The Daughter of Siena (3 page)
There was the customary confusion at the start of the race. As the horses circled and reared, the
mossiere
or starter judge called false start after false start. Then finally, in a moment of almost unbearable tension, the horses lined up and stilled as if bade by an invisible command. The yells and screams of the crowd abated for one eerie, silent second, and the unaccustomed tongue of the great bell Sunto sounded in the Torre del Mangia above Pia’s head. Silent from one Palio to the next, the bell’s song bawled out above the city, to tell that the hour had come. All heads turned and all gazes swivelled up – for it was said that the
bandierino
weathervane on the Mangia Tower would turn in that last breath of wind to the quarter of the city that was to be favoured with victory. The bronze arrow quivered toward the duomo in the Eagle
contrada
, and the cheers from that ward almost drowned the last chimes of the bell. Pia swallowed, sickened at the omen. But the time for reflection was up. At the stroke of seven, Sunto stopped ringing and the little
mortaretto
firecracker cannon sounded at the starting rope; ten horses leaped forth from the
entrone
, and they were off.
mossiere
or starter judge called false start after false start. Then finally, in a moment of almost unbearable tension, the horses lined up and stilled as if bade by an invisible command. The yells and screams of the crowd abated for one eerie, silent second, and the unaccustomed tongue of the great bell Sunto sounded in the Torre del Mangia above Pia’s head. Silent from one Palio to the next, the bell’s song bawled out above the city, to tell that the hour had come. All heads turned and all gazes swivelled up – for it was said that the
bandierino
weathervane on the Mangia Tower would turn in that last breath of wind to the quarter of the city that was to be favoured with victory. The bronze arrow quivered toward the duomo in the Eagle
contrada
, and the cheers from that ward almost drowned the last chimes of the bell. Pia swallowed, sickened at the omen. But the time for reflection was up. At the stroke of seven, Sunto stopped ringing and the little
mortaretto
firecracker cannon sounded at the starting rope; ten horses leaped forth from the
entrone
, and they were off.
It was impossible for anyone who had not been here, thought Pia, to know that blood-curdling roar of the crowd, to feel the thunder of the hooves shiver your very ribs, to smell the sweat and the straw in your nose and
taste the tufa dust in your mouth. The horses went by in a whirlwind, their flanks gleaming and polished with sweat, their mouths flecked with foam, past the
palazzo
, thundering up the curve to the Bocca del Casato. She could see the Tower colours – her champion was ahead, nudging shoulder to shoulder with Vicenzo.
taste the tufa dust in your mouth. The horses went by in a whirlwind, their flanks gleaming and polished with sweat, their mouths flecked with foam, past the
palazzo
, thundering up the curve to the Bocca del Casato. She could see the Tower colours – her champion was ahead, nudging shoulder to shoulder with Vicenzo.
By the second lap Vicenzo had pulled clear by three, four horses and was past the deadly San Martino corner – a treacherous slope truncated by the sharp stone buttress of a sturdy
palazzo
– but there Vicenzo’s horse was barged by the horse of the Panther party, while the Panther jockey’s whip dealt Vicenzo a stinging swipe across the face. Taking advantage of this, the unknown horseman swept into the lead, while the heir to the Eagles was flung back in his saddle as his horse faltered and checked. Then, as if time had slowed, Vicenzo cart-wheeled over the reins, crashed into the San Martino corner and fell in a heap. At the collective gasp of the crowd, the unknown horseman glanced back over his shoulder and, without a moment’s pause, threw his legs over his horse’s neck and vaulted off, landing on the dust and straw.
palazzo
– but there Vicenzo’s horse was barged by the horse of the Panther party, while the Panther jockey’s whip dealt Vicenzo a stinging swipe across the face. Taking advantage of this, the unknown horseman swept into the lead, while the heir to the Eagles was flung back in his saddle as his horse faltered and checked. Then, as if time had slowed, Vicenzo cart-wheeled over the reins, crashed into the San Martino corner and fell in a heap. At the collective gasp of the crowd, the unknown horseman glanced back over his shoulder and, without a moment’s pause, threw his legs over his horse’s neck and vaulted off, landing on the dust and straw.
