Votive

by Karen Brooks

  But what have you done to look for him? she pondered. She scolded herself for her silly fancies. Just as she could not search for Pillar, which would bring danger to not only herself, the Maleovellis, and the people of the Candlemakers Quartiere who had suffered enough, neither should she seek connections where there were none anymore. Glancing at Baroque as he cleared a space on the table, she had to remind herself that he was not Pillar and she was no longer Tallow. She was Tarlo Maleovelli. She was Signorina Dorata. The past was a wasteland.

  With a sharp puff of breath, she threw herself back into her work.

  WORKING BESIDE TALLOW, Baroque was aware of her every move, every sound. Each day her mien became increasingly mask-like as she fought to bury the emotions burning inside her and which, periodically, would escape across her features. Each sigh reached into his heart and squeezed it. He longed to touch, hold her and swear to protect her from those who would hurt her.

  Surprised at the depth of his feelings, he could no longer deny them. For weeks, he’d shut himself off from the effect Tallow’s presence had on him. But ever since that day he’d walked into the workshop and saw the bruises, the dark shadows under her eyes, her downturned mouth, something within him had transformed. It wasn’t the external changes that tore away at him, but the hollowness he sensed within her. It was as if a bright spark had been extinguished.

  A candle spluttered, drawing his attention. Yes, he thought, as if a candle had been snuffed out. Tallow was nothing more than a walking shadow. Almost daily, her beauty increased and it seemed, from what he heard in the streets, the market, the piazza, the coldness and indifference that attended her whenever she left the casa simply amplified her allure. But those people did not know her. They didn’t know what she had once been, the lovely, fragile being he’d first seen parading as a boy in that floppy cap, ambling through a campo, sipping a juice, delighting in the simple pleasures.

  He watched her now – her eyes downcast, the lashes thick and long, hiding those eyes that not even the belladonna could prevent from being extraordinary. He watched the way her long narrow fingers fondled the plant, saw her inhale, her chest rising and expanding, colour flooding her cheeks as she extracted. He noticed the way tiny tendrils of hair escaped her elaborate coiffure, still in place from the night before, and clung wetly to her forehead.

  He wanted to dab her brow, cool the feverish thoughts that he sensed working in her mind. But he did not deserve to do that. He had not earned the right. He who was prepared to betray Tallow and in ways she did not even yet realise – but she would. He feared that day.

  Yet he did not act to change things either. He stayed. He no longer tried to find the Bond Rider, Katina – that was true. She could seek him and be damned. Thoughts of going to the Cardinale were no longer foremost in his mind. Even his desire to retrieve his journals had been dampened. He remained in the casa and continued to teach Tallow, even though they both knew that the student had long surpassed the master. If he was honest with himself there was only one reason he stayed – and she was standing across from him now.

  Tallow picked up a spray of hemlock – a deadly plant. He saw her trying to draw from it, understand what it could do. His heart lightened. It was moments like that, when she shut her eyes and concentrated, that she was able to forget what troubled her.

  Anger flared within him. The urge to kill, lash out, was so very strong. He almost laughed at the power of his feelings. Silly old man that he was! How could it have come to this? Baroque Scarpoli, enchanted by an Estrattore – not in the way her paramours were. This was different – this was lasting and deeper than anything he’d felt before. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to put himself and his needs first. Is this how a parent feels for a child? A father for a daughter?

  He wondered if Tallow really understood what it was the Maleovellis were doing. He knew she was convinced that once Signor Maleovelli was crowned Doge, he would do everything in his power to ensure the Estrattore returned. All the talk he’d heard from the Maleovellis supported that, but something within Baroque cautioned acceptance of their intentions. Not their plans – they were going well; they’d even seemed to have drawn that foreign ambassador into their web.

  Now, he was one to watch – Baroque could tell. The Maleovellis thought him a dupe, a puppet whose strings they could pull. Baroque knew better. But how the Waterford Signor could help the Maleovellis, he wasn’t sure. Nor was he certain what they would do once their years of preparation finally came to fruition. Would they help Tallow as they promised? Of all people, he knew what good the Estrattore could do, despite what the Church said. But he also understood their potential to do great harm … and, he admitted, glancing at Tallow as she prepared to work with the hemlock, it terrified him.

