She had almost forgotten the strangest event of the day. When they had left the chapel, among all the faces was one in particular, wearing a black velvet mask and a long black cloak. She knew the man, she was sure, but could not decide exactly who it was until she saw Isabella turn utterly white. Then she realized, it was Francesco, come in disguise. Beatrice had been forewarned that her brother-in-law’s employer, the Doge of the Venetian Republic, did not quite approve of this marriage between Ferrara and Milan. It would be if not unseemly and disloyal, then impolitic of Francesco to attend. The doge neither liked nor trusted Ludovico, and relations between Milan and Venice had been more than strained for some time. It was bizarre, indeed, then, to see Francesco standing in the courtyard, a part of and yet apart from the wedding party. She had wanted to welcome him, but her husband had taken her in a different direction to greet the Prince of Mirandola, and by the time she turned around again, he was gone. He did not come to dinner. She hadn’t time to speak to Isabella about it either. Strange. What could it mean?
Soon, thoughts of Francesco left her. She shut her eyes tight, running her hands along her body, feeling again the cool silk of her nightgown, enjoying the strength in her arms and legs from long days on the horse, and thinking on all the riches in her future. Not even her future, because her future was now. She was now the Duchess of Bari. She was now the official mistress of this magnificent and ancient castle. She was now the wife of the handsome Moro, who had promised, in the presence of her mother and sister, to spoil her and indulge her every wish.
She was lost in reverie when she heard him enter the room, his footsteps approaching the bed. The sound of her husband’s slippers on marble tile would become a familiar sound. Had he been watching her? She froze, hands at her sides, afraid to open her eyes.
“Your dreams appear to be giving you pleasure, my pet,” he said. She couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her. His voice sounded dreamy and distant, as if he were coming from some far-off place.
Before she could open her eyes, before she could take another breath, he was lying next to her, his hand upon hers, taking over its movements, and guiding it over her breast again. Torn between pleasure and mortification, her eyes popped open to see his swollen red lips inches from her face. His cheeks were flushed, not so much with wine, she thought, but with mirth.
“Will there be blood on the sheets for the official inspectors in the morning?” he asked.
“I have not done this before,” she said, wishing he would be more serious.
“Of course you have not,” he laughed. “You are a child.”
“I am your wife,” she countered.
She looked at him, waiting. She had no idea what was expected of her. He had stopped guiding her hand. They both lay still. What could possibly be next? He gave her a kiss on the lips, soft and slow. She tasted the wine on his hot breath and on hers, still sweet. She felt herself awakening inside, and she reached forward to kiss him harder. His hand moved to her breast, caressing it over the nightgown, teasing one nipple and then the other. Just as she began to roll to her side to push herself against him, he stopped kissing her and said, nonchalant, “Perhaps they will grow.”
He must have heard her inaudible gasp because he quickly covered his blunder. “Oh, do not despair, little one. Whether they grow or not, it doesn’t matter. Your life will be very good, indeed. You will have everything you ever dreamed of, my little princess, and so much more—more than your mother, more than your sister, more than anyone you have known.”
She wanted to ask, Will I have your love? But she dared not. At least not yet.
“Maestro Ambrogio says that the stars are aligned for the conception of a son. That is why the ceremony had to happen today. I did not want to tell you this before. But it is the truth, and so we must be very serious.”
He pulled up her gown, letting it bunch at her waist. He fumbled briefly with himself, revealing his member to her, as if offering her a cut of meat from the kitchen. It looked benign enough—fat, pink, blunt, and not so very long.
He took in the lower part of her body with his eyes in a way that embarrassed her, as if he was regarding the flank of a horse he was about to buy. Finally, he looked into her eyes.
“It seems almost a sin,” he said with a small giggle that she did not find either kind or attractive. He should not be laughing at her now. Did he not just say that they had serious business to attend to? How did he expect her to give him a son? A strong son could not be born on the brunt of a joke.
Beatrice knew that if she could say to Ludovico what was burning inside her head, he would cease to be amused by her as if she was his little baby and not his wife. If he knew the woman she truly was inside, he would even begin to love her, she was sure. But something, some silly fear in her, some misplaced vestige of girlhood, prevented her from letting her true thoughts be known. She shut her eyes tight against the tears that welled up behind her eyes, and she got angrier still because she knew that he would think that she was crying because she was afraid.
“Ah, it is time,” he whispered. Without another word, he mounted her, spreading her legs, letting the air hit the warm, private part of her. She wanted to snap those strong legs tight, denying him entrance, but if she did, he would have to report it to the Ferrarese ambassador as well as her mother, and they would send a letter to her father, and that would be intolerable because then all of Italy would think that the scared little virgin refused her husband his rights on the night of their wedding. Instead, she lay still as a corpse, waiting.
Slowly, he put the thing inside of her, and she wondered at the miraculous way it had turned itself into a hot poker, or some other feudal instrument of torture. She was about to scream at him to stop, but he anticipated it, and put his hand over her mouth as he moved in and out of her, scorching her. Tears formed, and he moved faster and faster, searing her with every motion. How long could this go on, she wondered? How could he bear to harm her in this way, after he promised her mother that he would take care of her?
