“Nonsense. You are the Duchess of Ferrara, Madonna, and an archduchess of Austria by birth, and as such you will be an adornment to any canvas. Be certain, when you dress yourself to be painted, that your hair is loose, as it was when you entered the city.”
I could not keep myself from being shocked. “With my hair loose?” I repeated. “That is for children and courtesans, my lord.”
“Of course with your hair loose.” From the darkening of his expression it was clear he disliked having his wishes questioned, even in such a small matter as a portrait. “This is Ferrara, Madonna, and here the considerations of art and beauty outweigh the petty scruples of etiquette. Your hair is remarkable, and I wish it commemorated, not only for my own pleasure but for the appreciation of future generations as well.”
I stood there speechless. I had known, of course, that Alfonso d’Este was a patron of the arts and a lover of beauty. I had just never thought that he would apply his artistic eye to me.
Me. Ugly me. Painted all in my hair for future generations to goggle at.
“As you wish, my lord,” I said stiffly.
“Then there is no need to discuss it further. Good evening, Luigi. Good evening,
mio zio
.”
Luigi Cardinal d’Este and the duke’s uncle, the Marquis of Montecchio—another Alfonso—greeted us pleasantly. Already I had heard whispers of the cardinal’s illicit connection with Lucrezia Bendidio—and another Lucrezia! How was I ever going to keep them all straight?—a pretty young countess in my sister-in-law Nora’s household; the whispers hinted that young Messer Torquato Tasso, the poet, made passionate advances to this same young woman whenever he could escape Nora’s attentions. The Marquis of Montecchio, by way of contrast, was a somber widower. His own legitimacy was doubtful—he was the late-in-life son of Alfonso I, the current duke’s grandfather, and a beautiful young mistress named Laura Dianti. Some said the first Alfonso had married la Dianti on his deathbed, but the old pope had not recognized the union—the papacy was feudal overlord to the Este for Ferrara, and every potential heir it could disinherit brought it one step closer to taking over Ferrara completely as a papal fief. Thus, in theory, the marquis’s two young sons were barred from succeeding to the ducal throne. In practice, however, the older boy was the heirapparent for sheer lack of any other candidate.
Unless the cardinal renounced his vows, took a wife, and fathered legitimate sons. Such things were not unheard of, and Luigi d’Este did not seem to take his holy orders too seriously.
Or unless, of course, the present duke, my husband, produced an heir of his own. He had certainly kept his promise to instruct me in further details of the relations between a husband and a wife; I had begun to take a certain amount of pleasure in his caresses, and that in its turn pleased him a great deal. Delightful as it was, he informed me the pleasure was not an end in itself; his physicians and the
professore
of medicine at the famous University of Ferrara had assured him it made the woman more likely to conceive. If that was true, it seemed I would have little need of further potions from Maria Granmammelli.
Such thoughts, and while in conversation with a prince of the church!
“Good evening, Your Eminence,” I said. “Good evening, Marquis. I hope the comedy was to your taste?”
“Enchanting, my daughter,” the cardinal said. There was a gleam of humor in his eyes. From the comedy, perhaps? Or from sheer mischievous mockery? “And the more so that it was in honor of so charming a lady.”
“No feasts are so pleasant as wedding feasts,” the marquis said.
“Baptisms, perhaps.” The cardinal smiled. “Soon, I pray, we will be celebrating the birth of an heir.”
Was he a wizard, that he knew my thoughts? Aloud I said, “I pray to the Blessed Virgin and Saint Anne that such news will be forthcoming soon.” For good measure I made the sign of the cross.
All three gentlemen crossed themselves as well. “My own two sons are a great comfort to me,” the marquis said. “Cesare, of course, is almost a man—he has turned thirteen. Little Alfonso is five. I shall have them brought from Montecchio one day, Serenissima, so you may make their acquaintance.”
“I shall look forward to it.” That, at least, was not a lie. Although I intended to foil the marquis’s ambitions with a son of my own as quickly as possible, I still enjoyed the company of little boys. The imperial court had been teeming with them; Maximilian had seven sons and my second brother, Ferdinand, had two. One of the greatest pleasures of my rare visits from Innsbruck to Vienna had been the opportunity to play with the children. “Tell me, what are your views on the subject of—”
“Enough,” the duke said. There was a flick of the whip in his voice; after all, what man wants to hear of little boys when he himself is childless? “Let us go in to supper.”
