Ariosto (22 page)

Some of the oppressiveness of the morning fell away from Lodovico. He saw the first coloring of the dawn spreading across the eastern sky like blood from an opening wound, and he thought it was a good omen, for the night had been passed in safety, and surely the portent favored this army and was against the forces of Anatrecacciatore. He put his arm around Falcone’s shoulder and began to explain how the salute had come about and added fanciful tales of the confusion that had been rampant before the custom of raising visors had begun. He had the satisfaction of hearing Falcone laugh aloud as they made their way through the camp to the tent of the leader of the Pau Attan.

La Realtà

Margaret Roper had much the look of her father. She was not particularly tall, her hair was brown and her eyes the same clear, direct blue-gray of Sir Thomas’. Her dark clothing was distressingly English and her stiff skirts made the crinkling sound of bending chain as she curtsied to Lodovico.

“San Jacopo!” Lodovico said quietly, blushing at this remarkable show of respect. “No, no, dear lady, you must not.” He hurried across the reception room and extended his hand to her. “Believe me, it is not deserved. For Damiano, perhaps, or the Ducas and Contes and Doges and Princes, yes, certainly, but for a poet…” He tried to laugh and very nearly coughed.

“My father has praised you highly, Messer Ariosto. He has said that you are the greatest Italian thinker since John Picus.” She would clearly brook no opposition in this matter. Whatever her father told her she was willing to accept as true.

“John Picus?” Lodovico repeated blankly. “John Picus?” Then he sorted out the name. “Ah! You mean il Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola e Concordia. Yes indeed, a most gifted, wonderful mind. It is a pity that he died so young. I wish I had had the chance to know him. He had the look of an angel, that one.” He had seen many of the portraits of the fair-haired, fresh-faced young man. It hardly seemed possible that so formidable a wit and so erudite an intellect lay behind that mild and beautiful exterior.

“My father is his greatest exponent in England,” Margaret Roper informed Lodovico, standing with hands folded across the front of her ugly dress, her stiff kettle headdress covering all but a few wisps of her hair. There was a severity about her that went beyond the brown stiff garments and the austerity of her expression. Lodovico thought that such a woman might have better been born male, for few women had opportunities for learning that this woman so truly craved.

“Do take a chair, Donna,” Lodovico offered suddenly, remembering his role as host. “I am indebted to il Primàrio for sending you to me for this day, though I am not entirely sure why he did.”

Margaret selected one of the high-backed chairs and settled primly on it. “I understand that Damian Medici has struck a…bargain with my father.” From her tone, Lodovico was certain that Sir Thomas’ daughter was apprehensive about the matter. “He said that you have been in communication with him and would give me news of him…” Her voice became very small and she blinked back tears. “The King, you know, is not pleased with my father. When he married that terrible Boleyn woman, they had a…disagreement.”

“So Sir Thomas has said,” Lodovico said gently, knowing what fear those few words concealed. “He informed Damiano that it might be dangerous for him to return to England. That, I understand, is why you and your mother, indeed, all your family, have come to Federazione.”

“Yes.” She nodded as if her head were a fragile balanced on a little tray. “He does not want us to suffer on his account.” The clear eyes were suddenly fiery. “But I would, Messer Ariosto! If my father was in danger, I would suffer any—
anything
to save him!”

Lodovico could well believe it. “Be calm, Donna. You are here so that it will not be necessary for you to make such a sacrifice.” He did not know how to deal with this woman, he thought. She reminded him of what he had read of the early saints, who sought out tribulations so that their faith would be all the stronger for testing. “Dear lady, what can I tell you that will ease your heart? Would you like to see the few letters your father has sent to me? I have one here…” He rummaged around on the littered tabletop, and at last found the folded parchment sheet under three discarded pages of abortive poetry. “Here. You will want to see what he has to say.” He offered the letter to her.

“Thank you.” She took the letter and opened it eagerly, reverently. “He hasn’t written to us, you know, since he sent us to the Low Countries. He thought it was wisest.” She stifled a sound that was very likely a sob. “I beg your pardon, Messer Ariosto. I am not behaving well to you.’’

