LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

  My shoulders drooped as sudden sadness washed through me.

  ‘I’m not sure I like this painting,’ I said.

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘They’re all so unhappy, they’re practically crying.’

  ‘I expect Zorzo wanted to show the family’s sorrow.’

  ‘Even the baby seems miserable. He’s not even looking at his mother. Not like the babe in The Tempest, who could win a competition he’s so adorable.’

  A feeling of longing overcame me, and my body quivered.

  Longing for what?

  I turned my gaze away from the altarpiece.

  ‘The Tempest celebrates life,’ Luca said, taking hold of my hand again and giving it a squeeze. ‘This painting is the opposite. They’re mourning the death of young Matteo, who was taken in the flower of his youth. He was the son of Tuzio, Caterina Cornaro’s general in Cyprus.’

  ‘I know. Just find it depressing, that’s all.’ I shivered. ‘Is it time for your meeting?’

  ‘Yes. You can go next door and have a look at the frieze Giorgione painted, if you like. Then why don’t you wait for me in the café opposite? I shan’t be too long.’

  ‘Good plan,’ I smiled.

  The fresco on the east wall of the Casa Marta-Pellizzari was sixteen metres long, according to the leaflet I’d picked up at the entrance to the house, and the work measured about a quarter of a metre high. It consisted of scenes of a series of musical instruments, cameos, books and utensils used by an astronomer/astrologer (apparently the two were the same in Giorgione’s time). Everything about the work struck me as being dark. It resonated with the sadness I’d felt in the chapel.

  Nausea suddenly swirled up from my stomach.

  Get some fresh air!

  I made my way out of the house. There was a stone bench at the side of the building, and I lowered myself onto it.

  I knew this place.

  It was as familiar to me as if I’d only been here yesterday.

  I closed my eyes and let Cecilia in.

  I approach Castelfranco at mid-morning, having set out on Pegaso at dawn’s light. After a night of tossing and turning, the idea came to me that this was the only thing to do. The stable boy, bribed with the silver comb Queen Caterina gave me for my last birthday, found me a man’s doublet and hose. My hair is bundled up under a hat, and I’ve swathed myself in a cloak against the winter cold. No one wears masks outside of Venice, which is a pity for one of them would complete my disguise.

  It doesn’t take me long to find the house next door to the Costanzo chapel; it is the only church within the moated part of the town. I dismount, tie Pegaso to the railings outside, push open the door, and glance around. No one here, so I go up to the first floor.

  I stand in the doorway and feast my eyes on my painter, who is standing on a scaffold running the length of the wall. I watch him, enthralled by how focused he is on his work.

  There’s someone else in the room with him, and I take a step back to observe. A young man, younger than Zorzo. My age, probably. And he’s grinding the paint powder with a pestle and mortar. A shout from above echoes as Zorzo calls out to him; the young man comes up to me and bows. ‘Zorzone asks your purpose here.’

  ‘Tell him I’ve come from the Barco. If he’s busy, I can wait.’

  The young man goes to the foot of the scaffold and relays my message. Zorzo puts down his brush, and his apprentice, for that’s who I imagine the young man to be, takes his place. I stand and stare as my painter vaults down from the scaffold. Of course, only men can do such things, for how could a woman cope in voluminous skirts? My hopes of becoming an artist are only foolish; I have but one destiny, I know that now.

  Zorzo approaches, anger at being interrupted marking his stride. However, when he gets closer, he stops in his tracks. ‘Lady Cecilia! What are you doing here?’

  ‘The Queen has received an offer of marriage for me.’ I cross my arms. ‘I thought you should know.’

  ‘From whom?’ His brows crease.

  ‘Lodovico Gaspare of Ferrara.’

  ‘And the Queen has accepted?’ Zorzo seems unconcerned, and I’m so shocked I can scarcely hold myself upright.

  ‘Yes. But she does not know I’m no longer intact,’ I say in a miserable tone.

  ‘Dolcezza, that won’t be a problem for someone with your resourcefulness,’ he smiles. ‘Ask to wear a veil during the examination to protect your modesty. It shouldn’t be difficult for you to find a maid to take your place.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I marry?’ I ask in desperation.

