by Sarah Dunant
Lucrezia waits. What else can she do?
“—than in a—the house of a goldsmith,” he finishes gallantly.
“It sounds wonderful, my lord. I am beside myself with excitement at the prospect of seeing it all at last.”
“And it at seeing you,” he says, with studied care this time, checking that the courtly syntax makes sense.
She looks at his huge gloved hands, the leather rough and well used. By rights, he should have taken them off by now. She clears her throat. “And my new father, the duke? He is well?”
“He was well enough last night.”
“He knows that you are come?” she prompts.
He shrugs. “He will when I get back.”
So it is true! This is not state business he is about. A chill runs through her. In Rome, during the protracted courtship, her father had tried to hide from her how hard the House of Este had fought against this marriage. “Over my dead body” had been the old duke’s refrain. Yet his son has made this journey of his own accord. But for what? To see for himself the woman he will take to his bed?
Except that now he is here he doesn’t seem that interested. Since they took their places at the fire, he has barely given her a glance.
Can he really be so oblivious to my appearance? she thinks. By now any other man would have half smothered me in compliments. She wonders briefly if she should take offense, except it doesn’t feel as if any is being given. Perhaps he doesn’t care, so long as she’s not deformed. What is this marriage but politics? And breeding. In the end, the space between her hips will be more important than any beauty he might find in her face….Still, she thinks, he will have to look at me sometimes.
She gathers herself again.
“And your sister, the Marchesa of Mantua?” she says sweetly, pulling his eyes from his lap, her brightest smile showing off a most becoming dimple in her chin. “She is arrived in the city? I am most eager to meet her too.”
“Isabella? Oh, she’s well settled. Along with her thirty chests of luggage,” he says evenly.
“I am sure. She is famed for her wardrobe, as she is for her taste in all things,” she replies, carelessly rearranging her voluminous skirts and tilting her head coquettishly to receive the return compliment. Which, amazingly, still does not come.
Oh sir, she thinks, for your own skin you would do well to take note of what I am wearing. Your sister’s envoy can’t get enough of each and every outfit. When she finds out where you have been today, you will be put to the inquisition.
Perhaps he is thinking the same thing, because now finally he holds the gaze.
Whatever he does or doesn’t think of her, the fact is he is here of his own accord. And that is no small thing.
She gestures to a servant in the background. “I insist you take some refreshment. However fine the ride, you must be in need,” she says, busying herself with the wifely business of serving him.
He grunts an assent and, carefully unbuttoning the fastenings on the gloves, strips them off, letting them fall into his lap.
As she turns with the filled goblet, it is all she can do not to cry out at the sight that greets her. Freed from the leather, his hands are still large in proportion to his body. But that is not the problem. There is something wrong with them. The fingers, thick and stubby, are covered in lacerations, like half chewed ribs of cooked flesh, while the skin from his knuckles to his wrists is equally raw. But the strangest thing is their color: a mottled purple, like the surface of rotting meat. He takes a hefty drink of the wine, then holds the goblet in his lap between his hands with no evident self-consciousness to the gesture.
She glances up at his face quickly. Whatever it is, it must be causing him pain surely? Yet there is no sign of any discomfort. Of course, she is no stranger to deformity. Even in the best-tended court there are men or women born with a finger too few or too many, or splashes of purple birthmarks crawling above collars and out of hairlines. Then there are diseases that write themselves on the flesh: scabs, boils, poxes, scars and carbuncles. Is this one of those? What else can it be? She thinks of the island in the Tiber, where the lepers of Rome are sequestered on pain of death. There is never anything to see as all the windows are kept closed for fear of contagion, yet she knows from the Bible how flesh can be eaten away until it falls off the bone.
She stares back at his hands. The heir of Ferrara a leper! No. Such a thing could never be concealed. And however much they might need this marriage, her father would never…never…So what then? A courtier who does a laborer’s job in a foundry? In the Arsenale in Venice, they say most of the workers have one eye or half an arm from forging the state’s cannons out of the heat of hell. Is this what happens when a duke plays with fire?
The silence stretches out awkwardly between them. A diversion is needed.
“I hear you are a master at the viola da braccio, my lord,” she says, realizing too late the horror in the image.
She remembers it so clearly: He plays like an angel. It had been one of the first things the envoys sent to negotiate the marriage had told her. Like an angel? Not with those hands, she thinks.
“I am no master.” His voice is gruff. “But do I play, yes. And you?”
“The lute. But not so well. I…I like to dance.” She rushes in.
Has he heard? Of course. It seems everybody else has.
“Do you relish the dance, my lord?” She is wondering how it would be to have her hand in his as the music starts.
“No. I am too busy with…with practical matters to be much the courtier,” he says, draining his goblet and putting it down on the table. “Perhaps you have heard that about me already?”
She lets out a nervous laugh. Her own courtly manner seems to have deserted her entirely. Help me, she thinks, I don’t know what to say.
