Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  “What is it then?”

  Gianni stared around his room as though trapped in it, his arms folded tightly across his chest, shoulders hunched. Luca wondered if he were trying not to cry. It seemed a ridiculous overreaction.

  He said, forcing himself to speak calmly, “Gianni, I am going back downstairs to Francesca. Please come and introduce yourself as soon as you feel able. We’ll be waiting for you.” He strode out of the room. The door banged shut behind him and he ran two at a time back down the stairs to the sala.

  Francesca was standing once again by the fireplace, staring into the flames, chewing her thumbnail. She started visibly as Luca came in.

  “What did he say?” she said, sounding almost breathless.

  Luca shook his head. “He’s more upset than I thought. I’m not sure why. I hope he’ll come down later, but—” He broke off, reached for Francesca’s hand and squeezed it. “Please, please, cara, don’t worry.” Her fingers felt stiff within his own, and he realized with a little jolt of shock that she was shivering. Surprised at the intensity of her anxiety, he turned her to face him, took up her other hand, and held them together, clasped inside his own.

  “Listen, carissima,” he said, “it simply doesn’t matter what Gianni thinks—he’ll get used to the idea. Please, there’s really no need to—”

  The handle of the door to the sala clicked.

  Francesca snatched her hands away and pulled back from him.

  Gianni stood, pale and wide-eyed in the doorway. His eyes on his son’s face, Luca reached again for Francesca’s fingers.

  “Thank you for coming down, Gianni,” he said. “I would very much like you to meet Francesca—Signora Marrone. Signor di Laviano’s cousin. Francesca, this is my son Gianni.”

  Twenty-six

  It was a full moon, bright as a new-minted coin. The light caught along the edges of the shrouds, turning them to spun silver, as the rolled gently in the swell of the incoming tide. The youngest member of the crew, on watch up in the sharp bows of the ship, picked out a haunting tune on a home-made pipe; the sound hung above him for a moment, like a wisp of woodsmoke, and then drifted out over the water and disappeared.

  Down in his cabin, Salvatore leaned back in his chair and fingered the beaded braids beneath his chin.

  Carlo della Rovere was insistent. watched him run the tip of his tongue along the edge of his upper lip as he said, “So, you would consider it then, would you?”

  “As I said, Sinjur,” said slowly, running a thumb over the stumps of the missing fingers on the opposite hand, “I find that it pays to keep an open mind on most things.” He paused. “I thought I had made it quite clear to you that it’s not a venture I have undertaken before—I have always presumed that inanimate cargo would be far less demanding to maintain—but, as I explained to you just now, this gentleman in Tunis did say several times that it would be well worth our while to consider it. If the opportunity were ever to arise. And it is, as he pointed out, much safer than the demanding of a ransom.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind, then, Signore,” Carlo said with a grin. “If, as you say, the opportunity were ever to arise.”

  “But—to more immediate concerns,” said. “How much did you get for the alum?”

  Carlo tipped his chair back onto two legs, and, arching his back, wriggled a hand down into a pocket in his breeches. He pulled out and held up a bag, which clinked as he dropped it onto the table in front of the privateer. loosened the strings and poured the coins out onto the table.

  “Good. Well done. And the diamond?”

  “Disposed of successfully—not a chance of its being traced. The money will be with me by Friday.”

  “A certain transaction?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’ve done well.”

  “I told you I was good.”

  looked at him. “Yes,” he said. “You did. And you shall have your commission.” With one finger, he slid a number of coins across the table toward his open palm, then handed them across to Carlo. “That’s for today—there will be more when the money for the diamond is in.”

  Carlo nodded, clearly pleased, and then said, “What is the next venture to be?”

  “We set sail in a few days’ time, Sinjur. Our supplies are nearly complete, the refit of the galley is finally finished, and the repairs to the mizzen mast are well under way—not much more than a couple of days’ work remain, I think. Of course, now that we have such a generous Letter of Marque”—he smiled and nodded toward a small chest, in which lay his prized document—“we can set our sights on considerably higher earnings than we have done in past years. So, I have it in mind to go back to Tunis.”

