“Gabriele, are these people going to leave soon? I hope to God it isn’t part of your tradition to have the consummation of a marriage witnessed by a cheering crowd.”
He laughed once, and the sound warmed the house the way the cold oven no longer did. He leaned down to whisper back. “They will leave as soon as they are assured we are settled. Then we can indulge in the pleasure of our seclusion.” Pleasure of our seclusion. I liked the sound of that very much.
* * *
After his meeting with the Medici boy, Baldi assembled the supplies to carry out his task. The carpenter he hired, happy to have any commission at all in such sparse times, had worked quickly, fashioning a ladder that could reach a second-floor loggia, and Baldi found a blacksmith outside the city walls and purchased a small dagger, easily hidden.
From an alley across the via, Baldi watched the wedding party approach the newlyweds’ home—just as he’d predicted, with the guests drunk on the Ospedale’s fine clarée. He moved into the shadow of the alleyway and sat down to wait until moonset, wrapping his cloak around him.
PART XIII
NOS MODERNI
The guests finally filed out, calling out good wishes and bawdy suggestions. But when they had left we were still not alone. Clara had insisted on attending me this one last time. She removed my cloak, then began to unlace the back of my overgown. Gabriele strewed fresh rushes on the floor and added wood to the fire until it crackled and gave off a wave of heat. What if Clara’s presence wouldn’t be considered company, from the medieval point of view? I hoped the wedding night would not include her settling in for the evening.
Gabriele lit candles and placed them in the wall sconces. In the wavering light, I could see the faint outlines of the sketches Gabriele had made, the ones I’d found in my kichen. The bed loomed ominously large, draped with a heavy dark red canopy. Clara removed my overgown, leaving me in the long-sleeved dress beneath it. Finally, she curtsied, and left with a small smile dimpling her cheek.
I moved against the wall, conscious of the cold plaster against my back. Beneath the dress I had a long linen chemise, the sort of thing I once would have walked around in unabashedly—but now, even in two garments, I felt undressed.
“You are shivering,” Gabriele said.
“The wall is cold.”
“Come away from it, then, and to the fire.”
I heard sounds from the kitchen below—Gabriella laughing, Bianca, quieting her daughter in a tone that sounded like bedtime. I couldn’t quite make out the words.
“Do I live here now?”
“Indeed you do. With us. With me.”
“Just like that—boom—this is my house, and I’m your wife?”
“Boom? Does that mean all at once?”
“Basically.” My new ring pinched the flesh between my fingers.
Gabriele smiled gently.“Just a few weeks ago you bemoaned the slowness of our many-stage betrothal process, did you not?”
“It’s just strange—one minute I live in the Ospedale, the next minute I’m standing here married to you.”
“There must always be a moment when before changes to after; just as there is a division between unborn and born, or life and death.”
I was finding it a bit hard to breathe. “It’s kind of stuffy in here, can we open the window?” I could see from the look on Gabriele’s face that I’d made an outrageous suggestion, to open up the tightly sealed window of a medieval bedroom in February. But before I could retract it, he had pulled over a chair to stand on, and was opening the shutters to remove the parchment.
“I am here to serve your wishes, my lady and wife,” he said, “though I begin to wonder whether that will prove difficult.”
I felt my face get hot and welcomed the breeze from the open window. “I’m nervous.”
“Do you think you are alone in that? Beatrice, look at my hands.”
I stared at his long fingers, the gentle curve of his knuckles, the surprisingly delicate bones of his wrists. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but couldn’t. I’d just married a man centuries older than me and committed myself to his place and time. Had I really once held that hand?
“Gabriele, you’re shaking.”
“How could I not? It is incredible that we have bridged the centuries that separated us.” He put his hands down.
“Maybe we should just talk for a while,” I said. He nodded his assent. There were two chairs by the fire, and we sat. “Why don’t you start?”
Gabriele drew his lower lip into his mouth to consider his answer. “Would you care to tell me of those you have left behind?”
“What, you mean my friends?”
“Famiglia, amici, consorterie—in whatever order pleases you.”
“I don’t have family.” It sounded harsher than I’d intended.
“Would you like to speak of the family you once had?”
“I might get upset.”
“What is a husband for, if not to comfort you?” I smiled for the first time since the door had closed behind us. But I wasn’t ready to talk about Ben. A few seconds passed while we listened to the crackling of the fire in the hearth. “Beatrice, I have never known you to be so hesitant to speak.”
“Sorry. I’m not quite myself.”
“You are your new self.”
“You’re always so gracious, no matter how difficult I am. That’s a nice quality.”
“It bodes well for our marriage,” he said.
“Don’t you ever get upset?”
“When necessary.”
“Efficient of you.”
“I prefer to reserve my energy for what is to come. The night is long.”
My face got hot again. “I’ll tell you about Nathaniel.”
“Please.” Gabriele looked at me expectantly.
“Nathaniel owns—or will own—a bookstore in New York City—it doesn’t exist yet, of course. Across the ocean from here.”
