Duchess of Milan (53 page)

The entrance to the Rochetta was just to the right of the gatehouse. Il Moro with great difficulty climbed the stairs to the mezzanine overlooking the Sala della Palla; cramps knifed his thighs, the consequence of riding all night and morning at a courier’s brutal pace. The guards at the door to the mezzanine were surprised to see him but admitted him without challenge.

The noblemen milled about the floor of the Sala della Palla, their monogrammed velvet caps giving a deceptive suggestion of unanimity to the clustered factions. The hum of these anxious caucuses rose into the vaults. At the far end of the mezzanine, shielded from the audience below by a purple brocade curtain, stood Galeazz and the Duchess of Milan.

Il Moro crossed the mezzanine quickly, but he was noticed by a few of the noblemen. A buzz of speculation swept through the crowd.

Isabella was dressed entirely in black. Her veil was pulled back, however, and the satin bodice of her
catnora
revealed her shoulders and cleavage; she looked more like a fashionable Neapolitan courtesan than a grieving widow. Galeazz appeared tired and worried and made little squeezing motions with his huge hands. Il Moro did not try to catch his eye.

Il Moro removed his cap before addressing Isabella; she regarded him with a strange detachment, her long straight nose at a slightly oblique angle to him. “Your Highness, my profoundest condolences on the loss you have suffered. All of us--”

“We can well imagine how sorry you are, Signor Lodovico,” Isabella interjected with a dismissive, airy wave of her hand. Suddenly Il Moro had the undivided attention of her malice-sharpened eyes. “In five minutes you will be nothing. A man without a state, without a home. Grieve for yourself, Signor Lodovico.”

“Perhaps you are the one who is to be disenfranchised,” Il Moro said with a dull, menacing cadence. “No bastard has ever been crowned Duke of Milan.”

Isabella smiled slowly but fully, her lips parting to reveal her perfect teeth. She inclined her head slightly to Galeazz. “Tell him, Captain General. Tell him how you have offered me a full confession of your treasonous slander. Tell him how I have mercifully pardoned you.” Her voice lowered. “Tell him what you intend to tell the Council on my behalf.”

Il Moro wavered like a man struck squarely on the chin. His eyes darted to Galeazz.

“Tell him.”

Galeazz looked down. “I intend ...” His neck corded, and he spit the words out. “I intend to tell the Council that I am the father of the Duchess of Milan’s bastard son and that I will submit to any interrogation necessary to verify my claim and invalidate the unlawful succession of Francesco Sforza.” He stared vehemently at Isabella, his chiseled jaw set like that of a god pronouncing vengeance against some ancient crime.

The smile remained carved on Isabella’s face, but her eyes blanked.

“No,” Il Moro said. He looked directly at Galeazz. “Your sacrifice will accomplish nothing. Even if your word were accepted against the Duchess of Milan’s denials, a state founded on that accusation could never endure. She has always known I would never use it. It is over for us.”

“Your Highness, I must.” Galeazz’s voice was high and plaintive. “My honor demands it. I have done things of which I am ashamed. ...”

“Your honor is not at issue, Galeazz,” Il Moro said in a low voice. “The survival of our state is the matter at hand.”

The life returned to Isabella’s eyes, reanimating her fixed smile. “Your ‘honor,’ “ she told Galeazz mockingly. “What you mean is your vanity. Did you really believe that you were necessary to my success? You were to be my pet soldier, paraded in front of the Council like a leopard on a leash. You were always expendable.” She turned to Il Moro. “Make your nomination, Signor Lodovico.”

Il Moro went directly to the balustrade. When he called for order, his voice was quickly recognized and the crowd hushed and looked up. Like the Signory of Venice, the Milanese nobles were largely of a type, with sharp, aquiline features, hard blue eyes, the indolent mouths and arrogant chins of ancient Roman patricians.

“I have the sad duty of informing you that the rumors you most likely have heard are true. Early this morning in Pavia our beloved and illustrious Duke Gian Galeazzo departed this life. I myself viewed the body.” A brief buzz of affirmation escaped from the crowd. “I cannot at this time offer my nephew a worthy eulogy, and so I will honor him in the most meaningful way possible by making this simple appeal. I petition this esteemed Council to immediately acclaim Gian Galeazzo’s lawful son, Francesco, as his successor. He will be Francesco II, Duke of Milan.”

