Certosa di Pavia rose above the trees, a tracery of pinkish brick cones and white marble columns against an incandescent blue sky. A poplar-lined road ran straight toward the huge Carthusian monastery, still under construction after a century of lavish spending. The road was the consistency of porridge, a reminder of a week of heavy rains.
Beatrice brushed at the skirt of her brocade cioppa, spotted with mud kicked up by her ladies’ horses as they trotted past. Rid of their largely superfluous Duchess, the ten young women regrouped into a sauntering, gossiping, snickering band. Beatrice had come to regard her Milanese ladies-in-waiting as the most insufferable burden of matrimony. Though her ladies were the wives and daughters of the haughtiest and most powerful Milanese noblemen, they were often little more than extravagantly priced prostitutes sent to court to advance the family fortunes, exchanging their bodies for favors and offices. Not only did they not wait on Beatrice (she had a staff of pages and maidservants for that purpose); they openly displayed their contempt for the little forestiera Duchess whose husband would not even sleep with her. Beatrice was happy to be shunned; she had never felt more lonely than she did when surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. Indeed the entire ritual surrounding her new status as Duchess of Bari was the most dreary and absurd routine she could imagine. The sole function of all these activities devoted to her amusement, Beatrice realized, was simply to distract her from the baldly apparent fact that nobody at court really cared whether she was happy or not.
A chorus of throaty feminine laughter erupted behind her, followed by another shower of mud as the Duchess of Milan’s ladies charged up ahead, brocaded torsos inclined forward, skirts billowing over their horses’ rumps, plumed velvet caps tilted jauntily to one side. After spattering Beatrice, the Duchess of Milan’s ladies proceeded to pass Beatrice’s ladies and speckle them with mud. A contest ensued, the two groups of ladies beginning to trot as fast as the precarious footing and their awkward sidesaddle posture would permit.
Beatrice, her legs slung over her horse’s left shoulder, looked to her right. The Duchess of Milan had come alongside. Isabella glared at her with sea-green malice, as if she blamed Beatrice for her own ladies’ discourtesy. A spot of mud blemished her wind-rouged cheek.
The words Beatrice wanted to scream out loud boiled in her ears. I hate you too! I hate you too! I hate every one of you! Except for Bianca and Bianca Maria, I hate everyone in Milan! Without at first realizing what she was doing, she flourished her riding crop and whacked her horse’s rump. The beast lurched into a gallop, but Beatrice, steadied by her powerful hands and sturdy legs, expertly stayed in the saddle. She quickly closed on her ladies, despite their speed. As she drew even with the last lady in the group, she swung her right arm in a vicious arc, catching the woman squarely across the collarbone and toppling her over the rump of her horse. Arms and legs akimbo, the lady splatted into the mud like a silk-plumaged bird shot from the sky.
Quickly perfecting the technique, Beatrice dumped two more of her ladies into the mud before the alarm was sounded. The Duchess of Milan’s ladies looked back and began flailing with their riding crops to escape Beatrice’s menacing charge. Beatrice pounded with her crop, gaining. She was surprised when a rider caught her from behind: Isabella, squinting into the wind.
Beatrice made an even more furious charge and caught up with Isabella just as they reached the twin files of the Duchess of Milan’s ladies. The two duchesses instinctively divided the spoils, each thundering down a frantic row. Four more ladies joined their companions in the slop.
Leaving behind their squealing and squirming attendants, the duchesses continued to ride side by side down the road, speed
Beatrice brushed at the skirt of her brocade cioppa, spotted with mud kicked up by her ladies’ horses as they trotted past. Rid of their largely superfluous Duchess, the ten young women regrouped into a sauntering, gossiping, snickering band. Beatrice had come to regard her Milanese ladies-in-waiting as the most insufferable burden of matrimony. Though her ladies were the wives and daughters of the haughtiest and most powerful Milanese noblemen, they were often little more than extravagantly priced prostitutes sent to court to advance the family fortunes, exchanging their bodies for favors and offices. Not only did they not wait on Beatrice (she had a staff of pages and maidservants for that purpose); they openly displayed their contempt for the little forestiera Duchess whose husband would not even sleep with her. Beatrice was happy to be shunned; she had never felt more lonely than she did when surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. Indeed the entire ritual surrounding her new status as Duchess of Bari was the most dreary and absurd routine she could imagine. The sole function of all these activities devoted to her amusement, Beatrice realized, was simply to distract her from the baldly apparent fact that nobody at court really cared whether she was happy or not.
A chorus of throaty feminine laughter erupted behind her, followed by another shower of mud as the Duchess of Milan’s ladies charged up ahead, brocaded torsos inclined forward, skirts billowing over their horses’ rumps, plumed velvet caps tilted jauntily to one side. After spattering Beatrice, the Duchess of Milan’s ladies proceeded to pass Beatrice’s ladies and speckle them with mud. A contest ensued, the two groups of ladies beginning to trot as fast as the precarious footing and their awkward sidesaddle posture would permit.
Beatrice, her legs slung over her horse’s left shoulder, looked to her right. The Duchess of Milan had come alongside. Isabella glared at her with sea-green malice, as if she blamed Beatrice for her own ladies’ discourtesy. A spot of mud blemished her wind-rouged cheek.
The words Beatrice wanted to scream out loud boiled in her ears. I hate you too! I hate you too! I hate every one of you! Except for Bianca and Bianca Maria, I hate everyone in Milan! Without at first realizing what she was doing, she flourished her riding crop and whacked her horse’s rump. The beast lurched into a gallop, but Beatrice, steadied by her powerful hands and sturdy legs, expertly stayed in the saddle. She quickly closed on her ladies, despite their speed. As she drew even with the last lady in the group, she swung her right arm in a vicious arc, catching the woman squarely across the collarbone and toppling her over the rump of her horse. Arms and legs akimbo, the lady splatted into the mud like a silk-plumaged bird shot from the sky.
Quickly perfecting the technique, Beatrice dumped two more of her ladies into the mud before the alarm was sounded. The Duchess of Milan’s ladies looked back and began flailing with their riding crops to escape Beatrice’s menacing charge. Beatrice pounded with her crop, gaining. She was surprised when a rider caught her from behind: Isabella, squinting into the wind.
Beatrice made an even more furious charge and caught up with Isabella just as they reached the twin files of the Duchess of Milan’s ladies. The two duchesses instinctively divided the spoils, each thundering down a frantic row. Four more ladies joined their companions in the slop.
Leaving behind their squealing and squirming attendants, the duchesses continued to ride side by side down the road, speed
Similar Books
