A shudder passes through me as I write that I would like to be placed in a simple coffin, in keeping with the Order of the Virgin, to be paid for by whatever resources Ludovico deems adequate.
There! ’Tis done. Now all I have to do is give birth to a healthy baby, and survive the aftermath. Ludovico will be here this evening. He’s an apothecary; I’ll ask his advice.
‘There’s a woman I know.’ He kisses the pulse behind my ear. ‘She’s a midwife and a healer. I’ll ask her to call on you. Maddalena is her name. I think you’ll like her.’
‘I’m sure I shall.’
5
The heat of summer gives way to the fresher, but still warm weather of October. Andrew is with me this evening, delighting in the fullness of my body. ‘You’re ripe like a peach, Veronica. Everything about you is luscious. Shame you won’t always be pregnant.’
My dear crow (for that’s how I think of him, belonging as he does to the ruling patrician class) cups my breasts and draws a nipple into his mouth. His tongue traces circles around my areola, sending ripples of pleasure to my core. He’s had me twice already; ’tis unlikely he’ll screw me again tonight. We’re luxuriating in that post-fucking feeling, our limbs languorous, and our lust satiated.
He lifts a tendril of my hair and twists it round a finger. ‘The way you love me is like no other, tesoro. You make me feel like a god.’ Andrew’s gaze meets mine and his eyes twinkle. ‘I have a surprise for you.’
‘Oh?’
‘The salon resumes next week. I shall take you with me, if you want.’
I squeal with excitement. ‘Of course I want, you tease.’ I place both my hands on the sides of his face and kiss him on the lips.
‘I shall introduce you to Domenico Venier. If he likes you, he’ll take you under his wing. You know he was once the protector of Tullia D’Aragona.’
‘Who?’
‘A courtesan from Florence. A poet like you and a philosopher. You should read her Dialogues on the Infinity of Love. Very clever. Sadly, she’s dead now. I’ll try and get you a copy of the publication.’
‘Grazie. Pray tell me about Domenico Venier.’
‘He’s an invalid because of severe gout. Has to be in a wheelchair. ’Tis the reason he’s no longer a senator.’
Ah, another crow. ‘The poor man.’
‘He more than makes up for it with his superior intellect.’
‘What about the salon?’
‘There are some musicians and artists, of course. But the majority of the members are poets and writers.’
‘And what do they discuss?’
‘Generally the use of Provencal poetic forms for the Venetian love lyric.’
‘Not Petrarch’s forms?’
‘They seek to establish something new.’
‘How interesting.’
Ca’ Venier is only a short walk from my house, in the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. Andrew holds my elbow as I totter in my chopines, my breasts bulging out of my bodice, my face covered by an intricate mask decorated with a half-moon in the centre and stars sprinkled around the edges. Mamma has let out the waistband of my overskirt. Fortunately, I’m of slim build and my babe is still quite small. From the front no one will realise I’m pregnant. From the side, however, ’tis obvious.
Nerves stab as we’re ushered into a large portego. Groups of men sit at tables, nursing goblets of wine. There are some women dotted about the room. Courtesans, of course. Venetian husbands, fearing for their wives’ chastity, lock them away like booty and they’re never seen in mixed company like this. And even if they were, they would have little to contribute, for most of them are uneducated. Small wonder their husbands turn to the likes of us, not just for physical release, but for intelligent conversation. I give thanks to Mamma for insisting I shared in Jeronimo, Horatio, and Serafino’s education. How I miss my brothers! They are abroad, however, and don’t visit often.
Andrew takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘Come, Veronica. I’m looking forward to watching you duel with one of these fellows.’
‘Me, duel? I did fence with my siblings from time to time when they were young. But I take it you mean a different type of contest.’
He laughs. ‘Right as ever, my sweet. Let’s take a seat.’
A young man, probably no more than five or six years older than me, gets to his feet and moves to the centre of the room. He’s short and stocky, with light brown hair. ‘Tonight the subject is Venice,’ he announces.
‘Who’s he?’ I whisper.
