Duchess of Milan (21 page)

Il Moro stared at the glistening red patch of boar’s blood. He appeared frozen, his fixed black eyes the still center of all this noise and bustle. Then his entire face realigned. The corners of his eyes twitched, and his jaw contracted and shifted, as though furtively racing through a medley of suppressed passions. An instant later his face was as blank and impassive as ever. The animal cacophony abruptly faded. Il Moro turned and addressed the company. “If ever we wanted for proof that the Duchesses of Milan and Bari have recklessly taunted Fortune--”

“I have jousted with Fortune,” Beatrice announced in a high, metallic tone, “and Messer Galeazz has jousted with the boar, and both of us have won!”

“I have seen men twice your size killed by boars half the size of this one, my Duchess,” Galeazz offered with a frown.

Beatrice grinned. “But isn’t that why we hunt, to know the glories and dangers of war without having to burn our peasants’ huts and rape their wives?”

“I have never seen anything like it,” enthused Gian, striding jauntily to the center of the group, his profile rakish and his platinum hair swept back, the grand arbiter of the hunt. “The Duchess of Bari rode a horse that itself rode upon the back of a boar, and not only did she remain in the saddle; her riding posture was correct all the while.”

“Oh, dear God,” the Marquesa cried out. “Someone help me!” The men turned. The Marquesa struggled to support the dead weight of the Duchess of Milan, who had collapsed, pale as a corpse, in her arms.

CHAPTER 17

Francesco padded toward his mother’s bed at a confident, barefoot trot. “Bab-ba,” he said, reaching up. The old women at court often remarked that he favored his father, with his fine platinum hair and brilliant lips. “Bab-ba sick.”

“Bab-ba is fine, and she is happy her
hello fanciullo
is here,” Beatrice said. She picked the little boy up and kissed him before placing him in Isabella’s arms.

Isabella was propped up on pillows set against the sculpted plaster headboard; a gilded Sforza viper hovered over her head. She whispered in Francesco’s ear, then loudly kissed his neck until he began to squirm and giggle.

“Are you feeling well enough to have supper with us?” Beatrice asked. She sat on the bed and put her hand to her cousin’s forehead.

“I’m starving.” Isabella appeared entirely recovered from her faint. Her high, wide cheekbones were bright red from the day’s sun, her eyes like polished jade.

Beatrice got up at the knock on the door. “My sister wanted to look in on you,” she explained.

“You frightened me right out of my linens, Your Highness,” the Marquesa said, breezing to Isabella’s bed and making a funny face at Francesco. “But whatever malady you are suffering, it certainly agrees with you.”

The look that passed between Beatrice and Isabella wasn’t subtle enough to elude the Marquesa. “What is going on with you two--” the Marquesa demanded, then arrived at the solution in mid-query. “Tell me you are not!” she blurted to Isabella. “Tell me you are not! I am furious with you. I positively am. You are simply making me ill with envy. God, Beatrice, how can you stand her?” The Marquesa’s voice actually had an angry edge. “How many months is it?”

“I would guess a little more than three months,” Isabella said, her eyes glazed with pride.

“Per mia fe.”
The Marquesa sighed. “I already would have directed my stonecarvers to erect a triumphal arch to my little
puttino.
Why are you keeping it a secret?”

“I don’t want to suffer through Messer Ambrogio’s lectures. All he can prescribe is ‘bed rest, bed rest, bed rest.’ That’s the problem when all the physicians are old men. They think we are in no better health than they are. It is simply absurd how they presume that carrying a child is a mortal illness.”

“I am so pleased to hear you say that, Your Highness. God knows I worry about someone as frail as my sister-in-law Elisabetta, but for a woman as strong as Your Highness or myself, it is the relentless nagging of the physicians and the
vecchie
that most seriously threatens our health.
Cacasangue,
if Beatrice ever gets pregnant, they will hear Polissena in London.”

“You have never heard a
vecchia
caw until you’ve heard my mother-in-law lecture a pregnant woman,” Isabella said. “Compared to the Duchess Mother, Polissena’s admonitions are as lovely as Maestro Cristoforo’s singing. The woman can scarcely get out of bed, but her wind could drive a carrack from Genoa to the tip of Africa.”

The Marquesa laughed wickedly. Beatrice took a step back from the bed. “I want to lie down before supper,” she said.

