The Ruby Ring

by Diane Haeger

  “May the Lord help me, I assumed you were not so virtuous, as you did nothing to stop that regrettable event!”

  “You are Raffaello! Does not every woman do as you bid them?”

  “No, Elena. Not every woman.”

  Raphael shivered, pressing away the memory of their angry exchange, kissed Margherita’s forehead, and pulled her close to his chest. He was gratified to have her near again, fed by her calm presence, and the needed energy he gleaned from that alone.

  They kissed deeply before he said, “Come. I want to show you something.”

  Raphael took her hand and led her out into the studio, which was empty now of the artists and models who so unnerved her. Here, in the flaming salmon-pink light of early evening that glittered through the open shutters, she saw it. On an easel beside his own worktable in the main workshop was the completed Madonna at last. Margherita gasped, seeing herself as the Virgin Mary standing barefoot on a celestial bed of clouds with two figures kneeling in adoration around her. On one side, the image of Saint Barbara, and on the other, Pope Sixtus II. She had never seen anything even close to this, nor, she knew, had anyone else. She was stunned.

  “It is . . . exquisite.”

  “You find it so?”

  She looked at him and saw plainly his need for her approval in this. “Truly I do.”

  “You trusted me and I did not wish to disappoint you. I wished it to be entirely unique. As you are.”

  “You have done that, Raphael, and so much more. I don’t know what to say.”

  “The expression in your eyes is better than any words.”

  As they stood before the easel, Raphael’s hand on her shoulder, the door was held open by one of two velvet-clad servants, allowing entry for the elderly man with flowing snowy hair and beard whom they were attending. Turning to see who was approaching, Raphael’s face lit with a sudden beaming smile.

  “Ah, bene! My dear friend, at last you have arrived!” he said, embracing the elderly man, then he turned back to Margherita. “I wish for you to meet a very dear friend.”

  The sage old man with a hooked, veined nose and bright blue eyes smiled kindly down at her. “Signor da Vinci, may I present Signorina Luti.”

  Wearing a knee-length coat and tunic of green-and-gold brocade, gold hose, and a gold embroidered hat with a wide, upturned brim, he stood elegantly before them, his face a network of fine wrinkles. But he regarded her just as Raphael had at the first, with that same critical artist’s eye. Of course, like the rest of Rome, she knew the name Leonardo da Vinci. He was a revered master who had created beautiful works, including Adoration of the Magi, a fresco of the Last Supper, and a portrait of a mysterious woman people called La Giaconda.

  “It is a great pleasure to be met with such beauty on a cold March afternoon,” he said in an aging, slightly rusty voice, yet one still full of grace and charm. “But a true friend of Raphael’s must call me Leonardo.”

  “I would be honored to do so.”

  “With me, you must only be yourself.” He smiled at her with courtly aplomb.

  “If you can judge a man by his friends,” Margherita said smoothly, feeling herself begin to smile, “then Signor Raphael is a fortunate man indeed.”

  “I see the level of company you keep has improved here in Rome, along with your talent, caro amico,” he said to Raphael with a growing smile. “Most impressive indeed.”

  It was the first time anyone had placed value upon her besides Raphael, and did not look askance at her presence in his life. Margherita found it a pleasurable sensation, and she found da Vinci a charming man. “Leonardo has come to see the completed Madonna, as we spoke of it many times while it was being painted. It is so much the better to have the model here, as well.”

  The old master stroked his chin as his gaze fell upon the Madonna painting, still smelling of linseed oil and wood fiber. “Brilliant, caro. Original . . . evocative . . . truly a stunning work.”

  “There is no higher praise than that which comes from you,” said Raphael. “With Bramante dead now, and Michelangelo against me, your approval means more to me than it ever has.”

  “I can see that the girl has inspired you.”

  “More than that, she has forever changed me, Leonardo.”

  Da Vinci smiled at them sagely, understanding now. “Ah. You are in love with one another!”

