Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘More than four years.’ Margherita thought of her tally marks. Fifty-two moons, fifty-two cuts on her arms. ‘I was twelve when she brought me here.’

  ‘Twelve! You look about twelve now. Are you sure you’re sixteen?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You are so thin and so pale,’ he said. ‘Look at your skin – not a freckle on it anywhere.’ He took her by surprise by leaning forward and grasping her hand. ‘Look, just a few here, on your lower arm. Is this where you reach out into the sun?’

  She could not move or speak, barely able to breathe.

  He turned her hand over. ‘You truly are bella e bianca,’ he said in a low voice. Suddenly, he stepped away, dropping her hand. Margherita looked down and saw his gaze fixed on her scarred wrists. Abruptly, she hid them in her sleeves. He turned away, eating the apple, pretending not to have seen anything. He seemed so large, as if he took up the whole tower room. Lucio, his name was. It meant light, she thought. If so, he was well named. It was as if he had a lamp suspended over his head, casting its radiance upon him, while the rest of the room sank away into dimness.

  ‘Have you any more food?’ He pitched the apple with deadly accuracy at the latrine, then threw up his arms and cheered when it fell straight down the hole.

  ‘I have a little,’ she answered.

  ‘Good. I stayed up all night, watching the tower, wondering what you were doing up here. I’m starving. Let’s eat.’

  To her dismay, he proceeded to cheerfully eat his way through more than half of her monthly supplies. It gave her a strange secret pleasure to see him carving up her ham with his dagger, passing her great hunks of it, saying, ‘Eat up! You’re so skinny. My nonna would throw up her hands at the sight of you and tie you to a chair and force-feed you like a baby. She thinks it a grave insult to leave a single scrap on your plate. Have you any more bread? Oh, do you cook it on the griddle? It’s like cooking on a campfire, isn’t it? I’d never done that before I came on this trip, but now I’m an old hand. Can I have a try? Sit, eat. Let me make you a feast. Do you have any mushrooms? No? Any eggs?’

  Somehow, Margherita found herself sitting on her stool, eating more food than she had in years and laughing at his ham-fisted attempts to make bread. In the end, she jumped up, pushed him down to sit and made the bread herself. While she cooked, he asked her more questions, and she answered them as best she could, his charm and his curiosity more than a match for her.

  As she told him everything, slowly and stiltedly, his merriment drained away and he grew grave and determined. ‘We’ll just have to get you out of here,’ he cried, jumping to his feet as if intending to throw her over his shoulder and carry her away right there and then.

  ‘How?’ she said with a flash of spirit. ‘Will you bring me a skein of silk so I can weave myself a ladder? The only way down is by the braid of hair, and that just happens to be attached to my head.’

  He held up the dagger. ‘That’s easily fixed.’

  She shrank back, her hand rising protectively to her heavy braid. ‘Have you ever tried to tie a knot in a braid of hair?’

  ‘Well, no,’ he admitted. ‘But surely it can be done.’

  ‘I’ve tried.’ She sat down limply. ‘No matter how tightly I tie it, it always unravels. Would you want to risk your weight on a plait of hair that cannot be tied securely?’

  He shook his head, though the amusement was back in his eyes. ‘Have you ever heard of rope?’

  ‘Of course, I’m not an idiot. But have you seen how far the drop is from this window?’

  ‘I climbed it, remember,’ he said with a grin. ‘It’s a long way down.’

  ‘Where are we meant to find rope that long?’ Just saying the words ‘we’ and ‘rope’ gave her such a surge of ridiculous childish excitement that Margherita frowned and turned away, not wishing him to see how desperately she wanted all this to be true, and not a dream, or an imagining, or a trick.

  ‘We sailed up Lake Garda on a boat. You’ve never seen so much rope in your life. I’ll go back to the boat, get the rope, come back and get you out of here. Simple!’

  Her flare of joyous excitement drained away. ‘She’s bound me here. With magic. Even if you got enough rope to climb to the moon, you could not get me out of here, not unless you break her binding spell.’

  He gazed at her blankly. ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she answered.

