Panizato was waiting, as he had said he would be, in the cool of their borrowed apartment. Alfonso opened the door with rather more force than he had intended; it banged against a chair and knocked it over, but, leaving it where it had fallen, he crossed the room to stare out of the window, unable to find words to express his agitation. His frequently chaotic thoughts were now fragmenting past the point at which he could make any sense of them.
Panizato moved from where he had been standing and, still facing the street outside, Alfonso heard his friend set the chair upright again without comment.
After a pause, Panizato said, “What did he say?”
Alfonso struggled to find the words to explain, feeling as though he were standing in a fast-flowing river: everything was rushing past him at such speed, and so inexorably that all at once he felt utterly unable to reach out and stop any one part of it. All the miserable mortification of his marriage, his increasingly unhappy awareness of Lucrezia’s wanton profligacy of affection—everything now whirled past him like speeding flotsam, all thrown into sharp relief by this new and frightening revelation.
“If I die without legitimate issue, Francesco,” Alfonso said to the street beyond the window, “His Holiness intends to reclaim the rights to the entire Duchy of Ferrara. Any bastards I may have spawned across the years are, of course, not even worthy of contemplation, and my intention to will the titles and land to my cousin, Cesare d’Este, should there still be no heir at my death, is, it seems, not even to be taken into account. His Holiness is graciously suggesting that Cesare be allowed to retain rights to Modena and Reggio, but without Ferrara, the might of the Estes will be virtually annihilated, as well he knows. Here I have been worrying myself sick for months that the encroaching French influence in Italy has been set to destabilize the future of the duchy—and now I am given to understand that if I am unable to produce a legitimate heir, everything I hold dear is to be snatched from me by force, not by a foreigner but by my own countrymen.”
In the stillness that followed this pronouncement, Alfonso watched a young woman walk awkwardly along the street below. She was simply dressed and barefoot, leaning away from the weight of a young child who sat astride her hip, his fat legs wrapped around her slight waist. A larger child held her other hand and a skinny boy of about ten scuffed the cobbles with ill-fitting shoes as he trailed crossly behind them. The irony of this sight’s presenting itself to him as he contemplated the devastating consequences of childlessness seemed to Alfonso to be bitter indeed, and his fragmented, confused anger began to crystallize into a louring resentment towards Lucrezia. Not only, he thought, was she continuing to rob him of his manhood, she was now, it seemed, potentially to become the sole agent of the destruction of the entire House of Este.
And yet, something in him that he could not quite suppress still yearned to possess her. Despite himself, he continued to long for the unattainable.
“But, Alfonso,” Panizato said, “you have only been married two years—not even that. Surely your lack of children so far is not a serious problem. Why is the Vatican acting as though your decease without issue is a foregone conclusion?”
Alfonso was still facing towards the open window. He said, “They merely, I understand, wish me to know of their intentions. Unless they have some gift of divine clairvoyance, I imagine it to be merely His Holiness indulging in a little emotional blackmail at my expense.”
“I am appalled, Alfonso. What will you do now?”
Alfonso turned to him, grateful for his support. “Cesare is back from France in August. I have told His Grace Verdi that Cesare and I wish to speak directly to the Holy Father, and we will put our case to him once more.”
“And in the meantime,” Francesco grinned, “you will just have to keep trying to prove them wrong. At least you will enjoy the attempt, eh, Alfonso?”
Without comment, Alfonso turned away from his friend, fighting to quell the nausea that rose in his throat as he contemplated his marriage bed. Panizato could not have said anything worse, he thought. If Lucrezia were to continue so to castrate him, thus rendering him incapable of fathering an heir and securing the future of the duchy, Alfonso began to wonder how he could continue to co-exist with her.
He ached to possess her and longed to be rid of her.
Neither option seemed possible.
But, he thought, if he were to retain his sanity, he knew he had to try to achieve one or the other.
