by Mary Novik
“The poet who is afraid of thunder!” He clamped Francesco’s hand in his own and bobbed it up and down.
Francesco kissed his friend three times on the cheek, then drew me beside him. “You have heard me speak of Giacomo di Colonna.”
“The eminent bishop of Lombez.” I tipped my forehead in deference. “Francesco tells me you are like a brother to him.”
“Your Latin is almost as good as mine,” the bishop said. “This must be your scribe, Francesco, the one with the extraordinary penmanship. What a profusion of chestnut hair! And what startling blue eyes. More French than Italian, I believe. Greet some of my brother’s guests while I show her the Colonna tapestry.” The bishop took my arm to steer me into one of the grand buildings. “You must call me Giacomo when no one else is listening. I admit to great curiosity about you.”
I gave him a wide smile, for we were alone now. “Since your name is Giacomo, perhaps you can explain something about Italian men. Why do so many of their names begin with G?”
Giacomo laughed—an open-mouthed bellow. “I like you, my dear. Francesco reports that you have the most stimulating effect on him. He says you provoke him to write his best poetry. You must know that Francesco covets being made poet laureate. He even hinted to my brother, the cardinal, that he might nominate him!”
“How did your brother respond?”
“He grunted and ignored Francesco. He is good at grunting, my brother. Now, observe this cunning doorway. My brother has been collecting buildings since he moved his household here. Fifteen have been joined into this palace, which is the equal of any in Avignon. See this decorative frieze? The craftsman is from Florence.”
“Like Francesco,” I said, running my hand over the tiles.
“Yes, my brother has also collected Francesco—a brilliant acquisition, for he is ascending like a comet. We will go up here.” He stood aside to let me proceed him up a stairway and into a grand hall, where musicians, dancers, and jesters had been painted on the wooden beams. Along the walls, trompe l’œil arches were supported by columns. “The family symbol,” he said, tapping one of the painted columns. “The artisans hate it. There is only so much they can do with a stiff, manly column. Now, here is what we came to see, the Colonna history.” He described each scene in the large tapestry for me, skipping modestly over his own heroism at the San Marcello church in Rome to dwell on his brother’s investiture as cardinal. Servants were ferrying elaborate platters past us into the banqueting hall. The bishop plucked two pasties from the top of a roasted heron, one for each of us. “Sweet and fresh. We are saying farewell to meat in style, for every type of game and flesh is here.”
He escorted me down the marble staircase as if I were a favoured guest. Perhaps it was a masquerade to fool the guests into believing that he, like most bishops, kept a courtesan. The torches had been lit in the courtyard and braziers drove off the Lenten chill. I looked in vain for Francesco while the bishop sought out his nephew Agapito, whose charms had lured Gherardo into such a bed of trouble. The cardinals were dressed like seigneurs, the chaplains like knights, and the youths, who lurked beneath the arches, sported smaller versions of their father’s arms. Foreign courtiers congregated in the middle, where their conversation rose and fell in Italian, Spanish, and Flemish. An acrobat twisted in the air, landed, and did handsprings across the marble pavement. In the midst of it all was Cardinal Colonna, his bearing erect, his voice loud, as he introduced Francesco—who seemed to have forgotten I was there—to this great man and that.
A tabor was struck, the musicians took their places, and the noblewomen hung over the balustrade above us to listen. A gypsy dangled a vielle impatiently until the courtyard quietened, then whipped the instrument to his shoulder to fiddle wildly, joined by a timorous flute, then bells and bagpipe. After a time, the carnival instruments retired and a musician plucked his lute. A youth began to sing, his voice neither bass nor tenor, but something in between.
“Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra,” he sang. “E temo, et spero. Et ardo, et son un ghiaccio.”
I took in a long breath, then lingered on the exhalation. I glimpsed Francesco’s tense face across the courtyard and wished myself beside him, though I could not catch his eye.
Bishop Giacomo was holding my elbow gallantly again. “Fearing and hoping, burning and freezing. Caught in a snare, blind and mute, hating and loving, laughing and weeping. Have you guessed the author?”
