“I love their expressions,” Lucrezia said, pointing at one of the oarsmen. “They don’t seem to think very highly of Jason, do they?”
“With reason. I think he must’ve been a bloody nuisance. Convinced he was in the right all the time, and always dragging everyone into danger,” Jacomo said. “Would you like to see more?”
“Please.”
Lucrezia was expecting to see the next scene—Talos, the great bronze warrior—but when Jacomo leaned across the new drawing, the muscles in his brown arm taut as he stretched to hold down the far edge of the paper, she saw the wild, wraith-like Medea, waiting and watching for the arrival of Jason as he ran across the beach and into her scene.
Lucrezia felt suddenly breathless.
The picture of Medea was—quite clearly—a portrait of herself.
Her mouth opened, but no words came and she closed it again.
She stared at the picture. She had never worn wisps of silk like these, and her hair, though often unruly, had never wound itself around her like marsh mist, as Medea’s did here, but there was no mistaking the features or the expression on her face. Lucrezia did not know what to say.
“Fra Pandolf likes to have portraits of patrons in his frescos,” Jacomo said quietly, and Lucrezia realised that he must have been watching her reaction.
“But I didn’t sit for this portrait. How did the reverend brother know my features so well?”
“If the sitter’s face is striking, it can be done from memory.”
Lucrezia’s heart began to beat a little faster. Had Fra Pandolf made this decision, or had Jacomo asked him to include her? Or had Jacomo sketched her himself, and then given the picture to the reverend brother? If he had, did that mean he might be feeling something of the confusion into which she herself had become so inextricably tangled?
Her heart thudding now, she turned back to the drawing, and said, “What happens next?”
In the silent seconds that followed, it seemed to Lucrezia that there were actually several potential answers. A terrifyingly huge possibility stretched itself like a waking giant and sat up, blinking.
Jacomo paused. Then he said, in a voice that sounded strangely detached, as though he was thinking something quite different from the words he was uttering, “I have to transfer the design onto the arricio. I can show you with one of the drawings now, if you want.”
Lucrezia sat back on her heels and folded her hands in her lap; the giant sat quietly behind her, trying not to draw attention to itself.
Jacomo climbed back up the spiral staircase, and returned a moment later with a wooden box in his arms. He sat down, pulled off his boots and threw them unceremoniously to one side. Opening the box, he took out of it several round lead weights, each about the size of his fist. Then he unrolled the first drawing and crawled across it, weighting down three of the corners with the lead. He took a long needle from where it had been pinned through the linen of his shirt and, almost lying across the drawing, he tucked one arm under the paper near the free corner, to hold it slightly off the floor, and began to follow the drawing, puncturing the paper with the needle along the drawn lines. After a time, there were little holes all over one corner. He sat up and stared intently at what he had done. “There’s a fair bit more to do—I’ll finish it later. Before I put it away, though, would you like to try?” he said.
“Me?” Lucrezia saw the crimson stain on his cheek crinkle, and the crescent-shaped creases crooked round his mouth, as though his face wished to emphasize his smile by enclosing it in brackets.
“It’s not difficult—I’ll show you.”
He moved back from the paper, so that Lucrezia could kneel at its edge. Crouching behind her, he gave her the needle, then pointed out the section he was suggesting she could prick out. A wisp of his hair brushed against her cheek as he reached past her. She smelt warm skin and plaster, and a little jolt of wanting pushed down into her belly.
“Hold your other arm up under there, like I did just now—to keep it off the floor—then poke the needle through.”
Lucrezia leaned forward and slid her left arm under the paper. She held the needle above the drawing, then peered over her shoulder at Jacomo. “Is this right?”
A nod and a smile.
She pushed the needle through, pulled it out, pushed it again. Enjoying the process, she finished the few lines she had been given to perforate with ease.
“That’s perfect. Now, if we were ready to use the cartoon—which we’re not yet—we would need a pounce pad,” he said.
