Lady of Asolo

by Siobhan Daiko

  ‘And me,’ Luca said with a frown. ‘Giorgione died of the plague, apparently. There’s a letter dated October 1510 that’s survived, written by Isabella d’Este, the Marques of Mantova. She asks a Venetian friend to buy a painting by Giorgione for her collection. The letter shows her awareness that he was already deceased.’

  ‘Ah, that’s interesting. Did she get the painting?’

  ‘No. There’s a reply saying it wasn’t to be had at any price.’

  ‘Have you found any reference to Cecilia?’

  ‘None whatsoever. No one wrote letters about her and she clearly wasn’t a letter-writer herself. Most of our knowledge of life in the distant past comes from correspondence, you know.’ He paused. ‘Any more of your episodes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and proceeded to tell him about Zorzo’s visit to Cecilia’s room, followed by the offer of marriage from Lodovico and all that it entailed. ‘I feel so sad for her. She’s caught between a rock and a hard place.’

  ‘I expect her sister was right about his women. He would have met several before and after Cecilia appeared on the scene. Not all of the paintings look like her.’

  Fern wondered again if Lorenza could have been one of those women. She couldn’t help the stab of jealousy. Ridiculous!

  They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, and then Fern said, ‘I’m really grateful to you for being here for me, Luca. Don’t know what I’d do otherwise.’

  Luca took his hand from the wheel and squeezed hers briefly. She was intensely aware of him, his long, lean thighs and his broad shoulders. She stared determinedly out of the window at the passing countryside, the villages with their church spires, ice-cream shops and cafés, interspersed with cornfields, fruit orchards and vineyards. There was an assortment of factories, too, in tastefully-built modern buildings, testament to the wealth based on manufacturing of this industrious part of Italy. Such an amazing place.

  Luca found a park in the main square of Castelfranco, just outside the moated centro storico. They sat on the terrace of a café opposite a grassy piece of ground, where a statue of the painter had been placed. A pigeon fluttered down and perched on its head.

  Fern laughed. ‘It’s not much like him. They’ve made him too “pretty”. Zorzo wasn’t a “pretty boy”.’

  ‘I’ve seen a photo of his self-portrait. In my Giorgione book. Yours too, I presume?’

  Fern glanced away. Best not to mention the effect that photo had on her, how she’d fingered the sensuous mouth, and wallowed in Zorzo’s brooding expression. She shook herself. ‘When’s your business meeting?’

  ‘Just before lunch. Shall we visit the cathedral and look at the maestro’s work?’ Luca said, putting change on the table to pay for their coffees.

  ‘Lead the way!’

  He held her hand. They walked under the archway below the clock tower and into the walled centre of the old town.

  The altar piece towered over the vaults in the Costanzo chapel, to the right of the cathedral’s nave. A soldier in shining armour graced the left of the canvas, and a monk in Franciscan garb stood on the right. The Virgin sat enthroned on a high pedestal in the centre. A feeling of sadness washed through Fern. Where the heck did that come from?

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

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

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

  ‘I expect Giorgione 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 washed through her and she felt her body tremble.

  ‘The Tempest celebrates life,’ Luca said, taking hold of her 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, you know.’

  ‘I know. Just find it depressing, that’s all.’ Fern 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.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  The fresco on the east wall of the Casa Marta-Pellizzari was nearly sixteen metres long, according to the leaflet she picked up at the entrance to the house, and the work measured about a quarter of a metre high. It consisted 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 Fern as being dark. It resonated with the sadness she’d felt in the chapel. Nausea swirled up from her gut. Get some fresh air! She made her way out of the house. There was a stone bench at the side of the building and she lowered herself onto it.

  She knew this place . . .

  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 my lady 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 those Bautas would complete my disguise.

  It doesn’t take me long to find the house next door to the Costanzo chapel, for ’tis 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. Zorzo 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. ’Tis 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 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 ’tis only men who can do such things, for how could a woman cope in voluminous skirts? My hopes of becoming an artist are but 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. ‘Cecilia! What are you doing here?’

  ‘My lady has received an offer of marriage for me.’ I fold my arms. ‘I thought you should know.’

  ‘From whom?’ His brows crease.

  ‘Signor Lodovico Gaspare.’

  ‘And my lady has accepted?’

  ‘Yes. But she does not know I’m no longer intact.’

  ‘Dolcezza, that won’t be a problem for someone with your resourcefulness. 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’m so shocked I can barely hold myself upright.

  ‘Of course I’d like to marry you myself. I said you had my heart, didn’t I? But that would be impossible. You’re used to a life of luxury, dolcezza. With me, you’d have to cook and clean and make do with all manner of things of which you have no conception. ’Tis 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 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 ferrarese 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, dolcezza, but I wonder about his motives for other reasons.’

  ‘What reasons?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about now.’ His gaze holds mine and he takes 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? 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. The owners of the house are away. We’re alone except for Tiziano upstairs, and he knows better than to interrupt us.’

  ‘Your apprentice?’

  ‘My friend, more like.’

  Zorzo 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. 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 prick. I don’t know what to do, except some instinct within me takes over and I stroke him up and down, feeling him grow so big I wonder if I’ll be able to take all of him inside me.

  Zorzo 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 moments. Zorzo 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.’

  We kiss, deep and lingeringly, before he wets a cloth from the hot water pail on the stove and hands 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.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the voice came from right next to her. A familiar voice. Not Zorzo’s, however. Who? Where was she? Then she remembered. She was in Castelfranco. She stared at the man who’d sat himself down next to her. Luca.

  ‘I’m fine. Just give me a few seconds to collect my thoughts.’

  ‘Have you been in the past?’

  ‘Yes. She got to her feet, her body languidly relaxed. The tension she’d felt earlier had dissipated, and she was able to grab hold of Luca’s hand without wanting to make love to him. For that was what she’d been wanting, she realised now. A sudden sense of unreality. You’re completely nuts, Fern. Lusting after Luca then having it off with Zorzo.

  ‘Come on, let me buy you lunch,’ she said. ‘I’m starving. And then I’d like to get a pressie for Aunt Susan. A handbag, I think. Her old one is practically falling apart.’

  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. The thought makes me tremble and at the same time lightens by 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 for it will soon be Lent.

  Tomorrow is the day when we’ll make our vows in Asolo’s church of Santa Caterina. I have been given leave by my lady to rest, 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 wretched for months.

  I’m working on a painting, using the oils Zorzo gave me. ’Tis a representation of Pegaso, and I work without thinking, for I can’t bear 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, 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 my lady 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 figa 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. Signor 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 my lady’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 my lady 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 ’tis morning.

  The day passes in a blur and before I know it, Lodovico and I are married, the banquet is over, and ’tis 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.

  M
y 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 had a feast that would grace my lady’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, and ate little myself.

  When I dreamed 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 imagined sawdust would have tasted. My stomach 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 pinned 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 say 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 with 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.