Secrets of the Tower

by Debbie Rix

  ‘That was mean,’ she said, sadly. ‘The cake was a treat… from my mistress.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, smiling. ‘I will buy you another.’

  She smiled back. ‘Can you? Have you the money?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, puffing up his chest just a little. ‘I am a mason, and I was paid today. Look.’ He pulled a couple of brass coins from a little pouch tied to his belt.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I had nearly finished it anyway.’

  Remembering her errand now, she spoke again: ‘My mistress sent me here to find you, I think. Are you Gerardo?’

  ‘I am,’ he said, curious now. ‘Who is your mistress?’

  ‘I may not say, but you know her. She said to say she was the “fig lady”.’

  He nodded. ‘I know her. What does she want?’

  ‘She wants to see you… to meet with you. She asks if you could meet her at the church of Santo Stefano, today at three bells. Can you do that?’

  ‘I could… yes.’ He spoke hesitatingly. ‘Why does she want to meet me?’

  ‘She says that she will have something for you.’

  ‘Tell her I will be there. Now, let me give you a coin for your trouble so that you can buy another cake.’ Reaching into his purse, he took out the money and placed it carefully into the girl’s hand, folding her fingers over it.

  She smiled at him and he smiled back, drinking in her young golden skin, the fair hair, and her eyes – of the sweetest blue he had ever seen, the colour of ultramarine, the rarest of pigments, used by the painters in the cathedral to decorate the dress of the Madonna.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked, as she turned to go.

  ‘Aurelia,’ she said shyly. And Gerardo caught her hand in his and, bringing it to his full lips, kissed it.

  When Aurelia returned to Berta shortly before lunch, she found her mistress anxious and short-tempered. Normally she would have been reading in her room before taking lunch with Lorenzo, but that morning she had been forced to deceive him, persuading him that she was unwell with a bad headache. He had offered to stay with her – to soothe her head – but she had refused, finally insisting that he go in order that she could rest. Reluctantly, he had finally left her, announcing that he would take his lunch alone and siesta in his own bedchamber that afternoon.

  They were due to dine with a business colleague of Lorenzo’s later that day, and Berta promised him that, with enough rest, she would be back to her normal self in time for the meeting.

  As soon as Aurelia entered her bedchamber, she grabbed the girl’s wrist, pulling her onto the little seat that was positioned beneath the window. ‘Well … did you find him?’

  Her voice was urgent.

  ‘Yes, signora, I did. I gave him your message.’

  ‘And will he meet me today?’

  ‘He will, signora, just as you asked.’

  Berta smiled now, her shoulders dropping with relief. She stood smoothing down the folds of her dress.

  ‘Good,’ she said, ‘then we have work to do.’

  A little before the allotted time, as her husband and the rest of the household rested, Berta stepped tentatively through the gate in the stone wall that separated their garden from the path that ran up to the banks of the Arno.

  As a leading figure of the mercantile community, she was well known in the area, and took care to conceal her true identity that afternoon. Anxious to combine beauty and elegance with discretion, she had been short and terse with her maid, even once slapping the girl’s hand when she mistakenly pulled at her hair. Dressed in a gown of dark green silk which brought out the colour of her eyes, her jewellery was simple: just an emerald cross on a gold chain at her neck. This had surprised Aurelia, who had laid out the beautiful pearl and emerald necklace that Lorenzo had given his wife the previous year. But Berta considered it too ostentatious for that afternoon’s tryst. She wore a cloak of palest blue wool, the hood covering the red hair that was coiled simply on top of her head, and to shield her face from prying eyes, she was veiled, the lace soaked in sweet-smelling lavender oil, mixed with rosemary. For the river was more than just a conduit of trade, with galleys and fishing vessels under sail and oar. It was also a vital part of the sewage system of the city, and by the middle of the afternoon, the day’s heat created a stench that hung in the air. She held the lace veil over her mouth and nose, inhaling the sweet smells of lavender and rosemary oil to ward off the infection that could be carried on the wind, and hurried on.

