by Karen Essex
“I have a message for you from Isabel of Aragon. She is determined to make peace with Louis. She’s going to beg for something for her sons. But if she cannot reach an understanding with him, she’s going to come here. Please give her a house that is not within a reasonable distance from where you quarter me! Of course, we all feel compassion for her, but everyone is sick to death of hearing her troubles. She’s a beautiful woman, or was. Why doesn’t she go get another husband? One that will actually take her to bed?”
“Some women have no sense of how to survive in this world,” Isabella offers. “To others, it’s an instinct, like an animal’s knowledge of how to feed itself. Though it may initially disgust us, we will charm King Louis and clothe ourselves in lilies, until that, too, is no longer in fashion. I had hoped that my sister was one of our kind, but I’m afraid that she gave in to her fragile womanly heart at the end.”
“How marvelous she was in her early days. She vacated Ludovico’s bed and his heart of me by the force of her will. I admired her all the while. I truly did. And even more so when she magnanimously reached out to me in friendship.”
“The poor darling would be in exile now, in Germany, with her sons. I doubt that even my father’s new alliance with King Louis could have saved her that. A woman rises and is damned with her husband,” Isabella sighs, though she has made a private vow to transcend that fate.
“Your Excellency, I have done a bad thing.” Cecilia looks around the room as if to see if anyone is listening. “I have stolen something for you.”
“From the Castello?”
“Yes.”
“Then you haven’t stolen the object, but protected it.”
“That is precisely what I thought. I saw this when I tried to see Ludovico one last time. I simply could not leave it behind for greedy French hands to desecrate.”
Cecilia calls for her valet, who, with another man, carries in a bundle, wrapped in layers of cloth. Slowly they unwrap it, carefully handling its heavy contents. Turning it end over end, they reach the final layer of cloth, sitting the bundle on top of a refectory table and letting the muslin fall. Isabella puts her had over her mouth. It is Cristoforo’s bust of Beatrice, commissioned by Ludovico before he married her. Her sister’s girlish face stares back at her, serene and gentle, tiny curls caressing her chubby, angelic cheeks and the intricate lace that lined her bosom. Isabella can see Beatrice in her dress, excited to pose for the sculptor. She remembers the pains taken that day with Beatrice’s difficult mane of hair, how it was twisted, almost torturously, into the tight braid that became Beatrice’s signature hairstyle. The image is almost too much for the surviving sister to bear. She embraces Cecilia, hoping that the tears forming in her eyes will be easily controlled. It is guaranteed to be a long week, what with people arriving from Milan. She cannot exhaust herself so early in the day. “You have brought me my sister,” Isabella says, her voice catching on a tiny sob.
Isabella’s tears are interrupted by the entry of her footman. “Your Excellency, may I announce another visitor?”
“As you wish,” the marchesa says, releasing Cecilia.
“Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli, and son, recently of Milan.”
Isabella cannot help it; she curses herself for her ways, but there it is. There is nothing she can do about the fact that her first thought is that Lucrezia might have brought with her the painting by the Magistro. Oh, she realizes that she should want to murder the woman for the pain she caused Beatrice, but that is not the idea that crept into her mind. Forgive me, dear Lord Jesus, for my sins. But I cannot help the order in which ideas occur to me. It is my nature, wicked though it is.
“I do not recall sending an invitation to Madonna Lucrezia,” Isabella says to Cecilia.
“The message we received was that the marchesa would harbor in Mantua all those who had been loyal to the duke.”
“I was thinking of sheltering those who had been loyal to my sister, not those in her service who betrayed her.”
Could she really turn Lucrezia away? Isabella thinks that she might. It would serve the woman right for sneaking around with Ludovico behind Beatrice’s back. Dear Lord Jesus, forgive us our lack of compassion.
“Your Excellency, if I might say a few words on behalf of Madonna Lucrezia?”
“I will always hear what you have to say, dear friend.”
“The Crivellis are a fine enough family, but hardly of noble birth. I am speaking from experience, Your Excellency. When the Duke of Milan chooses you for his companion, there is little choice in it for the lady. She might express that she is unwilling, but rejecting one of the great princes of Italy is rather challenging for a woman. I imagine that Madonna Lucrezia saw much opportunity in the liaison for her entire family—even for her husband—if she paired with the duke. It is one of the few ways for a woman to elevate the status of her clan. In other words, Your Excellency, I do not believe the liaison was as much a selfish act on the part of Lucrezia as it may appear.”
Cecilia is correct, of course. While a princess of Ferrara might be able to control how far she is willing to let her flirtation with a duke proceed, a girl of ordinary birth may not. If she denied her prince, she might cause terrible problems for her family, whereas giving the duke what he wanted would curry favor for all of her loved ones. “Thank you for reminding us that we should not punish another woman for acting in the interests of herself and her family. Is that not what we always do? Regardless of the circumstances of our birth?” She tells her footman to let Madonna Lucrezia into the room.
The little boy looks more like Ludovico than his sons with Beatrice. His mother has had his thin, black baby hair cut in the exact style of Il Moro: long, straight bangs that hang to the brows, and the rest curving around his face and skimming his shoulders.
