Ludovico had surprised her days earlier by announcing that he was appointing her Regent of the Duchy of Milan and guardian of their two sons. If anything were to happen to him, she would preside over the kingdom until their oldest boy came of age. It is not an unusual honor for a husband to bestow upon his wife, but Beatrice has just passed her twentieth birthday. In the event of Ludovico’s demise, no elderly chancellor or body of governors would have sovereignty over her. She would inherit Ludovico’s power in its entirety and would safeguard it until little Max could assume the title and the responsibilities.
After the ceremony, as the entire party rides in procession to Sant’Ambrogio Cathedral to give thanks, Beatrice is composing a mental letter to Isabella.
This is the grandest and most noble solemnity that has ever been beheld by our young eyes
. She does not want to sound as if she is boasting. She has missed Isabella terribly since her departure in March. Little Max, who had taken such a liking to his aunt, would run up and down the halls of the Castello calling her name. And Ludovico would look wistfully at his swans whenever they crossed the moat into the palace and proclaim Isabella “a woman whose every gesture proclaims her noble character.” Beatrice is no longer jealous of her sister; Isabella no longer flirts with Ludovico, at least not in Beatrice’s presence. Her sister even seemed to go out of her way to avoid Ludovico when she was last in Milan, reluctant, or at least it seemed to Beatrice, to spend any time alone with him at all. Years of marriage, duty, and motherhood may have worked its sedulous, steadying effect on Isabella, as it has on Beatrice. The two are no longer girls competing for attention, but women, brought together by blood and by experience.
Events have been happening with such rapidity in Beatrice’s life that she would love to have had her sister’s cool-headed counsel these last few months. Now that their mother is dead, Isabella is the mentor and female protector in Beatrice’s world. With no mother to turn to, when confronting a challenge or a situation that threatened to overwhelm her, Beatrice has found herself asking: What would Isabella do in this situation? Then she would act according to how she believed her sister would act. Even when Isabella was nowhere in sight, thinking of her gave Beatrice an invisible model of strength and courage to emulate. Sometimes she looks into a crowd and imagines that she sees Isabella coming toward her, only to discover that she has fabricated her sister’s presence.
Later that evening, at the candle-bright
festa
for two thousand guests to commemorate the occasion, Beatrice finds herself drawn only to Francesco. Ludovico has asked her in advance to “chat with Francesco and try to read his pulse on the matter of fighting the French,” but Beatrice finds that she wishes only for some firsthand news about her sister.
“Speak to me not of our usual obsession of horses, Marquis,” she says to Francesco, ignoring the long line of dignitaries and well-wishers who want a word with her. “I only want to hear of my sister’s health and her goings-on. You must tell me everything in great detail because I find that letters are inadequate and leave me wanting for more information.”
“Well, she is about this big,” he says, putting his hands out a few inches from his stomach. “And she is evermore the Arab horse trader when it comes to procuring beautiful things to decorate her studiolo. She bargains with tremendous conviction. Many a merchant along the trade routes would love to have her talents. I swear to you, she is so cagey and clever that sometimes I think she must be a Venetian.” Beatrice can see his pride lighting up his wide, watery brown eyes. Of course, he should appreciate his wife. Beatrice has heard that Isabella—proud, beautiful Isabella—has pawned her most precious jewels to help Francesco pay for armor and supplies for the Italian League army.
“She asked Andrea Mantegna for a painting of such-and-such dimensions to cover a certain space on a certain wall in the studiolo, and requested that he make it of some classical theme. Well, what do you think the old man came up with? He is making a painting of the Nine Muses on Mount Parnassus, and who do you think is the golden-haired Muse in the dead center of the painting? It’s our own Isabella, in her pregnant state, dancing among the others. She is more beautiful than Venus, who presides over the painting.”
“She
is
more beautiful than Venus,” Beatrice says. “Finally someone has painted her as what she is, a Muse.”
“Oh yes, she inspires everyone,” he says. “If I were a jealous man, I would already have killed dozens of poets and painters and courtiers.”
Beatrice does not even attempt to stifle her laugh. “But, Marquis, you are a jealous man.”
“So I am. Perhaps we should take a moment to reflect upon my self-restraint.”