  As she arrived at the church of Santo Stefano, the bells began their simple toll. She looked around for Gerardo and was disquieted to notice her heart beating loudly in her chest. He did not keep her waiting long; in fact he had got there some while earlier, concealing himself in a nearby doorway so that he could watch the street from both ends and spot her arrival.

  He had cleaned off the dust of that morning’s work as best he could and wore a loose shirt of cream linen. When he saw her, he ducked out of the shadows, noting the green silk which flashed beneath her cloak, surprised at its quality. He had an artist’s eye for detail and he understood now, as he saw the silken gown, that she must be a lady of some stature.

  When she saw him, she smiled and walked towards him, and he saw for the first time, as she let down the hood of her cloak, her beautiful red hair. She had always been careful to conceal it on their daily meetings at the Piazza. Once or twice he had glimpsed its colour, when a few strands had escaped from beneath their covering. Now, as she stood before him, the bright afternoon sun glinting on her hair, it was like a halo of flames surrounding her smiling face.

  ‘Thank you for coming today.’ She spoke calmly, confident in her role as the older woman, in charge of the meeting.

  ‘It is my pleasure, signora.’ He noticed the emerald ring she wore on the fourth finger of her left hand.

  ‘I thought perhaps it was time to properly introduce myself to you. My name is Berta di Bernardo. I am the wife of Lorenzo Calvo; you may have heard of him?’

  The name was familiar to the young man. A flash of pain went through his body, as he remembered his mother weeping at the news that her father had been lost at sea. She had always blamed the owner of the ship for his death, the greedy merchant Lorenzo Calvo. ‘He pushed the crew too hard,’ she told him more than once, ‘he forced them to make too many journeys. The crew were exhausted and my father was worried about it. He tried to stop Calvo, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  The story lacked detail, or at least Gerardo remembered little more than the bare bones. He had only been a small boy when Carlo died – barely five or six – and this death, significant though it was, was quickly overtaken by the far greater tragedy of his mother’s death. He could still remember the cries of pain that filled the small house during those last few agonising weeks.

  ‘How long have we known each other?’ she asked.

  ‘Several years,’ he said,’ I was a boy when we first met… seven or eight years old.’

  ‘And how old are you now?’

  ‘I am seventeen, signora.’ His tone was wary, no longer the easy sweetness of their earlier meetings, as equals enjoying the pleasure of a fig or a piece of bread dipped in honey. He was unsettled, not understanding what she wanted from him.

  Sensing his disquiet, she touched his arm. ‘Gerardo, please… let us walk a little way together. I have a proposition for you.’

  They walked together, not quite touching; the woman, her hair shining in the sunlight, and the boy, taller by an arm’s length. She chose quiet back streets, away from her usual haunts, hoping not to be noticed by anyone of her acquaintance. At that time of day, she was taking a terrible risk of being recognised – abroad in the afternoon, unaccompanied, consorting publicly with a young man.

  ‘Gerardo, I would like to invite you to come to my house tomorrow evening. I have some influential people attending, and it may be useful for you in your work.’

  She smiled up at him as they stood now, together, on the
banks of the Arno, a mile or more from her house.

  The young man looked deeply into her eyes and he bowed in appreciation of this generous offer.

  ‘I am grateful to you, signora, but I must decline.’

  ‘Why?’ She was startled by his refusal. It was unusual for anyone, save for Lorenzo, to deny her anything.

  ‘I am but a mason. My family is not wealthy. I do not have suitable clothes to wear to such a gathering. I would embarrass you.’

  Delighted by his thoughtfulness, she reached out with her fingers and touched his hand. He recoiled almost imperceptibly from her touch. He knew what his mother would have wanted him to do: to walk away and never see this woman again. And yet she was offering him an opportunity that did not come often to a young mason in Pisa at that time. She was also, he thought… as he took in the breasts, the lips, the hair… a great beauty.