The buzzing now became furious. Someone shouted to be heard, and shortly the rest of the conversations subsided. The man who had taken the floor was Count Antonio Landriano, who was considered a somewhat neutral observer, because although he held the office of Treasurer, thanks to Il Moro’s patronage, he had also placed his second wife, Giulia, among the Duchess of Milan’s ladies-in-waiting.

“Your Highness, are we to assume that you will continue to serve as regent to the Duke of Milan?” Count Landriano asked in his high but mellifluous voice.

“I intend to resign so that the new Duke’s counselors can make an unprejudiced decision as to who will serve as his regent,” Il Moro declared, to a rising clamor. “I am certain that Francesco’s mother could perform quite capably as his regent.”

The hall erupted, and Count Landriano had to shout to regain the floor. “Your Highness, esteemed peers,” he said, turning to each side and nodding to his colleagues. “I need not tell you that a foreign army mightier than any ever assembled is now in Italy and that we are now at war with another powerful Italian state. Thus we have entered a new and dangerous season, such as we have not seen in many years. Why in this perilous time must we place our welfare in the hands of a child not yet five years old and his mother? I can remember the last time Milan was ruled by the Duke of Milan’s mother, and so can many of you. Our policy was dictated by a meat carver.” Derisive laughter followed. “Your Highness, esteemed peers, I must with all respect say that I reject this nomination and urge this esteemed Council to do the same.” The hall resonated with shouts of agreement.

Once again Count Landriano prevailed to make himself heard. “I would ask instead that the man who has governed us so wisely these many years as the Duke of Milan’s faithful regent now come forward to take possession of the ducal scepter he has so selflessly wielded on behalf of his lamented nephew. Your Highness, I petition you to accept our acclamation as Duke of Milan!”

Il Moro’s hands flew up against the cries of agreement. “No, no,” he shouted in protest until he could be heard. “For me to do so would be against all laws of God and man! By law our late Duke’s son must be designated his successor. To deny him his birthright would make us infamous throughout Europe. Our state could not stand on such a dishonest pretext!”

Now the chorus lost its general sense of accord, many shouting against Il Moro’s self-denial, others wondering what was to be done, only a few suggesting that they go ahead and accept Francesco as their duke. Finally another respected voice claimed the floor. Andrea Cagnola, a lawyer said to own every judge in northern Italy, spoke in a hoarse, retiring voice that demanded the close attention of his listeners.

“Your Highness, esteemed peers. The issue of legality is more complex than we have considered. It might be argued that neither the late Duke nor his father, nor even his esteemed grandfather, was indeed legitimate, because they were never invested by the German Emperor. Thus it might be argued that a determination of the legality of the succession can be made only by the German Emperor. However, if Il Moro were to obtain the papers of investiture from the Emperor, we could in good conscience, with the full sanction of God and the community of nations, acclaim Il Moro as the only legitimate Duke of Milan.”

“The Emperor has not agreed to invest Il Moro!” shouted a dissenter. “And the late Duke’s sister is now the Empress. Can we expect that the Emperor will place her status in question?” Arguments broke out. Il Moro shook his head vehemently and waved his arms.

Count Landriano took over again. “Let us propose this compromise. I believe that most of us agree that the issue of legality can be decided only by the German Emperor at his convenience, and indeed this is the prudent course for the future stability of our state. But it is equally vital to the welfare of our state that we immediately place the burden of our present peril on capable shoulders.” Landriano paused and allowed an eerie silence to settle within the huge hall. “I petition the Council to grant to Il Moro the simple title of Duke, with no designation as to what he is to be duke of. We cannot wait for the lawyers and ambassadors to settle this.”

Landriano’s compromise clearly struck the right chord. The shouts rose into a regular chant of “Duca! Duca! Moro! Moro!” Il Moro did not try to silence the acclaim.

Isabella rushed from behind the curtains, trailing her long black sleeves and hem. She alighted beside Il Moro, and her hands clutched the balustrade like talons. At first her screams could not be heard over the acclamations of her rival. Then all other sound fell away dramatically, and her voice shrilled through the great hall. “Traitors! All of you traitors! You will be hanged and quartered and all your properties forfeited! Traitors! Guards! Arrest the traitors!”

