His Last Duchess (7 page)

A few miles south of Ferrara, some way off to one side of the long road from Bologna, a stone house stood before a large, walled yard. It was in poor repair—half a dozen tiles had fallen from one end of the roof, exposing the rafters below, and the long front wall was significantly cracked in several places, but the yard itself was pristine. A dozen or so large barrels were neatly double-ranked along one side, with a couple of long-handled, flat-bladed wooden paddles lying across them. A pyramidal pile of filled sacks rose against the back wall of the house under a projecting wooden roof, and a long row of gleaming spades leaned against the yard wall like off-duty soldiers.

In the centre of the yard a stone well was covered with a heavy wooden lid.

At the far side, on the ground near the gate, four flat, rectangular mounds had been covered with damp hessian. If these looked—as they did—like impromptu graves, then the five sweat-gleaming men who stood in front of them appeared to be the grave-diggers. They were all peering at a new hole in the ground and at the large pile of earth they had removed from it. Leaning on the handles of their spades, they ran filthy hands through damp hair, stretched aching backs and grinned at each other in tired camaraderie.

“That was a grand job, lads,” said the oldest of the five, nodding at the hole. The skin around his eyes and across his forehead was pitted with small scars; more covered his hands and forearms. “Just the cloth lining to do, and then I reckon we've earned ourselves a little sustenance before we set to with the barrel.”

His companions murmured agreement. They shook out several lengths of tightly woven sacking, dipped each into a bucket of water, then lined the hole with it, first one way, then the next, neatly overlapping the strips so that no raw earth showed. After checking the pit carefully, they all moved in a pack, towards the back of the house, leaning their spades up next to the rest of the regiment as they passed.

The interior of the house was as dingy as the outside. The windows of the main chamber were small and, being covered with thick squares of waxed parchment instead of glass, admitted little light. Everything in the large, low-ceilinged kitchen seemed thus sketched in sepia: the table, laden with pots, pans, plates and jugs; the dilapidated
credenza
, the stone fireplace, across which hung an iron spit, festooned with dangling pots and implements, and the sulky-looking girl of around fifteen, who was seated on a low stool under one of the windows.

The fire was little more than red embers and white ash as the men trooped indoors.

“Stir yourself and stoke that up, Chiara,” said the oldest of the guildsmen. “We could all do with ale and some of that lamb from yesterday before we begin the slaking. And we'll need to wash.”

At his words, Chiara stood, and bent to pick up a pair of leather bellows. She crouched in front of the fire and, pushing the nose of the bellows into the embers, began gently puffing until a few bright little flags of flame broke from the glowing lumps of charred wood. She laid a few more split logs on top of this, and then went back to the bellows. Soon the fire was crackling confidently beneath a large iron pot of water. “Will you be starting straight after you eat, Papa?” she said to the oldest guildsman.

Eduardo Rossi shook his head. “No. I reckon we need a bit of a rest before we get going on the next batch.”

***

At her father's words, Chiara looked across at one of the workers, a stocky boy of about her age and she flicked her head towards the door. He raised an eyebrow and nodded once; Chiara's mouth tightened in a smile, as she busied herself carving slices from a leg of lamb, which she laid neatly on a plate. She lifted a couple of flat, round loaves down from a shelf and passed them, with the lamb, to her father and the others, who had seated themselves around the table. She then left the room, making as though to go upstairs, but remained instead crouched beside the door, watching her father tear the loaves into large pieces and hand them around. The men helped themselves to slices of the lamb.

The stocky boy, she was pleased to see, finished eating first. Pushing back his chair, he crossed to the fire. On the floor nearby there was a big wooden bowl, made like a half-barrel, in slats. Wrapping one hand in sacking, the boy tilted the pot allowing some of the hot water to run into the bowl.

“Make sure those hands are properly clean, Niccolò,” said Chiara's father. “I know we'll have gloves but I don't want dirt in the lime.”

Niccolò nodded. Kneeling, he washed his hands carefully in the hot water, picking the earth out from under his nails, then rubbing vigorously up past his wrists. He checked the palms and backs of both hands, then scooped up a double handful of water to splash over his face. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, rubbed a fold of his shirt across his cheeks and wiped his hands on his breeches. With a nod to the others, he left the room by the yard door.

