Leonardo's Swans Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  La Fortuna and Our Characters

  Also by Karen Essex

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  IN THE YEAR 1506;

  IN FRENCH-OCCUPIED MILAN

  ISABELLA spreads her arms like angels’ wings over her sister’s cold marble form, running her fingers down the exquisitely carved folds of her burial gown and tracing the delicate veins in her hands. Next to Beatrice, the exiled duke, Ludovico, lies as if in repose, though he is in fact still alive, breathing the dank air of a foul French prison. Isabella must be careful to lavish her grief only on the figure of Beatrice, face so serene upon the pillow of stone, and neglect that of the duke, now out of favor. Isabella knows that from the rear of the church eyes are pointed like daggers at her back, ready to report that her vow to be “a good Frenchwoman” is false. Kneeling, she presses hot, curled lips onto the cheeks of Beatrice’s death mask and whispers.

  So, my sister, it is true what we always joked—that once you had given birth to a few children, you would be as fat as mother. Only one and twenty at the time of your death, and yet they told me you had taken to wearing vertical stripes to disguise your weight. Still, I did not dream that you could have aged so much so quickly. And to think, for so long I considered you the lucky one.

  Who could have predicted such a turn of events? Did you see from your crypt how the whores of the French soldiers made off with all four hundred of your spectacular gowns? The thousands of gems and pearls so delicately sewn and artfully placed have been torn off, I imagine, to buy a potion to end some slut’s unwanted pregnancy, or to treat a nasty canker, or to put food in a whore’s soon-to-be-toothless mouth. These few years later, the dresses I so coveted are cast aside, filthy and frayed, and you are dust.

  Ah, but at least you were buried still clutching a tiny portion of your innocence. You did not live to see the things I have seen, or to make the impossible decisions I have had to make, or to turn your back on those you love to survive their foolish choices. Remember our parlor games? You were always the winner, so clever at Scartino, surprising everyone with your moves and taking the purse. I have been playing a similar game, though every move has to be made with great care. I have chilled my own blood with some of my decisions. Beatrice, I am a figure on a chessboard of poison, where the players change from black to white and back without notice. Remember the elaborate system of trumps at which you were so adept? With which you, giggling hysterically, won game after game of cards? There is a new dimension to the landscape now that neither you nor your duke anticipated, but I did: France trumps Italy, and that is that.

  If Fortuna had not been so fickle, so remiss in the proper arranging of things, and our roles had been reversed—if I had had my way—would I be lying in your grave? Or would the course of history have been changed? How is it conceivable that your illustrious husband, whose attention I craved, wastes away in a French prison with only a copy of The Divine Comedy and a pet dwarf to give him solace? Wouldn’t you love to know whose face he tries to conjure as he falls asleep on his lice-ridden bed of straw—which sister? Which mistress? Poor Ludovico. He doesn’t even have Magistro Leonardo’s images of his lovers to console him now.

  My own match of wills with Leonardo has continued. I wonder if you haven’t reached out from the grave, Beatrice, to meddle with my ambitions. Without your interference, and with the power I hold over his new patron, I should have concluded my business with Leonardo by now. I have pledges from the artist himself, but you know what a promise from Leonardo is worth. Sometimes I think he is the most adept player of us all. And yet, there are whispers that I might receive satisfaction from him on this very evening. Wouldn’t that be lovely, my sister? Then, you and I might both rest.

  The bell in the tower rings the five o’clock hour. I would love to stay with you past the twilight time. I remember that you do not like to be left alone in the dark. But I must go dress for yet another of King Louis’s balls, where we shall all convene in the very rooms where you once lived, in the service of the new master, carefully avoiding any mention of the past—including yourself. Adieu, my love. Remember how we hated to speak the French language? One must speak it all the time now.

  The bells have stopped chiming, and Isabella imagines that her attendants grow impatient with the visit. Still, she finds that she does not wish to leave. She stands, caressing Beatrice’s peaceful visage one more time, touching her stony locks, and nestling a warm cheek against her sister’s cold, chiseled one.

  Beatrice, Beatrice, it’s not that I didn’t love you. You were like the swans in your pond—born awkward and ugly, maturing into beauty, bringing magic into the world, and singing at the hour of your death. You mythical creature, who on earth or above could not have loved you? It’s just that for so long, I imagined that you had stolen my Destiny, when all the while, unbeknownst to us, you were preserving it for me.

  Chapter One

  X * FORTUNA (CHANCE)

  FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:

  When Fortune comes, seize her firmly at the forelock, for I tell you, she is bald at the back.

  IN THE YEAR 1489; IN THE CITY OF FERRARA

  SHE grew up in a land of fairy tales and miracles. That is what Isabella is explaining to Francesco as they ride through Ferrara’s streets. It is Christmastime, and though there is no snow on the dry stone road, the horses shoot clouds of steam into the frigid air through their nostrils.

  This is the first time she has been allowed to escort her fiancé through the city on one of his visits. Francesco Gonzaga, future Marquis of Mantua, has come to Ferrara to romance his soon-to-be bride and to enjoy the city’s many Christmas pageants ordered by Isabella’s father, Duke Ercole d’Este, a great patron of the theater. Isabella believes that the more she tells Francesco of Ferrara’s secrets and wonders, and the more she shows him of her father’s spectacular building projects and improvements, the more he will realize her value.

