“But Henry is not pleased with Sir William because he was part of all that, and so, he sends him with my father into Russia.” She spread the letter again, reading it with close attention. “I am surprised,” she said when she was halfway through, “that the Polish escort should have come as far as Udine to meet them.” She read a little further and smiled. “Ah. I see here that my father feels that it was more than an escort. ‘For if Russia and England do form an alliance, Russia may well press westward into Poland, and with war in the German States, it will fall to Poland and Austria and Hungary to stave off that giant country. It is the dream of the Grand Duke of Muscovy, so they say, to unite all the Russias under his banner—a foolhardy plan on the face of it, but perhaps not impossible. The Great Khan accomplished far more with much less. If it comes to that, Poland, Austria and Hungary will have to stand not only against Russia, but, I fear, against the Turks as well, for I doubt the truce would be honored at such at time.’ He is most probably right. Or does it seem otherwise to you, Messer Ariosto?”
Lodovico gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I am a poet, Donna Margharita. I have no feel for politics. I can see that there is danger, of course, as any sensible man must, but whether Poland and Hungary will become allies against Russia…How can I tell?”
“Well, it would appear that the Poles had business in Austria already and came into Italy as an excuse.” She finished the letter and folded it carefully before handing back to Lodovico. “I thank you, Messer Ariosto. It does my heart good to read my father’s letter. I feel less lost because of it.”
This admission of hers touched him. “For the daughter of my friend, it is a small thing to do. If you require more of me, you have only to ask.” Yet he said this in a perfunctory way, knowing that it was expected of him, and being confident that there was little he could do.
“I know you are busy with your poetry now, and I would not interfere with that, but…” she said in a rush, her face suddenly rose-hued.
Lodovico looked at her askance. “My work is going well,” he said, “but there is much to be done on it.” He wished he had some finished pages to show her, but most of them were in his study on the floor above.
Margaret arranged herself on the chair so that she looked almost childlike. “Messer Ariosto, I would like to learn to read Italian.”
“What?” Lodovico stared at her, not certain she was serious, and very much afraid he would laugh. It would be a great cruelty, he said to himself, to laugh at this earnest young woman, and it would be a disservice to Sir Thomas. “There are better teachers than I am, Donna,” he said, his caution making his voice breathy.
“I know there are those who can teach me the words. I have read much of their works in the past months. I realize that, given a year or more, I would learn a great deal on my own. But I would still not be able to express myself with elegance, with learning, in a way that my father would wish. It is true that there are others who know more of teaching, but no one knows more of the language than you do.” Her head had come up again, and her steady gaze burned into Lodovico’s weary, tan eyes.
“I see.” He came back into the room and drew up a chair for himself. “Did Damiano suggest this?”
“The Premier approved my request.” She was quite autocratic now, and her voice had become hard. Lodovico recalled the deep, orator’s tone of Sir Thomas voice and thought it a pity that his daughter was not like him in that way. “I am determined to learn, Messer Ariosto. If you will not teach me, then I must find another, for I am determined to be proficient by the time my father returns.”
Lodovico gave a gesture of helplessness. “You see where I live, Donna. I am fully an hour away from Firenze. If you wish to come here, then, of course, I will be happy to teach you, though you may find f I am not as adept as many others are. However, let me recommend to you that you find someone in Firenze, an educated man, a priest, perhaps, who can school you in the ordinary forms of the language. Then, when you come to me, we will not have to waste time on simple things.” He smiled in what he hoped was a cordial manner. He felt his hands go cold as he waited for her answer.
“You don’t wish me as a student?” She made the question a challenge. “I will bring a maid as I did today. There is no way my visits can be considered improper. You may command your wife to sit with us while I have your instruction.”
“No, no,” Lodovico protested, and this time he did laugh. “You misunderstand me entirely.” He tried to picture in his mind Alessandra sitting through long afternoons devoted to verbs and poetic structure, and the amusement made him lighthearted for the first time since he had set eyes on this unnerving woman. “Donna Margharita, I have said I will teach you. But you will not want to come here every day.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “No,” she admitted when she had considered the matter.
