by Sarah Dunant
The Pope flaps a hand to bat away the question.
“Is something wrong?”
“Diplomatic peccadilloes, that’s all. Nothing a pregnancy wouldn’t sort out. I wait for news every day. Everyone says that Alfonso is a most attentive husband.”
But this doesn’t please Cesare any better. Such thunder there is in his face. The boy has always been too prone to anger when it comes to his sister’s husbands.
“I think that concludes our business, Cesare,” Alexander says loudly, switching into Italian. At the door stands Burchard, two chamberlains behind him carrying the heavy white ermine stole decorated with pearls that the Pope must wear for the afternoon’s ceremony.
“Yes, yes, I know, we are late for the ceremony,” Alexander tells him. “The duke is just leaving. Though he used to love this ceremony when he was a cardinal, isn’t that right, my son?” he says, dismissing him carefully without the usual familial embrace.
Burchard drops his eyes as Cesare marches out. It would not do to note the smears of dried blood on his chin, or the ill-concealed anger in his eyes. Even when the Pope’s son had been a cardinal there had been only the barest ceremonial politeness between them, and that is long since gone. Burchard knows how much the duke dislikes him. How much he dislikes anyone who he thinks might be privy to his father’s intimacy. There had been moments when for all his uprightness, this master of papal ceremonies had not been beneath listening at keyholes. But experience taught him fast that even when a German could follow the rapid fire of vernacular Catalan, it was better not to know what he might learn.
It is Johannes Burchard’s great fortune to have been born with a phlegmatic disposition, further honed by being a penniless choir scholar in the great church of Niederhaslach, where climbing the ladder of ecclesiastical politics was a study in survival. A man could have no better apprenticeship for Rome.
“So, let us get ready, Johannes.” The Pope beams. “You will have organized the procession down to the last detail, I am sure. Not too many soldiers, I hope. You know how I like to greet the crowd.”
“There are guards at each stopping post, Holy Father, as protocol demands.”
The Master of Ceremonies does not add that in recent months he has felt the need to use more of them. Since the circulation of the slanderous anonymous letter a few months before, there has been an undercurrent of disgust in certain elements of the citizenry, and it would not do to have the Pope heckled on his way.
“And tell me again, what is the dowry purse for the young virgins? Fifty or seventy-five florins? I can never quite remember. Seventy-five? My goodness. They are lucky to be under the care of Our Lady’s friars. We shall add some gold ducats of our own, and make sure all the cardinals open their purses equally widely. The Church will have to find good husbands for these gentle young women to do them justice.”
—
That afternoon, eighteen young women, veiled in virgin white and weak with nerves, wait inside the gilded nave of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, flanked by chaperones and Dominican friars, with cardinals and dignitaries filling the pews in front. At first Alexander’s mind moves waywardly over the momentous events to come, but after a while he finds himself sinking into the richness of the ceremony. The Vatican is full of churchmen who snore their way through worship, but that has never been his way.
He still remembers the first great church he entered. Recently all manner of childhood memories in Spain are growing clearer, like a fog burning off a once familiar landscape. He had been nine years old; his father had died that winter and his mother had brought the family from the village of Xàtiva to Valencia under the protection of her brother the bishop, soon to be appointed cardinal in Rome.
The city’s cathedral was famous, built on the ruins of a mosque, a symbol of Christ’s eternal victory over the heathens and shining with a brand-new bell tower. Such theater it had offered after his local church: soaring Gothic arches like the ribs of a vast upturned boat, the wonder of a new double dome rising high above the altar with creamy daylight filtering through its thin alabaster windows, and below the heady smell of incense and the stark misery of Christ’s tortured flesh on the cross, flowing with painted rivers of blood. But it was not Christ who had captured his heart that day. Nor even the great relic of the Holy Grail that brought daily crowds in pilgrimage. That honor had gone to a particular statue of the Virgin. The church was dedicated to her, and there she was: dressed as the Queen of Heaven enthroned in a sea of freshly gilded wood—he had never seen so much gold—while under her crown the sweetest face shone out, pale, lovely and loving. He could not take his eyes off her. Oh, how he yearned to climb up and sit wrapped inside her robes, looking out at the world with that gentle face above him. Such a safe place to be—in a woman’s arms. It is a feeling that has never left him. When, a few years later, he was told that he, like his uncle before him, was to enter the Church, all he could think of was the Virgin’s beauty. And all that gold.
