Leonardo's Swans

by Karen Essex

  He had made a great fuss with her ladies-in-waiting at the door. He had to speak with the marchesa. Isabella sent the girls away and let him in, clutching a fur-lined wrap over her thin nightgown. He made his intentions known immediately.

  “I’ve covered for us with a story. I told your ladies that I’ve come to discuss a delicate matter about Beatrice with her sister, who will advise me.”

  “What advice do you seek, Your Excellency?” she asked. “Surely you do not need my help in deflowering a maiden. I imagine you’re quite practiced at the art.”

  “No, the deed is done, but it has left me unquenched.”

  “May I offer you some wine?”

  “Marchesa, do not play games with me. I am not a stupid man, nor do I lack perception in a woman’s intentions. I am here because you summoned me.”

  She began to protest when he stopped her. “Not with words. How could you, when we have had no time to be alone? But I’ve been reading your thoughts, your gestures, and your eyes.”

  Before she could deliver a coy reply, he had his arm around her waist. The wrap dropped to the ground, and he pressed up against her. She could feel that indeed, though he had consummated the marriage, he was ready for more. She could smell the wine on his breath, but had to turn her face away when it entered her mind that this was the same breath that had mingled with Beatrice not moments before.

  “What is it, Marchesa? Do not tell me I have read this situation poorly?”

  He knew what she had been thinking. She was not yet practiced in the womanly art of hiding her deepest emotions. But there was no giving in to him, she knew. Here was a man who had wife and mistress. If he bedded her now, he would cast her aside and move on to the next—lady-in-waiting, kitchen maid, stable boy, who knew? Men were forever trying to quench their insatiable lusts with some new thing.

  She put her hand on his chest—affectionately, but also as a shield, trying to give herself time to decide how to play this opportunity. “Your Excellency, I’m afraid that this is neither the time nor the place to indulge in our desires.”

  He took her hand and kissed it, then wrapped it around his waist as his lips made their way to her ear. She felt his wet tongue caress the lobe and then bite it, sending a shudder through her body.

  “Did you not see the mysterious man in the mask today at the ceremony?”

  “I did not think anything of it. Many people wear the mask, either to hide the pox, or just as a matter of fashion, as the Venetians do.”

  “That was my husband.”

  “Why did he not make himself known?”

  “Sir. You know that my husband is captain general of the Venetian army.”

  “Yes, and at such a young age. You must be very proud.”

  Oh, he was sarcastic. He was mocking her as he tried to seduce her. He did not know it, but with every drop of sarcasm, he only strengthened her resolve to restrain her desires. She knew that she was no match for him as a player, not yet. But with some practice, and with him as a mentor, what might she learn?

  “And you also are aware, are you not, that the Venetians consider you their enemy?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. What does that have to do with us?”

  “Why do you think Francesco was here? As a Venetian spy? No, he was spying on me! He is a very jealous man, and also a hot-tempered man.”

  “Where is he now? Under the bed?” Ludovico reached right into the top of her gown and put his hand over her breast. “Ah. Sizable. Much better.”

  She decided to let him feel her breast. It would be better if he whetted his appetite for her. She knew from her marital relations with Francesco that a plump, white breast with a full pink nipple held some kind of power. She wanted to have that power over the most powerful prince in Italy.

  “I have no idea where my husband is. I had no idea he was going to make an appearance at your wedding. I tried to talk to him, but he signaled me not to approach him.”

  “He is a strange man, indeed. But if he is not here, then what is our obstacle?” Ludovico moved on to the other breast before trying to grasp both of them in one hand, which he could not do, and so he settled for kneading one breast and then the other.

  “I’m afraid of him,” she said. Then she put her arms around his neck and reached up and kissed him, kissed those full, red lips, opening her mouth so that he could slip his fat tongue inside. She sucked on his tongue while he felt her breasts. Then, she broke away.

  “You have to leave.”

  “You have a strange way of saying goodbye,” he said.

