“Right. Water! Chiara, cara, come and work the handle.”
Chiara appeared from behind the barn and took her place at the well.
All five men lined up between the barrel and the well, wooden buckets in hand, and within a few moments they had filled the barrel about a quarter full.
“Now,” said Chiara’s father, “cover up, all of you!”
He and the other four men wrapped long leather aprons around themselves, tied broad strips of doubled linen over the lower parts of their faces, and finally pulled on heavy leather gloves.
“Barnabeo, you and Antonio bring over a sack.”
Chiara held her breath. No matter how many times she had seen this done, as the daughter of the head of the city’s plasterers’ guild, she had never watched the start of the slaking without her heart quickening. She had seen too many accidents—she had a horror of burning.
***
Barnabeo and Antonio hoisted the big sack onto the rim of the barrel. Eduardo pulled out a knife. “Ready?” he asked them.
They nodded.
“Niccolò, is the cover ready?”
Another nod.
“Good and damp?”
Nod.
“Right then. Off we go.”
Eduardo paused, like a man preparing to dive from a great height. Then, after a deep breath, he pushed the blade of the knife into the bulging hessian and jerked it across the length of the sack. White powder fell fast, with a lisping hiss, down into the water in the barrel. Barnabeo and Antonio shook out the last of it and Niccolò moved in quickly to drape a length of damp cloth across the open top as steam billowed up angrily below him.
Everyone but Eduardo stood back; Barnabeo passed him one of the long-handled paddles.
There was a long moment of silence. As he did each time he slaked, Eduardo strained his ears to hear the first sound.
A rhythmical thumping. The liquid hissed and rumbled and the barrel shifted a fraction along the ground. The thumping intensified and the barrel began to shake, as though some furious, captured creature within it was trying to break its way out. A corner of the hessian cover lifted, a gush of steam poured out and the sacking began to flap frantically. Eduardo lifted the wooden paddle and laid it on top of the hessian, trying to flatten it, but steam continued to stream out in several directions. A fat splatter of hot lime spat out and he jumped back, sucking in a hiss of pain as a speck landed on the inch of arm visible between the leather glove and his rolled sleeve. His skin flamed red instantly where the lime had touched him. That would be yet another scar to join the hundreds already pocking his arms and face.
He waited until the roiling and bubbling had begun to subside, then lifted the paddle, grasped the hessian cover in one hand and lifted it slowly, face screwed up in anticipation, leaning back as far as he could. The still-steaming lime shrieked its displeasure at the exposure, and spat out another half-dozen white-hot gobbets towards him, but this time they all missed and fell to the ground. Eduardo pushed the paddle down into the volcanic contents of the barrel, eyes reduced to crumpled slits, mouth distorted into a shape like a shout. For a moment, both fists tight on the handle, he figure-of-eighted the paddle, moving the lime back and forth, then pulled it back out, banged it on the rim of the barrel, to knock off any clinging mixture, and replaced the hessian.
The frantic activity in the barrel began to die down. Eduardo mixed again. Waited. Mixed again.
“Right, lads. Into the pit now.”
All the guildsmen crowded close around the barrel to shift it the few feet to the pit. Carefully, inch by inch, they manoeuvred it into position, then tilted it. The porridge-like slush splattered into the linen-lined hole.
Eduardo and the others stood back, breathing heavily.
“There you are, boys. One down, three to go. This will be,” he said, with more than a touch of pride in his voice, “a lime plaster truly fit for the new fresco at the Castello Estense. We should, my boys, be very proud to be of such service to our duke.”
***
Chiara looked at Niccolò. He smiled at her—a smile that held much promise—and she ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip, which suddenly felt rather dry.
8
The main drawbridge was down. The sky was the colour of old pewter and a fine drizzle was dimpling the surface of the water in the moat. The four great red towers of the Castello Estense glowered down at the rain-slicked city like scowling sentries, the aggressively military precision of their dimensions somehow softened and blurred by the waterlogged air. Diamond droplets hung along the length of all the white stone balustrades.
