The Second Duchess (21 page)

Holy Virgin. And I was sitting next to the man, wearing the gems of his ancient family while smiling and listening to poetry. I looked at him sidelong. He was also dressed in blue, although a very deep blue, almost black, and at his belt was the damascened dagger with the arms of Henri II. Perhaps Crezia was right. He certainly seemed to treat Sandro Bellinceno more as a brother than he treated his own brother the cardinal. But then, the cardinal, with his innuendos and flirtations, did not seem to act as one might expect a brother to act.

The duke’s face was expressionless, as aloof as the face of one of the classical statues he so admired, as he listened to the verses glorifying stalwart young Rinaldo. Romance did not seem to move him. Perhaps it was only the technical brilliance of Tasso’s verse he appreciated.

How different he was in the hot, herb-scented darkness of his curtained bed. Perhaps his lust was only for getting an heir as soon as possible—and whatever Nora whispered, the duke himself was intent on an heir. Then again, perhaps his desire was only to break me to his will and silence my questions once and for all. Whatever it was, his original prediction had come frighteningly true. I had, indeed, come to like some of the things he had taught me.

“Messer Sandro was not her only lover,” Crezia hissed in my ear, persistent as the serpent who tempted Eve. “You would be surprised at how many, and who. And not all of them remain in Ferrara to tell the tale. Alfonso may pretend not to notice, but certain men just”—she made a sweeping-away gesture with one hand—“disappeared. Messer Sandro may vanish one day as well.”

The conversation was veering into deep and dangerous waters. “To accept a different employment, perhaps.” I made my voice as severe as I could while whispering behind my hand. “Or take service in another city.”

Crezia looked at me strangely for a moment. “Oh, yes,” she said at last. “To take service in another city, to be sure.”

 

 

“WHAT WERE YOU and Crezia whispering about during the
Rinaldo
?” the duke said to me, in the interval between the recitation and the mummers’ performance. “You surely know, Madonna, that I do not care for gossip.”

“She is your own sister, my lord.”

“That does not prevent her from having a poisonous tongue. Befriend her if you like, but keep your conversations to subjects that do not require whispering.”

I inclined my head, the model of wifely submissiveness. “Yes, my lord,” I murmured.

As I said it, I swore to myself I would find a chance to have a reasonably private conversation with Sandro Bellinceno, whispered or no. Little do you know, I thought as I sat there so gracefully and pleasantly beside the duke, little do you know what your sisters are saying about you. Nora dares to whisper against your very manhood, and Crezia hints you have conspired in the murder of your first wife’s lovers.
Certain men just disappeared. . . .

And a charming but faithless young wife disappeared as well, into a tomb at the Monastero del Corpus Domini, to make room for an older, uglier, better-born and more obedient duchess. Outwardly obedient, at least. Inwardly seething.

“You are angry,” he said unexpectedly. “It pleases me, Madonna, that you have the self-restraint to act as the Duchess of Ferrara should act, anger or no.”

What could I say to that? I was torn between an even hotter anger and a disconcerting sense of being gratified. Fortunately I was not called upon to respond, as Messer Bernardo Canigiani chose that moment to approach us.

“Good evening to you, Serenissimo, Serenissima,” he said. The Florentine ambassador’s bow was, as always, overdone. I had begun to wonder if he did it deliberately, as a subtle form of mockery. “A fine entertainment. I understand young Tasso has begun a new work, centered upon the siege of Jerusalem.”

“I do not ask Messer Torquato about his unfinished works,” the duke said. His voice was cold and formal. “I find such discussions hinder the artistic spirit.”

“There are those who say just the opposite. I myself have found the boy charmingly forthcoming. Even Duke Cosimo is aware of his brilliance and would be delighted to lure him from your brother’s household to the court of Florence.”

I felt the duke’s arm stiffen. It seemed he was also to be given the opportunity to act with self-restraint, anger or no.

“I believe he is happy here in Ferrara.”

