Then she let go of him and stood back.
Even in the midst of this turbulence, Jacomo smiled: purple and blue was smudged around her mouth and across one cheek, like a child caught gorging on stolen berries. But enchanting as it seemed to him, it would, he knew, be a death sentence for them both, if seen. He knelt down, picked up a linen cloth and soaked it in the bucket of fresh water that stood near his ladder. Still saying nothing, he cleaned his own hands, then stood before her and washed the paint from her mouth and her cheek and her hands.
***
He was tender as a mother, Lucrezia thought, as he pulled a fold of his linen shirt out from inside his breeches and she stood quite still while he dried her face and hands with the skin-warm cloth, then smoothed her hair back away from her forehead.
She could find no words.
She stared and stared at him, searching his face, learning him. Jacomo’s eyes were fixed upon hers, shining bright brown in his paint-smudged face.
Then he said in a whisper, “This is madness. We should not be doing this.”
“I know.”
“You should go—stay away from here, and from me, until we’ve finished the fresco and left the Castello.”
“I know.”
“If this were discovered, we’d probably both end up dead.”
“I know.”
“But…oh, God, Signora! I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you.”
“I know.” Lucrezia paused. “But listen—we can’t talk now, not here—it’s too public. Someone might see us. Come to my chambers tonight, Jacomo.”
“Are you mad? How can I?”
Lucrezia smiled. Perhaps she was mad. Perhaps madness was the result of enduring such longing for so many days. But suddenly the danger she knew she was courting seemed inconsequential. She had kissed Jacomo. She had been aching to kiss Jacomo for days—and now she had done it. His mouth had been as warm and giving as she had imagined, and her whole body was yearning to touch him again. She felt taut as a bowstring with wanting, and the possibility of discovery seemed now entirely unimportant.
“There is a way you can do it without anyone knowing.” And Lucrezia explained her idea. Jacomo looked sceptical as he listened to her detailed instructions, but he nodded. “Are you certain it’ll be unlocked?” he said.
“No, not absolutely certain, but I’ve been down there a couple of times and it wasn’t locked on either occasion.”
“I’ll be there. I…”
“What? What is it?”
“I might have something to give you. If I can get it in time. How can I…”
“I know just the way! Be there—wait until it is properly dark, though. Bring whatever it is with you and I’ll show you then.” Lucrezia smiled, kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them for a moment against Jacomo’s lips. She examined the smudge of blue paint, then folded her hand into a fist, which she clasped inside her other hand and pressed back against her mouth.
“I’ll be watching for you as soon as it’s dark,” she said.
16
Eduardo Rossi stood at a fork in the road. Both the stony tracks ahead of him, he knew, led eventually to Ferrara and he was certain that the city was where Chiara must have gone. “Which way, Barnabeo?” he said to his companion. “If we pick the wrong one, we’ll miss her.”
The other man—tall, bald, with the pocked and scarred skin of the limesman—said, “You’re quite certain she’ll have gone to Ferrara?”
“Where else could she have gone?” Eduardo said. “I’ve been with Matteo—she’s not there—and she’s not at Anna’s. She doesn’t really know anyone else.”
Barnabeo frowned, and looked down each of the two roads. “Which way’s longer?” he said. Eduardo pointed.
“The other one, then,” said Barnabeo.
“But what if she expects us to make that choice, and she’s deliberately picked the longer road, hoping to avoid us?”
Barnabeo said, “You take one road, and I’ll take the other.”
Eduardo hesitated. “I have no idea what time she left the limeworks. She might already have reached the city.”
Barnabeo pushed his mouth out in a moue of scepticism. He said, “You found she was missing when you got back in from fixing that hinge…”
Eduardo nodded. Mending his old neighbour’s door had taken hours, he thought, trying to justify his long absence to himself—the whole thing had proved to be rotten and he had had to take it off completely and remake most of it.
It had been dark when he had arrived back at the house.
