‘Oh, he’s making me feel so good!’ Monna Livia cried.
Her husband answered with a wicked chortle. ‘Me too! This is doing me a power of good, and no mistake! I can’t imagine why we didn’t think of this before.’
‘Desperate ills seek desperate remedies,’ Carla thought, and almost laughed out loud.
The juices running out of Monna Livia’s cunny now tasted sweet and fresh, her pouting sex lips were thick and swollen with desire and Carla sensed that it would not be long before the paroxysms would shake through her as they had before. But was her husband ready for her? She looked back over her shoulder and saw the old man sitting astride his chair and manipulating his penis. He grinned sheepishly at her and she saw his semi-flaccid organ rear a little. He nodded urgently and waved his hand at her, encouraging her to continue.
Carla bent her head to the fragrant quim and at the same time reached up to caress the voluminous breasts with their hard, lust-ripened nipples. Monna Livia gave a deep, guttural groan and her hips shook so wildly that it seemed to be all over for her, but when Carla took her mouth away from the streaming vulva she cried out for more.
‘Go on, lad, don’t stop!’ she heard Bardarelli say behind her. ‘This is the strongest my plonker has been in a long while.’
Carla bent her head again and licked delicately at the swollen clitoral bud, making Monna Livia sigh with heightened pleasure. She arched her back and lifted her hips, moving them in an abandoned way which had her husband groaning too. He got up off his chair and came towards the bed, grunting rhythmically while he gave his cock a good rubbing.
‘Are you ready for me, wife?’ he said at last. ‘Because I reckon I’m about ready for you. Get out the way, boy, and let your elders and betters show you how to do it. There may be snow upon the roof but there’s still a fire in the chimney!’
Carla was glad to make way for him even though a part of her had been really into what she was doing, relishing the tastes and odours that were now growing familiar to her. She retreated to the chair where he had been sitting, slightly embarrassed to be forced into the rôle of voyeur, but then Bardarelli called her back. ‘Hey, I need your help lad. Quick, come here!’ When Carla was kneeling on the chest beside the bed he told her to take hold of the root of his penis and help guide it into his wife’s vagina.
‘Hold fast, give it a good squeeze and that will keep it stiff,’ he said, wincing as his aged knees strained to take his weight. Once he was in she took her hand away and then he began to thrust with surprising vigour, as if his life depended on it.
‘Oh husband, how wonderfully virile you are!’ Monna Livia exclaimed. ‘You’ll make me come in no time.’
‘Better not take too long,’ Bardarelli muttered. ‘I can’t keep it up all night, like I used to.’
Less than a minute later Monna Livia was climaxing with histrionic sounds and gestures, making Carla wonder whether it was a genuine experience or she was putting it on for Bardarelli’s benefit. At any rate it was too much for her poor husband, who spent himself in a wild flurry of gasps and groans then collapsed between her thighs.
There – my – dear!’ he gasped. ‘Perhaps – we have gotten – another son this day.’
‘I should not be surprised,’ she said, winking at Carla who was dazed by all the sudden excitement. ‘You are so much of a man, my love, that only a sturdy boy could come from all that excessive virility.’
Bardarelli chuckled and settled his head comfortably on his wife’s bosom. Carla felt awkward, not knowing whether she should go or stay, but eventually he remembered she was there. He felt beneath the pillow and brought out a bag of silver which he tossed carelessly at her.
‘That’s for your pains, sirrah. You’ve made my Livia look lovelier – so my plonker could get a stonker and bonk her!’ He gave a joyous chuckle. ‘Ha, did you get that, wife? Best joke I’ve made in years! Best fuck I’ve made in years too, what?’
‘Yes, dearest,’ she smiled, with a wink at Carla.
The couple seemed happy and, as she left them together, Carla was almost envious. It must be good to have a companion, to go through good times and bad with them. She found herself wishing blessings on them, perhaps another lusty son to carry on their line. For herself, she had a bag of silver that would no doubt help her in the months ahead, months that she feared she might have to face alone. As she walked through the empty streets Florence had a melancholy air in the afternoon sun with everyone indoors, out of the blazing heat. Carla couldn’t help wondering what would become of her when Marco left Piero’s employ and she was left behind.
