Madonna of the Seven Hills (23 page)

“Giovanni,” she whispered.

But he only snored.

They rode into
Pesaro in heavy rain and violent storm.

From the windows hung bedraggled banners; some had been blown down and lay neglected on the ground. The Lord of Pesaro had commanded that there should be banners, and banners his subjects provided; but the wind was cruel and obeyed no lord; so the entry into Pesaro was not the triumphal affair which its Lord had planned.

Giulia was angry; the rain had saturated her lovely hair so that it looked dark yellow instead of gold. Her beautiful dress was ruined.

“A curse on Pesaro!” cried Giulia, and wished herself in Rome.

Adriana murmured prayers as they rode. Her clothes were clinging to her uncomfortably, and the wind caught at her hair beneath its net; she felt undignified thus, and her dignity meant much to Adriana. Still she was calm and there was a certain triumph in her face. She was telling herself: “Anything will be better than Rome at this time.”

Lucrezia’s beautiful dress was ruined and her hair in the same state as Giulia’s. One of her servants had found a large cape which she wrapped about her mistress so that all her glory was hidden to those few who had endured the wind and rain to watch the entry of the new Countess.

“I doubt not,” she said to Giulia, “that the sun will shine tomorrow.”

“As doubtless we shall be in bed, nursing fevers, that will matter little to us,” grumbled Giulia.

They came to the Sforza palace and here, as ordered, were the poets waiting to read their verses of praises to their Lord and his bride.

So they must all stand in the rain and the wind whilst, huddled beneath the arches, the shivering poets read their verses welcoming their Countess to her home in sunny Pesaro.

Giulia sneezed, while Adriana silently prayed that the poets had kept their verses short, and Lucrezia, her beauty hidden by the great cloak, and
her golden hair falling about her face in strands like dull yellow serpents, smiled as was expected of her, but her relief was obvious when the address was over.

What joy to be inside the palace, to dry and warm themselves by the great fire, to eat hot food and giggle with Giulia about the terrible journey to Pesaro which they would enjoy recalling because it was over.

But with the
next day came the sunshine, and there was Pesaro before them in all its beauty.

Lucrezia, looking at the lovely expanse of Adriatic on which the town stood, the green hills surrounding it in a charming semi-circle at each end of which were the tall mountains of Accio and Ardizio, was delighted with her new home.

“Here,” she told Giulia, “one feels shut away from the rest of the world.”

“That is why we were sent here, to be safe until the conflict passes.”

“I believe I could be happy,” said Lucrezia, “if my father and my brothers were with me.”

“Oh, Lucrezia, you will have to learn to be happy without your father and your brothers.”

During the next days Lucrezia tried to be.

Giovanni’s subjects had done their best to entertain their Countess in such a way that she would know how pleased they were to have her among them. There were banquets, dances, and carnival. The little streets of the town were full of laughing people, of clowns in grotesque costumes, and jugglers who had their tricks to perform in honor of Madonna Lucrezia. There had never been such gaiety in Pesaro, declared the people, and it was all in honor of the new Countess.

Lucrezia appeared among them and won their hearts, not only with her golden beauty, but with her obvious appreciation of all that they were doing for her.

Giulia and Lucrezia put their heads together and devised a program of merrymaking, determined to make the people of Pesaro see such magnificence as they had never seen before. They brought out their most splendid
dresses that they might dazzle the provincials and give them a glimpse of how splendid Roman society was.

They were determined to outshine a local beauty, Caterina Gonzaga di Montevecchio, of whom they had heard so much, but they were a little apprehensive, as the fame of this woman’s beauty had traveled as far as Rome.

They washed their hair, put on their jeweled nets, each assuring the other that she had never looked more beautiful; the dresses of silk and brocade set with gems which they were wearing were such as they would have worn for a state occasion in Rome. Thus magnificently dressed they set out, with Giovanni as their escort, for the Gonzaga ball.

It was an evening of triumph. They studied the far-famed beauty and discovered that although she had a beautiful skin and figure, her nose was fat, her teeth ugly and her hair was insignificant beside the long gold tresses of Guilia and Lucrezia.

Giulia became hilariously gay; Lucrezia more serenely joyous; and as soon as they arrived back at the Sforza palace they sat down to write to the Holy Father and tell him all about it, describing the appearance of Caterina, because they knew His Beatitude may have had the impression that she was more beautiful than she really was.

Giulia added that Lucrezia was satisfied with her new home and that she was in good health. The people of Pesaro were devoted to Sforza, she wrote, and there had been continual festivities, dancing, singing, and masques. As for herself, being absent from His Holiness, on whom all her happiness depended, she was unable to take any delight or satisfaction in the gaiety. Her heart was with one who was the treasure of her life. She trusted that His Holiness would not forget them but soon bring them back to him.

