Blood & Beauty (46 page)

Lucrezia and Alfonso. It is unfortunate that her prospective new husband shares the name of her old one. It is even more unfortunate when one considers what he looks like. His portrait arrives as the dowry negotiations begin in earnest. Surely she has never met this man before? Even a young girl would remember such ugliness. It is a wonder the court artist still has his job. At twenty-five, Alfonso d’Este has the face and build of a street fighter: square jaw, thick nose, thick eyebrows and cheeks flushed by the freezing winter fogs that roll off the River Po. The gossip – which flows both ways – says that the only thing he loves more than his cannons are women who are not his wife. His first marriage to Anna Sforza had ended when she died soon after her stillborn child. They had been together since she was fifteen and some say he had made her cry so much that death was an easy way out.

She studies the portrait again. A child of her time, Lucrezia knows that while female beauty is a mirror to the inner sweetness of the soul, men are less constricted by the niceties of Platonic theory. If Cesare’s beauty fools no one any more, then surely boorish features do not necessarily mean a boorish soul? Alexander’s own commentators do their best. The bridegroom, they assure her, is an honest, manly man, plain-spoken with none of the flounces or counterfeit emotions of the wily courtier. He is a talented soldier who takes the well-being of his state seriously – hence his passion for the techniques of new warfare. But he can dance until the sun comes up and those same blunt hands that weld metal over a blacksmith’s fire also play the viol with the delicacy of an angel.

Vulcan with a streak of celestial music. How… how charming, she thinks.

‘And what will he think of me?’ she asks coyly.

‘Oh, he will worship you,’ they say with all the counterfeit conviction of wily courtiers.

There is one man in Rome who might be able to give her a more honest answer. When Gaspare Torella is not overseeing treatments in his steam bath he spends hours in communication with university doctors in Ferrara, and his notebooks are filled with descriptions taken from their noble clientele, a number of whom are from the Este family. Given Alfonso’s appetite for prostitutes, it is not surprising that the heir apparent is on the list. The truth is (and it is the truth, for men of science pride themselves on avoiding gossip) that the man has been so ill with the pox that he was forced to miss his own wife’s funeral.

But what good would it do for Lucrezia or indeed anyone else to know such things? This is not a union of love. Not even of affection. It is a brutally imposed political treaty. Ferrara will gain an ally against Venice, immunity from Cesare’s vaulting ambition and an eye-watering dowry, while the Borgias secure a northern border for their emerging state and a legitimate branch for their family tree, grafted on to one of Italy’s most distinguished dynasties. Who is to say which one will be the final winner and which the loser?

‘The man bargains like a common tradesman,’ Alexander explodes as the negotiators leave the room. ‘How much is it now?’

Burchard and the secretaries pore over the figures. ‘With the castles of Pavia and Pieve and the benefices to Alfonso’s brother, Cardinal Ippolito, as well as the jewels and the cash dowry, it is… it is close to four hundred thousand ducats.’

‘Blood suckers! You are an expert at parsimony, Burchard. Can’t we beat them down?’

‘Not if Your Holiness wants the marriage to take place while the Lady Lucrezia is still of child-bearing age,’ says Burchard in a rare flash of humour, though the smile is so thin that his lips look glued together.

‘Ha! The older the family, the deeper the greed, eh? Still, I dare say it will not seem so much when my grandsons are ruling Ferrara.’ And he grins. He has celebrated his seventieth birthday a few weeks before and his energy, far from waning, seems to be keeping pace with his circumference.

Burchard returns to his figures. With Vice-Chancellor Sforza still in prison, more of the financial work has fallen on to his shoulders, which gives him ample scope for the pleasures of disapproval. These are most expensive days for the papacy. Besides Cesare’s war chest, half a French army is currently camped on the outskirts of Rome, en route to the great assault on Naples. With memories of the last French invasion still raw in people’s minds, Alexander is determined to keep them outside the walls, but to do so he must supply them with everything they need so they don’t take it from the land. Burchard’s diaries are full of loaves and fishes, with little sign of a miracle to keep the costs down.

