“Your Grace!” he exclaimed softly, his voice hushed with embarrassment; his cheeks reddened. “Oh, my lady Duchess!” He bowed deeply from the shoulders, and remained in that position as he spoke. “I cannot— I would never have— Your Grace, I beg forgiveness for my cruel thoughtlessness! My judgment has failed me once again. Had I recognized you, I would have been far more discreet.”
I applauded his desire to save the distressed lady, but could not forgive the humiliation he had just inflicted on Bona; my temper took abrupt control of my tongue. “How could you not recognize the duchess, good sir, when she stands directly before you? A poor excuse for such rudeness!”
Bona moved to me and caught my elbow. “Dea,” she said, her voice very low. “His sight is poor. Now you, too, must apologize.”
Behind us, Caterina giggled. Tongue-tied, I looked back at His Magnificence, and he looked back at me.
“Dea,” he said, with faint surprise, and in his eyes curiosity dawned. He uttered my name as if it were a familiar one.
Before he could say more, we all turned at the sound of footsteps approaching the door leading to the duke’s dressing chamber, and the squeal of the bolt being drawn. The door opened a crack; His Magnificence inclined his ear to it, and listened to whispered instructions from one of the duke’s valets. He gave a sharp nod to show he had understood, and the door closed again.
His Magnificence turned to Bona and bowed to take his leave. “Your Grace, my apologies once more. When we meet tomorrow, I will greet you as you deserve and do my best to make full reparation.”
“When we meet tomorrow, or any other day, dear Lorenzo,” Bona said softly, “we shall not speak of this.”
“Agreed,” he answered, then nodded to Caterina and last of all, me. “Ladies,” he said briskly, and was gone; I listened to his ringing steps as he made his way down the loggia toward the chamber of rabbits.
Like everyone else in Italy, I had heard tales about Lorenzo the Magnificent. At the tender age of twenty, he had become the de facto ruler of Florence upon his father’s death. I had glimpsed him only once, in 1469, when I was nine and had been living in Bona’s household only a year. Along with four other prominent rulers in Milan’s great Duomo, Lorenzo de’ Medici stood as godfather at Gian Galeazzo’s christening. Unlike us lesser mortals, Lorenzo possessed such intelligence, confidence, and charm that he could speak bluntly to Duke Galeazzo without provoking his wrath, and the duke, who routinely abused his family, courtiers, servants, and peers, treated Lorenzo with respect.
Once Lorenzo had left the chapel, Bona turned to me, her eyes brimming with tears. “God surely answered our prayers, sending him to help the lady . . . and to teach me humility.”
“Surely,” I gently agreed, though I did not believe for an instant that Bona had any pride left after eight years of marriage to Galeazzo Sforza. But I was grateful for Lorenzo’s attempt to intervene.
“Take Caterina with you,” Bona ordered, “and make sure she gets to her quarters and stays there. You’re free to do as you wish until I summon you again.”
“I will deliver her to her nurse, then return, if you like,” I said softly. I could see the duchess was in need of comfort. It is a hard thing to accept that one’s husband is a monster, and harder still to endure that monstrousness in polite company.
Her gaze averted, Bona shook her head, and I suddenly understood: Lorenzo’s appearance had so shamed my mistress that she was no longer able to control her tears. As I herded Caterina out, Bona knelt again at the altar railing, pausing before she returned to her prayers to call: “Please close the door behind you.”
I did, leaving her to weep in private.
Caterina broke away from me the instant we were out in the loggia; she turned toward the men’s wing and, cursing her full woman’s skirts, lifted them high and half ran in the direction of the chamber of rabbits. I was taller, with a longer stride, and easily caught her by the elbow.
She tried to shake free, but I held fast, wheeled her about, and dragged her with me toward the women’s wing.
“Bitch!” she snapped. “I’ll tell my father!”
“That I am following the duchess’s orders?” I paused. “What would your father say, were he to see you waiting in the chamber of rabbits?”