‘Oh Marco!’ she murmured, kicking her way through the dusty streets with her worn leather boots. ‘If only you and I could be together as lovers, how contented I would be!’
Chapter Eight
PIERO WAS VERY pleased with the money he got for Monna Livia’s portrait. He was even more delighted when it was hung in Bardarelli’s office for all the visiting bankers and merchants to see. Of course he got all the credit for it, since Carla was thought to be only his apprentice and it was presumed that the fine detail had been added by the master himself.
Amongst the people who saw the portrait was a priest called Father Giacomo. He had come to the Bardarelli mansion on business, seeking to commission some fine wool tapestries for the new chapel in his church, and some quality in the painting struck him forcefully. He called at Piero’s workshop one morning asking to see more of his work.
‘I am impressed,’ he said, after seeing work-in-progress on the Saint Sebastian and a small painting of St John the Baptist that was being made for a Dominican monastery. ‘Tell me, how long would it take you to make a Madonna for a private chapel?’
Piero’s eyes flicked towards Carla for an instant and she knew what he was thinking. If the priest had been drawn to them by her handiwork then she should be the one to take on this commission. Although it piqued her to be deprived of any real recognition, she was willing enough to take on a new project.
‘A month at most,’ Piero replied. ‘Provided you were not wanting anything too complicated, of course.’
‘Oh no, it is to be quite a small work. An Annunciation, but I lay more emphasis on skill than on gilt and ultramarine. I want particular attention paid to the Virgin’s features. She should be portrayed in the first stage of Disquiet, but not as I have seen some other artists represent our Holy Mother. You would think, in some cases, that she was about to sock the angel Gabriel on the jaw or push him out of the window, so violent was her attitude!’
Carla stifled a giggle, unsure whether it would be seemly to laugh at the irreverent image presented by the priest. He seemed to have definite ideas of what he wanted, and went on to describe her robes.
‘I want her clad in charitable red and humble black with just a hint of pure white, and dignified by a faint golden halo. You can leave out the blue, except for a few touches on Gabriel’s wings. She’s to have a prayer book open on her lap and there’s to be a view through the window of the Tuscan hills.’ The priest smiled at Piero, then reeled off the dimensions. ‘Got all that? I leave it to you to calculate for labour and materials. When we agree a price you can make a start on the cartoon and I shall come to inspect it in a few days’ time.’
Just as Father Giacomo was turning to go he seemed to notice Carla for the first time. His dark eyes were fixed on her face with a questioning look. Then he said, ‘This lad, here, could be your model. There is something innocent and charming in his expression that would not look amiss in the face of Our Lady.’
Piero gave a dry laugh. ‘Innocent, eh? Well they say even the devil is not so black as he is painted!’
Once the priest had gone, Piero sat down and made his calculations. He came up with a sum that he thought was reasonable, then added another fifty per cent.
‘The Church can stand the cost,’ he explained. ‘They’re spending a fortune on that new chapel so I don’t see why we shouldn’t get our share. But if you’re to sit as the
model I don’t know how you’re going to contribute to the work.’
‘Why don’t I paint myself by looking in a mirror?’ Carla suggested.
‘What an absurd idea!’
‘I can think of no other way.’
Piero frowned. ‘Neither can I. All right, I shall find one for you to use. You must do the lion’s share of the work, Carla. It is your style that attracted the old fool and he might not be so happy with mine.’
The implication was incredible. Was her master really suggesting that her work was superior to his, even though she was so inexperienced?
He seemed to read her mind and gave a short laugh. ‘I’m not saying your work is better than mine. Only that some people, that priest included, seem to prefer a more naive style like yours. Best give him what he wants, then we’ll all be happy.’
The work was not as satisfying as Carla had hoped. She was allowed to paint only the Madonna’s face, modelled on her own, and the background scenery. Piero found he had the time to paint the angel himself, and she had to admit he made a good job of it too.
