Ariosto (19 page)

Alessandra’s gesture was exasperated and resigned. Don’t be too long, husband,” she admonished him affectionately as she closed the door behind her. Lodovico could hear her steps retreat down the hall to the stairs.

Lodovico stood alone for a moment, one hand on the frayed standing collar of his guarnacca. He gave the garment a peremptory tug and pulled at the sleeves of his shirt so that they puffed out at the simple slashing. His stiff-padded knee-length hose were rumpled and he supposed his calzebrache were sagging. He had often wondered how men like Andrea Benci always contrived to look so neat. There was never an unwanted crease in Benci’s clothes, his leggings never twisted or snagged or ran, his shirts never had spots and the complicated slashing on his guanacos and giorneas were always stylish. His barber never hacked his hair to uneven lengths and his little beard was always perfectly groomed. Lodovico tugged at his beard; the stiff hair refused to lie down. He decided to leave his cap where it was and reluctantly left his study for the receiving room below.

As he came into the entryway, he saw the messenger waiting. He was a tall man wearing a long cloak that was dripping steadily onto the stone floor. There was a harassed look to him, as if this were not the only unpleasant errand he had run that day. “Messer’ Ariosto?”

“I am he.” Lodovico performed the most minuscule of acknowledgments.

“I am Renaldo Tommassini,” said the other, as if the name should mean something to Lodovico.

“I don’t believe we have ever met,” Lodovico said after giving the man’s face a quick scrutiny.

“We have not,” Renaldo answered shortly. “I am sent by my uncle. I thought you would have heard of me.”

“Your uncle? I’m afraid I…” He knew he ought to offer the man the warmth of the fireplace in the receiving room, and belatedly he gestured toward that chamber. “Perhaps…you might sit down. I could send for hot wine?”

“Thank you, I would like that.” There was a thawing in the imposing young man. “It was a hectic ride here.”

“These summer storms. Very unpredictable.” Lodovico called to Alessandra, “Have Nerissa heat and spice some wine for this poor man.”

“I have already spoken to our cook,” Alessandra responded primly, adding in a slightly injured tone, “I will leave you to your discussions.” She turned away toward the back of the house before Lodovico could think of anything to say.

“Good,” Renaldo sighed as he began to pull off his sodden garments. “We must speak in private, Messer’ Ariosto. It is important that we are not disturbed.”

Lodovico was genuinely puzzled. He had received a few messengers from Firenze since Damiano had visited him three weeks ago, but none had come in such weather and had insisted on so much secrecy. “If it is that private, we may retire to my study. It isn’t very warm, but I know that…”

“No, no,” Renaldo Tommassini protested, raising his gloved hand. “Here will be well.” He cast his cloak onto a table near the fireplace and spread it out to dry. As he tugged the gloves from his hands, he remarked, “The approach to the villa is wet as a creekbed.”

“So it is.” Lodovico took the chair farthest away from the fire and sat, waiting. “Have you letters for me?”

“Letters?” Renaldo was startled. “There are things one does not put in letters, at least not when there are messengers who are discreet.” His smile was condescending and there was disdain in his tone. “You must allow that there are men whom it is not wise to trust, even with letters.”

“Certainly,” Lodovico answered automatically, and could not understand why Damiano had employed this self-important young man on such a mission. He had his answer at once.

“I am employed by Andrea Benci, the personal secretary to il Primàrio…”

“I know Benci,” Lodovico said mildly, satisfied that Damiano had not intended this Renaldo as an insult. “I am surprised that he would send you, or anyone, to me.”

For the first time Renaldo Tommassini seemed distressed. He sank into the chair by the fire, clasped his hands, then rose again. “It is a most delicate matter. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“I hope so,” Lodovico assured him, feeling baffled by the man’s refusal to get to the point.

“It is not what Andrea Benci wishes to do, but he has orders, you understand.” Renaldo took his seat again and stared at the fire. “I am told that you are somewhat in il Primàrio’s confidence, so I will speak freely.”

If this was an example of his free-speaking, Lodovico thought, he would be astounded at what Tommassini considered obtuse. “I would appreciate that.”

“It is Sir Thomas More,” Renaldo exclaimed, and clasped his hands together in an attempt to restore his formidable manner.

