his house on whichever mare crosses the finish first.”
“Idiot. He has already tried to marry the Gallerani whore once before. Everyone was against it.”
Isabella understood that by “everyone” her mother-in-law meant the leading Milanese nobles, who had the most to lose in the event of political instability. “And every week Il Moro coaxes one of them into his hand. You see how he has just given Count Borromeo a concession to manufacture silk in Mortara? A day will come when no one will care whether Il Moro's selection of a bride is agreeable to the Duke of Ferrara. And don't for a moment believe that the Pope would not annul Il Moro's marriage. For a proper price, His Holiness would sell Il Moro the virtue of Christ's own Mother. And what if Beatrice d'Este cannot conceive, Duchess Mother? You know that her sister has been married for a year, and she told me today that she still does not have any signs of a child.”
Bona snorted. “The Duchess of Ferrara had a squalling brat every time her husband pinched her cheek. That is why she looks like a cow. Hah! The ones everybody calls bellissima as girls are the ones who most quickly become grossa as women.” Bona's eyes contracted like two sphincters. “You had better pray to your devil that the Gallerani whore has a son and that Il Moro continues to believe she is his duchess and her bastard his heir. Because if Beatrice d'Este has a son, only my dear nephew the King of France will be able to save us.”
“If your nephew crosses the Alps with his army,” Isabella said wearily, as if repeating a self-evident proposition, “it will not only mean the end of Il Moro's obscene ambitions. It will be the end of Italy.”
Bona grinned like a madwoman.
“So you are saying that the best thing for us to do would be to support Cecilia Gallerani against Beatrice d'Este?” Isabella asked, her tone conciliatory.
“Now you have found the speck of sense in your empty head. Better to have two hens fighting over the same cock. If you defeat Cecilia Gallerani, the Este brat will be the next Duchess of Milan.”
“As usual you have given me a great deal to think about, Duchess Mother.” Isabella nodded respectfully. “I am going to retire and consider what you have told me. Sleep well, Duchess Mother.” Isabella collected the goblet, dropped the dark bed curtain like a shadow between herself and her mother-in-law, and turned to leave. But as she passed the portrait of the murdered Duke, she paused and met his eyes.
CHAPTER 3
Extract of a letter of Leonardo da Vinci, engineer at the Court of Milan, to international traveler and raconteur Benedetto Dei. Milan, 22 January 1491
. . . nor is there quiet in which to pursue one's own studies, owing to the great clamor and commotion of the wedding feste within the Castello. Certainly the most egregious and noisome of these events is the wedding joust, which commenced in the great piazza of the Castello this morning and will continue for two more days. O tumult of iron and clash of steel! All of this antique martial cacophony is taking place beneath the windows of my studios, from early morning until late in the afternoon. And I arose before the sun to attire Messer Galeazzo di Sanseverino in a costume of my design, a Scythian warrior's garb of marvelous ingenuity and wondrous invention. I have also supervised the decorations of the great hall for the occasion of a ladies' ball this evening. You can imagine my vexation at having time for little else. . . .
Having seen the bride, I am convinced that the bust of her executed in marble by a certain Maestro Cristoforo Romano, which made no claims for her beauty, nevertheless represents a meretricious report. However, my dear Benedetto, do not labor under the perception that the Duke of Ferrara has been reduced to penury to provide this pitiable creature's dowry. On the contrary, I am told by authorities most reliable that the Duke of Ferrara has extorted through
“Idiot. He has already tried to marry the Gallerani whore once before. Everyone was against it.”
Isabella understood that by “everyone” her mother-in-law meant the leading Milanese nobles, who had the most to lose in the event of political instability. “And every week Il Moro coaxes one of them into his hand. You see how he has just given Count Borromeo a concession to manufacture silk in Mortara? A day will come when no one will care whether Il Moro's selection of a bride is agreeable to the Duke of Ferrara. And don't for a moment believe that the Pope would not annul Il Moro's marriage. For a proper price, His Holiness would sell Il Moro the virtue of Christ's own Mother. And what if Beatrice d'Este cannot conceive, Duchess Mother? You know that her sister has been married for a year, and she told me today that she still does not have any signs of a child.”
Bona snorted. “The Duchess of Ferrara had a squalling brat every time her husband pinched her cheek. That is why she looks like a cow. Hah! The ones everybody calls bellissima as girls are the ones who most quickly become grossa as women.” Bona's eyes contracted like two sphincters. “You had better pray to your devil that the Gallerani whore has a son and that Il Moro continues to believe she is his duchess and her bastard his heir. Because if Beatrice d'Este has a son, only my dear nephew the King of France will be able to save us.”
“If your nephew crosses the Alps with his army,” Isabella said wearily, as if repeating a self-evident proposition, “it will not only mean the end of Il Moro's obscene ambitions. It will be the end of Italy.”
Bona grinned like a madwoman.
“So you are saying that the best thing for us to do would be to support Cecilia Gallerani against Beatrice d'Este?” Isabella asked, her tone conciliatory.
“Now you have found the speck of sense in your empty head. Better to have two hens fighting over the same cock. If you defeat Cecilia Gallerani, the Este brat will be the next Duchess of Milan.”
“As usual you have given me a great deal to think about, Duchess Mother.” Isabella nodded respectfully. “I am going to retire and consider what you have told me. Sleep well, Duchess Mother.” Isabella collected the goblet, dropped the dark bed curtain like a shadow between herself and her mother-in-law, and turned to leave. But as she passed the portrait of the murdered Duke, she paused and met his eyes.
CHAPTER 3
Extract of a letter of Leonardo da Vinci, engineer at the Court of Milan, to international traveler and raconteur Benedetto Dei. Milan, 22 January 1491
. . . nor is there quiet in which to pursue one's own studies, owing to the great clamor and commotion of the wedding feste within the Castello. Certainly the most egregious and noisome of these events is the wedding joust, which commenced in the great piazza of the Castello this morning and will continue for two more days. O tumult of iron and clash of steel! All of this antique martial cacophony is taking place beneath the windows of my studios, from early morning until late in the afternoon. And I arose before the sun to attire Messer Galeazzo di Sanseverino in a costume of my design, a Scythian warrior's garb of marvelous ingenuity and wondrous invention. I have also supervised the decorations of the great hall for the occasion of a ladies' ball this evening. You can imagine my vexation at having time for little else. . . .
Having seen the bride, I am convinced that the bust of her executed in marble by a certain Maestro Cristoforo Romano, which made no claims for her beauty, nevertheless represents a meretricious report. However, my dear Benedetto, do not labor under the perception that the Duke of Ferrara has been reduced to penury to provide this pitiable creature's dowry. On the contrary, I am told by authorities most reliable that the Duke of Ferrara has extorted through
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