Lady of Asolo (21 page)

Lodovico takes his seat next to me, looking as innocent as the day he was born (although I doubt even then he was innocent). If I were of a violent disposition and had a dagger, I would stick it into his heart.

Soon the jousting is over and we go to our quarters to rest before the banquet. When Lodovico starts snoring on our bed I creep out, and within minutes I’m in my lady’s chamber. ‘Please, domina, I beg a moment in private.’

‘Yes, my dear, what is it?’ she asks, waving her ladies off to the far side of the room.

I quickly recount what I’d heard in the orchard. ‘Such treachery,’ I say.

My lady gives her tinkling laugh. ‘Sweet Cecilia. Do not worry! My brother has the Venetian Army well-trained and the Emperor’s forces are no match for us. If Maximilian dares attack again, he’ll be routed once more. As for your husband, I’ve had my suspicions for some time. I’m sorry to have had them confirmed.’

‘What shall I do?’

‘Can you watch over him? Report back to me if you hear anything of importance. Two can play at the same game, you know.’

‘Yes, domina.’

I go to change into my evening gown: a deep rich, red, silk brocade. Lodovico asks me where I’ve been, and I tell him the truth. ‘To see my lady.’ He leaves me to the attentions of Marta, my maid, who disentangles my hair and places a
ghirlanda
on my head to hold my tresses back from my face. I fasten my gold necklace, and pinch my cheeks to give them some colour.

‘Very beautiful, signora,’ Marta says, dropping into a curtsey. I slip a couple of coins into her hand then leave her to tidy the room. Marta is my best ally, although I’m no fool and ensure her loyalty by greasing her palm on a regular basis.

Zorzo is at the banquet. I spot him immediately and study him from the corner of my eye. He’s seated at the far end of the room, dressed in a purple velvet doublet, so tall and handsome; he catches my glance, making my heart skip a beat.

I’m seated on my husband’s right at the meal, which seems interminable: course after course after course. My stomach is too jittery to eat much and, finally, we lever ourselves from the table and progress to the hall, where the musicians are already tuning up.

My lady and her brother take to the floor, and I suggest to Lodovico that he should invite Dorotea to dance. He doesn’t need much urging. She’s been fluttering her lashes at him all evening, and his eyes have only left her pillow-like breasts when he’s helped himself to food and eaten it.

I watch them join the dancers and, within seconds, Zorzo is at my side. He bows low, ‘
Dolcezza
.’

We commence the hesitating march of the
pavana
, and I catch the scent of linseed oil from his hands, and the manly odour of his sweat. ‘How fare you?’

‘Well enough,’ he says. ‘And you?’

I tell him of my discovery this afternoon as he turns me slowly to the music of the viol.

‘’Tis as I feared, then.’

‘My lady does not make much of it. She simply wants me to keep a watch on Lodovico. I shall spy on him spying on her.’

‘Take care,
dolcezza
. There’s trouble on the way.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘The Republic thinks that by using diplomacy, it can divide allies like the French King and the Hapsburg Emperor. It won’t work.’

‘Haven’t they been mistrustful of each other for years?’

‘Their hatred of the Serenissima is far greater than their mistrust of each other.’

The dance comes to an end. As we make our reverences, he whispers, ‘When can I see you alone?’

‘It will not be easy. I’m watched by my husband. Are you here long?’

‘A week. There’s a final fresco I need to complete in the chapel.’

‘Lodovico and I return to Asolo tomorrow, after the hunt.’

My husband approaches. He bows to Zorzo, who salutes him. Then Zorzo walks away and Lodovico says, ‘Don’t like that fellow. Or the way he looks at you.’

I supress a laugh for has he not been doing the same with Dorotea, the woman he’s often referred to as being so loose that she “opens her quiver to every arrow”? We go to our quarters and Lodovico watches me undress. I catch the gleam in his eyes. ‘I’m tired. Do we have to?’

‘Do we have to?’ he repeats in a mocking tone. ‘Tiredness is of no import. All you do is lie there while ’tis me who does all the work.’ His voice rises. ‘If you were with child, I wouldn’t bother.’

‘No.’ I shake my head, my mind made up.

