by C. De Melo
Allegra smiled at the man. “I shall.” The moment they were outside, she said to Bianca, “I can’t believe you said that in front of the bookseller.”
Bianca raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t mention any names.”
“I’m sure he could easily guess.”
Bianca sighed in annoyance. “I believe he and every other Florentine has drawn the same conclusion by now.”
Unfortunately, she was right. Isabella had suffered a series of miscarriages, and some people wondered if they were deliberate attempts at abortions.
“We should never repeat such gossip,” Allegra chided. “Isabella is my friend and adultery is a serious sin.”
“You’re telling me this?”
“Forgive me, Bianca, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I know you didn’t. Oh, look!”
Allegra followed the direction of her friend’s bejeweled finger. They were nearing the arches of the Mercato Nuovo’s loggia, and Bianca headed toward a bolt of patterned brocade.
A few months after her outing with Bianca, Allegra received news of Isabella’s pregnancy. The duke had visited Florence only once since her last miscarriage, and the people harbored serious misgivings in regard to the child’s paternity.
***
The sun descended in a rosy sky, reflecting its golden light on the majestic dome of St. Peter. The good people of Rome were winding down from their daily activities and looked forward to the evening’s rest.
Cardinal Ferdinando de’ Medici, beloved prince of the Catholic Church, reposed in his fine palazzo while awaiting the evening meal. His exalted position within the Vatican came with many privileges: wealth, women, and power. What more could any man desire? His home was lavishly furnished with many works of art and quality furniture. Sighing contentedly, he poured wine into a crystal goblet with a golden stem, admiring the exquisite vessel.
A page peeked his head into the room. “Your Eminence, he’s here.”
Ferdinando took a sip. “Send him in.”
A decently dressed man with a sword at his side entered the room. He stood tall with his hands clasped in front of him. Ferdinando had always admired the discipline of well-trained soldiers, and Michele had been one of the best in the Roman army. Wounded in battle a decade ago, he now worked exclusively as a highly paid spy. Ferdinando liked Michele; he was honest, loyal, and a man of few words.
Ferdinando asked, “Is it true?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Would you like some wine?”
“That would be most gracious of you, thank you.”
Ferdinando poured wine into a silver chalice and Michele took a sip. His tongue rarely came into contact with anything this good.
The cardinal sat in a gilded chair with velvet cushions, then motioned to a stool beside the hearth. “Sit down and tell me everything.”
Michele took a seat. “They’ve been together for quite some time.”
“Is he discreet, at least?”
“At first, yes, but your brother has grown bold,” Michele replied. “Rumors abound in Florence of Francesco’s Venetian mistress.”
Who would have guessed his brooding, alchemy-obsessed brother capable of such folly? “Have those rumors reached Joanna’s ears?”
“I’m almost certain they have, yes.”
“Does Joanna know the identity of her husband’s mistress?”
“I believe so.”
Ferdinando slammed his fist against a nearby table top. “Francesco is married to the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter; a more advantageous match could not have been possible. He foolishly jeopardizes our family’s position in Europe. And for what? A romp with a Venetian whore.”
Michele cleared his throat. “I did confirm that Bianca Cappello was a virgin when she eloped with Pietro Bonaventuri, as you requested.”
“Thank God for small miracles,” the cardinal drawled. “What of the cuckold?”
“Pietro Bonaventuri currently resides with Bianca in the same household for the sake of propriety (Ferdinando guffawed at this), but he’s as much of an adulterer as she is, and turns a blind eye toward his wife’s infidelity.”
“They’re both damned to eternal hellfire,” Ferdinando spat. “What manner of girl disobeys her father to marry a commoner? A stupid, gullible, disobedient one. What can we expect of Bianca’s character given her tawdry past?” He paused and pinned Michele with a cold stare. “Let this be a lesson to you. Woman is the very incarnation of evil. Bianca should have been arrested, whipped, and forced into a convent.”
Michele looked up sheepishly. “It was your father who intervened on her behalf, Your Eminence.” He paused. “And…”
“And?”