  “Forevermore.”

  Leonardo looked more closely at Margherita then. His eyes were tired with years, yet still they were filled with a long life’s wisdom. “Then I bid you tread softly upon his heart, child, for Raphael may have convinced the world of how cavalier he is, yet he is an innocent to the cost of a broken heart. And I would not expect the Holy Father to look kindly upon one who impedes the work of one he considers his personal artisan.”

  He smiled as he spoke the words, but there was, nonetheless, a warning in them.

  “They have nothing to fear from me, Signor da Vinci,” she softly responded as she turned to gaze up adoringly at Raphael.

  “I painted a woman myself once . . . long ago . . . Like you, it was her eyes that captured me most, and that which I hope I offered to the world.”

  “I remember her,” Raphael nodded, smiling. “And I have studied often the sketches you allowed me to make from her—her figure placement, the turn of her head . . . the eyes, and her curious smile. Your work shall always be an inspiration to me.”

  “S, that is the one, my Mona Lisa. She became a representation of many things, a challenge to me. But, your signorina here, she is from your heart. You will do many great works of her.”

  “It is my passion now.”

  Margherita bit back an embarrassed smile. Raphael looked at her turned-up lips and thought, suddenly, how erotic it felt to kiss them. To taste her tongue in his mouth, and to feel the innocent passion that so freely came to him when they made love. She had brought him back to life in so many ways. At times, she made him feel like an innocent himself when they were alone.

  “Take great care then that your sincerest wish is not at odds with the desire of the Holy Father, and those around him,” da Vinci warned with a rheumy cough. “For you know there is great power in that Vatican Palace. And I fear the tide of your good fortune could turn quickly if it is suspected that you were no longer entirely committed to their desires, first and foremost.”

  Raphael had taken her hand and was rubbing his thumb against her palm. He could feel her shiver as he said, “Many thanks, old friend. I shall consider myself warned.”

  AFTER LEONARDO had departed into the grainy gray Roman dusk, Raphael and Margherita were alone again. Seizing the privacy, Raphael pushed back the artist’s drapery lying on their pallet, and pressed her into the folds of cool linen beneath, in the private little sanctuary off the main workshop. Without words, Margherita fell willingly beneath his smooth, tender hands and reveled as he touched the soft skin of her neck with gentle fingertips. As Raphael began passionately to kiss her, their bodies bound by one another, both in the state of half undress, the sound of a door swinging back on its hinges out in the main workshop brought a sudden and frightening stop to the moment. Margherita’s eyes widened at the sound of rustling skirts, and Raphael turned toward the second door to see who was so unexpectedly there . . .

  19

  IT WAS THE FIRST TIME MARIA BIBBIENA HAD BEEN TO the workshop in months. Raphael did not invite her here, nor did he seem to appreciate her presence when she did, on occasion, visit, bringing him a basket of warm bread, figs, a chunk of thick yellow cheese, and wine for his dinner. But as there was little other excuse to see him, he being so entirely taken up these days with all of the feverish activity in his life, it was the only excuse left to her. She would come here with an offering basket of his favorite things and hope that even if he was not appreciative, at least he might be hungry.

  The two women attendants who accompanied Maria, richly attired in their own quilted and jeweled winter gowns, which matched her black velvet with long fu
r collar and cuffs, were dutifully silent. The expressions on their smooth, pretty faces were passive as they followed her. Maria knew that they, too, had heard the gossip about her betrothed and his new common model.

  Maria squared her painfully thin shoulders, which, like her telltale bony collarbone, were masked by layers of rich black velvet and a wide band of fur. She did her best to hold her head high, but her nose was running again and she felt weakened by the daunting performance that lay before her.

  She had suffered many illnesses in her twenty years, and a general sense of ill health pervaded her world. There were daily tinctures, ointments, powders, and plasters, and endless consultations with new physicians, herbs, and special food. Her thin, ash-blond hair and pale-lipped smile could only hide so much. Still, the dignity of the house of Bibbiena thrust her forward, a proud, slippered step at a time, followed by her entourage, onto aged stairs that gave a small creak with each footfall.