A sodden group turned into the main piazza in front of the Castello as the cathedral bell chimed the midday: four riders, one small cart, laden with luggage and, tethered behind it, a bedraggled white mule, ears drooping, small hoofs scraping across the cobbles, as though too exhausted even to pick its feet up from the ground. The group crossed the piazza and clattered up on to the drawbridge.
As they reached the central courtyard, Giovanni de’ Medici ran a hand down his pony’s neck. He kicked his feet from the stirrups, swung his leg up and over the horse’s rump and jumped down. Hunching and rolling his shoulders, he stretched his back to ease out the stiffness of hours in the saddle, as several Estense horsemen emerged to greet the new arrivals. One, tall, round-faced and cheerful, took Giovanni’s pony’s reins.
“Thank you,” said Giovanni. “She’s absolutely soaked—they all are. Can you give her a good rub down and throw a blanket over her?”
“Of course, Signore. All the horses will be dried and stabled straight away.”
“Her name’s Brezza,” Giovanni began, “and she—”
“Vanni!” He was interrupted by a shriek. “Vanni!”
Lucrezia was running across the courtyard, her skirts bunched inelegantly in her fists. He grinned and began to walk towards her. She let go of her dress and threw her arms around him; hugging her back, he lifted her right off her feet.
“Oh, Vanni, you’re here at last! But you’re soaking! How was your journey? Was it horrible? How are Mamma and—oh!” She broke off and stood back from him, her mouth a shocked circle. “Oh, cielo! Violetta!”
She had seen the mule. Pleased with the impact of his surprise, Giovanni watched his cousin scramble across the courtyard to where the disgruntled donkey stood behind the cart. She wrapped her arms around its dirty white neck and it tossed its head, stamping a hoof irritably. One of the stablemen unhitched it from the tailboard of the cart. Lucrezia cradled the creature’s muzzle in both hands, kissed it, then turned back to Giovanni, her eyes shining. The bodice and sleeves of her dress were now blotched and stained with rain and mud, and her face was dirty. Giovanni rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes and laughed. “Look at you,” he said. “Nothing changes…”
“You brought her,” Lucrezia said, through a wide, muddy smile, ignoring him.
“I take it you’re pleased.”
“Did she complain all the way?”
“She certainly did. God, Crezzi, I can’t imagine why you’re so fond of her. She has the filthiest temper and the—”
“Don’t! Don’t be horrible! She’s my darling mule and I love her—and I love you for bringing her.” Lucrezia hugged him again. “Come on, let’s get out of the rain.”
Then, raising her voice, she said, “Please, everybody, do come inside. The servants will show you to your rooms, where you can change out of your wet things. There will be hot broth and wine, and I believe a fire has been lit in the East Hall.”
Giovanni proffered an arm, feeling suddenly pleased with himself, and rather older than his fifteen years. Lucrezia took it with both hands and squeezed, smiling up at him again. More servants in bright livery were appearing at the doors now; they seemed, Giovanni thought, out of place in the open air, like a group of pet cats in a field. Their shoulders hunched against the rain, they hastened to welcome the new arrivals inside out of the wet and, in a damp huddle, the par
ty from Cafaggiolo finally entered the Castello.
***
Alfonso heard a commotion in the courtyard as he strode up from the falconry.
He slowed his pace.
Pausing in the shadows of the tunnel from the back drawbridge, he ran a hand through wet hair as he looked from one figure to another. A trickle of rainwater ran down the back of his neck. One of his horsemen was leading a muddy cob—still harnessed to the shafts of a covered tilt-cart—while another held the reins of a handsome little chestnut mare. Three other horses were being led towards the stables, with an obviously elderly, and mud-soaked white mule. A cluster of servants were collecting the luggage from the cart—and then he saw her.
Lucrezia.
She had mud on her face and hands, and her dress was unaccountably filthy, but her face was alight with pleasure. Her eyes were shining as she laughed up at a lanky, dark-skinned boy, and Alfonso’s heart clenched tight for a moment until he recognized the newcomer. His mind on his hawks, he had forgotten that his wife’s cousin was due to arrive today.