‘Yes,’ he contradicts me. ‘This is my right as your husband and you must do your duty to me, wife.’ He grabs my shoulders and pushes me down on the bed.

‘Leave me alone!’

‘How dare you tell me what to do,’ his voice has become even louder. I wish someone would hear him and come to us, yet, at the same time, I know that won’t happen. I’m Lodovico’s woman for him to treat as he wishes, for he has “paid” for me, housing, clothing and feeding me.

Lodovico pushes my legs apart and thrusts into me. ‘
Madre di Dio!
Get with child quick, Cecilia. I can’t be doing with this much longer.’

Nor I.

He rolls over and lets out a fart. The stench of foul gases makes me retch. I wait, then, as soon as he’s asleep I creep out of bed and go to my chest, where I’ve hidden a flask of vinegar. I soak a cloth with the liquid and rub my
figa
. It stings, and I have to make an effort to stop myself from crying out. But better this soreness than the pain of bearing Lodovico Gaspare’s child.

Turning to go back to bed, I catch my reflection in the glass above the washstand. Only it isn’t just my likeness I see, but that of the strange woman who haunts my dreams. Her green eyes widen in surprise as she catches me standing behind her. I lift my finger and point, and then the glass ripples. I remember this happening before.
So strange!
The lady in the mirror disappears and ’tis only my refection staring back at me.

My mind is playing tricks on me, I decide, as I slip under the blankets next to the snoring Lodovico. Shutting my eyes, I curl in on myself and, before I know it, I’m asleep and then morning has come.

After we’ve broken our fast, Giovanni sidles up to my husband. ‘A messenger has arrived from the Duke. We’re both needed in Ferrara.’

I cannot believe my luck. Freedom, of a sort, so rare and so longed-for, will be mine for a few days at least. I go to the hunt without my husband, and the pleasure of riding Pegaso again far outweighs the discomfort I feel from Lodovico’s rough treatment last night. Zorzo is galloping next to me. ‘I know a place where we can be alone,’ he shouts above the sound of hoofbeats. ‘Slow your horse and fall behind! We can pretend he’s thrown a shoe and I’ll say that we’ll return to the Barco.’

It happens as he suggested. I dismount and walk beside him. ‘There’s an old Roman road to an ancient chapel hidden in a valley,’ he says. ‘No one goes there anymore, but I’ve visited it many times to sketch the landscape.’

As soon as the hunt has moved on, we remount and follow the road up behind the hill. The air is heavy with humidity and a falcon soars in the thermals overhead. Crows caw from the tops of the trees beside us as we trot past. ‘Come, Cecilia!’ Zorzo urges his horse into a canter. ‘We don’t have much time.’

In the churchyard, we dismount and fall into each other’s arms. When I say “fall”, I mean that literally, for we do exactly that, becoming one within seconds so great is our passion. No need for decorum, for we are the only people in this secluded part of the countryside. If anyone watches us, ’tis but the spirits of the Romans who were here before us, guarding the entrance to the valley.

We don’t even bother to undress. Zorzo unlaces his cod and lifts my skirts, hoisting me onto him as he leans against the wall of the building. I’m ready for him, my legs wrap themselves around him, my lips on his, my
figa
sucking him in greedily, and oh ’tis so, so wonderful and I say to him as we reach our joy, ‘Give me another babe, Zorzo!’

Fern spun away from the mirror, her dizziness and sense of dislocation mixing with something else. She’d heard mention of the church where Cecilia had been with Zorzo, she was sure of it.

She returned to Luca’s bed, slipped between the sheets, and rolled over onto her side, her body languid. Strange how she experienced Zorzo’s lovemaking along with Cecilia. Totally weird, in fact. Just like she’d gone through giving birth to Lorenza and the pain of separation from her.

God, Fern, you’ve made love to two men tonight.
She took in the sight of Luca sleeping next to her. She mustn’t confuse him with Zorzo. The way his mouth turned up at the corners was like the painter’s. But that was the only similarity, except for the way they both made love. Cecilia’s last encounter with Zorzo had mirrored her own with Luca the other week.
Another echo of the past
.

