The Ruby Ring (22 page)

18

I
T SNOWED ON SUNDAY, AND ALL OF ROME CAME OUT TO
see the dusting, like powdered sugar, that melted the instant it hit the ground. But the cheering effect on the citizens was still the same. It was something magical. Something that could take most of them, even for a moment, from the drudgery of their daily lives.

Exhausted, Raphael rode his grand horse toward the workshop from the Vatican Palace, the hour being much later than he had hoped. There had been trouble in the fresco with the likeness of Agostino as Cupid. Raphael simply had not been able to break away from it. One of the layers of plaster had not been properly mixed by an apprentice and so they had needed to dash to remove it, then repaint the section before it was allowed to dry. But that had not been his day’s final appointment.

Raphael had finally been given a private audience with the Holy Father this evening, hopefully to secure the Domus Aurea ring. The pope had been preoccupied of late with the issue of his alliances with Spain and France, and this had been Raphael’s first chance in weeks, since first seeing the rare gem, to speak about it. Once he was received by the pontiff, however, Cardinal Bibbiena emerged from a small side room, his hands piously steepled, and proceeded to entirely commandeer the meeting. Questions were asked in rapid succession about his progress on so many commissions that Pope Leo tired completely before Raphael could ever speak a word about the ring.

He had no idea whether Bibbiena intended the ring for himself, or why, but Raphael left the Vatican Palace that evening knowing absolutely, by the cold, unforgiving expression on his face, and his piercing stare, that Maria’s uncle meant to stop him from having it. He also came away with the distinct impression that he may well have crossed the wrong cardinal.

T
HE ASSISTANTS
all fell silent as Margherita entered the workshop. It was early evening when the wind whipped through the narrow, tangled alleyways of Rome, and felt like sword blades beneath the heavy blue cloak she wore. In an instant, all eyes among Raphael’s great team of artists were turned away from her, as if she were not even there. Smug indifference chilled her to the bone in a way the wind had not. To them, clearly, she was just another conquest of the great
mastro.

“He is not here,” one of them gruffly called out to her, turning back to his panel. It was the silver-haired da Udine, his voice echoing across the vaulted chasm. Da Udine had made it clear he did not like her. And he apparently liked her
here
even less.

“When is he expected?” she forced herself pleasantly to inquire as he continued to paint, his back still to her.

“The
mastro
is a powerful man who does as he pleases,
signorina.
One is wise to expect little of him in that regard, since his mood can change as swiftly as the weather once something suits him no longer.”

Or someone
was what he had meant. But a pointed inference, she had begun to learn, was more powerful than a direct hit.

She took a step forward, forcing herself not to shrink from his challenge. The effort was so great that she felt herself begin to tremble. “I shall wait.”

“As you wish,” said da Udine coldly, still refusing to regard her.

“It
is
as I wish, Signor da Udine.”

Wish it,
s, she thought when no one spoke further, and she sank onto a little wooden bench beside the door.
Yet all of this, and everything else, is far beyond anything I might ever have bargained for.

M
ARGHERITA
was waiting for him as they had planned, in the little private room in the workshop where there was now the pallet, blankets, and a spray of fringed velvet pillows. But he could tell by the expression on her face, the moment he came in, that she had grown weary of the evening routine that had become Raphael’s salvation from the work. It had also become his one powerful obsession.

“Forgive me,
amore mio,
but the delay could not be helped,” he said with a sigh as he held her shoulders and gently kissed her cheek. Her skin was cold to the touch and her expression was strangely distant. She was tense when he took her into his arms.

“It would be easier to bear, waiting for you, if I were not greeted each evening by the indifferent stares of your many assistants and models.”

She had chosen the word
indifferent,
but what she had meant was
contemptous,
particularly the glance of Giovanni da Udine, the oldest and most intimidating of the group. Every time she came through the heavy workshop door, he made it apparent, with his rolled eyes and half smirk, that she was merely another trifling girl there for the
mastro
’s pleasure. Nothing more.

“I know how difficult it is for you to come here,” he said patiently as he kissed the soft place beneath her earlobe.

Inwardly, Raphael cringed at the mention of it. Elena had not yet left the house on the Via dei Coronari, in spite of the tense and silent three days it had been since their conversation. It was difficult, she said, to find other employment in Rome, along with accommodations like those she had found with Raphael. When she would not take his money, he did not have the heart to put her out onto the street.

“Cardinal Bibbiena guaranteed this employment with you to my mother,” she told him stubbornly just this morning. “And, as I have done everything here that he told me I would be required to do, I see no reason to leave hastily.”

“But I must be free to entertain who I like in my home!” he had barked in frustration.

“I do nothing to threaten that.”

“Your mere presence here threatens that!”

“Perhaps you should have considered the consequences before you chose to take my virtue.”

“May the Lord help me, I assumed you were not so virtuous, as you did nothing to stop that regrettable event!”

“You are Raffaello! Does not every woman do as you bid them?”

“No, Elena. Not every woman.”

Raphael shivered, pressing away the memory of their angry exchange, kissed Margherita’s forehead, and pulled her close to his chest. He was gratified to have her near again, fed by her calm presence, and the needed energy he gleaned from that alone.

