Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Margaret gathered her hands into fists. “I hate that man!” She whispered with venomous softness. “I hate him. He has treated us with arrogance and contempt. He has made a mockery of the finest man in his kingdom. There is no one who has cared more for the safety and protection of the Crown than my father, and if King Henry thinks that Richard Rich will serve him as well…”

  “Richard Rich? Riccardo Ricco?” In either form, he know the name. “Who is he?”

  “The new Chancellor of England! Oh, yes. Not content with banishing Sir Thomas More, King Henry has appointed Richard Rich his successor. This is the very man who provided Henry with the legal excuses to exile our family. The Chancellorship is his reward. It is Henry’s way of telling the world that he will have no one around him with an opinion that does not concur with His Majesty’s.” Her voice was quite still, a deadly cutting quiet that pierced like fine, honed steel.

  “It will not last,” Lodovico promised her.

  “Not even if Henry forms an alliance with France? It would be possible once arrangements have been made with the Grand Duke of Muscovy. Henry imagines himself an Emperor striding the world around. Russia to the east, and then all the English claims to France reasserted. Before my father left, he warned me that it could happen just that way.” “The King of France is no idiot,” Lodovico said soothing her. “Your Enrico will not be able to convince him that they are united in their goals. France has other problems to contend with—Spain would take it badly if France opened negotiations with England. You saw the letter I had from your father, and I am certain that Damiano would let you see most of the reports he has received.”

  Margaret pounded the table with her fists once. “I am generally a calm and self-possessed woman,” she announced to the room. “Yet when I am here, and I think of what Henry Tudor has done to my father and our family out of pique, all the emotions I have rise in me like bubbles in boiling water.”

  Lodovico was relieved. The worst of this tempest was behind them. “Poets are said to be made of emotions, he reminded her with his most tolerant smile, and wondered if it were so.

  “I also understand,” Margaret went on in a more reasonable tone, “that il Primàrio’s son was said to be in England. I had that from Cecily Howard, who is a lady-in-waiting to Mistress Boleyn.”

  “His son? Which one?” Lodovico was suddenly cold. The remote troubles of that distant island had not touched him, but with this revelation, he felt the whole might of Henry Tudor become a threat. If one of Damiano’s sons was there, and decided to cause trouble, he could find no more effective way than to keep King Henry apprised of Medici family politics.

  “I believe it was Renato.” She frowned over the name.

  “That’s the second one.” He remembered the boy he, had taught. Renato had a facile wit and a superficial charm that masked his inner rage. “Does Damiano know of this?” It was difficult to speak to il Primàrio about any of his sons, but he hoped that in this case, someone had told him about Renato.

  “I showed him the letter. He said nothing. He was displeased.” She paused, giving Lodovico a quick, knowing glance. “They’re none of them in Italy, are they?”

  “Leone—he was named for his uncle the Pope—is, I believe, in Austria or Hungary. Arrigo was reported to be in Spain, but that was a year ago. And now you say Renato is in England.” He found himself wishing he could return to his little room, to his desk and his papers for the joy of losing himself in his work, in a world where sons were assets to their fathers. “There has always been difficulty with them. From the beginning. Yet Damiano’s daughters are women of learning and sense and integrity.”

  Margaret took one of the sheets of vellum in her hand. “I wish I could write to my father, but there is no way, I suppose.’’

  “We know where he is going to be, but it is not possible to send messengers after him on the road. If we were to do that, Damiano might as well send a delegation to the Grand Duke of Muscovy himself. We have his letters, and will for a time yet. Be grateful that so much is possible. If we were still at war with the Turks, it would not be safe to make this journey, and impossible to get messages back.” He held out a trimmed quill to her. “You may want to write him letters, in any case, and keep them to give to him when he returns. It’s not quite the same, but he will be able to read how you learned and what you did as you did them.” “Write him letters and keep them.”

  Margaret gave the matter some thought. “If it were you, Ariosto, would you do that?’’