Pia leaned forward, her heart in her throat. For a horrible instant she thought that
she
had made this happen. She had wished that Vicenzo would be killed, but had not imagined it would look like this. From where she was sitting it looked as if Vicenzo had turned blackamoor on one whole side of his body – yet the dust of the track was white. Her own thudding pulses told her in an instant that this colour was blood. To the music of the screaming
throng, the unknown horseman dodged the oncoming hooves and ran to help, picking up the crumpled man.
she
had made this happen. She had wished that Vicenzo would be killed, but had not imagined it would look like this. From where she was sitting it looked as if Vicenzo had turned blackamoor on one whole side of his body – yet the dust of the track was white. Her own thudding pulses told her in an instant that this colour was blood. To the music of the screaming
throng, the unknown horseman dodged the oncoming hooves and ran to help, picking up the crumpled man.
Vicenzo’s head was at an angle that was never meant by nature, and his rescuer, doused in spraying blood, was desperately fumbling for the fractured artery. Locating the source of that dreadful fount of blood, he planted his hands firmly on Vicenzo’s spurting throat. Both men were covered in gore and the dust of the track darkened beneath them like their shared shadow. As Pia looked on desperately she saw Vicenzo’s bay horse Berio pass the little black-and-white
bandierino
flag that marked the finish line – prancing with glee at his victory, as if he knew that a horse could win the Palio
scosso
– without a rider.
bandierino
flag that marked the finish line – prancing with glee at his victory, as if he knew that a horse could win the Palio
scosso
– without a rider.
For the second time that day the crowd was eerily silent. By now a knot of people in the Eagle colours had gathered around the fallen rider – Faustino’s white head among them – joined soon by judges and marshals, an apothecary, a physician. At last the unknown horseman stood and shook his head.
Pia rose to her feet and willed herself to join that dreadful party. She stepped past her new relatives heading down to the track. Feeling, numbly, that it was somehow her duty to be with her dead betrothed, she made her way through the crowd. She was bumped and jostled and once thrown to the ground. Her brain felt slow and stupid, her limbs as heavy as if moving through dunes of sand.
She had spent nineteen years in a hothouse, a rare orchid untouched by human hand. She had been nurtured and raised and cherished as a marriage prize, and now the
glass of the hothouse had been broken by her betrothal and she was exposed to the violence of the elements. As of today she lived in a physical world, a world of brutality. A world where yesterday her intended could push her down and violate her, a world where today strangers shoved her to the ground. At that moment she did not know which offence against her person was worse.
glass of the hothouse had been broken by her betrothal and she was exposed to the violence of the elements. As of today she lived in a physical world, a world of brutality. A world where yesterday her intended could push her down and violate her, a world where today strangers shoved her to the ground. At that moment she did not know which offence against her person was worse.
A fellow in the crowd – her father’s ostler – recognized her and the red sea parted. She straightened and called upon her dignity, feeling a fraud as the people moved aside for her, knowing her for the fallen man’s betrothed, anticipating and respecting a distress that she did not feel. She saw her father Salvatore on the fringe of people skirting the body. He did not reach out to her, but was deep in conference with Vicenzo’s brother, a pale and strange creature – Nello, was it? As if in a dream she walked past them, right to the centre of the knot of folk, and saw her first corpse.
Pia gazed down on Vicenzo’s body. She saw the broken flesh at the throat, the bone piercing through, the blood black on the dust and the foam-flecked mouth, open a little to the flies. Only yesterday that mouth had spoken in her ear with the whisper of threat, with a promise. Then, last night, he’d made good on that threat, fulfilled the promise. That mouth had fastened itself on hers, that mouth had breathed wine-stale breath into the hair at the back of her neck, as he had tried to force himself into her. Breathed and breathed until his hot gasps distilled into sour spittle and ran into her hair. Could it be true, wonderfully, terribly true, that it would never
breathe again? It seemed impossible. Her forehead grew cold and her stomach lurched. Feeling as though she would faint she reached out to a solid shape for support.
breathe again? It seemed impossible. Her forehead grew cold and her stomach lurched. Feeling as though she would faint she reached out to a solid shape for support.
