A snippet for you . . .

Later that evening as the sun set, Cardinal Legate Mellini arrived with much fanfare, hand-delivering the Pope’s message: “Protect the son; seal the alliance.”

I stood in the courtyard while Mama made the introductions and could only just hold my tongue. Did Mama not feel the slight? Over a hundred men and two trumpeters accompanied the Cardinal. A retinue that outshone the Duke of Milan. How dare he!

My betrothal to Girolamo at age ten was a ceremony I could only recall in my dreams, while this quickly assembled proxy wedding seemed done only to satisfy the Pope. I loathed that I must be like Mama, quiescent and pleasing.

But in no time at all, since the Cardinal insisted we partake of supper after the ceremony, I stood in the little family chapel within the castle walls and tried not to fidget under the scrutiny of the Cardinal. He seemed to loom over me in front of the altar, blocking the light from the candelabra behind him. The octagonal room felt small. No light shone down from the few stained-glass windows, nor lit up the domed frescoed ceiling. I hoped the angels above were giving me their blessings. I wore black, the only color coming from the red winterberries and white lilies—symbols of love and purity, hope for my marriage—that Druscilla had woven into my hair.

. . .

Standing in for my fiancé was a stranger, a man at least a head taller than me, taller than most men in the Cardinal’s retinue, a man who was not to be my husband. Remembering what Mama had said, I knew he could not yet have attained thirty years. But he seemed a grave man, furrows etched into his brow as though he scowled often, an aquiline nose, with a bump on the bridge like he had experienced the wrong side in a brawl. He had deep-set eyes with long arching brows. His dark hair was cropped close, not at all in the prevailing style of shoulder-length hair. And his clothes were quite fine, as befitted a man of his status. He wore a gold-braided doublet over a black linen shirt and hose. Numerous rubies studded his black cap, and his chest puffed out as though filled with his own importance.

Cardinal Mellini—corpulent in his white vestments, prominent bulbous nose—faced us and intoned Latin words that I should have known but could not comprehend, words that forever bound me to Girolamo. And yet it all felt unreal. For once, my body stilled like the chiseled statues standing sentinel along the walls, as though I were captured for all eternity in one pose, almost without life. I spoke the consenting words by rote, forever aligning myself to the house of Riario.

Only my close relatives were in attendance to witness what Mama had deemed promising. The man beside me, repeating the Latin words in a rich baritone, was sent to honor my family.

I did not feel honored. I had dreamed of the traditional march on a caparisoned horse with an entourage following me to the Baptistery, where the church would be decked with garlands upon garlands of flowers, a perfume so heady I could faint in bliss. Instead, I was shut away in the ducal chapel, family my only attendants and witnesses.

. . .

I looked upon little Gian off to my right, standing next to Uncle Ludovico. Uncle had a proprietary hand upon Gian’s shoulder as though he had already claimed him as his own. Poor Gian Galeazzo, only seven years old, now the Duke of Milan. I willed Mama to be strong as his Regent, hoping Ludovico, if only in some small way, would be of some help to her. Out of Father’s three brothers, I thought Ludovico the most excessive, spending coin for any contrivance. Though his manners were perfect and his dress impeccable, he seemed pretentious and insincere, as though constantly hatching some plan known only to him.

Ludovico raised a hand to smooth the front of his black tunic, and my gaze moved to his face. He was watching me and his eyes . . . I repressed a shiver. His eyes reminded me of the dead squirrel my falcon had once brought to me, cold and lifeless; black eyes that seemed to stare back at me no matter which way I shifted to avoid them.

I sent up a silent plea to God to watch over Gian. My little man with his dark hair and eyes so like Father’s. When would I see him again? Who would let him win at Draughts?

“Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” The Cardinal’s gravelly voice washed over me. The proceedings were moving at a fast pace and I could not keep up. Cardinal Mellini blessed the ring and gave it back to the man on my right, and I could only note that the gold somehow appeared tarnished. The man knelt down, and my body moved of its own accord to kneel beside him, whereupon the Cardinal chanted additional words. He made the sign of the cross, and I raised up to face him once more.

Cardinal Mellini stopped speaking. His last words echoed back at me, signaling a finality I had yet to accept. Signum iugum per basium. Seal the union with a kiss.

The stranger—Marquis Bianchi I forced myself to remember—turned to me and placed the ring upon my gloved finger. He kissed the ring then pressed his lips quick to mine and kissed the ring again. As he lifted his head, his lips still close to my gloved hand, I saw the admiration in his light brown eyes. He winked as though we now shared a vow, just the two of us. And then, he smiled, and his face transformed into that of a much younger man, carefree. And I almost forgot to breathe. He was handsome, as Mama had said, and he knew it.