‘That’s probably not how the world sees it, or you. I hope the family finances are restored.’
‘They are – for now. We can enjoy a genteel poverty until the tables reopen with the next Carnival. This may all happen again. Fortunately, I have two younger sisters.’
‘So, there you are, rattling around in his apartments, being a virgin – until recently.’
‘The views of the lagoon are beautiful. And it’s not entirely innocent. He likes me to show myself to him. Sometimes he asks for the warmth of my mouth. The sensation obviously gives him pleasure; I can hear it, but I certainly don’t see it.’
Stradella looked away. Really, family ‘honour’ was such a putrid thing if it had to be preserved in ways such as this. How many times had he seen something similar in the great villas of Rome? This wouldn’t end well for her, he knew. She had to be saved.
Hazel eyes flecked with green drew him back.
‘You give him comfort without satisfaction,’ he said. ‘Unpleasant for you, frustrating for him.’
‘For him to feel merely comforted seems to be enough,’ she said. ‘That doesn’t mean he intends to be understanding about how I might be satisfied. The Contarinis are a large clan, possessive and jealous. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if they knew about this. You’re stealing one of the family jewels.’
‘I can’t count the number of times it’s been stolen these past few weeks. I must say, being robbed suits you.’ He laughed, releasing the scroll of music so that it snapped back into a loose cylinder, and trailed his fingers along the cleft of her buttocks, bringing them to rest on the dampness between her thighs.
‘I’m so glad you’ve got that concerto out of the way, as beautiful as it undoubtedly will be,’ she said, rolling onto her side and resuming her grip on him. ‘Here’s another grosso that awaits performance. Where’s your violin bow?’
‘Just the bow?’ he said, handing it to her. ‘What, no violin?’
‘I’ll be your violin,’ she said, propping up her leg and touching the bow’s horsehair lightly against her vulva. ‘You stroke me, and I’ll sing.’
He snatched it back. ‘That is horsehair, my little fiddler. Fine for a gut string, but not for an instrument as delicate as yours.’ Moistening his index finger, he continued, ‘Your song will be sweeter if we turn you into a glass harp.’
THE DOGE’S APARTMENT
Alvise Contarini was waiting for Agnese when she returned.
The day’s last light filled the room from the reflection of the lagoon and bounced off the Doge’s bald head, freed at last from its hot prison of the ducal hat. His expression had the smug petulance of an old man who knows what he knows.
‘At last, signorina,’ he said. ‘Young Agnese has had a busy day.’
She blushed. This sounded too much like an accusation.
‘Indeed, my lord. One loses all sense of time passing when one is singing.’
‘Singing – again? With your music teacher, the composer – Signor Straddle.’
‘Stradella, my lord.’
‘Of course, of course. Close, but not quite. What was I thinking? You’ve been singing a great deal of late, my dear. Whenever I ask for you, my equerries tell me that you’re away – singing.’
‘Signor Stradella tells me that I have a great talent for it, my lord.’
‘And yet I’ve not heard you sing a note, despite the considerable sum I have paid for your education.’
His eyes, rheumy with age and fatigue, suddenly drilled into hers.
‘I think we should all have the privilege of celebrating your new, great talent – don’t you think?’
‘I d-don’t know, my lord …’
‘You are obviously bringing great delight to your teacher, reputed to be one of the greatest in Europe. I’ve been enquiring about Signor Saddle’s history these past days – and I’ve heard so many interesting things about him. His credentials for the instruction of young women are renowned.’
Agnese turned a deep crimson.
‘We will gather a few people in the Scarlet Chamber – let’s say, tomorrow evening. Since you now read music so well, I will arrange for a notated song to be placed before you on a stand. We will allow you two minutes to peruse it, and then – you will sing it! Something pleasant and local, but not anything you can know. What do you think? I’m sure we’ll all be amazed.’
‘My lord, I’m too shy to perform for such a large group.’
‘Nonsense, my dear Agnese. Bring your teacher as well. I insist upon it. He must be so proud of you by now. He should be accountable for whatever it is we are to hear, don’t you think?’
‘My, my v-voice is just a little tired from all this work …’
‘You’re a strong young woman and you will bounce back,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine what we’d all think if you were to refuse to honour us in this way. It would make all the lessons you’ve received from Signor Stradalliance seem like such a waste of time. I should want to have words with him! But right now, you need something warm for that throat of yours.’
Struggling onto his ancient feet, Contarini laboriously took down his breeches.
‘Something like this,’ he said, pointing.
‘We have only today,’ Agnese gasped, her voice choking with panic. That morning’s gondola had travelled at speed from its mooring near San Marco.
‘Fuck me dead,’ said Alessandro.
‘I think that about sums it up.’
‘What are our options? Apart from being killed, I mean.’
‘I suppose I could try to sing this evening,’ she said.
‘You’re a brave girl,’ he said, ‘and you are perfectly wonderful at certain things, as we’ve discovered these past six weeks. Singing, however, is not one of them. My dear Agnese, I’ve not said this before because your doge’s money has been handy, and because I didn’t want to discourage your good intentions. The fact is, you are clearly tone deaf. If you utter more than two notes in front of that crowd, we’ll never leave those apartments alive.’
