Duchess of Milan (29 page)

“I can’t wait for you to see Ercole, Eesh. I never imagined I would love him so much. And I can’t wait to see your daughter. Everyone says she is so beautiful.”

“Gian has insisted we name her after his mother, so now she is cursed with the name Bona.” Isabella pulled away from Beatrice and greeted Eleonora.

“Perhaps we should all move along to the carriages,” Eleonora suggested. “We have a long day ahead.”

Isabella nodded. She involuntarily caught Beatrice’s eye again but looked quickly away.

Beatrice found Bianca and clutched her hand again, taking solace in her innocent warmth. Two concerns now churned inside her, the first unpleasant truths of her new life. Of course there was Eesh’s obvious agitation and resentment, perhaps because of something Il Moro had done during their confinement, something Mama hadn’t told her about. Or perhaps Eesh was piqued simply because Il Moro now had an heir. It was dismaying for Beatrice to think that she and Eesh would have to rebuild their trust, but she was certain that whatever the cause, the misunderstanding could be settled between them. But the second thing Beatrice realized troubled her far more deeply. The observation lay sharp and dangerous in her mind, like the memory of the baby she had once seen destroyed, and she had to force herself to confront it: Eesh does not love her little girl.

“I would wager my Bergognone altarpiece that she is two inches taller,” commented the Contessa Delia Torre. “I could tell as soon as they made their entrance. When a woman has a child at her age, she always shoots up a bit.” The Contessa was the thirty-three-year-old wife of Count Delia Torre, host of the first post-partum celebratory
festa.
She peered over one of her gilt saltcellars, a naked Diana posed provocatively with a tiny, intricately crafted bow. Her experienced eyes narrowed at Beatrice, seated at the head of the table along with Il Moro and the Duke and Duchess of Milan. The Contessa already considered herself one of Milanese society’s consummate survivors, a hoary veteran next to the predominately teenage or early-twentyish women arrayed around her table, all cerused gloss and gleaming white cleavage, many of them the showpiece second, third, or even fourth wives of Milan’s aging, silver-haired magnates, replacements for predecessors felled by childbirth, disease, and in some cases husband-administered poison (though more humane husbands might simply force an aging wife into a convent in order to make way for a younger replacement).

“She’s wearing Flemish platform slippers, I am certain. It’s that, and that she is so much thinner. Fashionably . . . drawn, I would say.” Madonna Anna da Casate was the twenty-five-year-old second wife of Francesco da Casate, a member of Il Moro’s inner circle of advisers. She directed her elegant Lombard nose at the Contessa’s ear and leaned closer; still attractive enough to exploit her sexual assets, she shared with the Contessa a cynical intelligence that might ensure her usefulness long after a succession of mistresses and whores had usurped her from her husband’s bed. “You do know that she almost died. I am told with absolute reliability that she was given the sacraments. I can only assume that all her riding has given her a remarkable constitution. She has never looked better.”

“Cara arnica,
you really must learn never to waste flattery on anyone out of hearing.”

“At least I had the good sense not to sneer every time Il Moro’s little
forestiem
bride rode by. My father always told me, ‘Offer a woman a kindness and she will quickly discard it. Give her a slight, and that she will keep forever.’ “ Madonna Anna’s stiletto glance jabbed up and down the enormous banquet table, littered with gold plate, crystal goblets, silvered candies, and hundreds of pink spun-sugar
confetti
cherubs. The din of conversation among the four dozen seated dignitaries and their wives had a strained, anxious undertone. “Look at the Duchess of Ban’s ladies now, scheming like thieves to gain her favor.
Sciocce.
Think of all the time they wasted trying to get Il Moro into their beds. They could have secured more influence by showing simple civility to the Duchess of Bari.”

“Or by sleeping with Messer Galeazz.”

“Oh, that would be rather
too
easy. Do you remember the theatrical last Carnival, that silly Greek thing they did at the Castello? I left at the first
intermedo
to go to the lavatory, and he followed me in.”

“How gallant of our Captain General. Did he offer to conclude the liaison before the
intermedo
was finished?”

“Actually he remained standing throughout the second act. And I don’t believe my feet ever touched the floor.”

