Lady of Asolo (19 page)

‘Of course. I was about to visit Venice. I’ll put it on hold.’

‘Has Cecilia gone there?’

‘To celebrate the Venetian victory over Maximilian’s army.’

‘I think you should go. Just be careful to find somewhere safe. Please come to my flat as soon as you get back. I could do with your company tonight.’

‘I’ll be there. So sorry this has happened.’

‘The doctors reckon she’ll be all right.’

‘Give your mother and sister a hug from me.’

‘What a shame,’ Aunt Susan said when she’d told her about Chiara. ‘But go to Venice, Fern. Might be your last chance before you return to London.’

Fern nodded.

She caught the vaporetto to Rialto, then, holding the map she’d bought at the station, made her way to Campo San Polo. She’d read in the book she’d borrowed from her aunt that Giorgio Cornaro, the Queen’s brother, once had a palazzo here.

The square (more oblong than square in shape) was hot and dusty. Almost as large as Saint Mark’s, but not as touristy. She strolled towards a café on the right-hand side, keeping out of the way of a group of boys kicking a football. A man and a woman crossed in front of her, taking their small dogs for a walk. She found an empty table shaded by an umbrella, and pulled out a chair.

The waiter arrived and she ordered a cappuccino. Where was the Cornaro palazzo? She opened her guidebook and read that it had burnt down in 1535.
Another fire.
She gave a shudder. A new structure had been built in its place, the side entrance in the corner of the square, its façade facing a small canal. She was in the right area.

Was she being reckless coming here and opening herself up to Cecilia? No, the blaze in which Cecilia had died was at the Barco; she was sure of it now. That piece of burnt wood had appeared in Venice, admittedly, and fires were commonplace in the 16th Century, but she hadn’t got to the end of Cecilia’s story yet. The waiter brought Fern’s coffee. She stirred it, sipped, and then waited. Would this work? The last time she’d deliberately tried to contact Cecilia her attempt had failed. She’d been in Murano, though, which had turned out to be the wrong place. Hopefully, this time she’d got it right.

So many guests have been invited; the celebration has spilled over into the
campo.
My lady’s brother is giving a masquerade ball, not only to celebrate the victory, but also because ’tis the season of
Carnevale
. Iron braziers, their flames licking the wood, stand at regular intervals to warm us in the cold February night air. There are lanterns strung above us and groups of musicians wander in between us, serenading us with their lutes and viols. The Queen’s dwarf, Zantos, runs between the different groups, animating their songs.

I’m wearing a silver
Volto
full-faced mask, decorated with a half-moon in the centre and stars sprinkled around the edges. Lodovico has become a peacock, and,
Maria Santissima
, he’s strutting around like that pompous bird in all his finery. We’re dressed in our best attire; my husband spares no expense in keeping up appearances.

I’m wearing a sleeveless shimmering blue satin gown, laced at the front, over my mother-of-pearl sleeved kirtle. My hair has been plaited into a
Coazzone
, with topaz and diamonds tied into my plaits. Anticipation fizzes in my chest; I’m sure I’ll see Zorzo soon.

All around us circle the masked faces of the other invitees. No one on this occasion wears the plain white
Bauta
. Instead, people have become cats, jesters, lions, tigers and columbines.
‘Dolcezza
,
’
a voice whispers in my ear. I turn and glance from left to right. Where is he? Vanished. I spin around. He’s behind me, in a black doublet and wearing a gold
Volto
. ‘Fare you well?’ He bows.

I nod, my mouth dry, and I drop into a curtsey. ‘How did you know me?’

‘Ah,
dolcezza
. Your beautiful tresses, even more so when they’re tied with jewels.’

I blush beneath my mask and try to think of a suitable response. My husband is approaching, however, so I say nothing.

Two rows of people gather on the other side of the
campo
, and Lodovico claims me for a dance. ‘
La Moresca
.’ He hands me a set of bells he’s picked up from a basket being handed around, and I tie them to my wrists.

I catch sight of Zorzo bowing to another woman, and jealousy rears up within me. The woman isn’t wearing a mask, which means she’s a courtesan. Courtesans are forbidden to wear masks. I’ve heard rumours of Zorzo consorting with them, but have ignored the gossip until now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch my painter. Is he watching me?
Foolish, Cecilia. You can’t expect him to have kept his cod laced up all this time.