It was the horse Berio. Victor and murderer. The fastest in Tuscany, the horse who’d made Vicenzo punch the air with joy when he’d drawn him in the lots. She buried her hands in Berio’s black mane and lowered her clammy forehead on to the velvet bay of his neck. The horse stood under her hand, bemused, unsure; as if puzzled that no one was garlanding him with flowers, thrusting sweetmeats in his mouth. He looked curiously forlorn, shaking his head repeatedly as if bothered by a fly, looking down at Vicenzo’s still body. Pia’s eyes began to flood.
‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault, it was mine,’ she whispered. ‘I willed it.’
As if comforted, the great bay stood still at her shoulder, whickering and nibbling the lobe of her ear. Pia, weighed down by her guilt, felt the great coil of her hair escaping in a cascade of hairpins as the horse nuzzled her; her black hair and his black mane mingled, tangled, became one. Her smart black-and-red hat slithered from her head to be trodden by Berio’s great feet.
Through Berio’s black mane she saw the Eagle Faustino stagger to his feet with his child in his arms. She saw the unknown horseman place a hand for an instant on the captain’s shoulder, and Faustino turn to leave with his awful burden, followed by his
contrada
. The Eagles filed from the square silent as a wake, forgetting all about the banner that was theirs. Not for them the joyous victor’s Te Deum in the basilica, nor a wedding; but a laying-out,
a mourning and a burial. Pia felt Berio being taken from under her hand by a groom – her hair being disentangled from the long black mane by the ostler. It was as if anyone could touch her now.
contrada
. The Eagles filed from the square silent as a wake, forgetting all about the banner that was theirs. Not for them the joyous victor’s Te Deum in the basilica, nor a wedding; but a laying-out,
a mourning and a burial. Pia felt Berio being taken from under her hand by a groom – her hair being disentangled from the long black mane by the ostler. It was as if anyone could touch her now.
As the sorry procession left, Pia felt a great burden lifted from her. She breathed out the death and the day; and relief, sweet and clean, rushed into her lungs. Abruptly freed from her contract, she did not know what to do. Her careful upbringing, all those lessons in the etiquette of her class, had not prepared her for this. Then she knew. She could go home. She turned to go back to her family, to the Civetta, to her hearth, but the barrel-like form of her father blocked her way. She reached out to Salvatore, feeling, now that she was touchable, that it was the day for a rare embrace.
Instead her father took her by the shoulders, turned her determinedly round and whispered fiercely in her nape, just exactly where Vicenzo had breathed into her. ‘The Eagle still has an heir,’ he hissed. ‘There is a son yet living, so play your hand right.’
He propelled her, with a little push, firmly in the direction of the Eagle cortège. Her treacherous sinews gave way then, and her knees buckled, and she was caught by two men of Eagle colours. One, she knew, was Vicenzo’s brother, Nello; the other, a cousin of the same blood. They grasped her by her upper arms and, in a semblance of support, marched her forth, her feet stumbling and her fancy boots dragging and scuffing in the dust. She was captive.
Pia struggled. She heard herself saying no, no, no,
repeatedly. The crowd, witnessing all, began to seethe and bubble like a cauldron with a muted hubbub of enquiry and answer, but all
contrade
, for once, were united in respect for the grief they saw before them. The poor dame couldn’t accept that her betrothed was gone. She was swooning and babbling with grief. The Eagles would look after her.
repeatedly. The crowd, witnessing all, began to seethe and bubble like a cauldron with a muted hubbub of enquiry and answer, but all
contrade
, for once, were united in respect for the grief they saw before them. The poor dame couldn’t accept that her betrothed was gone. She was swooning and babbling with grief. The Eagles would look after her.
In a desperate appeal Pia twisted her head round to seek the unknown horseman, but he did not mark her. Standing in the blood, as if the dark stain was now a shadow snipped from his heels, he was wiping his hands and face with his own scarf. The gore left the scarlet of his neckerchief unaltered. But everything else was changed.