‘Maffio Venier, Domenico’s nephew. A bit of a drifter…’
The young man bows, then begins to recite:
‘Born in glory, a virgin is she
Wonderful Venice, ruler of the sea
Goddess of the foamy depths
Mighty portal twixt east and west
Mother of freedom, child of honour
Home and hearth to men of valour.’
Andrew gets to his feet. ‘Here’s one here who would duel with you, sir.’
Maffio’s smile is cold. ‘You?’
Andrew pulls me to my feet. There’s a gasp of surprise from the assembled company, followed by titters.
Maffio gives me a disdainful look, then bows. ‘Signora, I challenge you to close a sentence every three lines in the tercet form.’
My heart thuds, and my brain races. I know how to start, but where will the first words take me?
‘Gold, marble mansions and sculptured stones,’
I stutter.
‘Raised on such waters that the mighty sea,’
I feel more confident now.
‘Turns back on itself to contemplate her beauty.’
I pause to gather my thoughts.
‘The majestic waves, purged of their fury, wind their way along her quiet paths with enchanting intent and gentle artistry.’
Another pause. Come on, Veronica! Think of the last three lines! I glance at Andrew. He gives me an encouraging smile. Opposite me Maffio smirks as if victory is already his. The arrogance of the man! Without further ado, the next lines come to me.
‘Venice, lofty virgin, inviolate and pure, for her glory and her splendour, truly the King of Heaven delights in her.’
‘Brava, brava!’ Domenico Venier’s voice rings through the portego. ‘The girl is the winner. Pray bring her to me, Andrew. That I might make her acquaintance.’
Andrew draws up a stool for me next to Count Vernier’s wheelchair. The elderly statesman is wearing a long coat that covers his legs, and his beard and hair are white.
He pats my hand. ‘You have a talent, my dear. Your words paint a beautiful picture. Have you written much?’
‘I write every day. For me ’tis as essential as breathing. If I were not able to write, I fear I would surely die.’
‘Spoken like a true writer. You must come again and read some of your work.’
‘I’m not sure ’tis good enough. Perhaps I might seek your advice?’
‘It will be an honour to nurture your talent. Talking of which, I’d like you to meet my other nephew, Marco. He writes poetry too.’ Domenico looks around. ‘Where is he?’
I sense someone staring at me, making my flesh crawl. Maffio has taken a seat on the other side of his uncle, his gaze directed towards me, his expression one of intense dislike.
Another man approaches. A man so beautiful he takes my breath away. A mane of dark- brown hair reaches to his collar. He’s tall, well-proportioned. God, I would like to have him in my bed…
‘My nephew, Marco Venier, Il Magnifico.’ Domenico’s tone is warm.
Ah, a Magnifico. A senator, no less. I smile into the man’s dark eyes, to be met with a look of casual indifference.
I’m suffering from backache. The pain has been nagging me these past weeks. Mamma said ’tis because I walk too far in my chopines. I’m in the final month of my pregnancy now, and Mamma grumbles that I should know better. Ludovico has asked the healer he told me about, Maddalena, to call on me. She has magi
cal hands, apparently, and I’m hoping she’ll make me feel well enough to entertain Andrew later.
A knock at the door, and Domisilla ushers in a plain young woman with hair so dark ’tis almost black. I wince as I get up from my chair. ‘How kind of you to visit at such short notice, signorina.’
‘Please, call me Maddalena.’
‘And you must call me Veronica. I’m delighted to meet you.’
‘And I you.’
‘Pray, take a seat and tell me about yourself.’
‘I live with my mother in San Polo. She’s a midwife and a healer like me. She taught me her skills.’
I laugh. ‘Like my mother did with me.’
Maddalena’s grey eyes are luminous. ‘You’re a courtesan?’
‘Don’t men like to separate women into two categories? Angels or whores. And I’m definitely the latter.’
Maddalena glances away. ‘I’m not one to judge.’
My heart is warming to this girl. ‘Will you attend the birth of my child?’
Maddalena smiles. ‘Of course. Signor Ludovico told me you’re suffering from backache. Pray, show me where it hurts.’
I indicate the base of my spine.
‘I need you to take off your clothes,’ she says, ‘and lie on your side with your knees drawn up.’
