Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “He has already warned me of that—not but what it was unexpected. He also tells me that Ippolito Davanzati sends messages to Roma with great regularity. Which of my relatives does he write to, I wonder. If he is intelligent, it will be to Clemente, but I am not convinced that Ippolito has thought so far ahead.” He stared at the dusty toes of his boots in silence.

  The day was hot and the listless breeze did little more than stir the air enough to spread the heat throughout the valley. There were summer smells, so intense they were almost visible, flooding the afternoon. Here in the antechamber it was cooler, and the shutters were half closed to ensure there would be some refuge from the implacable sun.

  “Do you think it wise to continue your journey? You’re enervated now, and another hour in the saddle…” Lodovico tried to give il Primàrio the firm smile that would indicate he knew best.

  “It’s tempting, but there are other considerations.” He continued to stare at his boots. “Many other considerations.”

  “They must be important,” Lodovico capitulated feeling inane.

  “I certainly hope so,” Damiano answered, his voice thickened with a fatigue that went far beyond the tiredness of his body. “I feel I’ve been in a bath, I’m so wet. My shirt is soaked through and this giaquetta will be equally wet in another hour. But what else can I do? Ercole is an officer of la Federazione, a very high-ranking one in a critical area. I would insult him unbearably, if I did not ride out to meet him. I have an escort of Lanzi waiting at San Gregorio already, and a dozen courtiers at the villa of Giovanni Tornabuoni. We’ll gather there, feast, and in the morning proceed in state to Firenze.” He sighed heavily, as if the prospect of lavish entertainment sickened him.

  Lodovico pondered if Damiano wanted him to join the party, and was about to ask when Damiano went on.

  “We will banquet late tonight, in the larger courtyard of Palazzo de’ Medici. Ercole has got it into his head that he would rather stay there than Palazzo Pitti, though why, I can’t imagine.” He pulled his plumed hat from under his arm and propped it on his knee. “Christ alone knows what Barbabianca wants.”

  “Do you wish me to try to find out?” Lodovico asked in a rush.

  Damiano stared at him, then chuckled. “You? Well, he would never suspect you.” His chuckles turned to laughter. “Gran’ Dio, Lodovico Ariosto a spy!”

  “You mad one of Sir Thomas,” Lodovico snapped, and was shocked to see the quick, sobering change his words brought to Damiano.

  “Yes, I made a spy of that good, honest man. If I could have thought of any other way to accomplish the task, I would have done it.” He rubbed his jaw, grimacing. “That was a reprehensible act, but it is done and I have convinced myself that it was necessary. But I will not make a spy of you, my friend. I wish to leave this world with at least one man uncorrupted by me.” He tapped the plume and set it nodding. “I have spies in my cousin Cosimo’s household, and a most attentive nephew at the Papal court, but it does not please me. What would these men be, if I did not have need of them. My daughter Pia, in her nun’s habit, is still my spy. Will God forgive me that, do you think?”

  This sudden, grim turn of mind alarmed Lodovico, who said lightly, “Who suspects a poet?”

  “No one,” Damiano sighed, “and I would not want give them cause. Fiesole is a sanctuary more secure than the Church,” he said, looking around the antechamber, at the plain white walls and painted ceiling beams.

  “You do not want my help?” Lodovico asked, not quite disguising his hurt. It was galling to think that he would not be permitted to assist il Primàrio, to be trusted by him. What could he do to convince Damiano he could be useful, when Damiano believed that Lodovico was only capable of writing verse and plays, of teaching Italian to Margharita, and not able to make his way in the subtle world of the court? He lifted his chin, showing the worst of his freshly trimmed beard, and ducked his head quickly.

  “Want your help?” Damiano echoed. “You do help me. Knowing that you are here, removed from the sewer that is Firenze, that helps me. I think it may be the one thing that keeps me sane. You are my assurance that…” He stopped and drew a long breath. “Lodovico, my second cousin covets Firenze. Indeed, he covets Toscana, all of la Federazione. It is not enough for him to have the seven tassels and red hat, he wants more temporal authority.”

