Leonardo's Swans (45 page)

Isabella sends Cecilia into her quarters to wash her face and catch her breath. She has known that refugees from Milan would begin to arrive and she has ordered several small palazzos just outside of town to be readied for their guests. This news, plus the opportunity to cleanse the grime of travel from her face and neck, cheers Cecilia, and she settles into Isabella’s parlor with a bowl of hot broth and a cup of wine.

“What has happened to our brother-in-law?” Isabella asks, afraid of the answer. Louis has always hated Ludovico. She cannot imagine that his treatment of the duke would be kind.

“He is on the run. As soon as Ludovico heard that the people of his precious Pavia opened their gates to the French, he realized that the citizens of Milan could not be expected to behave any differently.”

“Ludovico treated Pavia as one of his personal treasures. After all of his fantastic improvements to that city, why did the people turn on him?”

“Trouble has been brewing. The scholars at the University of Pavia haven’t been paid in a year and have been defecting in droves. Taxes kept rising, but nothing improved for the people except Ludovico’s buildings and monuments, which doesn’t exactly put food in the mouths of the poor.”

Isabella feels a wash of shame pass through her body. Her husband, her father, and two of her brothers rode to Pavia to greet Louis. As former friends of Ludovico, they showed the king around his new palace and hunting grounds. A young favorite of Isabella’s in their entourage wrote to her to say that the strangest thing in the whole arrangement was that Ludovico’s name was never mentioned. “Everyone pretends that the duke has never existed.”

“Ludovico finally received word from Emperor Max that he was able to spare reinforcements, and to fortify the Castello until they could arrive. But the duke knew that he could not afford to wait, in the event that Louis reached Milan before the German army. I tried to see him before he left, but I was minutes too late. Oh, everything was in confusion and chaos. He left his treasurer in charge of the Castello and had packed up what he could. I am told that he insisted that his last stop be Beatrice’s tomb, where he knelt for hours, crying and begging her forgiveness. You know that he still carries the guilt from the duchess’s death. Finally, his men dragged him away, and just in time because Louis was riding in from the south.”

Isabella thinks, but does not say, that Ludovico would have enjoyed the demonstration of histrionics at Beatrice’s tomb, but he would be careful not to allow it to interfere with his escape.

“You can’t imagine what happened next,” Cecilia says. “Milan has produced its own Judas. The treasurer to whom Ludovico had entrusted the guardianship of the Castello sent a secret messenger to Louis saying that he would fling open the Castello gates if Louis would cut him a share of the loot. Even the French think the man is disgusting. Imagine Louis’s surprise when that grand fortress was surrendered to him without a blow!”

“It seems that there is no end to the number of trusted friends who will betray Ludovico,” Isabella says sullenly. “I am almost grateful that God, in His wisdom, took my sister before she had to bear all of this. I hardly understand it. We are aware of Ludovico’s defects, but has he deserved this?”

Cecilia leaves the question unanswered. “They say that when Louis entered the Castello, he thought he was entering a fairy tale.”

“I thought the same, all those years ago,” Isabella says, pushing aside her own memories of riding across the grand moat and into Ludovico’s world for the first time. She does not want to cry, not yet.

“The French—those brutish creatures—had never seen rooms of such extravagant size, decorated with our particular Italian grandeur. And the gardens astonished them. The French king has declared it paradise on earth.”

“What will become of Ludovico’s possessions?” She thinks of all the ancient manuscripts shelved in Pavia, wondering if they have been scattered by the French, who would have no understanding of their real value.

“Here is the story I heard. The teller of the tale swears it is true. The French are desecrating the Castello. They’ve no idea how to behave. Apparently defecating in one’s own hallway is a way of life for their soldiers. And fornicating where they can be seen by others—indeed, in the company of other fornicating couples—does not bother them in the least, but is part of the French national character. The halls of the Castello are dung heaps, Your Excellency; its rooms, the whorehouses of corporals and sergeants.”

“What will become of Ludovico’s great paintings? His statues from antiquity? His priceless tapestries?”