  “Francesco could be anywhere. Do you have any idea what he would do if he caught me with another man? Do you have any idea how happy the doge would be if my husband had an excuse to kill you? It would be just like Francesco to look for a reason to have a lovers duel. He both loves and hates that other men pay attention to me. I tell you, he is a bit insane, and would not hesitate to murder you if he had the chance.”

  Ludovico sighed. “Always one complication or another.”

  “We will have time again,” she said, kissing him lightly on the lips, taking his hand from inside her gown.

  “I am a patient man,” he said. “And I do not wish to die. Not tonight, when there is so much to look forward to tomorrow. Besides, the wait can make it so much more delicious.”

  FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:

  Moderation curbs all the vices.

  The ermine would rather die than soil itself.

  Days later, riding in the royal procession through the streets of Milan and crossing the drawbridge over the great, wide moat that surrounded the Castello Sforzesco, Isabella felt as if she were entering the kingdom of one of the fairy tales she and Beatrice had recited to each other as children. The façade, with its dramatic tower, faced an elegant city square. Archers stood sentry from what seemed like mountain-high ramparts. The bridges into the castle swarmed with activity. Indeed, as she discovered in coming days, messengers, pages, soldiers, merchants, ladies, ambassadors, and knights exited and entered at all hours. The frenetic movement never seemed to stop, not even at night, when riders and their torchbearers galloped across the bridge on some urgent mission.

  Surrounding the other sides of the Castello were beautiful meadows and woods, thick and enchanted. There, Ludovico housed his stables and his fine collection of horses, where Isabella guessed that Beatrice would be spending most of her time. The rooms of the Castello were too numerous to count, and at this time were filled with Beatrice’s magnificent trousseau, to be gazed upon and admired by the visiting guests. Walking through the winding rooms where thousands of gifts for the bride and groom were on display was like being on a tour of the world’s great treasures. Plate of gold and silver, exquisite and delicate ceramics, mounds of spices in exotic bowls, weavings from many countries, lengths of shimmering brocades, and necklaces of gems and metals that Isabella could not even identify—lavish offerings to the great Italian prince and his bride on view for all to admire.

  Isabella also knew that hidden somewhere in these magnificent apartments was Ludovico’s mistress, Cecilia Gallerani. Isabella was dying to get a glimpse of the rival to Beatrice and herself. She roamed the halls, pretending to get lost, but made no progress in discovering this lady’s whereabouts. She could not decide what she wished to see most, the lady or the famed painting of her by the Magistro. She decided that she would neither rest nor leave Milan until she had seen both. She sent her own servants to inquire discreetly, but all palace lips were sealed on the subjects of mistress and painting. She made up her mind to ask Ludovico himself to arrange a viewing of one or both, though it would require extraordinary gumption. But the opportunity to do this was not forthcoming.

  She had not had a single moment alone with Ludovico since he tried to invade her bed in Pavia. He had departed the next day to attend to the details of the celebrations in Milan, leaving Beatrice and Isabella to be entertained by Galeazz, who spent two uninterrupted days in their company. Like wild children, ig
noring the cold, they rode through the hunting parks of Pavia, where Galeazz let loose his best falcons for Beatrice’s pleasure. Though he flirted with Isabella, he paid particular attention to Beatrice, indulging her desires to ride, to hunt, to explore the grounds, and to chatter, to the point of exhaustion. He made wordplay with both sisters, making a fierce debate about the higher qualities of the legendary knights Rinaldo and Orlando, until they were almost out of breath. But there was a particular quality to his demeanor with her sister. Isabella had the distinct impression that, despite the fact that Galeazz was to eventually marry Ludovico’s daughter, Bianca, he was trying to make Beatrice fall in love with him. She could not tell whether Beatrice was profoundly glad to find a friend at court who could hunt and ride as well as she, or if she was succumbing to his more romantic efforts. An odd situation, she thought, and one to keep an eye on.

