“See what?” I had made myself intentionally stupid, I think, because I did not want to understand what she was saying—but in retrospect, I must have understood it all along. I was near crying. “I know I don’t look like my father, but . . . what does everyone
see
?”
She put her hands upon my shoulders at last, in a gesture of comfort, as if she had finally realized that what she was saying would hurt me. “Madonna, forgive me. Forgive me. Your mother loved Giuliano de’ Medici.”
“Giuliano—” I began, then stopped. I had been going to say that Zalumma
was
mad, that Giuliano—
my
Giuliano—had never met my mother, so to say that she loved him was insane.
But then my mind returned to that point in time when I had stood in Lorenzo’s courtyard with Leonardo, and the artist had asked me to pose in front of Giuliano’s statue, with its oddly familiar features.
I thought of Leonardo’s skillful, trained eye, how he had so faithfully reproduced my image in a sketch after meeting me only once. I thought, too, of Lorenzo, staring through the window, waiting. I knew then he had been watching the artist for a sign.
My mother had to have known I was Giuliano’s child from the start. My father, in his jealousy, had shunned her for months before I was conceived, and continued to do so long after I was born. That same jealousy caused him to strike her when she confessed she was pregnant.
There were rumors of the affair, of course. Once Giuliano died, my mother and Antonio agreed upon a deception, to spare my father shame: She would deliver me in secret, in her mother’s house in the country, and return with me when my age made the lie feasible.
I was baptized late; my false birthdate was recorded in the city ledger.
That way, no one would suspect me of being Giuliano de’ Medici’s daughter. No one except perhaps for the astrologer, paid by Zalumma in secret so that she and my desperately curious mother could learn the truth about my destiny.
No one, except Leonardo and Lorenzo, who had recognized their loved one’s features from afar.
Zalumma and I rode home in silence.
Why,
I had demanded of her in the churchyard,
did you not tell me this earlier? Why did you wait until now?
Because your mother made me promise to keep this secret from you,
she had replied, almost shouting from the grip of strong emotion.
And then—you were so miserable living with your father, there seemed no point in making you more miserable, until you were free of him. I had planned to tell you the day you married Giuliano.
I speak now because you deserve to know the truth about the child you carry.
I wanted to weep, for many reasons, but the tears remained trapped in my tightening throat. I remembered Lorenzo, whispering,
I love you, child;
I remembered my mother, giving me the medallion as a keepsake. And now it was gone, and I had nothing to remember my real father or my husband—my cousin—by.
Perhaps I should have felt angry with my father—with Antonio—for striking my mother because she carried me. But I could only remember his crushed hands, his bleeding fingers where the nails had been torn away. I could only remember my father’s words, as I left to attend the dying Lorenzo:
No matter what he says to you, you are my daughter.
He must have been terrified that I would learn the truth that night; yet he had let me go.
When we returned home, I went up to my chambers and did not go
down for supper; I couldn’t have eaten anyway. Zalumma brought me bread and salt to settle my uneasy stomach.
We still did not speak. My mind was racing, reinterpreting the past, and Zalumma seemed to understand that. I blew out the lamp and lay down that night upon my bed, but my eyes stayed open. I stared into the darkness for an hour, for two, for three.
And then I sat up abruptly, my heartbeat quickening. I thought of the ink rendering of Bernardo Baroncelli; suddenly, I understood why Leonardo had given it to me. And I remembered some of the last words I had heard my husband speak.
Leonardo. Leonardo saw him; my uncle died in his arms.
Leonardo saw him: the man who killed my real father, Giuliano. The man the dying Lorenzo had called “the third man.”
For my mother’s sake, for my own, I wanted revenge.
To Leonardo da Vinci, at the Court of Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan:
Ser Leonardo,
I am writing you because I have recently learned a certain fact—about myself, specifically in terms of my mother’s relationship with Lorenzo de’ Medici’s murdered brother, Giuliano the elder. I feel, because of your actions the evening we were in the Medici courtyard, that you have long been aware of said fact.