Lodovico and I join a chain of dancers, zigging and zagging, hands raised above our heads, as we shake our bells. I’m facing Zorzo now and we link arms in the dance. ‘Will you come to me tomorrow,
dolcezza
?’

‘When?’

‘In the early hours. Can you escape from your husband?’

‘I’ve brought valerian herbs. I’ll give them to him, and he’ll sleep late. Wait for me here at first light.’ We twirl away from each other and join the circle.

Supper is served on long tables down the side of the
campo
. Sugar models of the cities of Gorizia and Pordenone. The emblem of the Cornaro family on myriad cakes. ‘The Republic is drunk with success,’ my husband says. ‘Don’t forget that pride comes before a fall.’

What is this dread that twists my belly? I think back to the feeling of foreboding I’d experienced after Lorenza’s baptism. I tell myself not to be foolish. The Serenissima has endured for over 700 years; nothing will ever destroy it.

After eating, we watch a
commedia
, Plauto’s
Menecmi
. A stage has been erected on the far side of the square, and has been covered in green velvet. There are over 100 actors dressed in the classical style, wearing tunics of fine silk with threads of gold. I find it hard to concentrate on the performance; my thoughts are filled with anticipation of my visit to Zorzo.

When the time comes to retire, Lodovico and I go to the chamber allocated to us, a small room (much to my husband’s chagrin) at the back of the palazzo. ‘There are far more important guests than us,’ I remind him as I pour his bedtime Vin Santo. Surreptitiously, I slip ground valerian into the goblet, stir it, and hand it to him. ‘Your health, husband.’

He quaffs the drink in one gulp and starts to undress. ‘Come, wife!’

I slip into the bed next to him, dreading his touch. What will I do if the herbs don’t work? Lodovico places his hand on my breast, and gives my nipple a rough squeeze. Then, praise the Holy Virgin, all of a sudden, he’s snoring under the blankets. I dare not risk sleep, for I might not wake in time. So I get out of bed, put my dress back on, and sit on the ledge by the window. Picking at the skin around my fingernails, I wait for dawn’s light.

After about an hour, Lodovico clambers out of bed and lets out a grunt. My heart drops; I’ll never get away now. He goes to the chamber pot and pisses, letting out a fart at the same time, and the bitter stench of urine and bodily odours assails my nostrils. Then, after giving me a bleary glance, he’s snoring in bed again and I pray to all the saints that he’ll stay there.

Will the sky never lighten? I yawn and stretch. Perhaps I can sleep awhile? Shutting my eyes, I feel myself drifting off.
No, Cecilia. Stay awake!
I get up from my seat and pace the floor, my soft-soled shoes quiet on the stone flagging. Finally, weak sunlight filters through the panes and I grab my
Bauta
, cloak, and hood.

Zorzo is wearing a mask as well. ‘It’s only a short way,’ he says, taking my hand. Walking beside him, I’m aware of how tall and broad he is compared with me. I practically have to run to match his stride. He notices, and apologises. ‘I don’t wish to waste a moment of our time together.’

In his studio I free myself of my disguise and walk towards the canvas placed on an easel in the corner. I can see my likeness, suckling Lorenza in the middle of the most forbidding landscape. There’s another figure, a woman, who’s also naked, watching me. She looks just like me, but her eyes are green. Between us, in the centre of the painting, are two broken pillars. I know what they signify: death. A shiver passes through me.

The background shows a town, above which a storm gathers. The use of the greens and blues in this brooding sky projects an ominous feeling. Lightning streaks the clouds and, even though shivers pass through my body, at the same time I’m filled with admiration at Zorzo’s skill.

There’s a small white bird on the roof of the building on the right-hand side. I peer at it: a heron, warning of fire. My skin prickles with fear, but I tell myself not to be fanciful, and admire instead the wondrously detailed landscape of trees, bushes, flowers and a stream. The palette of soft greens, subdued blues and silver emphasises the mood of the gathering tempest above the bridge and the tranquillity below it, where I’m suckling Lorenza watched by the woman with green eyes.

