Any tension that might have erupted between them dispersed as Lodovico remembered himself. He reached to slap an arm around Falcone’s shoulder. “Come, I will need to find a suitable place for Bellimbusto and then, then there is the war, my friend.”
“Bravely spoken!” Alberospetrale exclaimed, motioning to his selected knights to come forward. “These are the men who will go into battle with you. They will tell you what they have learned so that we may better prepare for the coming ordeal.”
“I welcome their counsel with all my heart,” Lodovico said loudly enough for all to bear. But as Lodovico followed the men into the Cérocchi fortress, he found new worry in his heart. What would he do, now that his strange passion was on him? Could he dare to look at Aureoraggio again, even hear the sound of her feet on the earth, the echo of her voice, and not succumb to her? Falcone was his sworn brother, a noble and valiant Prince, a respected leader of his people. Yet, oh, what was that when compared to the ravages of love and desire that Lodovico nurtured in his soul even as they consumed him?
La Realtà
The fish, predictably, was cold when it reached the High Table in the dining hall of il Palazzo Pitti. Lodovico could do little more than prong at it, letting the tepid sauce drop off the white, flaky perisco. Beside him, Sir Thomas More was attempting to make conversation with Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, but that wily prelate continued to avoid any mention of the English King’s reprehensible and unforgivable marriage to the Boleyn woman.
“Talk to Damiano,” Cosimo said at last with a quick, distrustful glance at his second cousin. “He is of the senior branch of the family and so is His Holiness. None of them pay much attention to the junior branch of the family.”
Sir Thomas was shocked and for a moment could find no response that would not bring shame on the Cardinale, his host, or himself. He took a deep draught of wine and changed the subject.
Lodovico, bored and surly, plucked at the huge, gem-studded sleeve of the English Chancellor. “You’ve got to understand,” he said loudly, to be certain that Cardinale Medici would hear him, “the junior branch is jealous. They’ve always been jealous. They’ve said that they could rule Italia Federata better than the senior branch. Not that they’ll ever have the chance to do so, God be praised. They mocked il Primàrio for not making himself a king when he had the opportunity. That gives you some idea of their feelings for the country.”
Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, glared at Lodovico. “Poets are fools,” he said sweetly.
“Anyone who speaks the truth is a fool,” Lodovico shot back, and motioned for a servant to refill his wine cup. “Poets are cursed with clear vision, and a need to reveal what they see.”
“Visions! As likely inspired by the Devil as…” Cosimo began, and farther down the table, Andrea Benci turned toward Lodovico, ire in his face. He was about to rise and remonstrate when Damiano said in his pleasant, easy tones, “My grandfather said much the same thing. And he was a poet himself.”
At that moment, Lodovico could have kissed his patron. It was precisely this odd, generous quirk in the man that made Lodovico stay with him, though he hated civic functions, hated the silly formalities, hated the subtle cross-currents of rivalries and jealousies. When Damiano, with that casual, deft touch, turned defeat into victory, he felt his loyalty renew itself.
“He associated with poets, too,” Damiano went on. “He was surrounded by them all of his life. They were his favorite society. And artists. Every variety of blessed madman. He used to tell me about the terrible argument that developed between Leonardo and Poliziano. Not that either of them was an easy man at the best of times, but in this instance they were very angry. My grandfather had come upon them in his library. They were shouting, apparently, and using words out of the lowest workman’s tavern. The dispute concerned Buonarroti, who at that time had just returned from Roma. As you may know”—Damiano gestured expansively to his foreign guests—”my grandfather was his first patron. Michelangelo was every bit as unconciliating as a young man as he is now, and he and Leonardo disliked each other most”—he glanced at his Cardinale cousin out of the tail of his eye—”passionately. Poliziano championed young Buonarroti, which infuriated Leonardo. And apparently on this occasion, while exchanging epithets, they’d managed to disrupt the household. My grandfather told me that it was very nearly a week before the two men could speak to each other with anything approaching civility. Both Leonardo and Poliziano had his special genius, and both could be arrogant. Poliziano was not in good health at the time—indeed, he died the following year—and that made him more sharp-tongued than ever, which, in his case, is saying a good deal.” He lifted his goblet. “To their genius, then, and we will do what we can to forget their faults.”