***

“I didn't think I'd get to talk to you on your own today. You all seemed so busy earlier,” Chiara said. Niccolò said nothing, but leaned towards her, his mouth seeking hers. She tipped her face up towards his and he kissed her. One hand slid up her bodice to press itself against her breast, at which Chiara arched her back and pushed against him, nudging him with her hips. Niccolò's free hand sought the hem of her dress; he fumbled with the fabric and reached upwards into the folds of linen. Chiara moved her knees apart.

But, after no more than seconds, they heard the house door being banged and voices loud in the yard. Niccolò and Chiara froze.

“
Cazzo!
” Niccolò hissed. He pulled his hand out from under Chiara's skirts and she raised her fingers to her hair, tucking back the wisps that had curled out around her face.

“Your bloody father!” Niccolò mouthed. “I thought we might have at least half an hour.”

Chiara was on her feet. Her mouth felt wet and swollen—she wiped it with the back of her hand. “Niccolò—quick! Go out through that door.” She pointed to the far end of the barn. “I'll stay here until you're with them and they're busy again.”

Niccolò bent to kiss where the tops of her breasts pushed against the neck of her dress. “We'll find a moment soon—I promise,” he said.

“Please be careful,” Chiara said. “I hate when you do the slaking. Are you mixer today?”

“No.”

“Well, thank God for that, at least.”

***

“Barnabeo and Niccolò, bring a barrel over here!” Chiara's father called.

The two men rolled one to within a few feet of the newly dug hole. It was stoutly built, thickly banded with iron and wide at the rim.

“Right. Water! Chiara,
cara
, come and work the handle.”

Chiara appeared from behind the barn and took her place at the well.

All five men lined up between the barrel and the well, wooden buckets in hand, and within a few moments they had filled the barrel about a quarter full.

“Now,” said Chiara's father, “cover up, all of you!”

He and the other four men wrapped long leather aprons around themselves, tied broad strips of doubled linen over the lower parts of their faces, and finally pulled on heavy leather gloves.

“Barnabeo, you and Antonio bring over a sack.”

Chiara held her breath. No matter how many times she had seen this done, as the daughter of the head of the city's plasterers' guild, she had never watched the start of the slaking without her heart quickening. She had seen too many accidents—she had a horror of burning.

***

Barnabeo and Antonio hoisted the big sack onto the rim of the barrel. Eduardo pulled out a knife. “Ready?” he asked them.

They nodded.

“Niccolò, is the cover ready?”

Another nod.

“Good and damp?”

Nod.

“Right then. Off we go.”

Eduardo paused, like a man preparing to dive from a great height. Then, after a deep breath, he pushed the blade of the knife into the bulging hessian and jerked it across the length of the sack. White powder fell fast, with a lisping hiss, down into the water in the barrel. Barnabeo and Antonio shook out the last of it and Niccolò moved in quickly to drape a length of damp cloth across the open top as steam billowed up angrily below him.

Everyone but Eduardo stood back; Barnabeo passed him one of the long-handled paddles.

There was a long moment of silence. As he did each time he slaked, Eduardo strained his ears to hear the first sound.

A rhythmical thumping. The liquid hissed and rumbled and the barrel shifted a fraction along the ground. The thumping intensified and the barrel began to shake, as though some furious, captured creature within it was trying to break its way out. A corner of the hessian cover lifted, a gush of steam poured out and the sacking began to flap frantically. Eduardo lifted the wooden paddle and laid it on top of the hessian, trying to flatten it, but steam continued to stream out in several directions. A fat splatter of hot lime spat out and he jumped back, sucking in a hiss of pain as a speck landed on the inch of arm visible between the leather glove and his rolled sleeve. His skin flamed red instantly where the lime had touched him. That would be yet another scar to join the hundreds already pocking his arms and face.

He waited until the roiling and bubbling had begun to subside, then lifted the paddle, grasped the hessian cover in one hand and lifted it slowly, face screwed up in anticipation, leaning back as far as he could. The still-steaming lime shrieked its displeasure at the exposure, and spat out another half-dozen white-hot gobbets towards him, but this time they all missed and fell to the ground. Eduardo pushed the paddle down into the volcanic contents of the barrel, eyes reduced to crumpled slits, mouth distorted into a shape like a shout. For a moment, both fists tight on the handle, he figure-of-eighted the paddle, moving the lime back and forth, then pulled it back out, banged it on the rim of the barrel, to knock off any clinging mixture, and replaced the hessian.

