But would she ever see it again in real life? She longed to—and yet she feared to at the same time.
‘Mena!’ she cried, straining up in the stirrups until she could see her maid pushing the crowd aside to make her way towards Isabella. A vast relief flooded over her, warm and familiar. ‘There you are!’
‘You vanished and we could not find you!’ the maid said, tears on her wrinkled cheeks. ‘This place is wicked. We should go home.’
‘We cannot go without seeing Caterina,’ Isabella said. She thought it better not to tell Mena all that had happened. There had been too much darkness in the day already. She only wanted to find her cousins’ home, have a bath and a meal—and think about her rescuer. Sketch his face before she could forget it. ‘These men helped me find my way...’
She glanced back, but her guards had gone, melted away as if they had never been her silent escort at all. Had she only dreamed the whole strange scene? It had happened before.
But, no. She remembered all too well the touch of her rescuer’s hand on her skin, the glow of his eyes. It had been no dream.
She quickly leaned down to give Mena a reassuring hug and followed her maid back to the servants who awaited them in front of the cathedral.
They left the market behind, the crowds thinning as they moved closer to the Arno. Once over the famous Ponte Vecchio bridge, they turned towards a neighbourhood of grand palazzi, towards the Via Porcellatti. This was nothing like the terrible courtyard where she had become so lost—and then found.
It was quieter here, the shouts of the merchants and beggars behind them. There were still people, to be sure, many of them, going about their own business at a dignified, luxurious pace. Ladies in silken gowns and sheer veils anchored with jewelled bands emerged from the church of San Lorenzo as the bells tolled above them, trailed by their vigilant maids. Men in embroidered velvet doublets and sleeveless robes spoke together in hushed, intent voices, their gazes following her as she moved past. Servants scurried about on errands, heavy baskets over their arms. The shops were shaded with green awnings, offerings of gold, jewels and silks displayed to shining perfection.
The structures here were vast, solid, but built of plain, greyish-pink stone. Their heavy doors and lacy-screened balconies whispered of power, security, wealth. This was where the Strozzis lived.
Just as Caterina had directed in her letter, it was a perfect square of a palazzo, three storeys high, at the corner of a half-hidden square on the Via Porcellatti. In the distance, soaring high over the red-tiled roof, could be seen the ochre-coloured brick dome of the Duomo, Brunelleschi’s famous achievement.
The shutters were half-open, offering shade in the warm afternoon, the doors closed and barred. But it was unmistakably their destination—the Strozzi arms hung over the portal.
‘This must be it,’ Mena murmured, her voice heavy with exhaustion. ‘At last.’
Isabella glanced towards her maid. Mena’s face was grey and drawn beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat, her eyes bloodshot. Their journey, such a rare source of pleasure and inspiration to Isabella until she was lost, had been only a trial to Mena. Had she been wrong to bring Mena with her? Or perhaps wrong to have come here herself? She should have been frightened, surely, but somehow she just felt—excited. She knew she could not leave now.
Isabella gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘We are here, Mena! In no time at all we will have warm baths, good food and a clean bed to rest in.’
‘Praise be to St Catherine!’ Mena murmured fervently.
One of the footmen left his horse to bang the great brass ring against the heavy, iron-bound door. The sound reverberated through the courtyard within, echoing, and after only a moment they heard the inner bars being drawn back, the creak of hinges as the door opened to reveal a page clad in the embroidered Vespucci livery.
‘The Signorina Isabella Spinola has arrived,’ the footman said.
The page’s gaze flickered past him, taking in Isabella and her ragged retinue. Surely, she thought, they were not an auspicious sight. She did not arrive in a silk-draped litter, followed by carts filled with clothes’ chests and furniture. She had no large train of servants. And they were all covered in the dust and grit of the road, her plain, dark-blue-wool travel gown creased and dirty. She thought of the sheer veils and jewelled headdresses of the ladies they passed and reached up to touch her own hair. The thick, black length was simply braided and tucked into a net, covered by a flat velvet cap.
