The Second Duchess (12 page)

He seemed so sanguine that for a moment I myself was not sure I had heard what I had heard. I stared at him in wordless revulsion. He rose from his chair, smiling, and bowed with his characteristic sweeping effulgence.

“I will leave you to your prayers,” he said. “Good day to you, Serenissima
.
I look forward to further literary discourse with so learned a lady.”

He gestured to his servant to come and take his chair, and they went out. I could hear him speaking to Domenica and Christine in that silky voice of his. I felt dizzy, and I rubbed my icy palms against the prickly gold-embroidered brocade of my skirts. There were sequins sewn in the loops and curves of the design. I touched each one, following the lines of the pattern.

Be calm. Be calm. Think.

So the Florentines had not forgotten the death of Lucrezia de’ Medici, despite the gifts and good wishes Cosimo de’ Medici had heaped upon us. Political expediency had not, after all, eclipsed a father’s natural desire for revenge.

My first impulse was to go to the duke and recount the entire conversation. But Messer Bernardo would give his own version, with a tolerant laugh at the foolish fancies of women. A different expression, a different emphasis on a word here or there, and the whole thing indeed became little more than a bit of elegant literary amusement. And once again, I would appear to be taking an unsuitable interest in my husband’s first wife.

Or—

What if there was no plot to avenge Duchess Lucrezia at all, and Messer Bernardo’s whole intent was that I run to the duke with my suspicions, so as to further inflame his anger against me? It would be in Duke Cosimo’s interest for my marriage into Ferrara to founder—he and the city of Florence would then surpass Duke Alfonso and Ferrara in my brother Maximilian’s imperial favor. This in turn would put Duke Cosimo closer to winning the grand ducal title and precedence both he and my husband coveted.

Or—

What if my reception in Florence would consist not of fetes and entertainments and the joy of sister greeting sister, but of imprisonment, luxurious imprisonment, of course, but imprisonment nevertheless? And what if then the Florentines began sending letters in my name, letters I myself would never see or sign? Forgery was an Italian art. They could say what they wished and attribute it to me.

Or—

Or what?

A hundred plots branched off from Messer Bernardo’s curious words, like the stalks of a noxious weed. Each stalk sprouted leaves and tendrils of menace. How could I know the right thing to do?

Do nothing, I told myself. Say nothing. Watch and wait.

Messer Bernardo had been right about that, at least. I was particularly suited to penetrate the duke’s secrets, simply because I was his wife, with a legitimate place in his most intimate household. And I was a woman. Gossip, questions, secrets—they were women’s prerogatives, women’s amusements, women’s weapons. I would have to be careful, because I wanted no more thrashings and no more laughter at my expense. But if I could find out the truth about Lucrezia de’ Medici’s death, I could hold it over the duke’s arrogant dark head and make certain there would be no more thrashings, ever.

No more thrashings. No more laughter.

My pulse quickened. I stopped counting the sequins and crushed handfuls of the brocade in my fists.

I could do it. I would have to be very careful, but I could do it. I could, for instance, go to the Monastero del Corpus Domini where the girl Maddalena Costabili claimed Lucrezia de’ Medici had died. It was Advent, after all, and not even Alfonso d’Este could quarrel with his devout new wife’s impulse to retreat to a religious house for a day, to pray for a son. And if she happened to choose the Monastero del Corpus Domini—well, that could be explained easily enough, a suggestion from one of the Ferrarese ladies, perhaps—

“Serenissima?”

I started guiltily, as if I had been caught voicing my dangerous thoughts aloud. Domenica did not seem to notice anything amiss; her pleasant, open face showed only her hesitation to interrupt me at my prayers.

“Forgive me, Serenissima, but it will be suppertime soon. The duke will expect you.”

I crossed myself. I would finish my prayers to Saint Monica another day; she would understand. She herself had been burdened with a husband of violent temper and dissolute habits, and surely she would guard me as I pursued my inquiries.

“I am coming,” I said. “Naturally I would not wish to keep the duke waiting.”

 

 

T
he Monastero del Corpus Domini was in the old part of the city, occupying almost an entire city block in a section of narrow cobblestoned streets with names like Via Campofranco, Via Praisolo, and Via Pergolato. There were, however, no fields in sight, no meadows, and certainly no trellised arbors; the rose-colored brick walls of the church were almost flush with the pavement, with only the narrowest of paved walks to keep one’s feet out of the gutters. Connected to this building, however, was a much more elegant and patrician house where visitors were welcomed; Domenica whispered to me it had once been the home of a Messer Giovanni Romei, who in the previous century had married an Este princess and left the house to the Clarissas of Corpus Domini upon his death. The dukes of Ferrara had been the monastery’s patrons for generations, she went on to say, and many of the Este were entombed there.