“What’s a—” she began, but Jacomo was already rummaging in his wooden box. From it he took a small ball of muslin filled with something dark and soft. He held it up and tapped it, and grey dust puffed through the cloth. “Charcoal,” he said.
And Lucrezia understood. “So, you hold the picture up to the wall, and tap that little bag onto where the holes are, and it will leave marks on the plaster?”
Another smile. “Well done. We pounce the whole design up onto the arricio from the cartoons, then paint over the marks freehand so we have a complete line drawing on the wall. Then, day by day, we plaster up the area for the giornata, and paint directly into that—that layer of plaster is called the intonaco—section by section.”
“It seems so complicated.”
Smiling, Jacomo shrugged.
Tomaso shambled back into the North Hall with a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese. He walked past them, stumped up the staircase, then leaned over the balustrade and said indistinctly, his mouth full, “You hungry, Jacomo?”
“What do you think? I won’t be a moment.” Jacomo rolled up the cartoons, and hoisted them back onto his shoulder. “What about you, Signora? Are you hungry?”
It occurred to Lucrezia that she was—but for other things than bread. The giant possibility clambered to its feet behind her. She held Jacomo’s gaze, suddenly tongue-tied, but managed to nod. He held out his free arm to the staircase, and Lucrezia walked ahead of him.
They climbed together to the gallery and Jacomo propped the cartoons once more against the wall at the far end, like dislodged pillars in a ruined temple. Tomaso was sitting on the floor. He had torn the loaf into two; one piece he now held out to Jacomo, who nodded his thanks.
Lucrezia made to sit down, but Jacomo started and said, “No, wait! You can’t sit on the floor, Signora.” He put down his food, ran back down the staircase and returned seconds later with the box in his arms. He put it on the floor, took his doublet from where it was draped over the balustrade, folded it into a semblance of a cushion and placed it on the lid. He took Lucrezia’s hand and helped her to sit on the makeshift stool.
“Now,” he said, “bread.” He handed her the half-loaf Tomaso had given him. Lucrezia tore off a corner and handed the larger part back to him.
“Cheese?” he said, taking it from Tomaso.
Lucrezia shook her head.
“Not that hungry, then. I can’t have given you enough work to do on that cartoon.” Jacomo began to eat.
Lucrezia had just taken a bite of her bread, when she heard footsteps and Fra Pandolf appeared at the far end of the gallery. He seemed startled at the sight of her seated on a tool box, eating a torn hunk of bread with his two assistants. She stood up and shook the creases out of her skirts.
“Thank you for showing me the designs,” she said stiffly. “I am very grateful for your time, Signore.”
“A pleasure, Signora,” Jacomo said. He spoke gravely, and inclined his head in a formal little bow, but Lucrezia saw that his eyes were shining.
“You saw the cartoons, then?” Fra Pandolf said.
Lucrezia said, her voice wobbling a little, “Oh, yes, thank you. They were quite lovely. I’m so looking forward to seeing the painting take shape.”
“Well, not long until we are ready now, my lady,” Fra Pandolf said, with a broad smile. “Eh, Jacomo?”
“No. I think everything is just about ready to begin,” Jacomo said, looking at Lucrezia.
***
The road that led out of Firenze was pitted, uneven and crowded: with people on foot, people on horseback, and carts of all sizes and conditions. Alfonso and Francesco Panizato slowed their horses to a walk. Alfonso slackened the reins; holding them in one hand, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the other. Despite the early hour, it was already very warm. “Can you wait a moment, Francesco? I’m going to take my doublet off,” he said.
Panizato reined in his horse. As both animals dropped their heads to graze at the side of the road, the two men shrugged off their coats and secured them behind their saddles.
“How long do you think it will take us to get back to Ferrara?” Panizato asked.
“I have no wish to hurry. Four days, perhaps, five? I would not wish to ask Farfalla to do more than, say, twenty or twenty-five miles in a day. Much further than that would risk her legs.”