“Nonsense,” Lodovico protested weakly. “What shall I do for you, if not share your father’s letters?” He smiled at her, and wished that he had a way to contact Sir Thomas. He had questions about Margaret Roper, and though Sir Thomas had spoken of her with affection, Lodovico had no feeling for the woman. The English were very different from Italians, he knew, and for that reason, he could not trust his complicated reaction to Margaret. “You’ll see that there isn’t much in the letter, really. The German States are still battling, but that is a continuous process. He mentions that Sir William Catesby is ailing, but a man his age is going to have difficulty on such a journey. It is a wonder that your King Henry allowed him to go.”

Margaret looked up from the page. “Sir William Catesby was the Esquire Royal to Richard Plantagenet when he made Henry of Richmond his heir. One of his conditions was that Sir William was to maintain that post for as long as he lived, and that his sons were to be ennobled. When Richard died, Henry of Richmond kept Catesby on, though there was little affection between the men, and Henry the Eighth loathes the man. He has been looking for years for an excuse to be rid of Catesby. It’s a pity,” she added after a moment, “Sir William is one of the last of them, and a kinder, more loyal man does not breathe on the earth. When it seemed that war between the Tudors and Plantagenets was inevitable, Sir William stayed by Richard.”

“Did you know Richard?” Lodovico asked, recalling that the last Plantagenet king had been in correspondence with several of the members of Lorenzo’s court.

“No, he died before I was born. Catesby said that after Richard’s wife and son died, he was a changed man. It’s strange for a King to love his wife, but Richard did love his Anne and it was his greatest pain to love her, and then their son. His nephews had been poisoned and he felt that in order to avert more suffering, it would be wise to arrange for a peaceful transition from Plantagenet to Tudor.” She pursed her lips. “Is that how it seemed to others? Or did it smack of surrender?”

Lodovico had seen a few of the letters Richard Plantagenet had written in the last two years of his life, and had found them inexpressibly sad. “Was he a good King, this Richard the Third?”

“Yes,” Margaret said quickly. “And a courageous one. My father met him when he was young and said that few men had seen so far beyond the limits of their reign. Richard had a census taken, you know, and reorganized the treasury on more realistic lines. He also began the new processes of Parliament. It’s unfortunate he died so young, but he had long been afflicted with a wasting disease…” She stopped, her keen eyes meeting Lodovico’s. “I have heard that Lorenzo sent him three of the best Italian physicians.”

“I have heard that, too,” Lodovico said, as if this tenuous bond made them closer. He was struck suddenly by the vulnerability of this woman, and realizing how cast adrift she must feel, he was determined to give her his full sympathy.

“But Henry is not pleased with Sir William because he was part of all that, and so, he sends him with my father into Russia.” She spread the letter again, reading it with close attention. “I am surprised,” she said when she was halfway through, “that the Polish escort should have come as far as Udine to meet them.” She read a little further and smiled. “Ah. I see here that my father feels that it was more than an escort.
‘For if Russia and England do form an alliance, Russia may well press westward into Poland, and with war in the German States, it will fall to Poland and Austria and Hungary to stave off that giant country. It is the dream of the Grand Duke of Muscovy, so they say, to unite all the Russias under his banner—a foolhardy plan on the face of it, but perhaps not impossible. The Great Khan accomplished far more with much less. If it comes to that, Poland, Austria and Hungary will have to stand not only against Russia, but, I fear, against the Turks as well, for I doubt the truce would be honored at such at time.’
He is most probably right. Or does it seem otherwise to you, Messer Ariosto?”

Lodovico gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I am a poet, Donna Margharita. I have no feel for politics. I can see that there is danger, of course, as any sensible man must, but whether Poland and Hungary will become allies against Russia…How can I tell?”

“Well, it would appear that the Poles had business in Austria already and came into Italy as an excuse.” She finished the letter and folded it carefully before handing back to Lodovico. “I thank you, Messer Ariosto. It does my heart good to read my father’s letter. I feel less lost because of it.”

This admission of hers touched him. “For the daughter of my friend, it is a small thing to do. If you require more of me, you have only to ask.” Yet he said this in a perfunctory way, knowing that it was expected of him, and being confident that there was little he could do.