“Apparently, your sister, Isabella, supported Bianca’s cause and had great influence on your father’s decision.”
Ferdinando rolled his eyes. “Of course. My sister, the rebel.”
“She and Bianca have become well-acquainted, my lord.”
The cardinal cursed under his breath. Has madness crept into the Medici line? “My father has grown soft since my mother’s death, God rest her soul. His fat mistress coddles him far too much for my taste. While my father neglects his duties, my lovesick brother is too distracted to fulfill his own obligations.” He narrowed his eyes. “What are they saying about us, Michele? Be honest.”
Michele respectfully averted his gaze by pretending to pick at something on his sword hilt. “There are a few jokes in Florence regarding Medici adulterers.” He hesitated before adding, “The jests are not only aimed at Francesco’s indiscretion.”
That only left Isabella. “You refer to my sister.”
“It seems that she and Troilo Orsini have become friendly.”
Ferdinando shook his head in disgust. “God have mercy on the souls of those two fools. Isabella has been given far too much freedom. A married woman’s place is beside her husband and away from wagging tongues.”
“Your father doesn’t trust the Orsini duke, which is why she resides in Florence under the eye of his cousin, Troilo.”
“Yes, I know.” His sister was under more than merely Troilo’s eye, apparently. If she became pregnant and there was any doubt of the child’s paternity…Ferdinando drank deeply of his wine and chased the possibility out of his head. “Isabella has yet to fulfill her duty and provide a male heir.”
“She miscarried again, my lord.”
God’s punishment for her sins, no doubt! Ferdinando gazed down at his bejeweled hand and a sinister thought crept into his head. “Do you think that she—” He stopped himself. To even say the words aloud would be disastrous to the family’s reputation. Adultery is a common enough sin, but abortion is blasphemy in the face of God’s grace.
“Do I think what, my lord?”
“Is she as beautiful as the troubadours describe her to be?” the cardinal improvised. “Bianca Cappello, I mean.”
“Her beauty was renowned in Venice.”
“What do you think?”
Michele shrugged. “I prefer women with dark hair, my lord.”
The cardinal said nothing as he reached for one of the oranges nestled inside an enamel bowl. The gemstones on his fingers flashed brilliantly in the fading sunlight.
After a long moment of silence, Michele prompted, “What would you have me do, Your Eminence?”
“For the time being, nothing. Return to Florence. Keep your eyes and ears open, and send a message if anything of importance happens.”
Michele stood and placed the silver chalice on the tabletop.
The cardinal continued, “Take the chalice as part of your payment.”
Michele grinned in appreciation. “Thank you, my lord.”
***
In August of 1569, Pope Pious V bestowed the title of Grand Duke of Tuscany upon Cosimo de’ Medici. Throughout the thirty-two years Cosimo had been Duke of Florence, he’d done many things for the betterment of the city and its inhabitants. Although this news evoked little response internation
ally, the Florentines celebrated the elevated status of their ruler with honor and merrymaking.
Shortly afterward, Isabella gave birth to a healthy girl in 1570. She was christened Francesca Eleonora. Paolo came to Florence for the birth of his first child, and remained for several days while his wife recuperated from the ordeal in their country villa. The duke stared at the child for long periods of time, noting with relief that Francesca bore a great resemblance to himself. Maybe the rumors were untrue, he thought. After all, the Medici had many enemies.
Francesco de’ Medici did not dismiss Isabella’s possible infidelity as easily as his brother-in-law did, however. He harbored secret doubt regarding his niece’s paternity, but not enough to deter him from attending the celebration in her honor.
Isabella became pregnant a mere two months after bearing her first child, and people hailed it a miracle. Another girl was born in 1571 (christened Isabella) and another gathering was held at the country villa to celebrate the birth of the second Orsini daughter.
When Isabella became pregnant immediately afterward, eyebrows rose. Thankfully, those wagging tongues stopped when little Isabella died in the summer of 1572.