Lucrezia’s hands were wrapped around the boy’s arm and she was walking, pressed close to him, towards the main entrance. The boy threw back his head and laughed at something Lucrezia had said. She let go of his sleeve and shoved hard at his side, throwing him off balance. He straightened, jabbed at her ribs with a finger and Alfonso heard her squeal, gasp and laugh.
A hot blade of disapproval turned in his belly. His jaw tensed and something vertiginous shifted and fell in his guts. As in those moments when his horse startled and shied beneath him, Alfonso was rocked by a sense of the bunched precariousness of a potentially uncontrollable force.
Breathing quickly, his hands balled into fists, he stepped back into the shadows of the tunnel and waited for his wife and her cousin to pass into the castle. Once he was certain they had gone, he went in through a side entrance, descended a narrow staircase and walked along the corridor that led to the dungeons.
***
“Alfonso’s not here,” Lucrezia said, as she walked with Giovanni up a wide spiral staircase. He felt a guilty stab of relief, which was, however, short-lived, as she added, “He’s out hawking—he’ll be back soon. I thought he’d be here before you arrived.”
Giovanni’s sodden boots squelched at each step, oozing bubbles of water along the seams. Looking back, he saw a trail of glistening footprints. His feet were frozen. He was aching to ask Lucrezia about her new life. All the questions he had been thinking through over the three days it had taken them to ride up from Cafaggiolo were clamouring to be heard. He had repeated them in his head, over and over again as he had pictured the two of them sitting alone, he asking his questions, she dissolving into tears, admitting to a life of brutal subjugation with a man who had distorted in Giovanni’s head from someone he had simply disliked to a fully fledged monster, capable of anything. But now, here in Ferrara, he found himself faced with a Lucrezia who in the event just seemed delighted to see him; she appeared to be at home in her new life, more grown-up than ever. He felt stupid and childish, and his questions now sounded ridiculous.
He knew he would not ask them.
“Here we are. You can change your clothes—and I’ll need to change mine. How are Mamma and Papa?” Lucrezia asked again. “I’m so sorry they didn’t feel they could come. Is Papa truly getting better? And Giulietta, is she well?”
Giovanni followed her into a large room. A tapestry covered one wall, depicting the climax of a successful hunt, with the tops of the towers of the Castello visible in the background above a line of trees. There was a curtained bed, two highly polished cross-frame chairs and a low table. Not unlike his room at Cafaggiolo, he thought, only tidier.
Lucrezia sat on the end of the bed.
“They are all well,” he said. “Uncle Cosimo’s still resting, but Aunt Eleanora says that, having been a meek and biddable patient for weeks, he is becoming exasperating again, so she feels much happier about him than she has been since he had his fit.”
Lucrezia laughed.
“They send their love—and a cartload of presents and letters,” Giovanni said, sitting down and trying to pull off one of his boots. Being so wet, it stuck. He struggled with it, swearing softly, then thrust out his leg towards Lucrezia. She smiled, bent and took hold of his ankle. Bracing one of her feet on the seat of the chair, she tugged and jerked. With a sucking gasp, the boot came off, and she staggered backwards, laughing.
“Can you do the other one now?” Giovanni asked.
***
Lucrezia tried hard to listen to Giovanni’s news from Cafaggiolo as he put on clean, dry clothes, but now that the first euphoric rush of delight at seeing him had subsided, she found herself confused and oddly detached, unable to focus on what he had to say. Watching him now, she was torn in two. First, a sharp pinch of homesickness caught her in the throat as he described the long litany of advice that Giulietta had exhorted him to pass on to her. It was an instantly recognizable imitation of Giulietta’s voice—is she making sure she brushes her hair out thoroughly every night, and is that kitchen girl quite certain that Lucrezia’s shifts are properly dry and aired before she gives them to her to put on? At the same time, though, an uncomfortable lump of resentment towards her parents, which had been growing ever since the wedding night, sat heavy in her belly like too much meat.