  Lodovico could not answer any way but honestly. “Probably not, but I write few letters, only the ones I must. All other writing is saved for my poetry. I don’t want to sacrifice one quatrain to a letter.” He patted her hand. “Don’t let my obsession change your mind. Poets are quite mad, you know.”

  Margaret smiled at him, but her frown returned quickly. “There was one thing that Sir John Howard said in a letter to my husband, and I don’t know whether or not I should bring it to Damiano’s attention.”

  “What is it, Donna Margharita?” He knew from her expression that the matter had given her perplexity.

  “Sir John has said that Renato is encouraging King Henry to send expeditions to the New World for the express purpose of destroying the trade that has been established with Italy. Renato knows about the three trading ports, and has said that he could force a surrender with little bloodshed. Sir John doubts that Henry will give Renato the money and ships because he is more interested in Russia and France than the New World.” She plucked at an imaginary bit of lint on her dress. “I think if Damian were told, he would be distressed.”

  “Distressed!” Lodovico wanted to howl with laughter as a dog would at the moon. “Even if such a mad venture came to nothing, Damiano would be incandescently angry.” This new treachery, coming so close on the heels of Graziella’s departure, would wound Damiano nearly to frenzy. With a great effort he was able to keep his voice level. “He and Renato do not…agree. Renato is seeking to…ruin his father.”

  Margaret regarded Lodovico with unconcealed curiosity. “I suppose it would be useless to ask you why this has happened.”

  Lodovico shook his head. “I am sorry, Donna Margharita. It is not for me to tell you. I will advise you however, to show the letter to Damiano. No matter how much it distresses him, he should know of it. And I urge you not to ask him too much.”

  Margaret sighed her acceptance. “Very well.” She opened her copybook again. “Please, will you repeat what you told me about the changes in form since the time of Dante Alighieri. I will try to give you my attention.”

  “Can you simply set your questions aside?” Lodovico marveled.

  “Not entirely, no,” she said, and there was an unexpected dimple at the corner of her mouth. “But I don’t wish to trespass on your good will. It’s wiser, I think, if we devote ourselves to Italian.”

  “As you wish, Donna Margharita.” He picked up his well-read copy of La Divina Commedia but did not open it. “Donna Margharita, I must ask you—for yourself as well as others—tread carefully. There are traps here that you know nothing of. I’ll admit that I don’t know the total of them, myself.”

  “Of course,” she said at once. “I have seen life at court before, though the English court is not so…complex as the court of la Federazione. Don’t be concerned. I have confined myself to discussing important matters with you and Andrew. And Damian, when he initiates conversation.”

  “Andrea Benci?” He gestured acceptance. Certainly Andrea Benci in his position as Damiano’s secretary knew all that was happening in Firenze and la Federazione. He hitched his shoulder up unhappily. It would be so much easier, he thought, if he could bring himself to like that polished, elegant old man.

  “Why? Is something the matter?” Margaret, as always, was quick to read the nuances of Lodovico’s expression.

  “No, nothing. An irrational dislike.” He opened the book and his eye was caught by the sign over the mouth of Hell—Leave behind every hop
e, you who enter.

  Nerissa was chopping vegetables fresh from the garden and Alessandra bustled about ladling cubes of chicken cooked with lemons in red wine over saffron rice. Her face was rosy and damp, her hair had corkscrewed up around her face and her limp lace cap was askew on her head, but her smile made up for it all.

  “I’ve so wanted you to stay, Donna Margharita. I wish you had taken time to do this before.” She handed a plate to her guest and began to prepare one for her husband. “I hate to interrupt lessons, and usually at the end of them, Lodovico hurries back to his study so that he can put a few more stanzas on paper before he eats. It’s delightful to have you here.”

  “The squashes are ready,” Nerissa announced as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you need me anymore?”

  Alessandra glanced over the kitchen before she answered. “No, I don’t think I do, Nerissa. We have everything. You will want to come back in an hour, I would guess. I doubt we’ll be through in less time.”

  “An hour,” Nerissa said unhappily. “Very well.” She had already untied her apron, and now she hung it on bent nail before hurrying out into the courtyard.