What about that ancient church? She’d heard mention of an ancient church before. Who’d told her about it? Had it been Vanessa? No. Not Vanessa.
Chiara!
It had been Chiara. That time when she’d gone riding with her and Chiara had suggested they take a picnic to the farmhouse. Poor Chiara. How terrible for her to have found Federico there with his other woman.

In the morning, Fern told Luca about Lodovico’s treachery and Cecilia and Zorzo’s tryst. ‘Cecilia let slip to Zorzo that Lorenza is his,’ she said.

‘That must have set the cat among the pigeons.’

‘I expect so. I returned to the present without finding out.’

‘I’m worried about you, Fern.’ He kissed her. ‘Cecilia won’t leave you in peace. You’re getting to the end of her story. And I think you’ll agree we know what happened. The piece of burnt wood is a warning, I think.’

‘Yes, I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Do you have to go in to work today?’

‘No. I’ve got the day off to help Ma fetch Chiara home from hospital. Why?’

‘I’d like to visit your farmhouse, and compare the area with the one where Cecilia and Zorzo went. I’d like to see if it’s the same church. Just to set my mind at rest, if that’s okay with you.’

‘I’m not due at the hospital until midday.’

‘I’ll phone Aunt Susan and tell her I’ll be home for lunch.’

***

An hour later Fern was standing next to Luca in front of the farmhouse, which was set halfway up the hill behind an old chapel. ‘The view is amazing,’ she said.

‘Look over to the right,’ Luca said, pointing to the distant hills on the horizon. ‘Those are the Euganean Hills behind Padova.’

‘And that’s the back of Asolo.’ Fern indicated the closer chain of knolls on the left, seven of them, undulating like a Chinese dragon’s back, separated by wooded valleys, the Rocca topping the second crest to the last on the right. In between the two ranges stretched the Venetian plain, dotted with towns and villages, their church steeples reaching to the sky.

She gazed down towards the church, nestled at the foot of the hill.
Another echo.
She pointed. ‘It didn’t have a steeple in Cecilia’s day, nor those cypress trees, but I recognise the building.’

‘There was a Roman guardhouse there, apparently, two thousand or so years ago. Protecting the pass into the valley.’

Fern thought about the house on the River Wye where she’d grown up. It had been a refuge after Harry’s death. She’d had to leave London when neighbours had called the police after she’d woken them repeatedly screaming from her nightmares of fire and death. It was then that she’d been signed off work. Home was where she’d embarked on art therapy, where she’d been comforted, where she’d felt secure.

Maybe she should cut her losses and go there now for the last few days of her hols? It would be the safest option. Get away for those echoes of a past she couldn’t change. She stared at the ancient chapel.

‘Lorenza!’

The voice resounded in her head. Fern straightened her shoulders; she had to find out what had happened to the child. And the only way to do that was to carry on until Cecilia’s final moments. But she wouldn’t do that now.
Focus on something else!

It was such a clear day that she was sure she could spot Venice on the southern horizon. The Republic of olden times. A long history of war and conquest. She
was
scared, but she was also intrigued. So little time left before she had to leave. Her job, her life as she’d known it up until a few weeks ago, her future, all waiting for her in London.

What about Luca, then? Did she love him? She knew she’d miss him dreadfully when she left Italy . . .

‘Please have supper with us tonight, Luca. Aunt Susan told me on the phone that she was making one of her Welsh cawl stews.’

‘My mouth’s watering already.’

Fern watched her aunt grin as Luca requested a third helping. Aunt Susan piled his plate high, and matched him by having another helping herself.

‘What about you, Fern?’ Aunt Susan asked.

‘It’s yummy, but I’m full. Thanks.’

Fern sat back and studied Luca as he chatted with her aunt. Chiara was home from the hospital, but confined to bed for a few days and under sedation for the pain. Federico had been on the phone to the villa, but Vanessa had told him point-blank not to ring again.

Luca went on to talk about lightning conductors.
Lightning conductors!
‘They’re essential,’ he said. ‘If lightning were to strike this house during a storm, it would be conducted into the rod, and pass through a wire to the ground.’

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ Aunt Susan said. ‘Can you get one for me? Although the chances of being struck by lightning seem small, best to be safe than sorry.’

‘Absolutely,’ Luca said, mopping up the last of his stew with a piece of bread. ‘Thank you for this amazing meal.’