“What is the basis for your friendship with this . . . gentleman?” Gabriele’s tone of voice had changed—more formal.
“Gentleman? I guess he’s a gentleman. He does have excellent manners. And he takes, I mean took, good care of me.”
“Good care, you say?”
“Oh, not that kind of care, he wasn’t my boyfriend or anything.”
“Boy-Friend?” We were on different planets. This was not going to be easy.
“Er . . . lover? Is that what you are thinking? No, he was just a great loving friend.”
“Such friends are good to have.”
“He’s gay, anyway, and basically married.”
“I see,” Gabriele said stiffly, but clearly he didn’t see.
“Gay means . . . he loves a man named Charles. Charles is a doctor, but he deals mostly with dead people.”
“Beatrice, I do not mean to judge you and your time ill, but your closest friend is a sodomite who loves a man who deals in dead bodies?”
Things were not going well. I felt my patience ebb, strained by the demands of cross-century transplantation and marriage coming to a head all at once—over Nathaniel. My Nathaniel, who understood me without explanation and would never recommend a book to me again.
“Who are you to criticize my friends for being ‘unsavory’? In your world they hang criminals by the neck while a crowd cheers the hangman on.” I glared at him.
“No criminals die at the hand of the government, in your time?”
“Well, no, they do sometimes. Just not visibly.”
“Then your government does it in secret, so the people can have no part in their communal justice?”
“It isn’t the way you make it sound.”
“How then do you kill your criminals?”
“This is an even less romantic subject than Nathaniel,” I said, and then unexpectedly I was crying.
“Beatrice, I am sorry. I should not press you thus.” Gabriele produced a handkerchief from somewhere in his tunic. “May I dry your tears?” I leaned forward, and from
his seat he reached out to touch my cheek. It was such a relief to feel his hand on my face, breaking through the centuries that divided us, that I started to cry harder.
“Sweet Beatrice, is there a safer topic? We seem to be traveling the chasm between our worlds quite perilously.”
“Tell me about your wife.”
“That is not a particularly safe topic either.”
“This time I’ll listen while you explain.”
“You are a challenging woman, Beatrice.”
“You didn’t know that? You’ll be in for nasty surprises over the next few decades, then.”
“I hope to be surprised for decades, as you say. Boredom is a poor reward for fidelity.”
I had to smile. “I still want to hear about your late wife, if you are willing to talk.”
He sighed. “What do you want to know?”
“Did you love her?”
“That is a difficult question to answer.”
“Is that what you would say about me to your next wife, if I died?”
“No.” He answered simply.
“What would you say, then?”
“I would say that I loved you more than painting, more than the air I breathe, more than my own life. I would say that the void created by your parting was so great as to be unfathomable, and that I feared I might fall into its bottomless abyss, from which I would never find the light again.”
It was almost a minute before I could speak. “I shouldn’t have made you answer that question.”
“It is your prerogative to know my thoughts, as I would know yours. But perhaps we can learn more gradually?”
“Good idea.” I got out of my chair and stood next to him, unsure why I was standing. The candles flickered unevenly in the wind from the open window. Gabriele looked up at me.
“Will you tell me your thoughts now, Beatrice?”
I considered his question. “My mind is blank.”
“Excellent,” Gabriele said, rising suddenly. In one swift movement he took my face in his hands and kissed me on the mouth. His lips were warm, and shockingly soft. He caressed the back of my neck with one hand, and his other traveled down my back.
“Gabriele, I have to tell you something.”
He looked at me indulgently. “I suspect that this will not be your last topic of the night.”
“I’m not a virgin. I hope you didn’t think you were marrying one.” I had an image of him walking out of the room without another word.
“Nor am I,” he said simply.
“I know you aren’t, obviously. But . . . you don’t care that I’m . . . sullied, or anything?”
He smiled. “Why should I? I hope to benefit from your experience.”
The implications of his answer made me flush. “You just think I’m amusing because I’m from a different century.”
“You have spoiled me, Beatrice. No woman from my own time could ever equal you.”
“But another modern transplant could do it?”
“There will never be any woman, from any century, to move me as you do.”
“You haven’t met anyone else from my century.”
“I do not need to,” he said. “Now I hope I have convinced you sufficiently of my devotion to allow another kiss.”
I stopped arguing. After a few minutes we both pulled back, breathless.
“Beatrice, please turn around.”
“Why?”
“If I try to remove your gown without unlacing it, I am likely to tear it to pieces. Do you have any further questions?”
“I might, later,” I said over my shoulder, hearing him chuckle.
The time and effort required to get a medieval bride undressed could drive anyone’s anticipation through the roof. By the time Gabriele got me out of the chemise, more than my hands were trembling. Behind me, I heard Gabriele’s intake of breath.
I started to turn to face him but he stopped me with one hand.
“Wait.” His breath was warm in my ear. “It is a great luxury to look at you this way.” His fingers followed his words, and my skin warmed under them. “The sweet arch of your neck, the curve in your back, just here.” He touched the base of my spine, briefly, and I shivered. “I must admit, Beatrice, that at this moment I am not thinking about painting you. Not at all.”
