What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (18 page)

Chapter 31

At some point I fell asleep next to Sandro, an affirmation of my trust for him, since I’d slept next to very few people in my first life. And it was a restful slumber, just as it had been in the meadow, dreamless and peaceful. When I awoke, I reached to run my fingers through his hair, then stopped when I realized what had wakened me—the Vespucci were returning to the
palazzo
en masse. The churchgoers noisily entered the house after a long day of prayer and socializing. The clanking boots resonated on the marble, children happily squealed, and men and women laughed. It sounded like Mardi Gras; the aftermath of solemn worship.

I snapped out of my fog, and remembered the quill and paper scattered about me and the inkwell next to the clock on my nightstand. I hastily shoved the filched items into the drawer of the bedside table. “Sandro!” I roused him quickly, “They’re back!”

“How long have I been sleeping?” he asked, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Most of the day. I need to get you out of here. Someone is likely to check on me.”

Only because I’m valuable human capital.

I stood and grabbed Sandro’s hand. “Follow me.”

Antonella knew exactly what was required when I led Sandro into her sparse chamber, having already obtained the key to the outside from Amerigo’s room. She immediately opened the small door behind the painting and waved him through. Sandro agreed to stay hidden in the staircase until the Vespucci procession had finished entering the house and the excitement from the street died down, so that no one would see him escape through the alley.

He took an extra moment before releasing my hand. “I’ll find a way to see you. I promise,” he pledged. I kissed him passionately before closing the door behind him.

Only moments later, my bedchamber door rattled—gently at first, then with furious intensity. I raced back into my room and flung myself onto the bed just as the velvet chair gave way and toppled, and the door came flying open.

“What is the meaning of this?” Marco yelled.

Nothing came to me at the spur of the moment, so I remained still on the bed, pretending to have just awakened.

“We are two women alone in the
palazzo
,
Signor
Vespucci,” Antonella responded. “It was for
Monna
Simonetta’s protection.” 

Piero entered the room and pushed past Marco, wearing a haughty red tunic with royal blue trim, regaled in gold embroidered Vespucci wasps. His presence created the same static, tense air as the first time I met him at supper, and Marco’s demeanor completely changed.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” Marco asked warmly. “You gave us quite a scare.”

“I did?” It seemed to me I was dumped off at the
palazzo
as some sort of great inconvenience.

“Is it possible you are finally with child?” Piero asked in his baritone voice.

“I don’t see how,” I chuckled sarcastically.

Piero moved closer in order to loom over me properly. “What is your meaning?” he demanded in a way that actually frightened me. I found Marco’s attempts at intimidation to be only an annoyance, but I got the strong sense that his father was not a man to be trifled with.

I nearly panicked while searching my brain for a reply. Clearly, this was not the time to out Marco and Luciana to Piero; especially when I didn’t have a handle on the entire story or the identity of the real villain in this whole twisted scenario. And I certainly didn’t want to say anything that would encourage the creation of a child.

“Well…I didn’t want to say it, but it’s that time of the month,” I lied. “Which is why I fainted.”

Even in this day and age, where elders watched and instructed newlyweds during their first sexual encounter, it was obvious that my menstrual cycle was not a subject these men wished to discuss. They understood my meaning and asked no further questions.

“Do you require anything before I leave you?” Piero asked.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Very well. Just assure you are prepared for tonight.”

Tonight?

After Piero exited, Marco closed the door, then stink-eyed Antonella into returning to her own chamber. He sat next to me on the bed and rubbed a rough hand down the side of my face. “You are a beauty,” he said, with what resembled sincerity. “Twas unfortunate that I was not alone when you finally came to me the prior night.”

“Oh, no no…That was a mistake. I was…sleepwalking.”

And with that his angry countenance returned with a vengeance.

Sincerity now gone
.

“As soon as you are given to Giuliano, you and I must produce a child no matter how unpleasant you view the task. Perhaps when your virginity has been taken, you will not find relations with me so distasteful.”

I didn’t know how to reply.

If I’m forced to shag someone else then you won’t be quite so gross?

“Do you intend to give up your lover?” I asked, now understanding that it was Simonetta who prevented the sexual union and not Marco as I’d suspected. She must have known about the affair from the beginning.

“We have been over this before. It is unfortunate you discovered my relationship with Luciana, as these matters are best kept private, but it is not as if I am the first nobleman to take a lover. Lorenzo for example. He does not even attempt to conceal Lucrezia Donati from his wife, and yet Clarice still bears his children. It is your duty Simonetta. You are an intelligent woman. You know I will have my way. I have allowed you time to come to me, but eventually I will be forced to take what is mine for the sake of the family.”

