by Sarah Bower
“But you have been paying me so much attention all this time,” I blurted, all restraint shocked out of me by the sight of Vittorio in his gaudy purple, a necklet of something cheap and sparkling bent over his prominent collarbones. “Am I some sort of…” I waved an angry hand at the arms and armour displayed around us, “…diversionary tactic?”
To my astonishment, Ferrante began to laugh. Even Vittorio’s bony features softened in a bashful smile, as he slipped his hand into Ferrante’s.
“I hardly need one,” said Ferrante. “My tastes are common knowledge in Ferrara, and as long as I am discreet, no one is going to report me to the authorities. You will just have to accept that the gossips of Rome don’t know everything, my dear.”
“But why..?”
“Because I like you; I should like to be your friend. Because in many ways we are the same, you a Jew, me a sodomite, both tolerated but not quite accepted. And such convenient scapegoats in the event of poisoned wells or plague or the failure of the harvest. We outsiders should stick together; our lives can be very precarious.”
I was speechless. How could Ferrante, always able to find exactly the right phrase or gesture to put people at their ease, to charm them and make them laugh, make so graceless and offensive a comparison? “You forget, my lord, that I am baptised.”
“Yet I have seen how your hand hesitates to make the sign of the Cross at Mass. Why, girl, you mumble your Credo as if you were being made to eat a blood sausage.”
I could not deny it. But that still did not justify his remark. “My people are the Chosen of God, my lord, whereas your sort…”
“Take our example from the Greeks.” It was thrown out as a light challenge, but a defensive note in his voice made me realise I had hurt him, and that I regretted it. At a loss what to say, I dropped my gaze and found myself staring at his great, bear claw hands, the fingers with their scattering of freckles and sandy hairs interlaced with Vittorio’s, bony and not very well manicured.
“What I mean to say,” continued Ferrante more gently, “is that we cannot help the way others see us, and that is what we have in common. A basis for understanding, I hope.”
“Forgive me, Ferrante. The Bible speaks against your…practices. But in speaking against them, at least it acknowledges their existence. I must believe we are all God’s people, I suppose. Your offer of friendship…”
“Would do you more honour if I could help you find the kitchen.” We all laughed.
“Madonna’s temper will certainly not improve if I do not return soon with her eggs,” I admitted.
“This must be very hard for her.”
“For all of us.”
Ferrante nodded. Vittorio explained to me in his hoarse, boy’s voice the whereabouts of the kitchen, and I was relieved he did not offer to accompany me.
I acquired the eggs and the two basins from a thin, dour woman with blood under her fingernails and small feathers sticking to her wrists, and returned to my mistress to finish the hair washing.
***
The following morning we left Cesare’s frontier behind us and moved on to Bologna, then Bentivoglio, from where it was planned to sail to Torre del Fossa, where madonna would be met by Don Alfonso. But in Bentivoglio, our plans changed; now I look back on it, everything changed.
We arrived in the town towards dusk, the bells in all the campanile clanging the evening Angelus as rooks cawed their way to roost, black scraps against a sky of sullen, windblown cloud. Ploughing had begun in the campagna, and as we rode towards the gates, our route was lined by squat, grimy-faced peasants, pushed aside by our guards to let us pass. I was tired and longed for nothing more than to ease my bruised backside out of the saddle and on to a pallet or cushioned bench. I hoped our accommodation would not be too spartan and that madonna would not keep us too long before she herself retired. The Bentivoglio family had entertained her with a ball in Bologna, and nothing on the same scale was planned for this stop, where the old family castle was much smaller. As for food, I had long since given up hope of ever eating a palatable meal again, and was trying to accustom myself to the bland, stodgy northern fare which lay in the belly like so much lead shot.
We had scarcely helped madonna off with her outdoor clothes, however, when our host, Annibale Bentivoglio himself, burst into her chamber, scattering the little pages who were stationed outside and, with the briefest of apologies for his poor manners, stammered that horses had been seen approaching from the north, and it was believed they belonged to Don Alfonso d’Este.