Fern got up from her chair. ‘You relax, Auntie, while we clear away the dishes.’

Aunt Susan waddled over to the television set and switched it on. She started watching an episode of
Knots Landing
, dubbed into Italian.

‘I’ve been thinking about how to keep you safe,’ Luca said, taking a plate from Fern and putting it into the dishwasher.

She shot him a look and he held up his hands. ‘Don’t accuse me of being a caveman, but is there any way I can persuade you not to go through with this?’

‘I haven’t got much option. If I’m anywhere associated with Cecilia, she nearly always finds me. I managed to block her from my mind this morning when I was at the farmhouse, though. Perhaps I’m getting stronger?’

‘Or Cecilia’s getting weaker . . .’

‘So, what do you propose I do?’

‘I don’t think you should be left alone. If you’re with Cecilia when she dies, you might find it impossible to return to the present time.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Is it? As crazy as burnt wood appearing and disappearing? As crazy as feeling the labour pains of a girl long dead?’

‘Point taken. What about when I’m asleep? She comes to me in my dreams sometimes.’

‘Well, I think you should stay at the villa. The only time you had a vision of Cecilia there was when she was out with the hunt. I’ve discussed it with my mother and she agrees it would be a good idea if you spent a few days with us.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. And you can lend a hand with Chiara.’

‘I still want to find out about Lorenza.’

‘You can come to my flat for that, and I’ll keep an eye on you. Make sure nothing untoward happens.’

‘All right. I’ll tell my aunt then I’ll go and pack a bag and my art things.’

***

That night, she slept with Luca. Their lovemaking was as tender as before. She was getting used to this. The long, languorous kisses, the feel of his hard chest against her breasts. The way he ran his fingers through her hair, the way he cupped her buttocks, the way he brought her to climax so slowly that when she reached her peak she thought she would explode with pleasure.

When they woke the next morning, Luca reminded her it was their final rehearsal this evening for the re-enactment, which would be tomorrow. Fern kissed him. ‘Can we go back to your flat after the practice?’

***

‘Very kind of you to come and give us a hand,’ Vanessa said at breakfast. ‘And I think Luca’s right. You’re probably much safer here. Would you mind keeping Chiara company while I go to the pharmacy and pick up some prescriptions?’

‘I wouldn’t mind at all. She can watch me paint. People tend to find it quite soothing. I know I did when I first started art therapy.’

Chiara’s room overlooked the vineyards at the side of the villa. There was a small church in the foreground, and gentle hills dotted with woodland behind. A perfect landscape for a watercolour artist. She’d done more painting over the past few weeks than she’d done in months in London. And she felt so proud of the work she’d produced. Having Cecilia in her head and watching Zorzo must have improved her technique. She couldn’t wait to show her art to an agent.

Chiara was asleep, her leg raised up on cushions. Fern tiptoed across the room, set up her portable easel, dipped her brush in the glass of water she’d brought with her, and proceeded to wet the paper. She mixed a jade green tint and set to work. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard Chiara say, ‘Can I have a look?’

Fern unclipped her painting and took it over to the bed.

‘Very nice,’ Chiara said, scrunching up the sheets to her chest. She frowned. ‘I hate Federico for what he did, you know. He’s made a complete fool of me. I’ll never forgive him.’ She burst into great, heaving sobs.

Fern put her arms around her. ‘Cry it out,’ she said. ‘Cry out your pain. Cry out your frustration.’ As she said it, her own bottling-up gave way, and she found herself sobbing with Chiara, crying for Harry, for her lost baby, for the future they’d never have. And, as she cried, she sensed her guilt being washed away by her tears.

After a couple of minutes, Chiara said, ‘You’re right.’ She sighed. ‘I do feel a lot better. But I’m still very tired. I think I’ll go back to sleep now.’

Chiara closed her eyes. She appeared so young, lying there, her long dark brown hair spread over the pillow. Fern waited until she was breathing regularly then slipped from the room.

Vanessa had got back from the
farmacia
and was nursing a cup of coffee in the sitting room. She smiled as Fern came up. ‘How’s Chiara?’

‘We had a good cry together. My therapist was always urging me to un-bottle my emotions. It might take a little time, but I think Chiara will get over the hurt.’