“Therefore, choose a day. That day will be yours, every week you desire my tuition. That is more possible, is it not? And while you are in Firenze, you will find another master for those days you are not coming to me.” He leaned forward, realizing that it would be stimulating to teach this daughter of Sir Thomas More.
She gestured an acceptance. “I am at a loss here,” she said after a moment of silence. “I have not been separated from my father before.”
“But there is your mother, your sisters, your brother, your husband.”
“She’s not my mother,” Margaret said firmly. “I love Alice Middleton dearly, but she is my father’s second wife. Though she has been generous with us, as many another woman might not have been. She is much devoted to my father.”
“A second wife,” Lodovico mused, somewhat surprised. “Still, Donna, you are not alone.” He was pleased that he had been able to admonish Margaret so gently. It was wrong to upset Sir Thomas’ daughter.
“But I am!” she burst out and, to Lodovico’s dismay, began to weep. “I’ve always been with him. I have cared for him, read with him. I washed his hair-shirt, fasted when he did…” She put her hand to her mouth as her sobs grew louder.
Lodovico felt clumsy. Had an Italian woman burst into tears he would have known what to do, but with this self-possessed Englishwoman, he had no idea what to say, what to do, how to act. Tentatively he put hand on her shoulder, and was rewarded by a moan. “Donna…”
“I’m so distressed,” Margaret wailed, and gasped in an attempt to control her tears.
“Naturally,” Lodovico said vaguely, wishing that Alessandra would come and help him in this difficult situation.
“Messer Ariosto…” she said, catching her breath in high, anhelous whimpers. “I never…I didn’t…Forgive me!”
Lodovico patted her shoulder and murmured some inanity. How much he wanted to leave the room! “Dear lady, you shouldn’t worry.” It sounded woefully inadequate to him, but apparently it was sufficient comfort for the daughter of Sir Thomas More.
“I will be myself in a moment,” she promised as she sat upright again. “I rarely…” She made a motion with her band. “We English are a sentimental people and…and I have often seen others weep, but I hate to do it myself. It is so lacking!” She had taken a folded cloth from the wallet at her belt and she stabbed it at her eyes as if to frighten the tears away.
“We Italians also weep, Donna,” he said with self-deprecating smile. “For joy, for sorrow, for beauty for pleasure, for anger, for pain…there is no occasion that an Italian cannot weep for it.”
An unsteady smile wavered on Margaret’s lips. “You’re a very generous man, Messer Ariosto.” The worst of her crying was past now, and though her breath came shakily, there was no renewal of her sobs. “This is not the way I had hoped to conduct myself before my teacher,” she went on a moment later, with more confidence.
“You reassure me,” Lodovico said fervently and sincerely and was astounded when Margaret laughed.
“Oh, how good of you to make a joke of it. My father told me you are kindness itself, and I know now it is true.” She
made a wad of the cloth and returned it to her wallet. Her smile was still not entirely successful, but it was undoubtedly genuine.
Relieved, Lodovico got to his feet. “If you are ready, Donna, I would be honored to present you to my wife.” He felt, he thought, as if he were entertaining a noblewoman, easily overset and inwardly distraught. Margaret Roper was young, but her manner was that of a matron. “And while we walk, perhaps you will select the day you wish me to instruct you?”
Margaret nodded. “I will. After this display, I am flattered that you will have me.”
Lodovico wanted to put that episode behind them as quickly as possible, and so rather than comment on her words, he said, “And after you have had some refreshment, then I will bring the rest of your father’s letters to read. It will please him, I know, that you have seen them.”
Tancredi Scoglio leaned precariously out of the saddle and wagged a finger at Lodovico. “That son of yours…” he said, slurring the words.