  The sun began to sink in the west, casting long streaks of golden light across the water below, she reached up and stroked his face with her long fingers, before whispering in his ear: ‘Dear Gerardo, that is no problem. I will arrange everything.’

  And pulling her hood carefully over her hair, she turned to go. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  The next morning, the mist hanging heavy over the Arno, Berta woke early. As Lorenzo slept beside her, snoring lightly and turning over in his sleep, she crept from her bed, drawing her gown around her. She withdrew a parcel she had carefully hidden in a chest in the corner of the room. Aurelia, who slept on a little cot in a room off her mistress’s bedchamber, sat up, startled, as Berta shook her awake.

  ‘Signora, forgive me… I have slept too long.’

  ‘No, Aurelia, don’t worry. It is very early – the sun is scarcely awake. I need you to do an errand for me.’

  Aurelia climbed out of her bed and pulled her day dress on over her shift. Her mistress noted how the girl had grown since she first brought her to the household. Her breasts had begun to develop, and her face, framed by the golden river of hair, had become more mature.

  She handed Aurelia the parcel.

  ‘I want you to take this to Gerardo. But be quick… you will need to hurry if you are to get there before he goes to work this morning.’

  She told the girl the address, asking her to repeat it several times until she had committed it to memory.

  Then pressing a coin into her hand, she added: ‘Buy yourself a little breakfast after you have delivered the parcel, do you understand? And there should be a little money left for you to keep or give to your mother.’

  When her mistress had gone, Aurelia, curious, undid its ribbon and carefully folded back the paper. Inside were clothes: a fine linen robe in a deep blue – the most expensive of pigments – with a smooth leather belt. A pair of soft leather shoes completed the outfit, with leather heels and bands of blue to tie the boots at the ankle. These were expensive clothes, she could tell, though not belonging to her master, for he was not such a tall man. Hurriedly, she re-wrapped the parcel, before slipping out of the servants’ entrance and running as fast as her coltish legs would carry her to the house of Gerardo.

  The city was coming to life with people spilling out of their houses, as Aurelia sped along the lanes and alleys. But there were people everywhere. Pisa at that time was full of incomers. In spite of the constant war that raged with the Holy Land, the the Pisans themselves bore no ill-will to people of any race. Pisan architects introduced Moorish designs to their buildings. Buscheto, the architect of the Duomo, had spent a great deal of time studying the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, before bringing many of its influences to bear on his cathedral. In the same way, the prosperous Pisani sought to demonstrate their wealth and sophistication by decorating their homes with furniture and relics from the Holy Land, or by employing a dark-skinned Moor to serve at their table, or act as bookkeeper. Lorenzo and Berta, for example, engaged a notary called Massoud, whom Lorenzo had met in Syria. He had brought the man back with him the year before, and he had been responsible for all their financial and legal affairs ever since. His command of Italian was now excellent, but he kept all of their records in Arabic, a language that Lorenzo struggled to master. There was even a pair of camels which had been brought back under sail from Africa. They were a common sight in Pisa, ferrying goods around the city, crossing the newly built bridge across the Arno.

  Aurelia heard the bells of Santa Cecilia toll three times for the morning Angelus, just as she was arriving at Gerardo’s home. She knocked on the door, suddenly nervous of seeing the young man again.

  An older man opened the door; his hair was grey and thinning. He wore breeches but no shirt, and his arms and chest were dark brown, the muscles hard and strong. The face was gnarled, as if a vice had pressed down hard on his head and chin, pushing the features too closely together. The eyes though were familiar – a shade of green-blue, like the colour of the sea.

  ‘Excuse me… I am looking for Gerardo.’

  ‘I am Gerardo.’ The older man looked quizzically at the young girl.

  Behind the man’s head, she saw the object of her interest hovering behind.

  ‘It’s all right, nonno. I think it’s me she wants to see.’

  The older man raised his eyebrows, but left the pair standing in the doorway as he went back inside to resume his preparations. Both men were employed on the Baptistery and needed to be on site soon after the Angelus.