She could hardly breathe. She smelled the scent he wore on his fingers, and she wondered if she would suffocate before she passed out from the pain. Eyes shut like fortress doors, he gyrated on top of her, as if concentrating on some great mental problem. As his lids squeezed closer and closer together, he let out a loud whinny, like a horse in revolt, and suddenly, the horrible thrusting came to an abrupt end. Still, the pain didn’t stop, and just when Beatrice had some hope that it would, he grunted, delivering one final insulting thrust. Then, slowly, torturously, he rolled over and onto his back.
Beatrice lay stunned. Was this what she must look forward to for the rest of her life? Surely there was something wrong with her physiology. She must have been born ill-formed in the vagina. Some women professed to enjoy this activity, her own sister among them, or so she claimed. It would be just like Isabella to tell her that intercourse was lovely when it was really horrible, if only to make Beatrice think that she was inadequate in yet one more way. She had just made up her mind to speak to her mother in the morning and demand to be sent to a convent, or to take that cinnamon mare and flee before anyone awakened, when he interrupted her indignant thoughts by brushing her sweaty cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“It gets easier with practice. The next time will be much nicer, and soon, the pain goes away entirely, and the woman begins to desire it, just like a man. Sometimes even more. But for you, that may take a little time.”
“Are you displeased with me?” she asked, wiping her tears away.
“We are together, you and I, to make sons. If you give me sons, I will hold you up as the greatest woman on earth. I will come to you each time the maestro reads in the stars that it is fortuitous for conception. It will be your duty to receive me.
“Other than that, you may do as you please, spend as you like, and order whatever trinkets and delicacies you want. I will be attentive to you in company, and you will be the public recipient of my praise. I will spoil
you with every jewel and bangle and pleasure that money can buy. You will have absolutely no cause to complain to your family. No cause. Do you understand, my little pet?”
I’m not a pet, she wanted to yell at him. But before she could gather the courage, he was gone, and she was lying alone in the great bed with his semen and her blood slipping out of her and onto the clean sheets.
BEATRICE hears the footsteps of the officials marching out of the bedroom, holding in their hands the triumphant evidence that the union of two great houses has been accomplished, and the Italy of their fathers is once again safe.
“Your bath is being prepared,” she hears her mother say. “Ludovico has left for Milan to prepare for the celebrations there. Dress quickly. Messer Galeazz has agreed to take us on a tour of the hunting parks.”
Duchess Leonora does not wait for her daughter’s response. She is not a mother to coddle her children, not the daughters anyway. Beatrice knows that both her mother and her father expect her to rise to the occasion of being a wife with nary a stumble, though just days ago, they had still considered her a child.
She waits until she is certain that no one remains in the room before she turns away from the snowy scene outside the window. She falls upon the bed, blankets still warm where she had lain asleep. The tears that she has been holding back since last night—since Ludovico deflowered her out of duty and then cast her aside—begin to flow in a gratifying angry stream.
Oh, she is a fool, married to a man who thinks she is a child who can be tossed aside. What on earth awaits her in her new life in Milan? Will her children, if they come, be put aside for the children borne for him by Cecilia Gallerani? Surely, even in the corrupt court of Milan, it would be impossible for the illegitimate to usurp the legitimate. But in this strange world into which she has entered, the impossible might happen.
She feels like a fool, and she knows that to everyone who is aware of her situation, she looks like a fool. But how often does the fool turn out to be the wise one? How often does the fool get away with saying things that others must stifle? Ludovico, indeed all of Italy, might see her as a fool or a child, but both fools and children can be willful and cunning.
Beatrice wipes her face on the blankets. She must not succumb to these emotions that threaten to overtake her and drive her to ruin. After all, she is officially a duchess now—strangely, Duchess of Bari, a port city on the Adriatic that she has never seen—and the wife to Milan’s powerful regent. She will be expected to play a part. All eyes will be on her, especially in Milan, where they will meet Ludovico in a few days and begin the celebrations for their marriage.
Beatrice makes up her mind. After her bath, she will ready herself, not just for the day but for the life ahead. She will behave impeccably, even if she has to ignore her every emotion and every injury caused by her husband’s neglect; even if she has to imitate Isabella’s every gesture to win the admiration and approval of those who have come to watch the farce of a marriage, like spectators at a blood sport. It may take some time and some learning, but soon she will show everyone just what this little fool is made of.
Chapter Three
XV * IL DIAVOLO (THE DEVIL)
FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:
You can have neither a greater nor a lesser dominion than that over yourself.
IN THE YEAR 1491;
IN THE CITIES OF MILAN AND MANTUA
THOUSANDS of celebrants come for the wedding feste assembled on horse at the gates to the city of Milan, meeting up with Beatrice, Isabella, and the rest of the party arriving from Pavia for the royal procession into the city. The wedding party and the assemblage of European royalty who had come as guests were greeted by the reigning duke and duchess: Isabel of Aragon, a beauty with dark circles under her eyes, either because of how early she had to rise to dress in her elaborate gown or because of her famed unhappiness in her marriage, and Duke Gian Galeazzo, so young, thin, and pale, eyes still beet red from whatever debaucheries he had engaged in the night before. The duchess seemed tender enough in her greeting of Beatrice, the little cousin she remembered from the court of Naples. In fact, she seemed relieved at the presence of another young woman at Milan, a potential ally or at least a compassionate ear. The young duke, to Isabella’s eye, was more pitiable than despicable.