The guests at the High Table obediently lifted their goblets and drank, and for an instant Lodovico was held by the gently reproving, sardonic look his patron gave him before he set down his goblet.
“Sir Thomas,” he said to the Chancellor, taking Damiano’s hint, “I have heard that there are men of great literary promise now at Oxford. Sadly, the only English poet I have read is the one called Chaucer, and only in translation.”
Damiano nodded so slightly that it would not be noticed if it had not been looked for, then directed his attention to the Earl of Wessex.
In the expanded library of il Palazzo Pitti, two fires blazed in matching hearths at each end of the room. There were only ten people in the vast chamber, and all but three of them sat at the northern end of the room where Damiano was, in the best Firenzen’ tradition, serving bowls of sugared nuts to his guests.
“I hope that you will remain here for a week at least,” he said to the Earl of Wessex. “Il Doge of Genova will arrive here in four days, and you have so many maritime interests in common, it would be a pity for you not to have occasion to speak together.” He waited while Sir Warford Pierpoint Edmund Glennard selected a candied walnut and ate it.
“Primàrio…” the Englishman began.
“No, no. I am Damiano to my friends. Il Primàrio, who is he but a puppet of the state? Dantiano, however, is another matter. You will find Damiano much easier to deal with than il Primàrio, I give you my word.” Behind the laughter there was steel and the English sensed it almost as quickly as the Firenzen’, who had known it for years.
“Damian, then,” Sir Warford said, dropping the final o as was the English habit. “I’m certain you understand that we are under orders from our King, and our time is not as much our own as we would like. We have been mandated to stay no longer in Federated Italy than three days, which will not enable us to be here when the Doge arrives.”
“How unfortunate,” Damiano said, intercepting a look that passed fleetingly between Sir Warford and Sir Thomas. “Il Doge will, I fear, feel slighted. Perhaps you may find it possible to remain here a little longer, in spite of your instructions. We had planned to offer you a full honor escort to the Austrian border, but it will not be possible to do that until our Lanzi return with il Doge.” He leaned back against the side of the fireplace, his elbows propped on the ledge intended for lanterns.
Lodovico had to stifle a laugh, turning it into a cough, for which he apologized.
In that awkward silence, Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, came from the other end of the library where he had been deep in conversation with il Duca of Mantova and Ippolito Davanzati. His scarlet satin robes whispered on the floor as if he brought a nest of serpents with him. “Good cousin,” he said to Damiano with a barely concealed sneer, “I fear I must leave this august gathering.”
“How unfortunate,” Damiano responded with no attempt to dissuade Cosimo.
“My Confraternità is holding a meeting, and since I am in Firenze, it is appropriate that I attend. Gentle- men…” He waited for the reverences of the other men in the library, locked eyes with Damiano once, then swept out of the room.
There was another long silence, then Sir Warford cleared his throat. “Most commendable, attending such a meeting,”
he said.
“Do you think so?” Damiano made no effort to conceal his disgust.
“They’re charitable organizations, aren’t they?” Sir Warford asked, startled. “I understood that they were such.”
“Ostensibly,” Damiano answered with a sigh. “They do good work for the country, it’s true enough. But that is not the purpose of the meeting tonight.” He regarded his English guests a moment, then decided to speak. “Yes, the Confraternitàs perform many services for the state. They visit prisoners and the mad, provide clothing for the old and those in poverty. They house travelers and keep two hospitals for children. They also, some of them, have special meetings, such as the one my cousin is so anxious to attend tonight. I believe that this meeting will be for those who like to be whipped and sodomized, though I’m not certain. I do know that my cousin has a taste for whipping.” He could not disguise his rancor, nor did he try to.
“But surely…” Sir Warford began, then broke off.
