The Family - Mario Puzo [150]
“I’ll always be a Borgia, Chez,” Lucrezia said. “And there is no reason for jealousy in the case of this alliance, for I have not fooled myself into believing that this marriage is for love. This Alfonso is as reluctant to have me as a wife as I am to have him as a husband. But, as I am my father’s daughter, he is his father’s son.”
Cesare smiled fondly at her. “You have grown more beautiful through your misfortunes. And this marriage will allow you to do many of the things you enjoy. The d’Este love the arts, the gathering of poets and sculptors. Ferrara is steeped in culture and humanities, the very subjects that breathe life into you. It is also fortunate for me that it rests alongside my territories in the Romagna, and that King Louis directs the duke with a strong hand.”
“Will you see that Giovanni and Rodrigo are well whenever you are in Rome? For I despise having to be without them for even a short time in Ferrara. Will you care for them and let them feel your strong arms around them, and treat one as important as the other—for me?” she asked.
“There is no question. For one child is more of me, the other more of you—so both have my everlasting love,” Cesare reassured her. “Crezia, if Father had not allied you with the d’Este, would you have passed your life in widow’s weeds, living and governing Nepi?”
“I considered this decision carefully before I agreed,” Lucrezia told him. “And though I know Father could have forced my hand, he would have discovered I had hidden away in a convent, even become a nun, if I were violently opposed to this alliance. But I have learned to govern, and believe that in this place, I may find my own. There is also the matter of you and the children to consider. A convent is not the best place for children, and I cannot imagine living my life without them.”
Cesare stopped and faced his sister with admiration. “Is there nothing you have failed to consider? Nothing you cannot adapt to with grace and intelligence?”
A look of sadness, like a shadow, passed across her face. “One small problem I have not managed to find a solution for. And though it is tiny compared to all the other issues, it seems to cause me some unhappiness.”
“Must I torture you to pull this truth from you,” he joked, “or will you confess it voluntarily, to see if I might help?”
Lucrezia shook her head. “I cannot call this new husband Alfonso without my heart recoiling when I compare him to my last. And yet I know no other way to modify his name.”
Cesare’s eyes glistened with amusement. “There is no problem too large for me to solve, and so I may have the answer to your prayers. You say he is his father’s son; why not call him Sonny? Say it the first time on your marriage bed, with great affection, and he will believe it is a term of endearment.”
Lucrezia wrinkled her fine nose, and laughed aloud. “An aristocratic d’Este? Sonny?” But the more she thought of it, the more comfortable she became.
They walked to the end of the old dock from which they had fished and dived as children, splashing in the water with complete freedom. Then their father sat close, watching them, protecting them, and making them feel safe. Now, this many years later, they sat on that same dock and looked out at the rippling water, which sparkled like a million tiny diamonds reflecting the afternoon sun. Lucrezia leaned against her brother, and he wrapped his arms around her.
Her voice was soft and serious. “Chez, I’ve heard about the ill-fated poet Filofila.”
“Oh?” Cesare said without emotion. “Did his death disturb you? For he felt no such affection for you, or he would not have been able to write such evil rhyme and verse.”
Lucrezia turned and touched his face. “I know that, Chez,” she said. “And I suppose I should thank you for all you do to defend me—in spite of Alfonso’s death, for even that I have long understood. It is your well-being that concerns me. For you seem to kill so readily of late. Are you not concerned for your own soul?”
Cesare explained. “If there is a God, as the