She said nothing, but accompanied me, sourly, back down the loggia toward Bona’s chambers, where servants had managed to clear out the smoke and close the windows, though the smell of burnt wool and nuts lingered. Next to it was little Gian Galeazzo’s and Ermes’s quarters in the northeast corner, and just past them was the northernmost room in the ladies’ wing, the pink chamber, so named because its walls were covered in rose moiré silk. It served as nursery to Bona’s daughters, five-month-old Anna and four-year-old Bianca Maria, who had already been married off to her first cousin, Philibert, Duke of Savoy. Just past it was Caterina’s room. I deposited her there and informed her nurse of Bona’s order, knowing all the while that the duke’s headstrong daughter would likely dash off the instant I had left.
I did not care. I proceeded southward down the endless ladies’ loggia, with its life-sized murals of those in Bona’s household, framed against a summer garden backdrop. Near the duchess’s quarters, there was a painting of Bona, seated and gazing proudly down at the infant Gian Galeazzo in her arms. Her courtiers clustered around her: the duke’s aunt, Elena del Maino; Emilia Attendoli, who had served Duke Galeazzo’s mother; and Emilia’s daughter, Antonia. Farther down the hall, in the newest mural, Ermes handed his baby sister Bianca Maria an apple picked from a tree, while the image of ten-year-old Caterina made one of her beloved greyhounds sit for a morsel.
My likeness, like my heritage, was nowhere to be seen.
At last I arrived at the open door of the library, in the southwest corner tower. Here, the plain stone flooring became gray-veined white marble, and the ceiling rose three stories high. There were no murals here; the vast walls were covered in tall oak shelves. Upon the last rested stacks of parchments bound in brocade, damask, or velvet. Despite the duke’s lack of interest in literature, his collection was priceless; he owned a copy of Virgil’s Aeneid, annotated in Petrarch’s very hand. For this reason, all works were attached to the shelves by silver chains.
Only three souls stood inside the vast chamber: the librarian and two young monks from the nearby monastery at Certosa. Unable to leave his domain unguarded, yet eager to retire now that the sun had set, the librarian scowled as I entered. I ignored him, knowing that I would be gone well before the monks, who stood with reverent awe in front of one of the manuscripts.
I passed them and headed for the library’s interior staircase, thinking to climb all the way to the fourth-floor perch, where I could stare far to the southern horizon toward Rome, looking for signs of my husband.
As I moved to the landing, movement outside the window caught my eye. On the banks of the moat near the castle’s main entry, two courtiers stood next to a servant who held the reins to two horses in one hand and a lamp in the other. In the faint arc of light, snowflakes sailed relentlessly downward.
I paused to stare at them. Though I could not make out their faces clearly, I recognized the build of one of them: Carlo Visconti, a black-haired courtier and member of Milan’s Council of Justice, his bearing and gestures betraying violent emotion. Beside him was an older, white-haired man who might have been his father.
Approaching them from the direction of the castle was a third man carrying a swooning young woman. At the sight, the older man beat his chest, then threw open his arms; gently, the third man handed her to her father.
Visconti was not so conciliatory; he drew his sword and lunged at the man who delivered the girl. The third man reacted by taking a great step backward, then spreading his arms in a gesture of peace.
For the space of several seconds, neither party moved; I supposed that one of them was speaking. Abruptly, Visconti sheathed his sword and sagged with grief. The man he had threatened stepped forward to pu
t a hand upon Visconti’s shoulder, and in doing so, stepped into the lamplight.
I watched as Lorenzo the Magnificent kept his hand upon the courtier’s shoulder, then put another on the father’s, and spoke for a moment. Afterward, he dug into a pocket and discreetly handed Visconti a purse. The latter pocketed it without argument.
The snow grew heavier, prompting the father to mount one of the horses. He reached for his daughter, who was unsteady on her legs; it took both Visconti and Lorenzo to get her up into the saddle. Visconti and the servant then mounted the remaining horse; Visconti paused long enough to bow from the shoulders to Lorenzo, who returned the gesture before the trio galloped off across the drawbridge.
I remained at the window as Lorenzo turned, the wind whipping his dark hair across his face, and watched as he made his way grimly back to the castle. At its entrance he paused to glance pointedly up at the library window—at me, as if, impossibly given his poor eyesight, he saw me standing there.
