Milan, 1497
Her dress fell in soft pleats to the floor from just under her demurely veiled breasts as she crept along the dark passageway. Her stub of a candle flickered as drafts made the silken webs around her gasp and flee. Her soft-soled slippers whispered along the uneven stone. Her left hand brushed the clammy walls until she heard voices up ahead and to the left. Growing more distinct, the voices became familiar. Her father and…someone else. Holding her breath, she slid back the bolt and slithered behind the wall tapestry outside the solar just as her father’s sonorous voice called for a flagon and a toast. A quiet reply she couldn’t hear. Such celebration must surely mean…(mumbling) unite our two dynasties (mumble) What?! Had her young man finally asked for her hand? Alas! Not her sweet young Matteo Giuliano, but the Master of the Merchant’s Guild, Master Lorenzo Mecucci! That old barnacle? Was she to be traded for peace in Milan? Impossible! Unacceptable! Something must be done!
Chiara stifled a whimper as she slipped back into the hidden passage. Silent tears dampened her cheeks as she retraced her steps and beyond. Up the well-worn steps to the atrium, around the corner and down the short flight to the scullery. The heavy door to the kitchen was ajar so she skirted the cook’s assistant and found her way into the kitchen garden. Plants had always fascinated her, and even now she took comfort in the heady scent of rosemary and then lavender as she reached the laurel hedge and its entrance to the Wisteria Pergola. Overhead the branches on their trellis formed a low roof and she sank to her knees, overwhelmed. Even her mother’s timeless garden couldn’t bring her answers today!
The bells from the campanile tolled the half-hour. Luca would be attending services soon. Luca! Maybe cousin Lucretia could help! Chiara brushed the dust from her skirt and set off at run. If she hurried, she’d just make it to the Duomo before her recently-widowed cousin left for home.
Breathless, the young maiden entered the cool darkness of the newly-built basilica. She closed her eyes, waiting for them to adjust and her breathing to return to normal. Moments later she skimmed the small crowd, noting many strangers and a few acquaintances, but no elegant golden head of her father’s niece. The devout of Milan preferred to give generously from their purses rather than their knees. Her shoulders dipped in disappointment before she noticed movement in an alcove across the nave. Luca was just lighting a candle beneath the icon of St. Christopher.
Shoulders up and chin down, the younger cousin strode to intersect Luca’s path as she made to leave. Success elicited a warm smile and a finger to her lips as together they exited through the cloisters and then the Bishop’s garden. Once outside Chiara poured out her woes to a woman only recently released from the convent following an unfortunate turn of events. Luca listened thoughtfully as they wandered among the herbs and flowers the monks used to treat everything from gout to consumption. A kernel of a plan formed behind her veiled green eyes. Keeping her own counsel, she promised they would dine together on the morrow. “Remember, my dear, in matters of trade, one needs the right currency. In matters of the heart, the price is often high.”
Chiara’s father was away on business when the younger woman arrived with a heavy heart back at the villa on Via Durini. She passed again through the garden and into the kitchen, this time snagging an apple from a basket near the door. Polishing the fruit with her veil, she trudged up the three flights to her chamber. The wooden shutters had been closed to block the worst of the midday heat, plunging the room into shadow. She crossed the small space and leaned on the cushioned window seat to fling the shutters open to an expansive golden view of Milan beyond the garden. Somewhere out there were her dreams, her future, her fate. The moon rose over the Duomo before she finally slept.
She rose with the sun, carefully donning her father’s favorite gown, dressing her floor-length plait and crowning the look with a flattering coif of lace and linen. More than hunger roiled her stomach this morning. The inevitable meeting with her father was nigh.
As she entered the solar, her father kept his gaze on a small collection of parchments beside his plate. She offered up a benign “Good morning, Father” to no response. Several fruit pits, a rind of cheese, and bread crumbs were the remnants of his broken fast. She helped herself from a central platter and took her accustomed seat at the far end of the table. Since her mother’s death a year ago she had technically been the lady of the house and enjoyed the seat of honor. Her tender age and slight frame belied her maturity in matters of manners and household.