There had been no fire, no food cooking; the place had been—unexpectedly—damp, cold and deserted. A prickle of guilt-stained fear crept down the back of his neck. She could have been gone for hours. He heard his own voice, from that morning, filling the downstairs room with an untidy, painful anger: “Don’t you look at me like that—you’ve brought this on yourself, Chiara—and you’ve brought shame on this house. Shame on the Rossis. You’ve behaved like a whore and I’m not prepared to live with the consequences. I won’t have your bastard child living here, forever reminding me of your waywardness. No, Chiara. No! Don’t try to persuade me—there’s no point.”
Eduardo’s eyes stung as these echoes of his unloving implacability filled his head. With a sharp pang, he saw Chiara’s face, angry and frightened as she had tried to plead with him. Then he imagined her scrambling in his absence that morning to fill a bag with her few belongings, and leaving the house, bound for—oh, God! Bound for where?
“Eduardo, come on! The quicker we are, the more likely we are to catch up with her,” Barnabeo said, clapping a heavy hand onto Eduardo’s shoulder. “And there’s not much more than a couple of hours’ light left.”
Eduardo closed his eyes for a moment, then he said, “You’re quite right. You take that road and I’ll try this one. We meet up outside the cathedral. Agreed?”
***
The early sun was already bright, and bluish shadows lay thick and dark along the foot of the great wall that encircled the city of Ferrara, darkest beneath the great jutting ramparts. The most southerly gate, the Porta Paula, was open, and the usual morning traffic was streaming through in both directions. There were market traders going in, some pushing hand-barrows, some driving carts; peasant farmers with grain or vegetables or animals to sell; a couple of well-dressed young noblemen were leaving the city astride impressive horses, setting off for a day’s hawking with their hooded peregrines gripping their sleeves; a clutch of chattering children scampered ahead of a small group of women.
And in the midst of all this, unnoticed by the crowd, one lone traveller was moving very slowly, heading into the heart of the city. Each step was costing Chiara Rossi more energy than she had to spare. The poorly wrapped bundle she held in her arms was not heavy, but the burden she carried within her belly was weighing her down. Her clothes were damp from the night she had spent wrapped in her cloak on a makeshift mattress of hay in an outbuilding about a mile outside the city, and her back ached dully.
She stopped and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, pressing the sweat up and into her already damp hair. She had reached the city. She was still as fearful of discovery as she had been since leaving the house the previous morning, but she saw no familiar faces among the anonymous figures coming and going through the great gate, so after a moment, she began to walk again.
No more than a few paces further on, though, she stopped and held her breath, head bent, hands splayed around the swell of her belly, as a griping cramp stiffened and hardened it for a long moment. Her face felt as if it were swelling, and her eyes watered; then the cramp loosened its grip and she could breathe again. She sank down to sit on the grass at the side of the road, dropping her bundle beside her and stroking her belly in slow circles; beneath her fingers, the child stretched and pushed, rubbing uncomfortably under her ribs. The lump of some indeterminate limb pressed up beneath her palm.
“Go to sleep,” she said soft
ly. “We’ve a fair way to go yet.”
17
I’m sorry, it was stupid of me. I should have asked you before you went down to Alessandro’s—you could have collected all the pigments together. I’m sorry, Brother. I’ll go straight away. I won’t be long.”
Jacomo managed a brief smile at a startled Fra Pandolf as he snatched up his doublet from the floor of the gallery and put it on. Not bothering to lace it, he ran down the spiral staircase and out of the North Hall. Forcing his pace down to a swift walk, he made his way through the castle to the door that led to the back drawbridge and crossed it, out into the piazza beyond.
The light outside was a bright, flat, shadowless white. Jacomo began to run again, away from the Castello, past the great façade of the cathedral and off towards the centre of town. He turned down the long, narrow Via delle Volte, running towards the river until his sides heaved and his breath rasped raw in his throat. Hands on knees, head bowed, he waited for his wildly jumping heart to settle.