“There are other pastimes in the other Confraternitàs that are less distressing,” Andrea Benci said hurriedly with a swift, reproving glance at Damiano.
“After all, a Cardinal…” Sir Warford made another attempt to assume a tolerance he was far from feeling.
“And a member of the junior branch of the family,” Damiano agreed sardonically. “He has a great many reasons to wield that whip, or to lie under it himself.” Suddenly, infectiously, he chuckled.
“Primàrio,” Andrea Benci said in a tone that was dangerously like a reprimand.
“It is of no moment,” Damiano said, his manner once again smooth as he turned the conversation into safer channels. “While you are here, you will doubtless want to inspect the various weavers’ manufacturies in the city. You will appreciate more fully why we continue to be interested in English wool.”
The fires had burned down and the library was sunk into a ruddy gloom. Now only Sir Thomas More, Damiano de’ Medici, Lodovico Ariosto, and Andrea Benci remained. Conversation had stopped some little time before, and the men sat in an unusually companionable silence. It was Andrea Benci who broke it.
“I fear age is catching up with me,” he murmured. “The hour is long past when I should have sought my bed. With so much to do tomorrow, and the reception to plan for il Doge…” He got to his feet and nodded toward the other three. “Until morning then.”
“God guard your sleep,” Damiano answered quietly and watched as the old courtier crossed the library.
“Ariosto,” Andrea said as he reached the door. “I would be glad of your company.” He was issuing a command, but Lodovico. chose to ignore it.
“I am satisfied where I am, Andrea. You must forgive me.” He waited for Damiano’s dismissal. If he left the library, it would be because il Primàrio himself had asked him to go, not because his too-autocratic secretary had ordered it.
Damiano said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the deeply carved door, and after a moment, Andrea Benci gave a hitch to his shoulders and left the three men alone. When the silence became oppressive, Damiano said, rather lazily, “And now, Sir Thomas, what is it you’ve wanted to say to me?”
Sir Thomas More was not startled by the question. “I was not aware that I was so obvious.”
Damiano turned in his chair and gave the Chancellor of England a long, hard stare. “When you arrived this afternoon, I thought you were exhausted.”
“I was,” he admitted. “And my feet hurt.”
“So.” Damiano fingered the edge of his giornea’s elaborate hem. It was a nervous, restless gesture. “I also noticed that you ate only half of what was set in front of you, and you’ve yawned away most of the evening. Whatever it is you wish to say in private must be very important to you.” He had not altered his tone, but the words came faster. He waited while Sir Thomas gathered his thoughts.
“Primàrio,” he said deferentially, “I must speak in confidence. It could be most unfortunate, should any of our conversation…” Though he did not look at Lodovico, it was clear that the poet’s presence distressed him.
“Don’t worry yourself about Ariosto, Damiano said rather brusquely. “He’s overheard more state secrets than any of the spies at this court. I’ve never had cause to regret that.”
Idly, Lodovico wondered if he should, for Sir Thomas’ sake, find an excuse to leave, but he could not bring himself to do it. He admitted to himself that he was eager to know Sir Thomas’ secret. He settled back in his chair and studied the embers of the dying fire.
“Very well.” Sir Thomas rubbed at his stubbled cheeks. “You know, of course, of my King’s dispute with His Holiness.” This was a statement of fact. All Europe knew of it. “I am supposed to press Henry’s interests with you, as you know. But I’m afraid that I am prey to grave doubts about His Majesty’s conduct. I have not been able to accept the new conditions of worship we’ve been given. I cannot accept his divorce. I cannot tolerate his break
“Are you saying that there is rebellion brewing in England?” Damiano asked with a deceptive lightness.
“No, not precisely. That is, there may be, but I know nothing of it, if there is. No. That was not my purpose in speaking. You see, Primàrio, I find that I cannot remain in England. If I do, I must surely defy the King, and he will destroy me. I could reconcile myself to that fate, I think, if I didn’t have a wife and family. In conscience, I could not ask them to live in the shadow of my ruin.” He spoke quite calmly, as though he had long since made up his mind.