  “Poor Nerissa,” Alessandra said as she wiped the sweat from her face with her sleeve. “Those relatives of hers give her no peace. I sometimes wonder if we were right in taking Carlo on in the stables. Well, it’s done.” She had finished filling her own plate and she nodded toward the plank table with benches near the corner window. “Sit, sit. There’s no sense in eating outside tonight. There are far too many insects about. I’m afraid they would have more of a meal than we would.”

  The table had been scrubbed and it was cooling off. Lodovico took his place at one end of the bench, wiping the board for Margaret Roper. “There, Donna Margharita. It is not perfect, but it won’t ruin your gonella now.”

  Margaret tried to smile but she was too nervous to carry it off. She stared down at her plate and said, as if reciting a lesson, “It smells delicious.”

  “Merce di Maria,” Alessandra laughed, putting one hand to her bosom, “I hope it is not that bad.” She settled on the bench opposite her husband. “If it does not please you, you have only to tell me. The vegetables will be served later, but if you would rather have them now, I will prepare the oil and cook them at once.”

  Shamefaced, Margaret took the spoon offered her and dipped into the plate. “I am sure I will enjoy this,” she said with grim determination.

  Lodovico looked about. “Wine. Is there a bottle?”

  “Did you remember to bring one out?” Alessandra asked, then shook her head indulgently. “Of course you didn’t. I reminded you just before you went up to your study. Well, if Donna Margharita will move aside for you, you may get it now. Not the new jars. They’re very raw still.” As Lodovico made his way past Margaret, Alessandra added, “You can also bring out the honey. Doubtless we’ll all want to put it on the fruit.

  “Do you think that will be necessary?” Margaret asked. “I’m afraid I’m not used to the Italian manner of cooking yet. There is so much more savor to everything that there are times when I think I will never be able to its taste anything again.” The formality of her manner had lessened, and some of the kindness was in her expression as she looked at Alessandra. “Is it very difficult being a poet’s wife?’’

  Alessandra had a wicked chuckle, not unlike a very loud purr. She chuckled now and her eyes glinted. “Difficult? Well, not as a great many men are difficult. He does not beat me or guard me with terrible jealousy. He does not confine me to the house and treat me as a slave instead of a wife. Lodovico is a brilliant man, and a gentle one. We lived together for almost ten years before we could marry—that was when Damiano became his patron. I know of no man I would rather spend my life with. But, of course, he is infuriating. He would sell his soul for a rhyme. He is forgetful. He lives in the kingdom of his mind more than half his waking hours. He is at once the most and least observant man I know.” She lifted her spoon and sampled her own cooking. “I’ve made better, but this is well enough.”

  Lodovico stood in the pantry listening to his wife. He was annoyed and touched by her affectionate and unvarnished summing up of him. Was it true that he was forgetful? He had forgotten the wine, but surely that did not mean he was forgetful. He took two of the older jars from the shelves and as an added precaution, read dates on each. Both were 1523, ten years old. Alessandra called him gentle and brilliant. That was high praise from that intelligent and unassuming woman. But how could he be the most and least observant man she knew? It made no sense. He turned and came out of the pantry.

  “Here is the wine. I should have remembered it.” He put the jars on the table and looked for a knife with which to pry off the seals.

  Alessandra offered him her own knife. “This is sufficient. Use it.”

  Lodovico took the knife and set to work on the seal. “Is Nerissa eating with Carlo again?”

  “Of course,” Alessandra said patiently, then explained to Margaret. “Nerissa, our cook, talked us into taking on her cousin Carlo to care for the stables. He was a smith and lost his post when his employer lost his crops. I feel sorry for the man, but I don’t know if we should have taken him on. These family matters are always so difficult. He’s an acceptable worker, but he isn’t willing, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do,” Margaret responded. “My father has often said that those are the worst sorts of servants and students—the ones who are capable but who no give no heart to it. We had a housekeeper for a time, until my stepmother dismissed her, a woman who knew a great deal about managing a household, and her responsibilities, but nothing more. When one of the housemaids broke her leg, the housekeeper would not do anything to help the poor child. I finally had to send for an apothecary for poppy-juice and for a chirurgeon to set the bone. The housekeeper said that she would not be bothered with such things. I’ve never seen my stepmother in such a rage.” She had not been eating, but now she was silent while she took several bites. “ This is really very good, I’m growing used to it.”