The completion of Francesco’s Studiolo in that same year served as little consolation after the death of his niece. The barrel-vaulted room was completely covered in frescoes and paintings depicting religious and mythological themes. Nestled within the Palazzo Vecchio, away from prying eyes, Francesco conducted experiments in alchemy and chemistry. Although he possessed a curious mind, he was neither a scientist nor an alchemist, and the Studiolo served mainly as a sanctuary from the outside world, away from his wife, the court, and the problems of life.
***
Pietro Bonaventuri squinted against the glare of the morning sun. When he heaved the woman’s weight off of him, she stirred, moaning slightly in her sleep. His current lover was almost as fat as his wife. He sniffed the bedsheets and grimaced; they needed washing.
“Morning already?” the woman purred, her eyes still closed.
“I have to go,” he said, throwing off the covers.
She nuzzled her face into the pillow. Light brown curls fell on her plump cheeks, which still bore last night’s application of rouge. Pietro dressed and went downstairs. His lover’s maid sat snoozing in a chair in the kitchen.
“Wake up, bag of bones,” Pietro snapped. Startled, the girl sat upright. “I’m late for work. Fix me something to eat and be quick about it.”
The maid scrambled around the kitchen procuring bread, cheese, and a few hard apples. Pietro sat down to eat. When she brought over a tankard of ale, he pulled her onto his lap and fondled her breast. She resisted his flirtation until he produced a shiny coin from his pocket. The girl hesitated for only an instant before snatching it from his hand and tucking it into the top of her bodice.
Pietro took a deep swig of ale before standing up. Taking the girl by the waist, he bent her over the table and lifted her skirt. She cried out when he entered her roughly from behind, so he clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Shut up, you fool,” he snapped. “Your mistress is asleep.”
The girl gripped the table’s edge, enduring the hard thrusts.
When Pietro had finished his business, he lifted an apple from the table and bit into it. “Wash the bedsheets,” he admonished. “They stink almost as much as you do.”
The maid shrugged indifferently and adjusted her clothing as Pietro slipped out the back door into the early spring sunshine. The remnants of winter nipped the air and he shivered as he walked to the Palazzo Pitti.
Francesco de’ Medici paid him a small fortune to perform a menial job while turning a blind eye to his affair with Bianca. The stupid cow had done well for herself, but she was treading on thin ice. Rumors of another lady in Francesco’s company circulated and, given that Bianca had grown corpulent and argumentative, he wasn’t surprised. It was only a matter of time before the Medici heir rid himself of his tiresome Venetian mistress.
Pietro turned the corner and collided with a man. A sudden icy sharpness assaulted his side. “What the…?” When he saw that the man held a knife, he cried out for help.
No one assisted Pietro as he was violently stabbed to death in the street. Someone eventually found his body and reported it to the Otto. Supposedly, the murder was a dire consequence of some amorous intrigue, which wasn’t surprising given the fact that Pietro had several lovers. People suspected that Bianca and Francesco were somehow involved in the plot.
Regardless of the rumors, Bianca donned a fashionable black satin mourning gown and attended her husband’s funeral with a solemn face. Allegra, who stood by her friend’s side, noticed that Bianca failed to shed a single tear.
Chapter 18
Virginio Orsini, heir to the duchy of Bracciano, was born in September 1572. Paolo was grateful for a son who could carry on the family name, and Isabella was relieved to have finally fulfilled her obligation to the duke.
“I’m thinking of hosting a party in honor of the Orsini heir at one of our villas,” Francesco said to Bianca a few weeks after his nephew’s birth. “Maybe I could incorporate a hunting trip for the men.”
They were alone in his Studiolo. Bianca stood in a corner toying with a small magnifying glass while Francesco poured over astronomy books.
“Let’s have a real party at the Palazzo Pitti, my darling.” Sensing his anxiety, she added, “Don’t you like the idea?”
“I do, but…Joanna may be in residence.”
“Send your wife to the countryside,” she suggested in a sweet tone laced with venom.
“I can’t send my wife away. Besides, her presence will be expected.”