“What about Virginio?” Lodovico had hurried into the courtyard as soon as he had heard the wild hoofbeats. It was late and a single torch blazed in the entrance to the villa. “What has happened to my son?” It was difficult to speak, and his mind was filled with memories of Virginio toddling through the little house in Ferrara, Virginio in a meadow; Virginio playing impromptu calcio with other boys in the innyard near Bologna; Virginio at his studies, his tongue sticking out in concentration; Virginio playing the lute badly but with determination; Virginio lying under the laurel tree, an open book on his chest…
The laughter that greeted this question was immoderate. “Sly, very sly, that Virginio.”
“San Giorgio, if there is anything…” Lodovico made a fruitless attempt to catch the reins of Tancredi’s high-bred bay, but the horse, already overwrought from the furious night ride, reared and scampered away from him.
“Capezzoli della Virgine!” Tancredi swore as he tugged at the reins to bring his horse under control again.
“What has happened to my son!” Lodovico shout and then was silent, realizing that he did not want Alessandra to overhear if the news were terrible.
“Joined a Confraternità, the lucky bastard!” was the answer at last, and Lodovico was filled with an inner sickness as he recalled in his mind the various activities of the Confratemitàs that had little to do with charity.
“Which one?” he asked softly.
“Worried, poet?” There was derision in the voice now, and a kind of triumph. “There are more than thirty to choose from, and each has its own…rituals.” He hooted loudly and his horse bucked.
“Which one?” Lodovico demanded, coming up to the horse, heedless of the danger from the steel-shod hooves.
“The best, the best, only the best. He can whip a Prince of the Church if he chooses!” Tancredi was clearly enjoying himself. “He couldn’t get into the one that uses the black cloth—even our Cardinale can’t aspire to that.”
“Per Dio, keep your voice down!” Lodovico said sharply. “Half the countryside will be awake if you keep on.”
“Don’t you want them to know?” Tancred yelled, bringing his horse up close to Lodovico. “Don’t you want the world to know that your boy lies down such high-ranking men? Let a Cardinale bugger you and no one will burn you for sodomy.” He wheeled his horse again and brought it within an arm’s length of Lodovico. “He’s either a damned catamite or he’s very, very clever.” He reached for a wineskin that dangled from his saddle and pulled the stopper from it. “He can advance himself a long way on his stomach!” It took attempts to get the spout of the wineskin to his mouth, but when he had it there, he drank deeply, noisily, then flung the empty thing away.
“You are mistaken.” Lodovico spoke coolly. He had had a moment to master himself, to calm his fears and his anger. “If my son has joined a Confraternità, as you say, it is not for the purposes you imply.”
“Why else join?” Tancredi asked, and at last lowered his voice. “I tell you, poet, that your son is at this very moment closeted with his Confraternità…”
“It is not possible,” Lodovico cut him off. He was contemptuous of this drunken young man now. “It is very expensive to join such organizations, and I know well that he cannot afford it.”
“There are ways to get the money,” Tancredi said nastily. “He has a great deal to offer that those men would like—youth, a handsome face. One of them might be persuaded to pay his fees for certain private considerations.” He tugged his horse around again. “Ask him yourself.” He pulled his horse up tightly. “Ask him yourself!” he shouted and set his spurs to the horse’s flanks, sending the terrified, exhausted animal springing forward out of the courtyard and down the hill toward the road to Firenze.
Lodovico stood in the courtyard, one hand clutching the front of his houserobe. He told himself that everything Tancredi had said was the result of the wine. The youth was jealous, or merely playing a malicious prank. He reminded himself that he knew his son, and it was impossible that he would ever allow himself to be so used, so seduced, so debauched. Yet, he knew that Virginio wanted wealth and was easily swayed by admiration and flattery. Faults of youth, he told himself, but it would be a simple matter for an older, more ruthless, cynical man to manipulate such a boy as his son…
It was cold in the courtyard, he realized. A wind had come up and had banished the heat of the day. He turned as if on ice rather than the courtyard flagging, and made his way back to the entrance of the villa. His mind was restless, febrile. He had forgotten to bring down the books for Margaret, and she would come in the morning. No, it was two more days until she arrived. There was need to order more parchment since his supply was low. He could send a note to Virginio…He wanted another edition of Greek poetry. No, not Greek. It was the French, yes, the French who interested him.