  FEASTING

  The Rock of Manerba, Lake Garda, Italy – June 1599

  The tower room had seemed so small while Lucio was there.

  Once he had gone, it seemed very empty.

  All Margherita’s peace was cut up. She could not settle to reading, or sewing, or playing her lute. Drearily, she tidied up the mess he had made, feeling sick as she looked at her depleted pantry.

  ‘What do you do all day?’ Lucio had demanded. ‘Don’t you get bored? I’m bored after just half an hour!’

  This comment had hurt her, though she did not know why. She had turned away, hiding her face, but he had sensed her feelings and seized her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean I was bored with you! I just meant I can’t stand to be confined like this. Doesn’t it make you feel crazy, not being able to go anywhere or do anything?’

  ‘Of course it does, but I don’t have a choice.’

  He had stayed a while, which was kind of him, she knew. But as the sky beyond the narrow window had faded, and the thin clouds had warmed with colour, he had grown more and more distracted. At last, he had said, ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. My men will be most anxious about me. I’ll come back, I promise.’

  But La Strega had taught her that all men’s promises were valueless.

  Margherita did not sleep much that night. She lay awake, reliving every moment of Lucio’s visit. The way his hair had fallen over his brow. The strength of his hands. His quick laugh. The determined way he had said, ‘We’ll just have to get you out of here!’ She loved the word ‘we’. There had never been any ‘we’ in her life, only ‘I’ and ‘me’. She repeated the words to herself several times: We’ll just have to get you out of here!

  Please, let it happen, let it be true, she thought one moment, and the very next, Don’t be a fool. He’ll go away and never come back. Who wants to challenge a witch?

  At last, she slept, her face stiff with salt from her tears. She was woken in the morning by a merry voice ringing out, ‘Margherita, Margherita, let down your hair, so I may climb that gorgeous stair!’

  She almost fell from her bed, rubbing sleep crumbs from her eyes, stumbling towards the window. She looked out into a bright breezy day. Lucio stood at the base of the tower, a mule piled with sacks beside him, a coil of rope over his shoulder and a basket in his hand. He waved at her. ‘Good morning, mia bella bianca,’ he cried. ‘Let me up! I have food!’

  Margherita let down her braid, her heart pitter-pattering in her chest, and he tied the rope to it so she could pull it up and tie it to the hook. Then she dragged up sack after sack of provisions till her arms were aching and her cheeks hurt from the broadness of her smile. When she had finished, she could barely take a step for all the sacks of food piled about her room. Then Lucio hobbled the mule and left it to tear at the weeds and grasses growing from the cracks in the rocks, and he climbed up the rope to join her. By the time he arrived, she had washed her face, tidied her sleep-blowsy hair, pulled on her best gown and pinched her cheeks to bring some colour into them.

  ‘I realised, after I got back to the inn, that I had probably eaten all your supplies. My nonna always says I eat her out of house and home,’ Lucio said. ‘It was rather poor fare too. No wonder you’re so thin! I couldn’t bear to think of you being hungry because of me, so I got up early and went to the markets. I got you everything you already had, plus a host of things besides. Fresh fruit and vegetables, rice, a whole fresh chicken – do you know how to pluck a chicken? Because I have to confess I have no idea.’

  Margherita nodded, smiling and cryin
g at the same time. ‘How am I to hide all this? As soon as … as soon as she comes, she will know someone has been here.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll have you out of here before the witch comes back,’ Lucio said. ‘You did say she only comes when the moon is full, didn’t you? So we have almost a month.’

  Margherita sat down on her bed, her hands covering her face.

  ‘Don’t you want to be free?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Desperately. It’s just … you don’t know her … she … she is very powerful.’

  ‘Well, so am I,’ he answered. ‘Or at least, my uncle is, and I bask in his radiance. Don’t look so anxious. There’s no problem that you can’t find a solution to. Or so my uncle always says. Are you hungry? Because I am. Let’s eat and make some plans.’

  His basket was filled with the most extraordinary delicacies. Fresh white bread made with finely milled wheat flour. Roast lamb, cooked with lemon juice and rosemary, pink and tender in the centre and oozing with juices. A white-bean salad in a small brown ceramic pot with a lid. A cake made with nuts and honey.

