“I understand. But why did he send for
Giuliano seemed perplexed by the question. “He likes you. It’s his way. And… you know that he has raised Michelangelo as his son, yes? He saw him one day on our property, sketching a faun. He saw the talent. And he must see something in you worth nurturing.”
He led me back to where Lorenzo sat propped up by several pillows on a large bed covered with fur and velvet throws. His eyes were dazed, distant; they gazed up dully as I neared the bed. In the room was a fetid smell.
In a chair a short distance away sat another man, next to a small table on which a goblet, gems, and a mortar and pestle were set.
“My father’s physician.” Giuliano gestured. “Pier Leone, Madonna Lisa Gherardini.”
The physician nodded curtly, without speaking. His face was slack, as was his entire body-weighed down by the helplessness reflected in his eyes.
“The others…” Lorenzo rasped. I realized then that he could not see well enough to know me. Giuliano moved swiftly to take the chair placed bedside.
“They are all well cared for, Father,” Giuliano said, in a clear, cheerful voice. “You must not worry about them. Piero has taken Alfonsina to get something to eat, Giovanni is preoccupied with arrangements for your service, and Michelangelo…” He paused to concoct a kind lie. “He is praying in the chapel.”
Lorenzo murmured a few words.
“Yes, I just saw him,” Giuliano said. “Prayer has comforted him greatly. You need not be concerned.”
“Good boy,” Lorenzo croaked. Blindly, with great effort, he lifted a hand a few inches into the air; his son caught it and leaned down, so close that their shoulders almost touched. “My good boy… and who comforts you?”
“I am like you, Father,” Giuliano countered, with humor. “I was born without need of comfort.” He raised his voice slightly. “But here, you have a visitor. It is Lisa di Antonio Gherardini. You sent for her.”
I moved closer until my hip pressed against the edge of the bed. “The dowry,” the older man whispered; his breath smelled of the grave.
“Yes, Father.” Giuliano’s face was barely a finger’s breadth from his father’s. He smiled, and Lorenzo, just able to discern the sight, smiled faintly back.
“The only one,” he breathed. “Like my brother. So good.”
“Not so much as you, Father. Not ever so much as you.” Giuliano paused, then turned his face toward me and said, again very clearly so that Lorenzo might understand, “My father wishes to let you know that he has made arrangements for your dowry.”
Lorenzo wheezed, struggling for air; Giuliano and the doctor both moved quickly to lean him forward, which seemed to ease his discomfort. When he was recovered, he beckoned for his son and whispered a word I could not decipher; Giuliano gave a little laugh.
“Prince,” he said. And despite his feigned lightheartedness, his voice caught as he looked at me and said, “Enough money so that you might marry a prince if you wish.”
I smiled in case Lorenzo could see, but my gaze was on Giuliano. “Then you have not chosen the man?”
Lorenzo did not hear; but his son already had the answer. “He has not chosen the man. He has bequeathed that task to me.”
I pressed against the bed and leaned closer to the dying man. “Ser Lorenzo.” I raised my voice. “Can you hear me?”
His eyelids fluttered; he whispered a rapid response, his tongue thick, cleaving to the inside of his dry mouth so that I could not divine his meaning. Giuliano glanced up. “He hears you.”
Boldly, I reached for his hand. It was limp and hideously gnarled, a talon, yet I pressed it to my lips with sincere affection and reverence. He was aware of the gesture; his eyes, shot through with blood, softened with great warmth and tenderness.
“You have been so kind to me, a wool merchant’s daughter; you have been so generous to so many people. The beauty, the art, that you have given us all, Ser Lorenzo-it is a debt we can never repay.”
His eyes filled with tears; a small moan escaped him.
I knew not whether it was a sign of pain or emotion, and looked to Giuliano in case there was need of the doctor; he shook his head.
“What can I do to show my gratitude?” I pressed. “In what small way can I ease your suffering?”
Lorenzo whispered again; this time, I divined the words from the movement of his lips before his son echoed them. “Pray…”
“I will. I will pray for you each day I live.” I paused and squeezed Lorenzo’s hand before letting go of it. “Only tell me why you have shown me such favor.”
He struggled very hard to enunciate the words clearly, so that I heard them directly from his lips and not those of an intermediary. “I love you, child.”
The words startled me; perhaps, I thought, Ser Lorenzo in his death throes was delirious, overly given to emotion, or not quite aware of what he was saying. At the same time, I acknowledged their truth. I had been drawn to Ser Lorenzo from the first moment I saw him; I had recognized at once a dear friend. So I answered, most honestly, “And I love you.”
At that, Giuliano turned his head, that his father might not see his struggle to contain himself. Lorenzo, a look of the purest adoration on his face, moved feebly to pat his arm. “Comfort him…”
“I will,” I said loudly.
Then he uttered something that made no sense. “Ask Leonardo…”
He gave a small gasp and dropped his hand, as if the effort had exhausted him. He stared beyond me, at something or someone invisible to the rest of us; he squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced with sorrow. His voice was still a whisper, yet agitation strengthened it so that I could understand every word.
“The third man. I failed you… How can I go? Leonardo now, he and the girl…”
The ravings of a dying man, I thought, but Giuliano turned back toward his father at once, eyes narrowed. He understood Lorenzo’s meaning very well, and it troubled him. He put a comforting hand on his father’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry about that, Father.” He chose his words carefully. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
Lorenzo mumbled a partly inaudible response; I decided he had said,
Giuliano looked up at me. “It is best he rest for a moment now.”
“Good-bye, Ser Lorenzo,” I said loudly.
He seemed not to hear. His head lolled on the pillow; his eyes were still fixed on the past.
I straightened and stepped back from the bed. Giuliano accompanied me, and we went together toward the door and the small foyer that gave us a measure of privacy.
I did not know how to rightly take my leave of him. I wanted to tell him that until that moment, I had been a silly girl with a foolish infatuation based upon his social charms and letters, a girl who had thought she was in love because she yearned for a life filled with beauty and art, free of the misery beneath her father’s roof.
I wanted to tell him how he now truly had my love-a love as real as if he were my brother, my kin. And I was amazed and humbled that one so compassionate and strong should have chosen me.
I did not tell him these things for fear of making him cry. But I could not resist the impulse to embrace him before leaving; with honest affection and grief, we pressed against each other tightly without saying a word.
He opened the door and handed me to Marsilo Ficino, then closed it again. I was escorted to the carriage. It was a clear night, and cool. I leaned out of the window and stared up at the stars, too saddened to weep.
When I returned home, my father was sitting in the great hall staring into the hearth, the tormented expression on his face painted coral by the fire. As I passed by, he leapt to his feet and came to me, his entire face a question.
“He has bequeathed me a large dowry,” I said shortly.
He looked at me, his gaze keen, searching. “What else did he say?”
I hesitated, then decided to be honest. “That he loved me. And that Giuliano was good. His mind was failing him, and he said a few things that made no sense. That’s all.”
His eyes held unspeakable misery. He bowed his head.