‘Angels are my speciality,’ he told her. ‘I once did a whole heavenly host for the ceiling of a private chapel.’
Marco saw the painting when it was nearly finished. He recognised Carla’s face at once. ‘What a convincing woman you make!’ he laughed. ‘Just like at the Carnival. If I didn’t know you were male I should start to have my doubts about you!’
Carla just smiled wanly, taking care not to catch Piero’s eye. Their master found it all hugely amusing and she was afraid that, one day, he would take the joke too far.
In August, on the Feast of the Assumption, the apprentices were allowed out on the town. At Piero’s suggestion they took advantage of the fact that all the churches were open to visit the masterpieces of famous artists and learn from them. They crossed the butchers’ bridge and walked along the riverside until they came to the church of Santa Maria del Carmine.
In the dark interior, heavy with incense and illuminated by hundreds of flower-ringed candles, they made their way to the Brancacci chapel. There Carla was enchanted by the moving frescoes of Masaccio. She particularly liked the expulsion of Adam and Eve, which showed Adam covering his face in shameful despair and Eve sobbing aloud at her own weakness. The figures struck her as intensely life-like and human. For several minutes she stood gazing at the exquisite study in light and form, wishing that she could paint as well.
‘He was the first to show light coming from one source,’ Marco told her. ‘It seems obvious now, since all light comes from the sun. But that one development gives his paintings a new reality, making everything seem so natural. I’m proud to belong to the same guild as such a master!’
After their stint of serious study, the small gang of youths went back out into the bright sunshine. There was a holiday atmosphere everywhere, with stalls and street vendors selling all kinds of food and drink, strolling players, musicians and entertainers, spectacles such as bear baiting and tourneys in the main squares. Although not such an important feast as St John the Baptist’s, there were processions of girls bearing garlands and after the church services some of the young girls gave their guardians the slip and went to mingle with the lads, chatting and flirting with them for as long as they could before they were found by their elders and scolded.
Carla found herself with Marco when one of the pretty young wenches, her hair wreathed with daisies, came up and greeted him. ‘Haven’t I seen you at the apothecary’s?’ she asked, by way of an opening.
‘Possibly,’ he grinned. ‘I go there to buy pigments sometimes, for my master. But what were you doing there? You look the picture of health, and surely your beauty needs no enhancement?’
He was regarding the girl with strong interest, standing casually with his weight on one leg and his hand on his hip as if he were assessing the goods. Carla felt queasy as she realised that he was attracted to her, and the wine she had drunk lay heavily on her stomach. Her heart was fluttering like a trapped butterfly and there was a dull, jealous anger stuck in her chest like an indigestible lump.
‘I go to buy perfumes, and combs for my hair,’ the girl smiled, turning her head for him to see her elaborate coiffure. Then she leaned forward and presented him with her pale, slim neck. ‘Can you smell my jasmine?’
‘I smell your jasmine and your rose too,’ Marco said, his voice low and seductive. ‘What is your name, fair creature?’
‘Elena if it pleases you, sir.’ She simpered at him and Carla had a terrible urge to strike her across the cheek, leaving an ugly red weal. She could hardly bear to continue eavesdropping on their conversation yet she felt compelled to stand there like a ninny, even though Marco was completely ignoring her.
‘It does please me, very much.’ Marco’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper but Carla, attuned to the movements of his lips, picked up his words. ‘And you may please me even more, charming Elena, if you will meet me in Saint Margaret’s garden, at moonrise.’
The girl giggled and nodded, turning the knife in Carla’s already throbbing wound. She knew that the public gardens, across the river in the Oltrarno district, were a favourite rendez-vous for lovers. Elena melted into the crowd with a longing glance, her fingers lingering in Marco’s until the very last moment, and Carla felt sick with envy. Oh, her fate was too cruel! It should be her exchanging loving looks with Marco and arranging a lovers’ tryst. She loved him far more than that little flirt ever could!
On the way back home Carla was so sullen and withdrawn that even Marco noticed.
‘What’s the matter, Carlo?’ he asked.