“What of Sir Thomas? I beg you not to speak in riddles. If there is trouble, tell me at once.” His voice had gotten louder and he made a stern effort to control it. Had anything befallen the Chancellor of England?

“Have you had any communication with him since he left Firenze?” Renaldo demanded, sitting forward, his chin thrust out. Lodovico stared at him, thinking that the young man had a very Medici jaw, and tried to determine to his own satisfaction which Medici had seduced his way into Tommassini’s family. Lorenzo or his brother Giuliano, perhaps, or Damiano’s father, Piero. They were all possibilities….

“What?” he asked rather suddenly, realizing that he had been staring and had not properly heard the question.

“I said, have you had any communication with Sir Thomas More since he left Italia Federata?” This was said with exaggerated care, as if Renaldo had decided that Lodovico was deaf or foolish.

“Why do you ask?” He had not meant this as a challenge, but from the way Renaldo’s expression hardened, it was clearly interpreted as such.

“Andrea Benci knows that you were visited by someone carrying a letter. When he was not notified of it, he grew concerned.”

Lodovico wanted to know by what right Andrea Benci could demand this or anything of him. It was Damiano who trusted him, Damiano who was his patron, his friend. He considered the letter that had been given to him a few days before, brought by a monk traveling from Poland to Roma. He was startled to hear himself say, “I have heard nothing from Sir Thomas recently. Damiano was given the last letter I received.”

Renaldo was taken aback, but was able to disguise it quickly. “We had heard you were sent a letter.”

This stung Lodovico, and instead of apologizing and telling the brash young man the truth, he found himself infuriated that his privacy had been violated. He sat straighter, making up his mind to complain to Damiano at the first opportunity. “I did have a letter from Poland, it’s true. It came from a scholar there who wishes to translate some of my poems, but has no complete editions. He wants me to send him one.” He reminded himself that he would have to send Jerzy a copy of one of his volumes. His longtime correspondent would not mind receiving it.

“A Polish scholar,” Renaldo repeated softly.

“I will be happy to supply his name, if it is required.” Lodovico’s tone was icily polite, more out of anxiety than anything else. If Renaldo insisted on seeing the letter, he would surely be revealed as a liar, and he knew that once Damiano heard of this, he would lose all trust in his poet-friend.

Apparently Renaldo read other import into his words. He too, sat straighter. “I was not suggesting that there was any dissemblance. A man of your literary reputation must often receive such requests.” He spoke more surely now, as if he had convinced himself of Lodovico’s honesty. An expression between anger and disgust hovered on his face, and then, with a great effort, he schooled his features to a pleasant smile. “What a day to come on a fool’s errand.”

“It is unfortunate,” Lodovico agreed promptly, vastly relieved that this Renaldo Tommassini would not insist on pursuing the matter. He was gratified to hear Alessandra’s firm steps in the hall.

“Hot wine,” she announced as she came into the chamber without knocking. “Nerissa has also insisted on serving little cakes with fruit to go with the wine.” She held the well-laden tray in both hands and glanced at the table in some aggravation. “Certainly the cloak must remain spread to dry. Where shall I put this tray?”

Lodovico indicated the seat of another chair. “It will do. This is not comestio or prandium, and Tommassini’s is not a formal visit.” He tugged at his badly-trimmed beard. “Do you disapprove, Signor’ Tommassini?’’

“No, not at all.” Renaldo looked up at Alessandra, a curious expression in his narrow eyes. “A pleasant villa, Donna.”

Alessandra gave him her most complacent smile. “Truly. We are fortunate, my husband and I, that il Primàrio knows his worth.”

A warm, private pride filled Lodovico as he heard Alessandra speak. It was remarks of that sort that re- minded him why he loved her. He looked squarely at Renaldo Tommassini. “You will have to tell Andrea Benci that his zeal has been misplaced. A pity.” Lodovico folded his arms.

“He was most anxious for word from Sir Thomas More,” the young man said, beginning to appear less formidable.

“As am I.” Lodovico wished now he had taken the time to change into his lucco, the one with the embroidery down the front panel. The garment was warmer than his guarnacca, more prosperous-looking and of a cut and style that would make this young upstart tender him more respect.

“Certainly you must be. I will tell Signor’ Benci that you have heard from a Polish friend.” He accepted the cup that Alessandra held out to him but his face had darkened, and it was plain that he felt much put upon. “In such instances, however, zeal cannot be displaced.” The tantalizing fragrance of the spiced wine took his attention and he drank deeply, gratefully.

