“Can you really carry her all that way, Giorgio?”
“She weighs almost nothing, poor little thing.”
“Jacomo and Giovanni will meet you at the back drawbridge, they said.”
Francesca stood up. “I’ll walk with you, Giorgio,” she said. The twins were sitting on stools by the fire, staring at Giorgio and his burden with round-eyed fascination. Between them lay a nanny goat, its legs neatly curled under it, eyes closed against the heat of the embers. “Bella, Beata, listen,” Francesca said. “You stay here with Catelina and the baby. I may not be able to come back here until the morning.”
The children nodded.
“Thank you,” Francesca said to Catelina. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Catelina brushed the top of the baby’s head with her lips and nodded.
***
Despite Giorgio’s apprehensions, no one paid any attention to the little group as they made their way up towards the Castello. He felt the chill weight of the dead girl in his arms, and shivered at the thought of what lay ahead.
“Santo cielo—I cannot believe I am doing this,” he said, more to himself than to Francesca.
Francesca took his arm, and Giorgio looked down at her. “She’s heavier than I expected,” he said, resettling Chiara’s body higher up his chest.
“Can you manage?”
“We’re nearly there.” They rounded the front of the cathedral and saw the square bulk of the Castello, black against the darkening sky. Francesca pointed.
“There they are.”
Two figures moved out of a blot of shadow and began to walk towards them.
35
When Alfonso entered her bedchamber, Lucrezia was clad in her night shift, her hair loose about her shoulders. She was wide-eyed and wary as he approached, but perhaps, he thought, their last nocturnal tryst rendered that particular response somewhat predictable.
He was surprised to find himself quite calm as he contemplated her nervous anxiety, as from the moment he had taken the decision to end the agony of this benighted marriage, he had felt more vividly alive and energetic than at any other time since Lucrezia’s arrival at the Castello. Restless and fretful throughout both days, he had been astonished to find himself taking what seemed, after all that had gone before, a perverse enjoyment in his wife’s company. She was, conversely, subdued and taciturn, though for some reason this quietude only served to excite his new volatility. Alfonso found, however, that now that the moment had come—now that he actually, physically held in his hands the means to a complete and irrevocable conclusion—his inner tumult was assuaged. He faced his duchess with an unprecedented sense of serenity.
He put the bottle and the cups on the table next to the bed, then leaned against the carved bedpost, watching Lucrezia all the while. She made no comment, but held his gaze.
“I thought we might make another attempt at conceiving the heir to the duchy, Lucrezia,” he said.
Her face twitched, but she still said nothing.
“I had thought about trying again last night.” This was a lie: Alfonso was well aware that he had had absolutely no intention of laying even a finger on Lucrezia until tonight. “But I could see that you were tired, and I had no wish to distress you. It occurred to me,” he added, “that having had—I hope—a restful night’s sleep, you might be able to approach the prospect with a little more enthusiasm than you did before. Perhaps a fine wine might render the attempt more palatable to you this time.”
Alfonso poured wine into each of the two cups; a prickle of anticipation shivered across his scalp as he saw the spoonful of golden liquid already in the bottom of one of the two. Having filled it, he handed that cup to Lucrezia, who took it from him, frowning.
“I do not normally take wine at this hour, Alfonso,” she said.
Blood pulsed loud in his ears. If she refused…He did not care to coerce, he thought—it was offensive to his sense of dignity. She had to choose to drink.
“Perhaps the novelty will prove entertaining,” he said.
Lucrezia did not look convinced, but nonetheless raised the cup to her lips and sipped. Alfonso waited, drinking from his own goblet, and Lucrezia took another mouthful.
There was, he realised, one more element needed to complete the scene. As Lucrezia raised her cup again, he reached for the rosewood box on the bedside table and brought out the string of garnets. She made no comment but gave a soft sigh, and Alfonso saw her shoulders droop, as though in resignation. He handed her the Red Rope. She lifted the stones and wound them around her throat herself, sliding the string each time under the bulk of her hair. Alfonso watched her breasts move beneath the loose shift as her hands worked behind her head; her nipples showed dark against the thin fabric.