He offered his hand, and I put my own hand upon his wrist. The cardinal murmured a sardonic blessing and turned away. The marquis fell in behind us. We had taken only a few steps when we were compelled to halt by the expansiveness of one gentleman’s bow, which placed his extended leg and deeply swept feathered cap directly in our path.
“Serenissimo.” He straightened. “A word, if you will allow me.”
“Messer Bernardo.” The duke sounded—what? Annoyed, surprised, wary? Perhaps something of each. “We did not know you had returned.”
“Only this morning, Serenissimo. I bear letters from Duke Cosimo, and gifts for you and your new duchess. I pray you will forgive my importunity, that I was in such haste to be presented to her.”
So at last I would be introduced to the ambassador from Cosimo de’ Medici of Florence, the duke’s former father-in-law and my sister Johanna’s father-in-law-to-be. My first thought was to wonder how Duke Cosimo could send letters and gifts to the man people said had murdered his daughter. But with my next breath I knew the prickly relations of the two dukes, the two cities, would continue with little more than a ripple as each man pursued his ambition. For more than a hundred years, the Este and the Medici had been contending for supreme power and prestige in the courts of Europe and the papal conclaves of Rome—the Este with their ancient blood and the Medici with their upstart riches. The marriage of the duke to Lucrezia de’ Medici had provided only a brief lull in the Precedenza, as the rivalry was called; with her death, contention had flared anew.
“You could have chosen a more suitable moment,” the duke said. “Madonna, may I present to you Messer Bernardo Canigiani, the Florentine ambassador.”
“Serenissima.” The ambassador swept another bow. “My pleasure is unbounded.”
I inclined my head without speaking or smiling, granting the barest acknowledgment. The ambassador’s effusions were too extravagant, and I found them distasteful.
This seemed to please the duke, because he smiled. It was not one of his pleasant smiles. “You have had your wish, Messer Bernardo,” he said. “Now begone. And next time, apply for an audience in the customary manner.”
The ambassador bowed deeply for a third time, and we passed on. The duke turned his head to speak to another courtier. From the corner of my eye I saw Messer Bernardo’s expression as he straightened, and it was utterly different than it had been a moment before. It was narrow-eyed, calculating—and chilling.
What did he know about the duke? What did Duke Cosimo know?
What schemes were they brewing?
It had all seemed so straightforward back in Innsbruck: I would marry the duke and take my place as Duchess of Ferrara, protected by my family’s imperial power. I would grasp the dazzling fruits of my newly married state and keep both eyes tightly closed to the truth about the death of my husband’s first wife. Now that I was in Ferrara, however, now that I was actually married to the duke and there was no turning back, it did not seem so straightforward anymore.
Some of my Ferrarese ladies were paid spies. Or were they? My sisters-in-law had disliked my predecessor. But did they like me any better?
My husband’s mad old nursemaid pressed potions upon me. Were they always—had they always been—as harmless as they seemed?
And the Florentine ambassador looked at the duke, and at me—me? Why me?—with eyes as cold as the deepest circle of Messer Dante’s hell.
What had I done when I had agreed to this marriage?
Holy Virgin—what had I done?
“TURN YOUR HEAD to the right just a bit, Serenissima,” Frà Pandolf said. “Then the light will limn the line of your cheek with gold, and add heavenly fire to your hair as it falls over your shoulder.”
I turned my head, although I did not care for the fellow’s obsequious manner. Limn the line of my cheek with gold, indeed. Flatterer.
“Yes!” he cried. He painted away, his foxy face intent, his brush flourishing. He was only of medium height but strongly made and with an animal energy about him. He wore a short reddish-brown beard, glossy and bristling with vigor; his round dark eyes and pointed nose reinforced the impression of a fox’s slyness. Not at all what one would expect in a Franciscan friar, for all his coarse and paint-stained brown habit. Could the jackanapes really be as talented a painter as the duke said he was?
“Tell me, Frà Pandolf,” I said. “How long have you enjoyed the duke’s patronage?”