He was halfway up the stairs when he came to himself again. Then he stood still, his hands on the railing, his face wet though he did not realize he was weeping. He knew he had left the door open and unbarred, and he forced himself to walk down the stairs once more, close the door and set the heavy bar in place.
As he got into bed, Alessandra asked him sleepily, “Who was that?”
“No one. Just a mistake.”
“Was it a messenger?” She had turn toward him and even in the faint light he could see she was watching him closely.
“Not exactly.” He wanted to sleep. He had never been so weary.
“Was the news bad?”
Lodovico gestured futilely to the darkness. “He was drunk. Very drunk. He made no sense.” He let himself be comforted with that thought. Tancredi had be drunk, there was no doubt, and what he had said had happened might well be nothing more than wine fumes. Still some doubt remained. “I may go to Firenze tomorrow. Or the next day.”
There was no answer from Alessandra, who was already asleep again.
Two days later Virginio appeared at the villa. There were dark smudges under his eyes and an unhealthy pallor to his skin, and when he spoke, it was in short, ironic bursts that were oddly frightening coming from so young a man.
“You’ve got to speak to him,” Alessandra insisted on the third day. “He must talk with you. You’re his father.” She was dressed in a countrywoman’s smock of undyed linen that gave mute testimony to her work in the farmyard. “He’s hardly eaten since he came back. You saw his face. What if he’s ill?” Her hands moved erratically, as if eager to escape her body.
“I don’t think he’s ill,” Lodovico said quietly, but wondered if it might be so. He welcomed the idea. “I’ll do what I can to find out,” he said with more firmness than he felt.
“Today, husband. This afternoon.” Though she said It kindly, Lodovico knew it was an ultimatum, and that if he did not speak to Virginio, Alessandra would. He dreaded what she would do if it turned out that Tancredi had spoken the truth.
“Yes. This afternoon.” He kissed her affectionately. I’ll go up now, if you like.” He had seen Virginio slip away to his
bedchamber some little time earlier. It would have to be done eventually, he said to himself, and so it might as well be done now. Reluctantly, he turned away from Alessandra and sought out his son.
Virginio was lying on his bed, face pressed against the pillow, his leggings unfastened and his boots on the floor. The petulant expression he had worn earlier had darkened to the curious cynicism of youth. “Archangeli,” he groaned at the sight of his father.
Lodovico paused with one hand on the doorlatch. “You’re awake.”
“Of course I’m awake. What does it look like?” He turned onto his back and stared up at the patterns on ceiling.
“Your manners are atrocious, Virginio,” he remarked, knowing that his, in their own way, were as bad. “If this is the way you plan to behave in Paris…”
“Paris!” Virginio scoffed, as if he were speaking of China.
“You will leave in less than a month.” He came across the small chamber and looked down at his son. “Tancredi Scoglio rode out here a few nights ago. He had had a great deal of wine. He told me a few things that…distressed me. If you know what matters he…mentioned, I want you to deny them if you can.”
“Tancredi. That sot!” Virginio lifted his arms and let them pound back into the bed.
Lodovico hardened his heart. “I forbade your teachers to thrash you when you were young, because I had hated being beaten when I was a student, but if you persist in this way, I will take a rod to you, my boy.” It was the right of fathers to do so, though Lodovico had rarely exercised that right.
Virginio laughed unpleasantly. “I’m nearly as tall as you are, and I’m not soft with study.”
This defiance stung Lodovico to the depth of his soul. He was not aware he had lifted his arm, he did not feel the movement until his open hand struck his son’s face with desperate force.
Father and son stared at each other, each amazed, each filled with a sense of loss. It had been many years since Lodovico had struck Virginio, and then it been part of his task as a father. Now it was something else entirely. Neither had expected this, neither had wanted it, and yet it happened.
Ariosto Page 18