  The light outside had changed in the last few minutes and a gentle breeze began to blow through the courtyard. There was a coolness to it that suggested seasonal change was not far away. Baroque would be glad when the heat ended. It hung over the city like a pall, turning the canals a thick green and carrying within it the squalid smell of humanity. He screwed up his nose in memory.

  ‘Are you ready to extract?’ Baroque asked quietly.

  Tallow opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Sì. This hemlock, it’s very dangerous.’

  Baroque nodded. He studied the little white flowers, the purple blotches on the stems.

  ‘It’s sticky,’ said Tallow, pressing the ends of her fingers open and shut to demonstrate. ‘It will cause strange dreams, but it can also kill.’

  ‘I know,’ said Baroque.

  Tallow glanced at him. ‘What do the Maleovellis hope to achieve this time?’

  Baroque frowned. ‘They want to persuade someone to do something totally uncharacteristic. So you need to think of how to relax someone, how to make them susceptible to suggestions they wouldn’t normally be. A small dose of hemlock should achieve that. It has hallucinogenic qualities.’

  ‘Are the changes to be permanent?’

  Baroque hesitated. ‘Sì.’ He waited. There was a time when Tallow would bombard him with questions in the way he had prisoners of the Doge – relentlessly, endlessly. He would not always give her direct answers, particularly when the few he did upset her. But Tallow did not even demand to know for whom the candles were intended anymore or the details. She simply made them and then carried out the orders she was given with whomever she was assigned to that night.

  ‘Then, I will use some hemlock, comfrey and …’ She thought for a moment. Not always needing to prepare new potions, Tallow could reach inside herself and draw from plants and objects she’d already extracted. ‘Ah.’ She waved her hand in the air. ‘I have it. I know what to use.’

  Baroque no longer asked either. He didn’t want to know.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Bring me the candles, Baroque. Two should do. Votives, please.’

  Baroque lifted a pair out of the box he’d bought at the markets yesterday and placed them in front of Tallow. In seconds she’d distilled the necessary emotions into them. ‘There’s no need to test them, Baroque. They will work. I know it.’ Wistfulness tinged her tone as she took one more look at what she’d done. The candles glowed, the glass containers enhancing the effect.

  She glanced out of the doorway. ‘It grows late. I’d better prepare for tonight’s festivities.’ Undoing her apron, she slowly hung it on the hook at the back of the room. Baroque watched. Instead of leaving straightaway, she lingered.

  ‘Baroque?’

  He quickly swung back to the bench. ‘Sì?’

  ‘Do you know who exactly these are for?’ She stood close beside him. He caught the scent of musk and vanilla. He inhaled deeply, as if she too were one of her candles. His head spun.

  ‘You know I’m not supposed to answer that, Tarlo. That is for Signor or Signorina Maleovelli to tell you.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, locking her eyes onto his.

  ‘They are for the Prince.’

  ‘Whic
h one?’

  ‘Cosimo.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’ Tallow touched the candles. ‘What do they intend apart from making him ignore his better judgement?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She nodded faintly and Baroque was shocked to realise she didn’t believe him.

  ‘Tallow, I mean, Tarlo, I really don’t know. You will find out soon enough. You’re to take them to Signor Maleovelli and receive your instructions.’ He paused. ‘The Maleovellis do not share much with me. They never have.’

  ‘No,’ said Tallow, raising her huge silver-grey eyes with their dilated black pupils to his. ‘I don’t suppose they do anymore. They have no need. Not since you helped them secure what they wanted most.’

  His heart flipped. Did she know? Then, he realised what she meant – herself. The rebuke in her voice stung. He was rendered speechless. She collected the candles and plucked a couple of others from the shelf. Candles she would no doubt use in her room. He noted that one had been infused with the elements of heartsease, effectively a love potion, while the other was as yet untouched. What was Tallow intending? He couldn’t read her face; it had resumed its mask.