The whole idea that it was my duty to bed a man I detested was not a foreign concept to me. I’d been married to a monster once before. “Just one question. Do you love Luciana?”

“Why would you inquire about such a thing?”

“Just humor me. If I have to give up any dream I have of the way my life should be, for the sake of a family I didn’t choose, you could at least answer that one question.”

“Very well,” Marco sighed. “Yes, I suppose I do. She has been with us in the
palazzo
my whole life.”

I decided not to go the route of asking why he didn’t marry Luciana, or why
she
couldn’t “produce” children to carry on the family name, since I knew the answers to both. If the color of her skin wasn’t an issue, her societal standing would certainly prevent their legal union. “Does your father know you love her?”

“Of course not. You know what Father would do. But I must say, I am grateful to you for not divulging our secret.”

There came that sincerity again. And some possible blackmail leverage to boot
.

I realized I was not the only victim of Renaissance custom. Marco had very few choices he could make about his own life as well. For a minute I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
He must not have known what to do with the pity that washed over my face. “We are expected at the ball in only a few hours,” Marco snapped, as he quickly stood up again.

Since I was already on the shit list, I decided to ask, “What ball?”

“Yes, I suppose with all the commotion, I have forgotten to inform you,” Marco conceded. “Eleonora de Aragon is passing through Florence on her way to Ferrara to wed Duke Ercole d’Este. Lorenzo has arranged many last moment festivities to honor her including a ball in the gardens of the Palazzo Lenzi. An invitation arrived this morn while you were out with the painter. Make sure your attendant has you prepared.”

“Her name is Antonella,” I insisted, but Marco was already well en route to the exit.

Chapter 32

As soon as Marco closed my door, Antonella opened hers and burst in with a hairbrush in hand. She scooped the velvet chair from the floor and quickly pushed me into it.

“I thought he would never leave!” Antonella put an unusual amount of haste and force into her hair torture, even for her. “I know you care for the painter, but this is a dangerous game you play, Simonetta.”

Before I could respond, Luciana barged in without knocking.

I could really use a locksmith in this place.

“This gown has been delivered by a courier of Giuliano de Medici,” she grumbled, as she tossed it onto my bed in a heap. “He said you are to wear it to the ball, and your hair should be down upon your back.”

“It is a pity you will not be attending, Luciana,” Antonella retorted, snidely. In response, Luciana launched a pearl tiara with a sandal chaser, then left the room in a snit.

Antonella picked up the “gown,” if you could call it that. It was fashioned from sheer, lustrous, white fabric with transparent, billowy sleeves; the bodice garnished with a crisscross pattern of fine gold embroidery. If not for the sewn-in slip, the gown would’ve concealed almost nothing at all.

Antonella attempted to wrestle the gown over my stiff petticoat, before fighting to make it work with the shift underneath, but to no avail. The featherweight, waist-less frock insisted on flowing on its own. It was exquisite, just not what I would’ve expected or chosen to wear in public.

“I must restrain
some
of your hair,” Antonella said, as she resumed her painful brushing.

“You heard Luciana. Giuliano insists it be down on my back. Besides, if I’m gonna wear this slip of fabric that barely even qualifies as a dress, then what difference does it make how unseemly my hair is?”

“Very well,” Antonella relented, flashing a sinister grin. “I know just what to do!”

I watched in the mirror as she fashioned two locks from the nape of my neck into braids, each of which she decorated with pearls, before tying them together on my chest to form a faux necklace. At the knot of the braids, she hung the gaudy brooch Giuliano had given to Simonetta before I snatched her body. Still another braid she used to restrain the back of my hair into a lengthy pony tail, while the front she spun with a hot poker into tight curls. Finally, she crowned me with the pearl tiara.

“Another fine configuration of hair,” I praised.

“I shall call it the Vespucci,” she laughed. “No, for you it is more of a
Vespaio
, since you love to stir up the wasps of Florence.” I thought my doo was attractive in an outlandish sort of way, but not at all like a wasp’s nest. The whole ensemble seemed more proper for a red carpet event in Hollywood, than a Renaissance ball. But what did I know?

Sometime later, Marco arrived at my bedchamber door, looking especially handsome in a royal blue tunic with matching hose, and his dark hair slicked back to show off his attractive face.

“You look beautiful,” Marco gushed, as he examined me from top to bottom.

“Thank you.” I nodded. “You look great, yourself.”

I decided to play the part of dutiful wife to my dapper, if caveman-like husband, so when he offered his arm, I took it. As we embarked on an evening alone, we left attendants and elders behind.