14
The Castello, Lucrezia thought, was certainly more relaxed with Alfonso away. Over the months, she had felt increasingly detached from him, and ever more nervous of incurring his hovering disapprobation. Being in his company was always tiring. But, as the days—and nights—since his departure passed, she realised that she was beginning to feel more spontaneous, more like herself again; her spirits lifted and the mask-like smile, behind which she so often hid her instinctive responses, could be safely unhitched and packed away for a while.
Although, thanks to Alfonso’s rigid domestic strictures, Lucrezia was never as busy as she had imagined a duchess should be, she was now untroubled by the many hours in which she was nominally unoccupied. She had found something to do. She had learned the names of at least twenty-five different pigments and their various properties; she now knew how to mix plaster—in theory: she had not attempted it herself—and yesterday she had been given to understand that once mixed, lime-plaster had something of a life of its own.
***
“It’s like a living creature: it has changeable moods. The way it absorbs colour changes at different times of day,” Jacomo says, laying his hand flat on a newly firm section of the wall and rubbing it softly with his fingertips.
Lucrezia frowns, watching his hand. “So, are you saying that if you paint into it in the morning, it will behave in a different way from if you paint into it last thing at night?”
Jacomo smiles at her.
“Its appetite changes all the time—a bit like a baby: you have to feed it what it wants when it wants it.”
“But how do you know what it wants?”
“You remember what you have been taught,” Jacomo says, glancing over to where Fra Pandolf is cleaning his big square plaster-pallet, “and you experiment, and record the results.”
“Tell me something you discovered for yourself.”
“That it’s important to wash brushes in lime-water. If you use rainwater, or river water, it might not be completely clean, and you can end up with rust spots in the finished painting.”
“Has that happened to you?”
Jacomo nods. “I collected my brush-washing water from a well in Milano—last year, it was—and a crop of rust spots in just the wrong place on a fresco we did there has given poor San Sebastiano a faceful of freckles.”
His gaze moves over her face as he speaks; his lips are slightly parted, and Lucrezia feels herself blush. He looks at her for longer than she expects. Embarrassed, she changes the subject. “Is there any one painter you particularly admire?”
Jacomo answers immediately. “Tiziano Vecellio. He’s a genius.”
“Oh—I saw a portrait of his, in Firenze, once. A man in black, holding a glove.”
“Did you like it?”
“I loved it—I felt as if I knew the man, straight away.”
Jacomo smiles, but Lucrezia corrects herself. “No,” she says. “That’s not right. It wasn’t that I felt I knew him, it was more that I felt he knew me.”
Jacomo’s smile fades. He seems to be trying to see inside her head, and then he nods slowly, not taking his eyes from hers.
***
Lucrezia was well aware, though, that Catelina was not entirely happy about her mistress’s new-found interest in the development of the fresco. She had a niggling suspicion that her waiting-woman knew exactly what drew her to the gallery so frequently, and she was determined to avoid any confrontation on the subject. Even the thought of Jacomo now raised the hairs on her arms and her neck; she doubted she wou
ld be able to speak of him without blushing scarlet.
“Are you going to the North Hall again, Signora?” Catelina said, a couple of weeks into Alfonso’s absence, as Lucrezia brushed her hair and began to wind it into a knot.
“Oh, yes, Lina. They are putting on the arricio this afternoon.” A deliberately bright tone.
Catelina was silent.
“What?” Lucrezia said, lowering her hands from her hair. “What is it, Lina?”
After a moment or two, Catelina said, “Forgive me, Signora, but…but…”
“But what?”
“I hope you don’t think I am being forward, Signora, but might it perhaps be seen as…well…unusual, for a noblewoman like yourself to be taking such an interest in—in the work of an artisan?”
“Oh, Lina, Fra Pandolf is an artist, not an artisan!” Lucrezia said, determining to steer the conversation away from Jacomo. “I am most privileged to be able to watch him creating a work that might be talked about across Italy for years to come and…” She tailed off, seeing Catelina’s doubt. “What can you be worrying about? I am just watching them working.”
Catelina did not have to answer. Her expression was eloquent. Lucrezia said, examining her fingernails, and twisting a thin gold band around one finger, “I shall be back in time to change my dress for the evening meal. Could you make sure you are here to help?”