‘Oh,’ she said, dismayed for only a moment before recollecting what their lessons had really been about. ‘In that case, we must leave here – now.’
Stradella rolled his eyes. This was most inconvenient.
‘Agnese, I’ve been here in Venice only four months! There is the very real prospect of my being commissioned to write an opera for next year’s Carnival. Would you have me throw that away?’
Her panic was returning. ‘Alessandro, if we stay, you’ll still have lived in Venice for only four months.’ She took one of his hands and pressed it to her forehead. ‘I beg you, signore. Take me away from that man and this place.’
He looked at her with a surge of affection and something else that surprised him: a sense of responsibility.
He recalled what he’d thought the day before.
She has to be saved.
His own course of action was just as clear. Leave, or suffer the consequences.
They had a matter of a few hours; perhaps less, if the Doge was curious even now about where Agnese had gone.
But go where?
His mind trawled through the gallery of aristocrats with whom he’d been close in Rome, and by extension their network of friends, those to whom he knew he’d been recommended. There were pockets of them studded in other states, nobles who seemed interested in his work.
One name stood out. She was intelligent, musical, and newly installed as regent. Word had it that she might even be persuaded to be more interested in the man than his music.
Maria Giovanna, born Marie Jeanne Baptiste of Nemours – head of the Duchy of Savoy.
It was a stretch – almost as distant as Rome – but they would head westward, far from the Papal States where his name was still mud, closer to France. Maria would offer them protection; he could tell. In time, Polo Michiel might even give him some help, maybe introduce him to a few of the really cashed-up crowd. The whole escapade could be a professional goldmine.
>
‘Agnese,’ he said, cradling her head, ‘we are going. Guido!’
The call brought his servant to the door within seconds.
‘Guido, pack as much as you can in the next hour and call me a gondola. We’re quitting town.’
Guido looked at him with disbelief.
‘But – where, Signor Stradella?’
‘Savoy. And make sure my violin bows are packed safely. Agnese is coming with us.’
SEPTEMBER
Contarini squinted at the scrawl on the letter before handing it back to Polo Michiel.
‘What is this, you say?’ he barked.
‘A request, my lord,’ Michiel replied. ‘From Stradella. He asks me for letters of recommendation. I thought you should know.’
The Doge smiled broadly, exposing most of his gums and their single remaining tooth.
‘You did well, Polo Michiel,’ he said. ‘There’s been talk about your friendship with the musician. It wouldn’t have been good for your reputation in Venice if I’d learned this information had been withheld from me. You understand what I am saying?’
Michiel understood only too well. The Doge’s anger over his cuckolding and public humiliation by Stradella was the talk of the Grand Canal. Contarini wanted blood. Those known to be in the composer’s Venetian circle were beginning to think theirs would be the first spilled. Polo couldn’t believe his luck when Stradella’s letter arrived. He would reply, of course. Meanwhile, it was a lifeline; a ticket to redemption.
Contarini’s cold voice cut through his sense of relief.
‘She is with him?’
Stradella had said as much in a note accompanying the letter.
‘Yes, my lord. I believe that not even her father knows.’
‘You are correct, Michiel. I have been questioning him. Vigorously.’
No wonder I haven’t seen the poor bastard for a while, thought Michiel.
‘And from where does this letter come to you, my trusted friend?’
Michiel recoiled at the last three words. Their insincerity felt obscene. He was sickened at having to answer this one inevitable question, aware of what might happen to his friend. But there were many canals in Venice, and a corpse could lie beneath their cold waters for some time before rising to the surface – even at this time of year.
‘Turin, my lord.’
Contarini studied his fingernails. Clean as a freshly drawn blade, he noted.
‘Turin, eh? Well, he’s a cheeky one, that Saddle fellow. You know what, Michiel? I’ve always wanted to go to Turin, especially in summertime. I might take a few friends – do a little business.’
TURIN
It was quiet and dark when Stradella heard his name called from the street. When the composer roused himself and took the envelope from the messenger, he saw it bore the seal of the Archbishop of Turin. Its contents soon woke him up.
‘Maestro Stradella,’ it began, ‘a team of men from Venice led by His Excellency the Doge, Alvise Contarini, are but nine miles distant from Turin and will arrive in the morning. You should be in no doubt as to their purpose. It is my belief that you are in mortal and imminent danger. Therefore, I have made arrangements for you to seek sanctuary this very night. You, signore, are expected at the church of S. Domenico, while the Signorina Van Uffele is awaited at the convent of S. Maria Maddalena.’
‘Fucking marvellous,’ said Stradella. ‘Guido!’
Agnese’s face was pale in the lamplight from lack of sleep as she prepared to hurry away through the backstreets.
‘Alessandro, I’m almost as scared of being inside the convent as feeling unprotected on the outside. There are many girls who never reappear through those doors. Sometimes a love of God has nothing to do with it.’
‘You must go, Agnese,’ he said, trying to sound as concerned as possible. They had been in each other’s company the entire time in Turin, and there was nothing more he could teach her. He was bored.