As Pia was carried under the Bocca del Casato gate, the one through which the horseman had entered the arena, she felt a tug at her sleeve. Hopeful of salvation, she looked down and saw only the little water-carrier Zebra. He held something out to her in his hand, trotting to keep up with her. It was a black velvet pouch with the gold Medici arms stamped upon it, a purse of mourning alms from the duchess.
As her captors snatched the purse without a word of thanks, Pia looked back one last time, far over the heads of the multitude, to the palace balcony. She might have imagined it, but she thought the duchess had raised a hand to her – a gesture of greeting, sympathy, what? – before the shadow of the architrave swallowed her.
High above the piazza, Duchess Violante Beatrix de’ Medici watched as the struggling girl disappeared from
view. She rose, at last, to her feet. And the black-and-white Palio banner, unmarked, fell from her hand over the balustrade in a graceful fluttering arc, to rest in the blood and the dust.
view. She rose, at last, to her feet. And the black-and-white Palio banner, unmarked, fell from her hand over the balustrade in a graceful fluttering arc, to rest in the blood and the dust.
The Tortoise
D
uchess Violante Beatrix de’ Medici was born in Bavaria, the home of the modern fairy tale. She did not hear her first story in the crook of her mother’s arm, but in the schoolroom as a grammatical exercise. Soon after Violante’s marriage contracts with the Medici were settled when she reached the age of twelve, her mother decided she should know a little of the language of her future home. Violante was duly set to learn an Italian folk tale called
La lepre e la tartaruga:
uchess Violante Beatrix de’ Medici was born in Bavaria, the home of the modern fairy tale. She did not hear her first story in the crook of her mother’s arm, but in the schoolroom as a grammatical exercise. Soon after Violante’s marriage contracts with the Medici were settled when she reached the age of twelve, her mother decided she should know a little of the language of her future home. Violante was duly set to learn an Italian folk tale called
La lepre e la tartaruga:
One day a hare saw a tortoise walking slowly along and began to laugh and mock him. The hare challenged the tortoise to a race and the tortoise accepted. They agreed on a route and started off the race. The hare shot ahead and ran briskly for some time. Then, seeing that he was far ahead of the tortoise, he thought he’d sit under a tree for a while and relax before continuing the race. He sat under the tree and
soon fell asleep. The tortoise, plodding on, overtook him and won the race.
soon fell asleep. The tortoise, plodding on, overtook him and won the race.
Thus Violante’s mother told her a fairy tale by proxy.
Violante Beatrix of Bavaria, widow of Ferdinando de’ Medici, princess of Tuscany and governess of Siena, threw open the casement of her chamber. She had been in the city for ten years and her chamber still did not feel like her chamber, just as her palace did not feel like her palace. In fact, the ducal palace where she now stood, her grand and accustomed residence, was still known, by every single Sienese, as the Palazzo Pubblico. The ancient building only served to remind Violante how young the Medici dukedom was; that Siena had ruled herself for centuries before her, and would get along well enough for centuries after. Nominally, she ruled here – she was governess, duchess, regent. But her rule was a façade.
No one knew that she was still, at fifty, the same frightened little girl at her father’s court who chilled inside when her mother bade her play the dulcimer for their guests. No one suspected that the daughter of Ferdinand Maria, Elector of Bavaria, and Adelaida, princess of Savoy, was shy in company, loved music more than conversation, and had a dread of public speaking that she struggled to hide. No one understood that she had loved Ferdinando de’ Medici every single day, though he had died without ever once loving her in return. And no one guessed her most secret sorrow: that she mourned daily
for her stillborn twins, had lit a candle for their birthday for nineteen summers, and could have told you, if you’d asked, exactly how many years, months, days and hours old they would have been now, if they had lived. And, thanks to her failure to provide an heir for the grand dukes of Tuscany, the ailing, youthful dukedom might well die like a sickly child. She was an aberration, a placeholder. The ancient city would wait her out.
for her stillborn twins, had lit a candle for their birthday for nineteen summers, and could have told you, if you’d asked, exactly how many years, months, days and hours old they would have been now, if they had lived. And, thanks to her failure to provide an heir for the grand dukes of Tuscany, the ailing, youthful dukedom might well die like a sickly child. She was an aberration, a placeholder. The ancient city would wait her out.
