LADY of VENICE Read online

  ‘Not true and you know it,’ she says, and her laughter echoes up the stairwell. She pinches my cheek. ‘This fair flesh will fade before too long. How old are you now?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ I cannot keep the irritation from my voice. Who is she to talk to me this way? Only one year older, and the daughter of a local aristocrat who has fallen on hard times, she has much in common with me.

  Except for her easy virtue.

  ‘Let’s hurry,’ I say. ‘Domina doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ And I bite my tongue before I let it give her a piece of my mind.

  The wooden stairs have been polished until they gleam, and the soft soles of my shoes make no sound as I follow Dorotea to the landing. ‘Just a moment. I need to wash my hands.’

  There’s a washstand at the end of the corridor and a jug of water beside it. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and let out a yelp. A strange woman is staring back at me. Her hair is uncovered, and it is unruly like mine. The woman has a look of me, except her eyes are green. I glance behind me, yet there’s no one there. And when I gaze in the mirror again, it is only myself that I see. Very strange! I didn’t take any wine at lunch, so I can’t blame my vision on drink. Only a figment of my imagination, I decide.

  I wash the black chalk from my fingers, turn on my heel, and go to the Queen. She smiles when she sees Dorotea and me. ‘My sweet girls,’ she says. ‘What took you so long?’

  We drop into deep curtseys and, as I rise, I feel as if I am not really there but looking at myself from a great distance. The same feeling that I had when I was sitting in the loggia. How odd! Pure whimsy, I tell myself and brush the feeling aside. Yet, a chill squeezes my heart at the same time.

  ‘Fetch my best pearls,’ Domina commands. ‘And I would like to wear cloth of gold this evening. In honour of our visitors.’

  Running a comb through the Queen’s thinning hair, I wonder about the Emperor and his wife, Bianca Maria Sforza, the daughter of the Duke of Milan. Is she beautiful?

  ‘Ouch,’ Domina says. ‘Take care!’

  ‘Pray forgive me,’ I mumble, dropping into another curtsey. My poor queen has suffered so much from my ineptitude when dressing her. She has a soft spot for me, however, thank the Holy Virgin, and always excuses me.

  The banqueting hall next to the loggia is large, with three long tables making the three sides of a square. We sit at the central table. Musicians tune their instruments in the gallery at the far end.

  I gaze around at the assembled company and let out a gasp. Seated at the right of the Empress, is a man I am sure I have seen before. He’s short and thin, his face is pale, and there is a scar on his left cheek. With a shudder, I turn my glance to Bembo, on the Queen’s left. Fair-haired and light-eyed, he is the complete opposite of the stranger. Bembo speaks in Tuscan, the language in which he writes. I can follow his discourse without difficulty, for I have studied the great writers of that province. Nevertheless, I wish he would not show off so. I would prefer him to speak Venetian.

  ‘Well, Bembo,’ Queen Caterina says. ‘You think we should all be conversing in the tongue of Florence, do you?’

  ‘In every town in Italy the mode of speech is different from everywhere else.’ His smile is lopsided. ‘Yet Florentine is the language of Petrarch, and this is the model I take for my writing, for it is the most lucid and elegant. Do not call this Tuscan, but Italian.’

  ‘There is no such thing as Italy,’ she huffs. ‘Even the Borgia Pope failed to conquer us all and form one state.’

  Bembo gives her a steely look. ‘Not so. There is strength in unification. Italy needs to face up to the French and the Spanish.’

  ‘I agree,’ the Emperor Maximilian interjects. I remember he was unable to stop the French king from conquering his wife’s city of Milan four years ago. I eye his beaky nose and loose, fleshy lower lip. An ugly man and his wife is scarcely a beauty either, with her receding chin.

  ‘Hmm,’ the Queen responds, ever gracious. She is a daughter of the Venetian Republic; I know all talk of a unified Italy is an anathema to her. ‘When do you print Gli Asolani?’ she asks Bembo, changing the subject.

  ‘Soon, Domina.’

  ‘Then I shall reserve judgement on the lingua franca until I have read it.’

  And I too.