  Lodovico bit back a remark about the other thing that Cosimo, Cardinale Medici coveted, fearing Damiano’s response.

  “I know this. I know it. But I can find nothing. I am learning how wars begin. There are moments when it would be so easy to order the Lanzi to seize one of the cities where Cosimo has allies. I would feel then that I had accomplished something. But waiting, searching, knowing and having no proof…!” His hands came together and tightened as if around a throat. “Benci has discovered two of the Cardinale’s spies in my household and has got rid of them for me, but he admits that he is baffled. He has tried to place men in unsuspected stations in the Cardinale’s followers, but has not succeeded.” Again he studied the feather in his hat, then tapped it to set it nodding once more. He gazed at it, abstracted, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to come from a long way off. “My wife. My wife is in France. She has said that she is going to Nemours, to my uncle’s estate there, as part of a diplomatic mission.” He was fascinated by the movement of the plume. “That is a lie. Graziella has left me.” Suddenly he looked at Lodovico. “There is a French nobleman, very handsome, very rich, not consumed with statecraft, not wedded to his country, who is besotted with her, as I have been. He is to be her host. That is the name we give it. He has a wife somewhere, making this respectable. His estate is conveniently near Fontainebleau, which will continue the fiction of the diplomatic visit for a little while.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “No one knows this, not for certain, though there are the inevitable rumors. No one knows.” His face was blank now, and his dark, long-tailed eyes averted. “I sensed this was coming, but I never thought it would actually happen. It seemed impossible. Graziella, leave me? Why? For whom? So far, I have told only you. My confessor does not know. Benci suspects, but I have not confirmed it. I will maintain the pretense as long as I am able to.” He cleared his throat. “My wife and my sons…And Ercole Barbabianca is waiting for me to greet him and give him lavish entertainment.” There were tears on his face, but he did not notice them. “I have told myself that it is wiser she is gone, for if there is treachery—and I fear there will be treachery—she will be safe. I will have spared her that. And once she is a widow, she need only wait a year…”

  “Damiano!” The shock which had made Lodovico silent lost its grip on him. He took his friend’s hand and squeezed it in his own. “You must not wound yourself.” How inadequate the words were! He wished he could find a more eloquent expression, some profound comfort that would ease Damiano’s lonely suffering.

  “Must I not?” Damiano inquired sardonically.

  “For…” He faltered. “If you’re willing to lose your wife for Italia Federata, then it is for the sake of the nation that you must not. If you cannot for your own sake.” Lodovico had felt his eyes fill as Damiano told of Graziella’s desertion. Now the shared hurt was keen within him, and he saw the anguish of il Primàrio reflected in himself. He forced his voice to be steady. “Stay here for a day. Give yourself a respite from the other. One day will not make a difference.”

  Damiano pulled his hand away. “You know I can’t do that. Ercole would be deeply insulted and rightly so. Since I have chosen Italia Federata, I must accept her terms.” Again he wiped his face, but this time he looked at his wet hands with bemused surprise. He had not known he wept.

  “I will send a messenger and say that you have been taken ill and must rest here.” It was a desperate idea, and a foolish one. Damiano shook his head. “I will go myself, and surely I can make them believe me.”

  “I am more touched than you know, Lodovico. I doubt if anyone else would offer this to me. But I must leave.” He got to his fee
t, pulling his hat from his knee and placing it once more on his head, paying no attention to the angle so that the plume dangled down toward the back of his high, stiff collar. “I stopped here…because I had to have some little time to myself, and the company of a friend. You have been a better friend to me than I have ever had, a better one, perhaps, than I could possibly deserve.” He grabbed Lodovico by the shoulders and embraced him once, harshly, then thrust him away.

  Lodovico stood, astounded, thinking frantically for ways to keep this grieving man with him a little longer. “Alessandra will want to see you. She is at the marketplace, but will return shortly. You must let her see you. She’ll be very disappointed…”

  “I will see her, but not now.” Damiano regarded Lodovico with curious compassion. “You really should go with your son, and if I were less greedy, I would order you to leave when he does. But my charity has limits. Against my nobler inclinations, I intend to keep you here. I pray God I will not regret my decision.”