He pictured the key that Panizato had unknowingly given him out on the heath—pictured it so clearly that he could almost feel its cold iron in his hand. It turned in the lock and the door to the final shadowed room clicked open. On the far wall in the final room was the mirror. The cracks, distortions and taints on the glass, which had distorted the reflection for so long, were beginning to clear and the perfect image, for which Alfonso knew he still hungered, was re-emerging.
He sat on the bed near Lucrezia and put his own cup on the table. He leaned towards her, hoping this time, rather than dreading, that her desire to repulse him would encourage her to drink. And, indeed, she drew back from him and said, “In a moment, Alfonso. I should like a little more wine first. It was a sensible idea of yours to bring it.”
Her voice sounded stilted and unnatural, though perhaps, Alfonso surmised, this was already due to the effects of Signor Carolei’s concoction. Lucrezia drank deeply from her cup and replaced it, almost empty now, upon the table.
Alfonso found then that he could not look at her. He got up and walked from the bedside to the window. The moon was a few days from the full and seemed to him somehow misshapen and imperfect, flattened along its lower edge. A few hours before, he had seen it hanging near the horizon: huge, flat and a pale pinkish gold. Now risen, shrunk and silvered, it lit the city streets with a brightness not far from that of day, and, as he looked down, he saw that it was reflected too in the oily blackness of the moat. He stared at the wobbling silver disc in the water for several moments until he was startled by a soft “Oh!” and a whimper of distress from behind him. He could not turn around, but his fingers gripped the window-sill and he closed his eyes, wishing he could as easily stopper his ears.
When at last he found the courage to turn into the room and look at the duchess, she was sprawled untidily across the bed. Her shift had rucked high, exposing her legs and the jut of her hipbone. Her face was pale, the freckles dark below the tangled mass of her hair, and her mouth had opened. A hint of a frown had creased between her brows as though in annoyance, though Alfonso surmised that the cause must in fact have been pain.
He could see no breath. No movement. No life.
It was done. He had silenced her.
He sat back down near her. Pushing his hand beneath the rucked linen of her shift, his fingers touched one small breast: already chill, veined a delicate blue like malleable marble. She was no more than a soft statue. Her cold curves slid comfortably under the warmth of his cupped palm as he ran his hand over her skin, and he wondered at its exquisite unresponsiveness.
Looking down at her now, he saw at last the image for which he had longed for so many months. She was beautiful, he thought. In this breathless silence she was truly beautiful. The perfect reflection had finally been restored and the glass was again quite flawless. He knew that at last he would be able to claim her completely, gain untainted admittance to this creature whose very vitality and spontaneity had in life so diminished and crushed him. It would happen only once, he knew. But that would be enough. Complete possession.
A greed for her now grew within him and he found himself stiffening as he contemplated the accomplishment of an act whose very nature he had scarcely been able to admit,
even to himself. He had until this moment locked it away and relished his awareness of its clandestine presence at the fringes of his consciousness; had frequently enjoyed toying with an idea that at once entranced and appalled him.
He imagined his warm flesh contained within her chill stillness and his skin crawled.
He could wait no longer. A terrifying sense of trespass into dangerous territory constricted his breath, but as he unfastened the lacing of his doublet, he knew that it was all still perfect. No fear of the exquisite image being shattered as it had been so many times before.
He wanted to take off her shift. He slid each heavy arm from its sleeve, then pushed his hand around and under her back, intending to lift her and free the linen from beneath her body. He had to bend close to her, but found he could not look at her face as he did so.
A sense of the imminence of the approaching moment of consummation ballooned in his head.
He threw the chemise to the floor as he laid the duchess back on the pillows. Her head drooped slackly to one side and her hair fell away from her face. In this flawless stasis she was entrancing, and at last he looked at her features.
And then he saw it.
