The Second Duchess (34 page)

Sandro Bellinceno and his wife stood there, just the two of them, framed in the gilded scrollwork of the doorway as if they had been painted by Messer Leonardo da Vinci himself. He was dressed in rich russet-brown velvet; she wore green and blue, her hair braided with emeralds, blue-green Turkish stones, and pearls. The duke’s largesse—and the duke’s favor—was clear in every yard of new cloth and every shining stone.

They walked toward us. Whispers began to fizzle gently around the edges of the salon. The musicians took up their tune again, with only a missed note or two. When the two Bellincenos reached us at the high table, they made their reverences. Messer Sandro’s fine new feathers had added no grace to his thick-bodied awkwardness; Donna Elisabetta, on the other hand, made her curtsy with her accustomed elegance.

“Sandro,” the duke said. He had pitched his voice to carry.
“Mio amico
.
”

“Serenissimo.”

There was a moment of silence. I held firmly to the thought of my Austrian ladies safely returned to my household and said through my teeth, “Messer Sandro, what a pleasure to see you about the court again.”

He bowed a second time. He would not look at me. “Serenissima,” he said.

“And Donna Elisabetta,” I went on. It suddenly occurred to me I had the power to thwart Sandro Bellinceno’s determination to keep his wife away from me, to all appearances quite innocently, in the name of assuring him of the duke’s and my favor. I said, in the same carrying voice, “I am so pleased to see you as well. In point of fact, I have arranged a position in my household for you, subject to your husband’s goodwill, of course.”

The duke made a sound beside me, half-exasperation, half-laughter. Messer Sandro looked up at me at last, and in his expression I could clearly see dislike warring with hunger for a high place in the politics of the court.

“My goodwill is yours, Serenissima,” he said.

“Excellent. I shall send for Donna Elisabetta one day soon, and we will make the arrangements.”

“And you, Sandro, wait upon me tonight after the entertainment,” the duke added. He put his hand on the damascened dagger at his belt. “I have a taste for some wine and some talk of the old days in France.”

With that they were dismissed to one of the courtiers’ tables, fairly shining with the new favor that had been heaped upon them. Servitors appeared with a salad of lettuce, caper flowers, and hazelnuts, dressed with the thick dark-colored
balsamico
vinegar that is one of the gastronomic treasures of Ferrara. Behind us at the sideboard, tasters ate from each dish and drank from each ewer of wine before it was presented.

“You did not hunt with us today,” the duke said. It was a clear change of subject. “I assure you I myself have set guards to your horses and saddlery, and there is nothing to fear.”

“It was not fear that kept me from the hunt, my lord,” I said. “I slept far longer than I usually do, and when I awoke I did not feel fit for riding.”

“Indeed.” Perhaps I imagined the flash of self-satisfaction in his eyes. But then again, perhaps I did not. “Did you keep to your bed all day, then?”

“I was not quite that unfit.” I let him reflect on that while I ate a piece of lettuce. The
balsamico
was delicious when mixed with salt and olive oil. “It was not long after the hunt had gone that I awoke and broke my fast and dressed. Then, as you suggested, I went to the chapel to see the work Frà Pandolf has been engaged in.”

“Excellent. And what is your opinion?”

I took a sip of wine to clear my palate. “I did not expect the renovations to be so extensive. The walls themselves have been broken through to construct niches for statuary. There was a great deal of stone dust about, and bricks and sand and mortar.”

The duke smiled. Conversation to do with art or architecture always pleased him, almost as much as conversation about music or sport. “It is a design of my own. I have been much pleased with the bronze figure of Neptune cast for me by Claus of Innsbruck, and always intended to commission further pieces. The renovation of the chapel offers the perfect setting for his art.”

“I will look forward to the new bronzes.” I said. “The work being done in the chapel reminded me, my lord, that I saw building materials at the Monastero del Corpus Domini as well. Mother Eleonora said they had been working for some time on a new cellarium—if there were workmen allowed inside the enclosure at the time the first duchess was confined there, others might have managed to slip in as well.”

The carver knelt behind us with a dish of braised eels, and the duke turned his attention to it. “Allow me to serve you with an eel or two,” he said. “It is an interesting question.”

With the point of his knife he placed two of the choicest eels on my side of our silver dish. Then he served himself and waved the carver away. I did not care for eels, but cutting one into small bits of equal size gave me something upon which to focus my attention. “After I visited the chapel,” I said, “I went to the Lions’ Tower.”