Doubt touched Isabella again. She was a country mouse, about to enter the palatial halls of the most sophisticated society in the world. What if her clothes, her manners, her everything were just wrong? So wrong Caterina laughed her out of the house, sending her back to where she started. Back to lonely ignorance. To men who were nothing like the angel in black she had met earlier.
But the page, rather than insisting she could not be Signorina Spinola and slamming the door, merely nodded. ‘Of course. Signorina Strozzi is expecting you.’
He swung the door wider and several more liveried servants streamed out, hurrying down the steps to take their animals’ bridles. ‘They will take your horses around to the mews, Signorina Spinola. If you would care to follow me, the mistress has instructed me to take you to her at once.’
‘Of course,’ Isabella echoed, sliding down from her stiff Spanish saddle with the help of one of Caterina’s servants. Her legs felt turned to ice water, unsteady beneath her. Once she stepped through those doors, she could not turn back. Could not run away.
Coward! her mind whispered. What are you waiting for? Has this not been what you wanted for so very long? Your blood is as fine as hers, as ancient and noble. Don’t shame your father—or yourself.
Isabella stiffened her back, straightened her shoulders. She was no coward. She never had been. She just had to go forward, even if the stone facade of the palazzo contained the mouth of hell itself. There was no other choice. Not now. And surely she would have it no other way.
Her head tilted high, she followed the page through those doors. Only to find an earthly paradise, untouched by even a hint of fiery torment. Even the modern tumult of the city seemed leagues away.
Isabella stood still for a moment, gazing around in silent wonder. The courtyard was open to the sky, but the overhanging roof that covered the second-floor gallery gave shade and coolness. A tall marble fountain presided in the very centre, sparkling water spilling from a stone nymph’s urn into a shimmering, bubbling stream. The pale pink flagstones were swept and scrubbed, lined with classical statues, gods, goddesses and heroes interspersed with backless benches and chairs that invited quiet conversation, solitary contemplation. It looked just like one of the etchings in her father’s books, a Roman villa come to life.
How her father would have loved it.
‘Signorina?’ the page said softly.
Isabella glanced at him, startled. She had forgotten he was there, forgotten she was not alone in the midst of this perfect beauty. He smiled—obviously he was accustomed to such reactions.
‘Shall I take you to Signorina Strozzi now?’ he asked. ‘She is most eager to greet you.’
‘Of course,’ Isabella murmured. ‘Grazie.’
She followed the page across the courtyard, past the rows of statues, whose blank stares seemed to follow her just as those of the men in the street had, judging her. At the far end rose a wide stone staircase, ascending in a soaring arc to the terrace. They were only halfway up these steps when a door at the top opened and a painting come to shining life stepped out.
It had to be Caterina. Isabella had not seen her kinswoman since she was a child, but she well remembered the occasion. She remembered how she, a dark, shy little girl, stood in awe of her older cousin, who seemed made of the rays of the sun, so beautiful and graceful was she. Everyone whispered that Caterina was destined for great things, for a
place of fame and renown, and soon after that she seemed off to a fine start in her glorious life. Once she had even been betrothed to one of the Vespucci family, but rumours of her ill health had made that false.
Awe was a fine word for Isabella’s emotions on that long-ago day. Awe that a human being could be so perfect, could be all that she herself was not. Fair, serene, accomplished, self-possessed. Awe and—and envy.
Those feelings hadn’t changed with the years, Isabella found, as she stared up at her cousin. Caterina stood framed in the arched doorway, one of her statues come to life. Her skin was pale as marble, touched with pink only along the high, smooth cheekbones, the perfect foil for the loose fall of waving, red-gold hair that flowed to her waist. She wore an open robe of sky-blue silk over an even paler blue muslin gown, shades that matched her eyes. If Isabella were to paint her, she would use priceless blue marine.
Caterina gave a welcoming smile and hurried along the terrace. Her arms, draped in long, gold-lined sleeves, were outstretched in welcome.
‘My dear cousin!’ she cried, enveloping Isabella in a rose-scented embrace. ‘You are here at last. Was your journey terribly taxing?’
