He spoke as if the events of the night before had never happened. I breathed deeply, lifted my head, and made up my mind to do the same.
“They have indeed, my lord. This little tart is delicious, and like nothing I have ever tasted before.”
“It is called a
torta di tagliarini
, for the sweet pasta in the filling.” He smiled. “It was created for the wedding feast of my grandfather and his second wife, Lucrezia Borgia, in homage to the bride’s magnificent golden hair. I suspect you do not eat pasta in Vienna.”
When he was in a good humor, when something gratified his pride as his great ancestry did, his smile was pleasant and his mien attractive. I found myself smiling in return. “We have our spätzle, but it is not quite the same.”
“You will become accustomed to Ferrarese ways. Crezia and Nora will help you. Is that not so,
mie sorelle
?”
Lucrezia d’Este—Crezia—seated on my right as was her due as the elder of the duke’s two sisters, smiled brilliantly. She was already flushed with wine, although her beautiful dark eyes were sharp and cold. Until yesterday, I thought, she was the first lady of the court. Now she was the second. I knew her birth date because I had made it my business to know, and she was four years older than I. I wondered why she had never been married.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Banquets and music, dancing and fashion, loving and loathing—everything is an art in Ferrara.” As she said it, her eyes flicked out over the great salon and fused briefly with the eyes of a handsome dark gentleman at one of the lower tables; he leaned forward as if physically drawn by the power of her gaze. So she had a lover. Perhaps that was why she was still unmarried and the
prima donna
of her brother’s court. I glanced sideways at the duke to see if he noticed this byplay, but he had turned to his left and was absorbed in conversation with his brother the cardinal.
“You have a task set out for you,
mia Serenissima
,” Crezia went on slowly, never looking away from the dark gentleman’s face, “to keep up with us all.”
With that she laughed. So did her sister, who was seated on her other side. This Leonora—Nora—was the younger of the two, although still two years older than I. Unlike her vibrant sister, she was thin and pale, and her flushed cheeks did not appear to be from the wine but from ill health. As different as their looks were, they seemed at one in their condescension, and I must confess it provoked me.
“I suppose I do,” I said. “Of course, there is still some possibility you yourselves may marry and go to live in a strange city, and if you do, it is likely you also will find the ways different from those to which you have been accustomed for such a”—I paused deliberately, to put stress on my next word—“long time.”
Crezia’s eyes narrowed. Nora paled, then flushed again. That will teach you to patronize me, I thought, then immediately felt ashamed of myself.
“Of course, it is always difficult to leave one’s home,” I said, meaning to placate them. “Whatever one’s age. My sister Johanna, for example, who is only nineteen, will marry Prince Francesco of Florence in a fortnight’s time. And many are obliged to leave their homes when they are but thirteen or fourteen—”
I stopped. I wished the words unsaid, but it was too late.
“Yes,” Nora said. Her voice was sharp with spite. “Thirteen or fourteen. Take Alfonso’s first wife, Lucrezia de’ Medici of Florence as you surely know, as your own sister is to marry her brother. She brought her Medici ways to Ferrara, presuming to parade herself as duchess, demanding precedence over Crezia, over me, even over our lady mother, who is of the French royal family and—”
“Enough.”
A single word from the duke, softly spoken. Nora pressed her lips together in a resentful line and said nothing more. Crezia pretended to be intent upon a honey-soaked cake in the shape of a scallop shell. I looked down at my tart, surprised by Nora’s venom. Obviously to say anything more would only make matters worse.
“Here is a person I wished to present to you, Madonna,” the duke went on, as if the awkwardness had never happened. He gestured, and his majordomo approached with a handsome young fellow of twenty or so in tow. The boy’s narrow face, aquiline nose, and large dark eyes with the whites glinting all around them gave the impression of a restive, overbred colt; an aura of charm and genius rested like an invisible olive wreath upon his fine brow and curling dark hair. “This is Messer Torquato Tasso, recently come to Ferrara in my brother’s service, and the author of a most excellent long poetic epic entitled
Rinaldo
.”
