by Karen Essex
“Why are you taking his side against me?” Ludovico yells. “Have you no good opinion of me?”
Beatrice cannot remember when he has raised his voice against her. Perhaps never. “I do not like this sniping at my sister and brother-in-law, who have only been loyal to you.” What does he want from them? From anyone? “My lord, I do not understand why your mood is sour these days, when you are at the pinnacle of your success. You have assembled the most powerful alliance in Italy’s history, backed by the greatest army we have ever seen.”
Ludovico does not answer her. Instead, he glares for a moment or two, throws up his hands, and leaves her rooms.
She does not see him for two days.
She finds out from the servants that Ludovico has gone to Vigevano to recuperate from the festivities. She pretends to know this information, to stop whatever gossip is already circulating through the Castello. Beatrice cannot imagine what she has done to him to cause this retreat. For years now, he has looked to her for soothing and for companionship. Why has she become someone from whom he must flee?
When he returns, he is at the brink of death.
A terrified messenger drags Beatrice out of the bath where she has gone to escape the heat of the afternoon. The duke is sick and calling for the duchess. He is on his way home, accompanied by Messer Ambrogio the astrologer. Prepare the rooms.
“Is it the plague?” she asks, feeling her breakfast rise to the level of her throbbing heart.
“No, it is something else,” the man replies, turning his head away, she imagines, from the sight of the unkempt duchess, wrapped hastily in a linen robe, watery hair springing out of its braid. “Some strange fit brought on by bad news. I am not privy as to whatever that news is.”
Beatrice is so impatient to finish dressing that she kicks her leg backward, slapping her heel against the shin of the girl trying to tie her bodice. She hears Ludovico’s party and flies into the hall, half dressed, wet hair raining little streams of water down her back and into her bodice. Ludovico comes toward her, Messer Ambrogio and his assistant supporting him on either side. The duke’s garment is loose at the neck; huge sweat stains mar the silky fabric beneath the arms. Spittle covers his chin and chest. His eyes roll wildly in his head. She notices that the left side of his body seems immobile as if being dragged reluctantly behind the right. Indeed, the left side of his mouth appears frozen, making his mouth look like a half-moon being pulled apart. Beatrice throws open the door to his quarters, and the doctor places him on his bed. Ludovico moans. He does not speak to Beatrice, but tries to catch her attention with his eyes. He seems confused, as if struggling against something he does not understand.
The doctor’s assistant holds the duke’s head in his hands and pours a potion down his throat. Ludovico gags, trying to spit it out, but it appears that he cannot control his own tongue. Finally he relaxes and lets the remaining liquid slide down his throat.
“I’ve given him something to calm him,” Messer Ambrogio tells Beatrice.
“What is wrong?” she asks. “Has he eaten something foul?” She is frightened to see her husband and lord in this condition, but some overarching pride does not allow her to reveal her emotions in front of this man whom she does not trust. There is something miserly of spirit about the doctor that manifests in his paltry physique.
“He is having a fit, one brought on by adverse news. I have seen this before in men of his age. He must rest.” The doctor guides her away from the duke’s bed while the assistant tries to soothe Ludovico with cool cloths to his face.
“What is this news?” she asks.
The doctor waits, perhaps assessing whether it is appropriate to entrust the Duchess of Milan with whatever secret he is guarding. Ludovico’s moans provide a backdrop to the conversation. Beatrice feels herself getting more upset.
“I must remind you that I am my husband’s regent,” she says.
“Word reached us this morning that Louis, Duke of Orleans, has captured the city of Novara.”
“But that is our city. That is not twenty miles from Milan.”
“That is precisely correct. Louis staged a rather aggressive surprise offensive from Asti. He arrived at the gates with a huge army and gave the town council a choice. They could open the gates and accept him as the true Duke of Milan, since his grandmother was Valentina Visconti, or they could risk a full-scale assault on the city.”
Beatrice waits for him to finish the story.
“Naturally, they opened the gates.”
