Duchess of Milan (17 page)

Beatrice forced a smile, then noted with relief that her husband had disappeared. “I think Plautus is a bit silly, Galeazz. I suppose I cannot enjoy a theatrical when everyone in it is a fool. Would you want to go to a supper and find that everyone else seated at the table was a clown? You would quickly tire of it.”

Galeazz studied Beatrice for a moment, his frosty blue eyes blinking in concentration. “I had better see to our guests. When His Most Christian Majesty’s envoys leave, you and I will have a long ride and decide whether we prefer Terence to Plautus.” He bowed elegantly and retreated to the side of Jean Roux de Visque. The two men began an animated conversation in French.

Isabella observed Beatrice standing alone and picked her way through the ducal party. As she passed Messer Galeazz he gestured expressively, and his elbow struck her sharply on the arm. He turned, his boyishly smooth cheeks flushed, and began profuse, bowing apologies. Isabella’s eyes narrowed, and she did not wait for him to finish.

“Are you all right?” Isabella asked when she reached Beatrice. She put her hand on her cousin’s forehead. “You might be sick. All this business of entertaining Frenchmen has gone on too long for anybody’s health.” She took Beatrice’s hand. “I am going to offer my apologies to the Frenchmen and go to bed. I think you should do the same.”

“I ... I’m not allowed to leave yet,” Beatrice said. “My husband has asked that I stay and speak with Messer Bernard Stuart d’Aubigny. I guess it is my turn to be inspected like a goose on the butcher’s counter.”

“You’re right,” Isabella whispered into Beatrice’s ear. “I don’t like these Frenchmen at all. They look at us like we’re mares in a breeder’s pen. And since they can’t afford to buy, I presume they are only interested in stealing. If Messer Bernard Stuart asks to see your teeth, demonstrate their health by biting him right on the tip of his misshapen nose.”

Beatrice laughed, and she and Isabella hugged and kissed good night. As she watched Isabella thread through the crowd, Beatrice sensed someone behind her. She turned. Her stomach cramped painfully.

“His Most Christian Majesty’s envoy would like to speak with you now,” Il Moro said in an uninflected voice. He placed his hand beneath Beatrice’s elbow and ushered her to the side of Messer Bernard Stuart and his interpreter, a young, pox-scarred scholar from the university at Pavia. Il Moro excused himself and left Beatrice in the unfamiliar company of the two men. The first several exchanges concerned the theatrical and the scantily costumed dancers who had performed during the intermissions. Beatrice painstakingly explained to d’Aubigny how dance music progressed metrically, by sixths, from a slow
bassa danza
to the throbbing
moresca.

Finally d’Aubigny focused on Beatrice. “You are so very pretty and youthful, Your Highness, and yet now that the Duchess of Milan has bid us good night, you are the queen of this great court. Is that not a very great responsibility?”

What you are trying to do is as plain as the crooked nose on your face, thought Beatrice. Do you really think I will let some freckled barbarian start something between my cousin and me? Beatrice looked directly into d’Aubigny’s eyes. “You must forgive me, messer, but I would never presume myself queen of this court. I would be a poor substitute for my dearest cousin and even dearer friend, the Duchess of Milan.”

After her response had been translated, Beatrice noticed that d’Aubigny’s implacable demeanor was briefly disturbed by a twitter of his red-tipped eyebrows. She greatly enjoyed this little triumph and eagerly awaited his next question.

“Yes, I have been told that you and the Duchess of Milan have become fast companions. Are you also as close to your sister?”

“My sister is half my self.” But why, Beatrice asked herself, is my relationship with my sister of interest to a Frenchman?

“She is certainly fortunate to have such a devoted sister. And of course one hears that her husband, the Marquis of Mantua, considers himself the most fortunate man in Christendom, to have such a splendid wife. Next to your own husband, of course.”

“No, I am certain that even my dear husband would agree that the Marquis of Mantua is the most fortunate man in Christendom, Messer Bernard Stuart.”

D’Aubigny looked down at the adolescent Duchess of Bari. Perhaps the French were not as adept as their hosts at the art of diplomatic deception, but they understood the art of romance. Il Moro’s display of cordial regard for his wife had not fooled d’Aubigny; the little Duchess of Bari’s surprisingly witty comment only confirmed what he already suspected. Could the Duchess of Bari, d’Aubigny wondered, be a sword in French hands?