“Of course, my lady. I’ll lay everything out ready.”
Catelina’s unspoken suspicions hung in the air around her like a cloud of mosquitoes.
***
They were all hard at work. Tomaso was bent double, stirring a huge pot of plaster with a stick, while Fra Pandolf and Jacomo each had a square wooden pallet in one hand. They were standing at some distance from each other, working towards the middle. Using a long, narrow trowel, each was scooping the plaster from the pallet onto the wall with sweeping, seamless movements.
Looking at the mounds of plaster on the two pallets, Lucrezia could see that this was a smoother, finer-grained substance than the other layers she had seen go up; this was like thick, whipped cream. With each sweep of an arm, the shining wet mass left the blade of the trowel and was flattened into a glistening arc on the wall. The two men were working steadily, and the arricio was already spread some distance across the length of the gallery.
Fra Pandolf’s habit and his gleaming pate were dappled with splashes of plaster. Jacomo was similarly freckled with the stuff, which stood out clearly against the crimson stain on his cheek. It clung in droplets to his black hair and had, Lucrezia saw, whitened his hands until he looked as though he was wearing thin, white, ragged-cuffed gloves. His arms were dark brown by contrast. Both men were engrossed in their work, Jacomo whistling softly again.
Fascinated, Lucrezia watched them for some time, the iron drawn irresistibly to the lodestone. The suspicion on Catelina’s face came into her mind, and she could not banish it. She knew that as a dutiful wife—as the Duchess of Ferrara—she should go from here now and make a point of avoiding the North Hall until the painters had left the castle. She should keep away from temptation. The Castello Estense, she thought, was quite big enough to avoid any persons you would rather not meet or…ought not to meet. But—
“My lady!” Fra Pandolf raised a hand in greeting. Lucrezia hoped that she was not blushing too obviously as Jacomo stopped what he was doing, ran his hand through his hair and smiled at her. He spoke quietly to Fra Pandolf, his eyes fixed upon Lucrezia’s, and then the reverend brother called down to her. “Come up to the gallery, my lady. Jacomo wants to show you something.”
Lucrezia walked across the hall, forcing herself to move with dignity. It would, she thought, be unseemly to rush.
As she reached the top of the stairs, Jacomo gestured to a section of the wall they had finished some time before. “Do you remember my telling you how the plaster heats up as it dries?”
Lucrezia nodded.
“Feel this.” He took her hand and placed it, flat-palmed, against the newly firm surface, leaving his hand covering hers. He laughed at her gasp of astonishment.
“I told you,” he said.
“Yes—but I thought it would be warm. This is like a furnace. How long does it last?”
“Not long. You were lucky to catch it.”
They were both standing close to the wall, Lucrezia’s hand pressed flat against the plaster with Jacomo’s lying warm over hers—almost as warm above as the plaster was below. His body was very close behind her. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. Then, lifting her hand from the surface of the wall and squeezing her fingers for the briefest moment, he said, “I must get back to work—Tomaso won’t thank me if everything he has prepared goes off before I can get it onto the wall.”
“You’re not wrong, Jacomo,” Tomaso said grumpily. Lucrezia smiled at his scowl, and Jacomo grinned as he bent over the bucket and scooped another great mound onto his pallet. He began trowelling the plaster onto the wall again. Lucrezia sat on the lid of the wooden tool box, with her back against the balustrade. Tomaso, who, she presumed, was not experienced enough to work on the wall himself, busied himself with keeping the big pot filled with fresh plaster, while Pandolf and Jacomo worked steadily across the gallery.
Some time later, they were almost at the point where their two sections would meet. Jacomo, Lucrezia saw, had been working more quickly than his master; he had covered more of the wall, so the meeting-point was not in the middle.
“I’ll let you finish off, then, Jacomo,” said the reverend brother, standing back to admire their work. Jacomo nodded and scraped up another quivering trowelful of wet plaster, which made a satisfyingly gritty, slicing sound as it hit the wall. Within minutes, the narrow gap between the two sections was filled with no mark remaining to show where they had joined. Both men stood back, reviewing the results of their labours.