  “Damiano?” Lodovico blinked at this condemnation. “I promise you I will not compromise you. I will keep your confidences.” He said this stiffly, wondering why Damiano should be so unjust after trusting him. “Nothing you have said, nothing, will be repea—”

  But Damiano interrupted him, despair in his face. You misunderstand me. It is not you I reproach, but myself.”

  For the third time that afternoon Lodovico found himself without words. He stood in the center of the antechamber and watched while Damiano hastened to the door and went out into the stultifying heat of the afternoon.

  Virginio tied his cloak to the back of the saddle and checked the buckles that held his wallet to his belt.

  “Now you will be certain to choose your inn carefully,” Alessandra was saying as he worked. “And stay away from tavern wenches. Too many of them are poxy, and I will not have my son infected with the French disease. Find yourself an honest girl and treat well.” She put her hands on her hips to show how firm her orders were.

  “Messer’ Ariosto…” said the understeward on the horse beside Virginio’s.

  “He means you, my son,” Lodovico said gently when Virginio did not give the man his attention.

  “Messer’?” A slight smile curved Virginio’s mouth. “Messer’ Ariosto. I suppose I am.” He turned to his parents and allowed himself to be hugged by each of them, then stepped back.

  “Send us word when you have found lodgings,” Lodovico reminded him.

  “Yes. of course. I’ll have Guido”—he nodded toward understeward—”bring a message.”

  “There is some money set aside for you at the Paris of the Medici bank,” Lodovico went on. “You’re not to use it frivolously. Il Primàrio has given it to you for your education and for your advancement in the future. He has great expectations for you. Do well, and you will have his patronage and the patronage of his heirs for life.”

  “I understand,” Virginio said patiently. He had been told this several times already.

  “You’re anxious to be on your way, then.” Alessandra gave her son a last hearty kiss. “Be off then. But write to us. Remember, I can read, too. Do not write only to your father.”

  Virginio swung up into the saddle, grinning with pride. Damiano had sent him a bay gelding from his own stable with a certificate of ownership, so that the horse was Virginio’s, not de’ Medici’s. The bay was well trained and answered the rein easily. “I go to Genova, then along the coast, then to Avignon. From there to Orleans and then to Paris. I have your letters of introduction in my saddlebags.”

  “Very good.” Lodovico smiled toward his son and felt a certain loss. When Virginio rode out of the courtyard, he would no longer be his boy, but Messer’ Virginio Ariosto. The boy would be gone forever. He patted the bay’s neck. “Travel safely and well, God go with you,” he said.

  “Thank you, father. God keep you and my mother safe and well.” He turned away and signaled to Guido. Then, without another word, he set his heels to the bay’s flanks and the horse sprang forward, the hooves clattering on the courtyard stones. Guido followed behind him.

  Lodovico had put his arm around Alessandra’s shoulder and they stood together in the courtyard until they could no longer hear the sound of the horses.

  “He’s gone,” Alessandra murmured when they had stood in silence.

  “Yes.” Lodovico nodded. He turned to kiss Alessandra’s forehead, took her in his arms a moment, then let her go. “He’ll do well, wife. He’s a fine boy.”

  She said nothing, as if not entirely convinced by her husband. “I don’t know,” she said to herself. “He’s been well enough until those weeks in Firenze…”

  “Don’t be worried,” Lodovico said heartily, afraid of precisely the same thing his wife was. True, in Firenze he had refused the offers and returned to father’s house, but might not Paris, so far away and so tempting, give him a different attitude? It was one thing to ride an hour from the Porta San Gallo, from a city where Virginio was not a stranger. In Paris, he would be removed, by distance and his foreignness. In Firenze Virginio had decided not to trade his body for political favor. He had seen for himself how those who had could profit. What would France hold out to him? And would he make the same choice? It was useless to ask these questions, he told himself, because Virginio would do as he saw fit, not as his mother or his father or his confessor might wish.

