But some powerful, irresistible force held him where he was. He couldn’t look away from that light. It was as if he stared at the very last beacon in a bleak, black world.
And that was exactly what Isabella was. A glimmer of pure light, a shining, silvery, dancing star, in the waste of his life.
He braced his arm against the cold stone wall, thinking of the heat of Isabella in his arms. The glorious burst of passionate life that broke over him. When he was with her, he felt none of the taint of his past, of the mistakes he had made, the people he had hurt. Life felt so new when he was with her, so full of hope.
It was an illusion, perhaps the cruellest he’d ever known, but it was also intoxicating. He wanted more and more of it, more of her.
That was what drew him to her house tonight. Even as he knew it was the last place he should be, he was pulled there. And when he saw her on the terrace, as if she waited just for him...
He had to go to her. Surely he would have died in that moment if he couldn’t feel her in his arms. And when he kissed her at last—it was as if he slipped into a heaven he did not deserve.
And now the pain was ten times greater. He saw what he could have had in her—and he knew it was all much too late.
Lucretia had been right. Isabella got him into the home of the Strozzi. But the softness of her eyes wounded him.
He drove his fist into the hard stone of the wall, trying to create a new pain to chase the ache in his heart away. But the physical pain was no escape, just as he couldn’t find escape in drink or other women. Isabella was what drew him in now. Isabella was what he wanted.
And she was exactly what he could not have.
He heard a noise from behind him, faint but growing louder, a wild tangle of raucous laughter and shouts. Orlando pressed his back to the wall, his fist instinctively closing around the dagger at his belt.
A group of young men, obviously ale-shot, tumbled into the narrow lane. They were shoving each other, laughing, passing a flask between them. One of them was Orlando’s friend Paolo, a man he often saw at Lucretia’s salon.
‘Orlando!’ Paolo shouted. ‘Where have you been hiding of late? All the tavern wenches are desolate. I can’t handle all of them by myself.’
Orlando’s hand loosened on his dagger but did not fall away. No one could really be trusted in Florence, even—especially—ones who called themselves friends.
‘I have had much business to attend to,’ he answered.
‘Business? Pah!’ Paolo cried. He stumbled closer to Orlando and clapped him on the shoulder. Everyone else tumbled after him, loud and clamorous, the strong odour of wine hovering around them. ‘Pleasure comes before all, surely. We are going to Celeste’s house now. Come with us.’
Orlando shook his head. Such places as Celeste’s, where once he buried his anger and sorrow, held no attractions at all. Not after Isabella and the sweet laughter he found in her arms. Not after he glimpsed what life could be like.
But he couldn’t have Isabella. Not really, not for ever.
He looked back to her window. It was dark now. Isabella was gone.
And so was his old life. Perhaps he could not have Isabella. But he could try to be a man worthy of her. She had given him that.
‘Nay,’ he told Paolo. ‘Not tonight. I have other matters to attend to...’
Chapter Ten
‘I found out a bit about your mysterious Isabella,’ Lucretia said as she walked with Orlando along the Arno. She had drawn her silk veil close against the springtime sun, but he could see the edge of her teasing smile.
‘You work quickly, Lucretia.’
‘Of course, caro. Information is of no use to a woman like me when it is stale. But I fear there is little of interest to know. She doesn’t seem like your usual sort at all.’
His usual sort. Orlando had to laugh wryly when he thought of some of the women in his past. Sophisticated, elegant Lucretia had been the exception to bawdier, darker courtesans, tavern maids, bored older ladies looking for diversion just as he was. Women who could make him forget Maria Lorenza, even if it was just for an hour.
Nay—Isabella was assuredly nothing like any of them. She wasn’t like anyone he had ever known at all, an intriguing mix of artistry and innocence. And last night, when he held her in his arms and buried his face in the perfume of her hair, he felt as he never had before. He felt—clean. Free.
Happy.