  By this time Lodovico had the first of the jars open, and he began to pour the fragrant red Lombardi wine into the earthenware cups set on the table.

  “I wonder if this Carlo isn’t worse.” Alessandra looked quickly over her shoulder, as if expecting to find the stablehand listening. “He’s a hard man, and though Nerissa tells me that he is perfectly reliable, I can’t bring myself to believe that.”

  “How do you mean?” Margaret asked.

  “I’m afraid that he bullies Nerissa. She hasn’t been herself since Carlo came to work here. She jumps at shadows. I can’t help but think that she would be happier if we sent him away, but then he would not have work again, and doubtless he would expect her to care for him…This arrangement is probably better, for at least he works for the food and coins he gets. All the same, I wish Nerissa would confide in me. Then I would know what best to do.”

  “I’ll see if Damiano has a place for this Carlo,” Lodovico suggested. “That way, if he has other work to do, he will not demand that Nerissa take care of him.” He congratulated himself for that solution, and was convinced that there was nothing to say against it.

  Alessandra clicked her tongue in exasperation and exchanged a look with Margaret. “And if Nerissa is convinced that we arranged for Carlo to leave, she might wish to leave herself. We must be more subtle than that, my dearest. There is a better way, I think.” She gestured toward Margaret. “What do you say, Margharita?”

  “It is not for me to…” she began, and then she gave the matter serious consideration. “It might be awkward to have the man offered employment by Damian, though, since this is his villa, it might be reasoned that he is his employer already. Your cook would believe that you had arranged the matter, whether you had or not.” She frowned and took some of the wine. “It might be better if some other man offered employment, but it would still be suspicious. Who would have recommended him?”

  Lodovico had made
his way back to his seat on the bench and was regretting the whole issue. “We can discuss it another time,” he said testily.

  “Carlo is a strange one,” Alessandra said, as much to herself as to her husband and guest. “I wonder, occasionally, why he decided to work here.”

  “He was hungry,” Lodovico said, dismissing the matter.

  “But he’s a smith. Wouldn’t you think he’d look for employment doing smithing?” Alessandra narrowed her eyes as if to see through the questions she had to the truth.

  Margaret looked up from her plate. “Well, you say his cousin is here. The work is probably easier, and since this woman is your cook, he is probably living very well.” She took another spoonful of rice. “If all the cooking is like this, I do not blame him.”

  “Thank you, Donna Margharita,” Alessandra said merrily. “You’ve probably found the right of it. It’s a shame Nerissa is frightened, she deserves better, but…” She gestured to show her sense of futility. “We may not be here much longer. By winter, we’ll probably be back in Firenze.”

  “What makes you say that?” Lodovico demanded.

  “A feeling I have. You will finish that new Fantasia of yours by the autumn, and by then Damiano will decide that he needs his poet back where he can be seen. And you’ll want to read the new work. It’s always been like that with you: until you finish it, you hide it, and after it is done, you want everyone to hear it or read it.” She glanced at Margaret. “Are all men like this, or only poets?”

  Margaret laughed. “I’ve yet to meet a man who enjoys being wrong. This is probably more of the same.” She tried to look chagrined, but the unexpected dimple betrayed her. “I should not speak so about my instructor, of course. It’s a lamentable lapse on my part.”

  Lodovico stared into his wine, wishing that the two women would not giggle, or say such things about him. He did not hate being wrong, he told himself. He simply did not wish to show his work until it was up to his standards. As certain artists kept a canvas covered until the work was completely finished. That was not the same as not wanting to be wrong. He drank deeply of the wine. Was Margaret Roper like this with her father? Would she giggle about Sir Thomas while she had her meal? If this were only the midday comestio, then, at the conclusion of the meal, when the prayers were said, he could include a pointed remark about respect. But there were rarely prayers after the evening meal, and most emphatically not when eaten in the kitchen.