“Madonna Lucrezia,” he says after a pause, and his voice drops low now, so that what comes next is heard by her and not the rest of the room. “I came here today because I thought we should meet before…before the wedding festivities begin,” he says, as if the very thought of such a thing appalls him.
“Yes.” She looks at him. “It was good of you to do that.”
“It seemed right that we…knew something of each other. Where we stand, what to expect…When the time comes,” he adds, as if this somehow explains it all.
“Something of each other,” she repeats. “Yes, it does help. Thank you.”
He starts to pull on his gloves. How can the action not cause him discomfort? Perhaps the skin is dead and he can feel nothing. She keeps her eyes on his face. For a while neither of them speaks.
“You and I have met before, you know,” he says at last. “In Rome many years ago.”
“Yes…well, I know they tell me we have.”
It had been soon after her father’s accession to the papacy and she and Giulia Farnese were playing host to the many new admirers arriving in Rome to congratulate the family. Though they all wanted something in return.
“I came to lobby for a cardinal’s hat for my brother.”
“I…I was very young, I think. Barely twelve years old.”
“Yes, you were. Very young.”
The polite thing to do now would be to pretend she has some memory of the meeting, to say something—well, courtly. “I’m afraid I don’t remember you at all.”
“It’s no matter. I forgot you soon enough too,” he says bluntly. “However, you are less forgettable now, and we are both old enough for what is to come, wouldn’t you agree?” He glances down at his gloved hands, a lopsided smile on his face.
Sweet Mary, this is a compliment, she thinks. He is paying me a compliment but he doesn’t know how to say the words. She has to suppress a sudden need to laugh out loud.
“Yes, I am sure we are,” she murmurs.
“Well, I will not keep you.” He is up on his feet, as if the words have embarrassed him. “The light will go soon and I must be back by nightfall.”
“Of course. I…I am
glad you came.”
“It was nothing.” He picks a thick scab of mud off his doublet and flicks it to the floor. “I like to ride. Perhaps we might go hunting together. Afterward.”
Afterward…
“Hunting?” She pauses. “Riding through cold soup. Yes. There is much to be said for the feel of a warm horse on a winter’s day.”
He catches her eye to check the depth of sarcasm, but she is smiling roundly. As he takes her hand the aroma of leather and horse sweat is now mixed with woodsmoke: a most masculine perfume. She feels a trickle of perspiration slipping between her breasts. How many strange encounters has she had with men over these last weeks since she left Rome? Fifty? A hundred? More…But nothing quite like this.
As he strides to the door, a thought comes to her. That after so much flattery, so much courtly bowing and scraping—in the knowledge that she has only to turn away to feel the hiss of the poisoned darts behind her back—that what has just passed between them has been…well, what? An honest exchange?
Honest. It is a strange word to describe this most cynical of unions.
That night, pulling on her creamed gloves to protect her perfect white hands, Lucrezia thinks of her betrothed husband, Alfonso d’Este. For she has no other.
CHAPTER 3
Fiammetta had been woken by the screech. Her bedroom overlooks the Tiber, which is witness to all kinds of mayhem on its banks. The noise comes again.
Craak-screek.
Cicero? What is the parrot doing awake at this hour? Once the salon is in darkness he never makes a sound.
She registers the clammy hand on her breast. No danger here. The archbishop is a man easily satisfied and would sleep till Judgment Day if she didn’t wake him in time to return home for morning mass. She listens for his breathing, low reverberating snores. Like many of her profession, Fiammetta is an expert on postcoital relaxation. On the rare nights when she cannot sleep she amuses herself by trying to match the sleeping habits of her clients with their professions: the banker who hoards air as he hoards money, holding it so tight to his chest that you would think he will never open his lungs until, with a sudden angry explosion, he grabs for the next breath. The ambassador who mutters all night long, a running commentary even when he is unconscious. If she could understand what he was saying she might have developed a profitable sideline in espionage, but it is a stew of foreign words, as if he writes in code even when talking to himself.
Creekt. Much louder now. Sweet Jesus and all the saints, could he be ill? Or has someone been stupid enough to remove his hood and disturb him? He is the most coddled of birds, and there is indignation in the squawk that suggests disruption.
Valteeeenn.
She is wide awake now. No, it cannot be. If he were mad enough to come in the middle of the night with no warning (and of course he is), then the guards would never have let him in.
Forlììì.
Except how could they stop him?
Imola. Forlìììììì.
She cannot help but smile. There is no smarter parrot in the whole of Rome. He had learned those words when he was young, coaxed by the promise of nuts plucked like kisses from her own lips as they rehearsed the praises of a returning conqueror by reciting the names of the cities he had taken. Later, she allowed the bird to forget them, for who wants to be reminded of the achievements of an absent competitor while being entertained by a courtesan? Cicero has not sung out those words in a long time now.
She disentangles herself carefully and waits while the archbishop’s body settles, his mouth puckering a little in protest. It is amazing how many men seek the breast long after they have taken its nourishment. Sometimes she wonders if the allure of prostitutes comes from that first earthy smell of wet nurses rather than the perfumes of the mothers whose daughters will eventually become their wives. Ha, she could write a treatise on the way in which men move from monsters to babies once their pricks subside. But who would publish such a thing?