Orlando shook his head. He had little memory of how it felt to be happy. When he was a child, mayhap, when his mother and Maria Lorenza were alive and life seemed as a perpetually warm summer. Before things turned cold and dark, and all he could think of was death and revenge. Isabella drove all that away when he was with her. She made the world seem fresh and new again, as he saw it through the artistry of her eyes.
He knew that it all came much too late. His course was set and he could not alter it. He had given his vow to Maria Lorenza. Fate seemed determined to make a joke of him, sending Isabella into his life right at this moment.
He sensed Lucretia watching him closely and realized he had been silent too long. He gave her a careless smile, but he could tell she wasn’t fooled.
‘So tell me what you have heard, fair Lucretia,’ he said.
She shrugged, the pale gold silk of her gown rippling in the light. ‘As I said, there is not much to know. Either she is as dull and blameless as a saint, or most adept at hiding her secrets. She is kin to the Strozzi, after all.’
Orlando felt a flash of anger to be reminded she was connected to the Strozzi. Another sharp joke of fate. ‘She is not like them.’
‘Ah. A saint, then.’
He remembered how her arms held him so close, how her lips opened so eagerly beneath his as she met his kisses with the fire of a raw, untamed passion. He smiled despite himself. ‘Not that, either.’
‘If she can make you smile like that, Orlando, then she is deceptively intriguing,’ Lucretia said with a laugh. ‘It seems her long-dead mother was sister to the father of Matteo and Caterina Strozzi. But she was married off when she was a girl to the scholar, Signor Spinola, and seldom returned to Florence. Signor Spinola is well-known among my friends for his writings. He corresponds with many philosophers and artists, yet few have actually met him. He never leaves his villa. But Mario did spend a few days with him last year, and I saw Mario yesterday. I asked about the Spinolas.’
Mario was young and handsome, though known to be rather shy and devoted to his books. Had he met Isabella when he visited her father? Talked to her, walked with her through the country hills?
Orlando almost laughed at himself. He had no right to be jealous of anyone Isabella talked to. Indeed, jealousy was an emotion foreign to him. But he found he could cheerfully strangle Mario if Isabella laughed with him.
‘And what did Mario say?’ he asked tightly.
‘Much of the father’s great wisdom, but almost nothing of the daughter,’ Lucretia answered. ‘Just that she liked to paint and seemed a good companion to her father. It seems that was why she came to Florence, to be companion to Signorina Caterina until she returns to health, if she ever does. I would wager her cousins wish to make a match for her as well.’
Orlando frowned. ‘Is a match known?’
Lucretia shook her head. ‘Not yet. I heard she is pretty enough to gather some admirers, though sadly her hair is dark and she has no large fortune. The Strozzi will use every tool they have to make alliances. If you have taken a liking to her...’
‘I was merely curious about her,’ he lied.
Lucretia laughed. ‘I know you better than that, Orlando. You have never asked about a respectable lady before and the way you try to conceal your interest tells me there is much to this.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Am I too obvious now?’
‘Only to me
. No one else knows anything about you at all. That’s why all my female friends are so intrigued by you. I don’t know the nature of your dislike for the Strozzi—this city is filled with old quarrels. But if you admire Isabella Spinola, perhaps she could be a way to reconcile—’
‘Nay,’ Orlando cut her off, an image of Maria Lorenza’s white, dead face flashing in his mind. ‘That is not possible.’
Lucretia shrugged. ‘If you say so. Men can be so very single-minded. If I hear anything else about your pretty artist, I will write to you.’
‘Write to me?’
The bells from the cathedral began to peal the hour, a slow, deep sound that echoed over the tiled roofs and across the sparkling waves of the river. Lucretia tilted her head as if to listen.
‘I am leaving Florence for my country villa,’ she said.
Orlando was surprised. ‘Leaving the city? You?’
‘It is nearly the penitential season, time for reflection. I feel the need for some fresh air.’ She looked up at him, her beautiful face suddenly solemn. ‘I sense something strange is coming to our fair city, Orlando caro.’
