‘A girl always belongs to the first man who takes her, didn’t you know?’
‘Belongs?’
‘Yes, body and soul.’
‘You mean, like man and wife?’
He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Oh, I doubt they’ll let us wed! My folks have another girl in mind for me, and I heard your Papa say he had his eye on the youngest Bardoni boy for you. What’s his name – Federico, that’s it. But you mustn’t tell anyone I broached your barrel. No man wants to be palmed off with soiled goods. That’s our little secret, eh cousin?’
Carla wriggled uncomfortably, hating the sticky feeling between her thighs now that her excitement was waning. His words troubled her. She was on uncharted seas without a compass, and the only man who knew the course seemed bent on wrecking her life.
‘What’s the matter, Carlotta?’ His grin no longer seemed beguiling, more menacing. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t fall for a child. If you’re worried I’ll use my fingers on you, then you can use yours on me. We’ll have plenty of enjoyment without any of the risk.’
The fear that she had been harbouring came out in a timid question. ‘Stefano, have we done wrong? What would Father Andrea say?’
Her cousin laughed, with a cruel edge. ‘He’d say you were in mortal sin, my girl, and had better say ten Hail Marys in double quick time or be prepared to languish in hell!’
She could not tell if he was teasing her. The old Stefano that she had been able to read like a book had almost vanished, to be replaced by this enigmatic, dangerous young man. Confused and vaguely miserable, Carla wanted to go home. She got up, smoothing down her skirt, and mumbled some excuse.
‘Best go on your own then,’ he said, casually. ‘We daren’t risk being seen together. But any time I want you I’ll let you know.’
Want you . . . want you . . . His voice echoed in her ears as she slowly followed the dirt track down the hillside towards the village. There had been such arrogant presumption in his words, as if she were a mare that could be saddled for him to ride whenever he desired a gallop in the hills. Carla felt her heart rebel. The pleasure he had given her had a price attached to it, and she was unsure what that was. Yet she feared him now, feared that their ‘secret’ gave him a power over her which might be abused.
Stefano had talked of getting her with child – was that the risk they had taken? Yet he had also made it clear he had no intention of marrying her. A cold fear gripped Carla’s heart as she recalled a girl who had been ostracised by her neighbours for bearing an unwanted child. The babe had been given to nuns but the taint had remained, making the girl a permanent outcast.
‘I will tell Father Andrea,’ Carla decided. ‘He will know what to do.’
The following Saturday she went to confession, but instead of the usual catalogue of peccadilloes, Carla Buonomi surprised Father Andrea with her open admission of sexual depravity. In her naivety, she described the act she had performed with her cousin Stefano in frank detail.
‘I let him put his thing inside my private place,’ she murmured. ‘I had a feeling it was wrong, Father, although he told me no harm would come of it. And he wasn’t inside me for long.’
‘You have transgressed in ignorance,’ came the priest’s solemn voice from behind the fretted screen. ‘But that is no excuse. Like Eve, you are guilty of original sin and must be purged. Tell me, child, how did you feel when your cousin performed this shameful deed upon you?’
‘I did not know I should be ashamed,’ Carla said. ‘So I enjoyed it.’
‘You enjoyed it?’ Father Andrea sounded outraged.
Carla continued, defiantly, disliking his tone, ‘Yes. It felt nice.’
‘Holy mother of God, your plight is graver than I had supposed. You are in mortal jeopardy, my child, and must take care not to sin again. If you see your seducer about the village make sure you turn away so you are in no danger of repeating the evil deed.’
‘Oh, then he’ll follow me. He said I am now his, to take whenever he pleases.’
‘Wicked youth! Do not be misled, dear child. Stop your ears if he should speak. Say three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers every night and morning, to give you strength. And if your flesh should be in danger you must make the sign of the cross to remind you of the mortification of the flesh suffered by Our Lord. Think on his agony, not of your own pleasure, and your soul will be saved.’
