Heart of Gold (14 page)

“So long as he doesn’t plan on you filling the tomb too quickly.”

A chuckle escaped Giovanni as he clapped his friend on the shoulder. “My thoughts exactly. Well, with what’s left of this beautiful night, let’s speak of more agreeable things. Of art and architecture, of love and women.”

“Subjects Your Highness has far greater knowledge of than does his humble servant.”

Don Giovanni brightened. “Ah, Ambrose. You are a delightful guest and an excellent storyteller. Such courtesy. But news of you often reaches my ears, my friend. I’ve heard that the fine collection of paintings you keep in that place of yours in France continues to grow. And from what I hear, the work is second to none.”

“Just gross exaggerations and rumor, m’lord.” Ambrose smiled. “You should stop by sometime and see the collection for yourself. You’d be a much better judge than those flapping tongues.”

“Me! Step on French soil?” He shook his head. “Nay, to do such a thing would be to risk finding my head on the end of Francis’s sword.”

“There is a good chance of that, I suppose. And not one you would want to risk,” Ambrose remarked seriously. “Considering how fond you are of it.”

“I am. After all, it is the only one I’ve got—and a good looking head, at that.” Giovanni laughed. “But as I started to say before, I believe you are by far the finest courtier in the world...outside of myself, of course.”

“Of course, Giovanni.” Ambrose grinned and reached for the golden goblet of amber colored wine. “But since you mentioned the topic of art, a courier came to me this afternoon with a message from the Queen Mother that touches on the subject. Perhaps you can advise me on the best way to proceed.”

“Are you asking my counsel on the topic of art?” The duke looked sideways at the Highlander. “After all we hear of the things you have, Ambrose?”

“No one in Europe is better qualified to give counsel, m’lord, than you yourself.” Ambrose cleared his throat. He would cut out someone’s tongue if he could find out who had spilled his guts to the Medici ruler about Ambrose’s estate. Friendship would not stop the extremely competitive Don Giovanni when it came to such collections. “I mentioned before that the message is from Queen Margaret. Needless to say, she is looking for the best advice. Must I repeat it, Giovanni? The best!”

“Well, since you put it that way…” He smiled. “It would be a pleasure, my friend. Unburden yourself.”

“Actually, I have been asked to unburden you.”

“Oh?”

“As you know, Giovanni, even though the king’s mother has spent more than twenty-one years in our barren and comfortless castles in Scotland, we have never been able to sway her. Queen Margaret is still bound and determined to bring civilization to us wild and barbaric Scots.”

Don Giovanni laughed out loud. “So you’d like me to tell her that she is wasting her time. Is that it?”

Ambrose snarled at the duke. “I can see irony is lost on you. I happen to disagree with her, my effete, epicurean friend. Like you, she wishes to surround herself with—”

“With creations that raise man above the animals. That display the inner workings of the artistic soul. That render man as heroic, as the definitive proof of God’s hand on earth. That shape our lives with a timeless aesthetic, a perspective that—”

“She wants pictures.” Ambrose drained his goblet and put it down with a resounding clang.

“That’s what you surround yourself with, my friend.”

“Nay, there is a difference,” Ambrose interjected. “My collection is the work of many fine artists. I don’t take a fancy to seeing my own portrait on each wall.” As the words left the Highlander’s mouth, he spotted a new portrait of the Medici ruler that adorned the nearest wall. “Is that new?”

“I look especially fine in that one, don’t I?”

Ambrose smiled. “She wants one of your artists to paint the royal family.”

Giovanni paused and slyly scanned the Scot’s rugged features. “I should think that France, that devoted ally, could supply Scotland with treasure troves of art—tapestries, lace, the finest cloth of gold and silver. Certainly Francis could send your queen one of his court painters. Perhaps you, with your fabulous collection, could come up with such a painter.”

“This is Margaret Tudor we’re talking about, Giovanni. She wants only the best, you know that.”

“Oh, how I pity you.” Margaret Tudor’s reputation as a stubborn and coddled queen was well known all across Europe. “And I suppose her letter states
who
exactly she wants?”

“Of course. She wants Michelangelo.”