I opted to embrace the situation, and allowed the retinue to carry me alongside Marco in the decorative litter, up the short distance to the
piazza
in front of the Ognissanti. I purposely avoided casting my eyes in the direction of the church, but I could nonetheless feel that nun’s stare boring into me.

I was familiar with the palace in modern times, but had never been inside, since it is used as the seat of the Honorary Consulate of France. It is famously nicknamed “the Palace of the Puzzles,” because of the conflicting opinions regarding the original architect.

“Who designed the Palazzo Lenzi?” I asked Marco as we approached; thrilled at the prospect of knowing something that no one in the future could confirm.

“Michelozzo,” he replied.

“Ahh,” I nodded, with a smile. “The same architect who designed the Palazzo Medici and Chapel of the Crucifix in the Miniato al Monte.”

“You impress me. I did not know you had an interest in such things.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I grinned, as I was led out of the litter by the gloved hand of a member of the retinue.

It seemed we were fashionably late to the ball as a sizeable crowd was already milling around, and a large number of horses were tied in front of the
palazzo
.

“You missed the flag races earlier,” Marco said flatly. “While you were ill. Many inquired about your health.”

All eyes were on me, and fingers pointing in the direction of my barely clothed form, as a porter led us past the gray stone façade, through a massive gate and into a sprawling garden that bordered the river.

Delicately manicured shrubs shaped like cones and orbs dotted the expansive lawn. Walkways diagonally crisscrossed the grass area, which had four sculpted fountains, and cypress and orange trees at its edges. Servants lit torches, illuminating the Arno River on the left side of this patch of heaven.

Within moments of entering the breathtaking garden, two smiling women ran towards me. Each wore a dress similar to mine with the same lustrous, transparent material trimmed with fine gold embroidery. The woman with chestnut hair had a dress that was off one shoulder, while the strawberry blonde wore a sleeveless gown. Like me, both lacked the usual stuffy Renaissance updo.

“Our third Grace has arrived!” the chestnut-haired woman exclaimed; her locks twisted and braided into a flowing ponytail.

“We shall be taking her now,” the strawberry blonde proclaimed to Marco, her hair completely loose with a solitary pearl crowning her head.

The women each grabbed one of my hands and ran me across the garden and up the stairs to an erected stage, giggling all the way. When we reached the stage floor, they introduced themselves. “I am Eleonora of Aragon,” the chestnut-haired woman announced as she curtsied. “But tonight I am Thalia, the Grace of Blossom.”

“And I am Euphrosyne, Grace of Delight, otherwise known as Albiera Albizzi,” she giggled and flipped her strawberry blonde hair.

“And tonight, you are not Simonetta Vespucci, but Aglaia, Grace of Beauty,” said Eleonora. “We are to dance as the three Graces, created to fill the world with pleasant moments and goodwill.”

“I’m pleased to meet both of you,” I said, while I curtsied.

And I really was
.

I hadn’t met such jovial women since arriving in this world. “Wait. Did you say dance?”

“Yes. Giuliano de Medici, known tonight as Apollo, has arranged this fabulous ball with many of us playing parts from classical mythology. I think it a fabulous way to spend one of my last days of freedom before marrying that decrepit old Duke, do you not?”

I hadn’t made it past the dancing part. I was already amazed that I’d managed to stay upright in this world on Simonetta’s gazelle legs, let alone dance on them. It had never been my forte.

A blonde woman climbed the stage, wearing a light, floral patterned frock with her head and neck wreathed in blossoms. “I am to be Flora, but I am not certain what I am supposed to do as such.”

“Flora is the goddess of nature and spring. You should toss flowers all about,” Eleonora replied glibly, as she picked some orange blossoms from the trees surrounding the stage, and helped “Flora” contain them in the skirt of her dress. “But tonight we are goddesses, so you may do what you like.”

“If I am to do what I like, I would capture the attention of Apollo!” she laughed. “But unfortunately, his heart lies with the Fair Simonetta.”

“Don’t worry about me. He’s all yours!” I said, as my eyes homed in on the arrogant Giuliano, dressed in only a draping, white toga with laurel leaves framing his head. “Have we met?” I asked the faux Flora.

“I do not believe so. I am Fioretta Gorini.” She curtsied astonishingly low to the floor. “It is impossible that you are not smitten with him. Look at all those muscles, and that stunningly beautiful face,” she sighed.