  He holds my hand. ‘Of course, I’d like to marry you myself. I said you held my heart, didn’t I?’ His eyes are fixed on mine. ‘But that would be impossible. You’re used to a life of luxury. With me, you’d have to cook and clean and make do with all manner of things of which you have no conception. Better that you wed a rich man, for then you’ll have freedom. We can still see each other, of course.’

  Part of me knows that what he says is true. The other part is screaming a silent no!

  ‘And what of your other women?’ The question has slipped out of my mouth before I’ve even thought about it.

  ‘Simply dalliances. And, from the time I met you there’s been no one else. I swear on my mother’s life.’ He pauses, his finger tapping his nose. ‘I wonder why the man from Ferrara asks for your hand instead of taking you as his mistress.’

  My chin rises. ‘You think me not worthy of marriage?’

  ‘You’re too good for him, but I wonder about his motives for other reasons.’

  My chest tightens. ‘What reasons?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about now.’ His gaze holds mine and he squeezes my hand. ‘You’re extremely fetching in that outfit, but you would fool no one. I can’t let you ride back to the Barco alone.’

  ‘You’ll accompany me?’ My heart races. ‘What about your work?’

  ‘A few hours won’t make much difference. First, let’s take some refreshment in my quarters. I’ll wager you’ve yet to break your fast.’ He chuckles. ‘The owners of this house are away. We’re alone except for Tiziano upstairs, and he knows better than to interrupt us.’

  ‘Is he your apprentice?’

  ‘My friend, more like,’ Zorzo says warmly.

  He leads me back down the stairs to a room on the ground floor. There’s a bed in the corner, from which I keep my eyes averted. A table at the side has a tray on it with wine, bread and a pot of honey. He pours me a goblet and hands it to me before pouring one for himself. We drink, and our eyes meet. Then he breaks off a piece of the bread, dips it into the honey, and gives it to me. I bite into the sweetness and chew. Our eyes meet again, and now I’m finding it hard to swallow. Maria Santissima, this man does such things to me.

  I take a gulp of my wine, and cough. A splutter of liquid wets my chin. Zorzo leans in and kisses me, licking the liquor from my lips. I can feel every nerve in my body tingle, I need him so. Then, his hands are on my buttocks, and his breath is coming in short, sharp rasps. This can’t be wrong, what we’re doing, and I want it so much my legs begin to give way.

  We fall onto the bed together. Within seconds, he has removed my leggings and unbuttoned my doublet. My breasts spring free of the binding with which I’ve strapped them. Zorzo cups my right bosom with one hand and slips the other hand between my legs. ‘Ah, dolcezza, you’re ready for me.’

  I pull off his shirt, then caress his chest, running my fingers over his muscles. I help him out of his hose and we’re both naked. Feeling his hard body against my soft curves excites me even more, and I’m desperate for him.

  ‘Let’s savour this,’ he says. ‘For we might not be able to lie together for some time.’

  His tongue circles my nipple, making it stand proud of my bosom and sending waves of pleasure through me. Zorzo sucks like a greedy babe, and I let out a moan. He takes my hand and places it on his manhood. I don’t know what to do, except some instinct within me takes over and I str
oke him up and down, feeling him grow so big I wonder if I’ll be able to take all of him inside me.

  He parts my legs and kisses the silkiness between them, his mouth is where his fingers were before and I’m gasping as my joy approaches. He stops suddenly, leaving me weak with longing. But only for a couple of seconds before he thrusts into me, and we become one. He moves with gentle care, building me back up and there it is: my joy, that rippling pleasure only he can give me.

  ‘I love you, Zorzo.’

  He groans, ‘And I you.’

  He withdraws from me and shoots his seed into his kerchief.

  We kiss, deep and lingeringly, before he wets a cloth from the hot water pail on the stove and gives it to me to wipe myself. Shivering now in the sudden chill, we hurriedly pull on our clothes.

  ‘What shall we tell them at the Barco?’ he asks. ‘How do we explain your absence all morning?’