With the way things were between her and Alfonso, she knew she was not fulfilling her role as her parents must have envisaged it. She was the vessel that would carry the heir to the Este dynasty—but she was increasingly aware of being, in the end, little more than a commodity, raised for the purpose like a prize heifer and traded last October between her parents and her husband. Her mother and father of course knew nothing of the awful, dragging tension that now sucked the spontaneity out of her every encounter with Alfonso. How could they? But somehow, Lucrezia thought angrily, they ought to know. Ought to have guessed.
“Are you listening, Crezzi?” she heard Giovanni say.
“What?”
“Are you listening? You look half asleep.”
“No—I mean yes, I am listening. And no, I’m not asleep. Of course I’m not.”
Giovanni frowned at her. She wanted to tell him—oh, God, she wanted to tell him! The words were crowding into her mouth, demanding to be given their freedom. To begin to tell him, though, would mean wading out into the treacherous waters of an intimacy she knew she could not share. She had confided in her cousin for so long, about so many things—they had been the closest of companions for years—but this new situation stood between them like a brick wall. Lucrezia knew she could not describe the shameful failure of her marriage to anyone. Even to imagine the words leaving her mouth made her insides squirm and her face flame.
Giovanni said, “Crezzi—is something wrong?”
She knew he thought there was. She breathed in slowly, hesitated, then knowing she couldn’t say it, smiled and said, “No. There isn’t. Really.”
For several long seconds they gazed at each other. Lucrezia’s smile felt as though it had been pinned in place. Then Giovanni said, “Well, if there ever is, you tell me, do you understand? I want you to tell me.”
Lucrezia nodded.
***
It was the week before Christmas and a hopeful morning sun was doing its best to break through patchy cloud. Outside the Castello, in the great open space that fronted the castle, half a dozen men were constructing a wooden gallery big enough to hold some twenty or thirty guests. Cartloads of sand were being dumped and spread thickly across the entire square, along the centre of which was a balustrade of waist-high wooden poles, spiral-striped in the Este colours of red, white and green; the railing effectively split the space into two.
“There’ll be jousting tomorrow before the banquet,” Lucrezia said. “Alfonso said it depended on the weather, but now that the rain has eased off, I expect it will take place as planned. I hope so.”
Giovanni watched the new tiltyard taking shape.
“I quite like the idea of attempting to joust,” he said.
Lucrezia snorted her contempt. “Just because you think you ride well?” she asked scornfully. “Don’t forget what happened to the poor King of France.” She grimaced. “Come on—we can watch the final banquet preparations.”
They crossed the drawbridge and entered the castle through the enormous front doors. Arm in arm, they crossed the entrance hall, walked down a corridor and into the North Hall where the meal was to take place.
The room was almost literally covered with men. Men on ladders, stringing hundreds of little red, white and green flags; men hanging glittering chandeliers from which dangled gold-paper decorations; men constructing an enormous striped awning and festooning every available surface—horizontal and vertical—with great swags of flowers. The three tables were decorated too, with more flowers, fruit, candles, ribbons and a number of small naked figurines, very lifelike and made from some sort of dark brown material.
“What is this?” Giovanni asked, reaching out and picking one up.
“Some sort of biscuit,” Lucrezia said.
Giovanni snorted. “Hmm. Fairly impressive proportions for a biscuit…” He raised his eyebrows at her.
Lucrezia laughed. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, Vanni!”
He put the figurine back on the table and, with deliberate care, draped a spray of flowers across its front to preserve its modesty. He squeezed his cousin’s hand and said, “And I’m pleased you’re not busier. I thought you’d be run off your feet overseeing all this—Aunt Eleanora is always frantic on the day of a banquet and they’ve never done anything on this scale at Cafaggiolo.”
There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence.
“Well, Alfonso prefers to organise these events himself,” Lucrezia said awkwardly. She did not add the thought, which was loud in her head, that she was longing—longing—to be given a role to play in the castle beyond that of “newly acquired artistic treasure,” but that Alfonso seemed determined to prevent her taking any active part in the running of the household.
His Last Duchess Page 8