  “Tunis?”

  “Aye. Or possibly down as far south as Chebba. I’ll try to pick up the best of the wind off the coast of Syracuse, take the down past the Isola di Lampedusa and hopefully—if my informants are correct, which they most often are—we might very possibly be set to encounter several overladen vessels on their way back from Tripoli who might possibly be…persuaded to part with some considerable part of their excess cargo.”

  “And when shall you be back in Napoli?”

  “That will depend entirely upon what we discover on the way out.”

  “I wish I could come with you, Signore.”

  “You would always be more than welcome, Sinjur.”

  Carlo’s eyes glittered.

  Twenty-seven

  Oh sweet Jesus! This simply cannot be happening. Small wonder Luca’s face seemed familiar at San Domenico…God has finally run out of patience with me. For so many years I have been so terribly afraid of dying—of going to Hell. But perhaps not quite frightened enough. It now seems I don’t need to worry about death after all. I am to be punished for my wickedness before I die.

  God must hate me so very much. He’s going to take Luca away from me. I knew it would happen. He’s given me just this one tantalizing glimpse of…of what I want so very much…just to show me what I’ve been missing, and then—oh, Dio!—He’s going to snatch it all away from me.

  I think I might be sick.

  “Gianni,” Luca says, “I’m glad you’ve come back down. Forgive us if we finish our meal. Do you want some?”

  Gianni shakes his head.

  My plate is still half-full of Luca’s lovely peposo, but I know I won’t be able to eat another mouthful. Luca and I sit back in our places, while Gianni pulls out another of the folding wooden chairs from where it stands against the wall; he shakes it open and sits down at the far end of the table.

  “Signora Marrone has been kind enough to come and keep me company for supper this evening.”

  Gianni stares at me. I can feel my heartbeat shaking my whole body.

  Luca has either not noticed the horrible tension shuddering between Gianni and me, or he is deliberately ignoring it. He says, “Tell us about your trip. How was your journey?” His voice has a brightness about it, but then, when I look at the fork in his hand, I see a tremor in his fingers. Gianni doesn’t answer immediately; he cannot take his eyes from mine. Will he say something? Will he give me away and ruin everything? He is holding me out over the edge of a precipice by my wrists and could let go at any moment. A long way below me lie jagged rocks.

  He finally drags his gaze from my face and turns to his father. “It was long, Papa. Very long. Piccione lost a shoe about thirty miles out of Napoli, and we had to walk for a couple of hours until we could find a farrier.”

  “Were you able…?”

  Gianni nods. “He’s quite sound again.”

  “What about Bologna?” Luca asks.

  Gianni shrugs. He picks up and begins to fiddle with one of the pieces of bread that lies on the cloth, pulling the soft crumb into tiny shreds. “I am not sure how helpful it was. Signor Trotti set me various tasks, m
ost of which I’ve managed to accomplish. But I shan’t really know until he has seen and commented on what I have written. Perhaps you could cast an eye over it all for me, Papa, before I give it to Trotti.”

  Luca smiles, nods and says, “Would you like a drink, Gianni?”

  “Thank you, Papa.” The bottle on the table is all but empty. “There’s not much left in that one,” he says. “I’ll go down to the cellar and get another.”

  “No—I’ll go, Gian—take a moment to talk to Francesca while I run down and get another couple of bottles.”

  Gianni and I stare at each other as Luca leaves the room. His footsteps ring clear on the stairs.

  There is a moment’s screaming silence.

  My face burns with shame as I remember the warmth of this boy’s mouth on my scar, the feel of my legs wrapping around his waist, the taste of his skin, the exquisite, shivering conclusion of our coupling; and then he pushes back his chair. He walks across to the window and, leaning his head upon the glass, says coldly, with his back to me, “How much has he paid you to be here?”