  It was quiet when they entered through the main workshop door. She saw that everyone had gone home for the day. Even the young apprentice who usually remained to clean paintbrushes in pails of water across the vast, easel ornamented room was no-where to be seen. Yet Maria knew Raphael would still be here. It was not so late for him, with so many commissions to balance. Long after everyone is asleep, he once had told her, here I remain. It is, after all, my name and my reputation that suffers if I cannot find a way to satisfy them all.

  Maria ventured forth toward his small, private room. She had found him there once before late like this, pouring over account books. Maria knocked once; then, when no response came, she turned the iron handle of the little room and pushed open the door.

  There before her was Raphael and a woman, with hair like sable-colored satin, long and graceful, curved over her bare shoulders. Both of them were naked, yet covered by the same amber artist’s drapery, and lounging sensually on a pallet on the floor. But what shocked her the most was the expression on his face. It was one of complete exultant desire for the woman whose bare leg was twined with his own. To her credit, Maria thought, disdainfully, the peasant girl, once seen, had the manners to cover herself.

  She must have gasped before her fingers moved up and splayed across her mouth because Raphael shot her a stunned glare.

  “Dio mio!” he cried out, bolting upright. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Clearly, I should not have come,” Maria managed to respond, fingers still splayed across her lips, as her eyes settled on this newest rival—the common girl from Trastevere whom he preferred as the model for his Madonna.

  Maria spun on her heel, the hem of her gown swirling out behind her. The only sound was a rustle of skirts. To his credit, Raphael rose, called out her name in a tone of concern, then tried to go after her. But Maria’s male attendant and guard, a solidly built Tuscan with a square face and a flat nose, blocked the door to the room as soon as Maria had gone out of it.

  “Allow her to go with her dignity, signore,” he said with surprising command. “Follow her, if you will, but only once you have your clothes on.”

  Despite their wild trembling, Maria ran as fast as her legs could carry her, her eyes clouded with tears.

  “What a fool I am!” she sobbed against the butter-yellow stone facade of the building once she was out on the street. An icy winter breeze buffeted her.

  “If he wants you he will come after you, signorina,” the groom said kindly. “And if he does not—”

  “If he does not, it is the end of my life!”

  “You must not speak such words!”

  “What other can come from me?”

  “Those saying that you shall rise above this, and above him, and you shall go on, if he desires you not!”

  Maria turned her head and looked at the guardsman through tear-clouded eyes. She had never, until this moment, truly regarded him. He had worked for her family for many years and she did not even know his name. When she looked into his soulful green eyes now she saw that they were full of kindness and a remarkable concern.

  “What do you know of such things?” she sniffled.

  “I know what I see, signorina. A lovely girl who deserves better than to chase rainbows.”

  “You believe Raffaello to be a rainbow, do you, signor guardia?”

  “He may well be one for you.”

  “I find you impertinent with me and I know not even your name.”

  “I am Alessandro, Signorina Bibbiena.”

  “From what family?”

  “Agnolo, of Montalcino, signorina,” he nodded, hands stiffly at his sides. “Am I less impertinent to you now?”

  She tried not to smile, but it was useless. He proffered a handkerchief, which she accepted as her two ladies emerged and gathered on the street behind her. The meaning of his family name was gentle as a lamb, and for all of his strength as a guard she could see that in him.

  “Only mildly impertinent now.”

  “Improvement is a worthy thing.” He bit back a smile.

  “So it is, Signor Guardia Alessandro Agnolo. Now, if you please, see me home. I find I am feeling very tired.”

  20

  March 1515

  DONATO TOOK HER GLOVED HAND IN HIS OWN AS THEY stepped along in the chilled March air, and through the crowded streets of Trastevere. His smile was a strange one, Margherita saw. They walked silently, arm in arm, passing a large bronze equestrian statue in the center of a small piazza. A flock of pigeons flapped their wings, some of them abandoning the statue as Margherita and Donato passed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You must learn to like surprises if you are to remain a part of a great man’s life!”