Around him thronged the bustling activity of the wharves that lined the banks of the Po, where itinerant hawkers and tradesmen pushed and jostled among bales of cloth, barrels, stacks of wood; bargemen shouted in unfamiliar dialects and over-laden porters delivered their goods. The air smelt sharply of sodden wood, decay and a multitude of spices, with a soft underlying scent of sweat. Jacomo straightened, and watched the milling crowds. He began chewing the side of his thumbnail, the fingers of that hand softly stroking the raised skin of the crimson stain on his cheek.
This was insane. Completely insane. He was quite certain that what he planned to do—what he was about to arrange now with Alessandro—was courting not only his own death but hers as well. He could not do it. It was impossible. Even if they managed to avoid discovery, it would only make leaving the Castello—and her—that much more painful in the end. That one kiss had been almost more than he could resist—he could hardly contemplate what anything more intimate would do to him. Jacomo began to argue with himself as he started walking again. He did not have to do this, he could just ask Alessandro for the pigments he needed and not mention his…other request. Then he could go back to the Castello and keep away from her. He did not need to go to her chamber tonight. They had risked enough already.
But.
The aching yearning that had been ignited by that kiss was not going to be easily ignored; he had been shaken into pieces that no longer quite fitted together. He felt again her mouth on his cheek, her fingers in his hair, smelt the sweet rose scent of her, and a wave of wanting her flooded through him. He stood still, letting the sensation pulse through his body.
He knew her name—Lucrezia—but he had never used it. God—this was madness! He was contemplating risking everything—career, reputation, both their lives—so that he could make love to a married woman he had so far only ever addressed as “Signora.”
Jacomo walked past the end of the wharf and down another narrow street. This opened out into a bright little square, facing onto which was a small, wide-windowed shop, lined with blue and white pottery jars, bunches of herbs and glass bottles full of brightly coloured spices. He paused outside the door, the two sides of the argument still raging in his head, then went in.
The apothecary looked up as he entered the shop, a small, bent figure with a head almost bald, save for the few wisps of white hair that clung to it like down on a speckled egg. Jacomo’s heart lifted as the egg cracked in a wide smile. The apothecary stepped forward and patted his sleeve.
“What’s the matter, Jacomino?” Alessandro Giglio said. “Been running?”
“Yes. We’re out of ultramarine.”
“But the reverend brother was in here not half an hour ago. Why did he not—”
“I didn’t tell him in time.”
Alessandro reached for a large earthenware jar, which he unstoppered carefully. “How much, lad?”
“As much as you can spare—the piece we’re tackling tomorrow has a large section of sea and sky in it, and Medea’s dress will need ultramarine shadows, too.” Jacomo cleared his throat as he tried to work out a way of phrasing his more delicate request.
The apothecary frowned at him, holding a horn scoop piled high with bright blue powder. “Something’s troubling you, lad. What is it?”
Jacomo took a long, slow breath, held it for a moment, and then made his decision. He said, “Can I ask you a favour, Alessandro?”
“Of course, lad. What is it?”
And Jacomo told him.
He phrased it carefully, trying to give away as little as possible, but even so, Alessandro was clearly surprised. The white tufts of his eyebrows rose high onto his forehead, but then he gave a twisted little smile and agreed. He tipped the ultramarine into a jar and stoppered it, then rummaged in a capacious leather bag which was hanging on a hook on the wall. “There you are, lad,” he said. “It’s a spare. Keep it until you see me again.”
***
Catelina reached into her basket and brought out a small waxed-linen bag. “Gingered bread,” she said, holding it up and shaking it so that the contents rustled.
The tall, round-faced horseman’s eyebrows lifted. “For me?” he said.
“You told me you liked it, Giorgio,” Catelina said. “They were making a big batch in the kitchens this morning, and…well, I asked nicely. I’ve brought you some pears too.” She lifted the basket.
Giorgio grinned at her and took the bag. He opened it, and, holding it in one broad palm, peered into it. Dipping thumb and forefinger in, he picked out a golden, sugar-dusted cube. “Here,” he said, holding it towards her. “You have some.”
