The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

difficult because she is jealous—the duke called upon his sons to visit him this morning, but has ignored Caterina, who is eager to show him her lovely new dress. She thinks that if she rides beside him in a place of honor, he and everyone else in Milan will have a chance to admire her.” She shot a sour look at her daughter. “You must not bother Her Grace. The duke has decided to go, and we must hurry. His priest and choir are already waiting at Santo Stefano; the others have all gathered in the courtyard.”

      “Dea,” Bona called weakly, “will you go with her in my stead? And relay to the duke that I would humbly ask his favor for a horse for Caterina and her mother?”

      “Of course, Your Grace,” I answered, and in a lower voice said to Caterina, “but he will not give them if I ask.”

      “Why not?” she said, studying me carefully, and I remembered that I had, in fact, predicted Galeazzo’s doom and walked out of his chamber alive and barely scathed.

      I took a step closer to Caterina. “You must get your cloak and gloves, Madonna,” I told her. “The duke will not suffer our being late.”

      Bona called again from behind the curtains. “Go,” she said to me, “and pray for my husband. I have had a night of evil dreams.”

      We almost were late. I would have far preferred to remain inside the warm castle to tend the duchess that morning, but for Bona’s sake, I borrowed Francesca’s black woolen cloak and gloves and went down to the huge courtyard with Caterina and her mother. By the watchtowers, a crowd of perhaps fifty nobles—most of them women with their children, the duke’s illegitimate get, and the rest of the duke’s favorite male courtiers—had gathered, their splendid attire hidden beneath swaths of fur and thick wool. Nearby, a half dozen grooms held the reins to some thirty horses.

      The mood of the waiting nobles was sour, their teeth chattering. Caterina and I joined them, and stamped our feet to keep warm until the grinning duke at last appeared in a crimson cloak lined with white ermine, his arms linked with a fellow hellion, Zaccaria Saggi, the Mantuan ambassador. The stooped, gold-mitered Bishop of Como and the duke’s brothers, Filippo and Ottaviano, followed close behind, trailed by the Florentine ambassador and a dozen gentlemen of the chamber. The whole was flanked by a score of guards in full armor, long swords sheathed at their hips; among their ranks was a great tall Moor with yellow eyes and dark brown skin. In place of a helmet, he wore a large white turban; in place of a sword, a scimitar.

      I moved toward the duke, paused a generous distance away, and bowed deeply as I relayed Bona’s request.

      He stiffened, unnerved by the sight of me, but cupped a hand to his ear to catch my words. A sudden bitter gust drove them away; impatient, he frowned and waved me off. Caterina thinned her lips and uttered an indignant curse beneath her breath as I returned to her side.

      Galeazzo then briefly addressed the waiting crowd, speaking perhaps of the holiday and his gratitude for our loyalty, but his words, too, were swallowed by the wind. We shouted a perfunctory greeting, and watched as he climbed atop his black charger, caparisoned in white and crimson, the Sforza colors. Immediately, his inner circle and the guards mounted their steeds and closed ranks around him; we lesser beings were confined outside the protected inner circle.

      Like the others, I drew the cowl close to my face and made my way over the slippery drawbridge and out into the street, across which stood the city cathedral, its unfinished walls covered with latticework scaffolding; the Alps loomed in the distance behind us. We kept pace with the horses for half an hour over icy cobblestones; on two occasions, Caterina slipped and her mother and I caught her before she fell to her knees. The wind drove my veil into my eyes, and would have blown it and my cowl off had I not clutched the edges of the latter. No one engaged in festive, lighthearted chatter; the howling wind drowned all other sounds, and forced us to walk with faces downcast against the stinging cold. Tradition demanded that the streets be filled with throngs cheering the duke, but on this feast day after Christmas only a few hardy souls huddled on the treacherous, snow-dusted ice and called out feebly when the duke and his entourage passed.

      I was shivering uncontrollably by the time we arrived at the little plaza in front of the church of Santo Stefano, an ancient, unimpressive two-story edifice with a crumbling stone façade. The plaza was filled with merchants, peasants, and the starving poor; the church was so crowded inside that they had waited here in hopes of catching a glimpse of His Grace. The guards, their armor glinting with light reflected from the snow, dismounted and began to clear the plaza while several young grooms ran forward to take the horses.

      Galeazzo dismounted and handed over his reins without looking at his groom; he squinted nervously at the plaza and, beyond it, at the door to the church. Like his daughter, he enjoyed public attention, but he also took enormous care to protect his person, and did not relax until the way was clear and the guards signaled him. The bishop, who was to celebrate the mass, moved ahead of him, and the ambassadors took their places at his left; his brothers moved to his right, so that the men stood five abreast, with the duke in the protected center. Behind them, in the favored retinue, walked Cicco’s younger brother, the secretary Giovanni Simonetta, and a military adviser, Orfeo da Ricavo, followed by a row of camerieri, the nobles who attended the duke in his chamber and were considered his closest friends. The big Moor—a full head taller than any other man present, his hand on the hilt of his scimitar—led them into the church, while a pair of armored bodyguards flanked each row of the ducal procession.

      Caterina pushed her way forward until we stood just behind the camerieri. When we finally made our way through the open door, she let go a sigh of relief at the rush of warmth emanating from the bodies of some three hundred faithful. At the front of the church, near the altar, scores of empty chairs awaited the duke and his party; most of the worshippers were obliged to stand and crane their necks as the duke passed by.

      At the instant Galeazzo set foot inside, the choir, situated at the back of the sanctuary, burst into song, and a valet ran forward to relieve the duke and his companions of their cloaks. As the duke handed off his cloak, I saw he was dressed in a handsome doublet, the left half of which was gleaming watered white silk embroidered with tiny gold fleur-de-lis, the right of lush crimson velvet. His leggings were also of velvet—crimson for the left leg, white for the right.

      I was not surprised to see that he sported his family’s heraldic colors, but I was startled indeed to see that he wore no armor. It was the first time I ever saw Duke Galeazzo appear in public without a breastplate. Perhaps he shied from wearing metal so close to his skin in such cold weather, or perhaps it was an issue of vanity and the breastplate did not suit his fine new doublet; I will never know.

      Beside me, Caterina let go a little gasp of pride, tinged with impatience, at her father’s appearance. As we women handed off our cloaks, I saw why she was so eager for the duke to take note of her: her gown was made from the very same fabrics, with the same gold embroidery upon the white watered silk—a clever Christmas surprise for her father.

      As the duke and his company followed the bishop down the center aisle, the rows of worshippers bowed, rippling like wheat in the wind. I kept an eye on Caterina; though she bore herself proudly, her gaze was riveted on her father and those surrounding him. She was seeking an opportunity, I knew, to get the duke’s attention.

      Midway to the altar, her opportunity came. Santo Stefano was very old, though not so old, it was claimed, as one great old stone abutting the sanctuary floor. Planted in the very center of the church, this large stone was unpolished and unremarkable, but it was nothing less than the Point of the Innocents, where, it was said, the blood of the innocent infants slain by King Herod had been spilled.

      Galeazzo paused in mid-conversation and step to glance down at the stone and contemplate it in a show of false piety.

      Seeing her opportunity, Caterina pushed forward, surging past the last row of the duke’s chamber attendants and moving directly behind Cicco’s brother Giovanni and the military adviser Ricavo. She was just one row from her father, and when her mother and I simultaneously hissed at her for such outrageous behavior, she glanced over her shoulder at us with a sly grin.

      Her mother nudged me and gestured with her chin at her unruly daughter.