Carla listened in silence to his admonition. It seemed that what she and Stefano had done was more serious than she had at first thought. Yet she could not blot from her mind the memory of those blissful feelings. And how could she possibly avoid her cousin when he lived next door, and was forever popping in and out of her home? The very sight of him would remind her of what they had shared, and if he winked or smiled at her she knew she would follow him, be damned with him. Carla knew she was powerless to resist the sensual spell he had cast over her. Her body craved him, and her soul must pay the price.
But when she left the church that night Carla was less concerned about the priest’s warning than about her own fear of the future. Stefano had said he would not wed her, that her parents planned to marry her to Federico Bardoni. But that lad was stupid, and ugly. After Stefano he would seem a dull partner, but she could see no way out. There was no one else in the village whom she could propose as a better candidate, not so long as Stefano seemed determined to keep her only for his clandestine pleasure.
Realising that she had got herself into an impossible situation, Carla’s thoughts turned to the wide world beyond. The thought of leaving home was daunting, yet she was aware that she had become an economic burden to her parents who had four younger mouths to feed than hers. Marriage to Federico would certainly occur within the year if she stayed at home, and that made even the unknown dangers of the city a welcome prospect.
If, through no fault of her own, she had fallen into sin then she would remove herself from the source of temptation. Not only by leaving the village, but by pretending to be of the opposite sex. Dressed in a boy’s clothes she would pass as a man, her small breasts safely concealed beneath a baggy tunic and her hair cropped so that it curled about her earlobes. Her parents would think she had run off with a pedlar or a musician, since she was always hanging around such types. They would miss her for a while, but not for long. They were always far too busy to give her more than a passing glance or brief word.
Once the idea had come into her head, Carla could not ignore it. She longed for a life of freedom, rather than the restricted round of child-bearing and toil that marriage to Federico would bring. And Florence was a magical city. Although she had never visited it Carla had heard tales of the beautiful people who lived there, of their fine clothes and magnificent houses filled with statues and paintings. Perhaps there would be room for a street artist there, one who could make lightning sketches of passers-by to amuse their friends . . .
The sun was streaming down on Carla in full force, bringing her back from her reverie. She stretched her aching limbs and sat up. It had been hard to leave home, to turn her back on everything, and everyone, she had ever known. Yet she felt she had already outgrown a household which revolved around the younger children, making her no more than an unpaid nursemaid. Besides, there was a yearning in her soul that would not be denied.
When she had crept into her uncle’s house before dawn and stolen the garments that lay in a heap beside her sleeping cousin, she had feared he would awaken and confront her, but he had continued snoring soundly. She had trembled when she ventured out into the alien night, as much from fear as from cold but now, having survived the danger of the dark, she was eager to begin her new life.
In Stefano’s old clothes she felt safe, close to him and home, yet safe from other men. Although she had not yet put her disguise to the test, she felt sure that in Florence, where strangers arrived every day to seek their fortune, she would pass for just another young lad on the make. Jumping up, she took her last swig of wine from the leather bottle on her back and walked
down the fragrant hillside with bold strides, imagining how it must feel to be Stefano. Some of his cocky self-assurance seemed to have transferred to her from his clothes, for as she hit the road she assumed a swagger that made her feel strong and exhilarated. The rhythm of her walking soon translated itself into a phrase that repeated itself insistently, first in her head and then on her lips: ‘Mi chiamo Carlo! Mi chiamo Carlo! Mi chiamo Carlo!’
But beneath her male attire the golden tassel, symbol of her lost virginity, swung teasingly between her breasts from its leather thong.
Chapter Two
IT WAS STRANGE being in such a great city and knowing no one. At first Carla joined the other beggars on the streets of Florence, but they were an unpleasant crew and she endeavoured to keep her distance. Although everyone took her for a boy, she sometimes had her bottom pinched or ribald remarks were made, making her uneasy. The sights, sounds and smells she experienced were varied and unusual, filling her with bewilderment, but she did not dare to ask too many questions. She had slipped into Florence through one of the toll gates by hiding behind a laden pack horse, and she didn’t want anyone challenging her right to be there.