LUDOVICO seems to be slipping ever more deeply into unconsciousness. He waves his right hand at Beatrice, while his left lies limp at his side. He tries to speak to her, but the words come out like the offerings of the deaf beggars who perch in the city’s corners. Her mind tries to process all this information at once: her husband’s illness; his desertion of her; Louis’s claim over Milan. Louis’s proximity to Milan. By now, the French King Charles must have gotten wind of the Italian League. The Italian army has already amassed and is preparing to march south. Surely Charles is aware that Ludovico—no matter how much he denies his involvement—is no longer France’s ally. Perhaps Louis even acted on Charles’s suggestion.
In any case, Charles would no longer stand in the way of Louis invading Milan. And God help us if either man learns of Ludovico’s weakened condition, she thinks. The French would be at the gates of the Castello in due haste.
Beatrice remembers the story told by her mother and her sister of the night that the rebels broke in the Castello d’Este in Ferrara, trying to kidnap the royal family to take down Duke Ercole. She was just one year old and has no memory of this horror. By the time she was old enough to hear the story, all had long been made well. Her mother had acted wisely, ferrying her children to safety, and the brave duke had arrived at home just in time to quash the rebellion and save his family. There is no mother or father or big sister now for Beatrice to turn to. She is the mother. Isabella is far away. And the duke, who is supposed to rush in and save the day, lies grasping for words in his bed. Beatrice remembers how her mother’s restrained dignity seemed to wrestle with her maternal pride whenever that story was told. She remembers the praise her father heaped on her mother for the courage she displayed in a time of crisis. Now it is up to Beatrice to make certain that when her children tell this story, they will not remember the terror, but will live to relate a happy ending to their children and their children’s children. She wants to see the same admiration and gratitude in Ludovico’s eyes when he, recovered, tells the story to others.
She grabs Ludovico’s right hand as it waves in the air, squeezing it. It is surprisingly cool to the touch. “I’ll take care of it, my dear,” she says to his frantic eyes, forcing herself to offer him a calm smile.
She has her family locked inside the Rocchetta, that great sanctuary within the sanctuary of the Castello, with armed men to ensure that no one gets in or out. She sends messengers to each of the nobles, who just a week ago had publicly pledged their loyalty, asking them to assemble at the Castello without delay. She meets with them, delivering the news about Louis’s aggression and sending them off to secure their areas of the city. When she is asked about Ludovico’s whereabouts, she makes up a story on the spot: the duke is meeting in secret with his generals to plan a counteroffensive.
She summons Bernardino del Corte, one of Ludovico’s oldest friends, who this winter was appointed warden of the treasury of the Castello. In Beatrice’s own apartments in the Rocchetta, del Corte had sworn his lifelong fealty to the duke and duchess, and vowed with his very life to protect their assets. Now he repeats that pledge to her, and rushes off to fortify the Treasure Tower in case of attack. She holds a meeting with the commander of the guard in charge of the five hundred soldiers who protect the Castello around the clock, putting him on alert.
She sends word to Galeazz, who is already on the move to Novara with a good-size army. She calls for Bianca Giovanna, whom she keeps by her side so that the girl does not fall i
nto panic, with her father ill and her husband heading a dangerous mission. She sends letters to their allies across Italy, and one to Emperor Max, explaining the treachery and asking for reinforcements to come to Galeazz’s aid. If Galeazz is not able to contain Louis and his army, they will appear at the gates of Milan. What could hold back Louis’s ambitions now? At night, she sleeps with an arm around each of her sons, reminding her of how, as a girl, she used to sleep with two puppies to keep warm and to feel safe. Now, she is taking precautions should she have to reenact Leonora’s midnight flight from invaders.