Late the next morning, the Archbishop of Turin glared across his desk at the visitor.
‘I am of course honoured to receive you, Your Excellency,’ he said. ‘However, it is a most unusual matter that warrants the attention – indeed, the visitation – of a Venetian doge. And you have not announced yourself to our regent?’
Maria Giovanna would not be happy when he told her, he knew. This was tantamount to a foreign invasion.
‘I did not think the purpose of my visit was appropriate enough to arouse the interest of your court,’ said Contarini with false delicacy. ‘You have received the documents?’
The archbishop nodded. The early delivery of Contarini’s stipulations had enabled Stradella to be tipped off and squirrelled to safety.
Contarini continued. ‘My conditions are clear, I trust.’
‘They are, although one could argue that your issuing them during the course of a precipitate appearance in a neighbouring city-state makes them look … well, unreasonable.’
‘My dear archbishop! All I wish to do is relieve Savoy of a fugitive from Venetian justice. You are doubtless aware there are reputational issues at stake.’
‘Your Excellency, the fugitive in question is here at the pleasure of Her Highness. I don’t think she will be happy about an unexpected delegation of Venetians demanding the deportation of one of her favourite guests, especially when the person in question is providing music for the court. You have no proof of this man’s alleged crimes.’
Contarini’s voice hardened. ‘The proof, Your Grace, is a certain young woman who is in his company.’
The archbishop could barely conceal his smile. He affected a more jocular tone.
‘Signor Stradella is an extremely handsome man, Your Excellency. I would be surprised if he were to spend his time alone. This young lady is from Venice?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And a relative of yours?’
Contarini knew he was being patronised. ‘We both know that is not the case.’
‘Of course. Her father is also here now. He limped in from Venice several weeks ago. Rather the worse for wear, I might add, after talking with your equerries about his daughter’s whereabouts. You Venetians take your reputation very seriously, it seems.’
The Doge’s mouth tightened, then relaxed into its largely toothless smile.
‘I am concerned about the reputation of your jurisdiction, Your Grace. It would be unfortunate if Turin were to be branded as a place that condones immorality.’
Coming from the Doge of Venice, the archbishop thought this a bit rich. On the other hand, he witnessed such hypocrisy every day. There was no need to protest. He could see the Doge was leading to something.
‘Where is the young lady now?’ Contarini said.
The archbishop saw no reason to lie. Any foreign contravention of his wishes would be an act of war.
‘She is installed in one of our convents, Your Excellency.’
The Doge narrowed his eyes and tilted his head back. Because you put her there for safety ahead of this conversation, sly old priest.
Spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture, much like a man of the cloth, he pretended to have a sudden inspiration.
‘Very well, let us salvage all our reputations – including that of the young lady, whose location suggests the solution.’
‘Your Excellency …?’
‘I propose that Her Highness should be sufficiently displeased with one of her guests living openly in sin to withdraw all of her commissions from him.’
‘Sack him?’
‘Not quite. Merely postpone any further work until he rectifies his immoral situation.’
‘I see. And Signorina Van Uffele’s options are …?’
‘She renounces her claim to being a Venetian citizen and stays in your convent by taking the veil.’
‘It is a noble solution, Your Excellency – but she may not wish to do so.’
Contarini snarled with relish as he saw his coup de grâce.
‘Then Signor Stradella must make an h
onest woman of her.’ He knew what the roving musician would think of that: a form of death. But not quite. I still have other plans.
‘As a man of God, I have no problem with this, Your Excellency.’
‘You are a wise man, Your Grace.’
He motioned the archbishop to stand, and the two walked over to the window of the study overlooking the large cobbled courtyard.
Below them, forty men – mainly Contarini family members and a few hired thugs – were dismounting from their horses and checking their weapons: swords and daggers.
Contarini turned to his host. ‘If this choice can be exercised upon my fugitive, I will leave Turin immediately without any further demands,’ he said. ‘That is, as soon as my men have enjoyed some of your city’s hospitality.’
TURIN, 10 OCTOBER
Stradella lifted the tip of his quill from the marriage contract and grimaced at his signature.
‘Congratulations, signore,’ said the notary in the study at Santa Maria Maddalena.
The composer shrugged. ‘Commiserations, more likely,’ he said. ‘A man has to work. My career in this city would be over otherwise.’
The mother superior beamed. ‘We are sorry to say goodbye to our novitiate, but she will be happy about this. It is late. She can stay with us tonight and be with you in the morning.’
Stradella thanked her and left, taking a route on foot along a colonnade outside the convent. The nights were drawing in, but there would be warmth inside the tavern where he was due to meet Lucia. He would have to explain his changed circumstances to her. Would she mind? If so – too bad.
Two men stood against a column at the far end and watched the approaching figure.
‘That’s him,’ said one.
‘He’s pretty well built,’ said the other. ‘Might put up a fight.’
‘Funny,’ said the first. ‘You always expect those artistic types to look a bit frail.’
‘Artistic?’
‘Sure. He’s a composer. He writes music. My wife heard some of it in church back in Venice.’
‘What was it?’
Symphony of Seduction Page 7