by Karen Essex
Ludovico’s disappointment over his spurned invitations to Isabella finally culminated in a shocking gesture. Morose, he canceled the games and jousts at Pavia to be held in honor of the birth of the duke and duchess’s son, the little Count of Pavia. Isabel of Aragon was furious at the insult to her son. She fired off angry letters to her relations in Naples, demanding that they use whatever means necessary to remove Ludovico as her husband’s regent. Beatrice knows this because all the court secretaries share information. Beatrice also knows that the royals of Naples would love to comply with Isabel’s request, but for the fact that Gian Galeazzo is an imbecile and a drunkard; he is a disaster leading a horse to water, much less leading the most important city-state in Italy.
Look at him now, losing his seat in his saddle again in an attempt to grope at his beloved’s stubbly face. At least Beatrice is in competition with two women of beauty and grace, and not some country bumpkin with long, gangly limbs who cannot read or write. As Duke Gian Galeazzo’s attendant pulls him back into the saddle, Ludovico hands him a flask of wine. Beatrice watches Isabel’s eyes land on Il Moro like the tongue of a venomous cobra on its victim. Color shoots into her cheeks, and her bosom, already pushed up high by her bodice, rises in a steady, belabored heave. Beatrice knows that Isabel blames Ludovico for Gian Galeazzo’s degraded condition, but what else is Il Moro supposed to do? Turn power over to a man with half a brain, who has no interest in administering the government? Lose the duchy of Milan to whatever enemy first strikes after the foolish boy is put in charge?
Beatrice has no illusions about Ludovico’s love of power; yet she thinks that he treats the feeble young duke with more respect than that idiot deserves. Another man might have had him quietly done away with. Italian politics were full of such stories. Even her own father had tried to poison his nephew Niccolò, who repeatedly conspired against him, until finally, after an attempted insurgency, the Diamond had him beheaded. No one thought the less of her father. Indeed, respect for him grew. He and Duchess Leonora and all of their children were alive and prospering, and not rotting in a tomb in Ferrara’s Duomo like so many families of leaders who failed to eliminate their enemies. No, after Duke Ercole executed his nemesis, the streets of Ferrara rang out with cries of Diamante! Diamante! Long live Ercole! The people of Ferrara then gave him his second nickname, the North Wind, to acknowledge how his cold decision-making abilities had saved their land.
But the belle of Aragon has no such affection for Ludovico. She does not allow herself to consider that, by assuming power, Ludovico is saving Milan from ruin at the hands of the inept Gian Galeazzo. Whipping her horse around, Isabel rides to Beatrice, almost sideswiping her. “Come with me, cousin,” she hisses. It is not a request, but a command. “I know an especial pond from which your horse would love to drink.”
Beatrice, reluctant to hear one of Isabel’s tirades against all the world on this lovely day, follows anyway, although something inside of her is telling her to make an excuse and remain with the party. Against her better judgment, she allows Isabel to lead them down a narrow path, where thistles snag at their veils and scrape their horses’ flanks. Finally, they reach the promised pond, a puddle of stagnant scum.
“That’s disgusting,” Beatrice says. “I wouldn’t let Drago drink from that.”
“Strange that nature’s formation disgusts you, but the actions of your husband do not.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Beatrice says, backing Drago up to maneuver him away from the poison on the ground and the poison coming from her cousin’s mouth.
“Do you not see how Ludovico keeps my husband drunk so that he may continue to usurp his power?”
Beatrice says nothing, but she would like to fire back that the duke would have come into his full power when he came of age two years ago if he had shown any interest in or ability for running the kingdom.
“Ludovico is betraying us all,” Isabel says. Beatrice waits for her to go on. Perhaps after she has delivered her speech, she will be spent.
“Are you pretending that you don’t know how he promenades Cecilia Gallerani around at public functions as if she were his wife? Would you not like to be in attendance with your husband on these occasions and not locked up in your apartments in the Castello like a child in a nursery?”
