The Second Duchess (24 page)

“She is ready to run, Prinzessin,” the groom said in German. “I have been exercising her myself to keep her fresh.”

I stepped up on the mounting block and settled myself into the gilded and cushioned saddle, made with two pommels in the modern style of the French queen Catherine de’ Medici. How I had loved my few opportunities to hunt at home, and how I was looking forward to more riding in the open air in Ferrara! The saddle had been another of the French wedding gifts, and I was eager to try it.

“Thank you, Conradt,” I said as I tucked my left foot into the leather-covered slipper stirrup. I gathered up the reins; Tänzerin shook her head and danced at the touch of the bit against her mouth. Jewels glittered on her headstall and cheek straps. “You look pale. Are you well?”

“Yes, Prinzessin, perfectly well, thank you.”

I nodded. “You may go, then. I can manage her.”

The courtyard was brilliant with color and pungent with horses and straw, the ancient river-water smell of the Po di Volano, and the spice of costly perfumes. In my ears rang the sounds of ironshod hooves against stone, voices and laughter, jingling bits, and creaking leather. There were people everywhere: the huntsman and master of hounds and their underlings, grooms and stable boys, two prelates in rich robes arriving in state and, by way of contrast, a Franciscan friar in a brown hooded habit taking his leave. The sixteen white-painted brick columns supporting the loggia gleamed in the morning sun. Kitchen workers were loading baskets and hampers and firewood on mules, so we would have our dinner in the open air even if we did not make a kill.

The ladies—and the gentlemen, too, for that matter—were as richly and impractically dressed as I: Crezia in the Este colors of blue and white, Nora in the purple called
amaranto
, the Marquis of Montecchio in dazzling marigold satin slashed with peach. At one side of the courtyard I caught a glimpse of Elisabetta Bellinceno in blue-gray, looking like a frightened—why frightened?—long-legged heron beside her dour husband in peacock chevrons of gold, blue, and green. He stared at me, to my surprise, with open hatred.

“Good morning, Madonna.”

I turned. The duke wore russet leather and velvet, faced with black and with diamond clasps; there was a hawking glove on his left hand. He was mounted on a long-tailed bay Andalusian stallion with a wicked rolling eye.

“Good morning, my lord,” I said.

There were two lines like knife-cuts between his dark brows, and his mouth was set; yet his eyes showed a spark of interest when I responded to his greeting. I was struck afresh by the complexity of his expressions and the impossibility of reading them easily. His pride was like a polished shield, deflecting understanding, hiding the thoughts and feelings and human things—or inhuman things—that lived beneath it.

“All is in readiness,” he said. “When we have killed, we will—Ah, good morning, Messer Bernardo.”

“Good morning, Serenissimo.” The Florentine ambassador was dressed in scarlet, with a jaunty feathered cap. “Good morning, Serenissima
.
It is my great pleasure to see you again.”

His courtesy was feigned; I could see wariness and dislike in his eyes. I nodded to him politely.

“The day is fine for January,” he went on blandly, “and I think we will see excellent sport. Do you not agree, Serenissimo?”

They immediately fell into talk of hunting, as men will do even when they are enemies. Katharina and Sybille guided their horses close to mine; Katharina stared at Messer Bernardo with such open dislike that I felt it necessary to make a sign to her to mitigate her rudeness. She did, albeit with poor grace. We waited while the duke’s bow was brought, and the Florentine hawkmaster took his place. Tänzerin danced impatiently, tossing her head like a petulant lady, her mane rippling silver silk.

“Let us go,” the duke said at last.

He touched his spurs to the stallion. I reined Tänzerin around to pace beside him, and we led the procession out into the paved street, to all appearances in perfect accord. A few people had gathered to cheer us, muffled in brown and gray mantles, hoping for largesse. I obliged them, having made sure beforehand I was well supplied with the small copper-alloy
sesini
and
quattrini
the Este minted in Ferrara.

We said nothing to each other as we passed out of the city through the Porta degli Angeli and into the hunting preserve. Here we were closer to the river, and mist drifted along the ground; the cypress and cedar trees bore some green, but the great oaks, hornbeams, and poplars were stark and bare against the sky. The grass was patchy with brown and green on either side of the path.

Once the trees had thickened into something resembling a forest—I could well imagine it being lush and green in the summer—we met the huntsmen who had brought out the dogs, the huge, noble alaunts, the yapping spaniels, and the bell-voiced running hounds. Excitement began to crackle through the crowd of courtiers; in the center of a fawning cadre of young men I saw Crezia and Nora, laughing and coquetting outrageously. As I stared at them—and I must confess I was looking for young Messer Torquato Tasso and Crezia’s Virgo gentleman, whose name, I had learned, was Count Ercole Contrari—Nora turned and looked me in the eyes. She had regained her spirit, it seemed, after her subdued demeanor the night Tasso read from his
Rinaldo
. Even from a distance I could see the open scorn in her smile.