Caterina was not very tall, yet still she was taller than Isabella, who had to go on tiptoe to kiss her smooth cheek. Caterina was all that was lovely, but Isabella found, as she returned the greeting embrace, that her cousin had grown thin, her shoulders all sharp-edged beneath her sumptuous robe. She felt warm, too, as if feverish and her blue eyes glowed with an unnatural light.
Once again, Isabella was sure she should conceal what had really happened to her on the journey. The danger and the rescue. ‘Not at all,’ she answered with a smile. ‘We travelled in easy stages. I am very glad to be here, though. It was most kind of you to invite me.’
Caterina shrugged, still smiling as she stepped back, her eyes quickly taking in Isabella in a barely perceptible sweep. What could she think of her small, black-haired country cousin? She gave no indication, merely widened her smile, a dimple appearing in the alabaster of her cheek.
‘What is family for, my dear Isabella? You have done me a great favour by leaving your home and coming to stay with me. This house will be less quiet and lonely with you here. But come, you must be hungry after your journey. Paolo, will you fetch a repast for us and tell the maids we require a bath? And now, Isabella, you must tell me how your father fares. He was always one of my mother’s favourite kinsmen. She constantly spoke of how learned and wise he is.’
The page—who must be Paolo—bowed and turned back down the stairs, as Caterina linked her arm with Isabella’s and led her upwards. As Isabella assured Caterina that her father was well and still learned, they passed through that arched doorway into what surely must be Caterina’s own rooms. They lacked the stiff formality of the public rooms of the house, the grand sale, the banquet halls and counting rooms. What they did not lack, though, was luxury.
The marble floors were covered with rare carpets, woven of glowing jewel shades of red and blue, while the walls were hung with tapestries depicting the wedding at Cana, and Diana at the hunt. Any thread of chill that might dare to creep through was banished by those rich, muffling threads. There was little furniture in this room, a few painted chairs and tables, and a lute and a set of virginals waiting in the corner.
Caterina led her through another doorway into the bedchamber, a sunlit expanse where the velvet curtains were drawn back from the leaded windows to let in vast, buttery swathes of light. The beams fell across the floor, covered with yet more rugs, along the immense carved bed on its raised platform. The mattress was draped in thickly embroidered blue-satin hangings and spread with a blue counterpane, but the bedclothes were rumpled, as if Caterina had only recently risen from their embrace. There were carved chests, upholstered chairs, polished-looking glasses and the sweet scent of smouldering herbs from the pierced brass globes suspended from the frescoed ceiling.
Isabella stared around her in amazement. A space more different from her whitewashed chamber at home could scarce be envisioned. ‘I cannot imagine such a house ever being quiet,’ she murmured.
Caterina laughed. ‘I assure you it is! Such a vast, echoing space just for Matteo and me. That is why I go out so often. And why you will, too.’ For an instant, a flicker of shadow passed over Caterina’s face, a cloud on the bright sun. Then, it was gone and she smiled again.
‘Let me show you your chamber, Isabella,’ she said. ‘I had it arranged just for you.’
The room was next to Caterina’s, a smaller echo of it in furnishings and decorations. The bed was draped in dark rose-pink, as were the windows. Two carved chairs, a small table and an empty embroidery frame sat by the hearth and the clothes’ chests were open, waiting to receive her possessions.
‘It looks most comfortable,’ Isabella said. ‘I am sure I will be happy here.’
‘Va bene. If you have need of anything, you have only to ask. I want you to feel this is your home, for as long as you care to stay.’ Caterina strolled over to one wall, hung with tapestries woven with scenes of a Grecian banquet in soft creams and greens. Between them was a painting, not large, but exquisitely framed in gilt scrollwork. ‘And this is one of my treasures. I thought you might enjoy it.’
Isabella drifted after her, completely mesmerized, drawn closer by the lure of the vibrant, unearthly colours. She had never seen anything like it in her life. The scene was a typical one, a Madonna with the infant Christ on her knee, set before a hazy, pale green-and-gold landscape. Isabella saw such subjects every day, in churches and country villas. She herself sketched visions of the Virgin. But never like this.