She soon found the market place, where there were rich pickings to be had. The statue of Abundance which stood on a pillar nearby was not a sham, for the wealth of produce that came into the old market from the countryside was enormous. It was easy to cadge an overripe fig or spotted peach from a fruit stall, or to scrounge leavings of broth from a soup kitchen or a hunk of yesterday’s bread from a baker, but Carla was not content to settle for a life of beggary. She had set her sights higher than mere survival.
For several days, Carla remained in a state of constant wonder as she watched the coming and going around her. Everyone looked busy and prosperous. Even the beggars seemed fat and contented. Merchants hurried between the warehouses, inspecting stock, while a whole army of fullers, carders, dyers and weavers transformed the wool from its raw state into fine and luxurious cloth.
On Sunday, when she hung around the cathedral, Carla saw the sumptuous wools and silks made up into the most beautiful clothes, worn by the rich nobles. She gazed in envy at the carefully protected virgins of good family, who were shepherded into the dark interior of the duomo wearing veils, and wondered what it must be like to lead such a sheltered life. The matrons and city fathers walked with their heads held high, their sons were swaggering youths who wore their hair to their shoulders and were clean shaven. In their tight, jewel-bright jackets and contrasting hose they seemed to enjoy flaunting their well-toned buttocks and shapely legs.
Seeing them, Carla felt strange yearnings, the kind she had felt for her cousin, only now she regarded such feelings with suspicion. It would not do to give in to those urges and make herself even more vulnerable than she already felt. Sometimes, curled up in a doorway at night, the ache inside made her moan and shift her thighs restlessly. She was plagued by tormenting dreams of Stefano. She still feared the powerful force that had driven her out of the familiar comfort of her village and into this strange and alien city.
After she had been there almost a week, Carla decided it was time to prepare for her chosen trade. She disliked being idle in the midst of so much industry. Reasoning that the best friend she could have right now was an apothecary, since that was where the artists bought their pigments, she made her way to the Via dei Speziali, where they had their shops. It was in the very heart of Florence, midway between the great dome of the cathedral and the tall tower of the town hall, in the territory of the powerful wool merchants.
Carla entered the first shop she saw and was amazed by the variety of merchandise. The apothecaries sold spices, stationery, cosmetics and other trinkets as well as medicinal potions. While she browsed amongst the pomanders and amulets, skin creams and perfumes, she made an interesting discovery. Packets of pink centaury were labelled Biondella. Now she knew why so many of the fashionable ladies appeared to have golden hair!
As she was inspecting the pretty notepapers she overheard an artist’s apprentice ordering pigments for his master: ‘He wants equal quantities of your Venetian and Tuscan red, more of your raw umber than last time and the same amount of ochre. Oh, and some verdigris. Not as much as last time.’
‘What about my ultramarine?’ the old apothecary asked.
‘He said you palmed him off before, with azurite mixed in.’
‘I did not! It was best lapis lazuli, I swear! If he can find better elsewhere, let him try. I guarantee he’ll send you running back to my door.’
The banter continued for a while and Carla made mental notes as a plan formed in her mind. She had been successful in posing as a youth, why should she not pretend to be an apprentice too? It was surely worth the risk to get her hands on some of those wonderful-sounding colours.
As soon as the shop was empty she went up to the counter, where the apothecary was weighing out some herbs. ‘Excuse me,’ she began.
The old man peered at her over the scales. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ he said, gruffly. ‘Don’t recall seeing you in here before.’
Her nerve failed her at once. How could she weave an elaborate story to explain her presence in town? This man undoubtedly knew all the artists in Florence and would soon call her bluff. Instead, she decided to throw herself on his mercy.
‘Yes, I only arrived here last Friday,’ she admitted. ‘And I have to make my living somehow. I can draw, so I thought I would make some portraits, but I need colours. Some chalk and some ochre, and maybe charcoal if you have it.’