I held my breath, feeling his eyes on me.
At last he turned me gently to face him. “Beatrice, you are shaking again. Ought I to close the window?”
I wanted him so much it made my knees weak. “Gabriele, haven’t you ever taken a hungry woman to bed before?” I saw the answer in his face, the sudden shift in his expression.
“No, I have not. We are each virgins in our different ways, Beatrice—you to marriage, and me . . . to reciprocated desire.”
For a moment I was embarrassed for us both, but then my body won out over my mind. “Well, if I’m going to deflower you, you’ve got to undress too. Otherwise it’s not fair.”
“By all means we must be fair,” Gabriele replied hoarsely as I reached for his belt.
We stood in front of each other, surrounded by our piles of clothes. I was not prepared for the sight of his body. Nearly every inch of his skin had been hidden for the months I’d known him, under fabric from neck to ankles. But beyond the pure shock of seeing his beautiful, breathtaking nakedness, I’d never felt the marriage of emotion and desire as I did now.
“Come to me, Beatrice,” Gabriele said. I took a step to narrow the space between us, then matched my length to his—chest, belly, thigh—and buried my face in the heat of his neck. His pulse beat fast under my mouth, the incontrovertible evidence that this man, born more than six hundred years before me, was alive in my arms. My head spun, the world tilting. And it was more than desire that blurred my vision and filled my head with sound—my extra sense kicked in as the physical barriers between us came down at last. But unlike all the unsuspecting others whose minds I’d visited, Gabriele was aware of my arrival, and unlike the others, could resist it.
“May I?” I said, hoping he would know what I meant.
“You may,” he said, looking down at me gravely. “But beware, for I will reciprocate, in my own way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Beatrice, you must know what I mean.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
He kept his hands firmly on my arms. “I have waited as long as I can bear to have you. I may not be able to be gentle.”
“I don’t want you to be gentle.”
His eyes narrowed. “I am a great deal stronger than you.”
“Prove it, Gabriele.”
And then he let me in his head. And I learned, in that shocking moment, what it felt like to be a man—this man—my sweet, articulate, chivalrous Gabriele, driven by a need so sharp and hungry that it blinded him to everything else. I saw myself through his eyes, saw what he intended to do with me, felt the passion behind that intent. It was exhilarating and dangerous.
“You want that from me, Beatrice? Are you certain?”
I didn’t answer out loud. We stumbled across the stone floor to the edge of the huge canopied bed, which welcomed us with a loud creak of boards and the sharp smell of wool.
When Gabriele made space for his body between my legs, I learned just how strong he was, and he proved it without restraint. I had given him leave, and he took me at my word. After that, I lost the boundary between my mind and my body for a long time.
Gabriele woke me a few hours later, his fingers stroking my leg under the piled blankets. The candles had burned down, and a faint silvery moonlight came through the open shutters. For a moment I did not know where I was. Then the reality of my dislocation overwhelmed me, the expanse of centuries separating me from my own time. I grabbed onto Gabriele’s shoulder and he put his hand over mine.
“Beatrice, did I frighten you?”
“No, of course you didn’t. But wouldn’t you be frightened if you woke up in the middle of the night in a strange bed, more
than six hundred years from everything you’ve ever known?”
“Do you regret your decision, Beatrice?”
“No.” It wasn’t regret, it was the truth laid bare in the dark. But my heart was slowing down as I listened to the sound of his voice. “It’s hard to believe I’m here.”
“I too awoke, fearing that I was alone again with only a memory to keep me company.” Gabriele’s hand warmed my fingers, and I relaxed into the certainty of that simple contact. “Beatrice, may I hazard a guess that we both need the same sort of reassurance?”
“What sort of reassurance?” He put his mouth on mine. “Oh, that was an excellent guess. Please do that again.” Gabriele proceeded to reassure us both quite thoroughly of my physical reality until we were damp with sweat, despite the open window.
* * *
“I almost wish I could be a man for a few hours,” I said to him afterward, still feeling the thrill of being carried along by that concentrated fury of want.
“It seems you will be, if you continue to enter my thoughts this way. And if I continue to allow you to do so.”
“I hope you will,” I said, truthfully. “I’d miss it if you didn’t.”
“I will—under one condition,” Gabriele said, his voice shifting.
“What condition?”
He cleared his throat. “This time, Beatrice, you will tell me, as I make love to you, what it feels like to be in your body. I do not have the powers you possess, but I would know the experience of being . . . taken.”
“I have to talk?”
“Yes, Beatrice. And if you need me to pause for you to catch your breath, I will do so, before I resume. And you must be frank, and thorough. It is only fair, is it not?”
“It is fair,” I said, shivering with the prospect.
“Then turn onto your knees, Beatrice; it will be easier for you to speak.” I did, and felt his chest against my back. “Now, start speaking,” Gabriele said, “and do not stop until you are beyond speech.” And I did as he asked, until I couldn’t.
The Scribe of Siena Page 39