The Marquesa reached out and coaxed Francesco into her arms. “I don’t believe you two. You speak with one voice, you have given this precious
puttino
two mothers, and I can see that when one of you takes to bed, the other must lie down as well.” The Marquesa touched her tongue to the tip of Francesco’s nose and spoke to him. “Now I’m waiting for your silly mother to tell me that silly Beatrice is going to sit beside her in the birthing chair.”

The ubiquitous tricolor pages rushed in to clear the remnants of the fifth course, which had consisted of capons in parsley sauce with a petal garnish, roast eel in a yellow sauce, trout in silver sauce, gelatins in the shape of the Sforza crest, and whole pheasants encased in a meticulous reconstruction of the original plumage, with little sapphires stuck in the eye sockets. Chased silver cups, gold saltcellars in the shape of Roman gods, and knives and forks with gold niello handles were deftly plucked from the white linen tablecloth, which was itself swept away and replaced. In a second flurry the pages brought in the dessert course: pastries, tarts, almonds and oranges encased in a crust of solidified gold syrup, and myriad
confetti
--spun-sugar figures that included birds, mythological beasts, and an entire castle surrounded by knights and siege equipment. A thick, sugared wine was poured into Murano glass goblets enameled with the Sforza crest.

Il Moro nodded to the master of the ducal choir, who led his contingent from the hall. The pages bustled out after the singers and sealed the doors behind themselves. Of the sixty guests who had dined this evening, Il Moro had invited only his wife, the Duke and Duchess of Milan, the Marquesa, and Messer Galeazz to stay for dessert.

“This letter arrived today from Rome. It has been written by the new Papal Vice-Chancellor,” Il Moro said, smiling tightly. “My brother Ascanio.” Galeazz clapped enthusiastically, joined by Gian, prompting the three women to offer their own discreet applause. “I want to share Ascanio’s words with my closest family.” Il Moro read Ascanio’s accounting of the extravagant pledges Pope Alexander had made to him. In addition to Ascanio’s new office, which gave him supervision of all church properties, the grateful Borgia Pope had presented to him a
palazzo
in Rome, entirely furnished with a fortune in art and antiquities, and had signed over to him a good-size town in the papal territory north of Rome.

Gian tossed down his dessert wine and smirked with pleasure throughout the recitation, as if he had himself earned these rewards; his uncle Cardinal Ascanio was his favorite relative.

Il Moro’s fluid diction did not alter when he began this passage: “ ‘His Holiness then spoke to me of his great admiration for you, my brother, and stated that his inerrant policy would be to maintain the warm relationship that already exists between himself and the Duke of Bari. His Holiness told me that he considers Il Moro the greatest man in all Italy, and he wishes to consult with you on any matter of importance, whether or not the welfare of Milan is directly involved. He offered in closing that his only regret was that Your Highness could not share the papal throne with him.’ “

Beatrice looked between Gian and Il Moro, the latter standing impassively above them, his nose sharp and hawkish, his complexion darkened by the sun; the former flushed with inebriation, bobbing his head with a fool’s arrogance. Her husband had not once mentioned the Duke of Milan. He had not even offered the usual diplomatic pretense that all these encomiums had been offered in the name of their illustrious sovereign. The tension was like stinging nettles in her stomach. She silently begged her husband to say something about Gian.

As Il Moro set the parchment down, Galeazz applauded again and Gian slapped the tabletop, vehemently nodding, a sneer of besotted self-satisfaction distorting his features.

“The Pope is now my chaplain,” Il Moro said. He raised his goblet and smiled recklessly at the apparent jest, but the terrifying depth of his eyes was the only truth on his face. “The German Emperor shall be my general, the Signory of Venice my stewards, and the King of France my courier.”

Galeazz laughed as if he were merely humoring Il Moro, but Gian convulsed into high-pitched giggles, knocking his goblet over and staining the fresh white tablecloth. Isabella’s eyes narrowed until she looked like a cat staring into a wind.

Chair legs screeched against the marble floor. Beatrice fled toward the doors, pounded for the page, and slipped out as soon as the massive leaves came ajar. A moment later, Isabella followed her.

“Give it to one of your serving girls,” Isabella said. She tossed the
camora
Beatrice had worn to supper onto the floor. The dress had been soiled with Beatrice’s vomit; she had reached a bed of marigolds in the Castello courtyard before disgorging all five courses of the evening’s repast.

Isabella sat down on the bed. Beatrice was under the covers, her head propped on a satin pillow.

“It isn’t your fault, darling.”

“I thought things were better, Eesh. I thought he had decided to accept things as they are. Why can’t he just leave you and Francesco alone?”

