God's Playthings 13

God's Playthings 13

The Host.

 

“_In nomine patris, filiis, et spiritus sanctus_,” he said, and drew

aside the white silk, revealing the Eucharist glittering like a

captured star.

 

“No,” began Edward, “no—”

 

He turned again to the bed; a light struggle shook the child’s limbs.

He twisted his arm out of his father’s grasp and pressed his two hands

together, pointed heavenwards.

 

“Saint–George—” he breathed very faintly, then “England.”

 

His hands fell apart and his mouth dropped into a circle; a faint

quiver ran through his body, and his head sank on to his shoulder.

 

The Host was borne round the bed, and no one moved.

 

Then Edward rose, regardless of the Presence of God.

 

“Too late,” he said in a terrible voice. “My son, my son!”

 

And before the priest carrying the Eucharist the victor of Cressy sank

like a felled sapling, and Jehanne caught his head on her knee, her

heart motionless in her bosom.

 

So died the youngest of the three royal Edwards of England, a few days

before the sailing from Bordeaux, and soon after the other two were

both at peace in Westminster and Richard was on the throne with Johan

of Gaunt for his guardian and many troubles ahead.

 

 

 

 

TWILIGHT

 

LUCREZIA BORGIA, DUCHESS D’ESTE

 

 

Three women stood before a marble-margined pool in the grounds of the

Ducal palace at Ferrara; behind them three cypresses waved against a

purple sky from which the sun was beginning to fade; at the base of

these trees grew laurel, ilex, and rose bushes. Round the pool was a

sweep of smooth green across which the light wind lifted and chased the

red, white and pink rose leaves.

 

Beyond the pool the gardens descended, terrace on terrace of opulent

trees and flowers; behind the pool the square strength of the palace

rose, with winding steps leading to balustraded balconies. Further

still, beyond palace and garden, hung vineyard and cornfield in the

last warm maze of heat.

 

All was spacious, noble, silent; ambrosial scents rose from the heated

earth–the scent of pine, lily, rose and grape.

 

The centre woman of the three who stood by the pool was the Spanish

Duchess, Lucrezia, daughter of the Borgia Pope. The other two held her

up under the arms, for her limbs were weak beneath her.

 

The pool was spread with the thick-veined leaves of water-lilies and

upright plants with succulent stalks broke the surface of the water. In

between the sky was reflected placidly, and the Duchess looked down at

the counterfeit of her face as clearly given as if in a hand-mirror.

 

It was no longer a young face; beauty was painted on it skilfully;

false red, false white, bleached hair cunningly dyed, faded eyes

darkened on brow and lash, lips glistening with red ointment, the lost

loveliness of throat and shoulders concealed under a lace of gold and

pearls, made her look like a portrait of a fair woman, painted crudely.

 

And, also like one composed for her picture, her face was

__EXPRESSION__less save for a certain air of gentleness, which seemed as

false as everything else about her–false and exquisite, inscrutable

and alluring–alluring still with a certain sickly and tainted charm,

slightly revolting as were the perfumes of her unguents when compared

to the pure scents of trees and flowers. Her women had painted faces,

too, but they were plainly gowned, one in violet, one in crimson, while

the Duchess blazed in every device of splendour.

 

Her dress, of citron-coloured velvet, trailed about her in huge folds,

her bodice and her enormous sleeves sparkled with tight-sewn jewels;

her hair was twisted into plaits and curls and ringlets; in her ears

were pearls so large that they touched her shoulders.

 

She trembled in her splendour and her knees bent; the two women stood

silent, holding her up–they were little more than slaves.

 

She continued to gaze at the reflection of herself; in the water she

was fair enough. Presently she moistened her painted lips with a quick

movement of her tongue.

 

“Will you go in, Madonna?” asked one of the women.

 

The Duchess shook her head; the pearls tinkled among the dyed curls.

 

“Leave me here,” she said.

 

She drew herself from their support and sank heavily and wearily on the

marble rim of the pool.

 

“Bring me my cloak.”