“Per dio.
He
is
gallant.” The Contessa focused for a moment on Bianca, who was cheerfully conversing with Eleonora. “I wonder when they will let him butcher Il Moro’s little bastard.”

“I wonder if now that II Moro has provided for his succession, he will begin to pursue his pleasure.”

“I trust you’re not hoping that Galeazz will give him a recommendation on your behalf. Il Moro prefers more enduring romances. He was faithful the entire time he was with Cecilia Gallerani.”

“A faithful lover in Milan? That would be almost as remarkable as a faithful husband. Why haven’t the papal authorities in Rome been informed of this miracle?”

“In Rome the current notion of a miracle is finding a woman the Pope has not slept with.” The Contessa paused and studied Il Moro, who was in turn studying his wife’s fluid, almost musical hand gestures--Beatrice was speaking animatedly to the Duke of Milan--as if he were trying to decipher a sign language. “What is curious is that Il Moro has also been a faithful husband. Faithful to Messer Ambrogio’s schedules, at least.” Il Moro quickly looked away from Beatrice, almost as if he had caught himself daydreaming. “You know, that is the first time I have ever seen him more than glance at her. But as you say, she’s never looked better.”

“What I meant was, take away the jewels and the gowns, and you would have a pretty merchant’s daughter. Still, she has a certain
leggiadria,
those . . . vivacious mannerisms that are at last charming now that they are balanced by a hint of maturity and a touch of pallor. Before her confinement she was simply a fidgety, rosy-cheeked brat. You can spend every morning washing with nettle juice or plastering your face with milk-soaked veal, but nothing endows one with an exquisite porcelain-white complexion like two months in bed.” Madonna Anna was distracted from her critique by the kind of social nuance she had conditioned herself to observe: the Duchess of Milan, seated next to Il Moro, turned to him and gestured emphatically with her knife. “Do you think the Duchess of Milan is jealous?”

“Hardly ...”

“Jealous of Il Moro, that is.” Madonna Anna leaned forward eagerly, watching with rapt absorption as Isabella continued to speak to Il Moro, thrusting her gold-handled knife in precise, enumerative jabs. “Oh, quiet, everyone,” Madonna Anna said in
sotto voce
frustration, drawing up her bare shoulders as if trying to get a better view. “I think we are going to have an exchange of opinions.”

But whatever Isabella had to say she had already said. She abruptly stood up, her eyes feverish with anger, nodded at her host, and went quickly to the door. Her astonished ladies-in-waiting tittered among themselves and their escorts for a moment. Then they convulsively rose almost as one and followed her out.

Madonna Anna turned to the Contessa, plucked eyebrows lifted, glistening lips toying with a smirk. “Do you care to wager your Bergognone altarpiece as to when we will have a new Duke of Milan?”

Eleonora sent the serving girl and the lady-in-waiting out of the room and began to unlace the bodice of Beatrice’s heavy brocade
camora.
“Such a lovely gown.” She stroked the rows of tinselly, narrow silk
stringhe
ribbons that covered Beatrice’s sleeves like the plumage of a tropical bird. “Everything is so different than when I was a girl. I remember when some of the
vecchie
accused me of impropriety because I wore a black dress with red sleeves. I suppose I am a
vecchia
now. I confess to you that I was shocked by the necklines of the
camore
we saw this evening.
Nostro Signore,
when some of those girls inhaled, you could see the tops of their nipples.” Eleonora stroked the
stringhe
wistfully, seemingly as troubled by her own lost youth as by the excesses of the younger generation.

“Mama, what did he say?”

“I spoke with our ambassador first, and Messer Trotti informs me that there is nothing afoot save rumor,” Eleonora said, looking Beatrice in the eyes, her fingers still plucking at the laces of her daughter’s bodice. “Your husband is devoting all his efforts to preventing the French from coming over the mountains.”

“But, Mama, he is trying to get the Signory of Venice to come to his side.”

Eleonora sighed. “Since Piero de’ Medici has persuaded my father to withdraw from the anti-French league, your husband has no choice. He must have a rapprochement with Venice. Even your father is agreed to that.”

Beatrice was not convinced that her husband’s rapprochement with Venice had anything to do with keeping the French out of Italy. Was it possible that her husband had already persuaded the Signory of Venice to withdraw their secret resolution to attack him if he attempted to become Duke of Milan?