Beatrice is aware of Ludovico’s nightly visits to Cecilia; she has had no idea that they have been appearing together in public. She knows that she should stop listening, knows that she should dig her heels into Drago’s sides and flee this news, but she cannot move.
“Do you think people wonder why Ludovico’s lawful wife is kept hidden while he struts his mistress and his bastard all over the city?”
Beatrice whips Drago around. Her veil sticks on a thorn, pulling her headdress askew. Annoyed, she yanks the thing off. “You are no friend, cousin, if you insist on infecting my mind against my husband by spreading these rumors.”
“Cousin, what rumors? This is but the truth: you and I are the most ill-treated, unfortunate women in the kingdom.” Isabel grabs the jeweled horn at her forehead. “Let us not lock horns, Beatrice. There is so very much we might do together to affect our fates—and the fate of Italy.”
Beatrice says nothing. Her father always told his children that the wise man listens while the fool gabs away.
“Have you any idea that your husband is conspiring with the French King Charles against our own grandfather?” Isabel asks, her voice low and full of knowing. “The French want Naples; that’s no secret. Ludovico believes that if he helps the French take Naples from King Ferrante, then Charles will invest him with the title of Duke of Milan. Do you know what will happen in that case to my husband and me? Ludovico either will have us exiled or will have us murdered in our sleep, whichever suits him. But imagine, Beatrice, your own husband joining the French to depose our grandfather Ferrante. Is that what you want?”
“That is ridiculous,” Beatrice says. “There is no such intrigue.” But she cannot forget the comment Ludovico had made about her someday being the best of friends with the Queen of France, if all goes according to plan. Now, in light of Isabel’s accusations, it makes perfect sense.
“Join with me,” Isabel says. “Ferrante loves us both. If he knew that not one of his granddaughters but two were suffering constant humiliation at the hands of our husbands, he would send an army here to rescue us. We are princesses of two of the greatest families in Europe—Aragon and Este. We are blood, Beatrice. Your mother is of the House of Aragon. Who is Ludovico but the son of a mercenary who stole power at an opportune time? You can pay him back for all that he is doing to sink our names into disgrace!”
“I must think on this, cousin.” These are the only words Beatrice can say and she mumbles them, not meeting Isabel’s angry eyes. She feels fear now, fear of her cousin and fear of her husband, and she does not know which is or should be the greater. Isabel’s eyes are so wild and her voice so full of venom that Beatrice wonders, if she refuses to conspire with her, will Isabel try to kill her? On the other hand, could Ludovico’s plans be so far-reaching and sinister?
As if answering Beatrice’s unspoken question, Isabel says, “Ludovico Sforza would conspire with the devil himself to become Duke of Milan. He would happily betray you, your family, my husband, our family, or his own family to satisfy his ambitions.”
Beatrice starts to turn Drago around so that she does not have to look at her cousin. “I said I would think on it.”
“Think on this, while you are thinking.” Isabel’s words fly like arrows past Beatrice’s ears—whizzing, angry, dangerous, and seeking a soft target. “If Ludovico joins with France against Naples, Beatrice, what will be your lot? Have you thought of that? I can tell you: you will be sent back to your father, and while your bed is still warm, a French bride, taken to please King Charles, will be sleeping in your quarters. That is, if Ludovico does not see that you are mysteriously given some bad meat first.”
Beatrice wants to answe
r that Ludovico would never do such a thing, but she is not so certain that her cousin has not hit upon some unfortunate truth. Not that she intends to allow the horrible prediction to come to fruition. She says nothing. Her shoulders rise and her arms and legs shoot out to the side to gain strength. Stretched out like some awkward bird attempting to take flight, and breathing in a little more warm air, she slaps her legs against Drago and gallops away toward the sounds of the hunting party.
