Chapter 11

 

 

I write to Sancia immediately and beg her to come at once to Rome. It’s so nice having her with me again, but I know not to get too attached, since it’s only temporary. A month later, advisors sent from Ferrara come to have a marriage by proxy. Sancia stays away from wherever Cesare will be, so she declines coming to the wedding dinner. The whole capital is celebrating the much-talked-about union, and bells ring and beacons are lit as far as the eye can reach. Cesare and Father sit next to me and rejoice that night, but it’s bittersweet, since we all know Ferrara is quite a distance away.

“Lucrezia, you will enjoy this.”

Father pulls out from beside his chair a genealogy chart.

“What is this?”

“This is the Borgia family tree.” He starts smirking. “Ercole sent a request for our pedigree to be displayed for all at the wedding in Ferrara to see, so here it is.”

Cesare examines it closely. “I didn’t know that Don Pedro de Atares, lord of Borgia and pretender to the throne of Aragon, was directly related to us.”

Father begins to shake with laughter. “That’s because he’s not! He died childless, but not many know that.”

“Why lie?” I ask.

“Because Ercole is a smug son of a bitch and asked for this just to look better than us, so I spiced it up a bit.” He smiles proudly.

 

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I can’t sleep at all that night, knowing tomorrow will be the day I have to leave Rodrigo. I meet Sancia in the garden, and she holds my hand and pats my back.

“Lucrezia, you have no choice.”

Her eyes steady me. We both look on as nearly two-year-old Rodrigo runs around the garden, throwing rocks.

“I can only leave knowing he’ll have you.”

“I’ll take the best care of him and write to you about everything he does.”

I begin crying again.

“Will you tell him of me so he won’t forget?”

“I’ll talk of you so much he’ll feel as though you’re there.”

She gives me a long hug, and Rodrigo comes running into my arms, his cheeks rosy from the winter cold.

“Give Mama a kiss! I’ll be leaving, but Auntie Sancia will take good care of you.”

He puckers his tiny lips, gives me a kiss, and I watch them walk away with Sancia holding his little arm. When they’re out of sight, I break down.

 

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Downtrodden from the sadness of the morning, I go to Father’s apartment. He’s there discussing with some advisors, and I sit at his feet with my head rested on his knee.

As soon as the advisors leave and we’re alone, he says, “Lucrezia, don’t look so distraught. This is the beginning of greatness for you.”

I say nothing.

“Cesare and I have worked very hard to achieve the unimaginable, something far beyond your birthright. You’ll someday be the Duchess of Ferrara!”

“I only wish Rodrigo could have come with me.”

“That’s a shame, but boys grow up fine without their mothers. He’ll have the best nurses to care for him and will want for nothing.”

He turns my head toward him with his hand under my chin. “You look lovely today.”

I’m dressed in a robe of curled cloth of gold cut with crimson thread, with a cloak of gold lined with ermine.

“I’ll be frantic while you’re en route to Ferrara. These are dangerous times to be traveling. I’ll send my best men to ride with you, but you must promise me something.”

He pauses to see I will agree. I nod.

“You must promise to send messengers every hour to let me know you’re safe. Make sure to write in your own hand so I know it’s you.”

“I promise.”

I get up and look out the window to the large envoy waiting below.

“There must be a hundred fifty mules gathered there!”

“That’s how many we need to carry all your previous wedding presents to Ferrara.” He jokes, but it’s very true. “Plus all the dresses, underskirts, robes, tabards, capes, shoes, fans, jewelry, and tapestries you’ve made me buy for you.”

“If I’m going to be the future Duchess of Ferrara, then I have to dress like her.”

Father gives me a kiss on the cheek. “That’s the girl I love!” He gives me one final hug. “You better go. The envoy will be leaving shortly.”

“Now make sure,” he reminds me, “Alfonso sleeps in your bed every night. I heard a rumor that he failed to do so with his first wife, and I wouldn’t want Ercole using that the way we did with Sforza to escape the marriage later. Bed him and bed him well.”

We say our good-byes, and I walk down to my very fine and heavily decorated mule. As I ride away, I see Father move from window to window, waving at me, and I’ve a terrible feeling it’s the last time I’ll see him.

 

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As at every other time in my life, I’ve no choice but to bottle my feelings. We stop at every city along the way so that my company of one thousand can be fed and lodged. There’s much rejoicing as we make our way through towns, and children dressed in my colors of yellow and mulberry are waving olive branches at our passing. When we draw nearer to Ferrara, I worry about the duke seeing me for the first time. I bring a mirror up and see that I need to stop to color my hair.