Harrrumph! Her father cleared his throat before launching his assault. “You are betrothed. The bands will be read this coming Sunday and a fortnight hence you will be wed to Master Mecucci. No expense will be spared. Begin preparations immediately. Your cousin Lucretia has offered to help with details. She will join us after siesta.” The issues settled in his mind, his attention returned to his accounts.
Her breath strangled as tears pricked her eyes. The soft fruit in her hand squashed to the floor. Watching the life juice seep into cracks in the stone floor, she saw her own life seeping away as well. “No,” she whispered. No acknowledgement from the other end of the table. Unthinkable even yesterday, she found the words: “No, Father.” A heartbeat. Two. Silence.
“Please Father, I beg you!”
“Silence! The contract has been made. We will discuss it no further.”
“But…”
“Leave me!”
A swish of skirts and she fled the scene in horror.
Away! She must away at once! She would have to pass her father to use the front door, so she turned once again to the back garden. Alas! The gate through the garden was now occupied by a workman installing a new lock. Clever Father! She needed to think, so back up the stairs, the cook’s scowl burning her back.
Milan through her window looked the same, yet everything was changed. She was to wed a man thrice her age. A widower. Nephew of the Bishop. A merchant. A wealthy, dour, scion of faith and virtue…The four walls of her chamber closed in on her like a prison cell.
Ladies of her social stature were both powerful and pawns in the alliances of Italy’s elite. Her dowry would buy new influence and connections. Hadn’t her own cousin been married off when she was but fourteen? It was rumored the Pope himself was Lucretia’s true father. War had been averted before her first husband mysteriously succumbed to a fever. Her second marriage had been officially annulled under suspicious circumstances to allow her to marry again, more advantageously. Poor Lucretia!
Poor me! To pass the time and order her thoughts, Chiara read selections from Politian, but the love poems made her weep in remorse, so she turned her attention to her trinket box. A blown-glass bracelet from her mother, a pressed flower from Matteo. Sigh. All from a simpler time. She closed her eyes, hoping to dream of the past, but praying for a different future. Sleep, but no rest.
A servant’s knock alerted her to the coming hour. She changed her gown for a sober brown and dressed her hair severely. (“See how miserable I am, Father?”) Her feet and her heart were leaden as she waited in the atrium.
Luca appeared in a swirl of russet silk just arrived from Genoa. Her famously blonde hair perfectly framed her face and her double strands of pearls spaced with jade beads set off her sparkling eyes. She was gracious and stunning, and yet, there was something else. A knowing. A secret.
Dear Luca wasted no time catching her uncle up with all her family news: Her brother would soon be betrothed! Her mother had just returned from Florence. Her friend master Leonardo sends his best! Then she moved on to her social calls. Why, just this morning she had taken Barley Tea with Master Mecucci at the Guild Hall. Such a respectful gentleman, so generous, so…mature. She hoped his cough cleared up before the wedding. He was looking a little feverish when she left…
Just then, a knock at the door. A messenger! Father’s face fell as the news was conveyed. “It can’t be! Dead? Are you certain?” Then to no one in particular, “Master Mecucci is no more! A sudden fever and a failing heart have destroyed my plans for the guild, for the city, my own daughter!” He continued to rant as he left the young women at the table. They heard the front door close behind him.
A serene Luca gazed out at the garden. “My dear, walk with me.” Arm in arm, they walked the gravel paths, stopping now and again to remark on a plant or a scent or a purpose. Peace filled their hearts as the sun’s last rays left them in a violet dusk. “Remind me to share some seeds from the plants Master Leonardo sent home with Mother. The flowers are so beautiful and Leonardo assures me that Foxglove can be quite useful if handled carefully. Truly life-changing.”
“Oh, dear cousin! Aren’t they terribly dear?”
“In matters of the heart, the price is often high. We Borgias know that well.”
Left To Write 