Isabella was grateful that she had spent so much time and money on her wardrobe, for the most important eyes in the world would be upon her this day. She had badgered Messer Brognolo, the Gonzagas’ agent in Venice, to scour the shops for eighty of the finest sable skins to make a luscious mantle, which she had lined in eight yards of crimson satin. Isabella had wrapped herself so that the red fabric, so flattering to her skin, peeked out from the dark fur, highlighting the natural rose color in her cheeks. She had no intention of trying to show up her sister on this important day; neither did she intend to fade into the background.
Dozens of trumpeters heralded the royal procession as they entered the city, and from the moment she rode through its gates, Isabella was sure they were depositing Beatrice in a magical place. Il Moro had issued an edict before the wedding, summoning all the artists of Lombardy to adorn every inch of the city. Whichever artist or craftsman did not show up was fined, and so the attrition rate was not very great. The whole city teemed with newness and life, though they say it had been founded in Roman times. Even lovely Mantua seemed an austere old matron compared with this fresh place. Snowflakes lit on red bricks against an icy Italian sky. Every wall, balcony, and column of the city was draped in the Sforza colors of bright scarlet and blue. Ivy, now sprinkled with the morning snow, twined its way around each column and doorway in a never-ending bacchanalian pattern. Artists had painted bright crests and symbols of the Sforzas and the Viscontis—coiled vipers, helmeted lions, fierce-looking arms raising hatchets, giant torches, and many other inexplicable things—on every spare surface. Isabella was most enchanted by the armor-makers’ tribute to the new bride on the Via degli Armorai, lined with displays of glimmering swords, shields, lances, breastplates, and helmets. Full suits of armor stood at shimmering attention on both sides of the street as the procession rode by, a silent, metallic army.
Beatrice did look lovely, Isabella had to admit, though who would not look so, costumed in many thousands of ducats’ worth of fabric and jewel? Her ceremonial dress hung well below her feet, making her look as if she were floating in a cloud of gold. The marriage belt their father had charged to the finest jewelers in Italy had cost a fortune, and it sat nicely on Beatrice’s best feature, her small waist. The bodice was low, but lined with ermine, covering the fact that she had no bosom at all. Her sleeves, held to the dress with ribbons into which many pearls were sewn, left the arm at the elbow, draping in flowing triangles all the way to the floor. Pink-cheeked, eyes glowing, always her best on a good horse, she rode with great stature next to her husband.
Ludovico was down to the last thread of his garment every bit the prince in a blinding mantle of golden brocade. It was clear that the illustrious assembly who had come to help celebrate this union was there to honor Ludovico, and considered him the true ruler and power of the duchy of Milan. The young duke, to whom Ludovico extended every courtesy, let his eyes wander when greeting important personages, and at one point, almost tipped over backward on his horse. Gian Galeazzo might possess the official title, but what was that compared to the power that Ludovico commanded?
When Isabella first met Ludovico in Pavia, she felt a shock run through her body. Everything she had set in her mind turned out to be entirely wrong. She had so envisioned him to be elderly and miserly, especially after he had asked her to reduce the number in her entourage. She had been indignant; after all, she was the sister of the bride, and the marchesa of an extremely important city-state. But when he greeted them at Pavia, the sight of him destroyed all of her previously formed impressions. He was tall, sensuous, and impressive; a great and rich prince in the full bloom of his power, intellect, and sexuality. Isabella felt his attention
upon her immediately, even before they had a chance to discover that they were kindred spirits, interested in—no, passionate over—all the same things. He was able to send her signals of his interest, all the while paying particular, polite attention to Beatrice and Duchess Leonora. A polished player, Isabella thought. His full features—were they Moorish after all?—thrilled her. His plump red lips always looked ready to deliver a kiss. His hands were manicured and graceful but manly. She could just imagine them on her body from the moment she saw them unadorned by gloves. He had hundreds of people attending to him at all times, and yet when he turned his attention on her, she felt as if she and he were entirely alone, even though her sister, his wife, was standing right there.
And now what was she to do, because this was Beatrice’s husband, and Beatrice’s city, and Beatrice’s life, but Isabella could not help but feel that though Beatrice would be delighted by all of this wonder in her life, she did not have the depth to appreciate it past the superficial. What was she to do now that she, the Marchesa of Mantua, in love with her own husband, was also aching for the man her sister has just wed?
She was not alone in her aching.
She could have predicted the visit he had made to her room at the Castello di Pavia the very night of his wedding ceremony, not moments after he had consummated the marriage with her sister. Isabella had already been suspicious of his intentions when he put her in an apartment on the other side of the courtyard from both her mother and her sister. Shouldn’t a sister attend the bride on the night of her wedding?