She leads me to the day-bed and helps me undress. Then she starts to knead the small of my back. The fragrance of lavender oil and the sensation of her warm palms on my skin are soothing. I give myself up to the massage as her fingers work their magic.
I’m fully relaxed, yet, at the same time, my skin is tingling. I think about Marco Venier. The man is impervious to my charms, it seems. He ignores me whenever I read my poems in the salon. Not that I’ve been there often. Only twice since the first time and not since last month. I shall have to wait until after the birth of my child. Andrew said there’d been comments about how I shouldn’t be seen in public in my advanced state of pregnancy. ‘Not that I care,’ he said. ‘Except for your sake, and your future career as a writer, it might be best to wait.’
Dear, sweet, Andrew. How I love him. Yet I do have room in my heart to love another. Especially as my jeweller has fallen on hard times and no longer calls. Marco Venier. It irks me that he ignores me. Only a brief bow before he spins on his heel and leaves the room. I think about him all the time; I’ve such a crush. Mamma told me he started his political trajectory as Savio agli Ordini, responsible for maritime affairs, when he became a senator at the age of 25 five years ago. Married, of course. As far as Mamma knows he doesn’t frequent courtesans. I can’t help a sigh.
Maddalena stops. ‘Is all well?’
‘Your fingers are miraculous. Please continue. I can feel the pain ebbing away already.’
Maddalena douses my buttocks with more oil, then she starts massaging my lower cheeks, her breathing heavy. Her fingers graze my labia, and my figa moistens. Perhaps ’tis thoughts of Marco that are arousing me. ‘Enough,’ I say. I do not wish to corrupt this woman with my wantonness.
‘If you’re sure.’
Is that the hotness of desire that I see in her eyes? Surely not. Must be my imagination. I go to the side table and give her a coin. ‘For making me feel so much better.’
She takes my hand. ‘I could make you feel even better, if you like.’
My mouth loses all its saliva.
Her gaze locking on mine, she unlaces her bodice then lifts off her chemise. She stands in front of me, bare-breasted, her tits small and pert. Maddalena unties her skirt, dropping it to the floor. The bush of her figa is dark like the hair on her head, not plucked like mine.
She comes closer. We are the same height. Maddalena turns me around and presses herself against my back and I inhale the scent of lavender and musk. Our bodies fit together like hands in a glove, and my flesh tingles as it feels her softness. She kisses the nape of my neck, her tongue caressing. My figa twitches with desire. Maddalena reaches around and strokes my labia. Gesu Cristo!
I turn and cup my heavy breasts to bring them to Maddalena’s lips. Her tongue licks across my nipples, sending a jolt down to my pearl. We topple onto the bed. Arching my back, I thrust my tits farther into Maddalena’s mouth while she caresses my figa; I could reach my joy there and then.
A sound at the door. Maria santissima! Andrew strides into the room. He takes a step back. Then he laughs, a deep throaty laugh. ‘I believe this is my time you’re using.’
Maddalena sits up and covers her breasts, clearly startled. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘Veronica is what came over you, I believe. Or if she hasn’t done yet she will shortly.’ His laughter booms across the room. ‘Mind if I join you?’
Maddalena gulps, her face scarlet. ‘I’ve never lain with a man before.’
‘You prefer the taste of figa, do you?’ Andrew smiles his lopsided grin. ‘Not to worry. We can work this out to our mutual satisfaction. Pray carry on from where I interrupted you.’
‘Andrew, caro,’ I say. ‘Maddalena has just soothed my back pain. She’s a healer not a whore.’
My new friend shakes her head. ‘I’m no angel. Although, for a time, I thought I would become a nun. In the convent, the novices had a way of consoling each other that was very much to my taste. I had to leave when Papa died in order to help my mother. I’ve missed the comfort of my friends. Please, let us continue.’
Andrew’s eyes are licking us hungrily. Maddalena’s tits fill my hands, as soft as the inside of a shell. I suck her nipple into my mouth. The feel of it is like a hard cherry against my tongue, flooding me with even more wetness. I take it between my teeth and give it a gentle tug. She lets out a moan, then falls back on the bed, her legs spread wide.