  She gave him the barest of curtsies before leaving. ‘I will see you tomorrow,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I may be late.’

  Baroque watched her ascend the stairs and wondered who was going to enjoy her favours tonight. He found that, for once, he didn’t envy them.

  GIACONDA WAITED UNTIL TARLO had left the room before she perched herself on the arm of her father’s chair. She began to stroke his hair. He sighed and relaxed his head into her hands. ‘How much longer till we make our move?’ she asked softly.

  Ezzelino Maleovelli frowned. ‘A little longer yet, cara mia. To act too swiftly will arouse suspicion, no matter how cautious we are, how careful we’ve been.’

  ‘And what of Lord Waterford’s curiosity? What he saw?’

  Ezzelino’s eyes flew open and he sat up abruptly, almost unbalancing Giaconda. She stood up hastily, tugged her gown into order and watched as her father fumbled for his pipe. In silence he stuffed fresh tobacco into the bowl and then, picking up a candle from his desk, used the flame to light it.

  Giaconda retreated to the window, watching the way the pastel hues of sunset transformed the campo. It was full of people on their way home, or paused mid-journey, enjoying conversations with old acquaintances.

  Not until smoke billowed around Ezzelino’s head did he answer her. ‘We need to distract him. You need to distract him, but also find out what he suspects and what he would do with his suspicions.’

  ‘Molto bene. It may be that we have to bribe him.’

  ‘Whatever it takes …’

  ‘At least we’re in a position to consider that now.’

  Ezzelino chuckled. ‘Our little Dorata has made sure of that. She’s exceeded all my expectations, cara. All of them.’ He held out his hand.

  Giaconda took it and was drawn forward into the harbour of his thighs. She smiled softly, her eyes warm. Ezzelino’s breath caught.

  ‘Mine too. What that brute Giacomo did to her tamed the wild tendencies I was concerned might interfere with what we wanted. She no longer asks questions; she simply does as she’s told.’

  ‘Then he did us a favour.’

  Giaconda laughed. ‘That’s one way to regard it, I guess.’

  ‘You think she’ll succeed tonight?’

  Giaconda squeezed his hand and then released it. ‘Naturalmente. She always does.’

  ‘But this time, we move closer to the throne.’

  ‘Not as close as we will be –’

  ‘Vero. True. But we have to wait. We have to be sure –’

  ‘Of Tarlo?’

  ‘No. We have ensured her cooperation, thanks to Baroque. We put that plan in place a long time ago. I’m not worried about the Estrattore.’

  ‘Then of what do you need to be sure, Papa?’

  ‘That those I am recruiting to our way of thinking keep their promises.’

  ‘Ah.’ Giaconda knelt at her father’s feet and gazed up at him. ‘And what might they be, Papa?’ She laid her head against his knees.

  ‘That they help us to keep power, cara mia. Taking it is one thing, holding onto it is harder. For with power, we also have control of not only our destiny, but that of Serenissima’s.’

  ‘One that includes the Estrattore?’

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he whispered as he leant over and kissed her neck.

  PRINCE COSIMO DANDOLO WAS A MAN WHO, when he spoke, it was to partake in a conversation that had either not yet begun or had concluded minutes before. Ever since his son Claudio had been kidnapped over two years earlier, he’d retreated into a world that his family and fellow nobiles did not share. Sympathy, fear and a hope that he would prove to be so unstable, his claim to the throne of Serenissima would be declared invalid by the Council of Ten, meant his foibles were watched closely while those around him pretended tolerance and understanding. All the nobiles secretly wanted the Dandolo line to end – a hope they also knew was unlikely to be realised.

  But they did not account for me.

  Sitting beside Prince Cosimo, I noted that he did not look in my direction, or at any of his guests. He was prone to deep sighs and protracted silences for most of the night, and the rest of us ate and drank as if he was not there.

  I had other men to distract me, even if it was the Prince who was paying for my services. I was accustomed to his ways. When we were alone, he did not speak much either. It was physical comfort he sought and which I provided. The arrangement suited both of us, and I was becoming a regular fixture in his rooms at the palazzo.