“If you were willing to ride out here in the rain, you must certainly believe that.” He held his cup for a little time, not wanting to appear too eager in the presence of Renaldo Tommassini. He was still confused by his own mendacity and for that reason, if no other, hoped to put a stop to any more questions.

“There is much unrest in Italia Federata,” Renaldo announced, as if he expected Lodovico to contradict him.

“I have heard that, and seen it.” He touched the place on his head where the cudgel had struck. “When you consider how much is at stake in this country, it is not surprising.” The wine was hotter than he had anticipated but he drank it with an unreal ease. It would not do to appear at a disadvantage now. He set the cup aside and said in a crisper tone, “Well, if that is all you came for, I am sorry to be such a disappointment. However, I have my work to attend to and if you will be good enough to forgive me…” He had risen before Renaldo had time to respond.

“But the cakes, my husband,” Alessandra protested, shocked at this churlish behavior.

“When my mind is active, food does not attract me,” he informed her and their guest. “Perhaps later.” He was almost to the door.

“Messer’ Ariosto…” Renaldo Tommassini began, torn between his sense of duty and the lure of the hot wine and cakes.

“If I had anything to tell you, believe me, I would be willing to discuss the matter with you at whatever length il Primàrio required. But since I do not, really, I must…” He was out the door and moving quickly toward the stairs. He had not thought to escape so easily, but he could feel his resolution beginning to wane, and feared that with wine and cakes in him, he would blurt out the truth. Yet the greatest puzzle remained within him—why had he lied at all?

Sir Thomas had written in Latin, since he had little Italian and Lodovico no English. The letter had been scribbled in haste and sealed five times. The English Chancellor was deeply troubled, and confessed this to Lodovico in terse phrases.

“I am torn with doubts,”
Sir Thomas confided.
“My heart is not my own. I fully understand the danger in which D. dM. stands, and I most truly feel sympathy for him, and wish to aid him. Yet how can I, when to support D. dM. is to defy the Pope, and I have already defied my King for my faith? Respected Ariosto, I will tell you that I believe that young Davanzati who accompanies this mission is spying for Cosimo, Cardinal Medici. Whether or not you choose to reveal this to D. Dm. will be up to you. I cannot have such an act against the Church upon my conscience. I pray daily for wisdom but God has not granted my prayer. My daughter has written from Amsterdam to say that she and my wife and family will shortly leave for Firenze, and by the time this arrives, they may have already reached Italy. For their protection, I must continue to work on D. dM.’s behalf, but for the sake of my soul and the tranquility of my mind, I should offer this breach of faith up to His Holiness and beg his forgiveness for my treason.”

Should he, Lodovico wondered, inform Sir Thomas that Damiano was aware of Ippolito Davanzati’s work? Would Sir Thomas feel relieved or the more betrayed? He tapped the parchment and stared with supreme abstraction at the half-closed shutters. Where did his own obligations lie? Foremost he would serve Damiano, but in these circumstances he had no idea which way was best. He was still smarting from the shoddy treatment he had been given—sending one of Benci’s lackey-courtiers, indeed! He had drafted two letters of complaint to Damiano and in the end had destroyed them both. Undoubtedly il Primàrio had his reasons for using that officious young man, or had not thought the matter important enough for a more impressive messenger. With an effort Lodovico swallowed his pride and resolved not to mention the matter to Damiano. To make much over such a little thing! Men of the world did not allow such matters to distract them.

He was still sitting, alone, in the dark, when Virginio scratched at the door and entered the room without waiting to be bidden.

Lodovico looked up sharply, as if he had been startled out of sleep. “What?” he asked, passing a band over his face.

“I had to talk to you,” Virginio said as he pulled one of the chairs nearer his father’s worktable. “Why haven’t you lit a lantern? This place is as dark as a tomb.”

“Um.” Lodovico reached automatically for the flint to strike a spark, but as he did, he said, “You want something of me, then.”

“Yes, I do,” Virginio began confidently, then stopped and stared down at his hands. “Father, look.” Again he faltered. “When I’m in Firenze, everyone says…They all laugh…I’m treated like a bumpkin because I live in the country!” he burst out.