After all the guests have departed and the duke and his duchess are alone, Ludovico wants to know what Beatrice and Francesco had been discussing with such liveliness. She tells him about Isabella being painted as a Muse.
“Good. Then she will stop pestering us over Magistro Leonardo. At least for a while,” he answers. “Mantegna is a genius too. I hope he can slake her thirst.”
Beatrice has never known Ludovico to make any comment about her sister in less than glowing terms and wonders why he is speaking of her in a snide tone now.
“Did you speak to your brother-in-law on any matters of importance?” he asks.
“I thought my sister’s health and state of mind
were
important,” she answers.
“The marquis is a short little prig, and I wish to God that we did not require his services,” Ludovico exclaims. “He would not even speak to me of the confrontation with the French. I suppose he thinks he is employed solely by the Venetians, and not by me. Does he know whose money is filling his pockets?”
Beatrice is fairly certain that all of Italy knows whose money is filling the Italian League’s pockets, not to mention the pockets of the kings of France and Germany. Though Ludovico is making the secret alliance against France, publicly he still sides with the French, and has just loaned Charles a large sum of money. When Beatrice had questioned him, he said, “It’s important to make your enemies think that you are going to do one thing when you are really going to do another.”
“Well, you certainly have accomplished that,” she replied. Ludovico had publicly denied his involvement in forming the Italian League all the way through the celebrations of the coalition at Venice, where the French ambassador had demanded to know why all the bells of the city were ringing, and why all the houses were alive with parties and talk of throwing the French out of Italy. “We know nothing about it,” Ludovico’s ambassadors had been instructed to say. “And whatever it is, we assure you that our duke has no part in it.”
Beatrice decides to ignore Ludovico’s question about whose money is going into what pockets. “What do you mean, Francesco wouldn’t speak with you about it? He was altogether charming all evening. I cannot believe that he would have slighted you on the celebration of your ascendance. If nothing else, he is no fool.”
A dark, jagged vein appears across Ludovico’s forehead. Beatrice is not sure she has ever seen it before, but it makes him look meaner, older, and more malevolent. “Apparently he had already spent all charm and civility on you and on whatever women were in proximity. When I asked him how the plans for marching south to confront the French were progressing, he stiffened. In that arrogant way of his, he said, ‘I am not going to fight the French. I am going to exterminate them.’ Then he had the audacity to walk away, as if I had insulted him.”
“Perhaps you did. Perhaps he thought you were questioning his ability or his judgment in military matters. You are a great prince, Ludovico, but no soldier, after all. Or perhaps because he hears one thing about your allegiance to the French, and then another about your new alliance with Venice, he is reluctant to speak openly with you.”
“Why are you taking his side against me?” Ludovico yells. “Have you no good opinion of me?”
Beatrice cannot remember when he has raised his voice against her. Perhaps never. “I do not like this sniping at my sister and brother-in-law, who have only been loyal to you.” What does he want from them? From anyone? “My lord, I do not understand why your mood is sour these days, when you are at the pinnacle of your success. You have assembled the most powerful alliance in Italy’s history, backed by the greatest army we have ever seen.”
Ludovico does not answer her. Instead, he glares for a moment or two, throws up his hands, and leaves her rooms.
She does not see him for two days.
She finds out from the servants that Ludovico has gone to Vigevano to recuperate from the festivities. She pretends to know this information, to stop whatever gossip is already circulating through the Castello. Beatrice cannot imagine what she has done to him to cause this retreat. For years now, he has looked to her for soothing and for companionship. Why has she become someone from whom he must flee?
When he returns, he is at the brink of death.
A terrified messenger drags Beatrice out of the bath where she has gone to escape the heat of the afternoon.
The duke is sick and calling for the duchess. He is on his way home, accompanied by Messer Ambrogio the astrologer. Prepare the rooms.
“Is it the plague?” she asks, feeling her breakfast rise to the level of her throbbing heart.
“No, it is something else,” the man replies, turning his head away, she imagines, from the sight of the unkempt duchess, wrapped hastily in a linen robe, watery hair springing out of its braid. “Some strange fit brought on by bad news. I am not privy as to whatever that news is.”