‘What have you heard?’ he asked. He thought of what his contact had told him, of the Pazzi and their grudges. The strange tension in the air of late.
‘Nothing specific. But there is much anger, towards the Medici in particular. They have taken so much from so many. And now they entertain a cardinal who is the pope’s nephew—when everyone knows the pope hates them. I do not like it. So I will retreat for Lent.’
Orlando frowned. If Lucretia was leaving the city, something truly must be in the air. Something that could hurt Isabella? He could never let that happen. And yet surely he was the one who could hurt her the most.
Lucretia gently touched his cheek. ‘Do be careful, Orlando.’
He smiled at her, hoping she did not see the turmoil that caught at him inside. ‘I am always careful.’
‘Not always, I think. And passion can make fools of us all sometimes.’
She took his arm and they continued along the river’s edge in silence, the toll of the bells the only sound.
* * *
‘Isabella, what is so fascinating out that window?’ Caterina called.
Isabella laughed at herself, for she couldn’t help but peek out the window every few minutes. She glanced back at Caterina, who was working at her embroidery. ‘Nothing at all. I just can’t seem to sit still today.’
And she couldn’t stop thinking about Orlando, as he had been last night on the moonlit terrace. Kissing her, holding her. It had been like a dream, and she still felt giddy with it all. Every tall, dark-haired gentleman who walked past made her heart quicken, but it was never him.
The sleepless night was making her fuzzy-headed.
Caterina gave her an indulgent smile. ‘It is the party yesterday. I know the feeling—the music won’t leave you. Or perhaps one of Matteo’s handsome friends caught your eye?’
Isabella felt her cheeks grow warm and she turned to look out the window again. ‘Not at all.’
Caterina laughed. ‘Come now, cousin! I know the signs of a new infatuation. There are many charming men in Florence and it would be entirely natural, desirable even, if you liked one.’
Liked one? Was that what her feelings were? Infatuation. Perhaps it was. An infatuation that would fade away as she became more experienced and met more men.
Yet she feared that wasn’t what it was at all. It was not something that would just fade away. When she looked at him, she felt as she did when she looked at a painting. So carried away by the beauty of it she wanted to cry.
‘No one has caught my eye in that way, Caterina. And I’m sure Matteo’s friends wouldn’t consider me that way, either.’
‘Of course they would! You are lovely. And a connection with Matteo would be a fine thing for any Florentine family.’
Isabella was startled, but she suddenly realized she shouldn’t be. Caterina had mentioned marriage the first day Isabella arrived. A connection for family...
And who really was Orlando? A man who vanished like a ghost.
‘You can examine them closer at church tomorrow,’ Caterina said. ‘It is a holy day at the cathedral. Everyone in Florence will be there. Especially with the pope’s nephew Cardinal Riario officiating. You must wear your new blue satin.’
‘Caterina—’ Isabella began, only to break off. What could she say? This was a new world, a new dance, and she was just beginning to learn the steps. All she really knew was who she wanted to partner her in this strange pavane.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I look forward to it.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Pange, lingua, gloriosi! Corporis mysterium...’
Isabella followed Caterina into the vast space of Santa Maria del Fiore, pausing inside the great bronze doors to cross herself with holy water. She stared at the scene before her, struck by its strange beauty. It looked like a colourful gathering in one of Signor Botticelli’s otherworldly canvases.
On the day she climbed to the choir loft with Orlando, the church had been crowded but had still felt empty, echoing. Today, people were packed in closely along the nave, shifting about, whispering together, laughing behind fans. The blur of their fine clothes and glowing jewels made them blend into the stained-glass windows that cast shards of brilliant light over the inlaid floors and pale stone walls.
Caterina took her arm and drew her into the crowd. People called out greetings to Caterina and she paused to kiss cheeks, to smile and laugh. She had looked pale, listless since the party on the Prato, but today her cheeks were flushed as pink as her pearl-studded gown.