Suddenly Tänzerin laid back her ears, and I felt her kick as another horse lurched against her. It was Sandro Bellinceno in his peacock colors, his black Friesian stallion more suited to a battlefield than to a day’s amusement.

“Good day to you, Messer Sandro,” I said evenly. “Take care with your black, if you please.”

I expected a courteous, meaningless answer. I did not receive one.

“I have forbidden my wife to speak to you outside my presence,” he said, addressing me as rudely as he might have spoken to a camp follower. “See you respect my wishes.”

“How dare you.” I must have gripped my reins too tightly, because Tänzerin backed and tossed her head. “This is not an army’s camp, Messer Sandro, and I must insist on decent courtesy if not—”

He jerked the Friesian’s reins and turned away before I could finish. One or two people next to me saw what he had done, and they began to murmur behind their hands. Just at that moment the master of the hawks came forward to ceremoniously offer the duke a magnificent rock falcon, hooded and jessed in blue and silver. There was little I could do but swallow my outrage and attend to the presentation.

“A fine bird, my lord,” I managed to say.

“Indeed,” he said. The falcon stepped from side to side restively, and he stroked it with a feather to calm it. Then he turned and looked at me, and I could not help but think that when the falcon’s hood was removed, its eyes would have the same intensity. Very softly he said, “I commend your self-control, Madonna. I will speak to Sandro Bellinceno after the hunt. He is my particular friend and ally, as you know, and once in Flanders he was gravely wounded when he deflected an arquebus-ball meant for me. But even so, I assure you he will regret his discourtesy.”

I felt a rush of hot satisfaction that my husband would take my side, and then immediately surprise that the feeling was so fierce. Did I really care so much? His reaction was nothing but pride, of course—his self-importance had been stung by his friend’s open contempt for the Duchess of Ferrara, and at the same time he had been gratified by that lady’s dignified response. The humiliation of Barbara, a living and breathing woman, his wife, was nothing to him.

“Thank you, my lord,” I said steadily. “I value your care for my position.”

The falcon suddenly lifted its wings and made its harsh kack-kack-kack cry, as if disturbed; he stroked it into submission again. His face was turned away from me. “Indeed,” he said, after a moment.

“I assure you, there is no need to call Messer Sandro to account.”

“Then no more need be said of it.” He handed the falcon back to the master of the hunt, took his bow and quiver, and reined his stallion around. After a moment, I tapped Tänzerin with my whip and followed, off the path and into the forest. The rest of the court came after us, more or less in order of precedence. We trotted through the trees, fanning out as the beaters worked ahead of us, driving the carefully husbanded deer from their hiding places.

At last one of the hounds gave tongue, and the others joined in; amid the exhilarating clamor I leaned forward and urged Tänzerin to a canter, my ladies behind me. On my left, a little ahead of me, the duke raised his bow. On my right I saw flashes of marigold and scarlet and peacock blue.

Suddenly there was a flicker of brown among the hornbeams and poplars, the size of a fine young stag. Arrows made whispering sounds all around me as horses crashed among the brush and the dogs’ baying reached a fevered pitch. That is the last I remember clearly. I think Tänzerin shied, whether at some small animal or a straying hound or the streak of an arrow against her hide, I will never know. I felt her jump, and I thought quite calmly I was keeping my seat despite it all. Then there was an explosion of light, and nothing more.

 

ALFONSO DIDN’T SEE her fall. It was one of her Austrian ladies who screamed, and then they all started shrieking and weeping. You should have heard them! Even I was shocked at first, but when I realized her heart was still beating, I knew she was still alive and they were screaming for nothing
.

I
heard the duke’s voice say, “Bring the groom.” Then I heard hoofbeats and the crackling of brush, growing fainter as the riders went off. Something cold and wet was pressed to my forehead and wrists, which annoyed me because I feared it would stain my favorite hunting-habit.

Holy Virgin, my head hurt.

I opened my eyes.

“Leave her alone,” the duke said. The wet dabbing stopped. My sense of smell rushed back all of a sudden, and I coughed at the fumes of aqua vitae that enveloped me. For a moment I thought I had been poisoned by one of Maria Granmammelli’s potions. Then I realized I was in the hunting preserve outside Belfiore. We had been hunting on horseback. I remembered dressing in my green riding-dress. Mounting Tänzerin, with Conradt at her head. The courtyard. Sandro Bellinceno insulting me, and the duke with his falcon. Riding out through the great gate in the walls.

I frowned. There was nothing after that.

“You have had a bad fall,” the duke said. His black-and-russet velvet was smudged with mud, and one of the diamond clasps was torn away. Never before in the daytime had I seen him with his clothing less than perfectly arranged. “Do not try to get up. Can you move your arms and legs?”