‘Who is she?’ I ask, pointing to the lady watching me, although I’m sure that I have seen her before.

‘Came to me in a dream. I saw her hover around you,
dolcezza
. But I shall have to paint her out. The man who commissioned the painting has requested a male figure, so I shall drop myself into the canvas instead.’

‘I do believe this is your masterpiece,
amore mio.
There’s a feeling of menace, though. What does it mean?’

‘Did you know that the Republic has resisted the demands of the Pope for the restitution of the Papal lands?’

‘N . . . n . . . no,’ I stutter.

‘Maximilian was rebuffed by the Council of Ten when he proposed an alliance against France.’ Zorzo goes to his sideboard and pours two goblets of wine. ‘That’s why he attacked the Republic. Now he’s been routed and forced to sign a truce.’

‘What will happen, do you think?’

‘The Emperor will fall in with the Pope and the French king, I suspect. He’ll not take this humiliation from the Serenissima lying down.’

‘So there will be more battles,’ I murmur, anxiety for my daughter’s safety uppermost in my mind.

‘You will be safe enough in Asolo,’ Zorzo says as if reading my thoughts. He hands me a goblet. ‘The Emperor’s quarrel is with Venice not the Queen. In any case, Maximillian will need time to recoup his losses. There might not be further trouble for a while.’

‘I do hope you’re right.’ I take a sip and meet his gaze.

‘It seems you find yourself in my quarters at the time of breaking your fast, once more,
dolcezza
. However, I’ve asked you here to pose for me again.’

What did I expect? ’Twas ever his design. Everything else comes at that price, I realise, and I’m not unhappy with the prospect for I can turn it to my advantage. ‘Provided you will teach me too,’ I say.
His love for me is physical, I know. Our time together has been too short for it to reach his soul.

‘I need you to be completely nude.’

‘Then I require the same of you. When I draw
you
.’

Zorzo’s eyes twinkle and he nods. ‘I shall build up the fire so you’re not cold,’ he says, and proceeds to do so while I undress.

He piles up cushions on his bed and tells me to stretch out with my right arm above my head, and my hand tucked behind it. ‘Place your left hand on your nether parts,
dolcezza,
for modesty. I want this work to be a hymn to the beauty of the female form, which you epitomise, not something that would entice men to leer.’

My maid plucked me of all my body hair just two days ago, something she does for me on a weekly basis, as is the custom. I bathed last night before the ball, and I thank the Holy Virgin that I still smell sweet as I stretch out on the bed. It’s warm in here and I feel comfortable. Before I know it, I’m asleep.

How long have I been dreaming? My dreams are of the strange woman. She’s dressed as a man, and looks like me but has the freedom to wonder through the city in broad daylight without a mask. The woman Zorzo painted watching Lorenza and me, I’m sure.

‘
Dolcezza,
wake up, I’ve finished,’ I hear his voice. ‘The outline is done and I can do the rest from memory.’

I open my eyes and stretch, feeling refreshed. ‘What hour is it?’ I ask, getting up and reaching for my clothes.

‘Still time for me to pose for you,’ he says, stripping off his doublet and hose. ‘No, don’t dress! Come to me first,
dolcezza
.’

And then we are kissing, and his hard body is against mine, and all thoughts of drawing him vanish from my head as his hand reaches down and caresses me between the thighs. Oh, dear Lord, how I’ve missed this.

A knock at the door, and we stop kissing. Who can it be? Our eyes lock as we hold our breaths. Another knock. Then my husband’s voice echoes through the morning air. ‘Signor Zorzo? I’ve come to see you about a painting.’

Her head slumped on a table. What was she doing back in the
campo
? There was a cup in front of her, full of a bitter-smelling frothy-brown liquid. She tasted it, and the coffee jolted her back to the present.
Damn! What a time to leave Cecilia!

Hopefully, her nemesis had managed to hide from Lodovico and give some explanation later for her absence.
I know Cecilia almost as well as I know myself. I expect she was up to the challenge.
Poor girl, not getting her wicked way with Zorzo. Almost certainly, she’d engineered him stripping off for her with that in mind.