No surprise then that Santa Maria sopra Minerva is his favorite church in Rome. It too was once a heathen site, a temple for Minerva, goddess of war and wisdom; it holds the body of Catherine of Siena, who died from an excess of ecstasy in a convent nearby. Then there is Mary herself, to whom it is dedicated. He has only to turn his head to the right to see a luminous annunciation in the chapel commissioned by Cardinal Carafa. The fresco had barely been dry on the wall when he became Pope, and every time he sees it, it makes his heart beat faster. These Florentine artists are alchemists; their color palette makes the walls sing. He has never seen a more radiant painted Virgin. What man could help but worship a woman who moves with such grace from fear and incredulity to the quiet acceptance of everything that God is asking of her? On the odd occasion when his mind strays fretfully to the gates of heaven, his entrance is always bathed in the serene light of the Virgin’s smile.
The mass ended, Alexander welcomes the virgins, who kneel and kiss his feet, charming him all over again with their youth and modesty. As he gives each her purse, he makes sure to say a few words before she rises, making this the most important moment in her life and leaving any husband found for her forever in the shadow of God’s most favored man on earth.
Before he leaves he passes by the image of Filippino Lippi’s Virgin again. Could it be that she so enchants because her willowy beauty and unruly fair hair also remind him a little of the women in his own life: the lovely Giulia Farnese and his own, dearest Lucrezia? Yes, now she has grown into womanhood there is surely more than a touch of Lucrezia here. Well, once the armies have been paid and the map of Italy rewritten, there will be time to put her face all over the walls of Rome. Perhaps that way he will come to miss her less. God help that old miser Duke Ercole if he does not treat her like the priceless jewel that she is.
CHAPTER 11
Lucrezia’s troubles had started not long after the festivities officially ended. Ferrara had been under the gaze of much of Europe, and of course it had all been monstrously expensive: the ever-rising bill for housing, feeding and entertaining envoys, ambassadors and their retinues painful for a duke who likes to keep the string on his purse double-knotted.
The foreigners soon drifted away. The French took longer, but they are well known for enjoying others’ hospitality, and as long as they rule Milan no one would dare to criticize their manners. That left the entourage of Spaniards who had accompanied Lucrezia from Rome, and they were in no hurry to go home. Free beds, a fine kitchen and an almost nightly concert or play in the great hall of the palace; it was a sweeter life than the occasional comforts of the Borgia Vatican. The duke’s smile had become frozen on his face. Ferrara already had a court and did not need another. He made it known that these “guests” were no longer welcome.
Reluctantly the courtiers took their leave. Which left Lucrezia’s own household. Of course his daughter-in-law must have her ladies and her servants around her, but it’s obvious to Ercole that there are just too many of them. The castle apartments echo to th
e sound of a foreign language. This is Italy, not Spain! It is insupportable. Something must be done.
When he raises the subject directly, Lucrezia, mindful of her need to fit in, is careful with her response. She studies the lists of her household and gives way over some lesser members. But the sticking point is her ladies. She goes to Stilts, who has become an unofficial go-between for both of them.
“I cannot, will not, part with a single one of them. They are my dearest companions.”
He is understanding, but not encouraging.
“Clearly you must keep the very closest, but…I think the duke’s fear is that with so many of them it leaves no room for any young Ferrarese women of good breeding who would give anything—anything—to serve their new duchess. You have already been so graceful and generous to the ordinary citizens in the street. Perhaps now you might see your way to extending that generosity to the families of the court.”
