Ludovico said to her as he waved to the multitude who had ventured from their homes wrapped in their warmest winter wools to get a glimpse of Il Moro and his bride.
Though it snowed lightly, it was warmer today, and the sun peeked out occasionally from the clouds, making a miraculous difference in the weather and in Beatrice’s temperament. The snowflakes fell so slowly and delicately upon her face that she felt as if the Lord Himself was dropping each and every one of them into place just for her as a gift for arriving into her new life.
She had heard so much damaging information about her future husband that she imagined him disliked by the people of Lombardy. She was stunned at this enormous public display of approval. In fact, she wondered if all the information she had collected over the years was wrong. Ludovico was not old. Oh, he was almost forty, which sounded almost elderly compared to her fifteen, but he was tall and formidable. He had shiny, straight black hair, which showed no signs of thinning, like so many men his age who lost the little round patch on the back of their heads so that they could be mistaken for monks. Ludovico’s thick mane hugged the outline of his face almost as if it was painted on. He had strong features that must bespeak of a sound personality. His nose was broad and straight, as the nose of a man should be. He had good, sharp cheekbones, whose peaks had been softened by love of food. His only physical defect, which Beatrice found ironic in that she believed she shared it, was a weak chin. Because he was older, she would be able to, if she cared to once they had gotten to know one another, and if he allowed it, playfully pinch a good bit of flab under his chin.
His manners were the finest. He had personally escorted herself, her mother, and Isabella off the royal bucentaur and courteously welcomed them to Pavia. He had paid particular attention to Beatrice, sizing her up with his eyes as he took her small, gloved hand. If he was displeased with the sight of her, he did not demonstrate it. He apologized for the cold as if he might have done something about it but did not have the time.
Her pessimism melted with each stride of this beautiful cinnamon-colored horse that Ludovico had presented to her as his first gift. She blushed, feeling foolish, indeed, when she reflected on the childish behavior she had exhibited yesterday, and as recently as this morning. The wedding party had stopped the day before at Piacenza at the palazzo of Count Scotti, where they ate roasted meats and plates of cooked vegetables at his long dining table, which sat between two fireplaces. The count laughed that the women attacked the food like a pack of starved chickens. Beatrice took advantage of the opportunity to bathe in a tub of warm water, in which she thawed inside and out, and then slept so soundly that she had to be threatened like a child with no breakfast by her mother to get out of bed. Her undergarments were dry, but cold and stiff from hanging before a fire that had long burned out. She did not want to leave, was determined, even, to find a way to remain behind. Clutching her mug of milk, she had taken the count aside and asked him if he wouldn’t provide her with the last vestige of a father’s protection by allowing her to remain with him and be his daughter. He called to her mother, asking if she had not done her maternal duty to dispel the little virgin’s fear of marriage. Leonora pinched Beatrice by the ear. “You are marrying the most powerful prince in Italy in the very city where Charlemagne was crowned. Pull yourself together or I will pull this ear right out of your head,” she whispered angrily, all the while yanking Beatrice toward her future.
Just a few hours later, all the lords and ladies of the land had lined up to welcome her to her new home, and Beatrice was marking the morning’s embarrassing behavior as her last act of childhood.
Ludovico’s entourage carried his flags
Though it snowed lightly, it was warmer today, and the sun peeked out occasionally from the clouds, making a miraculous difference in the weather and in Beatrice’s temperament. The snowflakes fell so slowly and delicately upon her face that she felt as if the Lord Himself was dropping each and every one of them into place just for her as a gift for arriving into her new life.
She had heard so much damaging information about her future husband that she imagined him disliked by the people of Lombardy. She was stunned at this enormous public display of approval. In fact, she wondered if all the information she had collected over the years was wrong. Ludovico was not old. Oh, he was almost forty, which sounded almost elderly compared to her fifteen, but he was tall and formidable. He had shiny, straight black hair, which showed no signs of thinning, like so many men his age who lost the little round patch on the back of their heads so that they could be mistaken for monks. Ludovico’s thick mane hugged the outline of his face almost as if it was painted on. He had strong features that must bespeak of a sound personality. His nose was broad and straight, as the nose of a man should be. He had good, sharp cheekbones, whose peaks had been softened by love of food. His only physical defect, which Beatrice found ironic in that she believed she shared it, was a weak chin. Because he was older, she would be able to, if she cared to once they had gotten to know one another, and if he allowed it, playfully pinch a good bit of flab under his chin.
His manners were the finest. He had personally escorted herself, her mother, and Isabella off the royal bucentaur and courteously welcomed them to Pavia. He had paid particular attention to Beatrice, sizing her up with his eyes as he took her small, gloved hand. If he was displeased with the sight of her, he did not demonstrate it. He apologized for the cold as if he might have done something about it but did not have the time.
Her pessimism melted with each stride of this beautiful cinnamon-colored horse that Ludovico had presented to her as his first gift. She blushed, feeling foolish, indeed, when she reflected on the childish behavior she had exhibited yesterday, and as recently as this morning. The wedding party had stopped the day before at Piacenza at the palazzo of Count Scotti, where they ate roasted meats and plates of cooked vegetables at his long dining table, which sat between two fireplaces. The count laughed that the women attacked the food like a pack of starved chickens. Beatrice took advantage of the opportunity to bathe in a tub of warm water, in which she thawed inside and out, and then slept so soundly that she had to be threatened like a child with no breakfast by her mother to get out of bed. Her undergarments were dry, but cold and stiff from hanging before a fire that had long burned out. She did not want to leave, was determined, even, to find a way to remain behind. Clutching her mug of milk, she had taken the count aside and asked him if he wouldn’t provide her with the last vestige of a father’s protection by allowing her to remain with him and be his daughter. He called to her mother, asking if she had not done her maternal duty to dispel the little virgin’s fear of marriage. Leonora pinched Beatrice by the ear. “You are marrying the most powerful prince in Italy in the very city where Charlemagne was crowned. Pull yourself together or I will pull this ear right out of your head,” she whispered angrily, all the while yanking Beatrice toward her future.
Just a few hours later, all the lords and ladies of the land had lined up to welcome her to her new home, and Beatrice was marking the morning’s embarrassing behavior as her last act of childhood.
Ludovico’s entourage carried his flags
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