“Only to avoid disagreeing with Your Highness would I agree that your sister’s husband is more fortunate than the Duke of Bari. And surely the Marquis of Mantua cannot consider himself fortunate to have to spend so much time away from his wife, as I am certain must be required by his duties as Venice’s Captain General. Even if that time is spent in a city as lovely as Venice. Have you ever visited there, Your Highness?”

Now Beatrice understood the objective of Messer Bernard Stuart’s circumlocution. Venice. Of course. When Venice’s Lion of Saint Mark roared, the whole world trembled. Even Il Moro regarded Venice with extremely wary respect. “Messer Bernard Stuart,” Beatrice said impulsively, “what is it you wish to know about Venice?”

D’Aubigny almost choked with astonishment. Watching the flash of Beatrice’s clever dark eyes, he realized where he had seen that kind of restless acuity once before: Madame de Beaujeu when she had been eighteen or twenty, before power had given a focus to her relentless energy and lancing intellect. This precocious child was clearly a blade that required careful handling. “I rather have a feeling that Your Highness knows more about Venice than Your Highness would consider it prudent to disclose,” he told her, “so I will be prudent enough not to ask.”

Beatrice was momentarily delighted that she had so easily bested Messer Bernard Stuart. Then she realized her mistake. She should have let him go on and found out what the Frenchmen were so desperate to learn about Venice. The next time she played this game she would remember that.

D’Aubigny retreated into the usual diplomatic prattle. After his vacuous series of observations on the beauty of Italian women, Beatrice lost interest and her eyes wandered. She noticed Bernardino da Corte, the assistant castellan of Porta Giovia and II Moro’s chief of security, standing at the left corner of the stage. Bernardino signaled with a finger to his lips. Il Moro quickly appeared at Bernardino’s side, as if he had been expecting an urgent message. Bernardino whispered in II Moro’s ear. The message was brief, and the messenger quickly departed. Il Moro stood staring into the damask curtain with dull, lifeless eyes. A small muscle at the base of his jaw ticked several times.

“. . . you have convinced me,” continued d’Aubigny via his interpreter, “that you Italian women are the most remarkable creatures on earth. His Most Christian Majesty will be fascinated.” D’Aubigny bowed and took his leave.

Beatrice turned to find Il Moro at her side. His eyes were alive again, obsidian black and roaming with manic ferocity. He took her arm with a grip that brought tears to her eyes. “It is time for the Duchess of Bari to wish all a good night,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice acid. “Bid one and all good night, Beatrice, and go to bed. But do not sleep, for the dream you will have tonight will be my dream.”

“Gian?” Isabella sat up and clutched the down coverlet over her naked breasts. The glowing coals on the hearth cast an orange sheen over the marble floor and filled the room with dark, vague shapes. “Gian, I thought you weren’t feeling well. Come here and I will massage your temples.”

A distinct shadow fell over the glossy orange of the floor. Isabella drew in her breath. “I will call my guards,” she said in a low, quavering voice.

“For Francesco’s sake you will not.”

“Don’t come closer. What do you want?”

“You know what I have always wanted. You can see how I look at you, but you cannot know how my body is one flame every time I think of you. That desire will never be quenched. Never.”

“Your sentiments are as artless as your words. Go away.”

“I love you.”

“You . . . love? You aren’t capable even of loving yourself. Only your reflection. What you see mirrored in all their faces. Most of all his. And they love you only because they don’t know you.”

The intruder followed his shadow to the side of the bed and fell to his knees, dipping his head to the covers in supplication. “Please,” he begged in a harsh, overly dramatic whisper, “please just take my hand in yours. Please, for the sake of our son.”

“My son!” Isabella hissed. “My son! He will never be anyone’s son but my son! I am his father and his mother. The instant I felt his life inside me I never wanted to touch you again. He is my son!”