Still glancing around, I spotted Sandro at the outskirts of the crowd, shyly draped in nothing but a crimson toga of sorts hanging over one shoulder, a sheathed sword at his side, and a bronze pointed half-helmet on his head. His toned legs and smooth chest were mostly bare, and his feet covered in some high top buskins. What had already promised to be a magical night just got significantly better. “Actually I’m smitten with
him
,” I said, pointing to Sandro, just as he looked up at me and smiled. This gathering felt like a trip to Vegas; girl’s night out with a definite vibe of
what happens at the ball, stays at the ball.
Hopefully, I hadn’t just offered an
off-with-her-head
confession.

“Ahh, Mercury is the lady’s choice, is he?” Albiera noted, as she combed the crowd with her eyes. “Aha! Over there. I will take Zephyrus.”

“The man in blue?” I laughed. Marco was standing alone, looking somber, now embellished with a blue mantle and wings. Giuliano had transformed him into the god of the west wind, best known for raping Chloris, nymph of spring.

“Yes, he would be the one.”

“You can have that one too!” I chuckled. “Although he’s taken, and not by me.”

All the women laughed together, and an Orphic hymn commenced. Leonardo had taken a seat next to the stage where he played the lyre, while Poliziano sang lyrics of love, nymphs, and meadows.

Lorenzo and a beautiful woman—who was definitely not his flat-faced, angry wife Clarice—came to the center of the stage dressed as Aphrodite and Eros.

“Who is that woman?” I asked Fioretta in a whisper.

“That is Lucrezia Donati,” Fioretta informed me. “Two years ago, before your arrival in Florence, Lorenzo held a joust in her honor, proclaiming his courtly love, just as Giuliano now does for you.

“Interesting,” I said to myself, realizing this whole charade with Giuliano might not end with the joust.

“Here we go!” Albiera clutched my hand and pulled me into a Grace-chain with Eleonora, surrounding Lorenzo and Lucrezia. It started out as gleeful prancing, but as we let go of each other’s hands, the two other women spun and danced around the couple. It felt awkward at first, but soon Simonetta’s feet overcame my inhibitions, and I danced freely and joyfully, ignoring the now staring crowd of ball-goers and becoming lost in the music. Fioretta fervently threw her orange blossoms from the stage.

The moment he saw me, Giuliano pranced up and grabbed me around the waist; his face close to mine, as he pulled me in and twirled me around. We danced in perfect unison to steps I’d certainly never executed before. Simonetta’s body overruled my brain and I unconsciously let her lead me. I smiled broadly, as we chasséd, spun, and whisked our way about the stage. At the song’s finale, Giuliano dipped me, and when he raised me back up I pulled him towards Fioretta, placing his hand in hers. A look of nervous shock came over her young face and she went limp; the remaining flowers in her skirt falling to the floor. But Giuliano didn’t miss a step, and immediately wrapped his arm around Fioretta, and danced her around the stage.

Giuliano now dispatched, I returned to the other Graces, and together we skipped and hopped around Lorenzo and Lucrezia for a while longer before Eleonora pulled us down into the now rollicking crowd of gods, goddesses, nymphs, and muses. Eleonora kicked off her sandals, so Albiera and I followed suit. We weaved in and out of the crowd, collecting people to add to our human chain, eventually forming a long snake of dancers in the grass, weaving in and out of the Candyland-like shrub sculptures.

By this time, Marco had disappeared into the crowd, but Sandro still stood lonesome on the sidelines. In the spirit of this
anything goes
atmosphere, I grabbed Sandro’s hand and yanked him into our orgy of festivities.

The chain soon disbanded into smaller groups and pairs of merrymakers. We Graces formed a ring around Sandro, our linked arms moving up and down with the music.

“It is Mercury, god of poetry,” Eleonora said to Sandro, causing him to smile shyly.

“Except this Mercury writes his poetry with brushstrokes on panel,” I clarified.

“I shall enjoy painting you three as the Graces,” Sandro replied as we continued to roam around him.

“And I will be your lady Venus. You shall paint me riding from the waves.” I demanded. I had no idea where those words came from.

“I will,” Sandro pledged, without lowering his gaze. “I promise.”

Eleonora winked at me as she and Albiera trotted off to flirt with the other deities, leaving me to dance alone with Sandro. I glanced around to locate Marco and Giuliano in order to gauge how much trouble I was likely getting myself into. Marco was engrossed in a serious conversation with Lorenzo, and Giuliano was nowhere to be seen, so I decided to make use of my newfound dancing ability. I took Sandro’s hand, and moved easily with him in some sort of Renaissance-style waltz, circling and weaving through the entirety of the garden. So as not to advertise my infatuation with Sandro, I smiled and greeted everyone, with a charm that was not my own. Then Sandro held both my hands and spun me, causing me to throw my head back in delight, my long pony tail whipping through the wind.