  For the life of me, I can’t come up with any excuse whatsoever. My impetuous nature has got the better of me again. I close my eyes to the world around me, and a strange man’s voice speaking a language I don’t understand, fills my ear.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the voice came from right next to me. A familiar voice. Who? Where was I? Then I remembered. I was in Castelfranco. I stared at the man who’d sat himself down next to me. Luca.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I breathed. ‘Just give me a moment to collect my thoughts.’

  ‘Have you been in the past?’ He sounded concerned.

  ‘Yes.’

  He helped me to my feet, and my body felt languidly relaxed.

  The tension I’d experienced earlier had dissipated, and I was able to hold his hand without wanting him to make love to me.

  I’d been desperate for sex, I realised that now. A sudden sense of unreality assailed me. You’re completely nuts, Fern. Lusting after Luca then making love with Zorzo.

  ‘Come on, let me buy you lunch,’ I said, squeezing his fingers. ‘I’m starving. And then I’d like to find a gift for Auntie. A handbag, I think. Her old one is practically falling apart…’

  Chapter 16

  It happened as Zorzo suggested, and I bribed a kitchen maid, who is the same build as me, to wear my clothes and the veil I negotiated to spare my modesty. The maid was pronounced intact; I could go to my wedding “pure”.

  A month after my return from Castelfranco, when my painter accompanied me as far as the gates of the Barco and let me go in on my own, to sneak into the stables and quickly change into my own clothing, I realised my courses were late. Yes, I am with child, and I go to my nuptials carrying Zorzo’s baby. He must have spilled some of his seed inside me when I went to see him in Castelfranco.

  The thought of our child makes me tremble and at the same time lightens my spirits. No one knows. Not my sister. Not Dorotea. Not the babe’s father. Lodovico will think the child is his and has arrived early, I hope. He was delighted when I accepted his offer of marriage, and even more so when I asked that we wed immediately, using the excuse that it will soon be Lent.

  Tomorrow is the day when we’ll make our vows in the Asolo church of Santa Caterina. I have been given leave by the Queen to rest tonight, in preparation. So far, the only sign of my pregnancy is the lateness of my monthly bleed and a tenderness in my breasts. No sickness, unlike Fiammetta, who told me she’d been nauseated for months.

  I’m working on a painting, using the oils Zorzo gave me, a representation of Pegaso, and I work without thinking, for I can’t bare to think too much. The future will be what it will be, and I’m tossed like a leaf in the winds of destiny.

  Lodovico has been the epitome of a gentle knight these past weeks, praise God, and I’ve allowed myself to believe that all will be well. I’ve learnt not to shudder away from him when he approaches; I’ve learnt not to long for my painter during the long, cold, winter evenings when the Queen has kept me close to her while she suffers from her stomach colic; and I’ve learnt not to wish I could be marrying Zorzo.

  I won’t let myself think about my true love’s burning glances that make my skin flame, and how his touch sends my sex into a quiver. Such thoughts aren’t seemly in a maid about to be married to another man. I won’t dwell on how Zorzo makes my heart sing and how, when I paint with him, I feel as if I have some value in this world. And I won’t give in to the misery that bubbles beneath the surface of my bravado.

  There’s a lot for which I can be thankful. Lodovico has bought a house in Asolo. His family in Ferrara are so against our marriage he won’t subject me to the scheming and gossip of his people. Part of me can’t help but feel he won’t subject himself. Instead, we shall live in the shadow of the Queen’s castle and she has promised we’ll always be welcome at her court.

  I put down my paintbrush and survey my work. It isn’t a masterpiece, that’s for certain. There’s still much I need to learn…

  Later, after supper taken with Domina in her rooms, I prepare myself for bed. I’ve been given quarters on my own this night, so that I can rest. I unpin my hair and shake it loose before brushing it. Then I slip off my clothes and put on my nightgown. The bed is cold, and I wriggle around to get warm. How can I sleep with the thoughts no amount of denial can keep out of my head? I shut my eyes and I must have slept, for when I open them morning has come.

  My wedding day passes in a blur and before I know it, Lodovico and I are married, the banquet is over, and it is time for the dancing to start. We’re at his Asolo house, having walked in a procession up the hill from Santa Caterina, the whole town on the streets to watch us in our finery. Now we’re in the dining hall; Lodovico’s servants have pushed the tables to one side and the musicians are preparing their instruments: lutes, pipes and tambourines. We are to dance a saltarello, and I sense the excitement of the guests as they form a line.