“He can’t do anything now. Everyone knows that we must be united against the Frenchmen,” Isabella said, stroking Beatrice’s hair.

“I can’t believe he would say what he did about Venice with my sister there.”

“That was why he said it. He knows that it will go straight back to the Signory. He needs the Venetians to join his league against the French, but he must show them that now he feels powerful enough to insult them. He’s playing a game.”

Beatrice pursed her lips, for a moment looking grave and older. “Eesh, I swear I would tell you if I had the slightest hint that my husband was going to do something. ... I would come to you the minute I suspected.”

“I know, darling. That is the greatest comfort Francesco and I have.” Isabella stroked Beatrice’s cheek with her finger. “You know as well as anyone how I never had a real
arnica
when I was growing up. I was always with the boys.” She laughed fondly, remembering. “My brother Ferrantino was my best friend. I didn’t have a sister, and my mother ...” Isabella shook her head.

Beatrice understood the aborted sentence. Eesh had always hated her mother. She remembered one family supper when Eesh, her face as red as Sicilian wine, had screamed at her mother and burst into tears. But then her father’s mistress had usually sat with them at family suppers; Eesh, who had always worshiped her father in spite of everything, seemed to blame her mother for her father’s infidelity.

“Then I came here and Bona,
la vecchia meretrice cacapensieri,
became my mother-in-law.” Isabella’s upper lip curled. “I do love Bianca Maria, but that is pity more than friendship. I never in my life felt close enough to another woman to trust her.” Isabella touched her forehead to Beatrice’s. “But now I trust you.”

“I love you too, Eesh.”

“I suppose we should sleep.” Isabella kissed Beatrice and stood up. “We must be rested if we’re to jeopardize our health again tomorrow.” She made a long, dour face. “Bed rest, bed rest,” she clowned, imitating Messer Ambrogio; she convincingly mimicked the physician’s long, self-important strides as she went to the door.

Beatrice started at the thud of the heavy door closing behind Isabella. She tried to hold on to the lingering warmth of her cousin’s intimacy as long as she could. But the cold thing at her center began to grow, a palpable chill that made her clutch her arms tightly around her torso. She tried to contract all her muscles, drawing herself in so tightly that she would crush everything inside her. She strained, and her color deepened. Finally she gave up, with an explosive exhalation, almost a sob. She sat defeated for a long moment, then slid from the covers as raptly as a sleepwalker. She stood beside her bed and with dreamlike deliberation pulled her chemise over her head. At last she looked down at her belly. Her hands trembled. She put her fingers to her abdomen and pressed painfully hard, drawing in her breath, trying to force her belly back against her spine.

She had always presumed, and dreaded, that one day she would be as fat as her mother, that one morning she would awaken and find herself with a waist like a wine barrel. Instead her constant physical activity--the daily riding, dancing, and tennis--had stripped the layer of fat from her adolescent physique. Her arms were lean, almost sinuous, her thighs as hard as a wooden sculpture. But her belly had grown. She pressed it again, feeling the fibrous, expanding sheath. Day after day for the past month she had denied it, attacked it, riding more recklessly, dancing more frantically, trying to make the rebellious flesh contract.

Her breasts had grown too. She touched her fingers to her broadening nipples, then cupped the tender, aching flesh. A moment later she felt the pain in her womb as well. Nothing was right with her body. Her bowels had been bilious and obstructed for weeks now; she sometimes felt as if there were malicious hands working inside her, twisting and moving things about. She had to pass water three times as often as before. Whenever she and Eesh were out riding and Eesh had to go behind a tree and hike up her skirts, she did too. And of course she had missed three of her out-of-ordinaries, but that had been the norm even before. . . .

Beatrice retrieved her volume of Dante’s
Purgatorio.
She sat on the bed and riffled urgently through the velvet-smooth kid pages. When she reached Canto XXV, her fingers slowed and traced carefully over the words. Dante, accompanied by the virtuous pagan poet Virgil and the Christian poet Statius, had just begun to climb the mountain of Purgatory, and Statius was giving the relentlessly curious Dante a scientific explanation of the origin of a human soul. According to Statius, a recently conceived child was not yet human but instead was a creature so primitive that it was half beast, half vegetable, “like a sea sponge.” This fetal being might move and feel but had no higher purpose. Only when the fetal brain had been fully formed, some months into the pregnancy, would God look with favor on His creation and breathe into it a new, living soul capable of contemplating the wonder of its own existence.