  Private moments with Ludovico were further sabotaged when Francesco showed up again in Milan wearing his mask, trying to mingle anonymously in the crowd of thousands. Ludovico recognized him and sent a message for him to join them at their table for dinner. Francesco, of course, could not refuse. He joined the party, sitting beside her at table while hundreds of Milanese peasant girls dressed in Sforza scarlet and blue performed folk dances for their pleasure. He joined his wife in her bed, too, which she welcomed. Yes, she had taken quickly to the marriage bed, and who would not, with the way that he caressed her for long hours, whispering hot words of his desire for her into her ear. She had grown accustomed to his warm body beside her and his habit of rousing her out of her sleep and coaxing her into meeting his lusts. She certainly did not wish for this to change.

  Francesco would not give a good reason why he appeared on the scene in disguise except that in light of his relations with the Most Serene Republic of Venice, he wished to act discreetly and diplomatically, while still not missing the monumental occasion of his beloved sister-in-law’s wedding. Isabella had no choice but to accept his explanation, though when Francesco had ever acted diplomatically, or when he had formed this great love for Beatrice, she did not know. It was like Galeazz’s courtly love for Beatrice, manifesting out of nowhere and, as far as Isabella could see, for no good reason. Would the captain general of Milan’s army actually try to entertain himself with Ludovico’s wife? Isabella had no answer to these questions, nor could she figure out the situations. But she was confident that with time, all would reveal itself.

  FRANCESCO remained in Milan for the first day of the jousting contests. His brother Alfonso led the Mantuan contingency, twenty knights wearing green and gold, the colors of the House of Gonzaga. The tournaments would last for three days, attracting knights from all over Italy, festively dressed for the prince’s wedding, and bearing the heralds and crests of their states. Even their horses were costumed, wearing horns to make them appear like deer and unicorns. Ludovico’s riders were led by Galeazz’s brother Gaspare, donning dramatic black-and-gold costumes in the style of the Moors, in honor of Ludovico. They looked most severe in their black armor, almost as if they had been sent from Hell.

  Isabella watched for three days while Beatrice searched everywhere for Galeazz, but he did not make an appearance. Finally, on the last day, a swarm of masked men, costumed like ancient Scythian warriors, wearing breastplates and belts of blazing gold against jet-black clothes, arrived on ebony-colored chargers, carrying immense golden lances, the longest that Isabella had ever seen. How they maintained their balance on the horses while carrying these gigantic sticks she did not know. They galloped across the piazza, the silky cloth from their headdresses flying behind them, until they made a dead stop in front of the box where Ludovico and Beatrice sat with the young duke and duchess. Their leader stuck the giant golden lance into the ground and ripped off his headdress.

  It was Galeazz. He bowed to the dukes and duchesses and glanced at Isabella, giving her a little smirk as if to say, I told you I wielded the biggest lance. He recited a poem of his own invention about Beatrice bringing the bud of youth’s first bloom to the ancient land of Lombardy—all predictable stuff—and included a couple of lines about his own betrothed, twelve-year-old Bianca Giovanna, who sat next to Beatrice and received the compliments shyly. Isabella was not in love with Galeazz, but she wished that he had included a reference to her in his recitation. She had been the muse of many poems already in her young life, and nothing thrilled her more than moving a man to take up the pen in admiration of her—unless it was a man taking up the brush to render her likeness.

  By the time the last tilt came to an end, Isabella was exhausted with Galeazz’s victories. Of course he took the day, knocking dozens of men from their horses in disgrace. Beatrice presented him with his prize, a length of priceless gold brocade, and he was the guest of honor at the evening’s festivities.

  Isabella congratulated the knight on his victory and on the surprise of his arrival in disguise. “The costumes of the barbarians were magnificent,” she said. “I had no idea that it was you. I was ready to run for my honor, what with the appearance of such fearsome men.”

  “Just between the two of us, I stole Magistro Leonardo away from his duties decorating the Castello for the wedding to have the costumes designed for us. I paid him very handsomely, I assure you, but I believe it was worth the expense.”

  “He does seem to be able to cast his genius in a myriad of directions.”

  “Yes, he is incomparable in all things. I preyed upon him to do me this favor, not for myself, of course, but because nothing is too extravagant to please and impress Madonna Beatrice.”

  “I sense that you have a special affection for my sister,” Isabella says.