  My attention is distracted by Zantos, the Queen’s dwarf, who is prancing in front of us, juggling five golden balls. Far be it for him to crack vulgar jokes. Domina grants us such liberty that, with the exception of Bembo (who holds her affection in spite of his argumentative nature), we all consider that the most pleasurable thing possible is to please her, and the most displeasing thing in the world is to earn her displeasure.

  The food comes, and I try to behave in a ladylike fashion and nibble. Yet, I’m hungry (I have a greedy streak), and want to eat until I am stuffed fit to bursting. For the antipasto there’s a caper, truffle and raisin salad in pastry, as well as a second salad of greens with citron juice and anchovy. There are also radishes carved into animal shapes, little cream pies, prosciutto of pork tongue, boar pies, smoked mullet, and gilt-head bream. I help myself to everything.

  The first hot course arrives. I can’t resist the capon fritters sprinkled with sugar, the roasted quails and pheasants, the pigeons in puff pastry, the meatballs, veal, carp, turbot and shrimp. I chew my food slowly, remembering how the beef was always tough and overcooked in Asolo, not like the fine fare we eat at the Barco, where the Queen employs the best chefs. The castle in Asolo was rough and rudimentary; my home for so many years, it now seems like a lifetime ago.

  I’m fairly groaning by the time the third course arrives: partridge, rabbit, turtledoves, sausages and more fish. The fourth course consists of a rice pie and I barely take a mouthful. I wish I’d copied Queen Caterina; she eats so daintily and merely picks at the morsels she cuts with her trencher knife. Suckling pig follows then peacock, only now I feel sick. I allow myself a few vegetables for the sixth course then almonds in syrup to finish.

  The meal seems to go on forever, but my attention has been caught by the young man who sits quietly at the end of the table. The artist, Zorzo from Castelfranco. He has been absent from court this past year, engaged with commissions in Venice. It has been the greatest disappointment of my early months here that the painter had departed, for he fascinates me.

  Signor Zorzo says little to those on either side of him, and simply observes us all. Maria Santissima! He is so handsome. I’m struck by his attractiveness, for there is no other word to describe his countenance— his regular features, sun-darkened skin, and eyes fringed with long, dark lashes.

  After dinner, the Emperor and his wife retire, for they have a long journey tomorrow. The court parades to the Queen’s rooms. There we sit in a circle arranged one man, one woman, one man. She announces, ‘It is my wish that you should begin the games this evening, Cecilia.’

  ‘Surely not I.’ Shocked, I am, for this is the first time she has made such a request of me. I catch the artist looking at me. Could I be mistaken, or did he give me a wink?

  ‘It has been a year since your debut, my dear,’ she says. ‘I believe you have grown in maturity and wisdom. Please commence!’

  I rack my brains for some witty proposition and all I can think of is, ‘Why not have each of us suggest some game he likes that has not been played before; and then the choice will be made of the one that seems worthiest of us?’ I turn to Bembo and ask him to state what his proposal will be.

  He replies, ‘You must tell yours first.’

  ‘But I’ve already done so.’ I smile at the Queen, ‘Domina, I beg your help in ordering him to do what he is told.’

  She laughs. ‘So that everyone will obey you, I give you my authority.’

  Bembo bows his head to me. ‘I would like our game to be that each of us should say whether, if the one he loves has need to be angry with him, he would want the reason for her anger to be found within her or in himself. This way, we shall establish whether it is more pain
ful to give displeasure to the person one loves or to receive it from them.’

  Probably something he has written in Gli Asolani, I think, but I do not voice my thoughts.

  I make a sign to Dorotea that it is her turn, but Domina interjects. ‘Since Lady Cecilia is unwilling to give herself the trouble of suggesting a game, it is only right for the other ladies to enjoy the same privilege and also be exempt from making any effort this evening, especially as we have so many men with us that there is no danger of running out of games.’

  ‘Very well then,’ I say, taking in Dorotea’s smirk. I glance at the pale-skinned man with the scar on his cheek, whom I now know is Lodovico Gaspare, a visitor from the court of the Duke of Ferrara. He inclines his head toward me and grins, his teeth white but uneven.