Thoughts pass through her mind like the wind, making her heart pump faster as she races along the narrow path. She feels as if her body is going to implode from the dozens of emotions rising within her and yet she cannot think. Does not want to think. Despite all she feels, her head is empty.
She rides as fast as she can, but she can hear that the hunting party has picked up speed and is riding away from her as quickly as she tries to catch up with them. Arriving at the end of the path, she comes to the clearing and sees in the distance that Ludovico, Galeazz, and several of the men are giving chase to a pack of brown wolves while the women hang behind, chattering among themselves under little green tents, taking umbrage from the sun.
Beatrice picks up speed, heading for the chase. The horses and hounds have pushed the wolves to the edge of a river, surrounding them. The hounds bark madly, and the wolves—Beatrice counts seven—ululate with ferocity in response. The men cry out to their pages for their bows and spears.
Ludovico smiles as he sees Beatrice approach at breakneck speed. He raises his hand, signaling her to slow down, but she gallops ahead, almost knocking over a page who is quickly trying to thread a dark wooden bow with a green arrow.
“Bow!” she demands, and the boy, startled, freezes. Beatrice circles him, and before he is aware of what she is doing, leans to her right, grabbing the weapon as she circles Drago around the page.
In a split second, she identifies her target, the largest of the animals, looking at her with eyes like icy moons. She thinks for a moment that she sees the landscape reflected in its eyes. It growls at her, frightening her horse, which backs up skittishly. Galeazz shoots, and one of the wolves drops to the ground, making the survivors howl yet more fiercely. Beatrice thinks she might go mad from this wailing chorus. If only to silence at least one of them, to stop this ear-splitting lamentation, she clutches her legs tight around Drago’s superbly veined belly for balance, and releases the arrow into the wolf’s side. She knows that she has missed her precise mark, instead piercing the animal through the upper chest. Perhaps in anger, perhaps from the pain that must be shooting through his front legs, the wolf leaps in the air at her, burying his teeth into Drago’s chest. The horse rears back, hooves kicking into the air high above his head like an acrobat. Beatrice feels herself leave the saddle. Like a kite, she rises into the air as Drago bucks wildly, trying to release himself from the wolf’s grip. She sees blood from the wounds spreading over the coats of both animals. She sees that the afternoon sky is lapis blue, and that lavender buds have already begun to hang like jewels in the wisteria trees. The last thing she sees is the look of horror on Ludovico’s face, his eyes bulging and his hands frozen in the air like a statue of an ancient orator. She thinks, but cannot be sure, that he has just screamed “No.” Then she feels her body hit hard earth, and all is black.
FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:
Of the movement of birds: When birds wish to fly from one spot to another they will fly faster by making spontaneous headlong movements, and then rising up with reflex movement against the resistance in the air, and again making a fresh descent, and so on and so forth.
Dissect the bat, study it carefully, and on the model of this animal and his wings, design the machine.
A tiny chirp breaks the silence. Beatrice thinks it must be morning, though she is not ready to open her eyes. She feels a cool rag on her forehead and a blanket over her body. She thinks that she might be in Naples, and her governess has come in during the night to cover her from unexpected cool evening breezes. Why the cool cloth? Has she suffered with fevers? She hopes that Nanny won’t scold her again for riding through a cold spring day without a cloak. Beatrice remembers riding along the windy coast of Naples Bay—yesterday, today, or many years ago?—calculating that a short illness is an easy price to pay for the ecstasy of dancing the day long with fresh ocean breezes. Now a large, strange, hot hand is on hers.
“Beatrice?” A man’s voice rises above the warbling bird. “Can you hear me, darling wife?”
She opens her eyes. Her husband is inches away from her face, staring at her as if she has awakened from the dead. Startled by his large features and his concerned look, she pulls away, but has nowhere to go. Head glued to the pillow, she waits for her memory to catch up with her, and it does: the sickening conversation with Isabel by the stagnant pond; the wolf’s bare teeth, screaming with pain, blood spurting everywhere; and Drago rearing up like some wild dancer and knocking her into the sky. Beatrice winces, remembering it all. They have taken her back to her room at the palace at Vigevano, where she wants to close her eyes again against feelings of anger and disgrace.
