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Authors: Elizabeth Loupas
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said.
“Baptisms, perhaps.” The cardinal smiled. “Soon, I pray, we will be celebrating the birth of an heir.”
Was he a wizard, that he knew my thoughts? Aloud I said, “I pray to the Blessed Virgin and Saint Anne that such news will be forthcoming soon.” For good measure I made the sign of the cross.
All three gentlemen crossed themselves as well. “My own two sons are a great comfort to me,” the marquis said. “Cesare, of course, is almost a man—he has turned thirteen. Little Alfonso is five. I shall have them brought from Montecchio one day, Serenissima, so you may make their acquaintance.”
“I shall look forward to it.” That, at least, was not a lie. Although I intended to foil the marquis’s ambitions with a son of my own as quickly as possible, I still enjoyed the company of little boys. The imperial court had been teeming with them; Maximilian had seven sons and my second brother, Ferdinand, had two. One of the greatest pleasures of my rare visits from Innsbruck to Vienna had been the opportunity to play with the children. “Tell me, what are your views on the subject of—”
“Enough,” the duke said. There was a flick of the whip in his voice; after all, what man wants to hear of little boys when he himself is childless? “Let us go in to supper.”
He offered his hand, and I put my own hand upon his wrist. The cardinal murmured a sardonic blessing and turned away. The marquis fell in behind us. We had taken only a few steps when we were compelled to halt by the expansiveness of one gentleman’s bow, which placed his extended leg and deeply swept feathered cap directly in our path.
“Serenissimo.” He straightened. “A word, if you will allow me.”
“Messer Bernardo.” The duke sounded—what? Annoyed, surprised, wary? Perhaps something of each. “We did not know you had returned.”
“Only this morning, Serenissimo. I bear letters from Duke Cosimo, and gifts for you and your new duchess. I pray you will forgive my importunity, that I was in such haste to be presented to her.”
So at last I would be introduced to the ambassador from Cosimo de’ Medici of Florence, the duke’s former father-in-law and my sister Johanna’s father-in-law-to-be. My first thought was to wonder how Duke Cosimo could send letters and gifts to the man people said had murdered his daughter. But with my next breath I knew the prickly relations of the two dukes, the two cities, would continue with little more than a ripple as each man pursued his ambition. For more than a hundred years, the Este and the Medici had been contending for supreme power and prestige in the courts of Europe and the papal conclaves of Rome—the Este with their ancient blood and the Medici with their upstart riches. The marriage of the duke to Lucrezia de’ Medici had provided only a brief lull in the Precedenza, as the rivalry was called; with her death, contention had flared anew.
“You could have chosen a more suitable moment,” the duke said. “Madonna, may I present to you Messer Bernardo Canigiani, the Florentine ambassador.”
“Serenissima.” The ambassador swept another bow. “My pleasure is unbounded.”
I inclined my head without speaking or smiling, granting the barest acknowledgment. The ambassador’s effusions were too extravagant, and I found them distasteful.
This seemed to please the duke, because he smiled. It was not one of his pleasant smiles. “You have had your wish, Messer Bernardo,” he said. “Now begone. And next time, apply for an audience in the customary manner.”
The ambassador bowed deeply for a third time, and we passed on. The duke turned his head to speak to another courtier. From the corner of my eye I saw Messer Bernardo’s expression as he straightened, and it was utterly different than it had been a moment before. It was narrow-eyed, calculating—and chilling.
What did he know about the duke? What did Duke Cosimo know?
What schemes were they brewing?
It had all
“Baptisms, perhaps.” The cardinal smiled. “Soon, I pray, we will be celebrating the birth of an heir.”
Was he a wizard, that he knew my thoughts? Aloud I said, “I pray to the Blessed Virgin and Saint Anne that such news will be forthcoming soon.” For good measure I made the sign of the cross.
All three gentlemen crossed themselves as well. “My own two sons are a great comfort to me,” the marquis said. “Cesare, of course, is almost a man—he has turned thirteen. Little Alfonso is five. I shall have them brought from Montecchio one day, Serenissima, so you may make their acquaintance.”
“I shall look forward to it.” That, at least, was not a lie. Although I intended to foil the marquis’s ambitions with a son of my own as quickly as possible, I still enjoyed the company of little boys. The imperial court had been teeming with them; Maximilian had seven sons and my second brother, Ferdinand, had two. One of the greatest pleasures of my rare visits from Innsbruck to Vienna had been the opportunity to play with the children. “Tell me, what are your views on the subject of—”
“Enough,” the duke said. There was a flick of the whip in his voice; after all, what man wants to hear of little boys when he himself is childless? “Let us go in to supper.”
He offered his hand, and I put my own hand upon his wrist. The cardinal murmured a sardonic blessing and turned away. The marquis fell in behind us. We had taken only a few steps when we were compelled to halt by the expansiveness of one gentleman’s bow, which placed his extended leg and deeply swept feathered cap directly in our path.
“Serenissimo.” He straightened. “A word, if you will allow me.”
“Messer Bernardo.” The duke sounded—what? Annoyed, surprised, wary? Perhaps something of each. “We did not know you had returned.”
“Only this morning, Serenissimo. I bear letters from Duke Cosimo, and gifts for you and your new duchess. I pray you will forgive my importunity, that I was in such haste to be presented to her.”
So at last I would be introduced to the ambassador from Cosimo de’ Medici of Florence, the duke’s former father-in-law and my sister Johanna’s father-in-law-to-be. My first thought was to wonder how Duke Cosimo could send letters and gifts to the man people said had murdered his daughter. But with my next breath I knew the prickly relations of the two dukes, the two cities, would continue with little more than a ripple as each man pursued his ambition. For more than a hundred years, the Este and the Medici had been contending for supreme power and prestige in the courts of Europe and the papal conclaves of Rome—the Este with their ancient blood and the Medici with their upstart riches. The marriage of the duke to Lucrezia de’ Medici had provided only a brief lull in the Precedenza, as the rivalry was called; with her death, contention had flared anew.
“You could have chosen a more suitable moment,” the duke said. “Madonna, may I present to you Messer Bernardo Canigiani, the Florentine ambassador.”
“Serenissima.” The ambassador swept another bow. “My pleasure is unbounded.”
I inclined my head without speaking or smiling, granting the barest acknowledgment. The ambassador’s effusions were too extravagant, and I found them distasteful.
This seemed to please the duke, because he smiled. It was not one of his pleasant smiles. “You have had your wish, Messer Bernardo,” he said. “Now begone. And next time, apply for an audience in the customary manner.”
The ambassador bowed deeply for a third time, and we passed on. The duke turned his head to speak to another courtier. From the corner of my eye I saw Messer Bernardo’s expression as he straightened, and it was utterly different than it had been a moment before. It was narrow-eyed, calculating—and chilling.
What did he know about the duke? What did Duke Cosimo know?
What schemes were they brewing?
It had all
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