Alexander frowned. He understood how terrified Lucrezia would be of Cesare’s discovering her condition. She and little Pantisilea would have been doubly careful when Cesare visited her.
“Lucrezia … to have a child!”
The Pope lifted his shoulders. “These things happen,” he said lightly.
“While she was in the convent!” Cesare clenched his fists. “So that was why she was so contented there. Who is the father?”
“My son, let not our tempers run high. This is a matter wherein we need all our cunning, all our calm. It is unfortunate, but if this marriage we are planning for Lucrezia is to be brought about, it will not help us if it should be known that, while she stood before the Cardinals declaring herself virgo intacta, she was in fact six months pregnant. This must be our little secret matter.”
“Who is the father?” repeated Cesare.
The Pope went on as though he had not spoken. “Listen to my plan. None shall attend her but Pantisilea. When the child is born it shall be taken away immediately. I have already been in contact with some good people who will take it and care for it. I shall reward them well, for remember, this is my grandchild, a Borgia, and we have need of Borgias. Mayhap in a few years’ time I will have the child brought to the Vatican. Mayhap I will watch over its upbringing. But for a few years it must be as though there was no child.”
“I wish to know the name of this man,” insisted Cesare.
“You are too angry, Cesare. I must warn you, my son, that anger is the greatest enemy of those who allow it to conquer them. Keep your anger in chains. It was what I learned to do at an early age. Show no anger against this young man. I shall not. I understand what made him act as he did. Come, Cesare, would not you and I in similar circumstances behave in exactly the same manner? We cannot blame him.” The Pope’s expression changed very slightly. “But we shall know how to deal with him when the time comes.”
“He shall die,” cried Cesare.
“All in good time,” murmured the Pope. “At the moment … let all be peaceful. There is my little Pantisilea.” The Pope’s tone was regretful, and his smile tender. “She knows a great deal. Poor child, such knowledge is not good for her.”
“Father, you are wise. You know how to deal with matters like this, but I must know this man’s name. I cannot rest until I do.”
“Do nothing rash, my son. His name is Pedro Caldes.”
“Is he not one of your chamberlains?”
The Pope nodded.
Cesare was shaking with rage. “How dare he! A chamberlain, a servant … and my sister!”
The Pope laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, and was alarmed by the tremors which shook Cesare.
“Your pride is great, my son. But remember … caution! We shall know how to settle this matter, you and I. But at the moment our best method is caution.”
Caution! It was not in Cesare’s nature to be cautious. The rages which had come to him in boyhood were more frequent as he grew older, and he found it becoming more and more difficult to control them.
His mind was dominated now by one picture: His sister with the chamberlain. He was obsessed by jealousy and hatred, and there was murder in his heart.
The Pope had urged caution, but he no longer obeyed the Pope. After the death of his brother he had learned his father’s weakness. Alexander did not remember to mourn for long. He forgot the misdeeds of his family; he ceased to regret the dead and gave all his attention to the living. The great affection of which he was capable—evanescent though it might be—was intense while it lasted; and it had to be directed toward someone. Cesare had taken the affection his father had given to Giovanni, as though it were a title or estate. Cesare knew he need not fear the loss of his father’s affection, no matter what he did. That was the great discovery he had made. That was why he felt powerful, invincible. Alexander was lord of Italy, and Alexander would bend to the will of his son.
So when Alexander said Caution, why should Cesare heed that warning unless he wished to?
One day he came face to face with Pedro Caldes in one of the ante-rooms leading to the Papal apartments, and Cesare’s anger flared up to such an extent that he was drained of all memories of his father’s warning.
“Caldes, halt!” cried Cesare.
“My lord …” began the startled chamberlain, “what would you have of me?”
“Your life,” said Cesare, and he drew his sword.
The startled young man turned and fled toward the Pope’s apartments. Cesare, grasping his sword, followed.
Pedro, breathless and terrified, could hear the cruel laughter of Cesare close behind him; once Cesare’s sword touched his thigh and he felt the hot blood run down his leg.
“You waste time in running,” Cesare cried. “You shall die for what you have dared do to my sister.”
Fainting with fear, Pedro reached the Papal throne, on which Alexander was sitting; with him were two of his chamberlains and one of the Cardinals.
Pedro cried: “Holy Father, save me … save me before I die!” And he flung himself at Alexander’s feet.
Cesare was upon him. Alexander had risen, his expression horrified and full of warning.
“My son, my son, desist,” he cried. “Put away your sword.”
But Cesare merely laughed and thrust at the chamberlain, as Alexander stooped forward to protect him, so that the blood spurted up and stained the Pope’s robes, and even splashed his face.
Those who had been with the Pope stood back aghast, while Alexander put his arms about Pedro and looked up into his son’s glowering face.
“Put away your sword,” he said sternly, and there was a return of the Alexander who, benevolent as he was, had always known how to quell his sons. “Bring not your quarrels to our sacred throne.”
Cesare laughed again, but he felt once more that awe of his father which he was surprised to discover he had not quite overcome.
He obeyed as he said truculently: “Let him not think that this is the end of our quarrel.”
Then he turned and strode out of the apartment.
Alexander murmured: “The hot blood of youth! He does not mean to be so rash. But who of us was not rash in youth? Have this young man’s wounds attended to and … for his own safety let him be kept under guard.”
Pantisilea leaned over the bed.
Lucrezia murmured: “It is beginning, Pantisilea.”
“Lie down, Madonna. I will send a message to the Holy Father.”
Lucrezia nodded. “He will take care of everything.”
Pantisilea despatched a slave to the Vatican with a signet ring which the Pope had given her and which was to be a sign between them that Lucrezia was in need of a midwife. In this affair, the Pope had decided, no word should be written. When he received the ring he would know its purpose, and for no other reason must it be sent to him.
“How blessed I am in such a father,” murmured Lucrezia. “Oh, Pantisilea, why did I not go to him at once? If I had, Pedro and I might have been married now. How long it is since I saw Pedro! He should be close to me now. How happy I should be if he were! I shall ask my father to bring him to me.”
“Yes, Madonna, yes,” soothed Pantisilea.
She was a little uneasy. She had heard rumors concerning the disappearance of Pedro Caldes, but she had not told Lucrezia of this. It would upset her with her confinement so near.
“I dream, you know,” said Lucrezia. “I dream all the time. We shall have to leave Rome. That will be necessary for a while, I doubt not. We shall live quietly for a few years in some remote place—even more remote than Pesaro; but I do not think my father will allow us to be away from him forever. He will visit us; and how he will love his grandchild! Pantisilea, do you think it will be a boy?”