He thought for a moment. “If we aim to get to Mugello tonight, I am sure that Lucrezia’s parents will be happy to offer us hospitality. In fact, now that I think of it, I should be delighted to have the opportunity of discussing the nuncio’s news with my father-in-law.”
They rode on. Alfonso tried to keep Lucrezia from his mind, tried to concentrate on the undulating movements of the horse beneath him, tried to sustain conversation with Panizato. But with the prospect of seeing Cosimo and Eleanora de’ Medici that evening, however hard he tried to shut Lucrezia out, he could not suppress her, and a number of turbulent images threatened to overwhelm him.
15
I’ve tried, Lina—I’ve tried. It’s been three days since I’ve been to the North Hall. I really have tried, but I can’t bear it. I am going down there this morning—I have to see him.”
Catelina said nothing. She saw her mistress’s wild eyes and the pale face, on which the tawny freckles now stood out quite black, and felt sick with worry.
“Please—don’t look at me like that.”
She seemed on the point of tears, Catelina thought. “What if anyone finds out, my lady?” she said.
“Finds what out? We haven’t done anything!”
“But, Signora—”
“Listen, Lina.” The Signora glanced at the door of her bedchamber, ran to it, opened it and peered out into the corridor. Closed it again. “Come through into the studio,” she said.
Catelina followed her mistress into the little anteroom, only accessible through the bedchamber, the most private space they had in which to talk without fear of being overheard.
The Signora pushed the door shut behind her, leaned against it and burst out, “I think I am going mad! You are the only person I can talk to who I know will not rush off and tell Alfonso.” She paused, her eyes wide. “Oh, God, you won’t do that—will you?”
The Signora clutched at her hand so tightly that Catelina gasped. “Oh, my lady, of course I wouldn’t!” she said, hurt. “How could you even think it? But what…?”
The Signora’s voice was little more than a whisper, and she stood very still as she spoke. “You know that our marriage has yet to be consummated, Lina. After all this time. What sort of a shameful admission is that? My husband hardly speaks to me any more—probably because the very sight of me reminds him of his failures. Sometimes I see such bleak emptiness in his eyes it quite frightens me.”
“But…” Catelina did not know what to say.
The Signora carried on speaking in a voice that was low and fast, and trembling with what might have been anger, or perhaps it was fear. “They sold me, Lina. That’s what my life amounts to. My mother and father—I loved them and I trusted them, and I thought they wanted my happiness. But they traded me for a stake in the eminence of the Duchy of Ferrara, and now I am trapped in this life for good, on pain of eternal damnation. I am nothing! I have nothing! I have less than you! Far less! If I were to make you unhappy, you could just leave and go elsewhere, but me? I can go nowhere. Between them, God and the damned nobility have trapped me in this castle like a rabbit in a noose. I am a failure—I cannot be called a true duchess—how can I? My duke will not bed me, and because he will not, or cannot, bed me, I have no child, nor any prospect of ever becoming a mother—and I want to so very much. I can’t talk to Alfonso. I can’t share my unhappiness with him, or try to comfort him in his, because he won’t ever let me anywhere near him.
“And will you still tell me it is so wrong of me to want to spend a little time with someone who makes me smile, Lina? Someone who seems to enjoy my company for what it is? Who doesn’t look at me as though I am some rare and expensive piece of sculpture, and then raise a fist to me when I somehow prove to him my unwitting inadequacy? There are times when I think Alfonso would prefer it if I were dead!”
Catelina stared at her mistress, aghast at this outburst.
“I’m going to the North Hall now. Don’t try to stop me.”
And Catelina could only watch as the Signora tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, pinched colour into her cheeks and left the room.
She put her hands over her mouth. “Oh, dear God,” she said aloud, through her fingers, “what in Heaven’s name is she planning to do?”
***
Jacomo was exhausted. He had been pounding the lime-mixed body-colour—the verdaccio—into the plaster for hours. The colours were singing from the wall at last, true and bold, and clearly worth every ounce of the effort, but his heart was loud in his ears, his arms ached, and he was breathing as heavily as though he had been running for miles. He thanked God for the effort it always took to put on the verdaccio, though: for the past three days he had been able to take out his frustration on the wall without the reverend brother suspecting a thing.