“Some of it will be preserved, I am sure. The French king does ardently admire our artists. Louis visited the refectory at the Santa Maria delle Grazie and asked his men to investigate moving the entire wall upon which the Magistro’s Last Supper is painted to France! I’m grateful that my portrait by him is safe with you, for the king would certainly confiscate it if it had remained in Milan. He’s probably going through my rooms, taking whatever he wants, as we speak.”

If Louis and his entourage—her father and brothers included—visited the refectory, surely they must have crossed the courtyard to see Beatrice’s tomb. How could they have looked at her marble death mask without weeping in front of the French king? How could they have faced the poor duchess, even in death? Isabella hopes that the experience made all of them sick.

“Louis is looking everywhere for the Magistro because he recognizes his genius—as if Ludovico had not done that eighteen years ago.”

“And did he remain in Milan?” Isabella asks, hoping to find that Leonardo was one of the refugees headed for her kingdom.

“No. Leonardo packed up his household and fled for the hills of Bergamo, where he intends to conduct some nature experiments, or so he says. He did receive your kind offer of shelter and will undoubtedly come here after he wearies of life in a small hilltop town.”

“At least he is safe.” Perhaps she will send a messenger to Bergamo to look for Leonardo, repeating her offer. She has already selected a lovely manor home for him on the Po River, with gardens and a view of the water. Old Mantegna will be jealous out of his mind, but what can one do?

“I have a message for you from Isabel of Aragon. She is determined to make peace with Louis. She’s going to beg for something for her sons. But if she cannot reach an understanding with him, she’s going to come here. Please give her a house that is not within a reasonable distance from where you quarter me! Of course, we all feel compassion for her, but everyone is sick to death of hearing her troubles. She’s a beautiful woman, or was. Why doesn’t she go get another husband? One that will actually take her to bed?”

“Some women have no sense of how to survive in this world,” Isabella offers. “To others, it’s an instinct, like an animal’s knowledge of how to feed itself. Though it may initially disgust us, we will charm King Louis and clothe ourselves in lilies, until that, too, is no longer in fashion. I had hoped that my sister was one of our kind, but I’m afraid that she gave in to her fragile womanly heart at the end.”

“How marvelous she was in her early days. She vacated Ludovico’s bed and his heart of me by the force of her will. I admired her all the while. I truly did. And even more so when she magnanimously reached out to me in friendship.”

“The poor darling would be in exile now, in Germany, with her sons. I doubt that even my father’s new alliance with King Louis could have saved her that. A woman rises and is damned with her husband,” Isabella sighs, though she has made a private vow to transcend that fate.

“Your Excellency, I have done a bad thing.” Cecilia looks around the room as if to see if anyone is listening. “I have stolen something for you.”

“From the Castello?”

“Yes.”

“Then you haven’t stolen the object, but protected it.”

“That is precisely what I thought. I saw this when I tried to see Ludovico one last time. I simply could not leave it behind for greedy French hands to desecrate.”

Cecilia calls for her valet, who, with another man, carries in a bundle, wrapped in layers of cloth. Slowly they unwrap it, carefully handling its heavy contents. Turning it end over end, they reach the final layer of cloth, sitting the bundle on top of a refectory table and letting the muslin fall. Isabella puts her had over her mouth. It is Cristoforo’s bust of Beatrice, commissioned by Ludovico before he married her. Her sister’s girlish face stares back at her, serene and gentle, tiny curls caressing her chubby, angelic cheeks and the intricate lace that lined her bosom. Isabella can see Beatrice in her dress, excited to pose for the sculptor. She remembers the pains taken that day with Beatrice’s difficult mane of hair, how it was twisted, almost torturously, into the tight braid that became Beatrice’s signature hairstyle. The image is almost too much for the surviving sister to bear. She embraces Cecilia, hoping that the tears forming in her eyes will be easily controlled. It is guaranteed to be a long week, what with people arriving from Milan. She cannot exhaust herself so early in the day. “You have brought me my sister,” Isabella says, her voice catching on a tiny sob.

Isabella’s tears are interrupted by the entry of her footman. “Your Excellency, may I announce another visitor?”

“As you wish,” the marchesa says, releasing Cecilia.

“Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli, and son, recently of Milan.”