The blue and white of the Madonna’s robe, her golden hair, the peachy warmth of her skin and that of her child—it glowed with pure, real life. As smooth as satin on its base, there was not a flaw to be seen. There was such an ineffable grace about the scene, an accuracy of line and a delicacy of feeling. The Virgin’s outstretched hand was so fragile in its long grace, so beckoning, Isabella almost reached out to touch her. She curled her own fingers tightly in the folds of her skirt before she could do something so foolish.
Caterina studied the painting, too, her head tilted slightly in unconscious imitation of the Madonna.
‘Is it not exquisite?’ she said. ‘It is by Giovanni Bellini of Venice, using the new method of mixing pigment with oil.’
‘I have never seen anything so beautiful,’ Isabella answered truthfully, vowing to herself to learn more of this new, magical technique.
Caterina smiled. ‘I was told that you enjoy art, cousin. That you are a fine artist yourself.’
‘I am no artist,’ Isabella said. ‘No true artist, like this Signor Bellini. I have had little training. But I do love art. Its beauty is the best of what it means to be human, is it not? It raises us—higher.’
Caterina gazed at her steadily, one golden brow arched, and Isabella felt her cheeks slowly heat. ‘That is well said, Isabella. Art does indeed raise us above the daily struggle of our lives. It helps us to imagine what it might be like to touch divinity.’ She reached out suddenly to clasp Isabella’s hand. Her fingers were as dry and delicate as paper. ‘I know our families have not always been the most harmonious, cousin, but I am so glad you are here now.’
And, suddenly, so was Isabella. Those silly doubts she had on the street were gone. The thieves, the gloriously handsome man who had rescued her—they just seemed part of the dream of the city. An adventure. She glanced back at the painting, that object of perfect, unattainable beauty that now seemed just the merest bit closer. ‘I hope that I can be of some help to you.’
Caterina shook her head. ‘You help me just by being here. We will be great friends, I am sure.’
The chamber door opened behind them, admitting a parade of servants bearing platters of food, ewers of wine and water, even a large wooden bathtub.
‘
At last!’ Caterina said. ‘You must be so famished by now.’ She moved away from Isabella’s side, becoming every inch the stern chatelaine as she supervised the servants in their pouring of the bath and serving of the food.
As Isabella turned back to the Bellini for one more glance, her attention was caught by yet another painting. This one hung by the open door, framed more simply but just as lovely. The colours were more muted than the Bellini, giving it an air of ethereal fancy. The subject was Caterina herself, depicted from just above her waist in a low-cut gown of pale pinkish-red. Her glorious hair was piled atop her head in loose waves, anchored with loops of a white scarf. She gazed off somewhere to her right, a half smile on her lips.
Around her neck was draped a heavy gold necklace, in the ominous shape of a serpent with ruby eyes. Was it a symbol of her mysterious illness, her withdrawal from the world?
Startled by the image, Isabella glanced back at her cousin, who was still overseeing the servants. Caterina was smiling, yet still Isabella fancied she saw that shadow lurking. She thought again of her rescuer and the darkness held deep in his sea-green eyes.
‘Now, cousin, you must eat,’ Caterina said, oblivious to any shadows at all. ‘And then I shall loan you one of my own gowns. We have somewhere very important to go this afternoon.’
Somewhere important? Was she to be tossed into this strange new life already, feet-first into cold waters? Isabella’s stomach tightened. ‘Caterina, I think...’
Before she could finish her words, there was a noise from outside the luxurious chamber. The clatter of heavy booted footsteps, dogs barking, the deep rumble of masculine laughter. The door flew open and a golden giant of a man strode inside.
Isabella was sure this was Caterina’s brother, her own cousin Matteo, for he had his sister’s tawny hair. But where Caterina was pale and slight, he was tall and broad-shouldered, exuding an exuberant energy. He wore a plain dark doublet and tall, mud-splattered leather boots, his pack of dogs crowding close behind him as if he had just come in from hunting.
Betrayed by His Kiss Page 4
