The Family - Mario Puzo [65]
The following morning she woke at dawn, and gathered several of her ladies-in-waiting to accompany her to the Convent of San Sisto—for she was aware that a convent was the only refuge for women who would escape the authority of both their husbands and their fathers. Her choice was both simple and virtuous.
But Julia and Adriana tried to convince her otherwise.
“The Holy Father will not rest while you are gone,” Adriana told her. “And he will not accept your plan to leave without resistance.”
Lucrezia was determined. “He will not prevent me, for he will not know until well after I am on my way.”
Julia pleaded with her, for she knew how unhappy the Pope would be. “Dear sister, give the Holy Father a chance to dissuade you. Give our father an opportunity to explain his reasoning. You know how miserable he becomes whenever you are absent from the Vatican . . . ”
But Lucrezia turned to her with annoyance. “I will not change the direction of my plans. And if, Julia, you wish the Holy Father, and my father as well, not to be unhappy, I suggest you entertain him in the ways he expects of you. I have no further need to please him, for he has considered neither my position nor the Heavenly Father’s in his decisions.”
Adriana tried once more. “Lucrezia, you have said so often that you are unhappy—and yet now when the father who loves you tries to extract the writ of divorce or annulment from the husband that you yourself have so slandered, you turn your back and reject your father as well. Where does reason lie in this?”
Lucrezia’s eyes filled, but she could not afford to doubt herself, for then all she loved would be lost. Without a word, she embraced both Adriana and Julia, and gave them instructions. “Do not say a word to the Holy Father for half a day. If he asks, tell him I am in the chapel on my knees in prayer and do not wish to be disturbed.”
Then she turned to one of her most loyal ladies-in-waiting and handed her a letter she had penned the night before. “Please take this to my brother, the cardinal. Be sure to place it in his own hand and no other.”
Pope Alexander, in all matters of church and state, was a reasonable man. In matters of the heart and in his dealings with his children, he was far less reasonable. And so when he was informed of his daughter’s departure from her palace and her intention to stay within the walls of the Convent of San Sisto, he was both grief-stricken and enraged.
What did it matter if a man became Pope if he couldn’t command even his own daughter? How was it that his once-sweet child could kneel before the Holy Father and with true respect kiss his ring and his holy foot, and yet disobey her own father without consideration?
He called Cesare to him, and Duarte Brandao. Then he sent for Michelotto.
Once they were gathered in his chambers, he asked, “What is it that I have done to my own child, of whom I am so fond, to cause her to desert me in this way?”
Cesare, his head lowered, said nothing.
Duarte, his dark eyes compassionate, said, “It may be a call to the service of the Heavenly Father, Your Worthiness.”
“Duarte, please,” the Pope said. “Don’t humor me, as though I’m a feeble old dunce. There is something I do not know, something that has escaped my understanding.”
Duarte nodded. “My intention was not to humor you, Holy Father, for I meant no disrespect, but to dissuade you from blaming yourself for the actions of this child of yours. For, in truth, she is no longer a child. And she is either running toward a greater promise, or running from a greater threat.”
“And what could that be?” Alexander asked as he turned to Cesare.
Cesare’s gaze met his father’s. And in that moment the fire in his father’s eyes seared his own. They had never in all these years spoken of the love that mattered most to Cesare, for he feared it would matter