  In this very church, Isabella says, pointing to St. Mary’s of the Ford, almost two hundred years ago on Easter Sunday, the priest broke the Eucharist in two, and flesh and blood came spraying forth, covering the walls of the church and splattering the entire flock.

  “The parishioners watched in awe,” Isabella says, eyes wide with drama. “The Bishop of Ferrara and the Archbishop of Ravenna came to see it. They instantly recognized it as the body and blood of Christ and declared it a true miracle of the Eucharist.”

  Francesco solemnly makes the sign of the cross as they ride past the church, but his eyebrows arch skeptically, making him look entirely out of step with the act.

  Beatrice trots ahead of the pair of lovers, her long braid swinging in saucy rhythm with the horse’s mane, as uninterested as her steed in their conversation.

  “Isn’t that right, Beatrice?” Isabella asks her sister for confirmation of her story, hoping that the odd girl does not say anything to contradict her. Beatrice is a puzzle to Isabella, a fact that the older sister blames on the girl’s unsupervised upbringing in wild Naples. The girl is a feral, unformed thing, alternately shy, naïve, aloof, and bold—the latter especially apparent when riding or hunting. How such a small fourteen-year-old girl, who is not particularly courageous outside of these activities, excels at all manly sport is a mystery to Isabella, but the fact of Beatrice’s prowess remains, no matter how enigmatic.

  “I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there!” Beatrice fi
nally answers without turning around, but they can hear her laugh at her own joke.

  The animal’s swaying ass taunts Isabella, who knows that her sister is dying to break away from them to test the horse’s speed. Francesco has brought Drago, the pure white Spanish charger, from his family’s stud farm on the island of Tejeto, as a gift for the girls’ father. But Beatrice immediately took over the animal, talking to him in whispers that should be reserved for a lover, and hopping upon him and riding away, as if the painstakingly bred horse was meant to carry a little girl in a pink riding dress and not a fearsome knight in armor.

  “I’ll tell you a miracle that happened right here in Ferrara that is even better,” Francesco says, sidling his horse right up to Isabella’s so that their legs touch. She knows she should pull away, that her mother would rail against this sort of indiscriminate physical contact, even with leather riding boots providing a barrier to the couple’s much-craved intimacy, but instead, she rides with slow care so that they might continue to brush against one another.

  “What miracle is that?” she asks, suppressing a smile.

  “That your father agreed that you should be my wife,” he answers.

  You have no idea just how miraculous, she thinks. If the timing had been slightly different, he would be marrying the jaunty girl riding ahead of them, but this, he does not know. When the marriage agreements were made nine years ago, Isabella was only six and Beatrice five. Who could have cared at that time which sister married what man, as long as both marriages were politically expedient for the city-state of Ferrara? Isabella wants to tell him the story but she would need him to say that if things had worked out differently, his life would have been a ruin. And he cannot possibly say that in front of Beatrice.

  Duchess Leonora had long ago drummed into her daughters’ heads that marriage between noble houses was no whimsical arrangement based on ephemeral qualities of preference or attraction. The peace of Italy depended on these unions, especially at this juncture. The Venetians had become doubly aggressive since the Turks pushed them out of Constantinople. They began to push farther and farther inland into Italy because they needed land for their farms and their citizens. They hired condottieri to take over towns—Verona, Padua, and Vincenza, all near Ferrara. The Venetians wanted complete control over the trade routes and the rivers, as well as the land. Ferrara was venerable and strong, but small. For her to remain independent, she must have strong alliances with the city-states of Mantua and Milan.

  “You girls are ambassadors of Ferrara. Its welfare depends upon the success of your marriages. Therefore, you must do nothing, nothing, to endanger these alliances. You must do nothing prior to the marriages that may cause the families to renege on the commitments. Your behavior must be impeccable. You are as much the protectors of Ferrara’s welfare as our army or our treasury. You are, in fact, its greatest treasures. And when you enter your husbands’ houses, I expect you to act like it. Your bodies are the very bindings that will hold us all together and stave off conflicts and wars. Do not think that you can behave like the women in fairy tales and poetry. The duke and I will not tolerate it.”

  Looking at Francesco now, Isabella thinks that she must be the most fortunate of women. Her fiancé is not handsome, but has a rugged quality that gives an ugly man appeal. Already three and twenty, he will never be tall, and his eyes bulge, a condition that she knows will worsen over time, because she has seen old men with this affliction, and they look like reptiles. Yet he is as solidly built as any man alive, and his courtly manners contrast so thrillingly with the wicked look in his protruding brown eyes. Besides being from one of the oldest noble families in Italy, he already is considered a brilliant student of warfare, destined for an illustrious career in the military arts. Undoubtedly he will lead one of Italy’s great armies to many victories. Isabella feels that Francesco is the perfect man to help her realize her destiny—which is to have a powerful husband and reign with him over a great and enlightened realm.

