I lifted my right hand, then my left, and flexed my knees. There were no new pains, just the incessant throbbing in my head. “It does not hurt to move,” I said. “I have hit my head, I think.”
“You have indeed,” the duke said. “There is some bleeding, and a bruise coming up already. What of your vision? Can you see clearly?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Try to sit up, then. Slowly.”
“What happened? I do not remember falling. Is Tänzerin hurt?”
“Your saddle-girth had been cut almost through, and when that mare of yours shied, it parted. She is perfectly well, with not so much as a scratch. I have sent for your groom, and we will get to the bottom of this quickly enough.”
“Cut through?” I sat up abruptly and paid for it with a violent throb of my aching head. “Cut through deliberately?”
“Yes.” The duke looked at me steadily. “Someone wanted you to be hurt, even killed, Madonna.”
“Not Conradt,” I said. “Never Conradt. He has been one of my grooms from the time I was a little girl.”
“He could have been bribed. Try to stand.”
With his help I managed to get to my feet. I felt a little dizziness, but I suppose that was to be expected. There was a murmur of approbation, and I realized the courtiers were packed in a ring around us. I saw Crezia’s blue-and-white, Nora’s
amaranto
. Sandro Bellinceno’s green-and-gold, with Donna Elisabetta’s heron-gray beside him. I saw Messer Bernardo’s scarlet feathered hat and the Marquis of Montecchio’s marigold and peach, slashings fluttering.
“I am quite all right.” I tried to make my voice sound steady and strong. “Please, my lord, do not cut short your hunt. I shall return—”
“The hunt is already cut short. And you will go nowhere until a physician has examined you. Be seated, Madonna, if you please.”
He gestured. I turned my head cautiously, and to my amazement two carved walnut chairs with blue-and-white striped cushions had been placed under a spreading bay tree, with a fire crackling in front of them. Then I remembered we had planned to dine in the woods, on fresh-killed meat cooked over open fires; of course arrangements would have been made for every comfort and luxury.
“Thank you, my lord,” I said. “I am quite—”
I broke off when I heard hoofbeats again, and more crackling of brush. Two men-at-arms in Este livery trotted into the clearing, with my Austrian groom Conradt on a horse tied with a leading rein between them. His hands were roped behind his back, his face was bruised, and his shirt was torn.
“Prinzessin!” he cried in German. “Help me, I beg you. I don’t understand—I’ve done nothing wrong.”
For a moment I was too surprised and angry to speak. One of the men pushed Conradt from the horse and he fell headlong to the ground, unable to catch himself with his hands bound behind him. I stepped forward, the forest reeling around me as pain throbbed again in my head.
“Untie that man at once,” I said. “My lord, I protest this outrage. Question Conradt if you must, but he is a member of my personal household and I vouch for him without reserve.”
The duke made a gesture to the two soldiers; they dismounted and helped Conradt to his feet. One of them cut his bonds, and the other made a half-hearted effort to brush the grass and mud from his shirt.
“Now,” I said. “Conradt. No one will accuse you unjustly, so do not be afraid. Tell us what you know about this business of my saddle-girth being cut, and speak in Italian, please, so all may understand you.”
“It was not cut when I saddled Tänzerin,
Prinzessin
,” Conradt said. “By the millstone of Saint Florian I swear it. The girth was whole and strong.”
“Then it was cut after the mare was saddled,” the duke said. “Was she out of your sight, from the moment you saddled her until the moment the duchess mounted?”
“No!” he said. Then color mottled his cheeks and he said, “For a moment only. She was standing so beautifully, and I had gripes in my belly so bad I feared I’d shame myself. I tied her to the ring and left her only for a moment.”
“That moment could have meant the duchess’s death,” the duke said coldly. “When you returned, did you see anyone close by, or anyone who looked suspicious?”
“No, Serenissimo,” Conradt said. “But I did not think—I did not look.”
“Go back to the Castello, collect your things, and go,” the duke said. “You are dismissed from your place, and you have one day only to be out of the city.”