  ‘I have brought something for you, from my mistress.’ Aurelia handed the parcel to the young man, who took it from her, squeezing it between finger and thumb as he did so. ‘It is clothes,’ she gushed, ‘they are very beautiful… the most beautiful pair of shoes and a robe of finest linen. I think she must have bought them for you specially.’

  He smiled at her and her sweet enthusiasm.

  The older man interrupted the two. ‘Gerardo, we must go.’

  ‘Of course, nonno.’

  Gerardo turned and nodded to the man.

  ‘Tell your mistress, thank you,’ he said, turning back to Aurelia. And taking her hand in his much larger grip, he brought it up and grazed it with his soft lips.

  He watched her walk down the lane, before closing the door and leaning heavily against it. He picked up the parcel that lay on the table, and undid the ribbons revealing the clothes inside. His grandfather, who had been busying himself with preparations for the day’s work, glanced at the contents.

  ‘Somebody wants something from you my boy… I hope you can meet their expectations.’

  ‘You are right, nonno, as always,’ said Gerardo, as he re-tied the parcel, before gathering up his tools for the day.

  Chapter Twelve

  September 1171

  When Aurelia returned from Gerardo’s house, she tried hard to concentrate on her duties. She gathered up the clothes in her mistress’s bedchamber, hanging them up with care, smoothing the silk and lace, ensuring the sachets of lavender were arranged between each garment. She took the delicate shift and stockings that her mistress had discarded the previous evening to the laundry maid for washing. Her duties completed, she wandered into the large garden that lay at the rear of the house. Here, amongst the rows of sweet red tomatoes and peppers that ripened in the autumn sunshine, she thought about the young man who would be attending the fine dinner that was to be held later that day at the palazzo.

  She remembered the way he had held her hand, the feel of his lips on her wrist at the Piazza, and again that morning at his lodgings. They had been warm and dry, not wet like the boy who worked in the kitchens at the palazzo who had tried to kiss her behind the fig tree a few weeks before. He had been rough and grabbed her from behind as she stood on tiptoes, trying to reach a particularly luscious fig that hung just out of reach. The wasps were circulating, their buzzing, mixed with the cicadas, adding to the sleepy heat of the afternoon. She imagined the rest of the house were resting, but Cosimo was suddenly there, grabbing her roughly, pulling her round and forcing his lips onto hers, his wet mouth dribbling slightly. She had pulle
d away, fearful of discovery and filled with loathing.

  ‘No!’ she had cried, before escaping back to the house, tripping over her skirts, and falling almost headlong into the kitchen, where the cook scolded her for running and tearing her dress.

  The boy had followed in after her, laughing slyly behind his hand, and had been given a sweet cake by the cook, who ruffled his hair and pinched his cheek.

  Gerardo was different from any boy she had known. He had been gentle and polite and had held her hand to his mouth so sweetly. His eyes, the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen, had held hers with such intensity when she left the clothes with him that morning that she had found it hard to tear herself away. She felt his eyes were boring into her soul, understanding her in a way that no one had ever done before. She began to think about what he would look like in the fine blue-green tunic. She understood well why her mistress had chosen that garment for him. He would look very handsome. She understood, too, why he was to be invited. For while she was still just a girl, she was old enough to understand attraction between a man and a woman – and she had observed the way her mistress became agitated and excited when she talked about the young man.

  Aurelia was startled out of her daydreaming by Berta, who had completed her discussions with her head of household, deciding on the menu and plan of the table. Musicians would play at the dinner and she had met with them to discuss suitable music for the evening. She had invited Deotisalvi and several other well-known architects, hoping to introduce her young protégé. There would be twenty guests in all, and the menu had been chosen with care. It would be a sumptuous affair and Berta found herself filled with excitement at the prospect of seeing Gerardo again.

  ‘Aurelia,’ she spoke clearly, ‘come now; I need to prepare for this evening.’