The duke nodded, stifling his desire to laugh openly. “I’m sorry to disappoint your king’s mother, Ambrose, but really—”

“I knew you’d never let him go.” The Scot put on a menacing glare. “But don’t forget, she’ll not forgive you. Just imagine me returning to Scotland with no satisfactory response to her request.”

“He’s a sculptor, my friend. And an aging one at that. For his own good, for the good of Florence, I simply couldn’t let him make such an arduous journey.”

“Well, you’d better think of something. If she doesn’t get what she wants, Giovanni, there will be the devil to pay.”

“I know, I know. And it will not be you that has to worry. After all, I understand that she likes you better than the air she breathes.” At seeing Ambrose’s raised eyebrows, the Medici ruler continued. “Of course, it is Scottish air. But never mind. I know if I don’t help you, she’ll probably send half of Scotland’s warriors to join Francis as he attacks Florence.”

“Hmm. I wonder if she’ll let me lead them.”

Seeing the scowl from the duke, Ambrose decided to let his friend think of a plan. Ambrose was a favorite at court with the queen, as he had been years earlier with her husband, James IV. But even at that, he did not want to risk facing her empty-handed. And unfortunately, what Giovanni had said about Scotland going to war with Italy simply because her request was denied was more than a jest. The queen had attempted in the past to send Scotland into battle for reasons far more trivial than this.

The Medici ruler laid his meaty hand on his guest’s arm. “Wait! I have an idea.” The duke looked excitedly at his friend. “I know just the man. One of the masters working in Michelangelo’s studio. He is perhaps a better painter than the maestro himself. But it would be a great sacrifice for me to part with him, Ambrose. This is a young man with the potential of bringing great honor and prestige to my land. I would only loan him to the closest of Florence’s friends. Do you understand me? And I would entrust him to no one other than your safekeeping. You must take care of him, Ambrose.”

The Scottish nobleman laughed out aloud. “You are too clever for your own good. But I don’t buy it, nor do I think Margaret Tudor will.”

“I am not making this up just to suit your queen,” the duke uttered, his expression serious. “Phillipe de Anjou is the finest painter Florence has to offer. You can see his work for yourself. In fact, as you make me think this through more, the more I realize I might not like to part with such talent.”

Ambrose studied Giovanni with a deadpan expression. Though he would never admit it to his friend at this point, the Highlander knew the work of this Phillipe de Anjou. The man was, indeed, an exceptional talent.

“His name—he’s French?”

“We try not to hold that against him.”

“What should I know about him?” Ambrose asked, feigning ignorance.

“Nothing, other than the fact that I want him back.”

“What happens if the queen likes the man too much and tries to keep him?”

“I’ll side with her brother, King Henry, and attack Scotland.”

Ambrose smiled. “I’m sorry to say, my friend, that you and my queen have far too much in common.”

“Sí.” Giovanni smiled back. “The truth is, I don’t think I would like Scottish air, either. Far too damp, from what I’ve been told. In fact, I’ll need to talk to the young Phillipe. He might have objections to your climate as well.”

“Too late!” Ambrose huffed. “Your offer has been accepted. Please arrange it with Michelangelo. I will stop and get the young man when I return from my discussions with your good cousin, the Pope.”

“He’ll be ready...with my regards to your queen, Ambrose!”

She knew they had to go. It didn’t matter where, but they had to leave Florence.

And then the miracle happened. As if the angels themselves had taken her plea to the heavens, Elizabeth was summoned to Michelangelo and told she would be leaving for Scotland in a week.

Scotland, the desolate northland. Cold, damp, barbaric, devoid of culture, a wasteland with more sheep than people.

Scotland. An absolute heaven. She could not wait to get there.

“Where is your sister, child?” An elderly woman charged breathlessly into the attic room. She plunked her heavyset frame on the closest bench, her ample bosom heaving from the exertion. Removing her kerchief from her sleeve, she mopped the beads of sweat from her brow.

“She’s gone out to say her last fond farewells to friends.” Elizabeth looked up from the packed trunks at her friend. “What are you doing up here, Ernesta? You should not exhaust yourself climbing those stairs.”

“Humph! Look who’s talking!” Ernesta smiled down at the black-haired child, draped over Elizabeth’s back. From beneath the linen shift, the child’s arms and legs dangled comfortably around the painter. “Come here, little Jaime. Let your auntie finish her work. Lord knows, if she doesn’t, no one else will raise a finger.”