“My lord!” I protested. “Conradt was ill. It was not his fault. He has cared for my horses since I was riding fat ponies in the gardens of the Hofburg.”
“He shall do so no longer,” the duke said. “Do not oppose me in this, Madonna.”
“I will not oppose you. But give me time to arrange for Conradt’s salary to be paid, at least. I will give him letters to my brother in Prague—Ferdinand is particularly interested in horses and will find a place for him.”
“Very well, so long as I do not set eyes upon him again. You, groom. Go.”
Conradt fled. I said nothing more, fearing further pleas would only make matters worse. Conradt would be provided for; I would make certain of that. My dizziness had passed off, but my head was throbbing and my whole body ached. The duke had seated himself in one of the waiting chairs, and gratefully I took advantage of the other.
“So, Madonna,” he said. He took off his gloves. A gentlemanin-waiting handed him an orange and he began to peel it, strip by strip. “What do you think is the meaning of this?”
“Someone wished me to fall,” I said. How stupid I sounded. I realized I was counting the strips of orange peel as they fell to the grass, and that only distressed me the more.
“Someone wished you dead, I think. I wonder why.”
“I do not know.”
It was a lie, of course, because there were any number of people who could very well want me dead or injured. Messer Bernardo was one of them, if he was regretting his insinuations and fearing I might still report them to the duke. Mother Eleonora was another, if she feared my questions might draw the attention of those who could deny her the luxuries she loved with such a worldly passion. Nora, obviously, for spite’s sake. The Marquis of Montecchio, ambitious for his sons. Sandro Bellinceno, despite the friendship the duke bore him, although I did not quite understand why he suddenly hated me so much. Even Maria Granmammelli had threatened me.
And of course there was the duke himself.
I said again, “I do not know.”
He leaned close and spoke very softly. “You do know,” he said. “Do you think you can deceive me so easily?”
“No.” I was starting to feel dizzy and sick again. “I am not—I do not know. I am not deceiving you.”
He sat back and continued peeling the orange. The strips of peel were as perfectly spaced as a geometrical drawing from Euclid’s
Elements
. I watched him, fascinated.
“We will not discuss it here,” he said. “But by the lance of Saint George, when someone tries to kill the Duchess of Ferrara, unmistakably and before my very eyes, I will get to the truth of the matter. You will tell me the truth, even if I must force it out of you.”
I swallowed back a fresh surge of sickness and said, not as firmly as I would have liked, “I do not respond well to force, my lord, as you may have gathered.”
“We shall see about that.”
I ENDED WITH bruises and a few aches and twinges, nothing more, may the Holy Virgin be thanked. The duke must have called for Maria Granmammelli, because she popped up at Belfiore like a mushroom after a rainstorm; the noxious poultices she insisted on applying and reapplying to my forehead, my shoulder, and my ribs were much more unpleasant than the bruises themselves. At the same time Messer Girolamo Brasavola, the duke’s physician, plied me with
tormentilla
, fried parsley, and leeches to draw the pain and the black melancholic humors. Who knows which one was the more successful? They each vowed it was their treatment alone that cured me.
After two days, I had myself bathed and dressed, intending to go to Belfiore’s tiny chapel and offer thanks for my deliverance. It was an unpleasant surprise to discover guards at my outer doorway, and that by the duke’s command I was confined within my apartments. My first reaction was blistering anger. My second reaction was horror.
. . . even if I must force it out of you . . .
Vittoria Beltrame and Nicoletta Rangoni, who were attending me, would not meet my eyes. The guards themselves, two halbardiers wearing the duke’s personal badge, were outwardly deferential but unrelenting. There was no point in making a scene in front of them. I acted as if I had not really wanted to go to the chapel at all, and went back into my apartments.
“Vittoria,” I said. “I wish to write the duke a letter, and you will deliver it for me. You, I am sure, are not restricted in your movements.”
“No, Serenissima
.
”
I seated myself at a little writing-table of carved and inlaid walnut, neatly supplied with papers and pens, ink, sand, and sealing wax. I prepared a quill, smoothed out a half-sheet of paper, and wrote:
My Lord Duke,
I find I am confined to my apartments, at your command. I beg you will wait upon me at your earliest opportunity, to explain yourself in this matter
.