The sonnet was superb, exquisitely set to music and exquisitely sung, but I had never been so torn between admiration for Francesco’s gifts and anger at his subject. While the lute echoed the theme, I said, “This poem is quite new. Francesco has never spoken so frankly of his worship for Laura.”
“A great lyricist, yes, but a buffoon to waste himself on this tug-of-war. It vexes me to see such vast talent tied up in agonizing knots.”
I liked the bishop’s opinions as much as I liked him. The song over, the performers gestured towards Francesco, who bowed and was recognized by the courtiers. Francesco raised his palm towards the Avignonnaises, and the gallery erupted in activity as the ladies pushed one of their company to the balustrade. Pale-skinned with a cap of pearls, the masked woman had the straw hair that troubadours called flaxen but I had always thought was limp and ugly.
“So that is Laura,” said Bishop Giacomo. “I was mistaken. She is not just a pun on laurel after all.”
Around me, the men—courtiers, churchmen, dignitaries, fools every one—seemed to be coming to the same conclusion as they praised her pallid beauty. They begged her to reveal her identity, their requests ascending harmoniously. Assenting at last, high above them on the gallery, Laura removed her mask to reveal her face. In the courtyard, the talk buzzed and swelled, until the men identified the crests on her sleeves as the de Noves lozenges linked with the eight-pointed sun of the de Sades.
Now Laura surprised us all. Even to my critical eye, her fluttering gloves, edged in gold, held a poetry of movement as she signalled for the guests to be silent. She took off one glove and held up a pale hand. Without any accompaniment, she sang Francesco’s lyric O bella man—her voice pure, disciplined, and flawless. When the song ended, she dipped her knee to the listening audience. Did Francesco still think her voice was lark-song, or was he now comparing her to a nightingale? I could not see his reaction, since he had positioned himself to face the gallery.
Bishop Giacomo whispered, “It is Madame de Sade. Laura is a real muse, not a figment of his imagination. The face is divine.”
Laura his muse? Waves of angry red swamped my vision. “But her nose is unfortunate.”
The bishop laughed. “Her husband is now gripping her elbow like a grandfather. With that scowl, he does not need a mask. Hugues de Sade must do better than that with the seigneurs watching him. Look at the crowd around our poet now!”
The guests were elbowing up to Francesco, who did not even glance in my direction. The noblewomen flew down the marble steps to celebrate his triumph in quick, shrill exclamations. De Sade came down the staircase with Laura displayed on his arm, her sleeves flaunting her rank and title, though her smile was forced. Beneath her elegant surcot, her gold this and silver that, I detected the covert bulge of a new infant, though Francesco probably saw only the ivory complexion and delicate feet, not the ripe female form between.
De Sade dropped his nose a notch as he neared Francesco, a begrudging nod to the artist all were honouring, then wheeled his wife off by her elbow. The musician resumed playing. This was the signal for jesters and tumblers to leap from the arches, and for the tabor, vielle, and rattling drum to overtake the lute with a fervour that prompted even the proper Avignonnaises to lift up their heels to dance with the Italians.
Bishop Giacomo shouted in my ear. “What a spectacle! How will Francesco handle this attention? If he secludes himself to write new poems drooling over Laura, it will have an odious effect on his disposition. He will become more monkish and you and I will be deprived of his gener
ous friendship. Madame de Sade may be his muse, but he is better served by you, for you can quench the desire you awaken.” His gaze settled on me. “Yes, I know the nature of your relationship with him. Your eyes are watering, my dear. Wipe them quickly with your sleeve.”
After a few more dances, Cardinal Colonna invited his guests to sweep up the marble staircase to the banqueting room. Soon the courtyard had emptied except for the musicians, and Francesco noticed me standing alone. He hesitated, looked around him, then came towards me. I grasped how it was: he had brought me here because I was masked, deserted me when the courtyard was full of nobles, and reclaimed me now only because it was empty. Had he enlisted Bishop Giacomo’s help to keep me entertained? Woven into Francesco’s tunic, I saw the Petrarch arms, although the Colonna column overshadowed them. My father, even if he had been a pope, had not bequeathed me so much as a bastard falcon to sew upon my sleeve.