 

They fetched it from a seat among the laurels; it was white velvet,

unwieldy with silver and crimson embroidery.

 

Lucrezia drew it round her shoulders with a little shudder.

 

“Leave me here,” she repeated.

 

They moved obediently across the soft grass and disappeared up the

laurel-shaded steps that led to the terraces before the high-built

palace.

 

The Duchess lifted her stiff fingers, that were rendered almost useless

by the load of gems on them, to her breast.

 

Trails of pink vapour, mere wraiths of clouds began to float about the

west; the long Italian twilight had fallen.

 

A young man parted the bushes and stepped on to the grass; he carried

a lute slung by a red ribbon across his violet jacket; he moved

delicately, as if reverent of the great beauty of the hour.

 

Lucrezia turned her head and watched him with weary eyes.

 

He came lightly nearer, not seeing her. A flock of homing doves passed

over his head; he swung on his heel to look at them and the reluctantly

departing sunshine was golden on his upturned face.

 

Lucrezia still watched him, intently, narrowly; he came nearer again,

saw her, and paused in confusion, pulling off his black velvet cap.

 

“Come here,” she said in a chill, hoarse voice.

 

He obeyed with an exquisite swiftness and fell on one knee before her;

his dropped hand touched the ground a pace beyond the furthest-flung

edge of her gown.

 

“Who are you?” she asked.

 

“Ormfredo Orsini, one of the Duke’s gentlemen, Madonna,” he answered.

 

He looked at her frankly surprised to see her alone in the garden at

the turn of the day. He was used to see her surrounded by her poets,

her courtiers, her women; she was the goddess of a cultured court and

persistently worshipped.

 

“One of the Orsini,” she said. “Get up from your knees.”

 

He thought she was thinking of her degraded lineage, of the bad, bad

blood in her veins. As he rose he considered these things for the first

time. She had lived decorously at Ferrara for twenty-one years, nearly

the whole of his lifetime; but he had heard tales, though he had never

dwelt on them.

 

“You look as if you were afraid of me—”

 

“Afraid of you–I, Madonna?”

 

“Sit down,” she said.

 

He seated himself on the marble rim and stared at her; his fresh face

wore a puzzled __EXPRESSION__.

 

“What do you want of me, Madonna?” he asked.

 

“Ahè!” she cried. “How very young you are, Orsini!”

 

Her eyes flickered over him impatiently, greedily; the twilight was

beginning to fall over her, a merciful veil; but he saw her for the

first time as an old woman. Slightly he drew back, and his lute touched

the marble rim as he moved, and the strings jangled.

 

“When I was your age,” she said, “I had been betrothed to one man and

married to another, and soon I was wedded to a third. I have forgotten

all of them.”

 

“You have been so long our lady here,” he answered. “You may well have

forgotten the world, Madonna, beyond Ferrara.”

 

“You are a Roman?”

 

“Yes, Madonna.”

 

She put out her right hand and clasped his arm.

 

“Oh, for an hour of Rome!–in the old days!”

 

Her whole face, with its artificial beauty and undisguisable look

of age, was close to his; he felt the sense of her as the sense of

something evil.

 

She was no longer the honoured Duchess of Ferrara, but Lucrezia, the

Borgia’s lure, Cesare’s sister, Alessandro’s daughter, the heroine of a

thousand orgies, the inspiration of a hundred crimes.

 

The force with which this feeling came over him made him shiver; he

shrank beneath her hand.

 

“Have you heard things of me?” she asked in a piercing voice.

 

“There is no one in Italy who has not heard of you, Madonna.”

 

“That is no answer, Orsini. And I do not want your barren flatteries.”

 

“You are the Duke’s wife,” he said, “and I am the servant of the Duke.”

 

“Does that mean that you must lie to me?”

 

She leant even nearer to him; her whitened chin, circled by the stiff

goldwork of her collar, touched his shoulder.

 

“Tell me I am beautiful,” she said. “I must hear that once more–from

young lips.”

 

“You are beautiful, Madonna.”

 She moved back and her eyes flared.