The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,71

the king waved him away, eyes streaming. Was he so incensed by his guest that he was having some sort of fit? But no, Brother Guido had judged his reply aright; Don Ferrente was laughing, and his court of sycophants did likewise until I felt I was in a pit of yelping jackals.

“Very good,” chuckled the king, “very good. My honored guest makes a play on my name. Dona ferentes, Don Ferrente, ‘bearing gifts.’ Very good.” He sank to his chair, speech over, still murmuring the jest and giving little shouts of laughter. I understood then that the king was powerful, merciless, even dangerous, but not very clever. He admired scholarship, and aspired to it, and Brother Guido had seen that. I had to give him credit. He had finished the biblical reference and made a Latin joke that Don Ferrente would just about get, and so endeared himself to the king, who was now slapping him about the shoulders.

“ ‘Tis a trifle, my gift. Just a trifle,” said the king, waving his hand in a dismissive manner at the carving which had started all this, waiting for the inevitable contradiction from his guest. Now, it seemed, a compliment was necessary.

“Not so, Majesty,” rejoined Brother Guido, more than equal to the task of flattery. “For although other gifts may have a greater value in their materials—gold, jewels, and suchlike—your carving is so exquisite that the value is immeasur able, lying as it does in the quality of the workmanship.”

Even I, born flatterer that I am, thought that Brother Guido might have overcooked it. But the king was all smiles.

“If you admire it so much, perhaps I will make one for you, at your upcoming nuptials. The dogaressa’s daughter, is it not? A fine marriage prize!”

At the same time that Brother Guido inclined his head in agreement, I literally jumped with shock about a twelveinch in the air. Betrothed?

For the second time that night the king looked askance at me. Brother Guido covered quickly. “My fair consort has a particular love for this air that your musicians are playing. She is anxious to dance, for she has a great talent for it and cannot stay still when the music calls!”

I smiled and nodded along—it was either that or protest that I had the palsy. I thought we had gotten away with it, but the king nodded and clapped his hands. “Excellent!” he called into the sudden silence. “A measure! Play the air again,” he charged his musicians. “Our guests will honor us with an exhibition dance in the Pisan style.”

I looked murder at Brother Guido, but in fairness he did not look too happy either. I was comfortable in my own skill for I had not lied when I had told him I danced well, that night when we had first discussed the Graces’ attitudes. I had no idea, however, how well schooled a monk would be in the forms of dance. He could look the part, which he did, but he may have two left feet.

I need not have worried. The musicians played a simple, slow pavane and we circled around each other with matching skill, alone in the middle of that vast space, a raven and a swan taking a measure. I was pleased and surprised—he had clearly been brought up with all the needful skills of a young princeling before he had entered orders. I would have begun to enjoy myself, were it not for the latest revelation, a subject we canvassed in hissing whispers whenever the dance brought us together. “So you are . . . Niccolò is . . . betrothed?”

“Yes.”

“To the dogaressa’s daughter? From Venice?” Oh, the irony.

“Yes. It was settled before my cousin went to the university.”

My thoughts wheeled with my person as we turned away from each other and described a wide circle of the room apart, before joining hands again. “But he is a finocchio! Queer as Christmas!”

Brother Guido rolled his eyes. “Really, Luciana. You, in your former circles, must have divined that a preference for . . . the company of boys does not preclude a man from a tolerably happy marriage.”

It was true. I had known many such in the noble society of Florence—men who had never approached me or my fellows, men who Bembo said had a matrimonio bianco—a white marriage. “But what about love?” I blurted, thinking again of what I had learned this afternoon: that the nobility seem to hold no store by human feeling. “Is this