Madonna of the Seven Hills by Jean Plaidy

said slowly: “I would rather talk of my brother Giovanni and his beauty and his triumphs than of such a matter.”
    Her eyes were wide and their innocence moved him to a tenderness which was unusual with him.
    “Do you not like this alliance with the Sforzas?” she asked. “I heard that the King of Aragon is most displeased. Cesare, perhaps if you are against the match and have good reason … Perhaps if you speak to our father …”
    He shook his head.
    “Little Lucrezia,” he said quietly, “my dearest sister, no matter whom they chose for your husband, I should hate him.”

    It was hot June and everywhere throughout the city banners fluttered. The Sforza lion was side by side with the Borgia bull, and every loggia,every roof, as well as the streets, was filled to see the entry into Rome of the bridegroom whom the Pope had chosen for his daughter.
    Giovanni Sforza was twenty-six, and a widower who was of a morose nature and a little suspicious of the bargain which was being offered him.
    The thirteen-year-old child who was to be his bride meant nothing to him as such. He had heard that she was beautiful, but he was a cold man, not to be tempted by beauty. The advantages of the match might seem obvious to some, but he did not trust the Borgia Pope. The magnificent dowry which had been promised with the girl—thirty-one thousand ducats—was to be withheld until the consummation of the marriage, and the Pope had strictly laid down the injunction that consummation was not to take place yet because Lucrezia was far too young; and should she die childless, the ducats were to go to her brother Giovanni, the Duke of Gandia.
    Sforza was no impetuous youth. He would wait, before congratulating himself, to see whether there was anything about which to be congratulated.
    He had a natural timidity which might have been due to the fact that he came of a subordinate branch of the Sforzas of Milan; he was the illegitimate son of Costanzo, the Lord of Cotignolo and Pesaro, but he had nevertheless inherited his father’s estate; he was impecunious, and marriage with the wealthy Borgias seemed an excellent prospect; he was ambitious, and that, could he have trusted the intentions of Alexander, would have made him very happy with the match.
    But he could not help feeling uneasy when trumpets and bugles heralded his approach as he came through the Porta del Popolo, whither the Cardinals and high dignitaries had sent important members of their retinues to greet him and welcome him to Rome.
    In that procession rode two young men, more magnificently, more elegantly attired than any others. They were two of the most strikingly handsome men Sforza had ever seen, and he guessed by their bearing who they must be. He was thankful that he could cut a fine figure on his Barbary horse, in his rich garments and the gold necklaces which had been lent to him for the occasion.
    The younger of these men was the Duke of Gandia, recently returned from Spain. He was very handsome indeed, somewhat solemn at themoment because this was a ceremonial occasion and he, having spent some years at a Spanish Court, had the manners of a Spaniard. Yet he could be gay and lighthearted; that much was obvious.
    But it was the elder of the men who demanded and held Sforza’s attention. This was Cesare Borgia, Archbishop of Valencia. He had heard stories of this man which made him shudder to recall them. He too was handsome, but his was a brooding beauty. Certainly he was attractive; he would dominate any scene; Sforza was aware that the women in the streets, who watched the procession from loggia and rooftop, would for the most part focus their interest on this man. What was it about him? He was handsomely dressed; so was his brother. His jewels were glittering; but not more so than his brother’s. Was it the manner in which he held himself? Was it a pride which excelled all pride; a certainty that he was a god among men?
    Sforza did not care to pursue the