Violante was not given to fancy or superstition, but could not help returning to a conference she had had the previous evening with her chief councillor, Francesco Maria Conti. The haughty statesman, whose sense of selfimportance proceeded from being cousin to the pope himself, had come to her presence chamber with an unsettling piece of news. In his accustomed black coat and fingering his silver-topped cane, he had not quite met her eyes as he had told her that two men in the Porcupine
contrada
had found a dead ass cast over the Camollia gate. She had not understood the message until he told her, in his accustomed tones of contempt veiled in courtesy, that when the Florentines besieged Siena in the thirteenth century, they cast dead donkeys over the walls to bring disease and pestilence to the city. Baldly speaking, said Conti, the ass was a signal that Siena was about to fall. Violante had a chilling feeling that Vicenzo Caprimulgo’s death was the beginning of something, perhaps the beginning of the end.
contrada
had found a dead ass cast over the Camollia gate. She had not understood the message until he told her, in his accustomed tones of contempt veiled in courtesy, that when the Florentines besieged Siena in the thirteenth century, they cast dead donkeys over the walls to bring disease and pestilence to the city. Baldly speaking, said Conti, the ass was a signal that Siena was about to fall. Violante had a chilling feeling that Vicenzo Caprimulgo’s death was the beginning of something, perhaps the beginning of the end.
From her open window, Violante saw the servants of the
comune
clearing the piazza and scrubbing at the dark patch of blood at the San Martino corner. She moved
her eyes determinedly away from the blood and concentrated on the things that had not changed. The starlings screeched, the evening air smelled fresh and cool, as the setting sun varnished the square below. She admired the golden palaces standing sentinel to the old day and the nine divisions of the great square, radiating out from the fountain to give it its scallop appearance. She remembered she had once seen a painting in one of Cosimo de’ Medici’s summer palaces, a painting of a woman of great beauty, with flowing red hair, rising naked from a great scallop shell floating on a blue sea, the kindly winds personified to blow her to shore on an azure wave.
comune
clearing the piazza and scrubbing at the dark patch of blood at the San Martino corner. She moved
her eyes determinedly away from the blood and concentrated on the things that had not changed. The starlings screeched, the evening air smelled fresh and cool, as the setting sun varnished the square below. She admired the golden palaces standing sentinel to the old day and the nine divisions of the great square, radiating out from the fountain to give it its scallop appearance. She remembered she had once seen a painting in one of Cosimo de’ Medici’s summer palaces, a painting of a woman of great beauty, with flowing red hair, rising naked from a great scallop shell floating on a blue sea, the kindly winds personified to blow her to shore on an azure wave.
Today, watching the Palio that had ended so horribly, Violante had seen a woman on the Eagle family benches: young and beautiful, with her dark hair piled high, her red-and-white gown pinched in at her tiny waist and her porcelain cheeks touched with a hint of pink on the cheekbones. Rising above the sea of flags and banners, she had seemed as calm and serene as the goddess herself. Seeing her so youthful and beautiful, the Venus of this scallop, Violante had felt a keen thrill of envy. But then, Violante had seen her leaning on the dead man’s horse, and she had realized that the beauty was the dead man’s betrothed, and further enquiry told her they’d been due to marry today. Her heart ached for the girl, and she felt the guilty aftertaste of her envy. She sent a purse to assuage her feelings. Violante knew the emptiness, the agony of loss, for she too had lost.
Ferdinando
– she had not meant to think of him tonight.
Ferdinando
– she had not meant to think of him tonight.
Violante pulled her head inside the palace, retreating inside her cool shell, hiding. She closed the window and her mind against the blood outside. She did not want to know. Her emotions were exhausted by the sudden remembrance of her dead husband and she had no compassion to spare. She walked across the room to her looking-glass, a full-length Parisian mirror; and even its dim antique reflection, so forgiving of a multitude of sins, offered her no comfort. She saw a middle-aged woman, not even a little handsome, even though she had the finest powdered wigs from Montmartre and wore a gown of lavender silk woven by the Huguenots of Spitalfields. She fingered the stuff of her skirt and saw, in the sunlight, that the age spots on her hands were beginning to freckle through the lead paste she had applied not one hour ago. The ugliness of her hands next to the beauteous mauve silk depressed her still further.