A single tear, which must have gathered some moments before in the corner of her eye, spilled over as he watched. It ran slowly down the side of her cheek and slid towards the tangled hair.
Alfonso froze.
In the event, the perfect image did not shatter.
It dissolved.
It dissolved and the dream was destroyed.
Bile rose in Alfonso’s throat and he pressed a hand across his mouth. From the start he had known his dream to be profane—wicked—but its glamour and terrible beauty had sustained him…he had needed it…he had wrapped himself in its hell-spun folds for months, preening himself in it, ignoring its implications and relishing the comfort it offered him. But staring now at the little figure on the bed, he began to shrivel; the great swollen bubble of his monstrous self-absorption was punctured, and as it deflated, leaking its horrible contents around him, he felt himself dwindling, shrinking, wizening.
He could no longer bear to see her. A blanket. He wanted to cover her. Without touching her. He dropped the blanket over her; she seemed to be sleeping. He should feel reassured, he thought, but at once a whining need to see her wake began insistently inside his head. He wanted to shake her—but no. To do that, he would have to lay hands on her.
Lines from Catullus that he had known since childhood came into his mind, so horribly apt; his mouth formed the words without his seeming to choose them. Odi et amo: quare id faciam, fortasse requires. Nescio, sed fieri sentio ad excurcior. I hate and I love: why I do so you may well ask. I do not know, but I feel it happen and am in agony.
Unable to stop himself, Alfonso looked again at Lucrezia’s face. That tear still clung to her cheek, its track glistening in a line towards her hair. He straightened, reached forward and, with a finger, wiped away its last trace. He touched the finger to his lips and tasted salt. Nausea wrapped itself around his head, muffling and smothering, and for a moment he thought he would fall. He closed his eyes and steadied himself against the bedpost until the worst of it had passed. He had to get out. The inside of his head was inflating and he began to fear it would crack his skull as it expanded.
He picked up the candlestick—but as soon replaced it next to the bed. He did not want to leave Lucrezia in the dark.
Everything was silent. He backed towards the door, reached behind him, groped for the handle and pulled the door open. The lower edge caught with a scrape against the floor. He took another step backwards and his foot bumped against Folletto’s side. With a grunt, the dog started, scrabbled to his feet and nosed Alfonso’s hand—cold, wet, insistent. Alfonso stood still: the tremor that had begun at the sight of that tear was now shaking his entire body. He pulled his hand away from the probing muzzle.
Folletto lifted his head and howled. Sitting back on his haunches, nose to the ceiling, he let out a long and unearthly noise.
Alfonso froze.
His heart raced and his breath caught cold in his throat.
“Stai zitto!” he hissed. “Stop it! Someone will hear you.” He wrapped his hands around Folletto’s muzzle, but the wolfhound pulled away from his grasp.
The noise continued.
Howling for the dead.
Alfonso grabbed the animal’s head, tried to smother the noise in his doublet, but the cries went on, echoing along the stones of the corridor.
“Stai zitto! Someone will hear.”
Hardly aware of what he did, Alfonso put his arm around the dog’s head; he pushed down hard with one hand upon its back. Then, Folletto’s muzzle in the crook of his other elbow, he jerked upwards and back. There was a cracking sound.
The noise stopped.
For a second, Folletto hung from Alfonso’s hands, which were wet with the dog’s saliva. Alfonso retched and released his grip. The great black body slumped to the floor and was still.
The door to Lucrezia’s chamber was still open, and in the candlelight Alfonso saw her lying unmoving beneath her crimson blanket. He backed away, wiping his palm against the leg of his breeches.
36
Five figures waited silently in the little antechamber, though only four of them breathed.
Giovanni stood tall against the furthest wall, by the door—Jacomo could see little of him in the deeper shadow. Coaxed into helping less than an hour before, Tomaso was sitting on a low stool with his back against a wall, his hands clasped loosely between splayed knees. Giorgio was a silhouette against the window, and a small silent figure sat in a high-backed chair, wrapped in a blanket, sagging at an unnatural angle against the wood.