The frantic activity in the barrel began to die down. Eduardo mixed again. Waited. Mixed again.

“Right, lads. Into the pit now.”

All the guildsmen crowded close around the barrel to shift it the few feet to the pit. Carefully, inch by inch, they manoeuvred it into position, then tilted it. The porridge-like slush splattered into the linen-lined hole.

Eduardo and the others stood back, breathing heavily.

“There you are, boys. One down, three to go. This will be,” he said, with more than a touch of pride in his voice, “a lime plaster truly fit for the new fresco at the Castello Estense. We should, my boys, be very proud to be of such service to our duke.”

***

Chiara looked at Niccolò. He smiled at her—a smile that held much promise—and she ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip, which suddenly felt rather dry.

The main drawbridge was down. The sky was the colour of old pewter and a fine drizzle was dimpling the surface of the water in the moat. The four great red towers of the Castello Estense glowered down at the rain-slicked city like scowling sentries, the aggressively military precision of their dimensions somehow softened and blurred by the waterlogged air. Diamond droplets hung along the length of all the white stone balustrades.

A sodden group turned into the main piazza in front of the Castello as the cathedral bell chimed the midday: four riders, one small cart, laden with luggage and, tethered behind it, a bedraggled white mule, ears drooping, small hoofs scraping across the cobbles, as though too exhausted even to pick its feet up from the ground. The group crossed the piazza and clattered up on to the drawbridge.

As they reached the central courtyard, Giovanni de' Medici ran a hand down his pony's neck. He kicked his feet from the stirrups, swung his leg up and over the horse's rump and jumped down. Hunching and rolling his shoulders, he stretched his back to ease out the stiffness of hours in the saddle, as several Estense horsemen emerged to greet the new arrivals. One, tall, round-faced and cheerful, took Giovanni's pony's reins.

“Thank you,” said Giovanni. “She's absolutely soaked—they all are. Can you give her a good rub down and throw a blanket over her?”

“Of course, Signore. All the horses will be dried and stabled straight away.”

“Her name's Brezza,” Giovanni began, “and she—”

“Vanni!” He was interrupted by a shriek. “Vanni!”

Lucrezia was running across the courtyard, her skirts bunched inelegantly in her fists. He grinned and began to walk towards her. She let go of her dress and threw her arms around him; hugging her back, he lifted her right off her feet.

“Oh, Vanni, you're here at last! But you're
soaking
! How was your journey? Was it horrible? How are Mamma and—oh!” She broke off and stood back from him, her mouth a shocked circle. “Oh,
cielo
! Violetta!”

She had seen the mule. Pleased with the impact of his surprise, Giovanni watched his cousin scramble across the courtyard to where the disgruntled donkey stood behind the cart. She wrapped her arms around its dirty white neck and it tossed its head, stamping a hoof irritably. One of the stablemen unhitched it from the tailboard of the cart. Lucrezia cradled the creature's muzzle in both hands, kissed it, then turned back to Giovanni, her eyes shining. The bodice and sleeves of her dress were now blotched and stained with rain and mud, and her face was dirty. Giovanni rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes and laughed. “Look at you,” he said. “Nothing changes…”

“You brought her,” Lucrezia said, through a wide, muddy smile, ignoring him.

“I take it you're pleased.”

“Did she complain
all
the way?”

“She certainly did. God, Crezzi, I can't imagine why you're so fond of her. She has the filthiest temper and the—”

“Don't! Don't be horrible! She's my darling mule and I love her—and I love
you
for bringing her.” Lucrezia hugged him again. “Come on, let's get out of the rain.”

Then, raising her voice, she said, “Please, everybody, do come inside. The servants will show you to your rooms, where you can change out of your wet things. There will be hot broth and wine, and I believe a fire has been lit in the East Hall.”

Giovanni proffered an arm, feeling suddenly pleased with himself, and rather older than his fifteen years. Lucrezia took it with both hands and squeezed, smiling up at him again. More servants in bright livery were appearing at the doors now; they seemed, Giovanni thought, out of place in the open air, like a group of pet cats in a field. Their shoulders hunched against the rain, they hastened to welcome the new arrivals inside out of the wet and, in a damp huddle, the party from Cafaggiolo finally entered the Castello.

