Madonna of the Seven Hills by Jean Plaidy Page A

subject. He only knew that if he had a suspicion of Alexander he felt even more uneasy regarding his son.
    But now the greeting was friendly; the welcome warm.
    Through the Campo di Fiore went the cavalcade, the young men in its center—Cesare, Sforza and Giovanni—across the Bridge of St. Angelo to pause before the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico.
    Sforza lifted his eyes. There on the loggia, her hair shining like gold in the glittering sunshine, was a young girl in crimson satin decorated with rubies and pearls. She was gripping a pillar of the loggia and the sunlight rested on her hands adazzle with jewels.
    She looked down on her brothers and the man who was to be her husband.
    She was thirteen and those about her had not succeeded in robbing her of her romantic imaginings. She smiled and lifted her hands in welcome.
    Sforza looked at her grimly. Her youthful beauty did not move him. He was conscious of her brothers on either side of him; and he continued to wonder how far he could trust them and the Pope.

    The Palace of Santa Maria was in a feverish state of excitement; there was whispering and shouting, the sound of feet running hither and thither;the dressmakers and hairdressers filled the anteroom; Lucrezia’s chaplain had been with her for so long, preparing her spiritually, that those who must prepare her physically were chafing with impatience.
    The heat was intense—it was June—and Lucrezia felt crushed by the weight of her wedding gown heavily embroidered with gold thread and decorated with jewels which had cost fifteen thousand ducats. Her golden hair was caught in a net ornamented with glittering precious stones. Adriana and Giulia had personally insisted on painting her face and plucking her eyebrows that she might appear as an elegant lady of fashion.
    Lucrezia had never felt so excited in the whole of her life. Her dress may have been too heavy for comfort on this hot day, but she cared little for that, for she delighted in adorning herself.
    She was thinking of the ceremony, of the people who would crowd to see her as she crossed from the Palace to the Vatican, of herself, serenely beautiful, the heroine of this splendid occasion, with her pages and slaves to strew garlands of sweetsmelling flowers before her as she walked. She gave scarcely a thought to her bridegroom. Marriage was not, she gathered from what she had seen of those near her, a matter about which one should concern oneself overmuch. Giovanni Sforza seemed old, and he did not smile very often; his eyes did not flash like Cesare’s and Giovanni’s. He was different; he was solemn and looked a little severe. But the marriage was not to be consummated and, Giulia had told her, she need not be bothered with him if she did not want to be. She would continue to stay in Rome—so for Lucrezia marriage meant merely a brilliant pageant with herself as the central figure.
    Giulia clapped her hands suddenly and said: “Bring in the slave that Madonna Lucrezia may see her.”
    The servants bowed and very shortly a dwarf Negress was standing before Lucrezia. She was resplendent in a gold dress, her hair caught in a jeweled net, and her costume was an exact replica of her dazzlingly beautiful mistress’s. Lucrezia cried out in delight, for this Negress’s black hair and skin made that of Lucrezia seem more fair than ever.
    “She will carry your train,” said Adriana. “It will be both amusing and delightful to watch.”
    Lucrezia agreed and turning to a table on which was a bowl of sweetmeats, she picked up one of these and slipped it into the Negress’s mouth.
    The dark eyes glistened with the affection which most of the servants—and particularly the slaves—had for Madonna Lucrezia.
    “Come,” said Adriana sternly, “there is much to do yet. Madalenna, bring the jeweled pomanders.”
    As Madalenna made for the door she caught her breath suddenly, for a man had entered, and men should not enter a lady’s chamber when she was being