I did not sign it. I folded it, then took a seal from the velvet pouch at my waist—not the seal of a Duchess of Ferrara but my personal imperial seal with the double-headed eagle of the Habsburgs. Nicoletta lit a stick of red wax at the fire and brought it back to the writing-table. I dripped the wax upon the folds of the letter until it had made a satisfactory wafer, then pressed the imperial seal into it, deep and hard.
“Vittoria,” I said again.
She took the note, curtsied, and went out.
I waited at my writing-table. I heard the bells for terce ring, from the south where the Castello and the city lay. Vittoria did not return; Domenica arrived to take her place. She whispered with Nicoletta. I lifted little Isa onto my knees and stroked her silken ears. She would not lie quietly, exactly in the center of my lap. I shifted her position. She moved again. My head throbbed and my back ached. Tristo dozed in front of the fire, his white paws twitching as he dreamed.
At last I heard a hum of talk, a rustle of soft-soled shoes on marble floors, and the ring of the guards’ halberds as they straightened and presented their arms. The door opened and the duke came in, unattended. He gestured to my ladies without a word, and they went out. The door closed behind them.
I lifted Isa to the floor, got to my feet, and plunged straight to the heart of the matter. “I should like you to tell me, if you please, my lord, why I am not permitted to leave these apartments.”
“I will be happy to tell you.” His voice was quiet and at the same time utterly terrifying. “Someone attempted to assassinate you. First, I will not put you in the way of another such attempt. Second, I wish to know what exactly you have done to cause someone to wish to kill you. Until you can satisfy me as to that matter, you will remain exactly as you are.”
“I have done nothing wrong.” My stomach lurched and my knees turned to water. “How dare you confine me against my will?”
His eyes darkened. His voice grew softer and deceptively gentle. “My mother lived under confinement for years, Madonna, at the will of my father, and she is the daughter of a king of France. Do not deceive yourself that you cannot be treated in the same way, for all your imperial eagles.”
He took my note from his sleeve and threw it down on the writing-table before me. Involuntarily, I reached out to pick it up, and only at the last moment stopped myself.
“I have done nothing wrong,” I said again. “I believe—I believe—I believe the attempt upon my life was—”
Was the work of the Florentine ambassador, or of your aunt the abbess, or of one of your most favored friends, or of the person who murdered your first wife, who may or may not be you yourself—
Was to silence my questions, those awkward questions about your first wife I have been asking without your knowledge and contrary to your express wishes, so I might learn the truth of her death and use it as a weapon to keep you from ever humiliating me again
—
I could not form the words. I leaned against my writing-table to hold myself up, shaking with fury and terror and indecision.
He waited for a minute or so. Neither one of us spoke, but I could feel the force of his will pressing against mine. I resisted with all my strength. “Very well,” he said at last. “Remain as you are. I will speak with you again tomorrow.”
And with that he went out. I heard the sound of the guards’ boots and the ring of their halbards against the marble, as they took their places in front of my door again.
I looked down at my writing-table. My own letter lay there, the red wax seal with my Austrian double-headed eagle mocking me with its pride. With a cry of despair I swept it aside, sending pens and papers and sticks of sealing wax, the silver box of sand and the bottle of ink, flying in all directions. The heavy crystal bottle cracked against the tiled floor but did not break. Tristo jumped, cocked his russet ears forward, and looked at me with an anxious expression.
“Holy Virgin,” I whispered. Tears made a stone in my throat. “What shall I do?”
Tristo put his head down again, but he did not close his eyes. Isa sat next to him, watching me uneasily.
Domenica came back into the room. Vittoria Beltrame, the duke’s known spy, was with her in place of Nicoletta, who loved the puppies so. I took a deep breath and struggled to calm myself.
“Did something break, Serenissima?” Domenica asked cautiously.
“Some things—fell off my writing-table. Will you gather them up, please? I fear the ink may stain the tile if it is not mopped up immediately.”
Silently they complied.