Duchess of Milan (13 page)

Her voice wavered when she started to speak, but she forced herself on, thinking only that she could never face her cousin again if she did not say it. “I do not intend to accompany my lord husband to the investiture of the Duke of Milan with the privileges of the Duchy of Genoa, nor will I be present to receive the French ambassadors. I ... I do not feel that I can represent my husband or the Este family as long as I am disgraced by the singular honor shown my husband’s mistress. The ostentatious presence of Cecilia Gallerani in this
castello
makes a mockery of the marital bonds that unite the houses of Este and Sforza.”

Trotti masked his reaction. He had to admire Beatrice’s courage and credit her cleverness; she had identified the proper point of attack. Unfortunately she had vastly overestimated her own strength and underestimated that of her opponent. Il Moro could come up with a dozen expedients for dealing with his wife’s refusal to attend the ceremonies. Still, Il Moro would suffer from any suspicions his wife’s absence might arouse among the French envoys; Ferrara was the linchpin of Il Moro’s united Italy. Trotti determined that disaster had been averted and that the proper course now was to force Il Moro into a concession that would at least allow Beatrice to make a dignified retreat.

“Your Highness,” Trotti said delicately, “perhaps the time has come to find lodgings elsewhere for Madonna Cecilia.” Trotti shrugged, indicating in diplomat’s code that he meant temporary alternative lodgings, at least until after the investiture; he did not need to add that Il Moro could visit those lodgings as freely as he wished.

“The woman in question is currently in confinement, awaiting the imminent birth of her child.” II Moro’s face was inscrutable, his black eyes like beads. “I scarcely think that removing her from her rooms at this time would reflect favorably on either the house of Sforza or that of Este. At the very least, the French envoys would be scandalized by our disregard for Christian charity.”

Trotti cursed silently. Now he would have to back down as well, or call on Duke Ercole to help him win a minor concession. He wished he had never gotten involved in this child’s business. . . .

“I believe that I, not the Duke of Bari, am responsible for what constitutes the charity of this household. I am its mistress.”

Forgoing diplomatic decorum, Trotti wheeled to face the door. The Duchess of Milan advanced into the vault like a siege machine, her broad shoulders squared, elbows extended, fingers pressed lightly together at her slender, high waist. She wore a
camora
of Naples black satin, slit at the shoulders to reveal two white puffs of silk chemise. A thin black satin band bound her forehead, and a string of onyx beads circled her neck.

“I have informed my father’s ambassador that the Duchess of Milan will also be absent from the ceremonies of investiture,” Isabella said directly to Il Moro.

Trotti glanced between the two young duchesses with new respect. A moment ago Il Moro merely had been confronted with a disgruntled teenage bride; now he had an international incident in the making. Il Moro could never excuse the absence of both duchesses from the investiture and the accompanying round of theatricals and banquets; there was even some doubt that the Duke of Milan could survive a week of entertainments without his wife on hand to constantly supervise him. If II Moro wanted the French to regard him as Italy’s strongman, he would have to concede to these two girls.

Il Moro smiled amiably at Isabella. “I can understand how even a charitable act might be construed as offensive. Is it your wish as well, Your Highness, that Madonna Cecilia be asked to vacate her rooms in this
castello?”

Isabella nodded curtly.

Il Moro held to the light a many-faceted diamond the size of a robin’s egg, carefully examining the brilliant, prismatic refractions. “Then I will see that Madonna Cecilia is removed immediately to lodgings in the Palazzo del Verme.”

Trotti struggled to conceal his outrage, at the same time acknowledging Il Moro’s ruthless brilliance as a negotiator; Il Moro could be so casual and amiable that at times one forgot that he probably would soon be master of all Europe. The Palazzo del Verme was the largest private home in Milan. Vacant for a year, the huge medieval palace overlooking the Piazza del Duomo had been undergoing renovation recently after its purchase by a mysterious buyer. Now Trotti realized that Il Moro had intended all along to move Cecilia there, where he could flaunt their relationship while at the same time assuaging the criticism her presence in the Castello had aroused. He would thus satisfy the two people who mattered in this affair: Cecilia Gallerani and Duke Ercole d’Este. As for the two duchesses, they would have been wiser to--

“That will not entirely satisfy our requirements.”