Isabella was happy to see her cousin look so happy again, yet she knew so little of Florence gossip she had nothing to add to the conversation. She inhaled deeply of the mingled scents of incense and expensive perfumes—rose, jasmine and violet—and studied the scene around her. She wished she had her sketchbook, to work it all into a painting later.
All of Florence seemed to have put on their very finest to come to church that day. After all, it was a holy day and a cardinal who was the pope’s own nephew was to preside. Every great family was arrayed there.
But not yet the Medici. Isabella went up on tiptoe to examine the faces around her. Lorenzo de Medici and his brother Giuliano were not yet there, nor was Matteo. Her cousin had not been home much of late. Caterina had said Giuliano was ill with a leg injury after the Prato, and Matteo and their other friends had to entertain the visitors. Yet surely they would appear for such an important Mass?
Nor did she see Orlando and her heart sank a little with disappointment. She dared not admit to herself just how much she wanted to glimpse his face.
Above Caterina’s whispers with her friends, the cathedral was alive with sound. The chanting of the choir, the tolling of bells from the tower, the clink of swords in their scabbards, the stiff rustle of fine fabrics, the clatter of jewelled bracelets. Then a hush rolled over the crowd as the bronze doors opened and Lorenzo de Medici and his retainers came in.
The mythically powerful head of the Medici was certainly not a handsome man, Isabella thought as she watched him stride to his place alongside the gilded altar rail. Yet she would love to sketch him. His face was pockmarked, dominated by a flattened nose and a heavy, jutting jaw. Yet every bit of him fairly vibrated with a crackling energy, a vivid awareness of everything around him.
Giuliano followed, sumptuously dressed, but a bit pale, leaning heavily on the shoulder of the same slight, young blond man Isabella had seen at the Prato. Francesco Pazzi, Caterina had called him. Giuliano went in the opposite direction from his brother and disappeared into the crowd near the doors.
That seemed to be the signal for the Mass to begin. To the peal of dozens of silver altar bells, the pope’s cardinal nephew appeared in his scarlet robe
s, preceded by dozens of acolytes swinging their censers.
‘Corporis mysterium...’
Isabella tried to pay attention to the service, to not look for Orlando again. But she couldn’t help but search the faces once more. Every bit of her mind seemed to be focused on seeing him again, as it had been much too often of late.
A bell tolled again, and the cardinal raised the Host over his head. Suddenly, the incense-scented hush of the church was broken by a rough shout.
‘People and liberty!’ someone screamed.
‘What is happening?’ Caterina cried, clutching at Isabella’s arm.
Isabella could see nothing past the bodies packed around her. Panic seemed to break over the crowd like a tidal wave, sweeping aside the peace of that holy place. People scattered in every direction, screaming, crying, tripping over each other. She felt closed in, trapped. Her whole body seemed frozen to the spot.
‘The dome is falling!’ someone shouted.
Isabella glanced up, shocked. She could see nothing of the soaring dome from her place in the nave, but she didn’t hear any crack or crash of masonry. Only the panicked screams of the fleeing congregation.
She held on to Caterina and strained to see anything that was happening, any way to get away. Cardinal Riario still stood at the altar, still as a statue, and she glimpsed Lorenzo de Medici’s back as his friends pushed him into the sacristy and swung the heavy doors closed behind them.
Frantic, Isabella craned her neck to see Giuliano de Medici sprawled in a pool of blood on the mosaic floor. His former supporter, Francesco Pazzi, stood over him with a bloody dagger while another man fell on him in a frenzy of violence that was terrifying.
Horrified by the nightmare that had erupted around her, Isabella dragged Caterina close to her, desperate to keep her cousin from seeing Giuliano. She glimpsed a gilded screen near the marble-inlaid wall and pushed Caterina ahead of her into its meagre shelter. The crowd trampled past them and Isabella held Caterina tight as her cousin sobbed into her shoulder.
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