Leonardo's Swans (16 page)

At this moment, with Beatrice riding at the rear of the party to keep her cousin, the Gloom of Aragon, from falling into despair, Galeazz is demonstrating to a delighted Bianca Giovanna how his finest falcon, Osiris, chases prey. Birds clamor and caw from inside a cluster of old oak trees, rustling the leaves as if someone has invaded a nest of hissing snakes. Galeazz gently removes the falcon’s leather hood, dotted with a tiny V shape of dark sapphires that crest at the beak, revealing his intelligent feathered face. The animal remains perched on Galeazz’s white leather glove, though Beatrice can sense that he is already alert to his surroundings. His eyes go immediately to the trees and do not move from them.

“Look, Isabel, Galeazz is releasing Osiris!” Beatrice says excitedly, trying to interest her cousin in the day’s activities. But Isabel only glances in their direction, then returns her snarling sideward glare to her husband.

She would not put a damper on this, one of Beatrice’s favorite sports. Even the sleek greyhounds and snapping spaniels stick their snouts into the air, aware that something exciting is about to begin. A flock of gray heron soars into the air at once from behind their camouflage, flying with long, deliberate strides on the way to their watery habitat in the lake ahead. Beatrice knows that they nest high in the trees, and she hopes that no little babies try to fly away with the adults, for there is no sport in killing an animal before it is grown. The long-necked, wide-winged birds flap lazily toward the lake, unaware of the danger below.

Galeazz need only raise his wrist ever so slightly, and Osiris shoots into the air after the birds. The pages, in their costumes of dark green on the heart side of their bodies and pale green on the right, race ahead with the dogs, and the entire party gallops to keep pace. Beatrice leaves her miserable cousin behind as she rhythmically whips her mount, passing Ludovico and his daughter, until she is at Galeazz’s side. As Osiris soars straight into the skinny neck of the lead heron, four other lords receive their falcons from their attendants, remove their hoods, and send them shooting into the sky. Before the others reach the flock, Osiris has killed one bird, which spirals to the ground, and is on to his second victim. The others catch up with him, each attacking a prey. As the birds fall to the ground, the dogs are immediately upon them. Before they can tear them to pieces, making them unsuitable for dinner, dog trainers are pouring blood collected from slaughtered pigs into bowls from crusty leather sacs, distracting the hounds from the birds while the pages collect the prey. Beatrice does not particularly care for heron, but once the bird is braised with wine and garlic and onions, it is suitable enough to serve.

Beatrice’s heart races as she slows her pace to survey the kill. Gray feathers fall from the sky, skimming her forehead, nose, and shoulders. The falcons have destroyed so many of the herons that for a moment it seems as if the sky is raining feathers. Their long, lifeless legs dangle like fringe as the boys collect them, holding them by their bleeding necks.

Osiris returns to his master, who invites his young betrothed to let the hero perch on her small, gloved wrist. Beatrice can tell that the girl is enchanted, but afraid. Osiris bleeds from the right wing, and he has lost many feathers in the fight. Bianca Giovanna lets the falcon rest upon her wrist, and she whispers sweet words to him while Galeazz prepares to hood him once again.

Beatrice adores Bianca Giovanna and is happy to see her fiancé treat her so sweetly, but it reminds her of the courtly and tender ways of Francesco when he and Isabella were in the betrothal stage. Why must Beatrice have a husband who is in love with another? Not just with one other woman, but if truth be known, two.

As if she doesn’t see the way that Ludovico stares and stares the day long at that pair of swans that Isabella sent him as a present for his ponds. Beatrice is an extraordinary archer and would like to shoot those elegant white beasts. If only they were not so lovely, she would send two arrows straight through their hearts. Or at least, she would turn one of the fiercest falcons on them and watch the bird rip out their throats. Swans could be mean, however, and would protect each other with great bravery. At least it would be a fair fight, unlike what she was up against with Cecilia Gallerani and her own sister.

