Free Duchess of Milan by Michael Ennis Page A

woolen hose and massaging his hamstring.
    Galeazz and the men he commanded were hired soldiers, as was customary in Italy. But Il Moro had secured a more enduring (if hardly less mercenary) allegiance by marrying Galeazz to his bastard daughter Bianca. Bianca had been only nine at the time of the marriage, but in a world where girls were routinely betrothed in childhood and scarcely pubescent brides became the seals on treaties, their fates cast for a lifetime for the sake of an alliance that might last a few months, the hasty liaison was regarded as good politics rather than a betrayal of innocence. And mercifully, Bianca’s marriage was for the time being only political; no one expected her to consummate the marriage or even live with her husband until she was at least fifteen.
    Il Moro lifted his arm to emphasize the sealed parchment packet he held in his hand; a large ruby cameo flashed from his third finger. He looked directly at Count Belgioioso. His irises were like bits of obsidian. “I have a letter for the King of France.” Il Moro spoke in a low, careful voice, sonorous with self-assurance. “I am asking His Most Christian Majesty to invest the Duke of Milan with the privileges of the Duchy of Genoa.”
    Belgioioso had to exercise all of his diplomatic skills to avoid betraying his surprise. Galeazz’s chair creaked as he sat straight up. Many of the Italian city-states technically were considered fiefdoms of either the King of France or the German Emperor, and although these anachronistic feudal relationships had little to do with real power in modern Italy, ritually reinvoking them could seal an alliance between an Italian state and the French or Germans. The great port of Genoa was the largest French fief among the cities under Milanese rule, so II Moro was making a highly visible gesture of friendship.
    “Your Highness .-..,” Belgioioso began, understanding that he was expected to offer his opinion.
    “Speak candidly, signor.”
    “Your Highness, I do not understand this initiative at all. You have virtually succeeded in uniting all Italy, and now you risk fracturing those alliances by pursuing a friendship with a state whose posture has become increasingly threatening. You know as well as I the advancements they have made in foundry techniques. Their bronze is of such quality that they are already capable of casting cannons light enough to be brought over the Alps, yet powerful enough to reduce masonry walls six braccia thick.” Belgioioso paused and lowered his eyebrows for emphasis. “There are currently no fortifications in Italy with walls greater than six braccia in thickness. We should be sending Paris a signal of Italian unity, not an independent gesture of conciliation.”
    Il Moro’s features betrayed nothing beyond their inherent complexity. He was thirty-nine years old, but his thick, glossy black bangs made him appear younger. Visiting ambassadors often credited his skill as a negotiator to the baffling imperturbability of his face, an impassivity that was all the more confusing because his features conveyed so many possibilities, from the ruthless line of his Roman nose to the gentleness of his subtle, almost feminine mouth. It was a dangerously ambiguous face, because in it even the most wary observer could find something to believe.
    After a contemplative interval, Il Moro spoke. “Yes. I am of course aware of the progress their foundries are making. But they are at least three years away from designing carriages capable of safely transporting these cannons on steeply inclined mountain roads. Three years,” he reiterated, his tone abstract and distant. His eyes sought Count Belgioioso again. “What do you think of Madame de Beaujeu’s situation?” Madame de Beaujeu was the French King’s older sister; for the previous eight years she had ruled France as her brother’s regent.
    “She is still very much in control. But her child is expected in May.” Belgioioso speculatively