I know what she wants, but can I do this? ‘Suck her, Veronica,’ Andrew says. ‘If you don’t like it you can stop.’
Opening her up with my tongue, I lap at her hot figa. She’s tastes of honey and lemon, and, liking it very much, I savour every last drop of her juices.
‘Oh Dio,’ she pants, pulling my head in deeper. My own figa is slick and swollen, aching to be filled. I lift my arse and rotate it, my baby-filled belly hanging down.
Andrew has stripped off his clothes and has climbed onto the bed. He strokes my nub from behind, and I can feel my joy building from within. Then he slams into my figa doggy-style, his prick stretching me while I penetrate Maddalena with two fingers, pushing them deep inside her in the same way Andrew is thrusting into me.
The force of his fucking pushes my face hard into the folds of her figa. She grinds against my mouth while I nip and suck at her engorged pearl, feeling it quiver under my tongue as she screams her release and her muscles milk my fingers. I close my eyes, my own joy rippling through me. ‘Ohh!’
Behind me Andrew shudders out a groan, and I feel his hot seed fill me. ‘Let me taste her,’ he says.
I pull out my fingers, coated in Maddalena’s sweet syrup. He sucks them clean, then I kiss him deeply, tasting her again.
We untangle and collapse into a heap of arms and legs. Candlelight casts a glow on our sweat-covered bodies, the air filled with the scent of musk, apples, honey and lemon.
Andrew spoons himself around my back. ‘That was incredible.’ He nuzzles my earlobe.
Maddalena curves around my belly, facing me. She lifts a hand and strokes my cheek. ‘Bella Veronica. You are like Venus. A goddess.’
A chuckle from Andrew. ‘Shall we partake again?’
I catch Maddalena’s smile. ‘What say you?’
She laughs. ‘Only if this time you will let me taste you.’
‘Just watching you makes me hard,’ Andrew says.
Maddalena goes to the basin by the window and wrings out a cloth. She comes back to the bed and washes all traces of Andrew from my figa. As she wipes, she massages my labia. I whimper and push my hips up. The feeling is delicious.
Maddalena pulls my legs forwards so that they hang over the side of the bed. Down on he
r knees, she spreads my thighs apart and slips her tongue in, licking in slow, wide circles. She draws my nub between her teeth, sucking while she pushes two fingers inside. I lie back, and Andrew stretches himself next to me, his mouth at my breast. My nipples pucker and stiffen as he pinches one and licks the other. Maddalena’s fingers are pushing in and out while she increases the pressure on my pearl. My joy is coming; I can feel it. No yet, I hope. ’Tis too soon.
Andrew straddles my face now, on all fours so his weight doesn’t squash me. His prick is hard and I take it in my mouth, swallowing the length right down. He pulls out and in again and again, picking up the rhythm of Maddalena’s fingers as she fucks me from below. Andrew and I reach our joy together, crying out in unison. His hot salty seed slips down my gullet.
‘Come here,’ I say to Maddalena, my voice throaty. She straddles me, her hips undulating as she pushes herself against my mouth and squeals her release.
The babe moves in my womb. I feel a sharp jab. Dio mio! I get to my feet and water gushes out of me onto the marble tiles.
Tight knots of love
6
’Tis November, but the severe cold of winter has yet to arrive. I remember how the canals froze the year my son, Achiletto, was born. Maddalena said his arrival was one of the fastest deliveries she’d seen, and put it down to our antics beforehand. I need not have worried about dying. Maddalena made sure she washed her hands; she didn’t know why, but keeping them clean increased the survival rate among her clients.
More than six years have gone by since. I’m a woman of twenty-five summers, highly successful in my profession. Mamma registered me in a new catalogue, The Principal and Most Honoured Courtesans of Venice, listing our address and the fees we charged. Patrons have kept me busy, yet I’m proud to have maintained a balance between my sense of self-worth and the need to win and keep the support of men. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve courted the cultural élite of my city for fame and fortune.
Veronica COURTESAN (Fragrant Courtesans Book 1) Page 5