Isabella cannot help it; she curses herself for her ways, but there it is. There is nothing she can do about the fact that her first thought is that Lucrezia might have brought with her the painting by the Magistro. Oh, she realizes that she should want to murder the woman for the pain she caused Beatrice, but that is not the idea that crept into her mind.
Forgive me, dear Lord Jesus, for my sins. But I cannot help the order in which ideas occur to me. It is my nature, wicked though it is.

“I do not recall sending an invitation to Madonna Lucrezia,” Isabella says to Cecilia.

“The message we received was that the marchesa would harbor in Mantua all those who had been loyal to the duke.”

“I was thinking of sheltering those who had been loyal to my sister, not those in her service who betrayed her.”

Could she really turn Lucrezia away? Isabella thinks that she might. It would serve the woman right for sneaking around with Ludovico behind Beatrice’s back.
Dear Lord Jesus, forgive us our lack of compassion
.

“Your Excellency, if I might say a few words on behalf of Madonna Lucrezia?”

“I will always hear what you have to say, dear friend.”

“The Crivellis are a fine enough family, but hardly of noble birth. I am speaking from experience, Your Excellency. When the Duke of Milan chooses you for his companion, there is little choice in it for the lady. She might express that she is unwilling, but rejecting one of the great princes of Italy is rather challenging for a woman. I imagine that Madonna Lucrezia saw much opportunity in the liaison for her entire family—even for her husband—if she paired with the duke. It is one of the few ways for a woman to elevate the status of her clan. In other words, Your Excellency, I do not believe the liaison was as much a selfish act on the part of Lucrezia as it may appear.”

Cecilia is correct, of course. While a princess of Ferrara might be able to control how far she is willing to let her flirtation with a duke proceed, a girl of ordinary birth may not. If she denied her prince, she might cause terrible problems for her family, whereas giving the duke what he wanted would curry favor for all of her loved ones. “Thank you for reminding us that we should not punish another woman for acting in the interests of herself and her family. Is that not what we always do? Regardless of the circumstances of our birth?” She tells her footman to let Madonna Lucrezia into the room.

The little boy looks more like Ludovico than his sons with Beatrice. His mother has had his thin, black baby hair cut in the exact style of Il Moro: long, straight bangs that hang to the brows, and the rest curving around his face and skimming his shoulders.

“How can such a little one possess such hair?” Isabella exclaims, taking the child from his mother, whose eyes are open wide in either astonishment or gratitude or both. She must have expected a less enthusiastic greeting from her lover’s wife’s sister.

“He is six months old, Your Excellency, and was born with this mane of black hair.” Isabella’s welcome must have given her confidence because she adds, “The duke once accused me of mating with a horse.”

A blush spreads across Lucrezia’s face as rapidly as a bad rash. Conscious of her tenuous position at the mercy of her lover’s sister-in-law, she smiles awkwardly and turns away from Isabella’s disapproving gaze.

Lucrezia’s smile drops when she recognizes Beatrice’s bust, sitting almost as if in judgment upon the table. A silence falls over the women, and Isabella lets it linger. She hands the baby back to its mother. “Did you believe that you were in danger in Milan, Madonna Lucrezia?”

“King Louis’s hatred of Il Moro is well known. I feared for my boy. Yet the duke did not encourage me to flee with him. When I heard that Your Excellency was offering sanctuary, I came immediately. I realize it is awkward. If you wish me to go, I will try to make my way to see relatives at Cremona.”

“The duke made no provisions for your safety?” Isabella asks, almost incredulous. It would not be like Ludovico to discard mother and child without a thought for the safety or well-being of either.

“No, he very generously settled upon me estates at Cussago and Saronno. But I’m afraid that those are in the hands of the French now. I have no idea if they will be permanently confiscated.”

“What about your husband?”

“He is less than enthusiastic about my welfare since the birth of the duke’s son.”

An old tale, retold thousands of times in every generation, Isabella thinks. The girl could not have guessed that when she jeopardized her husband’s feelings to become intimate with the great prince of Milan, the inheritor of the Houses of Visconti and Sforza, that she was choosing the wrong man. Now, like so many women who took what seemed to be a risk-free gamble, she has been left with no man, only the man’s issue. La Fortuna seems to be getting the last laugh on them all.