  Beatrice, riding three lengths in front of them, begins to pick up speed. She turns her head to the side, giving the lovers a sprightly profile, before dashing off with the horse.

  “We had better follow her,” Francesco says, a look of grave concern coming over his face.

  “That will not be easy,” Isabella replies.

  Isabella does not like to see any interest in her sister from her betrothed, though she cannot imagine why. With her exceptional qualities, she should not worry one bit. But worry she does. Francesco is from a family famous for breeding horses. Nothing arouses the passions of the Gonzagas of Mantua like a great horse, or a rider who can handle one. Beatrice looks back one more time before guiding Drago through one of the city’s grand arched portals to a road where she can ride faster. Francesco takes up the challenge and speeds after her on his dark stallion, the jewels in his silver saddle catching just enough of the winter sun to sparkle.

  Isabella follows, but at a slower pace. It would be extremely unladylike for her to compete with her boyish sister in this game for Francesco’s attention. Besides, she does not want to sweat so badly under her new habit that she will be embarrassed later, when, helping her descend from the steed, Francesco will take her small hand and slyly raise it to his lips. Let Beatrice dismount in her typical disheveled state—damp, stringy hairs hanging about her face, and oozing sweat like the horses she rides into the ground. Isabella settles into a steady canter as the two race ahead of her, first Francesco taking the lead, then Beatrice gaining on him, so close that it looks from this distance as if she is trying to make her horse bite his stallion’s rear end.

  If one is to look upon the two sisters objectively, as Isabella prays Francesco does, one has to observe Isabella’s advantages. Isabella has spent all her life at her distinguished mother’s knee, while Beatrice, from the ages of two to ten, was left behind at the court of Naples all the way on the other side of Italy as a peace offering to their grandfather, King Ferrante, whom everyone feared and hated, but who had taken an instant liking to Beatrice. Isabella reads Latin impeccably and can recite Virgil’s Eclogues to the satisfaction of her tutors and her father’s eminent guests. Beatrice, on the other hand, has spent the four years since her return to Ferrara being pushed to catch up with her sister in their studies. She can barely spell. She can recite a poem or two in Latin, but Isabella doubts that she has any idea of what she is saying. Isabella plays musical instruments and sings like an angel. Beatrice loves music, but must be sung to. Isabella has studied rhetoric and mathematics and can take either side in an argument over at least one Platonic dialogue. Beatrice enjoys poetry, but prefers that others read it to her. Isabella is the loveliest dancer in all of Ferrara, turning her head elegantly this way and that. Not only does she have the correct timing, style, and balance necessary for the art, she also knows just where to place her smile as she turns, dips, and lowers her head, eyes lingering on their specific target, until the lids fall modestly in time with the music. Beatrice manages at dance, but is no match for her graceful sibling. Isabella has read all of the books in her father’s library and all of her mother’s romance novels about the chivalric days of old. She has watched carefully as her parents commissioned and acquired paintings and other works of art from the most illustrious talents of the age.

  In addition to her intellectual accomplishments, Isabella has tumbling blond curls, large, wide-set black eyes, and a slender body. Beatrice shows signs of stoutness, with thick thighs and ankles, though only her sister, her servants, and her husband—should the man to whom she is engaged actually honor their betrothal—will ever know this. She has a round face, a small, uninteresting nose, and dark hair that lacks luster, so much so that she must wear it in a long pigtail down her back. She prefers the outdoors to all pursuits. She is the kind of person Isabella would not find terribly interesting if she were not her sister.

  Isabella consistently outperforms Beatrice in all pursuits but this, the equestrian. Now, and in the presence of her bet
rothed, Isabella fears Beatrice is trying to make her pay for her crimes of superiority.

  Suddenly Francesco stops, pulling in the animal, whipping him about so that he is facing Isabella. She realizes that he is looking for her, has stopped this competition with her sister because she has entered his mind, even in the midst of the wild ride.

  Beatrice, who has bolted ahead, stops too. No longer enjoying the ride without the competitive aspect, she trots back to him. Isabella hears Francesco say, “I wanted you to show me the city’s newest improvements, not race me to your death.”

  “You just don’t want to lose to a woman,” Beatrice retorts, flushed scarlet from her escapade, adjusting the velvet cap that she wears at a clever tilt.

  “Do you fail to remember that I was not losing?” he answers.

  “Settle down,” Isabella says in Beatrice’s direction, hoping that she does not sound too much like the admonishing older sister, the sour one who does not want to be a part of their game. “We are supposed to be showing him the city!”

  “Be a good girl, or I’m going to take Drago back home with me,” Francesco says to Beatrice in a tone that conspires with Isabella’s parental attitude toward her sister.

  Beatrice clutches the reins close to her chest. “He wouldn’t go. He would run away with me first!”

  “Don’t be too sure, little princess,” he replies, sounding like a father.

  Thank God he considers her a child and Isabella a woman! Satisfied that she can recapture Francesco’s attention with her more mature demeanor, Isabella leads them over the bridge and back inside the city walls.

  “Now, Beatrice, do listen to what I am telling Francesco so that when your betrothed comes to visit Ferrara, you might show him these same things.”

  Beatrice groans. The subject is a sore one.