Francesco, too, seems aware of the infatuation. Ludovico keeps inviting Isabella to Milan for “Beatrice’s sake” without even consulting Beatrice, and Francesco keeps coming up with reasons why his wife has to remain in Mantua. First he was away in Bologna for his brother Giovanni’s wedding to Laura Bentivoglio, and demanded that Isabella stay at home and conduct all matters of business and government. Then he made a side trip to visit his sister Elisabetta in Urbino, Beatrice was certain, just to keep Isabella at home a little longer. When he came home, he was mysteriously ill, and insisted that Isabella remain at his side to nurse him. Lastly, and Beatrice only knows this through the gossip that flies from court to court, Francesco reminds his wife all the time that they “are not rich like the Sforzas,” and with the way she likes to travel—with hundreds of attendants and an entire new wardrobe so that she won’t feel inferior to her sister—she has to keep her trips to a minimum. The last report was that Isabella had threatened to come to Milan in her chemise if Francesco refused her a proper wardrobe.

Ludovico’s disappointment over his spurned invitations to Isabella finally culminated in a shocking gesture. Morose, he canceled the games and jousts at Pavia to be held in honor of the birth of the duke and duchess’s son, the little Count of Pavia. Isabel of Aragon was furious at the insult to her son. She fired off angry letters to her relations in Naples, demanding that they use whatever means necessary to remove Ludovico as her husband’s regent. Beatrice knows this because all the court secretaries share information. Beatrice also knows that the royals of Naples would love to comply with Isabel’s request, but for the fact that Gian Galeazzo is an imbecile and a drunkard; he is a disaster leading a horse to water, much less leading the most important city-state in Italy.

Look at him now, losing his seat in his saddle again in an attempt to grope at his beloved’s stubbly face. At least Beatrice is in competition with two women of beauty and grace, and not some country bumpkin with long, gangly limbs who cannot read or write. As Duke Gian Galeazzo’s attendant pulls him back into the saddle, Ludovico hands him a flask of wine. Beatrice watches Isabel’s eyes land on Il Moro like the tongue of a venomous cobra on its victim. Color shoots into her cheeks, and her bosom, already pushed up high by her bodice, rises in a steady, belabored heave. Beatrice knows that Isabel blames Ludovico for Gian Galeazzo’s degraded condition, but what else is Il Moro supposed to do? Turn power over to a man with half a brain, who has no interest in administering the government? Lose the duchy of Milan to whatever enemy first strikes after the foolish boy is put in charge?

Beatrice has no illusions about Ludovico’s love of power; yet she thinks that he treats the feeble young duke with more respect than that idiot deserves. Another man might have had him quietly done away with. Italian politics were full of such stories. Even her own father had tried to poison his nephew Niccolò, who repeatedly conspired against him, until finally, after an attempted insurgency, the Diamond had him beheaded. No one thought the less of her father. Indeed, respect for him grew. He and Duchess Leonora and all of their children were alive and prospering, and not rotting in a tomb in Ferrara’s Duomo like so many families of leaders who failed to eliminate their enemies. No, after Duke Ercole executed his nemesis, the streets of Ferrara rang out with cries of
Diamante! Diamante! Long live Ercole!
The people of Ferrara then gave him his second nickname, the North Wind, to acknowledge how his cold decision-making abilities had saved their land.

But the belle of Aragon has no such affection for Ludovico. She does not allow herself to consider that, by assuming power, Ludovico is saving Milan from ruin at the hands of the inept Gian Galeazzo. Whipping her horse around, Isabel rides to Beatrice, almost sideswiping her. “Come with me, cousin,” she hisses. It is not a request, but a command. “I know an especial pond from which your horse would love to drink.”

Beatrice, reluctant to hear one of Isabel’s tirades against all the world on this lovely day, follows anyway, although something inside of her is telling her to make an excuse and remain with the party. Against her better judgment, she allows Isabel to lead them down a narrow path, where thistles snag at their veils and scrape their horses’ flanks. Finally, they reach the promised pond, a puddle of stagnant scum.

“That’s disgusting,” Beatrice says. “I wouldn’t let Drago drink from that.”

“Strange that nature’s formation disgusts you, but the actions of your husband do not.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Beatrice says, backing Drago up to maneuver him away from the poison on the ground and the poison coming from her cousin’s mouth.

“Do you not see how Ludovico keeps my husband drunk so that he may continue to usurp his power?”

Beatrice says nothing, but she would like to fire back that the duke would have come into his full power when he came of age two years ago if he had shown any interest in or ability for running the kingdom.

“Ludovico is betraying us all,” Isabel says. Beatrice waits for her to go on. Perhaps after she has delivered her speech, she will be spent.