  “Where we are going is to be a surprise for me?”

  “A rather grand one, I should imagine.”

  They next passed through an arcade and into a narrow street still full of medieval houses, each with Gothic windows and broad balconies. They passed a little church with a fine rose glass window glittering like a jewel in a single burst of afternoon sun through a gray sky. Around them, old women in heavy cloaks filtered out past the carved doors into the street. Donato’s eyes twinkled with the merriment of a summer’s day in spite of the wintry air.

  “You know what it is?” she asked, putting a hand on his arm, as they walked through a carved archway between two buildings and out onto the grand Via Alessandrina. They passed two brown-clad monks, their lowered heads covered in wide straw hats, and a collection of musical instrument workshops before they came finally to the portion of the street housing stately villas. Situated on the corner was a particularly imposing four-story house of terra-cotta and stone.

  Suddenly, Donato stopped, kissed her cheek with brotherly affection, then slowly pulled open one of the huge and heavy front doors, which had a coat of arms carved above them. With a long, low creaking sound, the doors revealed a grand vestibule with a soaring ceiling, Doric columns, marble floors, and sweeping staircase that lay beyond. The rich aroma of leather and old books spilled out onto the street around them as Margherita gasped.

  “What are you doing?”

  But before he could respond, Raphael came toward her across the marble floor of the imposing foyer, his shoe heels tapping and his smile wide. Extending his arms, he enveloped Margherita, kissed her, then drew her into the warmth of the house.

  “Well? Does it please you?” he asked with the happy expectation of a child. “If you are not pleased, then, of course, I will sell it immediately.” Before she could answer, he led her into a large room dotted with art to the left of the foyer. Its vaulted ceiling and broad, painted beams made her gasp.

  “I do not understand,” she told him as she looked back from a room appointed with more luxury and grandeur than her mind could conjure.

  “It is for you. It is your new home. If it pleases you, naturally.”

  She frowned slightly, trying to digest all that he was saying, and all that it implied. “As your mistress?”

  “As yourse
lf, Margherita. Only ever as yourself. To give you the privacy you deserve, from my assistants, or anyone else. To accept or decline whatever visitor you wish. Including me.”

  “You?” she smiled in disbelief. “You, who would be responsible for it in the first place?”

  He was smiling back at her with delight in his weary eyes. “I love you, Margherita. I do not wish to keep you like a prize, or like a servant. I wish most of all to marry you, and I have meant this house as a show of that declaration.”

  “Signorina Bibbiena will never give you up.”

  He wanted to say that he had asked Maria yet again to terminate the betrothal, but betraying Margherita with a lie would be to sully something pure and special.

  “I have not seen her since she came to the studio and found us,” he answered truthfully.

  “Is it her cardinal uncle you fear?”

  Raphael let a sigh and drew her down onto a divan with carved wooden legs and covered in French tapestry. “I care not for myself if he is angered by the truth. I can always find work painting portraits.”

  “But your men, good men like Giulio.” She saw the concern in his eyes. “Spare me not, Raphael. Truth matters to me as loyalty does to you.” She waited a moment. “Do you truly see a time when you shall be free of her? I have no wish to dream for something that can never be.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her deeply. “I know not when or how, but before the day I draw my final breath, you alone shall be called wife to Raphael of Urbino.”

  JOINED BY Padre Giacomo and Margherita’s family, Margherita and Raphael celebrated her first night in the new house on the Via Alessandrina, which was home, as well, to the Spanish ambassador. The house had been a palace, a city dwelling for the powerful and influential Caprini family a decade earlier. Margherita had told Raphael in the hours after it began to sink in how happy this would have made her mother. For so simple a woman to see dreams become reality for her daughter would have meant the world to her.