  A hunger awoke in Margherita unlike anything she remembered feeling. She devoured all that Lucio handed her, sure she had never tasted such delicious food.

  ‘I cannot stay much longer without getting into trouble,’ Lucio said. ‘I’m meant to be in Limone sul Garda, buying up lemons and limes and blood oranges and pomegranates, to take back to Florence for my uncle. And tubs of snow from Monte Baldo, so his confectioners can make him his favourite ice puddings through the summer. They mix the snow with rose water and sugar and fruit juices, and make the most delicious treats imaginable.’

  Margherita tried to imagine eating snow. The idea thrilled her.

  ‘Tell me about your home,’ she asked, lying back on her bed, wishing she could loosen her girdle. She had never eaten till she could eat no more.

  Lucio told her about a grand city the colour of ochre, floating on a river, surrounded by gentle rolling hills. ‘It has the largest, most magnificent cathedral in the world, with the largest dome ever built. It’s one of the architectural wonders of the world. And the art we have there! You’ve never seen anything like it. My favourite artist is Raphael, who lived in Florence close on a hundred years ago. You look just like the Madonna in one of his paintings. The pale serious face and the beautiful golden-red hair. If we put you in a meadow, with flowers growing about you and two curly-haired little cherubs at your knee, you could be the model for him.’

  Raphael, she thought. He has the same name as the angel of healing. She smiled.

  ‘I wish I could paint like Raphael,’ Lucio said. ‘I’d paint you! You should smile more often – it’s like dawn breaking over a snowfield.’

  Margherita bit her lip and looked away, her cheeks burning. As if realising he was frightening her with his dark intense gaze, Lucio looked away too, talking lightly of his family, about their palazzo with its graceful inner courtyard and the chapel decorated with magnificent frescoes depicting the Journey of the Magi. He told Margherita all about his sisters and his mother, and how kind his uncle tried to be to them. ‘He has forgotten what it’s like to be young, though. He’s sixteen years older than my mother, and I swear he was born old.’

  ‘You live with him?’

  ‘Oh, yes, all our family are close. He loves art and music as much as I do, so we have that in common, at least. He has his own concerto delle donne, you know. He’s very proud of it. He has tempted the finest singers in the world, from Mantua and Padua and Rome … he would be thrilled to have you there, mia bella bianca. You’d be a shining gem in his crown. Once we get you out of here, I’ll take you to Florence and you can sing for him. He’d have you installed in his palazzo with a rich pension within minutes, I promise you.’

  This idea was so wonderful, so tempting, that Margherita could scarcely breathe. Lucio grinned at her. ‘All we have to do is get you out of here. Are you sure about this binding spell of the witch’s? How do you know she laid it on you?’

  ‘I feel it,’ Margherita said. ‘Like invisible fetters on my wrists and ankles and on my tongue. You ask me questions that I cannot answer. You want me to leave the tower but I can’t.’

  ‘This binding spell sounds like fear to me,’ Lucio said matter-of-factly. ‘Have you tested it?’

  ‘How can I?’

  ‘We’ll try it, shall we? You don’t need to climb down my rope. I can just lower you down. I’ll tie a loop at the bottom for you to put your foot in, and all you’ll need to do is hold on. I’d better cut off some of this hair first, though, else you’ll get all in a tangle.’ He drew his dagger.

  Margherita shrank back as if he had just threatened to cut her throat. ‘No, no, please,’ she gasped.

  He drew back, confounded. ‘You don’t believe I’ll hurt you?’

  ‘No … but … you mustn’t cut my hair … she’ll know … she’ll kill me.’

  ‘But how will she know? By the time she gets here, we’ll be miles away.’

  She shook her head, wiping her tears with frantic hands, begging him not to cut her hair, not to try to force her to leave. ‘I’m bound here,’ she cried. ‘Don’t you understand? I cannot leave, she bound me here.’