  ‘The game I would like played this evening is that each of us should say what quality he would most like the person he loves to possess. Then, since everyone must have some defect, what fault he would choose as well.’

  The Queen claps her hands. ‘An excellent game,’ she says, in her low soft voice. ‘The best. Cecilia, you must tell us what you think.’

  I stare at her, tongue-tied. Then I blush and stutter, desperate to come up with something. She nods her head. ‘Dear girl, I should not have asked you. What knowledge do you have of love?’

  It is the way Domina speaks to people that I most admire; it is always with such charm. How could anyone not wish to delight her? I’ve let her down, I feel, and sit in silence as the rest of the court carries on the game.

  Finally, the Queen stands, and it is as if a thread has passed from the ceiling to her head so erect does she hold herself. ‘Come, child,’ she says to me, ‘Take me to my chamber.’

  Her words ring in my head. Child. So true, for that is what I am until a man lays with me.

  Oh, that it could be my future husband…

  ‘Did you see the way he was staring at you?’ Dorotea asks as we undress in our room above the stables after the Queen has retired. ‘If only Bembo would look at me that way!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My mouth gapes, like one of the fish in the pond at the centre of Domina’s garden when I crumble bread across the surface. Surely the artist’s glance at me was not that obvious?

  ‘If his eyes had been tongues, they would have licked you,’ Dorotea giggles.

  My cheeks burn, but at the same time pleasure thrills through me.

  The next day I can hardly contain my excitement. When the time comes to dress the Queen’s hair, my fingers tremble so much that I drop the comb again.

  ‘Goodness me, sweet girl,’ she says. ‘You’re even more clumsy than usual. Whatever is the matter?’

  I apologise before going to my room and attending to my own toilette. I change my over-gown to one of deep pink and steal a glance at myself in the mirror. No strange woman there, so I stick my tongue out at my reflection. Then I remember I’m supposed to act like a lady. Sometimes I find it hard to put aside my childish nature.

  ‘There! See him eating you with his eyes!’ Dorotea points at Lodovico Gaspare and disappointment wells up in me. She hadn’t meant the artist at all. I glance around for him, but he isn’t here. ‘They say he’s extremely wealthy,’ Dorotea adds. ‘He could set you up in a fine house with your own servants. Think about it, Cecilia. Do not turn your nose up at such a man.’

  If she knew my secret desire for a husband, she would laugh in my face.

  Tonight, we dance the pavana. Simple and slow. Lodovico Gaspare takes my hand and leads me onto the floor in procession with the other dancers. We step forwards then move apart, again and again.

  ‘Tell me about Ferrara,’ I say to him when the dance brings us together.

  ‘What do you wish to know?’

  ‘Is it like Asolo?’

  He laughs. ‘Not at all. Ferrara is much bigger and far noisier. There are many walls and gates encircling the moated city, which is crossed by long, wide roads. Every day there seems to be another new building. At the centre rises the Duke’s castle, a miracle of construction.’

  The dance moves us apart and I wait until we meet again before saying, ‘I think I would like Ferrara, but my favourite city of all is Venice.’

  A scowl passes across his face, then he composes himself; I must have imagined the frown. Something about him makes me nervous, but I put it down to his ferrarese accent and his stern countenance. When he suggests a breath of fresh air outside, I ignore the tickle of disquiet that strokes my chest and agree. We step into the loggia and sit on the balustrade.

  Lodovico Gaspare intrigues me; he’s not like the other courtiers. Reckless, I know, but I tell myself he will do me no harm. I find it exciting to have an admirer, even if that person does not make my heart flutter in the same way as does the artist.

  The cool night air is a soft caress against my throat. Crickets chirp from the garden shrubs and the new moon cuts a thin sliver of silver in a sky that swells with stars. I know I should not be alone with a man who is not my betrothed. He will think me shameless. Yet Dorotea’s words ring in my head, and I cannot help feeling flattered that a man should look at me in the way she described. Surely, he is a gentleman and will treat me like a lady?