  My head is icy and hollow. “Nothing.” My voice comes out as a whisper.

  He turns to me, arms folded across his chest, shoulders high. “Nothing? Then why have you come? I didn’t think you did it gratis.” His voice cracks.

  “He doesn’t know, Gianni. He doesn’t know I’m a— He doesn’t know about any of it. I gave it all up the day I met him. I’m not whoring anymore. Oh, God, Gianni, please, please don’t tell him!”

  He frowns. “What do you mean—you’ve given it all up?”

  Tears are blurring my vision.

  “It’s because of him. Your father. I can’t explain now—it’s too complicated. He’ll be back in a moment. Please…”

  I hear footsteps; I quickly wipe my eyes and nose with my fingers, expecting to see Luca as the door opens. But a slight, fair-haired young man leans in through the doorway, a twisted smile lifting one corner of his mouth. I stand up.

  “So, he’s found himself a woman after all this time…” the young man says. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Signora, you don’t appear to be particularly happy about it.”

  There is a loud pause and then Gianni says stiffly, “Carlo—this is Signora…Signora Marrone.”

  The man called Carlo bows with an exaggerated flourish and Gianni turns to me. “Signora, this is my brother.”

  The man whose money paid for Gianni’s defloration.

  Oh, dear God—this is a nightmare!

  “And the two of you have been getting to know one another. How nice,” Carlo says. Gianni reddens. Carlo sees his flush and grins. Leaning in close to Gianni’s ear, he says quietly, though with his eye on me—he means me to hear—“I know you’ve developed a bit of a taste for it, after your encounter with that beautiful bitch of Michele’s, but this one here is Papa’s, Gian. Hands off, I’d suggest.” He pats Gianni’s cheek softly with the flat of his hand.

  Gianni swears, glares at Carlo as though he is trying not to hit him, and then, with a last swift glance at me, turns on his heel and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

  It opens again a second later, and an anxious-looking Luca, a bottle of wine in his hand, says, “What in God’s name is the matter with Gianni now? He almost knocked me down the stairs.”

  “Told you the other day, Papa, he lacks a sense of humor,” Carlo says. His mouth is still twisted in amusement. “Excuse me—I have things I should be doing. Delighted to have met you, Signora.” He bows ostentatiously to me once more and, walking with a curiously boneless gait, leaves the room.

  Luca puts both bottles down on the table. “I’m so sorry, Francesca. Oh, cielo—it was probably a dreadful idea in the end, our having our meal together on the night the boys came home.” He turns toward the closed door of the sala. “I have no idea what’s got into Gianni.”

  I stare at him, the explanation for his son’s behavior screaming inside my head.

  Luca stands in front of me and strokes my hair. My longing for him is stronger than my fear, and without my deciding to do it, my arms slide around his waist. He bends and kisses my mouth once more, pulling me in toward him with one hand, pressing the other hand up between us and onto my breast. His knee pushes in between my thighs. A little noise of longing escapes me and I cling to him as though I were drowning. This might be as much of him as I will ever get—I’m going to snatch every second I can have.

  But, after a moment or two, Luca takes his mouth from mine, shakes his head and says, “No. I am going to have to take you home, Francesca. In another moment or two I’m not sure I’ll be responsible for what I am doing. I don’t want to do anything to compromise your reputation.”

  Oh, God. My reputation? I am close to weeping.

  “Come on, we’ll take our time walking, shall we?” Luca says.

  ***

  The night is warm, and a faint wind from the south carries a smell of salt, tarred rope, and fish up from the dockside. It hasn’t rained for weeks; the street is blurred with dirt. The place is almost empty—there are very few people out, though a couple of ragged little boys are sitting astride a low wall, kicking the stucco with grubby bare feet and staring unabashed at the two of us as we pass them.

  Luca and I walk side by side, not touching, as close as propriety permits in the open street.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  “Why? What for?”

