“We must make sure that Florence stays in alliance with Milan,” Il Magnifico tells me. I scramble to follow him down a long corridor adjacent to his lush garden filled with ancient statues pulled from the dirt around Rome. “Ludovico Sforza has proven himself a powerful force,” His Lordship says. “Any fourth son who manages to overtake his older relations is not to be taken lightly. We must watch him.”
“I might go to Milan on your behalf,” I offer. “See this court from the inside. I could keep you informed, my lord.”
Il Magnifico slows his hurried pace, then stops for a few long moments to examine the tender bloom of a white lily. For a moment I fear that he might pinch off the fragrant, dew-speckled flower of this giglio, the symbol of our city, but finally, he lets it spring back on its stalk. “Yes,” he says. “You along with others. We will organize a retinue of diplomats and court entertainers. You will make a gift to Ludovico the Moor from our Medici family.”
I pause to think. “An armored carriage. Or perhaps a wheel-powered catapult. My lord?”
“No,” he says. “A musical instrument. You are gifted with the lyre.”
“A lyre.”
He nods, his thin lips firm in decision. “Bring me a design.”
“But, with respect, my lord, the Regent of Milan might have need of defensive designs rather than musical instruments. You have said yourself that the Venetians plot against Ludovico il Moro from the east; from the north, the French. They even plot against him from inside his own palace. I have heard that his own court physicians mix poison for his closest relations—”
A small wave of the hand and I am silenced.
“You will follow a retinue of diplomats and musicians to Milan. My men will see to the arrangements. I will make sure you have a letter of introduction. You have only to make the lyre.”
“And for defensive designs . . .”
“If you want to elaborate on your skills for Ludovico il Moro, then you may attach your own list of qualifications.”
Part II
A Thing of Beauty
8
Cecilia
Milan, Italy
January 1490
HER SONG BEGAN WITH A PLAINTIVE NOTE.
Cecilia felt the first sound start low in her chest. A wobble; she fought to steady her voice. The sound grew, rising up as it began to take life. Then, it expanded into the space of the great audience hall of the Castello Sforzesco.
Cecilia could not bear to meet any of the pairs of eyes trained on her, those of a dozen or so visitors from outside the palace, dressed in finery like Cecilia had never imagined. Instead, her eyes trailed a length of ivy snaking along the gray, rough-hewn stones and red bricks of the window ledge. Beyond the window, Cecilia glimpsed the dank waters of the moat and one of the palace gates, where a man with a feathered helmet was patrolling on horseback. Far below this high floor of the castle, Cecilia imagined that there might be a labyrinth of passages used to defend it, if ever the palace came under attack.
Cecilia reached for the next line of the song. She sensed the familiar feeling of emptying her chest of air at the same time that she filled the air in the room with her voice. She concentrated on the formation of the words. Surely they could hear the pounding in her chest as much as the bright sound from her lips?
If she had had more time to prepare, she could have accompanied herself on the lute or the lyre, Cecilia thought. She had spent many hours playing and picking out notes to her own ear. But this is not how things would be done at the court of Milan. Marco, the court musician, did his job. He played effortlessly, watching Cecilia with a warm expression, letting his fingers pluck the strings of his lute as if with little thought.
Buoyed by Marco’s calm assurance, Cecilia dared to look into the crowd now. Her eyes landed on her brother, with his rapt expression, his frank smile. She tried to avoid looking at her mother, whose eyes were cast to her fingers fidgeting in her lap. Cecilia continued to sing each line with greater precision and power.
She would never have such an audience in a convent, Cecilia thought, or anywhere else for that matter. This was her one opportunity to work her way into the life of this palace, into another life altogether. Her one chance to escape inevitable imprisonment, of unthinkable tedium, behind the walls of a convent. One chance to avoid spending the rest of her days with a needle and thread alongside her mother, who would only spend the rest of hers criticizing Cecilia’s stitches. One chance to win the heart of a man who might transform her life with a wave of his hand. As long as she kept him captivated, that is. But Cecilia knew how to talk to men, how to advocate for her desires. I have to make this work, Cecilia thought as she reached the last line of the song. This may be my last opportunity to make something substantial of my life.
In the long moment of dead silence that followed the last note, her brother nodded his quiet approval. Marco pressed his palm to the lute strings to quiet them, then smiled at Cecilia. Then, suddenly, a deafening roar of applause filled the chamber. One of the men cried, “Brava!” A few of the palace guests stood and called out more verbal bursts of approval.
Only then did Cecilia find the nerve to set her eyes on Ludovico il Moro, seated in the center of the group. His chin lifted high, his expression was nonetheless difficult to interpret. His jaw was set and squared, but his dark eyes did not leave Cecilia’s face. Then, she detected one corner of his mouth rise.
Cecilia felt something like intoxication, bliss, fill her now. The sound of applause began to quell but the feeling stayed. She took a small, unpracticed curtsy.
This is it, she thought to herself. I’ve done it. This is what I was meant to do. My family. They will see. This palace. This court. This man. All of it is within my reach.
9
Dominic
Northern France
August 1944
IN DOMINIC’S DREAM, SALLY STOOPED OVER A BASKET, pulling out a damp sheet with the businesslike strength that Dominic still found astounding in her petite figure. Her hair was tucked neatly behind her ears as she shook out the sheet and swung it onto the long piece of twine they had tied between two trees.
“Hello, ma’am,” Dominic said, taking off his cap. He pulled her close, smudging sweat and coal dust down the front of her dress.
“You need a bath,” she said in her crisp Irish accent, a fake scowl on her freckled face. Then she pressed the length of her body against him to kiss him with a passion that set him on fire.
Waking was like having shards of ice pushed through his heart. Dominic stirred to the harsh reality of the bottom bunk, his thin body separated from the metal frame by what seemed like half an inch of dirty mattress. He lay there, rendered motionless by agony for a few moments, then gazed listlessly at his surroundings. All around him, his comrades were smoking, nibbling on rations, lying on their beds and staring at the gently moving canvas ceiling of the tent. The floor was already damp with rain. Had it only been a few hours since they had pitched it? Perhaps they’d have the luxury of staying in the same place for a few days this time. Dominic had lost track of where they were now. France, Belgium—some forsaken corner of wet and war-torn Europe. He was weary of it already, at the same time marveling that he was still alive, that he had survived the brutal landing on the beaches and the intense gun battles that had ensued.