It was icy cold and the air was silvery with mist from the river; I was well wrapped up in marten-fur and a heavy woolen mantle. The bell for terce was just ringing as I directed my Austrian gentleman-at-arms to go up and knock. Nothing happened at first, and he knocked more vigorously. At last, a wicket inset into the wall beside the door was drawn back and a face appeared, framed in a wimple and veil.

“Her Grace the Duchess of Ferrara desires entrance,” he said.

His tone was too peremptory for my taste; I gathered my skirts, stepped down from my litter, and approached the door myself.

The nun was young, probably a postulant or at best a novice. Fright, or wonderment at such fine visitors, appeared to have struck her dumb. I gestured to my gentleman to step back, and I said more gently, “Good day to you, holy sister. I am the Duchess of Ferrara, newly wed as you may know, and I beg permission to enter and pray I may give the duke a son.”

This was perfectly true, as far as it went. In fact, I intended to pray quite fervently, because even with my scheme to use the duke’s sins against him, another most excellent way to ensure my own well-being was to have the heir to Ferrara in my womb.

“I will fetch Sister Orsola,” the girl stammered. She was so nervous she ran off without shutting the wicket, and thus I was able to occupy myself with an inspection of the house’s courtyard while I waited. A loggia of graceful arches surrounded a neatly manicured garden; on one wall there was a large and graceful monogram of Christ in terra-cotta surrounded by brickwork angels. Even the stacks of new bricks and the pile of sand in one corner had been swept and tidied. Clearly the monastery was in the midst of some new building. Idly I wondered if secular workmen were allowed inside the enclosure.

After a few minutes a tall, thickset professed nun, distinguishable by her black veil, came striding to the doorway.

“
Deus vobiscum
,” she greeted me.

“
Et cum spirito tuo
,” I replied, quite properly. “Sister, I am—”

“I know who you are.” She was rude for a nun. “You can come in, but not your attendants. They can come back for you at vespers.”

I hesitated. It would indeed be simpler to ask the questions I wanted to ask without any long-eared Ferrarese ladies dogging my every step. Yet at the same time a tiny voice whispered,
Lucrezia de’ Medici was in this very monastery when she died in whatever mysterious way she died. . . .

“Very well,” I said, putting aside the cowardly voice of doubt. I turned to my waiting attendants. “All of you may go. Please be so kind as to return for me at vespers, so I shall have time to dress for the Festival delle Stelle tonight.”

None of them looked happy about this dismissal, but the monastery was under the duke’s own patronage, so they could hardly object. Ungracefully they departed and left me standing on the paved walk. After a moment’s pause, probably with the thought she was teaching me humility, Sister Orsola opened the door and I went inside.

The private parlor where the abbess received her guests was on the first floor. To my surprise, there were carpets on the floor and tapestries on the wall—one of Saint Francis, bearing the stigmata, preaching to fanciful birds and beasts; the other of Saint Clare, robed and veiled and brandishing a monstrance to quell a mob of equally fanciful attackers. The carved chairs were padded with silken cushions, and on the table were silver cups set with cabochon amethysts and a jeweled rock-crystal flagon full of wine. The abbess herself was seated in a chair by the window, with the warm terra-cotta-tinged light of the courtyard casting a glow over her face.

It was difficult to tell her age; her skin was smooth as a girl’s, although she must have been forty and more. Her strikingly pale tawny-colored eyes were those of an aloof and ruthless lioness. My own eyes must have widened noticeably, because she laughed and beckoned me closer. There was no grille in her parlor, as I had expected in a monastery of the Clarissas; she might have been receiving me in an Este palazzo.

“I enjoy it so much when people come to see me,” she said. I bent down and she kissed me on both cheeks, habit and wimple and veil notwithstanding, for all the world as if she were a lady of the court. There was wine on her breath. “I am Mother Eleonora, and I am your aunt. Or at least, your aunt by marriage. Duke Ercole,
requiescat in pace
”—she crossed herself—“was my brother. You did know that, my dear?”

“No, Mother Abbess.” My mind lurched in a dozen different directions. If she was Duke Ercole’s sister, she was Lucrezia Borgia’s daughter. When my Lucrezia—and so I was beginning to think of her, my Lucrezia, by her Christian name alone as if she were my younger cousin, perhaps, or even my younger sister—had come here, how easily this woman, the duke’s own aunt, with Borgia blood strong in her veins and a monastery full of nuns at her beck and call, could have obliged her nephew by ordering a powder or potion dropped into a medicine cup.

“I knew the monastery was under the patronage of the duke,” I said, “but that is all.”

Mother Eleonora signaled to a white-veiled novice, who hastened to pour me a cup of wine. She refilled her superior’s cup as well, put a fresh plate of sliced cake on the table, and departed in silence.