“How can such a little one possess such hair?” Isabella exclaims, taking the child from his mother, whose eyes are open wide in either astonishment or gratitude or both. She must have expected a less enthusiastic greeting from her lover’s wife’s sister.
“He is six months old, Your Excellency, and was born with this mane of black hair.” Isabella’s welcome must have given her confidence because she adds, “The duke once accused me of mating with a horse.”
A blush spreads across Lucrezia’s face as rapidly as a bad rash. Conscious of her tenuous position at the mercy of her lover’s sister-in-law, she smiles awkwardly and turns away from Isabella’s disapproving gaze.
Lucrezia’s smile drops when she recognizes Beatrice’s bust, sitting almost as if in judgment upon the table. A silence falls over the women, and Isabella lets it linger. She hands the baby back to its mother. “Did you believe that you were in danger in Milan, Madonna Lucrezia?”
“King Louis’s hatred of Il Moro is well known. I feared for my boy. Yet the duke did not encourage me to flee with him. When I heard that Your Excellency was offering sanctuary, I came immediately. I realize it is awkward. If you wish me to go, I will try to make my way to see relatives at Cremona.”
“The duke made no provisions for your safety?” Isabella asks, almost incredulous. It would not be like Ludovico to discard mother and child without a thought for the safety or well-being of either.
“No, he very generously settled upon me estates at Cussago and Saronno. But I’m afraid that those are in the hands of the French now. I have no idea if they will be permanently confiscated.”
“What about your husband?”
“He is less than enthusiastic about my welfare since the birth of the duke’s son.”
An old tale, retold thousands of times in every generation, Isabella thinks. The girl could not have guessed that when she jeopardized her husband’s feelings to become intimate with the great prince of Milan, the inheritor of the Houses of Visconti and Sforza, that she was choosing the wrong man. Now, like so many women who took what seemed to be a risk-free gamble, she has been left with no man, only the man’s issue. La Fortuna seems to be getting the last laugh on them all.
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“Not to worry. I’ve a small house where you will be comfortable. You may have it all to yourself, depending upon how many appear from Milan in the coming weeks.”
Lucrezia bows. “You are the essence of kindness.”
“I expect to soon begin negotiations with King Louis for—well, for many things. I will recommend both of you to him, and I will negotiate with his councillors for the return of your estates and your personal property.”
Now both of the mistresses of Ludovico bow to the sister of his wife. What a strange world I find myself living in, Isabella thinks. What would Beatrice make of it all? But she remembers Beatrice’s passionate campaign for Ludovico’s investiture of the title of duke—her sudden shift in loyalty from her beloved Neapolitan grandfather to her husband. Beatrice would have understood everything, even taking in Ludovico’s mistress and bastard son. Did Beatrice not do as much herself for Cecilia at one time?
“But our exquisite city!” Lucrezia looks at Isabella as if pleading with her to change events that are well under way.
“The past is gone, my dear,” Isabella says, realizing that she sounds more pitiless than the heaviness in her heart would indicate. “All we have is the present, and how we conduct ourselves will determine our futures. My father and brothers and my husband are at this moment in the company of the French king. They have taken him already on a hunting expedition, believe it or not, on Ludovico’s lands, where they made sport in the recent past in the company of the duke. I received the letter this very morning. So you see that if the Houses of Gonzaga and Este, two of the most ancient in Italy, have suddenly become French, then you all have the ability to become French. Yes? Oui? Que pensez-vous du miracle?”
Lucrezia lightly touches the ivory of the clavichord. “Is this the instrument from the Castello or a copy?”
“It is the very one. It took me more than a year after my sister’s death to procure it, but I wanted to have a memento of her. We both love music so much.”
“I recall that the duchess could not play it, and was forever inviting musicians to court to play it for her. She took great delight in its sound.”
“Did she?”
“Your Excellency, forgive me,” Lucrezia says, blushing again. “Of course you know these things.”
“My sister loved music and song, though she did not successfully produce either and was constantly demanding to be sung to and played for. I obliged her throughout our childhoods. Shall we oblige her now?”
Isabella begins to play a melody that all of them would know, one that Beatrice would often request. The two sisters sang it together, usually at the end of an evening, for its lyrics and melody proved rather serious for most parties. Isabella plays one verse and then signals for the others to join in.
How sweetly the three of them sing together. Isabella wonders if the other two have worked as hard as she has to improve their voices. Beatrice never wanted to practice her singing. She liked to chirp along as Isabella played and carried the song. She loved the fun of it. Was there something in mastering the art of singing that is responsible for the three survivors harmonizing like birds who have long shared the same nest, while Beatrice lies in her grave? It seems impossible, yet that idea slides seamlessly into the next, the one that Isabella has turned over and over in her mind for years, but which now calls for fresh examination: What might a marriage between Ludovico and herself—coolheaded and judicious—have produced? Beatrice could enchant Ludovico. She could fuel his ambitions and do his bidding. But she could not control him. Give her credit: Beatrice had been able to represent her husband in matters of diplomacy in a way that her candor and warm nature could cover for his duplicity. But Isabella could have steered him along the path to ever-increasing greatness. Ludovico needed more than a girl with spirit, more than a woman who would do anything to please him. He needed a cool head and a firm hand to help him through the difficult times.