Chapter Two
Snow fell that night. By morning, the clouds had gone, leaving behind a blue sky and an infinite white expanse that glittered beneath the sun. The weather was still bitter, but the wind had died; a good day for travel, Bona told me brightly, and promised that Matteo would be home within two days.
I smiled faintly at her cheer, though my anxiety had not eased; I woke with a gut so clenched I could not face breakfast. Instead I prayed earnestly beside Bona in the chapel: Lord, guard Your servant Matteo da Prato and bring him safely home to me. Blessed Virgin, Mother of God, keep my husband from harm. Saint Christopher, patron of travelers, protect him . . .
Afterward, I put on my heavy cloak and went downstairs to the passage that led to the garden, where the woodsmen had piled boughs of evergreen as high as my shoulders. I gathered several boughs into my arms, and made my way carefully over the slippery floor of the open loggia; on the opposite side, an old serving woman swept away the snow with a broom while her frailer husband followed, sprinkling ash from a pail onto the stone.
Matteo’s chamber, situated on the first level, directly beneath the duke’s bedroom, stood two doors from the garden passage. Only the highest of Galeazzo’s officials were housed on the second floor along with the ducal family; Galeazzo’s secretary and right-hand man, Cicco Simonetta, was privileged to live right next to the duke’s suite, closer even than Bona. In recognition of Matteo’s intelligence and loyalty, however, he had been rewarded with one of the better downstairs chambers.
I paused at the entrance to my husband’s room, wrestling with my fragrant burden in order to get the key from my cloak pocket. Like his immediate superior, Cicco, Matteo always kept his chamber locked; the duke entrusted all his state secrets to Cicco, who in turn shared a few of them with my husband. In these perilous times, a prince was wise to encrypt any correspondence he did not want read by anyone other than the intended recipient; couriers could not always be trusted. The duke had promoted Cicco to a position of great power because of the latter’s natural grasp of the art of encryption, and Cicco had promoted my husband because of Matteo’s ability to create and memorize hard-to-break ciphers. Matteo could look at a letter in Latin or the vernacular and encrypt it in a matter of minutes, an unheard-of feat. After seven years of acquainting himself diligently with the duke’s most confidential matters, Matteo was chosen to serve as a junior envoy to Rome. He had visited there once in the spring, before we were married, and was soon to return from his second visit. I asked him no questions, but I was proud: I had no doubt that he dealt with members of the Sacred College, perhaps even with the pope himself.
The melting snow had caused the wooden door to swell; even unlocked, it would not open until I gave it a hard kick. Once it was open, I set down a branch and wiped my feet upon it, then closed the door behind me and scattered the rest of the perfumed boughs onto the stone floor.
Matteo had been gone almost two months, but the room still smelled of him, of rosemary water and olive oil soap, of parchment and iron-gall ink, of the indescribable scent of male flesh. The room was chilly, the hearth long-unlit; I had told God that morning that I would set my oddly persistent fear for Matteo’s safety aside and trust that my prayers on his behalf would be answered. As proof of my conviction, I would perform an act of faith and light the fire, so that the room would be cozy by the time my husband arrived.
Yesterday, I had loaded wood onto the grate, with strategically placed juniper bark as tinder; today, I took the tinderbox from the mantel and retrieved the flint and steel. It took several tries before a spark fell and caught; I sat on my heels and fanned it, thinking of my strange marriage.
Other women would think me exceedingly lucky. Though lacking noble blood and the convenience of well-placed family, Matteo had succeeded in using his wits to rise to an admirable station. And he was good-looking enough—taller than most of the other men, and long-limbed, if a bit too slender, with straight, thick auburn hair so dark it looked black after sunset. He kept it cut short and often hidden beneath a red felt cap, of the same close-fitting sort his master Cicco wore. His skin was naturally pale, though it had browned during his travels; his eyes were a clear, light hazel, thoughtful and calm. His lips were full and pretty, though the bow of his upper lip bore a scar from a childhood mishap. His words were spoken softly and always kind. Occasionally, when he was tired or forgot himself, his Tuscan accent became noticeable.