Bianca Giovanna, whose groom has been wrested by war from the marriage bed, insists on sitting by her father’s bed late into the night, holding his hand and talking sweetly to him when he rouses from his slumber or his fits. The girl has begun to look fatigued, her preternaturally white and flawless skin taking on a pearlescent glow. After Ludovico falls asleep, some nights Bianca Giovanna goes to the family’s private chapel at the Castello, praying until dawn for her husband. One morning Beatrice comes in at daybreak to say her prayers, finding the girl on her knees at the altar. She has not been to sleep. The tall tapers in front of which she kneels in prayer have burned to the wick. Beatrice sees heavy circles resting like dark, sinister smiles under the girl’s bleary eyes.
“You must sleep, Bianca,” Beatrice says. “What good will you be to your father or your husband or to me and the children if you wear yourself out?”
“But I often spend the night in prayer,” the girl confesses. “God has been so good to me. I was born illegitimate, but yet treated so tenderly and generously by my father after my mother passed away. He married me to the most gallant man in Italy. If I spent my life on my knees, could it be enough acknowledgment of Our Lord’s goodness?”
The girl’s earnestness is palpable. Not wishing to discourage her devotion, Beatrice holds out her hands to her, lifting her, and sending her off to her room to sleep an hour or two, promising to wake her if there is a change in Ludovico’s condition.
A week passes. Every day Ludovico improves slightly; he can almost squeeze his left fist again. Words come easier. General Bernard Contrarini of the Venetian forces arrives in Milan with a mercenary army of two thousand Greeks to help safeguard the city. Beatrice receives daily reports from Galeazz, who is skirmishing with the French at Novara’s walls. Beatrice hides from Ludovico the contents of the letters.
Though we are able to hold Louis of Orleans inside the city of Novara, I am spending far too much time convincing my troops to refrain from deserting. Madame, they have not been paid in recent weeks, and it is getting increasingly difficult to rouse them to fight. The quartermaster himself has empty pockets and is threatening to join the other side.
Beatrice speaks in secret with Ludovico’s treasurer, Messer Gualtieri, only to be told that all the coin in the realm has gone to the Italian League army. As soon as they are victorious, the soldiers will be paid out of the bounty. She realizes that defeating the French now depends not only on the military ability of men like Francesco and Galeazz but on their diplomacy in coaxing their armies to fight without salary, but for the promise of pay. A delicate situation.
Beatrice tracks Francesco’s progress in the march south to confront the French army, which marches north. She receives a letter from Isabella saying that she is spending her days with the clergy at Mantua in prayer for Francesco’s success in battle. The confrontation is imminent. The people of Naples have quickly tired of their new French occupiers—pleasure-loving Charles, who is perceived by the Neapolitans to be as dumb as a plank, caring only about bedding beautiful women; and his army, who lie about drunk in the streets, raiding houses and women’s bedrooms at will, taking whatever suits them.
Charles apparently has read the writing on the wall. The Neapolitans began rioting against the French, so Charles gathered the bulk of his army and left town, leaving in charge an officer, the Duke of Montpensier, who is Francesco Gonzaga’s brother-in-law. Meanwhile, the duke’s wife, Chiara, is being sheltered in Mantua by Isabella, who tells everyone that family is family, French and Italians be damned, and she will protect any member of her family if she chooses. Beatrice wonders if war will ever stop making strange bedfellows. Her sister shelters Chiara while Francesco marches on his brother-in-law’s king. Francesco heads an army bought and paid for by his other brother-in-law, and supported by the Venetians, who are now in Milan protecting Ludovico, who for decades had been their declared enemy. How will it all end? Will it all end?
IN the middle of the morning, Beatrice sits in her office wondering if and how she will govern the duchy of Milan when the Italian and French armies clash, while the duke who envisioned and funded the war lies in bed, an infirm man. Ludovico has continued to slowly improve, dressing daily and sitting for a time in the sun, but he is hardly in shape to command through a war. She is but twenty years old. She tries reminding herself that she is also the daughter of Ercole d’Este and the granddaughter of King Ferrante. If she must, she will be a wartime ruler. It is not impossible. History is littered with the names of such women, but would Beatrice d’Este actually join the ranks of Semiramis and Artemisia? Why not? Ludovico’s cousin Caterina Sforza of Forli is always waging war upon one kingdom or another. At only nineteen, she took up the sword and led an army into the Castel Sant’Angelo in Rome. Still, the idea of ruling in Ludovico’s stead at such a precarious time is making her ill. What if the Italian League army is not successful, and the French are soon bursting through Milan’s gates?