“Coming here?” What little colour remained in Donna Lucrezia’s face after a long day on the road concentrated itself in two hectic spots on her cheeks and her eyes shone. It would be hard to say if she was angered by Don Alfonso’s importunity, or exhilarated by the challenge, or perhaps just plain feverish from exhaustion. “He can’t,” she said, as though that was an end to it. “Look at me.”
Summoning all the gallantry at his disposal, Don Annibale made a deep bow and said, “I see nothing to displease Don Alfonso or any man, madama.” Little though I knew of men then, I agreed.
Those who have called Donna Lucrezia beautiful have generally been poets, or ambassadors with masters to impress, or petitioners grateful for her fair-mindedness. And, of course, the one man who truly loved her blindly. But she was charming and quick-witted; she had a way of smiling at a man and looking at him from beneath lowered lids that could make him believe she could rival Helen of Troy. She was naturally very graceful, walking as if she glided and dancing as though stepping on clouds. Of course she dressed exquisitely, with the same innate sense of style she shared with all her family, though her figure and bearing were such that she could impress even in the bleakest mourning. Even now, with mud on the hem of her gown, with damp hair plastered to her forehead and circles like bruises under her eyes, I felt Don Alfonso would find little to complain of.
“If he is coming, he is coming,” said Angela, whose relationship to Donna Lucrezia gave her more freedom to speak plainly than the rest of us. “He is your husband. We had better make the best of it.”
Donna Lucrezia took a deep breath. “Of course,” she said, stooping to lift a hand mirror from its travelling case on the floor. “Where is it best that I receive him, do you think, Don Annibale?” She began to pat her hair, which tended to frizziness in damp weather.
Don Annibale shrugged. “My house is a small one, madama. There is only the hall.”
“Very well. You may tell Don Alfonso I will attend him directly, in the hall.”
Don Annibale bowed and retreated, and the small tower chamber became a flurry of activity as boxes were torn open, gowns, camorre, shifts, caps, and veils tossed on to the bed, jewels and cosmetics spilled on to the dressing stand. Eventually, Donna Lucrezia dismissed all her ladies except Angela and me, and the slave, Catherinella. Why she kept me I had no idea; I was one of the least experienced of her waiting women, and the challenge before us was great. Donna Lucrezia thought she could probably keep Don Alfonso waiting an hour, which seemed an alarmingly short time in which to dress her for her first meeting with her new husband.
Mercifully, she chose a simple gown in the deep, mulberry brown she favoured, with plain laced sleeves. Under it she wore a clean shift of white linen, fastened high at the neck with a pearl brooch from among the Este wedding gifts presented to her by Ippolito at the proxy marriage, when Ferrante, of all people, had stood in for his eldest brother. With her hair combed loose, rippling over her shoulders and down her back in tight waves caused by the plaits in which she had been wearing it since we left Imola, she looked every inch the demure, virgin bride. Don Annibale sent a page to escort us, but before she would leave her chamber, Donna Lucrezia asked for Sister Osanna to be sent for. No one knew whether she had been lodged in the castle or the town, but when she did eventually appear, madonna banished us to the passage and spent a few minutes alone with the nun.
Finally, we made our way to the hall, Catherinella following
close behind and holding her mistress’s skirt clear of the dusty floor. No one here was under orders from Cesare to make ready for us as they had been in the Romagna, and a veneer of neglect covered the surfaces of the house; a faint smell of mildew hung in its air. In the hall, though, an effort had been belatedly made in honour of the Duke of Ferrara’s heir. Lamps and candles were lit, platters of bread and cheese, cured hams and fruit set out on the long, tallow-spattered table for the travellers’ refreshment. They themselves were clustered around the fire at the far end of the long room, a gaggle of large men in rough clothes, with dogs at their feet and pages weaving among them bearing wine jugs.
Our page announced us, and one man detached himself from the group around the fire, crossing the hall towards us with long, heavy strides and a couple of brindle hounds at his heels. His right hand lay across his heart in a romantic gesture ill-suited to his burly form and plain dress.
“May I present Don Alfonso d’Este,” said Don Annibale, hurrying towards us. Don Alfonso bowed. I noticed that his short, tightly waved hair was thinning at the crown. Donna Lucrezia, whose eyes remained dutifully cast down, made a deep curtsey.