Alarmed by Beatrice’s emphatic, entirely uncharacteristic tenor, Trotti thought for a moment he heard something of her father’s voice--Duke Ercole’s steely resolve, but also his brittle undertone of fanaticism. What could Beatrice possibly gain now . . . ?

“It could hardly be considered charitable,” Beatrice went on, “to abandon Madonna Cecilia and her bastard without ensuring that they will be adequately provided for and shielded from scandal. We insist that your charity extend beyond the simple expedient of placing a roof over Madonna Cecilia’s head.”

Il Moro studied his wife curiously, as if he had never heard her speak before. Even the Duchess of Milan cocked her head quizzically. Trotti, deducing that Beatrice had not even discussed with the Duchess of Milan whatever she intended to propose now, listened with dreadful fascination.

“We insist that Madonna Cecilia be provided with a husband,” Beatrice offered.

Il Moro’s face went blank. He turned the prodigious diamond over and over in his long, graceful fingers, as though deeply entranced by the dazzling little spectral display he held in his hand.

Very good, Trotti thought, resisting his impulse to nod approvingly at Beatrice; as Trotti essentially considered himself an Este, he even experienced a surge of filial pride. The little Duchess has put an interesting ball into play, he reflected. Of course marriages of convenience were more common than love matches in Milan: a man might marry his mistress to his son in order to keep her close without arousing suspicion, or he might marry a maidservant he was boffing to one of his stableboys so that his wife couldn’t throw her out of the house; the variations on the theme were endless. But Trotti wondered if Il Moro could deal so cynically with Cecilia. Certainly he would arrive at some clever invention, but at least Beatrice had made a request that Il Moro could not so glibly dismiss.

Deciding that the interests of Ferrara could only be served by his vigorously supporting Beatrice’s initiative, Trotti added, “Ah, Your Highness, this really is a most humane and painless solution to a problem that I must say, with all respect, continues to cast a shadow over relations between Milan and Ferrara. I intend to dispatch by fast courier a letter to Duke Ercole, in which I will commend his daughter’s good judgment, magnanimity, and Christian charity. I am certain Duke Ercole will find the Duchess of Bari’s request as reasonable as do I.”

Il Moro turned the diamond over once more; the huge gem caught the light and shimmered with rainbow hues. He said nothing.

CHAPTER 9

Cecilia Gallerani looked out across the moat. The park beyond was renascent with emerald-bright leaves; to the far north the Alps wrapped the horizon, a ragged ribbon of white satin beneath a sky of perfect cobalt blue.

“Count Bergamini has agreed to all my conditions,” Il Moro said gently, standing two steps behind Cecilia. “He assures me that the marriage can only bring honor to his family and that he will accommodate us in any way he can. He has even agreed to pay for some of the renovations at the Palazzo del Verme. And I needn’t tell you that he has given me his inviolate pledge that he will press no connubial demands of any sort--”

“And deprive me of such a marvelous adventure?” Cecilia turned and faced Il Moro. “After all,
amante,
you are the only man I have ever slept with. When I am bedded by my husband, I shall enjoy all the pleasures of adultery and yet have my sin sanctioned by the sacrament of marriage.”

Il Moro shut his eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“Truly,
amante,
you sometimes make me wonder if you ever really knew me.” Cecilia paused and glanced at her portrait on the opposite wall. “Or is it that I have changed so much that I no longer know myself?” She shrugged her narrow shoulders as if the answer were of no consequence. “I want you to send the contracts to my father for his approval. I intend to marry Count Bergamini and live with him and my child in the Palazzo del Verme. I may or may not sleep with Count Bergamini, as I so desire. But in any event I will not cuckold him. That would be unworthy of you and of the love we have had.”

“I can assure you that this will be only a temporary arrangement. After the investiture--”

“After the investiture there will be another occasion on which your wife can extort such concessions from you. And after that there will be another. ...”

“Very well. I will tell you what you obviously insist on hearing.” Il Moro paused and jutted his chin out. “I will not go through with the investiture. I will resign as regent to the Duke of Milan. We can go together to Bari.” Bari was the tiny duchy in southern Italy that Il Moro had inherited at the death of one of his older brothers.