“Well done, lad, a fine job,” Fra Pandolf said, patting Jacomo on the back.
Jacomo scraped his pallet clean and wiped the last few lumps of thickening plaster off the trowel onto a rag, dropping the trowel neatly into a bucket of clean water. He took Fra Pandolf’s pallet and trowel from him, scraped them clean, then crouched in front of the bucket. He washed and dried both trowels carefully.
While he was doing this, Fra Pandolf turned to Lucrezia. “Once this has fully cured, Signora,” he said, “we can brush on the sinopia.”
Lucrezia had no idea what he meant.
“The arricio, as you know, is the second-to-last layer of plaster—rather like a fine-grained underskin,” Pandolf explained. “Then comes the sinopia, my lady: a sketch of the final composition of the fresco, which will cover the entire area of the arricio, giving us a guide so that we can plan which sections to paint in which order. Then, each day, we plaster up the section we are going to work on. That’s called the giornata. Jacomo will do the sinopia, working from the cartoons.” He pointed to several large rolls of paper at the far end of the gallery, propped against the walls.
“Are those the drawings I saw before?”
“The design is the same, but the drawings are now full-sized, Signora.”
“Can I see?”
“Of course. Jacomo, can you show the Signora? Take them down into the hall—there is too much mess on the floor up here. I’ll be back shortly. I just want to attend to one or two little matters before we begin the next stage…” He looked suddenly vague and trotted off towards the staircase, humming to himself as he went.
Jacomo was rinsing his hands in a bucket of water. He shook them, then dried them by running them, palms first then backs, down the front of his paint-stained breeches. “Go back down into the hall, my lady,” he said. “I’ll bring the drawings.” Lucrezia made her way to the top of the stairs.
“I do hope I am not being a nuisance,” she said.
“Not much,” Jacomo said, hoisting one of the rolls of paper up to lean against his shoulder, then crouching straight-backed to pick up another.
Lucre
zia’s insides jumped uncomfortably. She stood on the first step, irresolute, very much afraid of having somehow upset him. But then she saw that his face was full of laughter, though his mouth barely twitched. It was the sort of thing, Lucrezia thought, that Giovanni would have said, and she very nearly responded as she would have done to her cousin. Just in time, though, she decided that “You bastard!” was probably not the most appropriate way for a duchess to address a painter in her husband’s employ. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and tried to appear disapproving, but Jacomo’s smile only stretched wider, as he nodded towards the steps, encouraging her to go before him down to the floor of the hall.
Some people look best when they laugh, Lucrezia thought, as she reached the bottom step and turned back to Jacomo, while others—like Alfonso—are at their most handsome with quite other expressions on their faces. Her husband, she thought, was probably at his best when wearing his customary scowl of moody superiority; a laugh seemed like a guest on his countenance, not necessarily unwelcome but a guest with whom Alfonso was usually ill at ease. With Jacomo, however, Lucrezia could see that laughter was a frequent and welcome visitor.
“Here, come and see,” Jacomo said. He was on hands and knees, holding the far edge of the paper at arm’s length, his body arched over the drawing. His shirt was untucked; it had rucked up, and Lucrezia was stilled by the stripe of olive-brown skin between his shirt and the top of his breeches. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lip and swallowed.
“This is the Argo,” Jacomo said.
Lucrezia knelt down next to him, sat back on her heels and examined once more the wonderful image of the ship cutting proudly through the water. Compared to the sketches she had seen, these drawings were detailed, complex, beautiful—and obviously the result of many, many hours’ work. Jason was noble, she thought, standing next to the arrogant figurehead, his arm draped companionably about her shoulders. Her wisdom and superior knowledge were obvious and Jason seemed hopeful that he would acquire some of her eminence merely by association. His crew, however, were clearly unimpressed. They bent to their oars with resentment and a lack of enthusiasm, and obviously had little appreciation of their captain’s prestige.
His Last Duchess Page 14