The pictures that Jacomo’s mind conjured up as they waited were horrible. To have Lucrezia so close, going through so unthinkable an experience and to be just standing there, letting it happen…it was almost unbearable. But Catelina’s extraordinary suggestion had to be the best—possibly the only—way to prevent the duke discovering the deception, Jacomo kept telling himself. If the duke knew himself to have been duped, Jacomo was sure he would stop at nothing to exact his revenge for the humiliation he would feel at such a betrayal. The immediate reality of what they were doing, though, was far, far worse than he had imagined when Catelina had suggested how they might try to accomplish the rescue.
He looked at the little figure in the chair and swallowed.
The moon was high now and lit the antechamber with a pewter-grey light. They had no candle—the door had to be left ajar. Giovanni was listening for any sounds from the corridor beyond.
Seconds were minutes; minutes, hours.
Then into the silence came a click.
The iron handle shifted and the door opened.
Jacomo jumped to his feet, his heartbeat wild, as a figure came in, carrying a candle. Distorted shadows leaped up the walls. Giulietta sucked in a shocked breath at the sight of them all, but Giovanni stepped up behind her and put his hand over her mouth before she could do or say anything. She swung the candle wide and the flame went out but, to Jacomo’s breathless relief, she did not drop it.
Giovanni stood behind Giulietta, his hand still over her mouth, his cheek against hers. “If you make even a sound, Giulietta,” he whispered into her ear, “Crezzi will probably pay with her life.” He paused. “If I let go of you, do you promise to keep silent?”
Jacomo saw the old woman nod behind Giovanni’s fingers.
Giovanni loosened his grip and stood back.
“Santo cielo! What in heaven…?” Giuletta mouthed.
Holding her by both upper arms, still whispering, Giovanni told her as much as he dared.
Mouth open, Giulietta’s gaze moved from him to Jacomo, from Jacomo to Tomaso and Giorgio, then to the crumpled creature in the chair. “It is not possible…” she breathed.
“Believe it, Giulietta,” Giovanni said. He stopped abruptly, and stood very still, obviously listening. Flapping a hand at
Jacomo, he jerked his head towards the door. Lucrezia’s chamber door clicked open, and they heard soft footsteps and a scrabbling of claws. They readied themselves to move.
And then the wolfhound began to howl.
It was a terrible sound, echoing against the stone walls. Everyone stood motionless. It seemed, Jacomo thought, a lament for the dead and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
The howling stopped. Footsteps passed the door and died away.
Waiting until he was certain the duke had left the corridor, Giovanni peered out of the antechamber, then beckoned. Jacomo, Tomaso, Giorgio and Giulietta left the room and walked silently the few yards to Lucrezia’s chamber.
Jacomo held his breath.
The duke’s dog lay dark and still on the floor of the corridor. Jacomo tentatively pushed its side with his foot, but it did not move. He squatted before the creature and stroked its head; its eye was open and the tongue lolled. Though still warm, there was no doubt that it was dead.
They stepped across the big black body into Lucrezia’s chamber.
After having been so reluctant to allow himself to conjure a picture of what they might find in that room, Jacomo was startled to see what appeared to be Lucrezia asleep, tucked under a dark red blanket, a candle burning on the table next to her pillow. The scene was too peaceful, too ordinary, somehow; Jacomo did not know what to think.
He crossed the room and bent over her.
In the wide-windowed apothecary’s shop the night before, Alessandro had described in meticulous detail the effects of his terrifying mixture of laudanum, mandrake and valerian as he had deftly prepared and bottled his ingredients. Jacomo knew that he would detect no breath, no sign of life at all. He knew she would be cold to the touch, that her breathing would be imperceptible, and that it would be some hours before she would wake; he had thought himself prepared. But when he saw her face, so slack and vacant, he was nonetheless almost overwhelmed by a cold, hissing panic.
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