In the Italian city of Mantua, 1501
“Isabella! What have you done? We have just fought a war, and we shall soon fight another. You will bankrupt us!” Francesco roared.
Little Federico stirred, and Isabella pressed her fingers to her lips to quiet her husband.
“I know all about our wars, my lord husband. I pawned some of my mother’s finest jewels to pay your soldiers if you recall. Yet despite my sacrifices, you would deny me my small pleasures.”
She looked at him contritely. “I have had the painting for months. It cost us no money if that is your concern.”
Francesco leaned down to inspect his son in his cradle, restless in his sleep and threatening to wake.
“And how is it that you now receive paintings without cost?”
Francesco would eventually discover the truth. She might as well confess while he remained in a tolerable mood.
“It was a gift from King Louis.”
His eyes narrowed. “What favor did you grant the king of France that he sent you a masterpiece painting?”
Isabella felt his mood darken. As if to conceal it from her, he knelt beside the bed and kissed his son’s forehead.
“Go back to sleep, little man,” he whispered.
“My lord, why did you send me to charm the king of France if you were going to grow jealous that I had indeed charmed him? You did not mind leaving our affairs to me while you were off making war, yet you chastise me for my efforts.”
Francesco made the Sign of the Cross with the heavy silver crucifix he wore against his chest.
“God punishes me for my sins by giving me a clever wife.”
He turned his gaze from the heavens back to her. “I have ears, Isabella,” he said, circling her like a predator trapping its prey. “They say you danced with the king until dawn and that he paid no attention to the other ladies of the court while you rested in Milan.”
Of course she had allowed Louis to believe he was seducing her. And of course, she would never succumb to him. In fact, she had recently defied both her husband and the French king, and there was nothing either could do about it.
“My lord, I merely assured the king that I was not conspiring with his enemies. Otherwise, he might have continued his rampaging march and trampled over our lovely little Mantua.”
She paused, smiling wickedly at her husband. “Louis asked me to demand a gift of him. I said, ‘Your Royal Highness, a painting by Leonardo da Vinci, who is now in your service, would please me.’ The one Leonardo had sent me is nice enough, but I am certain it was painted by an apprentice.”
“You are never satisfied, Isabella, not even with your own children.”
Now he revived another old quarrel. Francesco would have been content with as many adoring daughters as Isabella could healthily bear, and she had birthed two before Federico was born. But in Isabella’s mind, girl babies were costly and largely useless until one could marry them advantageously. Sixteen years was far too long to wait for maternal satisfaction.
Finally, after nearly seven and a half years of marriage and exhaustive efforts, which had not been exhausting at all considering how thoroughly Isabella enjoyed the marriage bed, she had produced a son and heir to Francesco’s title and lands.
“I am satisfied with you, my lord.”
She could usually placate Francesco with a compliment, but he regarded her skeptically. “A contented woman would not need to fill her rooms with priceless treasures. You are going to bankrupt us!”
Poor man. He had to be reminded of the truth. Men always craved docility in a wife, yet once they obtained it, they no longer desired or respected the woman who capitulated too easily.
She gave him a saucy look. “My lord, as I have often told you, we are much too spirited to allow a mere eight or ten percent rate of interest to separate us from the things we love.”
He sighed. “As long as you agree to sell them back when we need the money.”
Isabella was about to reply when they heard rapid footsteps approaching, filling the hall with a hollow echo. Isabella’s secretary, Benedetto rushed into the room with the baby’s nurse trailing behind. She looked as though she had run all the way from the kitchens.
Without so much as a bow to the marquis and marchesa, she snatched the boy from his cradle while Benedetto struggled to catch his breath.
“Your Excellencies, come quickly! My lady, you may wish to bring your rosary. Oh, it is terrible. Terrible. God have mercy upon us all!”
Rosary in hand, Isabella followed Benedetto into the courtyard beside Francesco.
The air hung heavy and humid, summer’s particular scourge. The sky, bruised purplish gray, threatened at any moment to unleash a torrent.
Suddenly, Francesco’s sister, Elisabetta Montefeltro, Duchess of Urbino, seized Isabella by the arm, turned her about, and threw herself into Isabella’s embrace.
Bound by marital ties and kindred temperaments, the two women had become deeply devoted friends.
“We are ruined, Isabella.”
The words caught in Elisabetta’s throat as she forced them into the air. Isabella wrapped her arms around the sobbing woman. Her bodice was soaked with perspiration and her sleeves hung shredded.
Guidobaldo Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, beloved and exemplary prince, dismounted his horse shouting orders for the soldiers to take the exhausted animals, gleaming with sweat and gasping in the humid air, to the stables before the rain broke.
Francesco seized the duke by the arms. “In the name of God, brother, what has happened?”
Elisabetta broke from Isabella’s embrace. “That menace, Cesare Borgia has captured Urbino. We fled for our lives!”
The duke added grimly: “And there is no reason to believe he shall stop there.”