“Please, Erne—‘Uncle’! We can’t afford to have Jaime call me anything else in public.”

Ernesta removed the cloth from the top of a small basket she’d brought with her. Catching a whiff of the fragrant smell of the cinnamon cakes, the three-year-old girl ran gleefully toward the older woman. “Go ahead, say what you will. Aunt or uncle. She’s a lot smarter than any of us. Yesterday, when Pico came to say good-bye, you should have heard her. She chatted away about her uncle and his manly ways as if she were a grownup taught to just say the right things.”

Elizabeth smiled at the little girl plunked on Ernesta’s lap. Little Jaime. So sweet, so loving, and so bright. Elizabeth would have expected the child to grow up so confused, living the way they did. After all, there had never been any mention of a father, and the mother, though present, had never shown the child even the slightest affection. It seemed as though, from the time Mary had given birth to her daughter, the upset of bearing a daughter rather than a son had been too much for her. Having a girl had ruined the woman’s dreams of going back to England in pomp and glory. So the young child had nearly ceased to exist in Mary’s mind. But not in Elizabeth’s. Since the day Jaime was born, Elizabeth and Ernesta had done everything in their power to look after the child’s welfare and to fill the gaping void with love and affection.

Elizabeth continued to cherish the young girl as if she were her own. And the young painter knew Jaime was the bright sunshine, the warmth and the strength that fueled her every decision. That pushed her forward.

Drawing her gaze back to the disorder of the room, Elizabeth let her mind travel back to the past. It had been almost four years since the first day they had stepped into this house.

Leaving the Field of Cloth of Gold, Friar Matthew had accompanied Mary and Elizabeth as they’d made their way southward through France to the port city of Marseilles. There Elizabeth had met the friar’s old friends Joseph and Ernesta Bardi for the first time. A deal was struck between the two men and to this day Elizabeth wondered how Joseph Bardi had so obviously gotten the short end of the deal. So, while Friar Matthew had turned around and returned to his flock outside Paris, Mary and Elizabeth and the Bardis continued on to Florence.

Joseph Bardi was an itinerant wool merchant, struggling to find a foothold in the thriving markets of the Italian city-states. Friar Matthew had known the childless and elderly couple for all of his adult life. He knew them to be people into whose care he could entrust the two sisters, and he’d been correct. Upon meeting them, Elizabeth had felt an immediate sense of kinship. They had never once ridiculed her masculine disguise nor her dream of becoming what she had set out to be. In fact, during the sisters’ first year in Florence, Joseph Bardi had been the one to find her first commissions in the small, remote churches in the rolling countryside to the north of the city.

Ernesta Bardi was a smart businesswoman who for over forty years had been an indispensable part of Joseph’s life and his commerce. But even more than that, Erne was a woman—proud and full of life. Not having children of their own had allowed Erne to travel and be a part of her husband’s life in the markets of Europe. As the result, she was the one dismayed at the prospect of having the sisters in her house. The last thing she wanted was to be tied to a wild, pampered, and pregnant Mary...and to the child that was due in the winter. But despite her reservations about the younger, Ernesta had grown to cherish and respect the older sister, as well as the child borne of Mary. As difficult as it was for Ernesta to admit, she loved what chance—and the friar—had brought to her. A life that had once been so quietly focused on her husband’s trade, now bustled with the activity of the young family she had taken in as her own.

Elizabeth stood and dragged one of Mary’s trunks into the corner of the room. Her sister would certainly not be happy when she found out they wouldn’t be taking all her clothes on their journey.

The climate and physicians of Florence had been very good for Mary. The physician in France had prescribed the miraculous
unguentum Saracenicum
, a mercury-based ointment, and the doctors here had continued the treatment. Everyone knew that mercury was poison, and yet the medication reduced dramatically the horrible sores that Mary hated so much. Elizabeth worried incessantly about the irrational behavior her sister occasionally displayed, and about the bouts of stomach pain, but Mary would fight like a wild animal at any suggestion that she give up what she saw as a cure for her illness. She was more than willing to endure both physical suffering and an occasional mental lapse in exchange for the return of her good looks.