  At last, he gave up trying to persuade her and put away his dagger, reassuring her he’d never force her to do anything she didn’t want to. ‘We have a month,’ he said. ‘I will try and find out how one breaks a binding spell. Though where I am to learn such a thing, I have no idea. Maybe there’s a wise woman in Manerba? I’ll ask at the inn tonight.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about me,’ she cried, in a panic. ‘If anyone finds out I’m here, she’ll be so angry. Please, don’t tell anyone.’

  Lucio sat and stared at her, frowning. ‘I won’t tell anyone yet, I promise. I may have to, in the end, if I need help to get you out. But only if I have to.’

  She nodded, wiping her face with the heels of her hands, trying not to let him see how terrified she was at the idea of the witch knowing he had been there.

  ‘I’ll stay a few more days,’ Lucio said, frowning. ‘I don’t like to leave you here alone. I’ll make some excuse, pretend to be sick or something. At least I can make sure you eat some decent food before I go!’ He glanced at the window, checking the position of the sun. ‘I left a note for my men, telling them I’ve gone out hunting for the day. They know how much I love to hunt. I’ll have to try and catch a few hares or a bird or two on the way back, else they’ll get suspicious. I never come home from a day’s hunting without a catch.’

  ‘So … you like hunting?’ she asked, trying to delay the moment at which he would rise and say he must go.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Lucio cried, his face bright with enthusiasm. ‘It is what I do most days. We ride out into the hills with our falcons and our dogs, or we hunt on foot with our bows.’

  ‘Oh, you have dogs? I have always wanted a dog, but she never let me.’

  ‘My dogs are great shaggy beasts, used to running long distances every day. They would have gone mad locked up in here.’ He looked about him with distaste and moved his shoulders restlessly, as if wishing he could be gone.

  ‘You have a horse too?’

  ‘Yes, a fine black stallion called Nero. I’ve had him from a colt and broke him to the bridle myself. I could not bring him with me – a boat is no place for a horse.’

  ‘I have never seen a horse,’ Margherita confessed.

  Lucio exclaimed in surprise, ‘Never seen a horse! But that’s terrible. They are among the most beautiful of God’s creations.’

  ‘There are no horses in Venice, at least not real ones. And no horses in a tower.’ She tried to smile.

  ‘I’ll teach you to ride!’ Lucio cried. ‘You have not lived until you’ve galloped through a field at dawn, with the mist rising from the ground and all the birds singing their little hearts out.’

  She looked at him. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘We’ll have to find you a chestnut mare, to ma
tch your hair. And a red dog too. You’ll cause a sensation at court with hair that colour.’

  She flushed and looked away, barely able to breathe. He spoke so confidently, as if sure of the future, while she could see no further than this moment. ‘So … you really think we can break the spell? You really think I can escape?’

  He was surprised. ‘Of course! How hard can it be? I’ve got up and down myself, and so does this witch of yours. You just need to be brave. Now I’ve really got to go, else they’ll have search parties out for me.’ He stood up.

  Unable to help herself, she leapt to her feet, her hands flying out, not wanting him to leave.

  ‘Don’t look so frightened,’ he chided her, catching hold of her hands. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow. I promise.’

  She looked up at him pleadingly. Suddenly, he bent and kissed her on the mouth. For a moment, they were locked together, mouths and bodies and souls, then Lucio broke free, stepping back. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … it’s just you looked so … Don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  He smiled at her, though his dark eyes were sombre and troubled, then he grasped the rope, climbed over the windowsill and was gone.

  Some time during the night, Margherita was woken from a nightmare with terrible cramps in her stomach. She doubled over in pain, cold sweat breaking out on her skin. She’s found out, she knows, she’s sticking a poppet of me with pins, she thought. She’s punishing me from afar. I can never be free of her!

  The cramps came and went all night, and when dawn came she was so exhausted she did not get up but stayed curled up in her bed, weeping quietly to herself.

  The morning dragged on and Lucio did not come. Margherita stayed in bed.

  At last, she heard Lucio’s voice calling to her. Then the rope went taut and he began to climb up to her. She scrambled out of bed and went to throw on a robe. But then a hoarse cry broke from her. She stood, trembling, staring at her bed. Blood stained the sheets. She looked down at herself. Blood stained her camìcia.