At first the Council listened in stunned silence. Then, as the unfortunate widow’s hysterical diatribe continued, a steady buzz of renewed concurrence rose against her hollow screams, the esteemed Councillors having received ample proof of the wisdom of their judgment.

Vigevano, 21 October 1494

Beatrice’s secretary, Vincenzo Calmeta, found her walking in the labyrinth late in the afternoon. He stood on tiptoe and peered over the neatly planed hedge that separated them. She was just on the other side, but the path to her was likely to be circuitous. “Your Highness!” he called out. “I have such important news that I do not think you will want to wait until I have found my way to the other side of this hedge. Unlike Theseus, I have no string to guide me.”

Beatrice was almost too numb with tension and fatigue to be encouraged by Calmeta’s bantering tone. After her husband had left for Milan early in the morning, she had brought her children and the most trusted members of her household to Vigevano. They had arrived an hour before, and since then she had paced the seemingly endless gravel paths of the labyrinth, wondering and worrying about what was happening in Milan. But when she spotted her secretary comically straining to peer over the flat top of the hedge, she had to laugh. “Go ahead, Vincenzo! Think of all the tormented lovers who have found themselves this close yet unable to achieve their desire.”

“Indeed, Your Highness. Contrary to the ancient myth, many a virgin has been pursued into this labyrinth and emerged unscathed. Your Highness, I really have the most wonderful news from Milan. Your husband has been acclaimed Duke by the Council of Nobles. He tried to refuse this honor, but the Council insisted that in these uncertain times your husband must accept full authority over all matters of state. Your husband rode through the streets of Milan at midday, and all the people came out to shout his name. From what I am told, it was a reception worthy of a Caesar. Your husband will style himself Duke, and he has said that he will not accept the title of Duke of Milan until the German Emperor has adjudicated the succession. That is all I know at this time, Your Highness. But if Your Highness will excuse me, I will try to find the path back to civilization and see if any new couriers have arrived.”

“God bless you, Vincenzo.” Beatrice fought to control her voice, the sobs of relief already choking her. My husband is safe. My baby is safe. For a long while she stood and blinked at her tears, content with that single theme. My husband and my baby are safe.

Finally she began to walk along the graded gravel path that led to the labyrinth’s center, the dimensions of her victory expanding with each step. Eesh was shattered, all her plots and schemes utterly defeated, not by questions of her baby’s paternity but by the simple desire of the people of Milan to perpetuate the just and able rule of Il Moro. And of course everyone would soon learn that the Emperor intended to make her husband the first truly legitimate Duke of Milan in three generations. And of course everything else her husband had foreseen would happen. The French would be delayed by the Florentines, and then Naples and France would blunt their swords against one another, and in the new Europe all men would turn to Il Moro and seek his just and able counsel and guidance. . . . The imaginary realm of Everything rose again from the ashes, to heights of glittering magnificence she had never before imagined.

She was surprised to find herself in a cul-de-sac; she had been certain she knew this labyrinth so well. A little lizard scurried among the leaves, and a bird sang three high notes. She turned, suddenly feeling out of place in time, as if she had left her real self several steps behind. Then she remembered being here with Eesh, exactly here, holding her, four hearts beating in concert. She had loved Eesh. Really loved her. She had an eerie sense that they were all still there, that somehow the engines of time had stopped that night, that none of this had happened and she still loved Eesh. . . .

No! She ran, fleeing to her new life, the life she had chosen, the sound of the gravel crunching beneath her slippers huge and ominous, as if a thousand feet were tramping in pursuit.

Another unexpected wall of hedge stopped her. She turned frantically to face her pursuers. She saw Gian’s face, an image so vivid in her mind that it might have been floating just in front of her. Gian, his sunken eyes pleading with her, his lips a sealed line of black. Poisoned. Who poisoned him? The question echoed to the rhythm of her pounding heart. Not her husband. Not Eesh: Eesh needed Gian alive so that he could abdicate. The French? But why would they? No one? Everyone?

She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to escape the question in Gian’s spectral eyes. “I can’t help you anymore, Gian,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. You’re dead. You are the slaughtered lamb, the sacrifice to peace. Fortune asked for you. Perhaps Fortune even murdered you. But we have all dipped our fingers in your blood, and none of us will ever be innocent again.”