They kissed deeply before he said, “Come. I want to show you something.”

Raphael took her hand and led her out into the studio, which was empty now of the artists and models who so unnerved her. Here, in the flaming salmon-pink light of early evening that glittered through the open shutters, she saw it. On an easel beside his own worktable in the main workshop was the completed Madonna at last. Margherita gasped, seeing herself as the Virgin Mary standing barefoot on a celestial bed of clouds with two figures kneeling in adoration around her. On one side, the image of Saint Barbara, and on the other, Pope Sixtus II. She had never seen anything even close to this, nor, she knew, had anyone else. She was stunned.

“It is . . . exquisite.”

“You find it so?”

She looked at him and saw plainly his need for her approval in this. “Truly I do.”

“You trusted me and I did not wish to disappoint you. I wished it to be entirely unique. As you are.”

“You have done that, Raphael, and so much more. I don’t know what to say.”

“The expression in your eyes is better than any words.”

As they stood before the easel, Raphael’s hand on her shoulder, the door was held open by one of two velvet-clad servants, allowing entry for the elderly man with flowing snowy hair and beard whom they were attending. Turning to see who was approaching, Raphael’s face lit with a sudden beaming smile.

“Ah,
bene!
My dear friend, at last you have arrived!” he said, embracing the elderly man, then he turned back to Margherita. “I wish for you to meet a very dear friend.”

The sage old man with a hooked, veined nose and bright blue eyes smiled kindly down at her. “Signor da Vinci, may I present Signorina Luti.”

Wearing a knee-length coat and tunic of green-and-gold brocade, gold hose, and a gold embroidered hat with a wide, upturned brim, he stood elegantly before them, his face a network of fine wrinkles. But he regarded her just as Raphael had at the first, with that same critical artist’s eye. Of course, like the rest of Rome, she knew the name Leonardo da Vinci. He was a revered master who had created beautiful works, including
Adoration of the Magi,
a fresco of the Last Supper, and a portrait of a mysterious woman people called La Giaconda.

“It is a great pleasure to be met with such beauty on a cold March afternoon,” he said in an aging, slightly rusty voice, yet one still full of grace and charm. “But a true friend of Raphael’s must call me Leonardo.”

“I would be honored to do so.”

“With me, you must only be yourself.” He smiled at her with courtly aplomb.

“If you can judge a man by his friends,” Margherita said smoothly, feeling herself begin to smile, “then Signor Raphael is a fortunate man indeed.”

“I see the level of company you keep has improved here in Rome, along with your talent,
caro amico,
” he said to Raphael with a growing smile. “Most impressive indeed.”

It was the first time anyone had placed value upon her besides Raphael, and did not look askance at her presence in his life. Margherita found it a pleasurable sensation, and she found da Vinci a charming man. “Leonardo has come to see the completed Madonna, as we spoke of it many times while it was being painted. It is so much the better to have the model here, as well.”

The old master stroked his chin as his gaze fell upon the Madonna painting, still smelling of linseed oil and wood fiber. “Brilliant,
caro.
Original . . . evocative . . . truly a stunning work.”

“There is no higher praise than that which comes from you,” said Raphael. “With Bramante dead now, and Michelangelo against me, your approval means more to me than it ever has.”

“I can see that the girl has inspired you.”

“More than that, she has forever changed me, Leonardo.”

Da Vinci smiled at them sagely, understanding now. “Ah. You are in love with one another!”

“Forevermore.”

Leonardo looked more closely at Margherita then. His eyes were tired with years, yet still they were filled with a long life’s wisdom. “Then I bid you tread softly upon his heart, child, for Raphael may have convinced the world of how cavalier he is, yet he is an innocent to the cost of a broken heart. And I would not expect the Holy Father to look kindly upon one who impedes the work of one he considers his personal artisan.”

He smiled as he spoke the words, but there was, nonetheless, a warning in them.

“They have nothing to fear from me, Signor da Vinci,” she softly responded as she turned to gaze up adoringly at Raphael.

“I painted a woman myself once . . . long ago . . . Like you, it was her eyes that captured me most, and that which I hope I offered to the world.”

“I remember her,” Raphael nodded, smiling. “And I have studied often the sketches you allowed me to make from her—her figure placement, the turn of her head . . . the eyes, and her curious smile. Your work shall always be an inspiration to me.”

“
S,
that is the one, my Mona Lisa. She became a representation of many things, a challenge to me. But, your
signorina
here, she is from your heart. You will do many great works of her.”

“It is my passion now.”

Margherita bit back an embarrassed smile. Raphael looked at her turned-up lips and thought, suddenly, how erotic it felt to kiss them. To taste her tongue in his mouth, and to feel the innocent passion that so freely came to him when they made love. She had brought him back to life in so many ways. At times, she made him feel like an innocent himself when they were alone.

“Take great care then that your sincerest wish is not at odds with the desire of the Holy Father, and those around him,” da Vinci warned with a rheumy cough. “For you know there is great power in that Vatican Palace. And I fear the tide of your good fortune could turn quickly if it is suspected that you were no longer entirely committed to their desires, first and foremost.”