She pushes her untouched breakfast tray aside and looks up to see Leonardo the Florentine at the door of her office holding a satchel, an expression of calm concern on his face. He looks as if he needs a good night’s rest. Who let him in?
“How may I help you, sir?” she asks. Undoubtedly, he is here to request another advance on the mural.
“Your Excellency, I received a note from the duke requesting a meeting on matters of weaponry and fortification. But when I arrived this morning, I was told that he was ill and not receiving visitors.”
“The duke sent you a letter?” she asks incredulously. So it is a ploy to get more money, she thinks. Why else would he invent such a story?
“A note. Written in his own hand, expressing concern over the safety of the Castello in the event of an attack. I entered his service originally as a military engineer and weapons expert. He is calling upon those skills, these many years later.”
Why would Ludovico send for Leonardo when he will hardly see anyone at all? But Leonardo produces the letter, which is written in her husband’s hand.
“I am told it came through channels that would lead to his daughter, Madonna Bianca.”
Ah, that would make sense. Bianca Giovanna could be coerced into doing her father’s bidding.
“Your Excellency, may I speak frankly?” Leonardo asks.
“If you think it will be productive,” Beatrice answers, dreading, as usual, what the Magistro will have to say.
“I have personally dissected the tongue, and while I have found no muscles therewith intended specifically for gossip, that seems to be the primary exercise for that organ—at least at court.”
“I see,” Beatrice replies. “Then you know of the duke’s condition?”
“I do.”
“You know that he is convalescing. Why, in this weakened condition, do you suppose he sent for you?”
“He must have many thoughts locked inside his mind that he wishes to release.”
“Magistro Leonardo, allow me to speak plainly. Of all people, you are aware of how conversations between yourself and the duke can become rather heated. If something happened to disturb him, throwing him into another fit, we might lose him.”
“That will not be the result of our meeting. Quite the opposite.” Leonardo never looked more confident, at least in her presence.
“Have you taken to fortune-telling too?” she asks, smiling.
He looks for a moment as if he is trying to formulate an hone
st answer to her question before he acknowledges its humor with an appreciative smile. Then he speaks. “Your Excellency, I have made an extensive study of the inside of the cranium for my book on human anatomy. I have seen the brain and how it is fed by arteries. I have witnessed the point of intersection of all the senses. I have seen the locus of thought. God’s genius is as evident in the alleys of this marvelous organ of the brain as in the rising of the sun or the birth of a child. You really should see for yourself its marvels. If I arouse the duke’s passion, whether positively or not, his heart will pump more blood, which will flood the brain and reawaken and revive it. The swift flow of blood through healthy veins is the key to longevity!”
None of this makes any sense to Beatrice. Her mind had seized upon the image of Leonardo dissecting a cranium, which then shut down her ears to anything else he had to say. But his methods could not be any worse than Messer Ambrogio’s, who lorded over his patient, switching the role between servant and master, and trying, in Beatrice’s opinion, to drive a wedge between husband and wife. Besides, Leonardo frightened Beatrice, but she trusted him. She was not afraid of Ambrogio in the same way that she was afraid of the Magistro—in that mysterious way in which one might be afraid of an angel or a ghost, though the ethereal creature would mean no harm—but she trusts the astrologer far, far less.
So that at about the same time that she estimates that Francesco Gonzaga and his army of thirty thousand are colliding with King Charles on the banks of the Taro River near Fornovo, Beatrice takes the Magistro to meet with Ludovico in his private drawing room. The duke is dressed, albeit rather simply, his lap covered with a wool blanket. He looks older since his episode. His skin seems to have slackened, especially at the eyes and throat. To his young wife, he looks more the father than the husband, but his vulnerability only strengthens her tenderness.