‘Do you have money, then?’
‘A little.’
She took the paltry coins she had made begging out of her belt-pouch. The apothecary gave a derisive laugh, dashing her hopes. ‘I don’t know what you expect to buy with that!’
‘Isn’t it enough?’
‘Not nearly enough. But look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. There are always some bits left in the empty tubs. If you want, you can scrape them out and mix them with gum. I’ll let you go out to the back and find them if you’ll agree to mind the shop for a while. Can I trust you?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘Right. Don’t attempt to sell anyone anything. Just tell them old Bondino will be back soon. Stand behind here and don’t you budge until I return. All right?’
She watched the man leave. Almost as soon as he had gone, two fashionable ladies entered. Carla could see their manservant hovering just outside the shop. They paused at the door, staring in amazement at Carla. Both women had dyed blonde hair coiled up in elaborate plaits with little bells incorporated that jangled as they walked. Their dresses were of dark blue and green brocade, embroidered with flowers like a spring meadow. Their sleeves were slashed and trimmed with bows, showing a contrasting lining beneath, and they wore gloves and pretty, high-heeled slippers. Carla was daunted by their sophisticated air.
The taller of the two ladies spoke to her companion. ‘I thought I saw Bondino sloping off down the street. It seems he’s left this pretty boy in charge. Well, isn’t this our lucky day!’
‘Mm!’ the other said, her dark eyes bright with mischief. ‘How far do you think we could get with him before his master returns?’
‘He looks a bit green about the gills, don’t you think?’
‘It’s not his gills I’m interested in, Francesca!’
Carla could scarcely follow their conversation, but she knew she had to address them and she was terribly afraid that her secret would be found out. Clearing her throat she said, in as low as voice as she could manage, ‘Can I help you, ladies?’
The pair approached the counter, their faces full of guile, and Carla’s heart sank. The one called Francesca leant right over the wooden barrier, exposing her cleavage. She clearly read Carla’s embarrassment as sexual, and gave a knowing smile.
‘Well, my dear,’ she said, beckoning her forward in a conspiratorial manner. ‘What we want is some of old Bondino’s very special perfume. Isn’t that right, Livia?’
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br /> The one called Livia tossed the feathery ornament she’d been playing with back into its tray. ‘Oh yes. Yes indeed!’
‘Th – the perfumes are over there, ladies.’
The women exchanged a look of amused complicity. ‘No, you don’t understand. Those are for other women, ordinary women. We want the special stuff. You know. He keeps it under the counter.’
Carla pretended to look but there were so many drawers, all with Latin labels, that she was confused. ‘Maybe we’d better help him find it,’ Livia said.
Before Carla could protest, both women were behind the counter and far too close for comfort. Francesca put her hand casually on Carla’s behind as she scrutinised the drawers, and gave her buttock squeeze. ‘Mm, not bad!’ she told her companion with a wink.
‘I can’t see any useful goods round the back,’ Livia said. ‘Maybe we should look in the front. Do you think he’s well stocked?’
Francesca gave a dirty laugh. ‘I should say so, by the looks of him. Shall we find out?’
There was no doubt about their innuendo now and it was making Carla extremely nervous. Her coarse brown tunic came only halfway down her thighs and she had taken the precaution of fashioning a codpiece out of wool scraps that she had secured inside her hose. Visually, the prosthetic helped her pass as male, but she knew that if anyone as bold as Stefano tried to grope her, she would be lost.
‘Won’t you give us a peep at your booty?’ Livia asked, giggling. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got the best medicine any woman could have.’
‘Better watch out he doesn’t give you a dose then!’ Francesca cackled.
Carla had never met women like this before, never even dreamt they existed, and she knew she was out of her depth. They spoke a language she could scarcely understand, full of double meanings, and they looked at her with such frankly shameless expressions that she was as embarrassed for them as she was for herself.
‘This – er – perfume you require,’ she began, in desperation. ‘What is it called?’
Artistic Licence Page 2