Forgive my boldness, but I feel I can trust you as a friend. Giuliano had told me that you were present in the Duomo the day of the assassination, and that you are privy to information—specifically, regarding the identity of a particular man who was also in the cathedral that day. It is my understanding that this man has never been found.
He is now of especial interest to me. Please, Ser Leonardo, could you tell me all that you know about him?
If you are able to describe him—or even to sketch him from your recollection—I would be very grateful.If he still breathes, I am determined to find him. I have little else to live for.
May God keep you well,
Lisa di Antonio Gherardini
Via Maggio
Santo Spirito, Florence
I
wrote the letter at dawn. And from the instant I handed it to Zalumma, I impatiently awaited a reply and hoped desperately that my letter would not be confiscated because it made reference to the Medici.
That same morning, I forced myself to consider a very unpleasant fact: Francesco and my father had set the wedding for June. My husband-to-be insisted that I should have a proper wedding dress of his design, and that Zalumma and I have some time to restock my new
cassone,
my wedding chest, with new clothes and linens we embroidered ourselves. My old
cassone
had been destroyed in the fire, along with its contents.
Besides, Francesco wanted to give me a full, traditional wedding, as if I were a virgin bride—as if Giuliano had never existed, as if I had never ridden away from my father’s house to be with him. Summer was the favored season for weddings, since the weather was best for the slow bridal procession through the city, particularly as the girls were accompanied by their families on foot.
But there was no denying that by the time I sat upon a bride’s white horse in June, I would be seven months pregnant. Francesco would know I had lied to him about remaining a virgin. Worse, he
would know the baby was Giuliano’s; when a widow remarried, her children were often unwelcome in her new husband’s home. And I could not bear the thought of being separated from Giuliano’s child.
I knew of only one solution: to convince Francesco the child belonged to him. And there was only one terrible way to accomplish that.
A day passed before my opportunity came.
A traditional family gathering was held at my father’s house to discuss the details of my wedding gown. Francesco’s aged father, Ser Massimo—a grim, quiet man—and his widowed sister, a colorless ghost named Caterina, attended. My groom’s three brothers all lived in the countryside, too far to travel on such short notice, though they assured Francesco they would come to the city in June. There were even fewer members in my family, for my father’s siblings all lived in Chianti and could not attend, and my mother had lost two sisters at birth and two older sisters to plague. That left only my uncle Lauro and his wife, Giovanna Maria. They brought with them two older boys, a nursemaid, and three howling little children. Giovanna Maria was again pregnant. She was moonfaced and bloated; Lauro looked haggard and exasperated, with the beginnings of a receding hairline.
I had requested the event take place later in the day—at supper, since most of my retching occurred at morning and midday. By evening, I rallied somewhat, and though I could eat little and found the smell of certain foods unsettling, I was less likely to empty my stomach in the presence of guests.
But I was no less likely to cry. The thought of preparing for another wedding barely a month after losing Giuliano ravaged me. I spent the entire morning and day weeping. When my new relatives arrived at dusk, I graced them with an empty smile and red, swollen eyes.
My father understood. He had entirely recovered by that time and, thanks to Francesco’s intervention and recommendation, had revived his business by, ironically, selling woolen goods to members of the returned Pazzi family.
Stalwart and serious, he wound his arm around mine and stood beside
me as we greeted our guests. At the supper table, he sat next to me, as my mother would have, and answered questions directed at me when I was too overwhelmed to think of replies. When I rose once and hurried into the kitchen—after Francesco’s father asked what flowers should comprise the garland he would place upon the street—my father followed. And when he saw me dabbing at tears, he put his arms about me and kissed my hair, which made me cry in earnest. He thought I wept only for my dead husband; he did not realize that I also wept for myself, for the terrible thing I was about to do.
I had insisted that no sage be used in the dishes, and managed to eat a bit, and drink a little wine when the toasts came. By the time the meal ended and the plates were cleared, I was hoarse from shouting replies at Francesco’s deaf father.
