in Italy was to attend the wedding, along with ambassadors from each allied or surrounding country and state. How was Ludovico supposed to house, entertain, and feed so many thousands of people and animals, first, at Pavia where the official ceremony was to take place, and then, in Milan, for the ensuing celebrations? Still, Isabella was incensed that she would have to enter that great city in a state of diminished grandeur. But once they were rocking in the river, the boat hitting massive blocks of ice, all passengers sick from the motion, Isabella stopped complaining and, with Beatrice and the rest of the women, merely prayed for a hot meal and a safe arrival.
Beatrice shivered in her berth, pulling her blanket over her eyes and her hat over her numb ears to muffle the sniffling of spoiled ladies-in-waiting, crying over the cold weather. She had two dogs under the covers with her, but worried that with the lack of food, she would soon have to throw their poor little corpses overboard. But at that moment one slept under each of her arms, giving her the only warmth she had felt in days. She had given up crying because the hot tears rapidly turned into little icy streams running down her face. Plus, with no food to eat, the tears and the heaving took too much of her stamina, keeping her in a more frigid state than if she contained her emotions. She had been told by the river navigator that within hours she and her party would be warming themselves by a blazing fire in a palazzo in Piacenza, and that the next day, fed and refreshed, they would continue the short journey to Pavia, where they would be greeted by Ludovico himself. She did not know whether to hope for this, or for death. She did know, however, that with the bone-chilling cold, and the humiliating circumstances of her marriage, she felt more that she was sailing toward her funeral than her wedding.
Everyone in Italy knew that Ludovico Sforza had a mistress, Cecilia Gallerani, a beautiful and accomplished woman whom he held up as a wife, and who was pregnant with his child. Cecilia presided over Ludovico’s fabulous court of diplomats, philosophers, royals, intellectuals, and artists. They admired her without qualification. She owned palaces given to her by Il Moro. She wrote heart-wrenching poetry, which, when sung in her own lovely voice, brought tears to the eyes of knights and ladies alike. She was known for her fluent command of Latin, a language in which she read and sang to Ludovico’s many visitors.
All of this was common knowledge, information on the tip of every Italian tongue. Everyone knew that Beatrice’s betrothed prized this woman so dearly that he had cajoled Leonardo the Florentine, who never finished a painting, into completing a spectacular portrait of her. They say it was displayed in his apartments, and people came to pay homage to it as if it were an altarpiece in a church, and Cecilia, the Madonna herself. And yet she, Beatrice, a princess of the House of Este, favorite of the feared and terrible King Ferrante of Naples, was being forced to be a player in this colossal farce of a wedding.
Beatrice was aware that love was an accident in a marriage arranged for political purposes. But a man had an obligation to behave nobly and pay his betrothed some attention prior to the wedding. Her father had done this, and her parents had made a successful marriage because of it. Francesco had courted Isabella as if she were truly his beloved, and so she had become such. Ludovico, on the other hand, never made an appearance or wrote a kind letter. He had canceled two dates for their wedding, offering vague excuses about his schedule. Beatrice might have had a lovely wedding this past July, when travel through Italy’s northern countryside would have been delightful. As summer approached, however, Ludovico sent his ambassador yet again to Ferrara, with the excuse that urgent business would preclude a summer wedding. Worse, Beatrice had to suffer this
Beatrice shivered in her berth, pulling her blanket over her eyes and her hat over her numb ears to muffle the sniffling of spoiled ladies-in-waiting, crying over the cold weather. She had two dogs under the covers with her, but worried that with the lack of food, she would soon have to throw their poor little corpses overboard. But at that moment one slept under each of her arms, giving her the only warmth she had felt in days. She had given up crying because the hot tears rapidly turned into little icy streams running down her face. Plus, with no food to eat, the tears and the heaving took too much of her stamina, keeping her in a more frigid state than if she contained her emotions. She had been told by the river navigator that within hours she and her party would be warming themselves by a blazing fire in a palazzo in Piacenza, and that the next day, fed and refreshed, they would continue the short journey to Pavia, where they would be greeted by Ludovico himself. She did not know whether to hope for this, or for death. She did know, however, that with the bone-chilling cold, and the humiliating circumstances of her marriage, she felt more that she was sailing toward her funeral than her wedding.
Everyone in Italy knew that Ludovico Sforza had a mistress, Cecilia Gallerani, a beautiful and accomplished woman whom he held up as a wife, and who was pregnant with his child. Cecilia presided over Ludovico’s fabulous court of diplomats, philosophers, royals, intellectuals, and artists. They admired her without qualification. She owned palaces given to her by Il Moro. She wrote heart-wrenching poetry, which, when sung in her own lovely voice, brought tears to the eyes of knights and ladies alike. She was known for her fluent command of Latin, a language in which she read and sang to Ludovico’s many visitors.
All of this was common knowledge, information on the tip of every Italian tongue. Everyone knew that Beatrice’s betrothed prized this woman so dearly that he had cajoled Leonardo the Florentine, who never finished a painting, into completing a spectacular portrait of her. They say it was displayed in his apartments, and people came to pay homage to it as if it were an altarpiece in a church, and Cecilia, the Madonna herself. And yet she, Beatrice, a princess of the House of Este, favorite of the feared and terrible King Ferrante of Naples, was being forced to be a player in this colossal farce of a wedding.
Beatrice was aware that love was an accident in a marriage arranged for political purposes. But a man had an obligation to behave nobly and pay his betrothed some attention prior to the wedding. Her father had done this, and her parents had made a successful marriage because of it. Francesco had courted Isabella as if she were truly his beloved, and so she had become such. Ludovico, on the other hand, never made an appearance or wrote a kind letter. He had canceled two dates for their wedding, offering vague excuses about his schedule. Beatrice might have had a lovely wedding this past July, when travel through Italy’s northern countryside would have been delightful. As summer approached, however, Ludovico sent his ambassador yet again to Ferrara, with the excuse that urgent business would preclude a summer wedding. Worse, Beatrice had to suffer this
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