Giovanni, overhearing, piped up. ‘He’s envious, because you’ve got yourself a fuck for the night and he has none.’
‘That’s not true!’ Carla protested in desperation, but Giovanni only laughed at her.
‘Why don’t you come to the stews with me? I’ll find you a tasty piece. I’ve tried them all out so you just let me know what you fancy and I’ll recommend the best one.’
Carla shrugged, not knowing what to say. Marco came to her rescue. ‘Leave the boy alone, Giovanni. He’ll get into girls when he’s good and ready. Not all men are randy bastards like you, you know!’
Giovanni spat contemptuously and hurried forward to walk with Luigi, Antonio and Matteo, snubbing them. Marco gave Carla a rueful smile. ‘The sooner he leaves Piero’s employ the better, if you ask me. He should be setting up on his own. It irks him that he’s still with the rest of us. But he needs money for new premises and he spends it like water, drinking and whoring. I think he’s still deep in debt.’
‘What about you?’ Carla asked, trying not to betray her secret fear that he would leave her. ‘What are your plans for the future?’
Marco’s face softened, his eyes growing dark and dreamy while his mouth relaxed into a half-smile. ‘I want my own business too, more than anything. But I’m prepared to wait until the right opening comes along.’ He paused, as if wondering whether he could trust her. Then he said in a low voice, ‘Promise not to tell anyone?’ She nodded fervently. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. I’ve heard of a place that would do me very well, but it’s a bit more than I can afford right now. I’m trying to arrange a loan, and if I succeed I doubt I’ll be spending many more nights under Piero’s roof. But you mustn’t breathe a word of it, mind, in case it all falls through.’
Flattered as she was that Marco trusted her with the information, it was a heavy blow to Carla’s heart. The prospect of remaining in the house without Marco was hateful to her. She would rather run away, seek her fortune elsewhere, than remain where Giovanni could torment her mercilessly and Piero use her as he pleased, with no one to speak up for her or brighten her day with thoughts of love.
‘I hope you don’t go too soon,’ she ventured, her voice sounding weak and pathetic.
Marco laughed at her with gentle indulgence. ‘I warned you not to rely on me too much, little Carlo. You must learn to stand on your own two feet. It’s a
harsh world out there. Still, you never know, you might come and work for me. I shall need an apprentice or two.’
He spoke casually, as if the idea meant nothing to him, but it gave Carla hope. Now she had a dream, a real dream that might come true one day. She vowed to hold on to it, to mentally take it out and polish it like a treasured object whenever she felt downhearted.
The five of them dined at a tavern that evening, surrounded by bawdy singing and drunken foolery. Carla didn’t much care for the atmosphere and she was relieved when Marco rose from the bench. But her relief was short-lived when she remembered that he had an appointment with pretty Elena.
‘I’ll leave you chaps now then,’ he told them, swaying slightly on his feet since his belly was full of wine. ‘See you in the morning, if not before.’
‘Give her one for me!’ Matteo called with a grin.
Luigi made an obscene gesture with his forearm and Giovanni got up too. ‘I’m off to the stews!’ he declared. ‘Who’s coming?’
After Marco had disappeared, Luigi and Matteo went off in the direction of the market telling Carla to take Antonio, ‘the baby’, home. She did so sadly, but once she was there in the house with the young apprentice tucked up in his bed and Piero snoring loudly in his chair she felt unbearably restless and decided to venture out again. She took a lamp and made for the bridge across the Arno, knowing that she was only storing up more pain for herself but unable to resist the urge that led her feet on a straight path towards Saint Margaret’s garden.
The walled garden had belonged to a convent that had been destroyed by fire. When the nuns moved to a more spacious building they gave the land to the Signoria, for the people of Florence to enjoy. Now, in the moonlight, it was a pretty wilderness of roses and herbs that scented the night air, a place of winding mossy paths and overgrown shrubs. Carla peered through the wrought-iron gate but could see no one. She pushed gently and, with a slight protesting groan, the gate swung open on rusty hinges. Taking a deep breath she extinguished her torch and entered the garden.
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