“Donna Lucrezia Borgia,” said Don Annibale as Donna Lucrezia offered her hand for her husband to kiss.
For what seemed like an eternity, Don Alfonso did not move but remained as he was, frowning at the top of Donna Lucrezia’s head. The smells of tallow and wet hound stuck in the back of my throat, making me hold my breath until I felt dizzy. For some reason she did not please him. We would be sent back to Rome, all that way in the winter weather, retracing our steps weighed down by humiliation as well as our baggage. I would see Cesare at last. He would not want to see me. I tried to imagine his anger but could not, felt relieved, then mortified that he could already have faded so much in my memory.
With an awkward movement, Don Alfonso shifted his left hand over his heart, freeing the right to take Donna Lucrezia’s and raise her from her curtsey. He remained slightly stooped, as a man does when he has been winded, or is trying to protect a wound in his midriff. Don Alfonso looked healthy enough, with his broad shoulders and choleric complexion, but perhaps that was only an outward appearance and the pox was eating him from within. I tried to catch Angela’s eye, but she seemed oblivious to the pantomime and was gazing intently towards the group by the fire; perhaps she hoped to see Ippolito among them.
“Your servant, madonna,” said Don Alfonso. He had a gruff voice and spoke with a pronounced northern accent.
“On the contrary, sir, I think it is I who am yours, if the contract exchanged between our families stands.” Donna Lucrezia looked her husband directly in his shrewd, blue eyes and smiled. It was clear he understood everything implied by her response, but he looked uncertain what to do with it. Suddenly, he doubled over, clutching at his chest with both hands. Donna Lucrezia gave a little gasp. A strange whimper escaped Don Alfonso. I feared he had suffered a seizure and took a step towards him to help him; it was an instinctive gesture, and one not missed by madonna, who gave me a reproving stare.
Don Alfonso straightened up, grasping in both hands a squirming bundle of white fluff. Extending his arms stiffly towards Donna Lucrezia, he said, “I brought you a present.”
My heart sank; once again, I tried to gain Angela’s attention, but she was still gazing off towards the fireplace. Despite growing up among men who loved hunting, Donna Lucrezia disliked dogs; she said they were noisy, messy, and their fleas made her sneeze.
“A lap dog,” prompted Don Alfonso, confirming my fears, as Donna Lucrezia remained rooted to the spot, her smile set like a mask. “Got its mother from an Indian I met in Venice.”
“It’s very…”
“Here, take it; let it get used to you, then it’ll sit quiet. Dogs like to have a leader. Wolves, you see.”
Donna Lucrezia looked as though she did not see, but she knew her duty and took the little dog from Don Alfonso, holding it cautiously under the front legs. It looked bigger dangling from her hands, its legs stouter, its snub face more fully formed.
“Giulio said you’d like it,” Don Alfonso ploughed on. “Said women like that sort of thing.” He nodded towards the group of men around the fire. “My brother. Giulio.”
One of the men nodded back, and now I understood why Angela was paying no attention to her mistress or Don Alfonso. You could see they were brothers; they had the same long noses, bent at the bridge as though they had been broken and imperfectly set, but there the resemblance ceased. Where Don Alfonso’s mid brown hair was cropped close to his head, Don Giulio’s was a tumble of blond curls. While Don Alfonso’s eyes were the washed out blue of a fine winter’s day, his brother’s were violet, with lashes thick enough to be the envy of any girl. He was clean shaven and his cheeks had the downy bloom of a peach. Instead of Don Alfonso’s thin lips, with their prudish downward curve, Don Giulio had a mouth like Ippolito’s, full and sensual and made for kissing. In other circumstances, I too might have found myself captivated.
“Thank you, my lord. Your brother is indeed thoughtful. I think you are fortunate in all your brothers. Don Ferrante, especially, has been a tower of strength to us on our journey. And Monsignor Ippolito, of course, is a good friend of my brother, the duke.” She must have known about Angela and Ippolito, yet she gave no hint of it, and Angela seemed unaware her lover’s name had even been spoken.
“They were made cardinal at the same consistory, I think,” said Don Alfonso, sounding slightly puzzled, then, solving the puzzle to his own satisfaction, went on, “Suppose that sets up some sort of camaraderie. Bit like the men you get your spurs with, that sort of thing. Eh?”