Lucrezia listens, trying to work out if the tears she feels pricking at her eyes are fury or sorrow.
Her last stop is the papal envoy.
“It will pain His Holiness greatly to hear this,” the man says gravely. “However…the makeup of your ladies is, well, rather a domestic matter, and I am not sure…”
He gives the smallest shrug. The silence is eloquent. Her dowry is paid and Ferrara is ruled by her father-in-law.
On the last day of March, Girolama, Drusilla, and two others of her inner circle ride out with the rest of the Spanish courtiers, and a small part of her heart goes with them.
But the real battle is yet to come.
To make a home here, she must also make a court. Ferrara has not had a first lady of any cultural force since Duchess Eleonora of Aragon, dead years before. Her father-in-law is now seventy-one years old, and if her husband is too busy or too surly to invest in his own court, then she, Ferrara’s new duchess, must lay the foundations for both of them. It’s the work she has been waiting for, and the prospect excites her deeply.
She takes her cue from Ercole himself. Though he may be famously miserly paying for others, he is profligate with himself. It is not just half the town that is new; the ducal palace is in a constant of state of rebuilding. His courtiers seem to think nothing of walking around with a permanent coating of brick dust on their clothes. The tennis court is being refurbished, more angled walls to enrich the game, and the old (though it is hardly that old) chapel has been pulled down in favor of a new one. There are plans for a bigger, grander theater space. When Lucrezia expresses surprise at such largesse she’s met with compassionate smiles. She should have been here three years ago, when a whole group of courtiers arrived home from the summer progress to discover their quarters had been demolished while they were away!
Then there are the artists he keeps on the payroll: writers, actors, composers, singers, musicians. Barely an evening goes by without some spectacle. True, not every one is successful; the duke has a penchant for unwieldy classical plays that go on half the night and stupefy everyone except him and the performers. But no one sleeps when music is playing. The orchestra has near on sixty players and singers. Sixty! Many of them wooed away from someone else’s court. Then there is Bartolomeo Tromboncino—a man with a voice to stir the gods, recently arrived from Mantua under a storm cloud of scandal for having murdered his own wife. Luckily for him, the lady had been in bed with another man at the time, so the duke finds it easier to pardon him. Lucrezia’s enjoyment of his glorious baritone fades a little when she hears this, not least because it dovetails with whispers of how in the Este family history, if a wife is found in any other arms death is considered a light punishment.
She invites him to visit her. Many of the songs he sings are his own compositions, and their brilliance is beyond doubt. Would he consider writing a piece for her new court? She would be happy to supplement her small troupe with further players if he needs them. Perhaps he could suggest some names?
“I am afraid good musicians are at a premium in this part of the country, your lady. Duke Ercole has already snaffled up all the best ones.”
“Then we shall pay whatever it takes to find others,” she says with a smile. For money is no problem. Her huge dowry includes an annual income of ten thousand ducats. More than enough.
But a week later the head of her household comes to her with notices of bills to be settled and the revelation that there is no money to pay them. No money. What about her promised allowance? It seems it has not been released.
The meeting with her father-in-law begins with flowing compliments and smiles on both sides.
“Of course, of course, my dear daughter, you have only to ask and it shall be given. Eight thousand ducats will be in your purse by the end of the month.”
“Thank you. And when might I expect the rest?”
“The rest? Oh no, my dear, I think you will find eight will be more than enough.”
“But it was agreed that I would have ten,” she says quietly. “And I will certainly need the whole amount.”
“Yes, it has been a most costly time! For myself more than anyone. But now the wedding is over we can all make adjustments. Ferrara is not Rome, my dear, and ten thousand is excessive. Which is why I have decided on eight.”
Lucrezia stares at him. While she has had troubles in her life, she has never, ever, had to worry about money. Her father’s largesse has flowed like water in a new fountain: clothes, favors, titles, lands, income…To be fighting over two thousand ducats seems…well, embarrassing.