Over the seven years he had spent at Duke Galeazzo’s court, Matteo was never far from me. On holidays, at picnics, at summer games in the courtyard, or at the hunt, Matteo always managed to seek out my company; he seemed to know a good deal about the particular circumstances of my life, and was always interested in how I was faring, especially in my studies. He wanted to know whether Bona was good to me, or Caterina rude, what my favorite subjects and hobbies were, what books I had read. I responded with questions of my own, and learned that he was from Florence—or rather, from the Ospedale degli Innocenti, the city’s largest orphanage.
“I grew up there,” he said, “but was rescued in my youth by a patron. I got my education from the monks at San Marco in Florence. When I was older, I went to the University of Pavia, where Cicco recruited me.”
“So there is no one in Florence for you?” I asked. “No patron? No adopted family to return to?”
He almost answered, then stopped himself and gave a crescent moon smile. “None. But I have many dear friends there.” He hesitated. “You would love it. There is no fear there, as there is here. . . .” He dropped his gaze suddenly, realizing that he had said a politically dangerous thing. “The people are happier and speak freely. The world’s best artists live there because the nobles support them.”
“Nothing could be more beautiful than Milan,” I said firmly. I had never traveled and therefore feared it; Bona was my refuge.
“Once you see Florence, you’ll change your mind,” Matteo replied.
I did not think much about my friendship with Matteo, for his interest in me was kindly but not obsessive, though at times, I would look up from a conversation during a gathering for the ducal staff, and see Matteo looking at me; he always flushed and averted his eyes.
Perhaps, as I grew older, I was a bit attracted to him, but given Bona’s stern religious instruction and my desire to cast off my parents’ sin, I had no interest in marriage or the pleasures of the flesh. The world was a fearsome, wicked place, and I lucky to be alive and under Bona’s pious wing; when I was twelve, I begged her to send me to a convent, but she would not. (I am grateful now she did not sent me to one, for I later learned that, when drunk, Galeazzo liked to pay nocturnal visits to the nunneries, in order to assert what he considered his ducal privilege upon the poor women there.) I vowed never to marry, but to remain celibate and serve none but God and Bona all my days. And so I paid no mind to Matteo’s fraternal attentions.
The duke, however, paid no mind to my vow. When I turned sixteen, he pressed Bona to find a husband for me—no matter that I had no
dowry, so that a decent match was impossible. After some months, when the duke realized that she was intentionally delaying the matter, he announced that I was to marry the master of Bona’s stables, one Ridolfo, who had recently lost his wife. Ridolfo was gray-haired, potbellied, and profoundly uninterested in the arts. He understood only dogs and horses, and those none too well, for he had lost his front teeth to a stallion unappreciative of his constant lashes. His dogs despised him for similar cause; I had no doubt his late wife had been relieved to quit his company. Even before she died, Ridolfo always leered at me and the youngest women. Apparently the thought of tender virgin flesh made up for the lack of a dowry.
When I learned of the marriage, I wept and begged Bona to cancel the wedding or let me flee. She had enormous sympathy for my situation, but she could not disobey her husband. As my wedding day grew closer, I grew more frantic.
Then Matteo went to the duke and asked for my hand.
At the July wedding—a small affair in the ducal chapel, attended by Bona, her ladies, Cicco, and Matteo’s fellow scribes—my groom was too stunned by his own decision to meet my gaze. After the ceremony, he kissed me not on the lips, as was proper for man and wife, but upon the brow. At the small banquet in the ground-floor servants’ hall, his gaze was, for once, directed at everyone but me. He drank a bit more than his portion of wine that night, and I more than mine; clearly, the bride was not the only one to dread the wedding night.
We went to his chambers to find the bed strewn with rose petals; Bona’s maid Francesca helped me quickly to undress down to my chemise, while Matteo hid behind the open doors of his wardrobe and fumbled with his own clothing. Once Francesca had left, I climbed into the bed, drew the covers up, and waited for my naked husband to appear.
Matteo emerged minus his doublet but still dressed in his short chemise and leggings. He pointed to a fur rug in front of the cold hearth. “I will sleep there tonight,” he said, still without looking at me.