She wore purple, or one of that colour’s close cousins, every day of her life, and all because of a chance remark from her now-dead husband. Ferdinando had once, in the days of courtship when he had still taken the trouble to be kind, told her that the colour was becoming to her; perhaps because the word
viola
, purple, was so close to her name Violante. It was an aside, a play on words, a thoughtless sally, and served to compliment his own linguistic acuity rather than her beauty. But it was one of the only times that he had paid her person or her name even the tiniest amount of attention. She clung to it, through the years of dismissal, of isolation, of casual or calculated cruelty in the face of his lovers. She held fast to that tiny
comment and had dutifully worn violet, mauve, lavender or porphyry every day since, in the vain hope that he would, some day, notice her once again.
viola
, purple, was so close to her name Violante. It was an aside, a play on words, a thoughtless sally, and served to compliment his own linguistic acuity rather than her beauty. But it was one of the only times that he had paid her person or her name even the tiniest amount of attention. She clung to it, through the years of dismissal, of isolation, of casual or calculated cruelty in the face of his lovers. She held fast to that tiny
comment and had dutifully worn violet, mauve, lavender or porphyry every day since, in the vain hope that he would, some day, notice her once again.
She clung to it, despite the fact that the jest Ferdinando should have made is that her name was closer kin to another word:
violare
– to break, to violate or even to rape; words that aptly described, in turn, his treatment of her spirit, their marriage and the one and only time they had lain together. And yet now that he was dead and she was free, Violante continued to wear violet.
violare
– to break, to violate or even to rape; words that aptly described, in turn, his treatment of her spirit, their marriage and the one and only time they had lain together. And yet now that he was dead and she was free, Violante continued to wear violet.
She turned from the mirror, suddenly deathly tired.
Ferdinando
. Once she had started to think of him she could not stop. She did not call for her women but laid herself down on the coverlet just as she was, in her silly violet dress, and gave herself up to it.
Ferdinando
. Her remembrances of him flooded her. She was wallowing and she did not care. Tears sealed her eyes, and she slept at last.
Ferdinando
. Once she had started to think of him she could not stop. She did not call for her women but laid herself down on the coverlet just as she was, in her silly violet dress, and gave herself up to it.
Ferdinando
. Her remembrances of him flooded her. She was wallowing and she did not care. Tears sealed her eyes, and she slept at last.
Pia was taken back to the house of the Eagles as the twilight thickened. The two kinsmen of Aquila had held her, firmly, in a bruising grip high on each of her arms. Their grasp was an insult, but she was becoming inured to this new, tactile, brutal world. She disengaged her mind from her body and began to think. She walked with them. She did not struggle now. She knew if she were to get out of this, it would be by stealth.
Why did her father, after years of hoping and waiting and negotiating with the best Civetta families, suddenly
want to ally her with the Eagles, at all cost? It went against all sense, against the hundreds of years of tradition in which the
contrada
was everything: identity, family, locality. Could it really be true that, before Vicenzo’s body was cold, her father was negotiating a marriage contract with the dead man’s brother? She stole a sideways glance at the man who held her left arm. She could not remember seeing him before today and his looks suggested why he might have been hidden. He was a strange, freakish fellow, his features an indifferent copy of Vicenzo’s, but it was his colouring that set him apart. His hair was as white as his father’s, his skin as pale as whey, and his eyes, under their light lashes, pink.
want to ally her with the Eagles, at all cost? It went against all sense, against the hundreds of years of tradition in which the
contrada
was everything: identity, family, locality. Could it really be true that, before Vicenzo’s body was cold, her father was negotiating a marriage contract with the dead man’s brother? She stole a sideways glance at the man who held her left arm. She could not remember seeing him before today and his looks suggested why he might have been hidden. He was a strange, freakish fellow, his features an indifferent copy of Vicenzo’s, but it was his colouring that set him apart. His hair was as white as his father’s, his skin as pale as whey, and his eyes, under their light lashes, pink.