Catelina reached out a hand, but Giorgio ignored it and held the bread to her lips. Her eyes fixed upon his, Catelina allowed him to put it directly into her mouth. His fingertips touched her lip. Giorgio took out another two cubes for himself. “Mmm!” he said. “That’s good. Thank you.”
“Are you busy this afternoon?” Catelina asked, her heart beating a little faster. Was she being too forward?
Giorgio rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. “Forget this afternoon. I’ve been busy all day and it’s not finished yet. That big brute over there needs strapping—he’s completely filthy after a carriage trip yesterday—then I need to make up a poultice for the old mare. Her hock’s still swollen. I have to take the Percheron—the one His Lordship sold last month—over to its new owner later on. I’ll ride him over there—about ten miles, I think it is—and I’ll take the grey Murgese mare with me to ride back on. Why d’you ask?” He picked more gingered bread out of the little bag.
Catelina hoped her disappointment did not show. “I wondered, that’s all.”
Giorgio held up another piece of the bread, eyebrows raised quizzically. Catelina nodded and he once more put it gently into her mouth. “I won’t be back until late, but perhaps…we can share a bite of lunch tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.” She smiled at him.
A scurry of footsteps startled her, and she turned from Giorgio to see who had arrived. With a jolt of surprise, she saw the Signora, her hair fuzzy and untidy, her face pink from having—Catelina presumed—run all the way from the castle. The Signora’s chest was heaving as she caught her breath.
“My lady?” Catelina said.
“Oh!” The Signora stopped abruptly. “Lina!” She looked from Catelina to Giorgio, hardly seeming to register their presence; she seemed quite distracted.
“My lady, is there anything wrong?”
“What? Oh—no, there isn’t. I’m—I’m just looking for something. I—” She stopped, and then said, “Lina, could I borrow your basket?”
Catelina raised her eyebrows in surprise, but nodded. “Of course, my lady.” She bit back her curiosity, saying no more, then she took out the three pears and gave them to Giorgio, who was watching the Signora as if quite fascinated. He put two of the pears, with the rest of the bread, into a large pocket in his breeches; the third he began to eat.
“Was this what you
were after, my lady?” Catelina asked, handing over the now empty basket.
“What? Erm…no. No, it wasn’t.”
“What was it? What is it you need?”
Lucrezia told her. More puzzled than ever, Catelina turned to Giorgio, who smiled broadly, swallowed the last mouthful of pear and said cheerfully, wiping his chin on his sleeve, “Easy, my lady. I’ll fetch you one straight away.” He threw the only remaining part of the pear—the stalk—over his shoulder as he walked towards the saddlery.
***
Lucrezia had tried hard to ignore Catelina’s obviously burning curiosity ever since they had returned from the stables, but the truth was bulging up inside her, desperate for release.
They had walked back to the Castello in silence. Lucrezia’s agitation was now almost painful—her insides were fermenting, expanding, churning. Her longing to see Jacomo again was becoming quite overwhelming. She decided as they walked along, side by side, that she would have to tell Catelina. Her skin felt thin and stretched, as the enormity of what she was planning swelled inside her. If she did not tell someone, she thought, it began to seem possible that she might, quite literally, burst—split open like an overripe plum.
More to break the silence than because she really wanted to know, she said, “What were you doing down at the stables, Lina?” She was surprised to see Catelina flush and bite her lip.
“I—I went to see Giorgio, my lady. That’s the horseman I was talking to down there. I’d taken him a bit of food.”
Momentarily distracted from her own thoughts, Lucrezia said, “Giorgio? Who is he? How do you know him?”
The flush deepened. “Well…he’s one of my lord’s horsemen. I’d already seen him with the horses a few times, I suppose, but I first spoke to him properly about two weeks ago when I went down into the town that time for that length of lace you wanted.”
Lucrezia nodded, remembering.
His Last Duchess Page 16