“What did you think of my new poem?” Francesco asked.
What did I think? I had loathed seeing him swear fealty to Laura. However, he had invited me to my first assembly and I hoped to attend many more. If Francesco could raise himself with the cardinal’s help, I could raise myself with Francesco’s. “You have pleased important men tonight,” I conceded.
He looked at the knuckles he had smashed in the Two Ravens. “But what am I? A medallion on Colonna’s belt. A poet who composes lyrics to entertain his guests. I need to break from the cardinal to write what has never yet been written. While the guests are at dinner, I will show you something.”
We went through a darkened arch and up a low-ceilinged staircase. At the landing, he unlocked a vaulted chamber with manuscripts spread across every shelf and table.
“The cardinal’s library. Look for yourself—not a single book authored by Francesco di Petrarca de Florentia!”
He waved a hand dismissively over the largest collection of manuscripts I had ever seen. I fingered one after another while he sat sullenly on top of a table. The room was not just a library—it was an atelier. An array of the finest tools sat ready on the widest carrel. One librarian-scribe would work there, with room for a second at a smaller, unused carrel.
“I would give anything to be a scribe in such a library. You promised that you would commend me, Francesco.”
“I grant you have the skill, but no prelate would employ a woman.” When he saw that he had hurt me, he added, “Solange, use your wits—these manuscripts are for the cardinal and his nephews. Did you never think what books rich men collect? Many of these are secular. Look at this …”
I examined a page that illustrated the workings of the human body: on the right a naked man, and on the left a woman. Did they represent Adam and Eve, or the denizens of Avignon’s brothels? The mask bit into my flesh like a reprimand: you are neither of this house nor of these people. I still carried a whiff of lamp fuel from the night of thunder. Tonight had shown me that Francesco would never recommend me to a well-placed cleric or chevalier. Nothing I could do, not wearing the finest cloth, or speaking several languages, or being his favourite scribe, would earn me the status Laura was born with.
“This is a more worthy book.” He thrust his hand into his shirt to dig out a small volume. “One that has much affected me, Saint Augustine’s Confessions. When I have finished this, I will lend it to you.”
I had already read the Confessions and knew that Augustine had turned his back on his loving mistress to become a prurient cleric. “I would rather read Ovid’s Art of Love,” I said. “Remember how we took turns reading it aloud?”
The Confessions snapped closed. “Solange, you must listen. If we continue in this way, we will cling together in hell like Paolo and Francesca. If I am to write well about Laura, I must drive lust from my thoughts.” He shoved the book inside his shirt, like armour to protect his heart.
“And how will you do that?”
He went to the window. When he was certain that no one was below to see us, he drew me beside him to point to the giant white dome in the night sky some leagues to the north.
“I shall climb that barren mountain. Mont Ventoux—the tallest of the Dentelles.”
Twenty-seven
FIVE TIMES PLANNED and five postponed, the Ventoux climb took place the following year. Francesco set out on horseback with Gherardo and two servants. They arrived at Malaucène on Saint Mark’s Eve, rested a day, then rose at dawn to ascend the windy mountain from the north. Gherardo took the steepest, most direct route, but Francesco, carrying the Confessions as a penance for his lust, took a gradual, easier path. He found Gherardo awaiting him on higher ground, well rested and amused, for what had looked like snow from the foothills was the barest stone. On the descent, they lost their footing in thin-soled boots that sharpened every rock, and reached the base at moonrise. Back at the inn, Francesco wrote one of his formal letters, evoking each moment of the climb with a poet’s clarity.
All this I learnt when Francesco brought the letter to the Cheval Blanc with a request for a fair copy. He insisted that I read it while he sat opposite, observing my face.
“Why do you ask me to copy such a vexing letter?”
“Because your bâtarde is superlative. You know I will pay you the going rate.”