“Mama, did you talk to him?”

“I very candidly expressed my concerns to your husband. He has assured me that he has no desire whatsoever to usurp his nephew, wishing only to maintain the peace that has brought all Italy, and most notably Milan, to such a state of prosperity.”

“But, Mama, Eesh is right. She told me that they only rang the bells for three days when Francesco was born, and my husband had them ring the bells for six days to announce Ercole’s birth. And there have been all sorts of other things, like the gifts and decorations. No one at the banquet today even cared about Eesh’s little girl.”

“Nonsense. All of the celebrations are for
both
your child and Isabella’s child.” Eleonora sighed again. “Beatrice, I must tell you that I think your cousin is being unfair not only to your husband but to you as well. You and your husband are entitled to your joy over the birth of your son, and if Isabella cannot share that joy, then she is behaving shamefully when she asks you to share her envy. There is no disgrace in giving birth to a daughter. I have borne two girls, and I can assure you that you and your sister are as dear to me as your father’s heirs.”

“I know they didn’t ring the bells for me when I was born.”

“That simply is not true.”

Beatrice shook her head slightly; an eyelid trembled. “Mama, I have been told that by people who were there. People who wouldn’t lie to me.”

Eleonora finished unlacing the bodice and fussily pulled the stiff, heavy dress over Beatrice’s head. She laid it carefully on the bed and smoothed out the wrinkles before she responded. “Well, if they cared for you they should not have told you that. Your father’s subjects were understandably dismayed that his first two children were girls. You are fortunate that you have not experienced the anxiety that results when the succession has not been provided for.” Eleonora alluded to their grisly family history. Her husband, Duke Ercole, had fought a virtual civil war against his nephew Niccolo over the succession following the death of Ercole’s older half-brother, Duke Borso d’Este; five years later, Niccolo had attempted the coup from which Eleonora and her three small children had narrowly escaped. For several years afterward the public executions of Niccolo’s supporters had been a regular feature of Ferrara’s civic life. Niccolo had finally been beheaded on a cold spring day, so clear and brilliant that Eleonora could still see the crazy flutter of his eyes at the moment the sword struck. Ercole had ordered Niccolo’s head sewn back on for the lavish funeral and had raised Niccolo’s nine bastards under his own roof.

Beatrice stood rigid, her chin set obstinately. She stared into the fireplace.

“Beatrice, I know how much you love your cousin, and God knows as her aunt I love her too. But she was always a difficult child, too much indulged by her father. I fear that if she enlists you in some kind of protest, the two of you will encourage exactly what you hope to prevent. Fortune favored you when you protested against Cecilia Gallerani, thanks also to the certainty of your cause and Messer Trotti’s judicious intervention. But you are not ready to involve yourself in this kind of thing. If you are truly a friend to Isabella, you will advise to her the same caution that I am advising to you.”

Beatrice started at the laces of her thin silk chemise, her fingers fumbling with suppressed emotion. Of course her husband was a liar; of course Mama was too. But now the black stain of doubt had spread to someone she thought she’d never have to question. If Eesh couldn’t love her own little girl, how could she love anyone else?

Il Moro looked out from one of the square open ports of the rooftop defensive gallery that ran from the Ducal Court to the immense round turret at the northwest corner of the Castello. Off to his right Milan slept in predawn darkness, the only signs of life a few lanterns and the steady upward drift of sparks and embers from the forges along the Via degli Armorai. He snuggled his chin into the collar of his fur cape and looked to the north, into the featureless darkness of the ducal park. He waited with only an occasional shuffling of his feet, as if testing his patience against nature’s. After perhaps an hour the sky lightened and the noises of early morning penetrated the stillness. The Alps materialized, first as distinct shadows, then as a mother-of-pearl mirage against the horizon. II Moro tilted his chin up and waited a while longer. Within minutes the peaks began to flush a soft lustrous pink, giving their angular, masculine ridges the subtlety of a woman’s flesh. After another few minutes the curiously erotic illusion vanished and the snowcaps sparkled with hard, faceted brilliance. II Moro turned and walked back to the Ducal Court. Behind him, the streets of Milan still lay in deep mauve shadows, but the city’s countless red tile roofs were fiery with the morning sun.