As darkness fell Pia found herself in streets she did not recognize – but the design of the sconces holding the guttering flambeaux and the fluttering banners of black and gold told her she was in Eagle territory. A palace loomed out from the dark and she was half lifted over the threshold. Her consorts left her in a flagged stone hall, while they followed the menfolk and the body. A beefy maid approached, her waist bristling with a chatelaine of keys. She spoke in a Sienese dialect so thick that Pia could scarcely understand her, but she understood her nod to a nearby stairwell. She was to follow.
Instead, hardly knowing what she was doing, Pia turned and walked straight back out of the palace door. Once, she’d marched from her own house, to seek sanctuary from her betrothal. Now, she’d do anything to be back there, to be away from this dark
palazzo
, away from these alien streets: to be home. Two crossed pikes came
together with a singing of metal song an inch from her nose. She turned to see the beefy maid smiling. She wagged a great finger in front of Pia’s face, as close as the pikes had come and just as threatening. With her other forefinger she tinkled the ring of keys.
palazzo
, away from these alien streets: to be home. Two crossed pikes came
together with a singing of metal song an inch from her nose. She turned to see the beefy maid smiling. She wagged a great finger in front of Pia’s face, as close as the pikes had come and just as threatening. With her other forefinger she tinkled the ring of keys.
‘Up you come,
amore
. Don’t be frighted. Pretty frocks for ’un, above stairs.’
amore
. Don’t be frighted. Pretty frocks for ’un, above stairs.’
There was an obscenity in the kindness, the waving of the keys like a trinket. It was the temptation of the Devil:
come here, little girl. I’ve got some pretty dresses to show you, if you’ll just follow me up the stair
. Pia had no choice.
come here, little girl. I’ve got some pretty dresses to show you, if you’ll just follow me up the stair
. Pia had no choice.
The stair was dark and winding and damp. At the top of it was a chamber, tall-ceilinged, oddly shaped, with chapel-like windows, their panes still hot from the day, ruby-paned with the fire of the old sun. One oil lamp burned, its flame puny in the glory of the sunset.
There was a bed and a rug, a jug and a basin. Pia swallowed.
The maid, smiling still, clicked her tongue. ‘Now there,
amore
. No blubberin’. Master says be sweetly faced for
domani
. Look there in the gardyrobe – be gowns and stuffs for ye.’
amore
. No blubberin’. Master says be sweetly faced for
domani
. Look there in the gardyrobe – be gowns and stuffs for ye.’
Pia opened the door of a great garderobe in the corner of a room. The action reminded her of home with a swift and stifling blow. Her mother, dead on Pia’s childbed, had lived on for her daughter only in the gowns she had left behind. Pia’s father – whether from a rare flare of finer feeling, from grief, or from sheer forgetfulness – had never cleared the gowns away. As a child and then a woman, Pia had gone into her mother’s garderobe every
day, walking among the gowns – the velvets, the fustians, the samites – speaking to her, singing to her, playing games with her, hiding behind her skirts. Pia tried to conjure the woman she had never known, the woman who might have made her life different. Friendly gowns, they were: the crimson of good burgundy for feast days, the yellow of an egg’s yolk, the green of the olive’s leaf. A garde-corps too: a supple dress of tan leather for riding.
day, walking among the gowns – the velvets, the fustians, the samites – speaking to her, singing to her, playing games with her, hiding behind her skirts. Pia tried to conjure the woman she had never known, the woman who might have made her life different. Friendly gowns, they were: the crimson of good burgundy for feast days, the yellow of an egg’s yolk, the green of the olive’s leaf. A garde-corps too: a supple dress of tan leather for riding.
Here, in her new garderobe two gowns hung on hooks: one black, one white. Both were magnificent, stiff with jewels and embroidery, the richest things she had seen in this dour house, the first manifestation she had seen of the Eagles’ great wealth.
‘Black for tomorrow,’ said the maid, ‘white t’day after.’
She bustled to the door, knocking the oil lamp to the floor with her ample hips as she went. The flame hissed and died at once. The maid smiled and smiled. ‘Now rest ye. Much to do
domani
.’
domani
.’
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