The intruder slowly lifted his head and then struck out like a vengeful phantom, ripping the covers away and pinning Isabella beneath his huge, muscular form. She writhed in protest, wrestling her arms free to fight him off. Then her entire body convulsed as if struck by a thunderbolt. She frantically pulled off her assailant’s hose and ripped open his linen shirt. Her hips pressed up greedily and her mouth assaulted his and her legs circled his back. She raked his hard buttocks with her fingernails, her body snapping again when he entered her. She pushed him back and made him sit up and prop her on his thighs. “Bite my breast!” she commanded in quick, hysterical breaths. She rocked and whimpered and grabbed his luxuriant blond hair with both hands and pulled so hard that his pale-blue eyes, luminous with pain, floated eerily out of the darkness.

The man soon reached his climax, and he moaned as if mortally wounded. At that moment Isabella finally gave him the offering he had really wanted, the proof that he existed to her: his name, only his name. She growled the name as his pumping thighs lifted her and she shoved her finger into his anus. He held her suspended, rigid with his release, and she shuddered at the vague surge of his semen deep inside her and felt it lift her toward the light. And then she was carried by her own effortless wings, wings as vast as the great golden canopy above her, and when she had gathered all the light, all the meaning in the universe into her enormous span, she gasped his name again. Finally to herself, alone, as she soared above an infinite horizon: Give me another baby, Galeazz.

But if your love for the Highest Sphere
turned upward your desire,
your breast would never know such a fear.

Beatrice closed her volume of Dante’s
Purgatorio.
She had not really read anything beyond this page in all these hours, and now, as she had expected, he was here.

Il Moro staggered slightly. He had already removed his
vestito.
When he reached the side of the bed, he stripped off his doublet and hose with jerky motions and stood over her in his loose linen shirt. His chest rose and fell, and she could hear his rough exhalations. She had never before smelled wine on his breath, and the faint scent that reached her quickened her fear.

His voice came from deep in his chest. “Madonna Cecilia Gallerani gave birth to a healthy infant this evening.” He paused, and a tic pulsed through his temple and cheek. “A son.”

The words instantly sucked away her soul. She no longer had the will or energy even to turn her head from the infinite spite in her husband’s eyes. God save me, she heard her reeling consciousness plead, but the words disappeared, a distant shout in a shrieking wind. No one, least of all God, was listening anymore.

He did not bother to snuff the lamp. He threw aside the covers and straddled her. He pulled her chemise up to her breasts and stripped his shirt off and pressed his heavy chest against her until she thought she would suffocate. The sour stench of wine made her gag. For a moment she resisted his hasty penetration, attempting with muscles she had been unaware she had to expel the thing pushing inside her. But he fought back savagely.

She began to fall, plunging into a terrible, lonely darkness, cast down by Mama and Father and everyone she had believed loved her, cast down by her powerlessness and humiliation. Her attacker was the only living presence in this dark universe, and in a delirium of pain and outrage she imagined that she could free herself only by crying out to him, begging him to stop. . . .

No. She would not let him take that last dignity from her. She bit her lip against the pain, forcing back her sobs. And then in a moment of beautiful clarity she saw that the pain was not her scourge but her salvation, that only when the soul had accepted suffering could it rise from the abyss and climb to redemption. I will suffer, but I will not let him hear me cry out, she told herself again and again. I will suffer, but I will not cry.

His moment came, but she did not know it. She only knew that the pain, her savior, was drawing back into the blazing heights from which it had descended, but it had left behind a residue of strength, a tempering of her soul. Il Moro glared down at her, shoulders and chest heaving, and she met his eyes with the diamond-hard will of her heart. I have defeated you, she thought with silent venom, and have stolen your victory. And when your baby begins to grow inside me, I will defeat it, and rob you of that victory as well.

CHAPTER 13

Paris, June 1491

The cradle rocked noiselessly, the only sound a baby’s fitful cough, a phantom presence in the darkness.
“Maman
is here,” murmured Madame de Beaujeu.
“Maman
is here.”

The door creaked, a soft cricket chirp. Slippers brushed across the floor. The light coming from the next room illuminated Madame’s face. She was not happy about the intrusion.

The unwelcome visitor, a well-dressed lady-in-waiting, whispered next to Madame’s ear. “Forgive me, Your Highness. It is very urgent. Madame’s husband must speak with Madame at once.”

Pierre de Beaujeu waited in the antechamber. He was a small man with a large nose, a deeply cleft chin, and warmly intelligent eyes.