  “Indeed I do, madame. My sole purpose is to serve her.”

  Did men think that because she was young and fair she could not see right through them? The perfunctory smile on his face might have been convincing to some, but to Isabella it was a mere clue that there was more to the story than he was telling.

  “So you are a patron of the Magistro?” she asked.

  “Indeed, as I have just said.”

  “Then you must know of the painting of Madonna Cecilia Gallerani.”

  “I do.” Galeazz seemed relieved to be off the subject of Beatrice, but not happy with the new topic of Cecilia.

  “If you are so fond of Madonna Beatrice, then surely you want to remain in her good graces by pleasing her sister.”

  “Nothing would please me more, except of course to please Madonna Beatrice, because I have made that my life’s quest.” This man was so practiced at playing the knight to ladies that his confidence exceeded that of a playactor.

  “Sir, there is a way that you might please me in the extreme.”

  “I was hoping you would suggest it,” he said, suddenly very alert, smile widening, anticipating her offer. Now she had him. If he were in love with her sister, would he stand so quickly at attention from the mere hint of flirtation from herself?

  “I want you to arrange for me to see the portrait by the Magistro of Cecilia Gallerani.”

  He did not speak. She had caught him by surprise. He just looked at her.

  “Well?”

  He collected himself from the disappointment of her request, fidgeting with his vest, pulling it down again and again. “Your Excellency, that is a most bizarre request, and a most indiscreet one at that.”

  “I will tell you what is indiscreet. That would be the way that Ludovico has charged you, his future son-in-law, with distracting my sister with your gallantry so that she will not notice that he is still seeing his pregnant mistress. That, my dear Galeazz, is indiscreet. Arranging for me to see a painting need not be indiscreet.”

  IT takes Galeazz less than forty-eight hours to arrange the request. Isabella knows that she should feel guilty for blackmailing this beautiful and gallant man, who is only doing his duty to his prince, by making him do her bidding in exchange for keeping his secret from her sister. Instead, she feels deliciously wicked as they sneak down the ha
lls of the quarter of the Castello where Ludovico shares an apartment with his lover. The appropriate servant has been bribed and walks ahead of them with the large bronze key to the rooms. Everyone is having a nap after a morning of riding and eating. Madonna Gallerani is taking the noonday sun in her private courtyard, as is her habit in this late stage of her pregnancy. Isabella and Galeazz will not be noticed or missed.

  Once in the salon, Isabella has to admit that the duke has had the decency to furnish his wife with more luxurious surroundings than his mistress. Cecilia’s apartment is lavishly done, with antique tapestries of the Judgment of Paris and other events leading up to the Trojan War, but Beatrice’s quarters have been decorated by the likes of the Magistro and are better still. That, Isabella thinks, is to Ludovico’s credit. Still, he has provided well for his mistress. The quarters are large, filled with grand furniture appropriate to its proportions. The remains of a lazy fire burn to embers. Isabella places her backside to the flame, lifting her skirt discreetly, allowing a rush of heat to climb up the backs of her legs as her eyes search the room.

  The painting sits on a tall gilded easel. A beautiful woman emerges from dark, spooky shadows like an angel floating into this realm from the fog of a dream. Her face is luminous, her skin, translucent. Her hands are pale, her fingers, long and elegant. A white, snouted creature sits on her lap, its ears round and delicate, its claws emphatically rendered, its gaze as attentive to some unseen thing outside the frame as that of its mistress. It is as if both creatures are listening to a distant, beckoning sound.

  Isabella loves the way the Magistro works the dark upon the light; loves the muted colors, and the way that he managed to paint fragile netting upon her hair, tied ever so delicately under her chin. How does one paint translucence? How does one paint skin so lustrous that brushstrokes cannot be seen? And the hair! Like an alchemist in reverse, he spins gold paint into hair. She looks at Cecilia’s long, fair hair, not nearly as lush and thick as her own, and she knows that she wants the Magistro to spin her own golden locks with his magic. He has made this woman look as if she has come from the ether, delicate, teetering between this world and the next.