“Is there pain?” Ludovico asks. “The doctor says that no bones are broken, nor is the skull injured.”
Beatrice manages a slight smile and then directs her gaze away from his face. Why is he looking so concerned if he intends to replace her with a Frenchwoman, or poison her in the interim? Even without Isabel of Aragon’s insinuations, Ludovico’s worry about one whom he so neglects seems misplaced. She cannot figure it unless, as she has been hoping, he loves her more than she thinks.
The drapes and shutters are still open, and she can see the dusky sun nearing the end of its day’s journey. The sky is purple, leaving much of the room in shadow. Someone has lit a small lamp. Ludovico turns his face upward, thanking God in Latin—Our Lord’s favorite language—for not taking his little wife, but returning her to “those of us who love her the most.”
Galeazz shows himself, holding a small, gilded cage with a little red finch. He lowers the cage so that Beatrice can see its fluttering wings. “I told them that you would hear the song of the bird, and that it would bring you back to us.” He is smiling, his teeth gleaming at her, the brightest thing in the room.
“Madonna Beatrice, please say something to us.” The voice is officious and not at all pleasant to the ear. Messer Ambrogio, Ludovico’s astrologer, steps out of Ludovico’s shadow and looms over her bed. Beatrice does not like him. He is too thin. Not fit and sculpted like her father, but the kind of thin that results from a dislike of food or from a body full of worms that eat away anything he ingests. Either way, she has never understood why Ludovico has chosen this person upon whom to rely for the timing of so many crucial decisions.
“Step aside, sir, so that I can see the setting sun.” There. That was exactly what she wanted to say to this man and she said it. Perhaps a fall from a horse, a knock on the head, is exactly what she has needed to shake up all the words that roll around in her brain and make them come out of her mouth. She almost giggles at her impertinence, but she sees that Ludovico and Galeazz are both snickering behind the astrologer’s back.
“Look who is here,” Ludovico says. He puts his arm around her neck and helps her to sit up. Mathilda springs forth with a devilish grin, then dives with her hands to the ground, turning over into a handstand. She wears no underwear. She kicks her legs into the air, spreading them apart, demonstrating her hairy crotch, before jumping back to her feet in triumph.
Beatrice gives her favorite dwarf a little round of applause.
“You’re just fine, aren’t you, Duchess?” Mathilda’s anxious face, with her too-big nose and ears, is side by side with Ludovico’s, both staring at her with the intensity of governesses searching a child’s hair for lice.
“Yes, Mathilda, I am just fine. You may go now, and tell the steward that I have ordered him to give you a special bottle of red wine from the cellar. The finest vintage of what we have just brought up from Osteria.”
To show her appreciation, Mathilda cartwheels her way out of the room, giving her bare behind to the royals, cackling all the way down the hall.
Galeazz has put the birdcage down on a dressing table and kneels by the bedside, taking her hand. “You are the bravest woman in all the world. You were magnificent today. We are having the wolf stuffed for you. He’ll make a nice trophy.”
“And Drago?”
“Superficial wounds,” Ludovico says. “No wild creature will take that animal down. He is resting in the stables with a fragrant ointment upon his chest, made especially for him by the stable master.”
“I will mix Your Excellency a potion for sleep,” declares Messer Ambrogio.
“No, now that I am awake, I intend to remain this way as long as I can,” Beatrice says.
“But Your Excellency needs rest—”
Beatrice interrupts him. “Gentlemen, I would like to be alone with my husband, if you please.”
Galeazz kisses her hand again and again, pressing it to his face. Without another word, he backs out of the door smiling. But the astrologer waits behind. Did he not hear her? Is her voice faint and inarticulate? Beatrice waits another polite second and then asks, “Sir, are you my husband?”