“I know you are busy with your poetry now, and I would not interfere with that, but…” she said in a rush, her face suddenly rose-hued.

Lodovico looked at her askance. “My work is going well,” he said, “but there is much to be done on it.” He wished he had some finished pages to show her, but most of them were in his study on the floor above.

Margaret arranged herself on the chair so that she looked almost childlike. “Messer Ariosto, I would like to learn to read Italian.”

“What?” Lodovico stared at her, not certain she was serious, and very much afraid he would laugh. It would be a great cruelty, he said to himself, to laugh at this earnest young woman, and it would be a disservice to Sir Thomas. “There are better teachers than I am, Donna,” he said, his caution making his voice breathy.

“I know there are those who can teach me the words. I have read much of their works in the past months. I realize that, given a year or more, I would learn a great deal on my own. But I would still not be able to express myself with elegance, with learning, in a way that my father would wish. It is true that there are others who know more of teaching, but no one knows more of the language than you do.” Her head had come up again, and her steady gaze burned into Lodovico’s weary, tan eyes.

“I see.” He came back into the room and drew up a chair for himself. “Did Damiano suggest this?”

“The Premier approved my request.” She was quite autocratic now, and her voice had become hard. Lodovico recalled the deep, orator’s tone of Sir Thomas voice and thought it a pity that his daughter was not like him in that way. “I am determined to learn, Messer Ariosto. If you will not teach me, then I must find another, for I am determined to be proficient by the time my father returns.”

Lodovico gave a gesture of helplessness. “You see where I live, Donna. I am fully an hour away from Firenze. If you wish to come here, then, of course, I will be happy to teach you, though you may find f I am not as adept as many others are. However, let me recommend to you that you find someone in Firenze, an educated man, a priest, perhaps, who can school you in the ordinary forms of the language. Then, when you come to me, we will not have to waste time on simple things.” He smiled in what he hoped was a cordial manner. He felt his hands go cold as he waited for her answer.

“You don’t wish me as a student?” She made the question a challenge. “I will bring a maid as I did today. There is no way my visits can be considered improper. You may command your wife to sit with us while I have your instruction.”

“No, no,” Lodovico protested, and this time he did laugh. “You misunderstand me entirely.” He tried to picture in his mind Alessandra sitting through long afternoons devoted to verbs and poetic structure, and the amusement made him lighthearted for the first time since he had set eyes on this unnerving woman. “Donna Margharita, I have said I will teach you. But you will not want to come here every day.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “No,” she admitted when she had considered the matter.

“Therefore, choose a day. That day will be yours, every week you desire my tuition. That is more possible, is it not? And while you are in Firenze, you will find another master for those days you are not coming to me.” He leaned forward, realizing that it would be stimulating to teach this daughter of Sir Thomas More.

She gestured an acceptance. “I am at a loss here,” she said after a moment of silence. “I have not been separated from my father before.”

“But there is your mother, your sisters, your brother, your husband.”

“She’s not my mother,” Margaret said firmly. “I love Alice Middleton dearly, but she is my father’s second wife. Though she has been generous with us, as many another woman might not have been. She is much devoted to my father.”

“A second wife,” Lodovico mused, somewhat surprised. “Still, Donna, you are not alone.” He was pleased that he had been able to admonish Margaret so gently. It was wrong to upset Sir Thomas’ daughter.

“But I am!” she burst out and, to Lodovico’s dismay, began to weep. “I’ve always been with him. I have cared for him, read with him. I washed his hair-shirt, fasted when he did…” She put her hand to her mouth as her sobs grew louder.

Lodovico felt clumsy. Had an Italian woman burst into tears he would have known what to do, but with this self-possessed Englishwoman, he had no idea what to say, what to do, how to act. Tentatively he put hand on her shoulder, and was rewarded by a moan. “Donna…”

“I’m so distressed,” Margaret wailed, and gasped in an attempt to control her tears.

“Naturally,” Lodovico said vaguely, wishing that Alessandra would come and help him in this difficult situation.