***

Alfonso heard a commotion in the courtyard as he strode up from the falconry.

He slowed his pace.

Pausing in the shadows of the tunnel from the back drawbridge, he ran a hand through wet hair as he looked from one figure to another. A trickle of rainwater ran down the back of his neck. One of his horsemen was leading a muddy cob—still harnessed to the shafts of a covered tilt-cart—while another held the reins of a handsome little chestnut mare. Three other horses were being led towards the stables, with an obviously elderly, and mud-soaked white mule. A cluster of servants were collecting the luggage from the cart—and then he saw her.

Lucrezia.

She had mud on her face and hands, and her dress was unaccountably filthy, but her face was alight with pleasure. Her eyes were shining as she laughed up at a lanky, dark-skinned boy, and Alfonso's heart clenched tight for a moment until he recognized the newcomer. His mind on his hawks, he had forgotten that his wife's cousin was due to arrive today.

Lucrezia's hands were wrapped around the boy's arm and she was walking, pressed close to him, towards the main entrance. The boy threw back his head and laughed at something Lucrezia had said. She let go of his sleeve and shoved hard at his side, throwing him off balance. He straightened, jabbed at her ribs with a finger and Alfonso heard her squeal, gasp and laugh.

A hot blade of disapproval turned in his belly. His jaw tensed and something vertiginous shifted and fell in his guts. As in those moments when his horse startled and shied beneath him, Alfonso was rocked by a sense of the bunched precariousness of a potentially uncontrollable force.

Breathing quickly, his hands balled into fists, he stepped back into the shadows of the tunnel and waited for his wife and her cousin to pass into the castle. Once he was certain they had gone, he went in through a side entrance, descended a narrow staircase and walked along the corridor that led to the dungeons.

***

“Alfonso's not here,” Lucrezia said, as she walked with Giovanni up a wide spiral staircase. He felt a guilty stab of relief, which was, however, short-lived, as she added, “He's out hawking—he'll be back soon. I thought he'd be here before you arrived.”

Giovanni's sodden boots squelched at each step, oozing bubbles of water along the seams. Looking back, he saw a trail of glistening footprints. His feet were frozen. He was aching to ask Lucrezia about her new life. All the questions he had been thinking through over the three days it had taken them to ride up from Cafaggiolo were clamouring to be heard. He had repeated them in his head, over and over again as he had pictured the two of them sitting alone, he asking his questions, she dissolving into tears, admitting to a life of brutal subjugation with a man who had distorted in Giovanni's head from someone he had simply disliked to a fully fledged monster, capable of anything. But now, here in Ferrara, he found himself faced with a Lucrezia who in the event just seemed delighted to see him; she appeared to be at home in her new life, more grown-up than ever. He felt stupid and childish, and his questions now sounded ridiculous.

He knew he would not ask them.

“Here we are. You can change your clothes—and I'll need to change mine. How are Mamma and Papa?” Lucrezia asked again. “I'm so sorry they didn't feel they could come. Is Papa truly getting better? And Giulietta, is she well?”

Giovanni followed her into a large room. A tapestry covered one wall, depicting the climax of a successful hunt, with the tops of the towers of the Castello visible in the background above a line of trees. There was a curtained bed, two highly polished cross-frame chairs and a low table. Not unlike his room at Cafaggiolo, he thought, only tidier.

Lucrezia sat on the end of the bed.

“They are all well,” he said. “Uncle Cosimo's still resting, but Aunt Eleanora says that, having been a meek and biddable patient for weeks, he is becoming exasperating again, so she feels much happier about him than she has been since he had his fit.”

Lucrezia laughed.

“They send their love—and a cartload of presents and letters,” Giovanni said, sitting down and trying to pull off one of his boots. Being so wet, it stuck. He struggled with it, swearing softly, then thrust out his leg towards Lucrezia. She smiled, bent and took hold of his ankle. Bracing one of her feet on the seat of the chair, she tugged and jerked. With a sucking gasp, the boot came off, and she staggered backwards, laughing.

“Can you do the other one now?” Giovanni asked.