Cecilia’s shoulders stiffened. “How much easier that would have been last summer.”

“If I had known of this child last summer, I never would have submitted to Duke Ercole.” Il Moro placed his hand on Cecilia’s swollen belly. “I would have resigned then. I would have made you the Duchess of Bari.”

“I believe that,
amante,
I truly do. And I would not have permitted you to resign.” Cecilia’s voice had a fluent stridency, like the notes of a savagely plucked lyre. “Don’t you see, Lodovico, I never wanted to be the Duchess of Bari. The mistress of the Duke of Milan, yes, I have always wanted that, if only because I have wanted that more than anything for you. Duke of Milan,
amante.
Duke of Milan. You see, I know the truth that has guided you all along, the truth that you still cannot bring yourself to confess, my foolish, wonderful, lovely
fanciullo.
Do you know what that truth is? Do you know?” Il Moro said nothing; Cecilia reached up and gently touched his cheek. “The truth is,
amante,
that Beatrice can make you Duke of Milan and I cannot. With me you are a usurper with his whore and bastard. With Beatrice d’Este and her child, you are a dynasty.
Amante,
all along, even now, Beatrice has been my ally, not my enemy.”

The expression on II Moro’s face was entirely self-absorbed, and remarkable; it was as though he were observing some fantastic apocalypse taking place inside his own head.

“Our choices can become cruel masters, can’t they,
amante?”
There was no bitterness in the question, only a sense of shared remorse. Cecilia walked to the window again and looked out over the vivid landscape for several silent minutes. Il Moro remained lost within himself.

When Cecilia finally spoke, her voice was high and clear. “It is such a remarkable time we live in, isn’t it,
amante?
We no longer wait on the gods or God; we move ahead faster than even the gods could have dreamed. There is something
al’nuovo,
something new, every day. A new style of painting, new architecture, new poetry, new music. New islands off Africa . . . there is not a year or two that goes by without some new land discovered. New crops, new machines . . . look at the things Leonardo has drawn. It is the age of new things, an age that endlessly reinvents itself, and what we hold today is gone tomorrow. We live in an age given to the moment. We no longer see life through the spectacles of death, a journey to eternal darkness, but as our moment in the light of reason.”

Cecilia turned. “What makes passion and youth so wonderful is that they are so evanescent, that they slip away like light off a wave. You can only hold someone, truly hold him, for a moment of the moment that is your life. When that moment has ended, you cannot stand by the dark sea, calling it back. You can only cherish the memory. I will never see that light in your eyes again,
amante.
Long ago, before Beatrice ever came here, I knew that such a day would come. But every time I look into this baby’s eyes I will remember that light and cherish it. My moment has passed. The next moment belongs to Beatrice. And to you.”

Il Moro shook his head, and his throat pumped. Finally he said, “I cannot bear to think of you ...”

“With another man?” Cecilia’s face set like the features of a marble bust. “I would marry the devil if I thought it would make you Duke of Milan.” She stared at him intently and then, without picking up her skirts, rushed to him and seized his arms in a painful grip. “Duke of Milan! Duke of Milan! It is yours to take,
amante!
Take it! Take it! Take it!”

Il Moro could not meet her eyes. His self-defense was mumbled, virtually automatic. “You know better than anyone what will need to happen before--”

With a stiff darting movement, Cecilia slapped him squarely on the cheek. “Galeazzo Maria is dead, Lodovico. Your brother is dead.” Her voice had a lulling, narcotic inflection, as if she were reasoning with a child awakening from a nightmare. “I will have them pull the slab from his tomb and embrace the corpse myself if that is what it takes to prove it to you. He is bones and dust, like all the bones and dust he made of other men. His malignant spirit does not live on in that idiot boy. He will not rise from his grave and strangle you with his skeletal hands if you depose his pathetic son.”

But such was the power of that corpse that it rose from the depths of Il Moro’s eyes, a black glaze of terror over his dark irises. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and his heavy chest labored for quick shallow breaths.

“Lodovico!” Cecilia grasped his jaw. “Listen to me!” When she had finally taken his eyes back she lowered her voice to a whisper. “He is gone, Lodovico.”