“He is certainly a great favorite with the ladies of the court.” Messer Bernardo smiled, showing his teeth. “But I will take no more of your time this evening. I thank you for your generous attention, Serenissimo, Serenissima.”

He went away. The duke said something under his breath I did not understand. It was probably just as well.

“I do not care for that man,” I said.

“Nor do I.”

“It is unfortunate the necessities of politics require us to be cordial to such an unpleasant fellow.”

“So it is. I had not thought you would take such an interest in politics.”

“I take more of an interest than you may think, my lord. One reason, I believe, why Messer Bernardo is so interested in Tasso is that stealing him away from Ferrara would be a great triumph for Duke Cosimo in the matter of the Precedenza, and a loss for your brother and you.”

The duke sat back. I had surprised him. “So you understand the Precedenza,” he said.

“I am neither blind nor deaf. In Innsbruck this past summer, there were many arguments between the Medici ambassadors and your own, as my marriage and my sister’s were being arranged—precedence and prestige were at the bottom of them all. So far my brother has been clever enough to balance Ferrara and Florence, one against the other. But it would be much in the best interests of the Medici for my marriage—our marriage—to fail, so Ferrara would lose my brother’s favor and Florence would gain what Ferrara has lost.”

“Perhaps I shall ask you for your advice, when next I am faced with a knotty problem concerning the emperor and the Medici.”

I could not tell if he was mocking me or not. I said, rather tartly I fear, “You could do worse, my lord.”

“I am certain I could. Now, oblige me by mingling with our guests during the intermission. I wish to speak privately with the Venetian ambassador.”

So he had been mocking me. I rose, with much rustling of my satin skirts. “Yes, my lord,” I said.

And I quite intended to obey him. Who better to mingle with, after all, than Messer Sandro Bellinceno, one of his own great friends from his days in France?

 

 

“GOOD EVENING, MESSER Sandro,” I said. “Tasso is a talented young fellow, is he not?”

There are advantages as well as disadvantages of rank, and one of the advantages is that one can simply walk up to anyone and initiate a conversation. The other person, if he is lower in rank, has no choice but to stop whatever he might be doing and respond as if he were delighted to be interrupted.

Messer Sandro, most unfashionably, had been speaking tête-àtête with his tall young wife. He gave her a quelling look and then turned to me with one of his graceless bows and a polite smile.

“Talented indeed, Serenissima,” he said. His Italian was markedly French-accented. “You have of course already become acquainted with my wife.”

“Indeed I have. Good evening to you, Donna Elisabetta.”

She sank into a deep curtsy. As she straightened she said, “It is my pleasure to speak with you again, Serenissima. The court is brightened by your presence.”

It was a meaningless remark, of course, but an excellent opportunity for me. I said, “Ah, yes, there has been no duchess for what? Almost four years? Since the death of Lucrezia de’ Medici.”

I said her name deliberately, just to see what Sandro Bellinceno would do. I suppose I was expecting a look of sorrow or shame or sly treacherousness or even remembered lust. To my surprise, his face lost all expression and his eyes turned dark and flat.

“I pray your pardon, Serenissima,” he said. “I feel an urgent need to withdraw.”

He bowed again, so curtly the gesture was barely acceptable by court standards, and left the room. I was taken aback, and I suppose my shock showed on my face because his wife hastened to repair her husband’s breach of courtesy.

“He has been ill, Serenissima,” she said. “The doctors have cast his horoscope over and over, given him purges and vermifuges to regularize his humors, applied poultices of—”

“Enough,” I said, having no desire to hear about Messer Sandro’s almost certainly fictional ills and medicaments. “Very well, we shall agree for purposes of courtesy your husband is unwell. Now tell me why he truly turned his back upon me and walked away in such an offensive fashion.”

The soft music of the intermission and the hum of many voices made our conversation almost as private as it might have been in a separate withdrawing-room. Messer Sandro’s pretty wife looked at me with dark beseeching eyes.

“I beg of you, Serenissima, leave the matter where it lies. My husband is not himself whenever . . .” She stopped.