But if that is the only way to get what is her due…
“I’m sorry,” she says brightly. “But I cannot live on that sum. I need the whole allowance.”
“It’s difficult, I know. I suspect that in your young life you have never had to think about such things, but in your position it is important. You must make an inventory of all your staff and their salaries and your outgoings in terms of food and clothing and entertainment. See—here, I have had my accountant do some calculations for you and…”
She sits in horror as he follows the numbers on the paper in front of him, stunned not simply by the patronizing tone but by how much he seems to be enjoying himself. What were the words her father had been heard yelling from his rooms as the negotiations over her dowry had become ever more acrimonious: The man bargains like a common tradesman! But is he also a liar?
“No.” She cannot keep the anger out of her voice. “I cannot…I will not do that.” She stops and tries again. Dear Duke and honored father…that is what she should say. Charm, Lucrezia….Remember how men react. But the words stick in her throat. “My lord, when I left Rome it was made clear to me that my allowance would be ten thousand ducats a year. And ten thousand a year is what I need.”
He says nothing, but his mouth is moving angrily.
“A duchess’s court has standards, as you know well: musicians and scribes, envoys, stables, kitchens, my wardrobe—”
“My goodness, you cannot want for more clothes!” he says briskly. “Well, of course women do. And there are marvelous fabric merchants here in Ferrara. Most reasonable prices.”
“I am sure.” She smiles tightly. “But the best fabrics come from Venice. And it is to Venice that I send to clothe myself and my ladies—”
“Ah! Your ladies!”
“—Are a paltry expense,” she throws back hurriedly, realizing her mistake. “It is my wardrobe first and foremost. You would not want me to look drab.”
“You would never look drab, my dear.” But the compliment falls flat. His voice is sour now. “I know you women are much concerned about such things. But I am not without experience. I may be a widower, but I have children who understand the price of fashion, and I must tell you I have taken advice on this.”
Not my husband, she thinks. Alfonso would never do such a thing to me.
“My own dear daughter, the Marchesa of Mantua, has helped me. We spoke of it when she was here for the wedding, and since then I have been in correspondence with her. She has made
an assessment of her own household to guide me. And she assured me that she conducts herself on eight thousand ducats most adequately.”
For a moment Lucrezia is speechless. The poisonous toad! Eight thousand! Enough for Isabella d’Este? A woman famous for outbidding anyone and everyone when she wants something: statues, paintings and antiques? Isabella d’Este, who has a palace full of musicians and poets and keeps a stable of dressmakers and designers? The Marchesa of Mantua would have to go around in pleated sackcloth with a bag over her head to survive on such a sum. What a vicious meddler! She should have kept her waiting till doomsday on those mornings after the wedding.
She can sense a sweat on her skin now, and she feels suddenly sick to her stomach. No, no, this won’t do. She did not fight her way out of Rome into a loveless marriage to be denied a court of her own.
She sits for a second, trying to regain her composure.
“I have to tell you that my father, the Pope, would be most unhappy to hear of this conversation,” she says, keeping her hands carefully folded in her lap to stop them trembling. “The considerable dowry that was negotiated in good faith between our two families”—she does not add the biggest in all of Italy—“made it quite clear that my allowance was to be set at ten thousand.”
Oh, but he doesn’t like hearing about good faith or the Pope. Not at all.
No. It is his face that goes darker, and he makes a gruff grumbling noise as he shrugs his shoulders. There is a heavy silence. In the standoff they are both clearly thinking the same thing. The Pope may feel anything he likes, but Rome is a long way away and there is too much riding on this marriage for it to be broken over a sum of two thousand ducats.
—
She had left the audience barely able to hold back hot tears. She, who doesn’t often give in to anger, had stomped around her rooms.
“How could he! Tradesman is too good a word. He is…well, he is a thief!”