A pause. Perhaps it was simply because he was cutting an eel for himself.

“I see. Well, that is why I gave you the keys. Have you satisfied yourself nothing is being concealed from you?”

“I have, my lord. I looked through the four large chests and found nothing out of the ordinary. I also examined them all very closely for any evidence of secret compartments. I found nothing.”

“She had another hiding place, then.”

“Yes, I think she did.”

He cut another eel. “And the flask?”

“I gave the flask to Maria Granmammelli. I did not tell her where it came from, or to whom it belonged—I only asked her to attempt to identify the sediment. She claims to know the tastes and smells of a thousand potions.”

“I am sure she does,” the duke said, “and I also would like to know what that potion was. Well, taken as a whole, Madonna, I am not displeased by your afternoon’s work.”

I flushed—I actually flushed—with pleasure. I could feel the heat of the blood in my cheeks. Then immediately I felt annoyed, both at him for his condescension and at myself for responding to it. The annoyance made my next confession easier.

“There is one more thing I must tell you.”

“Saint George protect me.” There was an edge of irony in his voice. “I should have known there would be one more thing. Tell me, then.”

“Once again, I am not with child.”

He looked at me. I could have said an Ave once, twice, three times. Perhaps I should have.

“There was the fall, at the hunt,” I said. “I have been afraid. We have been at odds.”

Another Ave. I ran my fingers over the fabric of my skirt and folded a pleat in it. I was aware of it—since the duke had noticed my strange habit, I had been struggling to break it. But this time, in the lengthening silence, I could not stop myself.

“My father and mother spent most of their lives at odds,” he said at last. “Yet she bore him five living children and mingled the blood of Valois with the blood of the Este. If a daughter of France can achieve that, Madonna, then a daughter of Austria should be able to do no less.”

“I will take up your challenge. In a few days, when the time is suitable again.”

“Good. I also wish to have my physician examine you. Messer Girolamo Brasavola. You know him, of course—he attended you after your fall.”

“I remember him.”
She came here upon Messer Girolamo Brasavola’s recommendation
, Mother Eleonora had said of Lucrezia de’ Medici,
and Messer Girolamo is the best of Alfonso’s physicians, a doctor of our university and a great scholar
. “I will submit to an examination, if I am also permitted to ask him a few questions in return.”

“You will submit to an examination because I wish it. However, you are free to ask him whatever questions you wish, so long as they are asked in my presence.”

Clearly he was perfectly well aware I intended to ask Messer Girolamo about the first duchess. I smoothed the pleats out of my skirt and said, “In a few days, then?”

“In a few days. And this business of the examination is to remain private, as private as is our other—enterprise.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Music swirled softly through the room; the courtiers whispered and laughed. The servitors presented sweet wines and slices of
pampepato
, the dense cake rich with cinnamon, cloves, citron, and pepper. It was the same sort of cake Mother Eleonora had offered me at the Monastero del Corpus Domini. I picked my piece into small bits; it seemed too highly spiced, too cloying. Instead, I took a perfectly ripened pomegranate from an arrangement of fruit in a golden dish.

I cut it open, and its juice spilled out upon the silver dish, red as blood.

 

 

Sandro went to his
studiolo
after the supper and entertainments were over, just as Alfonso suggested, and they were there for hours. I couldn’t even count the bottles of wine they drank. They talked about it all: how Alfonso galloped away from Ferrara when he was just nineteen, much to the ire of Duke Ercole. How he joined the French king Henri’s war in Flanders and met Alexandre de Bellincé—Sandro—among the men under his command. The arquebus-ball in Sandro’s shoulder, meant for Alfonso. The roistering and carousing they did together afterward, when Sandro’d had a chance to mend, and how Alfonso got Sandro preferment when they got back to France. The French court, where Alfonso’s oldest sister was married to the Duke of Guise and Alfonso himself was much taken with his niece-in-law, the tall young Scottish queen, before she was married off to the Dauphin. Sandro gets maudlin when he drinks wine. Alfonso seems to be able to drink forever and never show a sign of it.

They spoke mostly French. I couldn’t understand French, other than a few words, when I was alive, but now that I’m
immobila
it makes perfect sense to me. Or maybe it’s because for part of the time they talked about me.

I wish I’d never touched her, Sandro said. I wish I’d died before I touched her. I’m sorry,
mon ami
.
Mea culpa
. Forgive me.

Merde
, Sandro said. You know about the book?

I’m sorry,
mon ami
, he said again.