Nevertheless the French manage to make their presence felt. Their commanders have not forgotten their chivalrous commitment to Caterina Sforza, and from France King Louis presses for her to be set free to go into exile in Florence.

‘The woman can go wherever she likes, as long as she and her children sign away their rights to the Romagna,’ the Pope says airily.

Caterina, whose hair has turned grey without her special dyes and potions, signs and is released from her dungeon apartments in Castel Sant’ Angelo. She has gambled hard all her life and has always known that to survive one must know how to lose as well as how to win.

No sooner is she freed than the two Manfredi brothers of Faenza, who have been ‘travelling’ with Cesare’s army over the last months, are imprisoned in her place. The young man’s only sin is to be exceedingly well loved by his people and therefore too dangerous to be left roaming free. It is a bold-faced betrayal of the promises Cesare made him, but it surprises almost nobody. Covering one’s back is an age-old political strategy and it is not as if the Borgias are unique in their flouting of morality. Only a few months before, in the city of Perugia, one half of the ruling Baglioni family had massacred the other half in their beds, using a wedding reception as a smokescreen for the violence. Of course there had been flurries of diplomatic outrage, but behind closed doors there had been an equal admiration for the sheer audacity of the move. Compared with that, the Manfredi brothers are lucky still to be alive. Though few would take bets on how long such a state will continue. One enemy at a time.

Cesare, as usual, is too busy for matters of conscience. He must pay his debt to the French King and having frozen in winter he must now look forward to roasting in summer. It is mid-July when he and his crack troops, sweat pouring from under their monstrous armour, join the forces of France to advance on Naples. Within a few weeks it is all over. The House of Aragon is finished and the doomed King Federico goes into exile in France, where at least he will be in the company of his graceless daughter, Carlotta. How different all of their lives might have been if Federico had made her take Cesare Borgia for her husband.

Duke Ercole d’Este, surely not the only one to muse on the power of marriage, takes comfort in the number of noughts negotiated into the dowry and writes to the Pope and then Cesare separately, declaring his deep delight at the union.

Lucrezia’s household packs away the earthenware dishes and brings out the silver plate. Though the year is not yet up, her mourning is over. Bedecked again in bright colours and jewels, she makes the acquaintance of a new young woman in the mirror. The hollowed-out sadness has gone. In its place has come a quiet, clear-eyed determination. Radiance seems to have passed her by.

With a settlement more or less hammered out, Ercole sends two special envoys to make the further acquaintance of the bride-to-be. For a while it is all the two men can do to keep up with the pace of celebrations that follow the public announcement of the betrothal. Cesare throws off his surliness and joins the Borgia charm offensive. The Pope, growing sprightlier with each triumph, stays up to greet the dawn, and because it has always been his greatest pleasure to watch his children dancing together, everyone must stay up with him to watch too.

‘I think you will agree – your future duchess is not lame,’ he quips proudly as the two envoys prop their eyes open.

It is a sight worth missing sleep for. The room is lit with torches and standing candelabra and the brightly coloured tiled floor glows beneath their feet. Lucrezia is renowned for the vibrancy of her dancing and Cesare has always been the only man at court to match her. The drum and pipes offer up a bright beat, so that there are moments when the music seems to have them dancing on air. Then there are other passages, laid on a bed of plucked lute strings, where they slide and prowl around each other and, like candle flares, there are flashes of tension, aggression almost, inside their grace that communicate immediately to the audience. Everyone in the room knows the wound between this beautiful brother and sister. How long is it since they last danced together? But of course everyone knows. In the intervening months since Alfonso’s death they have led almost separate lives, busy with war and marriage. It is as if their bodies now are saying things that their tongues could never dare to.

‘The duke and his sister are both in love and in hate.’ The idea slips its way into the watching crowd while the Pope, oblivious, beams his approval. The ambassadors, scorched by the heat, sit wondering what words they can find to convey the complexity of this family that will soon be joined with theirs.

In private audience with the duchess there can, of course, be no mention of such things. Instead, she appears light, almost sunny with excitement of the future.

‘Oh, Madonna Lucrezia, you will be amazed by the city.’

‘Yes, yes, I am sure I will. It is true that Duke Ercole has knocked down half the town in order to build it anew?’