“For almost six years now, Serenissima. I came to Ferrara just after he became the duke, because even in France he was known for his artistic taste. He is generous. and such discernment! He understands the heart of the artist—that everything, everything, must give way to the art.”
Including religious vows, I thought, although of course I did not say it. Instead I asked, “And what other works have you executed?”
“Two portraits of the duke himself, Serenissima.” He continued to paint as he talked. “Two of Principessa Lucrezia, one of Principessa Leonora, one of the cardinal, and of course many classical and pastoral—”
“But
mio frà
, you have neglected to mention your greatest triumph,” the Ferrarese lady-in-waiting Paolina said, in a teasing, I-know-a-secret voice. Her full name was Paolina Tassoni, and she was related in some way to the duke’s majordomo; that was all I knew about her so far. She clearly knew rather more about Frà Pandolf. From the tone of her voice I wondered whether she and the painter—But no. That would be unthinkable.
“I’ve neglected nothing,” Frà Pandolf said. His self-satisfied smile had disappeared, and his vulpine eyes had narrowed. Even so he continued to paint.
“No?” Paolina laughed and shook herself free of Domenica, who was trying to silence her. “What of the portrait of Serenissima Lucrezia? I know it is hidden away and meant to be a secret, but everyone knows, do they not? Should not the new duchess have an opportunity to gaze upon the face of her predecessor?”
Holy Virgin. How many of my ladies’ tongues was the duke going to have to cut out?
“You and your secrets,” Domenica said. She sounded as if she was trying to make light of it all. “You think you know everything.”
“Perhaps I do know everything. I know there are whispers the duke shows the portrait privately to those he chooses, and boasts of his—”
“Ladies.”
I did not raise my voice, but the girl stopped midsentence. I let the silence hang in the room for a moment, and then said, “If a thing is meant to be secret, it should remain secret. Will you chatter so blithely of my own private matters, the moment my back is turned?”
Paolina had the grace to look down. “
Chiedo perdono, Serenissima
,” she murmured. Then she spoiled the effect of her pretty pardon-begging by adding, “But you will never truly appreciate Frà Pandolf’s genius unless—”
“Enough. If the duke chooses to hide this portrait away, I am sure he has reason. Perhaps he believes it is not a good likeness.”
Frà Pandolf stopped painting. “It’s a perfect likeness!” he cried. “Go and look for yourself, Serenissima
.
It’s at the top of the stairs past the bronze statue of Neptune, in the old gallery the duke has partitioned for his library. There’s a hanging in front of it, so most people don’t realize it’s there.”
“It is the duke’s express order that no eyes but his gaze upon it,” Domenica said.
The voice of reason. Naturally it did nothing but further inflame my desire to see the thing. How could I help but wish to gaze upon her face, the girl whose death had made a place for me here?
“Thank you, Domenica,” I said.
Say nothing more, Domenica. I have heard your warning and I will pretend to heed it, but of course you and I both know I will see that painting, one way or another.
“Frà Pandolf, we will not speak of this matter further. In any case, if I were to leave you now, you would lose your light. Just as it—limns—my cheek.”
He did not even blush. “Just so,” he said. “Ah, Serenissima, paint must never hope to reproduce the living gleam of your hair, just as the sun strikes it.”
I did not respond. The Franciscan continued to paint, his expression once again fixed in a self-satisfied smile as if he were already anticipating the praise and gold he would receive for his efforts. Or as if he knew he had planted a poisoned dart of curiosity in my breast. Probably both. I held my pose and thought of the duke’s first duchess, and watched as little by little the squares of sunlight and shadow crept across the floor.
AT THE END of the day I looked at the friar’s work, and even I must confess, it took my breath away.
How had he done it? My face and the spill of my hair floated ghostlike on the canvas, with only the barest sketch of the rest of the figure; he would finish the costume and the background with one of my ladies to wear the red dress and sit for him rather than I myself. But in what he had done so far, he had caught me to the life: my eyes, my mouth, the shape of my face, my hair, light and shadow and luminous color, each touch of the brush vividly revealing. He seemed so slapdash as he worked, yet he had produced a portrait that looked more like the real me than I myself.