Forlìì. She recognizes the note of excitement now. Cicero’s indignation has been replaced by the pleasure of attention.
She washes herself from the basin of water, drinks a prepared flask of liquid, bitter and fat with grease, to stop conception and applies a cream that is said to guard against the French pox. Some say that the old woman who prepares such things and has the business of half of Rome’s courtesans used to be pretty as a picture herself not so long ago. But that is not something she chooses to dwell on.
She checks her face and hair in her gloom of a hand mirror, then slips out of the room, to find Tremolino, the majordomo, standing in the hall poised to rouse her. With his mane of white hair and wrinkled face he looks more like a sage than a courtesan’s pimp.
“There was no stopping him. I did everything I could. He refuses to leave until he sees you. He is adamant.”
“I didn’t think he was in Rome. Where has he been?”
Tremolino shakes his head. “All I know is he is not dressed for company. And there is something ‘unpleasant’ to him.” He puts a finger to his nose.
“Has he come from another woman?” she asks sharply, for there are things that are not to be tolerated.
“More like a shoal of fish.”
“And his man? Is Michelotto with him?”
“Like a shadow. I told him that you were not to be disturbed. But—”
She stands on tiptoe to kiss him on the forehead, as one might a father figure. It is a strange business partnership: her glorious body against his housekeeping and accounting skills. Though when needed he can be as slimy as any courtier. “Stay close to the door in case I need you.”
—
In the receiving salon with its tapestries and painted ceiling of roses, the parrot sits uncovered on his perch, his golden tail aflame in the lamplight, rocking to and fro on his claws, chattering petulantly to himself. Having been woken and made to perform, he is now left unrewarded.
A figure is lying on his back in front of the embers of the fire. His hands are cupped underneath his head like a pillow and his eyes are closed, though it is hard to tell whether he is asleep. In a chair close by another sits, his fingers laced in front of him like the skeleton of interlocking ship timbers, his legs stretched out, watching, waiting.
“Signor Michelotto?” she says quietly.
He looks up.
“I am here now. You can wait downstairs.”
Without a word he gets up and moves to the door, passing close to her. She is used to gauging the tremor of attention that her presence causes in men, not so much vanity as professional observation, but she has never felt a scintilla of interest from this man. At first she had thought he might snuff out such thoughts deliberately because she belonged to his master, but now she doubts he feels anything toward any woman. There is no one in Rome who doesn’t know the stories: his prowess with a dagger or the garrote, the way the Tiber swallows the bodies when he is finished with them. Maybe that is where the thrill of coupling lies for him. There are men in the world like that; she knows because it is the business of a good courtesan to avoid them.
When his master was a regular visitor she had once wondered what he might feel if it were her neck under his wire. She, who is not frightened by many things in life, had been frightened by that.
She settles the parrot first, offering him some treats out of a leather pouch slung below the perch. He takes a peck at the skin of her palm to register his annoyance. She slips a finger inside the thick ruff of feathers under his neck and scratches him gently, murmuring soothing words, and after a while he puts his head to one side, cooing now.
“I should have bought you a female parrot. It would have been more of a challenge.” The voice, behind her, is as lazy and petulant as the bird’s. “The little bastard bit me,” he adds sourly.
“You woke him up and did not feed him. What do you expect?” She slips the dark hood over the structure of the perch. From underneath comes a single shriek, then silence.
“Come here.”
>
She stands where she is.
“Come here, Rome’s juiciest whore.”
She moves toward him and sinks down, her robe billowing out around her. She knows how lovely she will look in the fire glow. She has been two feet away from herself since she was old enough to remember, assessing what others see: in this case her flawless porcelain skin, with a riot of unruly dark curls coursing over her shoulders and down her back. A woman made for bedding; those had been the words of one of her earliest lovers. His enthusiasm had financed an elegant hunting tapestry in the hall; it was the first such household luxury she had owned rather than rented, a fact she recalls with satisfaction each time she passes it.
“Well,” he says through half closed eyelids. “Aren’t you going to tell me how pleased you are to see me again?”
“I would be more pleased if you had given me notice.”
“I was busy.”
“And so am I. It is Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” he repeats, as if the word is new to him. “Well, I daresay you have had a clash of diaries before in your long years of work.”
“There is no clash,” she says tartly. “You had no appointment.”
“Who is the lucky man? Church or state?”
She shrugs.
“Roman or foreign? Come—give me a clue.”
“He is no one you know.”
“But he knows me?”
“If I were you I would not see that as a compliment,” she says impatiently.
He lifts himself on an elbow and pulls her head toward him, playing with his tongue around the edges of her mouth, before probing further.
She registers the telltale snip of desire in her gut, she who in her time has slept with a dozen men in half as many days with no hint of excitement. In her profession she should be better at controlling it. She pulls away. “You smell…rancid, my lord.”