  Tonight, there were twenty of us – myself, Giaconda and a courtesan named Zanetta di Vetro were the only women. I had met all the other men before, nobiles from all the great casas with the exception of Maleovelli. I could not help but think that must rankle, though I knew that Signor Maleovelli had left the casa before us on his way to a private card game; a game to which he also took one of my candles. We were all becoming adept at substituting our own for those that burned in the residences and public places we visited.

  There were even two members of the Council of Ten among us tonight. The foreign ambassador had also become a habitual guest, not just of Prince Cosimo, but recently in the Maleovellis’ casa as well. I noted that when he visited, he spent a great deal of time with Giaconda, but also with Jacopo, and that the two appeared to have struck up a friendship. I had thought the ambassador of a different ilk; that he could befriend the likes of Jacopo made me reassess him.

  Sitting by his side, Giaconda conversed with the lord easily, her gloved fingers resting lightly on his arm. The measured look that often marred his features in our presence had been, when gazing at Giaconda, replaced by another – one which I’d grown very accustomed to seeing on men’s faces.

  Served a range of delicacies from a credenza that had been overlaid with a white linen tablecloth, strands of dark green ivy and statuettes of fantastic monsters, winged cherubs and beautiful women, we found that no effort had been spared. Behind this huge sideboard hung a giant tapestry that also depicted the pagan gods and goddesses, entwined around each other and sharing food while serene figures in white served them. I was constantly amazed that though the Estrattore were considered heretics, the art so often chose to depict them. The tapestry was lovely, and not one I had seen before. My eyes were drawn to its depths, to the celebration it portrayed.

  The pages scurried to provide for us, under the instruction of Cosimo’s maestro della casa. Gilded bowls of steaming soup were placed before us, followed by slices of roast meat – deer, goose and boar, carved by a man designated for this task alone – drowned in a rich brown sauce. Fritters of cheeses and tarts made of onions drizzled with carmeline sauces were also put before us. Jellies, grapes, honey-glazed figs, tiny sausages, exquisite ravioli, fish and oysters from the marshy reaches of the lagoon made their way to the table. Between courses, the lin
en cloth was changed, as were the plates, which were works of art in themselves.

  By the time dessert was served, the men were ruddy-faced with vino. I maintained my smile and listened with as much attention as I could to the gentleman on the other side of me, Signor Bartolomeo Errizo. He was the father of Rambaldo Errizo. Whenever his son’s name was mentioned, my smile became brighter, my laughter louder. Like many of the other nobiles present, he had also entered a colleganza with the Maleovellis. It was one that was doing well for them. Unlike his son, I knew the elder Errizo was keen to see me again. For now he had served his purpose, but I made sure I kept him entertained and let him believe that it would not be long before we met in private.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Giaconda nod in my direction. It was time to prepare myself.

  Touching Cosimo lightly on the sleeve, I leant over.

  ‘Your grace, grazie mille for such a pleasant interlude.’ I deepened my voice. ‘But I tire of having to share you with so many. Can we not be alone?’ I covered his hand, which was resting on the table, with my own. I felt him quiver.

  ‘Sì, Sì, Signorina Dorata.’ His vacant, sad eyes seemed to focus as he saw me for the first time that night. ‘Ah, bella,’ He reached up and stroked my cheek. ‘I have neglected you.’ He rose to his feet, lifting me to mine as he did. ‘Signori?’

  Chairs scraped back as the men rushed to stand.

  ‘Signorina Dorata bids you all good night.’

  I fell into a deep curtsy, aware of at least seventeen pairs of eyes, plus those of the servants, on my daring décolletage.

  Cosimo kissed my hand. ‘I will join you shortly.’

  ‘My only wish is that you were with me now,’ I responded, kissing his hand in return.

  The room was silent as I departed, the maestro della casa opening the door for me, the armed guards stationed outside coming to attention. Though a high-ranking servant escorted me to the Prince’s suite, I knew the way.