Such letters delighted the Pope. He demanded that they should write every day, and assured them that every detail of their lives was of the utmost importance to him.

This appeared to be so because, although the French were about to invade Italy and his enemies within the peninsula were seeking to depose him, he was quite happy when he received letters from his beloved girls.

And when some weeks later news reached him that Lucrezia was confined to her bed with a fever, he was thrown into an agony of fear for her
life. He shut himself into his apartments, would see no one, blamed himself for allowing her to go away from him while he made feverish plans for bringing her back despite the dangers.

He wanted them with him. He could not enjoy life without them. He wrote that absence from Giulia aroused within him a demon of sensuality which could only be placated by her; of all his children, he realized now there was none he cared for as for his golden-haired little beauty. How could he have thought that the love he bore his sons could compare with that which a man such as he was must feel for one as delicately formed, as exquisitely beautiful, as his Lucrezia. They must return. They must not be parted again. Whatever the dangers they must face them together.

“Donna Lucrezia, my beloved daughter,” he wrote in anguish. “You have given us days of deepest misery. There was evil news in Rome, bitter and terrible news that you were dead or that there was no hope for your life. You will understand the sorrow caused us on account of the great love we bear you which is greater than that which we have for anyone else on Earth. We thank God and our Glorious Lady that they have removed you from danger, but we shall not be happy until we see you in person.”

So the letters traveled back and forth between Rome and Pesaro and, although it seemed to many that Alexander was on the edge of disaster, he refused to acknowledge this and declared that he would give all he had for the return of his darlings.

Giovanni Sforza wanted
nothing so much as to stay in Pesaro; there he believed he was sheltered from the disasters of invasion; the French would surely not cross the Apennines to take possession of such an insignificant Dominion. Moreover Lucrezia, removed from the influence of her father, was a contented and loving wife. Why should they not stay in Pesaro for the rest of their lives?

There was one drawback to this. On account of his post in the Church he was in the pay of the Pope; and although as a Sforza he worked for Milan, his kinsman Ludovico, preparing for invasion of which he knew he must be one of the first victims, had little time or money to spare for
Giovanni. Therefore Giovanni’s income from Milan had not been paid for some time and, if he disobeyed the Pope by keeping his daughter from him, how could he expect his income from the Papacy to be paid?

Giovanni was a perplexed man during those weeks of festivities when Lucrezia and Giulia were flaunting their fine clothes and splendor at his provincial court.

Alexander understood his son-in-law perfectly. A meek man, a coward of a man, thought Alexander; the kind of man whom he despised. He knew that Giovanni was cowering in Pesaro, far from the impending conflict, and hoped to stay there keeping Lucrezia from her father.

That should not be; and, since if Giovanni decided to keep his wife at his side it would be a most delicate matter for the Pope to demand her return, Alexander arranged that Giovanni Sforza should be given a Neapolitan Brigade, and sent orders to Pesaro that he should at once set out to take over his command.

When Giovanni received this communication he was dumb-founded.

He strode into Lucrezia’s apartment and demanded that she read the despatch from Rome.

“To leave at once … for Naples,” read Lucrezia. “You … Giovanni … to go to Naples? But your family and the Neapolitans have always been enemies.”

“That is so,” cried Giovanni. “What is your father planning? Does he wish to destroy me?”

“How could he wish to destroy my husband when he declares his greatest pleasure is in pleasing me?”

“Perhaps he thinks that by destroying me he would not displease you.”

“Giovanni!” Lucrezia’s wide eyes were imploring him to say no more. She greatly feared scenes such as this.

“Oh yes,” stormed Giovanni. “He wants you back with him. He cannot exist without you. Is that not what he says? Do you think I do not understand why? Do you think I am a fool?”

“He is my beloved father, it is true.”

Giovanni laughed aloud. “Your beloved father! That is amusing. The whole of Italy laughs. The Pope is the beloved father of Madonna Lucrezia, and he yearns to shelter her beneath the apostolic robe.”

“Giovanni, you are hysterical.”

It was true. Giovanni was terrified. He saw himself caught in the Papal web. His relatives in Milan had no time for him; his father-in-law, the Pope, wished him out of the way; therefore he was to be sent to the enemies of his family. What would become of him?

“I shall refuse to obey the Pope’s commands,” he said. “Does he think I do not see what they mean?”

“Oh, Giovanni,” said Lucrezia, “you would be ill-advised to disobey my father.”

“You would advise me to obey, would you not! You would say ‘Go to the Neapolitans. Accept this command with them. You are a Sforza and sworn enemy of the Neapolitans, but go, go … because my father wishes you out of the way, so that I may return to him … and that I may live close to him, and the rumors may grow and grow … and grow.…’ ”

He began to laugh, but his face was twitching with fear.

She sought to calm him; but he only shouted: “I shall not go—do you hear me? I shall not go.”