“I myself am not on the best of terms with His Holiness,” Damiano said coolly. “I doubt if I could convince him of anything at the moment.”
“I would not ask that,” Sir Thomas responded quickly. “I was not aware that there were such difficulties and I confess I had hoped that there might be a way…But no matter. What I am asking you, Primàrio, Damian, is the right to remain here in Italy. Catastrophe awaits me at home. Here, I may live and continue to work. Perhaps I can help Henry to be reconciled with Rome.”
Damiano made a noncommittal sound, then asked, “And your family?”
“They are at the moment in the Netherlands, visiting friends.”
“How providential,” Damiano said, laughing softly. “You are a very subtle man, Sir Thomas.”
“My wife agreed that it was a fortuitous time, since I was going to be gone so many months in any case. It would not take them long to come to me here, if I were to send them word they were wanted.” He smoothed the fur edging on his long gown and at last looked toward Damiano.
“I see.” Damiano fingered his neat, short beard. “You realize that, given my difficulties with the Pope, your presence could be something of an embarrassment to me?”
Sir Thomas stared at his hands in his lap. “Until this evening, I was not aware that your relations were so strained. I felt, since you’re blood relatives, there would be a closeness…” He could not go on.
“You say this, coming from England where Plantagenet cousins killed each other for more than eighty years?” Damiano clearly did not expect Sir Thomas to have an answer to this challenge. “It was clever of Richard to make Henry Tudor his heir. It prevented more bloodshed.”
Sir Thomas started to rise. “I see. I am sorry that I importuned you in this way, Primàrio. I beg you will forget…”
“Sit down, Sir Thomas,” Damiano interrupted him sharply. “I haven’t refused your request.” He waited while the older man sank back into his chair. “You are certain you stand in danger from your King?”
“As certain as I may be outside of a cell.” There was a fatalistic expression in Sir Thomas’ face, and his words were flat and toneless.
“You are a valuable man to Henry. Do you think he would overlook your worth for nothing more than pique?”
“I am positive he would.”
Lodovico longed to ask Sir Thomas what it was about Henry VIII that made him so sure of the King’s enmity, but knew that he could not speak without angering his patron. He set his mouth in a tight, closed
line, and listened.
“Positive?” Damiano repeated skeptically. “A man who has been of service as long as you have? He must be very serious about his break with the Church.”
“He is very serious about the child that Mistress Boleyn carries,” Sir Thomas said grimly. “One of the unofficial reasons for this mission to the Grand Duke of Muscovy is that Henry hopes for an alliance there. If the child is a male, then Henry wishes to betroth him to the oldest of the Grand Duke’s daughters. If the child is female, she will eventually be the Grand Duchess to the Grand Duke’s heir.”
“From what we know of the Grand Duke, none of his children have survived infancy,” Damiano remarked, but there was a keenness to his face that revealed his newly-kindled interest.
“Yet one of them will probably survive, and Henry dreams of a bond there.” Sir Thomas sighed heavily. “What I have told you is treason.”
“Then why have you spoken?” Damiano asked, his large brown eyes darkening.
“How else am I to convince you of my sincerity?” This time Sir Thomas actually rose from the chair. “You will want to think over what I have told you, Primàrio. I am, I need hardly remind you, at your mercy. Should you decide to reveal to Henry all that I have told you, my fate is sealed, and it is a dire one.”
“For the sake of the Virgin, sit down!” Damiano burst out. “You have no idea what I am thinking. I am not your capricious Henry Tudor. Sit down!” He waited until Sir Thomas obeyed him. “The peace we have negotiated with the Turks is a perilous one,” Damiano told him when he was confident that Sir Thomas was listening. “It could be easily overset. If Muscovy and England were to form an alliance, and if Poland could be convinced to join with them…”—he shrugged extravagantly—”then our little treaty would be at an end in less time than it would take the parchment to burn. And if we have to take up a sea battle against the Turks again, we will have to cut back our exploration in the New World, and leave it open to the predatory Spaniards.”
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