“I’m sure you’re right,” replied madonna warmly.
“Well, wife, will you sit with me a while? I dare say once we reach Ferrara, the celebrations will leave us little time to get to know one another.” He moved to place his hand beneath Donna Lucrezia’s elbow. Donna Lucrezia juggled the lapdog ineptly. They looked like a couple uncertain about a set of new dance steps, until I stepped forward and took the animal. Don Alfonso seemed to notice me then for the first time.
“By Jove,” he said, and for a dreadful moment I thought I had acted too boldly by Ferrarese standards; you could see Donna Lucrezia feared as much too. Then Don Alfonso continued, “You’re as like as two peas in a pod.”
Donna Lucrezia looked, not only relieved, but genuinely delighted. I was, after all, some six years younger than her, and my face was a better shape; poor madonna struggled with the receding chin she had inherited from her father. It was really only the hair we had in common, and mine was not bleached.
“This is Monna Violante,” she said. “She has not been with me long, but I favour her. She and my cousin, Donna Angela, are inseparable.” The seconds stretched out as Angela registered madonna’s attention upon her, dragging her eyes from the fireplace to cast them down in a perfect parody of modesty and drop Don Alfonso a curtsey. I felt a sigh of relief escape me and was sure Don Alfonso must have heard, though he made no sign of it.
“Rum sort of name,” he commented.
“A nickname. Given by my brother,” countered Donna Lucrezia, and I saw the same mixture of impotence and resentment cross Don Alfonso’s face that I had often seen on Ferrante’s whenever Cesare was mentioned. Rearranging his expression into a smile, he addressed himself to me.
“Well, it would be ungallant of me to ask how you got it, but I trust you will do no more to deserve it in Ferrara.”
“She did nothing to deserve it in the first place,” said Donna Lucrezia smoothly. “It is an irony, that is all, an acknowledgement of Monna Violante’s integrity.” Then, offering Don Alfonso her arm, she allowed herself to be led down the hall towards the fire. At a signal from Don Alfonso, the rest of the men retreated to give him and his bride some privacy.
Angela and I sat down side by side on a bench drawn up to the table. I managed the occasional glance at Donna Lucrezia and Don Alfonso, though mostly I was occupied tryi
ng to prevent the little dog jumping on to the table in pursuit of food; it was not very strong but it wriggled prodigiously.
“They look all right, don’t they?” I said to Angela, seeking confirmation of my impression that, despite the dog, Donna Lucrezia appreciated her husband’s romantic gesture in coming to meet her this way, ahead of all the official ceremonies in Ferrara; and that Don Alfonso, whatever might have been reported to him, had been pleasantly surprised by madonna’s discreet bearing and modest attire.
“Fine,” she replied, glancing briefly in their direction before her gaze returned to Don Giulio as iron does to a lodestone. “Oh my God,” she whispered, clutching my sleeve so I was forced to let go of the dog which pranced off among the dinner plates, “they’re coming over.”
Sure enough, the ground between us and the group of men was shrinking as they shifted towards us, still chatting among themselves, not looking in our direction, trying to ensure that neither their lord nor Donna Lucrezia would notice the impropriety. I thought of Cesare’s chestnut supper, and told myself life in Ferrara was going to be very different.
Unnoticed by us, Ferrante had joined his brother’s party and now presented us, taking up a position between us and Don Alfonso’s men as though he were our chaperone. They bowed, we curtseyed, then we stood in an awkward circle, chatting about our journey, the weather, the relative merits of travelling on to Ferrara by road or water, the imminence of Carnival and how it was celebrated in Rome and Ferrara. Few of them knew much about the former. I was not much excited by prospects of the latter, where throwing eggs at prostitutes seemed to be the main source of entertainment.
Angela said nothing. My worldly and accomplished friend, who had conducted her campaign to win Ippolito with such finesse, stood beside me like a gawky girl, winding her skirt in her fingers and staring at the ground, the wall hangings, the dog cavorting among the dishes on the table, anything other than what she longed to look at, the beautiful violet eyes of Don Giulio.