I call out the window of my carriage to my lady riding her mule beside me,“Please go at once to ask if we can stop the envoy immediately to attend to my beauty ritual.”

She kicks her heels on the mule’s side to ride ahead and comes back quickly, saying, “He wants me to implore you that we don’t stop here. We have reached Imola, and he says it’s a very dangerous place for us.”

I breathe out to show my annoyance. “If we’re in Imola, then we’re nearing Ferrara, and I cannot delay my beauty regimen! Tell him he’ll stop!”

A man yells out, and the envoy stops. Pleased with my stubbornness, I step out of the carriage as the leader is coming up, red-faced.

“I’ve only stopped to come back myself to tell you what a mistake you’re making.”

I ignore him and keep walking. I call back to my lady, “Fetch me the dye man.”

They bring a chair out in a clearing in the woods next to a river. The dye man is busy pouring, crushing, boiling, and chopping for about an hour. Finally, he brushes his solution on close to my scalp and leaves it to dry for another hour.

“Your hair will glitter and shine like golden threads for the duke!” he promises.

“While this dries, will you mix your skin-whitening treatment to apply also?”

“Anything for the duchess.”

He bows and goes away. These are the things that are expected of noblewomen and can be achieved only through tedious illusion.

The leader looks disappointed that no harm befalls us and throws his gloves on the ground as I get back into the carriage, shouting, “Women!”

Ten miles from the end of our two hundred twenty mile journey, a rider comes up on his horse and paces beside my passing carriage.

“Is this the envoy delivering the future Duchess of Ferrara?”

The coachman confirms it.

“I’m from the house Este, and I’ve brought Dona Lucrezia a message from Alfonso d’Este.”

The coach comes to a halt. He maneuvers his horse skillfully and brings him around in front of my window.

“Alfonso instructed me to bring this kiss for his lady.” He puts his hand out for me to fill. I extend my arm, and he brings my gloved hand up but pauses. “He told me to only deliver this kiss if she was of astounding and divine beauty.”

His brownish-green eyes search me up and down, and with a smile, he bends down to kiss my hand, but I withdraw before his lips can touch. He’s of excellent form and has one dimple on his cheek that shows when he smiles through a trimmed moustache and beard.

“Please tell my lord that I’m eager to have him kiss my hand himself.”

The messenger gives a wide grin and pulls his horse in a circle and gallops away.

We arrive in Ferrara at dusk, and I see the walled city glowing in the yellow and pink sunset. The palace is glorious, even more beautiful than the Vatican. There are towers, turrets, balconies, and great stained windows. The Este flags fly on the tops of every tower. When the drawbridge is lowered for our envoy to enter, trumpets and oboes sound. We stop in the square inside the entrance, and someone has gone to great lengths to make two large wreaths that hang on the great wooden door to the castle. One is the Este crest: a majestic white eagle combined with the French fleur-de-lis granted by Charles VII of France and the black-crowned, double-headed imperial eagle granted by Emperor Frederick III. Next to it is the Borgia crest: a humble grazing bull.

The doors are opened, and my ladies and I enter into a lavishly decorated front hall. An older, slender man comes down the stairs with two younger men and one young female. I notice the messenger at once among them.

The older man bows to me and takes my hand. “I am Ercole, the Duke of Este.” He kisses it. “It is so nice to finally meet you. We have heard so much about you.”

I’m sure this is tongue-in-cheek, but my relentless charm persists.

“It’s a great pleasure, my lord.” I curtsy.

“I will only have you call me Father.” He turns to his right, to the men, and says, “Lucrezia, meet your husband, Alfonso d’Este.”

I naturally deduce that the man standing next to the messenger is Alfonso and hold my hand out to him, but the messenger takes my hand. “You promised me this kiss.”

My eyes widen in surprise, and he laughs as he explains to his father, “I got too anxious waiting here for the envoy and decided to go out and see her for myself.”

Ercole looks embarrassed by his rash behavior. “I take it since you returned, Lucrezia was to your liking then?”

“Far exceeded my expectations.” He kisses my hand again.

Ercole interrupts. “This is my daughter, Isabella d’Este.”

She stares at me like I’m her servant and gives a frigid curtsy, then glares at her father.

I try, “The generous patroness of the arts and antiques. Your reputation precedes you.”

She nods, chin held up. “As does yours.”

I know this is another attack.

Isabella’s of normal height, slightly plump, with ice blue eyes and an abundance of light brown hair.

“Let us go show you to your rooms, where you can dress for our ceremony and celebration,” Ercole interrupts.

Isabella looks all too happy to walk away. Alfonso’s groomsmen motion for me and my servants to follow them.