The boy bowed with the polished grace of one well-accustomed to courts. “It is my delight to come to your attention, Serenissima.” His voice was as flexible and dramatic as a singer’s or player’s, and he made it sound as if his one aspiration in life up to this moment had been to come to my attention.
“I have heard of you even in Innsbruck, Messer Torquato,” I said. “To find you here at Ferrara is a most pleasant surprise. If it pleases the duke and the cardinal, I would like to hear you read some of your verses to us one day soon.”
It was courtesy, nothing more; if anything my intent was to quell his extravagance. I was much taken aback when Nora leaned forward and said with mean-spirited fierceness, “You will have little time for poets, Madonna Barbara. And Messer Torquato is occupied as well, with a new book of sonnets to be dedicated to me.”
The boy blushed like a child; it was hard to tell if he was gratified or embarrassed by Nora’s possessiveness. Holy Virgin, were both the duke’s sisters involved in romantic intrigues? Did anyone else see it, or was it only I, with my eyes so accustomed to my brother’s sober imperial court?
“Nora, hold your tongue.” The duke’s voice was cold and gave the distinct impression he was accustomed to rebuking her; more than ever I wondered what his relationships were with his sisters and why he had not married them off to suitable princes. “The duchess will apportion her time as she chooses, and any sonnets Messer Torquato produces will be dedicated as Luigi or I direct. You are dismissed, sir.”
The young poet had recovered his aplomb; with a graceful flourish he bowed first to the duke, then to me and to the cardinal his patron, then to—well, one or the other of the duke’s sisters, or perhaps both of them at once—and withdrew. Crezia signaled her server for more wine. Nora sat like a stone, staring straight ahead, although a single knifelike flash of her eyes in my direction told me I had made an enemy. I had no time to mend matters with her, because another gentleman and his lady stepped forward to be presented.
He was of medium height, dark, too thickly made for his rich clothes to fit him with elegance. I suspected he would be more at his ease on a battlefield or in a wine-shop than supping at elegant banquets under the aegis of Neptune. His wife was taller and considerably younger than he, with milky white skin and black eyes; she looked apprehensive, which I put down to nerves at being placed at the center of the court’s attention.
“Madonna,” said the duke, “I present the Chevalier Alexandre de Bellincé, one of a company of French knights I commanded in the days when I was fighting in Flanders. He pledged his fealty to me at the time, and now that he has made his”—the duke paused, as if considering his words—“his permanent home here in Ferrara, he is called Cavaliere Alessandro Bellinceno and enjoys my greatest favor.”
Alessandro Bellinceno bowed like a foot-soldier without saying so much as a word. His wife’s smooth cheeks reddened slightly.
“And also his wife, Donna Elisabetta Viviani, daughter of Antonio Viviani,
patrizio
of Ferrara,” the duke went on. “Sandro and Donna Elisabetta are also newly wed, having been joined together only since Michaelmas.”
Donna Elisabetta curtsied gracefully and correctly, in contrast to her husband’s awkwardness—surely she had more than two months of court experience. Perhaps she had been in the household of one of the duke’s sisters before being married off to the duke’s friend. As she straightened she said, also quite correctly, “I am greatly honored, Serenissima.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Messer Alessandro.” I had noticed the
Sandro
and deduced this stocky soldier enjoyed not only the duke’s great favor but also his personal friendship. What adventures had they experienced together in their soldiering days? “Donna Elisabetta, I look forward to seeing you about the court.”
They made their oddly, almost comically mismatched reverences again and withdrew. The duke then signaled for the gift-giving to begin.
It was an extended process—it seemed as if every city-state in Italy had sent an embassy, and most of the kingdoms of Europe as well; Ferrara’s opulent court, its university, its great patronage of art and music and poetry, made it important far beyond its size. The ambassadors were presented, displayed their gifts, received their thanks, then took themselves away to have their offerings inventoried by the duke’s secretaries. A representative of Charles IX of France—as the former king Henri II had been the duke’s cousin, this young king would be his second cousin—presented an intricate mechanical clock in a gold and rock-crystal case, elaborately chased, engraved, and decorated with fine pearls. The duke was particularly interested in its workings and asked the ambassador to demonstrate each process several times; only reluctantly did he allow it to be taken away.
