly. “Now, I pray you leave me. I would be alone with my grief.”
Pedro presented himself daily at the convent. When Sister Girolama suggested his visits were too frequent he had his explanations: His Holiness was prostrate with grief; his one comfort was derived from his daughter’s messages. He did not wish her to return to the Vatican which was deep in mourning, but to stay where she was that he might write to her and she to him. He wished to hear details of her daily life. That was why Pedro called so frequently at the convent.
This was not true, but it was a good enough excuse. It might have been that the sisters had realized that the beautiful girl would never be one of them. Perhaps they sensed her innate worldliness and made no effort to combat it.
Lucrezia lived in her cells which she had converted into comfortable rooms, and if Pedro visited her there instead of in the cold bare room at first assigned to them, that was a matter between the Pope’s daughter and her visitor. Her maid would act as chaperone and, although the maid was a very frivolous creature, she was one who had been selected for the post by the Holy Father, and it was not for the Prioress to complain.
Lucrezia had changed, but the nuns were not conscious of physical appearances, and it was left to Pantisilea to tell her that her eyes were brighter and that she was a hundred times lovelier than she had been when she, Pantisilea, had first come to attend her.
“It is love,” said Pantisilea.
“It is such a hopeless love,” murmured Lucrezia. “Sometimes I wonder where it can lead us.”
But when Pedro was with her she ceased to ask herself such practical questions. All that mattered to Lucrezia was the fulfillment of her love, for she was fully alive now to her own sensuality.
That love had begun in sorrow. She remembered well the day when the terrible shock of Giovanni’s death had made her turn to Pedro. It was then, when he had put his arms about her, that she had realized how deeply in love with him she was.
Love! It was a precious thing. It was worth facing danger for the sake of love; and she had discovered this about herself: She would never again be one to deny love.
Love filled her life, filled the cell at the convent, touching austerity with a roseate light.
Sorrow passed, she found, for news came that even the Pope had come out of retirement, that he was no longer heard weeping and calling for Giovanni.
On the day when Pedro brought the news that the Pope had taken a mistress, they were all very lighthearted in Lucrezia’s room. Only Pantisilea was a little regretful, wishing she had been the one chosen to comfort the Pope. But her place was with Lucrezia whom she hoped never to leave. Nor should she; Lucrezia had promised her that.
“You shall always be with me, dear Pantisilea,” Lucrezia told her. “When I leave this place you shall come with me. No matter where I go I shall take you with me.”
Pantisilea could be happy, for when they left this place she would still live close to His Holiness, and there was always hope that he might notice her again.
Weeks passed. The Pope seemed to have forgotten his grief completely. Cesare was on his way home from Naples, and Alexander was preparing a welcome for him.
Giovanni, the beloved son, was dead, but that was in the past, and the Borgias did not grieve forever.
Cesare stood before his father, and now the Pope looked full into his son’s eyes.
“My son,” he said brokenly.
Cesare kissed his father’s hands; then turned his appealing eyes upon him.
Alexander had been too long alone, and having lost one son he did not intend to lose another.
Already, because he was Alexander, to him Giovanni had become a shadowy figure, and Cesare was here beside him, young, ambitious, strong.
He is the stronger of the two, mused Alexander. He will do great deeds before he dies. With him at its head, the house of Borgia will prosper.
“Welcome home, my son. Welcome home, Cesare,” said the Pope.
And Cesare exulted, for all that he had done, he now knew, had not been in vain.
Lucrezia and Pantisilea were working on a piece of embroidery when Lucrezia dropped the work and let her hands lie idly in her lap.
“Does aught ail you, Madonna?” asked Pantisilea.
“What should you think?” asked Lucrezia sharply.
“I thought you seemed … over-pensive, Madonna. I have noticed it of late.”
Lucrezia was silent. Pantisilea was looking at her in some alarm.
“You have guessed,” said Lucrezia.
“It cannot be, Madonna. It must not be.”
“It is so. I am to have a child.”
“Madonna!”
“Why do you look so shocked? You know that it can easily happen when one has a lover.”
“But you and Pedro! What will your father say? What will your brother do?”
“I dare not think, Pantisilea.”
“How long?”
“It is three months.”
“Three months, Madonna! So it happened in the beginning.”
“It would seem so.”
“June, July, August,” counted Pantisilea. “And it is now the beginning of September. Madonna, what shall we do?”
“I do not know, Pantisilea. I think mayhap I shall go away somewhere in secret. These things have happened before. Perhaps Pedro will come with me.” Lucrezia flung herself into the arms of Pantisilea. “Lucky one!” she cried. “If you loved you might marry; you might live with your husband and children, happy for the rest of your life. But for one such as I am there is nothing but the marriage which will bring advantage to my family. They betrothed me twice and then they married me to Giovanni Sforza.” Now that she loved Pedro she shuddered at the memory of Giovanni Sforza.