“Are you pretending that you don’t know how he promenades Cecilia Gallerani around at public functions as if she were his wife? Would you not like to be in attendance with your husband on these occasions and not locked up in your apartments in the Castello like a child in a nursery?”

Beatrice is aware of Ludovico’s nightly visits to Cecilia; she has had no idea that they have been appearing together in public. She knows that she should stop listening, knows that she should dig her heels into Drago’s sides and flee this news, but she cannot move.

“Do you think people wonder why Ludovico’s lawful wife is kept hidden while he struts his mistress and his bastard all over the city?”

Beatrice whips Drago around. Her veil sticks on a thorn, pulling her headdress askew. Annoyed, she yanks the thing off. “You are no friend, cousin, if you insist on infecting my mind against my husband by spreading these rumors.”

“Cousin, what rumors? This is but the truth: you and I are the most ill-treated, unfortunate women in the kingdom.” Isabel grabs the jeweled horn at her forehead. “Let us not lock horns, Beatrice. There is so very much we might do together to affect our fates—and the fate of Italy.”

Beatrice says nothing. Her father always told his children that the wise man listens while the fool gabs away.

“Have you any idea that your husband is conspiring with the French King Charles against our own grandfather?” Isabel asks, her voice low and full of knowing. “The French want Naples; that’s no secret. Ludovico believes that if he helps the French take Naples from King Ferrante, then Charles will invest him with the title of Duke of Milan. Do you know what will happen in that case to my husband and me? Ludovico either will have us exiled or will have us murdered in our sleep, whichever suits him. But imagine, Beatrice, your own husband joining the French to depose our grandfather Ferrante. Is that what you want?”

“That is ridiculous,” Beatrice says. “There is no such intrigue.” But she cannot forget the comment Ludovico had made about her someday being the best of friends with the Queen of France,
if all goes according to plan
. Now, in light of Isabel’s accusations, it makes perfect sense.

“Join
with
me,” Isabel says. “Ferrante loves us both. If he knew that not one of his granddaughters but two were suffering constant humiliation at the hands of our husbands, he would send an army here to rescue us. We are princesses of two of the greatest families in Europe—Aragon and Este. We are blood, Beatrice. Your mother is of the House of Aragon. Who is Ludovico but the son of a mercenary who stole power at an opportune time? You can pay him back for all that he is doing to sink our names into disgrace!”

“I must think on this, cousin.” These are the only words Beatrice can say and she mumbles them, not meeting Isabel’s angry eyes. She feels fear now, fear of her cousin and fear of her husband, and she does not know which is or should be the greater. Isabel’s eyes are so wild and her voice so full of venom that Beatrice wonders, if she refuses to conspire with her, will Isabel try to kill her? On the other hand, could Ludovico’s plans be so far-reaching and sinister?

As if answering Beatrice’s unspoken question, Isabel says, “Ludovico Sforza would conspire with the devil himself to become Duke of Milan. He would happily betray you, your family, my husband, our family, or his own family to satisfy his ambitions.”

Beatrice starts to turn Drago around so that she does not have to look at her cousin. “I said I would think on it.”

“Think on this, while you are thinking.” Isabel’s words fly like arrows past Beatrice’s ears—whizzing, angry, dangerous, and seeking a soft target. “If Ludovico joins with France against Naples, Beatrice, what will be your lot? Have you thought of that? I can tell you: you will be sent back to your father, and while your bed is still warm, a French bride, taken to please King Charles, will be sleeping in your quarters. That is, if Ludovico does not see that you are mysteriously given some bad meat first.”

Beatrice wants to answer that Ludovico would never do such a thing, but she is not so certain that her cousin has not hit upon some unfortunate truth. Not that she intends to allow the horrible prediction to come to fruition. She says nothing. Her shoulders rise and her arms and legs shoot out to the side to gain strength. Stretched out like some awkward bird attempting to take flight, and breathing in a little more warm air, she slaps her legs against Drago and gallops away toward the sounds of the hunting party.

Thoughts pass through her mind like the wind, making her heart pump faster as she races along the narrow path. She feels as if her body is going to implode from the dozens of emotions rising within her and yet she cannot think. Does not want to think. Despite all she feels, her head is empty.