Cecilia’s voice rises to take the high note on the last verse while Lucrezia takes the low, coming just under Cecilia’s lovely trill and repeating the words in a mournful register. Now all three women have tears in their eyes. Isabella wonders what is motivating the tears of the others. Loss of Ludovico and his patronage? The uncertainty of exile? Sadness at the death of the young duchess, wronged by at least one of them? Or relief that through the seeming misfortune of their lesser births, they have escaped Beatrice’s fate? Isabella’s tears are for her sister’s fate, but also they are new tears over an old question. Would the entire world have been different if Ludovico had not been so damned pleased with Cecilia and had sent off for a wife just a little sooner? It was a bad choice that bespoke of laziness, lust, arrogance, and a lack of respect for political realities. As if all the world would wait upon his personal desires.
There are no small enemies and no small choices. How often had her father drilled that idea into her young head? One must be eternally vigilant in one’s thinking. From what seems a small, light thing, there proceeds a great ruin. Where has she heard that before? Not from her father, she is sure. But she is sure of its wisdom.
Isabella realizes that in her contemplation, she has dropped out of the singing and rejoins the sweet duet. The three survivors of Ludovico’s affection sing their final verse to the one who could not weather his love. Beatrice’s young and blameless face looks back at them, passing no judgment. But Isabella doubts that Ludovico will take that stance. He will blame the French, King Louis, Francesco, the Venetians, her father, even herself. He will blame God, Fortuna, whomever it crosses his mind to abjure. But did he not seal his own fate with his self-indulgence and his foolishness, which had begun long, long ago? And did her sister not design her own demise when she abandoned her senses and decided to love him?
Perhaps la Fortuna is not so fickle after all.
FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:
Write letter to French commander about protecting property rights to vineyard.
Have the boxes of books ready in the morning for muleteer. (Use some bedding to pack and protect.)
Don’t forget to pick up small stove from refectory.
Take sheaths of paper and box of colors belonging to Jean Perréal and do not forget to ask him for his method for drying color and get the recipe for making white salt and colored paper.
Take boxes of seeds, including lily and watermelon.
Send savings to the bank at Monte di Pietà in Florence for safekeeping.
Note to Bramante. Will try to meet him in Rome.
Send Salai with word to Luca Pacioli to be packed and ready in the morning.
The Saletta is unfinished. Bramante’s building projects—unfinished. The Castello is a prisoner; the duke’s revenues are seized. The duke has lost his state, his possessions, and his liberty. And none of his projects have been completed.
By the time the Magistro arrived in Mantua, Isabella had taken in so many refugees from Milan that she had to scramble to find quarters for him. But she would have thrown her own mother—God rest her soul, and Lord Jesus forgive me, but you know it’s true—out of her chambers to accommodate so great an artist. She had arranged temporary quarters for him and his travel party, promising him a lovely home either in town or in the countryside if he would remain in her service. But the Magistro had already found a new employer.
“I am on my way to Venice by request of the signory. One of Duke Ludovico’s last strategies was to incite the Turks to attack the Venetian frontiers to distract the army. The Turks would do anything to prevent the French from crossing their country again on another Crusade, so they have begun to plague the Venetians with great enthusiasm. I will demonstrate to our friends in Venice how to wipe out the entire barbarian army by flooding the valley they occupy. In addition, the signory has asked to see designs for my inventions to fight the enemy in vessels that sail below the sea’s surface.”
“How ingenious,” Isabella said. “Would you be so kind as to show me the designs? I am most curious.”
But the Ma
gistro affected a grave look. Lowering his voice, he answered her. “I cannot, Your Excellency, though nothing would please me more than to indulge your curiosity. I must not divulge these designs because of the evil nature of men, in whose hands it might cause much murder and mayhem on the seabed. As we speak, I have lawyers drawing up contracts in secret. A motto to live by is this: Do not teach anyone, and you alone will excel.”
Strange and mysterious man. So he was on his way, with no intention to remain in her service.
“I see that you have made your own plans. But before you leave us, may I remind you of the long and illustrious career Andrea Mantegna has enjoyed under our patronage. We are very stable here at Mantua, not to mention the constancy of rule of my own family at Ferrara. My husband and my father are at this moment entertaining the King of France. You would be protected here, allowed to concentrate on work, and I assure you, without cares of money.”
“Only the demands of the Venetian government would allow me to dare to disappoint you, Your Excellency. My strongest desire would be to serve you; however, I have committed to the signory. There is nothing we can do.” He said it without sounding as if he was patronizing her, but Isabella was certain that that was precisely what he was doing.
“Do say you will consider the idea. Perhaps when you have finished your service to the Venetians, you will return to us?”
“I am honored by the suggestion. It will be utmost in my mind at all times.” He bowed formally, signaling that it was time for him to leave her presence, or rather, signaling that the conversation concerning his employment in Mantua was over. As she looked at the top of his graying head of hair and through to his scalp, she thought that what he had said was incontestably proper but unlikely in the extreme to contain any element of truth. What a perfectly cagey man.