  I shiver as I feel again that sense of dislocation, as if I am regarding myself from afar. There’s a shadow on the other side of the terrace. Lodovico Gaspare takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. The shadow moves forwards and bows.

  Zorzo from Castelfranco!

  Heat rushes to my face and I start to feel faint.

  My head was spinning.

  ‘Fern, are you all right?’ Auntie rushed up to me. ‘I thought you were behind, but when I looked behind, I couldn’t see you anywhere.’

  The feeling was ten times worse than waking in the middle of a dream and being unable to distinguish between reality and that dream. My stomach heaved. I’d been whooshed through hundreds of years of history, and now I felt sick. ‘I’m sorry.’ I glanced down for my sketchpad. It must have fallen out of my hands. ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘That you were. I was going to suggest we go home. Look at the sky!’

  I peered at the dark thunder clouds and folded my arms around my body, suddenly cold. Fat drops of rain splattered the dusty path. I hurried with Auntie as quickly as her chubby legs would allow. By the time we’d arrived at the house, a squall was sheeting across the cornfields, the vineyards, and the olive trees, plastering my hair to my face.

  ‘Run upstairs and get changed into something dry,’ Auntie puffed as she closed the front door. ‘I’ll put some soup on before I do the same.’

  In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection.

  My reflection, not Cecilia’s.

  What the hell has been happening to me?

  Something beyond a daydream had taken place in the Barco. I still felt nauseated and faint from the jolt back to the twentieth century.

  Pull yourself together! You are NOT Cecilia, you’re Fern.

  The girl was in my head, though, her annoyance festering that I’d left her behind, her neediness. Need for what? I glanced down, half-expecting to see my legs swathed in a long gown, still remembering the weight of it, the feel of the heavy brocade and the tightness of the bodice over my breasts. I shook my head. Am I going insane?

  A grumble of thunder echoed. Lightning streaked the darkened sky outside the window. A quiver of fear twisted my stomach. Don’t be silly, you’re perfectly safe. I reached for a towel and dried my hair. Shivering, I stepped out of my soaking wet skirt and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater.

  Down in the kitchen, Auntie handed me a wooden spoon. ‘Stir the soup for me, my lovely, while I go and change.’

  The aroma of simmering vegetables was mixed with something else. Burnt wood. Shit! My heart thudded. Another rumble of thunder echoed, much closer than before, followed by a loud crack like a gunshot, then sudden darkness.

  The damn lights have gone.

  In the glow from the gas flame under the saucep
an, I could make out a faint outline moving in my direction.

  The hairs on my arms stood on end.

  A flashlight glowed.

  Auntie!

  ‘The power company always shuts down the grid during a storm like this. I’ve no idea why.’ She lifted a candle holder down from the shelf. After fumbling in a drawer for a box of matches, she lit the taper. ‘Put this on the table, love, and I’ll serve up the soup.’

  I sliced a chunk of bread and helped myself to some cheese. ‘This is delicious,’ I said, the rich taste coating my tongue. A memory. I’ve eaten this before.

  ‘It’s called Asiago and comes from the mountains behind us. We could go up there one day, maybe.’

  ‘That would be nice.’ A chance to get away from here. Away from the smell of burnt wood. Away from associations with fire.

  Another peal of thunder crashed, followed by a zigzag of lightning. A sudden cacophony reverberated, sounding like thousands of pebbles lashing the side of the house. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Hailstones,’ Auntie said. ‘Can you help me close the shutters? If you shut the ones upstairs, I’ll fasten those down here. We don’t want any broken glass. Take the flashlight!’

  I ran up to Auntie’s room first. The bathroom was next, and then I scurried into my own bedroom. The wind had blown the window open; through it, I could see fireworks being launched into the darkness. Fireworks!

  Grasping the latch, I tugged at the frame. A hailstone, big as a golf ball, caught me on the finger and I yelped.

  Back in the kitchen, I asked, ‘What’s with the fireworks?’

  ‘Oh, the farmers think the explosions will break up the hail, so it doesn’t damage the grapes.’ Auntie smiled. ‘Talking of which, let’s have a glass of wine to cheer ourselves up.’