  My husband my husband! bows and I drop into a deep curtsey. His thin lips flash a white-toothed smile as he takes my hand and leads me into the intricate hops and leaps of the dance. I can feel my face set in a mask, the mask of a happy bride. I don’t need a Bauta from Venice; my bravado is “mask” enough. There’s a lump in my throat and a great heaviness in my chest. But I won’t give in to self-pity. I won’t let anyone see that I’m unhappy. I have my child to think of. He or she will be born into a home with wealth. Lodovico must never know the baby isn’t his. Tonight, he’ll believe I’m his virgin bride. I’ve ground some nutmeg into a powder, which I’ve pushed up inside me; Dorotea has assured me it will serve its purpose.

  We’ve eaten a feast that would grace the Queen’s table, and did so in fact, for she was our guest of honour. Antipasto of salads followed by lasagne, risotto and ravioli. Then roast pheasant, veal, turbot and carp, as well as capons and suckling pig. I watched Lodovico gobbling everything with his bony mouth, but I ate little myself.

  When I’d dreamt of marriage to a handsome suitor—- was it only a year and a half ago? — I never imagined what my wedding feast has been like today. The noise, and the richness of the food, and the clattering of the dishes. I’ve kept my “mask” in place throughout, smiling and nodding and smiling and nodding and chewing food that tasted as I imagine sawdust would taste.

  My stomach suddenly heaves, and I swallow down vomit.

  Of all times to have sickness from the babe…

  Dorotea was envious when she helped me to dress earlier. ‘I told you he wanted you,’ she said. ‘Right from the first moment. Thank God you’ve seen sense about the painter. Let’s hope the nutmeg powder works.’ She carried on pinning up my hair. ‘Signor Lodovico thinks the world of you, Cecilia. You mustn’t let him down. Then he’ll provide well for you.’

  And for my child, I’d said to myself.

  Now I’m dancing with him, my hand in his. I sail through the air in a leap of the dance’s posture. My “mask” is firmly in place as Lodovico and I hop apart, and I’m smiling and nodding and smiling and nodding again. Within me, however, dread has made its abode. Dread of what is to come this night. Will I get away wit
h it? For if Lodovico finds me not a virgin, it will be his right to send me from his bed, from this house, from this town. And I shall be but a beggar-maid or worse.

  I leap in the dance, heat creeping into my face, my hair flowing behind me, encased in a long net. A prickle of sadness invades me as I remember Zorzo running his fingers through my tresses and lifting them to his lips. How he insisted I leave my curls free when he painted me. Why am I thinking of him? Put your mask back on, Cecilia. So, I nod and smile and nod and smile.

  Lodovico smiles back and whispers, ‘It is time for us to go to our room.’

  I dip a curtsey and turn away. I walk across the hall feeling numb. Dorotea falls into step beside me and we make our reverences to the Queen. ‘Bless you, my girls,’ she says. ‘Sweet Cecilia, you’ve done me proud today. I wish you every happiness.’

  Dorotea leaves me at the door to the bedroom that overlooks the valley below, and the maid Lodovico has employed to take care of me – imagine! I have a maid of my own – helps me undress. Marta, a peasant woman with garlicky breath, unclasps the gold necklace (the wedding gift from Domina), and places it on the chest in the corner. Then she helps me into my nightdress and braids my hair.

  When she leaves, I’m alone and can remove my invisible mask. My mouth droops as I get into the large bed to wait. I hear voices outside the door, Lodovico’s friends making ribald jokes, so I put my “mask” on again and it’s so rigid I fear my smile will crack the pretence.

  My husband comes into the room. He stops and rubs his hands together. ‘Ah,’ he says, and my belly quakes. He goes to the chest and takes off his doublet, eyes glinting in the candlelight as he sizes me up like a prize horse he has bought.

  I can hear our guests, laughing and drinking and dancing now that they’ve seen us to our chamber, and I want to crawl under the covers and never come out again. Act your age, Cecilia. You’re not a child anymore. I sit up in the bed and the sheet falls from me.