He had not seen her for three whole days. Three giornate had gone up and been completed with no sign of her. He was shocked by how much he minded her absence. This, he kept telling himself, was insane. Ridiculous. She was a duchess—a married woman—and entirely unobtainable. What did it matter that she was young and pretty, and had a smile that made him feel weak with wanting? He could not have her—there was no question of it. He was a painter, the son and grandson of fishermen, and she was an aristocrat. She was married to the Duke of Ferrara. One of the most powerful men in Italy. His patron. Not a man to suffer any sort of humiliation without exacting retribution, either, Jacomo was quite sure.
But the duchess felt the same way he did. He knew it. God, even to say it to himself sounded stupid! How arrogant was he? Just because she had spent a few hours up here in the North Hall over the past couple of weeks, showing an interest in his painting, this meant she had fallen for him as comprehensively as he had fallen for her, did it? He was losing his reason.
He looked down the length of the gallery to where the reverend brother was hard at work and began painting again.
***
Lucrezia climbed the steps to the gallery. Her heart was hammering as though she had run the length of the Castello. Neither Fra Pandolf nor Jacomo heard her arrival. Both men were intent upon their task: Fra Pandolf standing on a low wooden trestle, Jacomo a few steps up a taller ladder. The painters were, she saw now, finally waking the wall to jubilant life with their vivid, beautiful colours. Lucrezia sat for some moments on the lid of the wooden toolbox, rapt and unnoticed, until Jacomo turned from the wall to replenish his paintpot. His face and clothes, Lucrezia saw, were covered in blotches and freckles of blue and purple, and both his hands were deeply stained with paint.
He saw her and froze, mouth slightly open, eyes huge and unblinking.
Fra Pandolf turned too. He, however, waved cheerily and scrambled down from his trestle to refill his own paintpot. “Signora!” he said. “A pleasure to see you, my lady. It has been some days since we last…” He tailed off, frowning at the jars of paint. “Jacomo, have we no more sienna?”
Jacomo shook his head, his eyes fixed upon Lucrezia’s. Lucrezia heard Fra Pandolf make a small noise of irritation with his tongue against his teeth. He crossed the gallery, wiping his hands on hi
s already much-stained habit. “I shall not be long then, Jacomo—I must go to Brother Alessandro for some more. We need it quite urgently. I will go myself—I shall enjoy the walk. I hope to see you when I return, my lady. I’ll not be long.” Humming cheerfully, suspecting nothing, Fra Pandolf pattered down the spiral staircase and left the hall.
***
Jacomo climbed down from his ladder. The sight of her had sent such a jolt through him that he had come close to falling. She was pale; her eyes seemed bigger than usual, and the freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out dark against her pallor. He had to be right. She did feel the same as he did. What else could be causing her to look at him like this, her eyes brimming with an eloquent echo of the longing that was now utterly consuming him?
He heard a soft sound and glanced down to see paint dripping steadily from the end of his brush onto the floor.
He had to talk to her. What, though? What was there to be said? He came down off the ladder and took a step towards her. She stood up.
“Signora—I…I…” He stopped. What was there to say? I want you so badly that I can no longer think properly, I cannot paint any more and I’ve not eaten sensibly in three days? No. Jacomo struggled with himself. He knew he had no choice—she had to stay away. Anything else would be madness. He had to tell her. He said, “Signora, you must—oh, God, you must—” but then stopped as she stepped forward, put a hand on either side of his face and kissed his mouth.
For a wild moment he kissed her, and the wave of desire that struck him was almost more than he could control, but he knew that if he laid even a hand on her, the paint stains on her clothes would condemn them both, so he held his arms out and back, away from her body, while she kissed his mouth and then lipped up and over the crimson stain on his cheek. Tenderly her lips moved across the uneven skin while her fingers pushed up into his hair and round onto the back of his head.
His Last Duchess Page 15