“Which clearly means that mine will not!”
Francesco rubbed his temples. “Bianca, please understand—”
“I understand perfectly, Francesco,” she fumed. “My presence is only expected when the Prince of Tuscany wishes to crawl between my thighs!”
Francesco bit back an angry retort. He was becoming increasingly weary of her frequent tirades. “You cannot expect me to parade my mistress right under my wife’s nose. God’s teeth, woman! She’s the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor.”
“I’m the daughter of Bartolomeo Cappello and Pellegrina Morosini! Two of the oldest and noblest families in Venetian aristocracy!”
“I know that, dearest, but—”
“But, what?” she challenged. “To hear you speak, one would assume I’m a mere commoner—a peasant!”
Francesco took a step forward and placed his arms around her thick waist. “Sweetheart, don’t be angry,” he implored. “Why do you insist on arguing with me?”
Bianca tilted her chin in a petulant manner as Francesco planted ardent kisses along her white, perfumed throat. “I’m more Isabella’s friend than Joanna will ever be.”
“Of that there is no doubt.”
A servant was on her knees in the next room, busily washing the terracotta floor. Every so often, they heard the sound of the wooden bucket scraping across the tiles.
She halfheartedly pushed him away. “Your kisses won’t mend this rift.”
“Oh, no?” he countered while fondling her breast.
She pouted prettily. “Not this time.”
Francesco’s hands slipped under Bianca’s brocade skirt and found their way to her buttocks. He caressed and grabbed the meaty mounds until she moaned with pleasure.
“Francesco…”
The servant stood, wiped her hands on the grubby apron tied around her waist, and picked up the water-filled bucket. She walked down a long corridor and through a secret passageway to reach Francesco’s private refuge. She shivered; she didn’t like this room full of unholy instruments. The Medici heir tried to play God with his scientific experiments and attempts to make gold. Taking a deep breath, she took hold of the door handle. Someone had to keep it clean! Placing an ear to the Studiolo’s door, she heard nothing. Assuming the room was empty, she entered with the intention
of washing the floor and tidying up. At the sight of Bianca sprawled on the wooden table with her skirt hitched up to her waist, and Francesco bucking like a stallion between her legs, the girl quietly closed the door and went on to the next room, shaking her head and muttering prayers to the Madonna.
***
Allegra received a strange commission from Domenico, this time for a silver medallion boasting a scorpion in its center.
Her eyebrow shot upward as she inquired, “Matteo Vanusi again?”
“I admit, a sinister scorpion with a stinger ready to inflict pain would be the perfect gift from a rejected suitor,” Domenico teased.
“Maestro…”
“Rest assured, Allegra. The woman commissioning this piece is none other than Signora Paolina Gori. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”
Allegra chuckled without mirth. “Who hasn’t? The widow is shameless in her endeavor to bed every man in the city.”
“Well, this is a gift for her current lover.”
“Will this man still be her lover when the pendant is finished?”
Domenico tried to frown in disapproval at Allegra’s facetiousness, but couldn’t keep from smiling at her sharp wit. “Let’s hope so. Either way, she has already paid upfront and even created the design.”
She took the scrap of vellum from his hand. “This sketch is quite good.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “She wants it completed before the end of the week. Can you do it?”
“I believe so.”
Allegra created the piece within the allotted time. The finished product matched the sketch, and Signora Paolina was happy.
A few days later, an invitation to celebrate the arrival of Virginio Orsini arrived at the Palazzo Castagno. Allegra looked forward to seeing her friend, Isabella, and the baby. On the night of the party, she wore a spectacular gown of gold and blue brocade, which flattered her slim figure.
Vittorio noticed how his daughter captured the eyes of several men as they crossed the courtyard and ascended the stairs. At age twenty-four, Allegra was considered a spinster, but that didn’t stop potential suitors from approaching him with intentions of courtship. Flowers, sweetmeats, and other tokens still arrived with notes expressing admiration, but her heart belonged to La Castagna and her beloved craft.