‘My lady, it is the most ambitious plan that any city in Italy has seen. The roads are wide enough for chariot races and every house built is of the new style, with its own courtyard and garden. There is one palace which, when finished, will have jewels for its outside walls.’

‘Jewels?’

‘Well, stone diamonds anyway. It is a new kind of rustication that the duke’s architect has dreamed up. Then there is the castle, and near to the river the great palace of Schifanoia, built to banish boredom. Yes! That is how it is named! The frescos are unequalled in their brilliance, and the concerts – oh, the concerts they put on there! Well, the duke is renowned for his love of music. You will see for yourself soon enough.’

‘And poets? You have poets and writers too?’

‘Oh, poets help run the state.’ Lawyers by training and career diplomats by trade, Ercole’s men are a well-honed double act when it comes to painting glorious pictures of their home. ‘Matteo Boiardo is Governor of Reggio and Modena and his words flow like liquid gold. You are fond of poets, yes?’

‘Yes, very,’ she says. ‘I have some men about me who in the past – well, when my husband was alive…’ She trails off.

Their smiles stay fixed as she makes a gay little gesture with her hand. My husband: one might think she had never had a second marriage, his presence is so absent in Rome these days. For a second she is thrown off her stride; her mind filled with an image of a sculpture she has seen in St Peter’s Basilica: white marble, a woman serene, resigned, holding the body of a beautiful dead man in her lap. Not now, she thinks. There will be time later. Do not think of it now.

‘Yes,’ she says again quietly. ‘I am fond of poetry.’

‘In which case you will know of Petro Bembo. A scholar of the highest order who visits Ferrara often. They say he is writing the greatest poem on love since Petrarch dipped his pen in the ink for his sonnets.’

‘Petro Bembo? I think I have heard of him. But perhaps not.’ She shakes her head, still disturbed by the sad beauty of marble. ‘It seems I have much to learn, sirs. I will trust in God to help me find my way in such a wondrous journey.’

And they smile. It is one of many endearing things about the woman who will be their new duchess that she does not pretend to know that which she doesn’t. Indeed, the more time they spend with her the more they find to admire.

‘Your Highness and Lord Alfonso will be well satisfied.’ They sit with their reports late into the night. ‘The Lady Lucrezia is most intelligent and most lovely, and her manners add to her charm. She is a devout and God-fearing Christian, modest and affable in every way. In short her character is such that we cannot suspect her of any… unseemly behaviour.’

As if there could remain any doubt about her worth, when the Pope and his son leave for a tour of inspection of their latest batch of seized castles north of Rome, it is Lucrezia who is left in charge of Vatican business while they are away. A woman sitting in the papal apartments opening correspondence and offering opinions. Perhaps the only thing more shocking is that the cardinals who advise and watch over her do not seem to find it shocking at all. She is diligent and careful certainly. But it is not all so dour. Cardinal Costa, at eighty-five years old a veteran of the Borgia administration, can often be heard laughing with her as they work side by side. Lucrezia has a natural aptitude in such relationships. While Alexander’s love for his daughter may appear almost unhealthy at times, it has given her advantages in the world when it comes to dealing with powerful old men. It is as if she expects them to like her, and so, of course, they do.

From the sidelines, the Ferrarese envoys watch with particular interest. Their lord and master Duke Ercole is a very powerful old man, used to getting his own way. Privately they take a wager on how he will get on with his daughter-in-law; how far she will charm him and how long it will take for him to expose his steel.

Given the importance of their dispatches home, it is just as well that they are busy elsewhere when Cesare hosts a certain informal dinner party in his apartments in the Vatican in late October. The guest list is exclusive – family and close family friends, though Cesare makes a point of informing Burchard so that he is on hand should anything be called for. The table, however, is laid for a much larger gathering. Just before the food is served the doors are flung open and a group of lovely, laughing ladies arrive, as fragrant and fashionable as any courtiers, but with an infectious informality to their manner. Perched on the back of one of their chairs as they sit to eat, a red and yellow parrot bobs up and down, squawking the name of his host to the approval of the whole gathering.