  “You’re not certain, are you?” Alessandra asked. “But what can we do now? If we bring him back, he will not forgive us. He must learn to make his way in the world…” She said this as if by rote, and did not he platitudes she was reciting.

  “You’ve been a good mother. I’ve wanted to be a good father. What more can we do?” He shrugged and stared out at the garden, feeling old.

  Margaret Roper was distracted at her next lesson. She answered the questions Lodovico put to her but paid little attention that it was quite impossible to make my progress. Her vellum copybook had two large smears across the page she had prepared, yet she hardly noticed them. Once she put a hand to her head as if it ached, and another time she sighed for no reason.

  “What is it, Margharita?” Lodovico inquired when he had endured more than an hour of this.

  “What?…Nothing.” She bit her thumbnail.

  “You, who are so bright a student, work so shoddily and say that there is nothing disturbing you? I can’t believe that.” He folded his hands and waited, as if to sit thus for the entire day.

  “It was not unexpected…”

  “What was not unexpected?” He watched her as she tugged at a wisp of hair that had escaped from her headdress. “Won’t you tell me, so that we may resume our lesson?”

  Margaret placed her hands together as if in prayer. “I don’t know if it’s wise…” Her firm mouth trembled. “We had word from England yesterday. King Henry has learned of our arrival here and is not pleased. He informed us—including my father—that we are exiled and may not again set foot in England. He has signed the proclamation. He has declared us traitors. She said the last so softly that Lodovico, sitting near her, could barely hear her.

  “But you did not want to go back to England, did you?” He felt a welling of sympathy for this woman. “You came here to be free of your King’s wrath, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said as she continued to pull at her hair. “But this is different, don’t you see? Before we would not go back because we chose not to, but now we are forbidden to, and the price of returning is execution.”

  Lodovico listened to her attentively. He was aware of her plight, but until this moment had not realized that there were such dire consequences to their actions. “Your King isn’t so much a fool. Sir Thomas is a brilliant man, and no King is stupid enough to place pride before genius.”

  “You don’t know Henry Tudor.” Margaret’s face hardened. “That whore he married will drive him to it now that she is near delivery. She wants no stigma attached to her bastard. Henry is hoping that the Grand Duke of Muscovy will
accept an alliance with this child. He has both sons and daughters. That way he will both cement his relations with Muscovy and remove Mistress Boleyn’s child, whatever it may be, from the succession. Compared to that, what is an honorable Chancellor?”

  Lodovico was not shocked, and that alarmed him. A year ago, even in Damiano’s court, he might have felt revulsion for the shameful behavior of the King of England. Now he was bitter but he no longer could muster a sense of outrage. He put his hand on Margaret Roper’s shoulder. “The Pope will not allow it.”

  “The Pope has nothing to say about it. Henry has broken all ties with Rome and he will not change his mind. He can be the most mulish man.” Her blue-gray eyes were brighter than Lodovico had ever seen them and her voice had taken on the sharpness of authority. “He will take any liberty, use any device, perpetrate any evil if he thinks it will serve the Crown. And the Crown, of course, is himself. He was a handsome enough youth, and he is a fine figure of a King, there is nothing behind that façade but corruption.” She had picked up her copybook and now she slammed it down on the table with the full force of her anger.

  “Margharita!” Lodovico had half risen from his chair and was staring down at her. “Numi! What passion you have within yourself.” He tried to laugh. “You must not let the King distress you. He is insane, and madmen must not distress you.”

  “This particular madman is King of England,” she said through her teeth, though she lowered her voice.

  “But it cannot last. He has the Pope against him, he has argued, even, with the Protestants, they say. His own people must be in turmoil. How long can such a king reign? A year? Two? Five? It cannot be long, not when he has set aside his wife and taken his mistress to his bed as his Queen. Someone will oppose him and it will be over. Then you and your family will go home again to the praise of your people.” He was afraid that it might take longer than five years, but he was very certain that if half of what Margaret Roper told him were true, Henry Tudor would be supplanted before the start of the next decade, seven years away.