Beatrice is so impatient to finish dressing that she kicks her leg backward, slapping her heel against the shin of the girl trying to tie her bodice. She hears Ludovico’s party and flies into the hall, half dressed, wet hair raining little streams of water down her back and into her bodice. Ludovico comes toward her, Messer Ambrogio and his assistant supporting him on either side. The duke’s garment is loose at the neck; huge sweat stains mar the silky fabric beneath the arms. Spittle covers his chin and chest. His eyes roll wildly in his head. She notices that the left side of his body seems immobile as if being dragged reluctantly behind the right. Indeed, the left side of his mouth appears frozen, making his mouth look like a half-moon being pulled apart. Beatrice throws open the door to his quarters, and the doctor places him on his bed. Ludovico moans. He does not speak to Beatrice, but tries to catch her attention with his eyes. He seems confused, as if struggling against something he does not understand.
The doctor’s assistant holds the duke’s head in his hands and pours a potion down his throat. Ludovico gags, trying to spit it out, but it appears that he cannot control his own tongue. Finally he relaxes and lets the remaining liquid slide down his throat.
“I’ve given him something to calm him,” Messer Ambrogio tells Beatrice.
“What is wrong?” she asks. “Has he eaten something foul?” She is frightened to see her husband and lord in this condition, but some overarching pride does not allow her to reveal her emotions in front of this man whom she does not trust. There is something miserly of spirit about the doctor that manifests in his paltry physique.
“He is having a fit, one brought on by adverse news. I have seen this before in men of his age. He must rest.” The doctor guides her away from the duke’s bed while the assistant tries to soothe Ludovico with cool cloths to his face.
“What is this news?” she asks.
The doctor waits, perhaps assessing whether it is appropriate to entrust the Duchess of Milan with whatever secret he is guarding. Ludovico’s moans provide a backdrop to the conversation. Beatrice feels herself getting more upset.
“I must remind you that I am my husband’s regent,” she says.
“Word reached us this morning that Louis, Duke of Orleans, has captured the city of Novara.”
“But that is
our
city. That is not twenty miles from Milan.”
“That is precisely correct. Louis staged a rather aggressive surprise offensive from Asti. He arrived at the gates with a huge army and gave the town council a choice. They could open the gates and accept him as the true Duke of Milan, since his grandmother was Valentina Visconti, or they could risk a full-scale assault on the city.”
Beatrice waits for him to finish the story.
“Naturally, they opened the gates.”
L
UDOVICO
seems to be slipping ever more deeply into unconsciousness. He waves his right hand at Beatrice, while his left lies limp at his side. He tries to speak to her, but the words come out like the offerings of the deaf beggars who perch in the city’s corners. Her mind tries to process all this information at once: her husband’s illness; his desertion of her; Louis’s claim over Milan. Louis’s proximity to Milan. By now, the French King Charles must have gotten wind of the Italian League. The Italian army has already amassed and is preparing to march south. Surely Charles is aware that Ludovico—no matter how much he denies his involvement—is no longer France’s ally. Perhaps Louis even acted on Charles’s suggestion.
In any case, Charles would no longer stand in the way of Louis invading Milan. And God help us if either man learns of Ludovico’s weakened condition, she thinks. The French would be at the gates of the Castello in due haste.
Beatrice remembers the story told by her mother and her sister of the night that the rebels broke in the Castello d’Este in Ferrara, trying to kidnap the royal family to take down Duke Ercole. She was just one year old and has no memory of this horror. By the time she was old enough to hear the story, all had long been made well. Her mother had acted wisely, ferrying her children to safety, and the brave duke had arrived at home just in time to quash the rebellion and save his family. There is no mother or father or big sister now for Beatrice to turn to. She is the mother. Isabella is far away. And the duke, who is supposed to rush in and save the day, lies grasping for words in his bed. Beatrice remembers how her mother’s restrained dignity seemed to wrestle with her maternal pride whenever that story was told. She remembers the praise her father heaped on her mother for the courage she displayed in a time of crisis. Now it is up to Beatrice to make certain that when her children tell
this
story, they will not remember the terror, but will live to relate a happy ending to their children and their children’s children. She wants to see the same admiration and gratitude in Ludovico’s eyes when he, recovered, tells the story to others.