The envoy from the next embassy to be introduced represented Queen Elizabeth of England, a lady the duke had once wooed with gifts of his own in the days after the death of his first duchess.
“The English ambassador,” the duke said to me in an aside, “is Henry Carey, Baron Hunsdon, the queen’s own cousin. It is a compliment to us, Madonna, that the English queen would send a member of her own family to wish us well.”
“Some say,” Crezia whispered on my other side, “that Henry Carey is the queen’s half-brother, as well as her cousin, on the Boleyn side of the blanket.”
I ignored her, as I did not wish to let her provoke me again. Here I was, after all, Duchess of Ferrara just as I had dreamed, every eye upon me, the envoy of the queen of England awaiting only my word to approach with gifts. The great salon was a tessellation of silks and velvets, with gems and crystals catching the light from the rows of windows, the torchères and fireplaces and the thousands of candles. The famous musicians of Ferrara plucked a delicate melody in the background, harmonies and counterpoints such as I had never heard before. The scents of burning beeswax, of meat cooked with spices, of honey and fruit and perfumes from far away over the sea drifted on the air. The sweetness of wine was on my tongue, and the crisp sugar coating of a tiny almond cake. Oh, I wanted to stop time, see it all, taste it all. It filled my breast until I felt I might burst with pleasure.
“A compliment indeed.” I made my voice soft and sweet. “Approach, Baron. You are most welcome.”
He stepped forward, a well-dressed gentleman with fairish hair, large dark eyes, and a pointed chin accentuated by silky whiskers. He was followed by two retainers, one bearing a painted and gilded box draped in Tudor green satin, the other a covered basket.
“Your Grace,” Hunsdon said, bowing elegantly to the duke. “Your Grace.” This to me, with another bow. “Her Majesty the queen sends her good wishes upon the occasion of your marriage, and directs me to present—”
His pretty speech was interrupted by a shrill baying howl from the basket, followed by yips and scratching sounds. The basket rocked in the retainer’s grasp. Then, unforgivably, droplets began to trickle from the basket onto the fellow’s gorgeous green silk doublet.
I will not repeat the oath he swore, which was entirely unsuitable for the occasion. He dropped the basket and out popped two parti-colored puppies, hounds from the look of them, with long satiny russet ears and soft dark eyes. A cry of adoration immediately rose up from all the ladies.
“I beg your indulgence, Your Grace,” Hunsdon said, shooting a lethal look at the foul-mouthed gentleman with the stain on his doublet. “Her Majesty herself has several of these little hounds—begles, they are called, or beagles, or sometimes
begueules
, after the French. She calls them her pocket beagles because of their size, and carries them with her everywhere. They are primarily for companionship, although like the larger variety, they are keen trackers. These two are littermates of a very fine bloodline, whelped by a pretty bitch in Her Majesty’s personal kennel.”
The puppies already had their noses down and their tails up and were sniffing for tidbits under the lower tables. I was charmed by them—their sturdy little bodies, their melting eyes, their merry white-flagged tails. I wished I could gather up my silver skirts and jump straightaway down on the floor to play with them, but of course that would be even more shocking than the green-doubleted gentleman’s indiscreet oath.
“The duchess and I are delighted Her Majesty would send us such a personal gift,” the duke said. “Are we not, Madonna?”
“We are indeed,” I said. “And as they are English hounds, they shall have English names.”
I paused for a moment. We had all been speaking in French, of course, and my knowledge of English was rudimentary at best. I cast about in my mind for something suitable. Everything I knew about the island nation and its ruling family seemed to be uncomplimentary, and I felt a moment of panic until I remembered an old French book I had read—secretly, of course, as my tutors had not approved of fanciful tales—called
Tristram et Iseult
, and purporting to be a great romance of English legend.
“The male shall be Tristram,” I announced. “And the female Iseult.”
Hunsdon bowed. “An excellent choice, Your Grace,” he said. He made a curt gesture to the fellow with the stained doublet, and that unhappy gentleman went to pick up the puppies and put them back in their basket before they committed any further indelicacies.