***

Lucrezia tried hard to listen to Giovanni's news from Cafaggiolo as he put on clean, dry clothes, but now that the first euphoric rush of delight at seeing him had subsided, she found herself confused and oddly detached, unable to focus on what he had to say. Watching him now, she was torn in two. First, a sharp pinch of homesickness caught her in the throat as he described the long litany of advice that Giulietta had exhorted him to pass on to her. It was an instantly recognizable imitation of Giulietta's voice—
is
she
making
sure
she
brushes
her
hair
out
thoroughly
every
night, and is that
kitchen girl
quite
certain
that
Lucrezia's shifts are properly dry and aired before she gives them to her to put on?
At the same time, though, an uncomfortable lump of resentment towards her parents, which had been growing ever since the wedding night, sat heavy in her belly like too much meat.

With the way things were between her and Alfonso, she knew she was not fulfilling her role as her parents must have envisaged it. She was the vessel that would carry the heir to the Este dynasty—but she was increasingly aware of being, in the end, little more than a commodity, raised for the purpose like a prize heifer and traded last October between her parents and her husband. Her mother and father of course knew nothing of the awful, dragging tension that now sucked the spontaneity out of her every encounter with Alfonso. How could they? But somehow, Lucrezia thought angrily, they
ought
to know. Ought to have guessed.

“Are you listening, Crezzi?” she heard Giovanni say.

“What?”

“Are you listening? You look half asleep.”

“No—I mean yes, I am listening. And no, I'm not asleep. Of course I'm not.”

Giovanni frowned at her. She wanted to tell him—oh, God, she wanted to tell him! The words were crowding into her mouth, demanding to be given their freedom. To begin to tell him, though, would mean wading out into the treacherous waters of an intimacy she knew she could not share. She had confided in her cousin for so long, about so many things—they had been the closest of companions for years—but this new situation stood between them like a brick wall. Lucrezia knew she could not describe the shameful failure of her marriage to anyone. Even to imagine the words leaving her mouth made her insides squirm and her face flame.

Giovanni said, “Crezzi—is something wrong?”

She knew he thought there was. She breathed in slowly, hesitated, then knowing she couldn't say it, smiled and said, “No. There isn't. Really.”

For several long seconds they gazed at each other. Lucrezia's smile felt as though it had been pinned in place. Then Giovanni said, “Well, if there ever is, you tell me, do you understand? I want you to tell me.”

Lucrezia nodded.

***

It was the week before Christmas and a hopeful morning sun was doing its best to break through patchy cloud. Outside the Castello, in the great open space that fronted the castle, half a dozen men were constructing a wooden gallery big enough to hold some twenty or thirty guests. Cartloads of sand were being dumped and spread thickly across the entire square, along the centre of which was a balustrade of waist-high wooden poles, spiral-striped in the Este colours of red, white and green; the railing effectively split the space into two.

“There'll be jousting tomorrow before the banquet,” Lucrezia said. “Alfonso said it depended on the weather, but now that the rain has eased off, I expect it will take place as planned. I hope so.”

Giovanni watched the new tiltyard taking shape. “I quite like the idea of attempting to joust,” he said.

Lucrezia snorted her contempt. “Just because you think you ride well?” she asked scornfully. “Don't forget what happened to the poor King of France.” She grimaced. “Come on—we can watch the final banquet preparations.”

They crossed the drawbridge and entered the castle through the enormous front doors. Arm in arm, they crossed the entrance hall, walked down a corridor and into the North Hall where the meal was to take place.

The room was almost literally covered with men. Men on ladders, stringing hundreds of little red, white and green flags; men hanging glittering chandeliers from which dangled gold-paper decorations; men constructing an enormous striped awning and festooning every available surface—horizontal and vertical—with great swags of flowers. The three tables were decorated too, with more flowers, fruit, candles, ribbons and a number of small naked figurines, very lifelike and made from some sort of dark brown material.

“What
is
this?” Giovanni asked, reaching out and picking one up.

“Some sort of biscuit,” Lucrezia said.

Giovanni snorted. “Hmm. Fairly impressive proportions for a biscuit…” He raised his eyebrows at her.

Lucrezia laughed. “Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Vanni!”

He put the figurine back on the table and, with deliberate care, draped a spray of flowers across its front to preserve its modesty. He squeezed his cousin's hand and said, “And I'm pleased you're not busier. I thought you'd be run off your feet overseeing all this—Aunt Eleanora is always frantic on the day of a banquet and they've never done anything on
this
scale at Cafaggiolo.”