But it was more than that. It was a coward’s way of telling me that, like Augustine, he wished to put his carnal past behind him. I shoved the sheet beneath my other copy work and let Francesco find his own way down the stairs.
Spring arrived, then summer, with its jeering heat and constant whine of cicadas. It cheered me that in spite of Francesco’s resolve to tame his flesh he could not stay away from the Cheval Blanc. He would slip in before curfew to lie in my arms, then talk long hours into the darkening night. As soon as curfew ended at dawn, he let himself out, invisible even to the dyers along the canal. Our lives had fallen, once again, into a comfortable pattern, but I wanted more. Sometimes, I could scarcely breathe from the fierceness of my love for him.
All his talk about Saint Augustine had given me an idea. I knew that before Augustine had converted, while he was still a slave of passion, he had fathered a son on his mistress. He had such regard for the boy that he raised him in the church. All men wanted sons to carry on their family line—why not Francesco? His lust was wholly mine and I would make it serve me. I had grieved for my dead twins long enough and desired another child—a son who would bear the Petrarch coat of arms. In such a way, I would latch on to Francesco Petrarch, man of letters, so firmly that he could never shake me. The closer I could ally myself with his growing fame, the more I would secure my future.
But how could I conceive? Ludicrously cautious, Francesco now brought rue to crumble into my wine against conception. Autumn arrived, but I was no closer to becoming a mother and my frustration was acute. On the day of little Saint Dionysius, who was always getting himself confused with Dionysius the god, I was in the nave of Saint Pierre singing vespers when Francesco whispered in my ear, “Come with me. You say these same psalms every week.”
We walked along the rue de la Balance towards the river and the odour of fish entrails, stopping to raid a tree for some green figs the size of a baby’s fist. He went into a shop, emerged with a jug of vernaccia, pulled out the stopper, and took a long pull. We sat on a low wall side by side. It was the rich hind part of the day, with a sky like yellow cream fresh from the cow.
“These are the figs that are ripe when green.” I bit into one, fed him the rest, then bit into another.
“The shopkeeper saw you and asked me whether you had seen any more visions. He was as unkempt as a neglected horse. You are too well known by such men, Solange. You must be more discreet.”
“These men are harmless. I am often recognized in the low streets along the river and canals.”
Was he ashamed of me or fascinated? He seemed unsure himself, vacillating from one to the other. He took another pull, splashing the drink over his mantle.
“This is unlike you,” I said. “What is wrong?”
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“I have made no progress on the anthem to Italy that Cardinal Colonna insists that I compose. All I have is a title, Italia Mia. I am desperate to see Rome, but the cardinal will not send me there. I have written so few lyrics that I will be forgotten before the decade is out. You have seen the most recent ones. What is wrong with them?”
Were his ears drunk enough to hear the truth? “They are trite, Francesco. Even Mont Ventoux was not large enough to wedge itself between Laura and your sterile passion for her. A glimpse of her at a window, a brush with her at an assembly, a nod or a glare—they feed your lovesickness. The sky lights up when she smiles, darkens when she frowns. Does the sun have so little to do in poetry? Doesn’t it need to ripen crops or cure the hay?”
“My poetry does sound foolish when you sum it up like that.” With his mouth on the jug again, he looked like his brother.
“Give up Laura,” I ventured. “She is drying up your verses and you as well. Do you think drinking that will help?”
“It might help engender poems.” At last, a smile from him. “After all, it stimulated Dionysius, the god of wine and fertility. And vernaccia is the favourite drink of popes.”
Who father many sons, I thought. I tipped the jug to drizzle some of the spirits down my own throat, warmed by the thought of children being fathered. Since Francesco would never give me permission to have a child, I must act on my own and ask forgiveness later. Tonight he was mine, by what miracle I did not know, but how to get him near a bed? We walked towards the Rhône with frequent stops to lighten the jug. Near the bridge, we found a fisherman selling live eels from a basin.
Francesco dangled a thick one by its tail. “This size?”
I pointed to another, giggling. “That one will fit better.” Francesco inserted the eel head first into the half-full jug. “It won’t take long to drown,” I said.