At that point, the discussion about the gown began. Francesco presented a sketch of his idea: a high-waisted gown with a square bodice. The sleeves lacked the customary bell shape; they were narrow, closely fitted, with the emphasis on the
camicia
being pulled through several slits and ostentatiously puffed. The neckline was quite low, so that a great deal of the
camicia
showed there as well.
This surprised me. My husband-to-be was supposedly a staunch
piagnone,
yet he had just presented me with a design of the latest Spanish fashion, fresh from the decadent Borgia papal court.
Sitting on my other side, Francesco laid a bundle of fabric swatches on the table. On the top of the pile lay a gleaming silvery damask and a gossamer red and yellow
cangiante,
“with, if you like, garnets and pearls for the headdress.”
None of the colors or gems suited me. “Ah!” he said. “She is reticent! This will never do, then.” And he folded the cloth and immediately set it aside.
This irritated his father. “It is not hers to choose.”
“Father,” Caterina said sharply. “Francesco is here to listen to everyone’s opinion.”
Giovanna spoke up. “Something fresh, like spring blossom, or the delicate flowers of early summer?” she said. “Pinks and whites. Velvets and satin, with seed pearls.”
“She has olive skin,” Caterina countered. “Pale pinks will make her look sallow.”
My father took my hand beneath the table and squeezed it. He behaved now toward Francesco with the same odd reserve he had shown Pico after my mother had died. “The design is lovely,” he said. “I know that Lisa likes it, too. Over the years, I have noticed that the colors that flatter her most are blues and greens and purples, the more vibrant, the better. And sapphires . . .” His voice faltered only a moment, then regained its strength. “Sapphires were her mother’s favorite, and hers. They suit her. And diamonds.”
“Thank you,” Francesco said. “Thank you, Ser Antonio. Then Lisa must have sapphires and diamonds. And deep, rich blues to go with them, with perhaps a touch of purple.”
“You need not please her,” Ser Massimo huffed, and would have said more, but his son silenced him with a finger.
“I need not, but I will,” Francesco replied firmly. “I had only hoped for a modest bride, with a fair enough face. But I had never dared hope to win one both modest and brilliantly beautiful. Any woman so lovely must
feel
lovely in her wedding dress. I owe her no less.”
I stared down at the table; perhaps others judged this response as demure.
“A pretty speech,” his sister Caterina said. Only in retrospect did I hear the faint sarcasm in her tone.
“You are so lucky, Lisa!” Giovanna Maria exclaimed, with a pointed look at her husband Lauro. “So lucky to have a man who flatters you so, who cares for your opinion.”
The event was agonizing, but at last it ended, and only my father and Francesco remained at the table, which held only the candelabrum and our goblets. The time to begin my deception was fast arriving. I raised my goblet to my lips, then set it down quickly when I noticed the trembling of my hand.
My father and Francesco were speaking quietly, leaning forward on either side of me, so that I was less of a barrier. Francesco had his sketch spread before him and was pointing to the gown’s skirt. “Not
so heavy a fabric, I think now,” he said. The general consensus had been velvet for the skirt—but on reflection, Francesco decided the choice had been prompted by the fact that this particular December night was exceptionally cold. “June can be warm. Lisa, what do you think?”
My voice sounded astonishingly cool to my ears. “I think,” I said, “that my father is tired and should retire for the evening.”
“Lisa,” my father admonished mildly. “Ser Francesco is still discussing the gown. And he has a right to enjoy his wine.”
“I agree. He should continue to enjoy his wine. And you should retire.”
Francesco turned his face sharply toward me and lifted a black brow.
My father blinked and drew in a soft breath. For a moment he studied me intently. “I . . . am tired,” he said at last. The statement was altogether believable. He sat with his arms folded on the table, his elbows bracing him as he slumped forward beneath an invisible weight. The firelight caught the gold in his hair, but there was now silver there, too. His gaze guarded secrets; I knew one of them.