  “For my son. His behavior was quite…Oh, Francesca, I don’t know what to say! It simply never occurred to me that he would react like that—he is normally so good-natured…I just…” He trails off and I stop walking and turn to him.

  “You don’t have to apologize for him. He isn’t you. It’s you I want—not him.” My words hang glittering in the air between us as though I have shouted them at the top of my voice. My unthinking, nakedly honest words, blurting out a sentiment horribly inappropriate for the sedate widow I am supposed to be. Luca stares at me. We stand there in the street, facing each other and not speaking.

  Luca does not respond to my outburst directly. He says, “Perhaps I can see you again. On Monday?”

  I cannot speak. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out of it, and I close it again.

  My head feels stiff upon my neck and I wonder if I shall be able to move it. But then I manage to nod.

  “What are you thinking?” Luca asks.

  “That…that you know so little about me.” I am an empty eggshell, a stupid, fragile nothing that he could crush with ease in the palm of one hand.

  He smiles and lays a hand on my cheek. “I know as much as I need to know for now, carissima. I will have leisure enough in the future to discover the rest. And if it comes to that, the obverse is also true—you know next to nothing about me.”

  A melting feeling of warm longing starts in my throat, catching behind my nipples on its way down through my body, when I see the deep laughter lines curving around his mouth.

  Luca says, “It is getting late, cara. I should get you home. I will come and find you on Monday morning.” His smile broadens. “I’m going to take you out. If you are happy to, I should like to take you to see a seamstress friend of mine, the redoubtable Signora Zigolo, and you can choose cloth for a new dress.”

  My heart jolts as though I have missed my footing on a flight of stairs. Bianca? Oh, cielo! I can just imagine the expression on her face when Luca and I walk into her shop together. I will have to send a note round to her straight away—and hope to God she keeps her mouth shut.

  ***

  “So that boy who came here that time is his son?” Modesto leans back in his chair and runs the fingers of both hands through his hair. “Cazzo!”

  I nod. “Oh, Modesto, it was so terrible,” I say. “When Gianni walked in, we just looked at each other, and—Oh, God!” I cover m
y face with my hands and bend forward until my knuckles rest on the tabletop.

  “But he said nothing?”

  I shake my head. “No. I think he thought at first that Luca had paid me to be there.”

  Modesto says nothing, but there is a new stiffness about his expression that has been there much of the time since I returned home from the play and first told him about Luca. My hovering suspicions about Modesto’s feelings are growing stronger by the day, but I cannot think too deeply upon this right now; my heart is in too fragile a state just at present to withstand much probing or investigation.

  I ask him for paper and quill.

  “Luca is taking me to Bianca’s on Monday morning,” I say. “He has no idea that I know her, and I simply have to warn her to keep her mouth shut before she sees us together. You know what she’s like.”

  “Write her a note, Signora,” Modesto says, placing paper, pen, and ink in front of me on the table, “and I’ll take it round tomorrow.” He turns away, but I catch his hand.

  “Thank you, caro,” I say.

  He holds my gaze, then squeezes my fingers and smiles. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says.

  I dip the quill into the ink and begin to write. I write too quickly; the nib catches on the paper and a little spatter of tiny droplets flicks across one corner of the page.

  Bianca, cara—I write in haste. Forgive my poor handwriting, but my fingers are shaking. Be prepared for the unexpected, Bianca, and if you have ever considered yourself my friend, for God’s sake, heed what I tell you now. You hold my future in your hands. I shall be seeing you tomorrow, but I shall not be alone…

  And I write as much as I dare.

  Twenty-eight

  Cristoforo di Benevento leaned out of the window of his apartment in the Castello Svevo and, in a voice that blasted out with ease across the already noise-filled morning, roared his disapproval. “Hey! You! What the hell do you think you are doing?”

  Fifty heads snapped round and looked up, searching for the source of the interruption to their activities.