“Whenever what? Surely, Madonna, you do not wish me to complain to the duke of your husband’s rudeness?”

I would never have done it, but it was an effective threat. Poor Donna Elisabetta’s eyes grew even larger and darker and took on a hunted look.

“Whenever someone speaks of. . .
her
;” she said.

At last I was getting somewhere, although I felt ashamed of myself for my browbeating methods. I would have to find a way to make it up to her.

“Of Serenissima Lucrezia?” I feigned surprise. “But why would a mention of the duchess’s name distress Messer Sandro so profoundly? ”

She lowered her voice, so I had to lean forward to hear her. In a strangled whisper she said, “He loved her, Serenissima. I was in her household, and I saw it all. She boasted of it, in private. But I did not know all the terrible things she forced him to do, not until we were married and he confessed them.”

I stared at her. The young duchess, sixteen, seventeen perhaps, forcing a brutish-looking fellow like Sandro Bellinceno to do terrible things? To do anything? Donna Elisabetta’s anguished expression made it clear she was telling what she thought was the truth, but I wondered if Messer Sandro himself had been completely forthcoming with his wife.

This had gone beyond anything we could speak of safely in the great salon of the Castello, no matter what music or conversation there was to disguise our words. In any case, people were returning to their places; the mummers’ play was about to begin. I did not want the duke to look for me and see me in conversation alone with Donna Elisabetta.

“I wish to speak to you further,” I said. “Come to my apartment tomorrow, before dinner, and tell your husband only that I have invited you to speak of—oh, fashions, or dogs, or some such ordinary thing.”

She looked at me in white-faced terror. I felt more guilty than ever.

“Calm yourself, Donna Elisabetta,” I said as gently as I could. “I have no evil designs on you or your husband. Say nothing of what we have spoken of, and reassure him I believed your tale of his illness. Tell him I have no intention of mentioning any of this to the duke.”

That at least was true enough. Some of the color came back into her cheeks, and she nodded wordlessly.

“Tomorrow, then,” I said, loudly enough for those around us to hear. “I wish to know where you found that beautiful silk, Donna Elisabetta, and how your needlewomen achieved such an elegant drape alongside the foreparte.”

“Yes, Serenissima,” she said. She curtsied, and I acknowledged her with a smile and an inclination of my head, the gesture a bit more pronounced than the strictest court protocol called for. Word would instantly ripple through the court that Elisabetta, wife of Sandro Bellinceno, had gained my favor. I hoped it would make up for the way I had frightened the truth out of her.

I went back to my place. Upon the dais, the duke had already taken his seat, and the Venetian ambassador had withdrawn. “You found some agreeable persons with whom to pass the intermission, Madonna?” he murmured as the mummers came out onto the stage.

“Oh, yes.” I made it sound trivial, and of course said nothing of my arrangement to speak privately with Sandro Bellinceno’s wife in the morning. “Most agreeable.”

 

 

SANDRO BELLINCENO CAN’T even hear my name without getting gripes in his belly! It serves him right. I’m sure he’s also afraid the book, the one called
I Modi
I stole from Alfonso, will come to light. Sandro would be in as much trouble as Alfonso if the pope ever got his hands on that book.

On the other hand, I wanted to scratch out stupid horse-face’s eyes when she sat there and said, “No!” to Crezia so innocently, as if she didn’t believe Crezia’s tale that I seduced Sandro. She believed it straight off, and she just wanted Crezia to tell her more. And the look on her face when Crezia said I was a
puttana
who had
fottuto
Sandro Bellinceno! I suppose the emperor’s sister is too genteel to know such words. She probably doesn’t use the privy, either, but just wafts her
merda
up to heaven in clouds of perfume.

Stupid Crezia fell straight into la Cavalla’s trap, of course, and gibblegabbled on, retelling all the lies people tell about me. I wonder if she knows about Niccolò in the stable. He had a lovely long thick
cazzo
and he was clever with it—he could’ve written his own book, and better than
I Modi
, too, if he’d been able to write.