Vanessa put down her coffee. ‘I’m sure she will. Now fill me in on everything that’s been happening with Cecilia.’

Fern told her about her visit to Venice, the celebration of the Republic’s victory over the Emperor, and Cecilia posing for Giorgione’s
Sleeping Venus
. Then she recounted how Lodovico had been spying for the Duke of Ferrara.

‘I’ve just remembered something,’ Vanessa said. ‘Luca asked me to do some research at the library for him, to find out about Ferrara’s stance towards Emperor Maximilian. I was going to tell him, but Chiara falling off her horse and breaking her leg put it out of my mind. Just a minute, I’ll get my notes.’

Vanessa went to the desk in the corner of the room. She rummaged in a drawer then padded back across the carpet. ‘On 10 December 1508,’ she read, ‘Representatives of the Papacy, France, the Holy Roman Empire and Ferdinand I of Spain concluded the League of Cambrai against the Republic. The Marquis of Mantova and the Duke of Ferrara also joined in, thereby isolating Venice.’

Fern’s pulse jumped.

***

The final rehearsal for the re-enactment over, she strode with Luca down Via Canova towards the palazzo where he had his flat. It was a warm night, the ever-present scent of honeysuckle from the town gardens perfuming the air. Up the wide marble staircase, and he let them into his apartment.

In the kitchen, he poured them both a glass of Prosecco. ‘Cheers! How are you feeling?’

‘A bit nervous, given what your mother told me about the alliance against Venice. What if Lodovico has declared his true colours and has taken Cecilia with him to Ferrara?’

Luca took a sip of the wine. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’

‘Definitely,’ she said, making an effort to sound positive.

‘It’s a bit like conducting a séance.’ He gave a wry grin. ‘Only we don’t need a medium.’

‘Indeed,’ she said, her stomach fluttering and her bravado of earlier in danger of toppling. ‘If I can, I’ll tell you everything as I experience it. Then you can try and pull me out if it all starts going pear-shaped.’

‘What if nothing happens? What if you don’t connect?’

Fern laughed. ‘True, we could sit here all night just staring into space.’

‘Is there something you can do to…to, oh, you know what I mean . . .’

‘Maybe if I think about her, maybe that’ll help.’

‘What about if you relaxed a little, sat back, closed your eyes? … Fern? … Fern?’

My lady’s brother is visiting again and there’s the usual banquet in his honour. At least, on this occasion, he’s here with only a small entourage. Lodovico and I have been placed at the top table.
Such an honour!
I watch my husband circling around Giorgio Cornaro like a moth around a flame. Lodovico refills the noble Cornaro’s goblet from the flagon on the table. Why did he not wait for a servant to do it? What a toad he is, and to what avail?

Spring has arrived in this year of our Lord 1509, and peach blossom fills the vases lining the side of the banqueting hall. My true love is also here, the first time I’ve seen him since our tryst at the hunt. Zorzo strums his lute and sings:

‘
I find no peace, but for war am not inclined;

I fear, yet hope; I burn, yet am turned to ice;

I soar in the heavens, but lie upon the ground;

I hold nothing, though I embrace the whole world.

Love has me in a prison which he neither opens nor shuts fast;

he neither claims me for his own nor loosens my halter;

he neither slays nor unshackles me;

he would not have me live, yet leaves me with my torment.

Eyeless I gaze, and tongueless I cry out;

I long to perish, yet plead for succour;

I hate myself, but love another.

I feed on grief, yet weeping, laugh;

death and life alike repel me;

and to this state I am come, my lady, because of you.’

’Tis one of Petrarch’s sonnets, I know, for I have read it. Zorzo catches my eye. My heartbeat quickens as I remember that day last autumn when I let slip he’d fathered my child.

He smothered me with kisses and begged to see Lorenza before Lodovico’s return from Ferrara. So I took him to the house in Asolo, and he swung her above his head just like the time when he sketched her for
The Tempest.
Then I showed him her paintings, where the mix of colours spoke of a maturity and skill beyond her years. ‘She takes after you in beauty and talent,’ he said, and I swelled with pride.

After dinner the court dances the
saltarello
. Bouncing on our toes, we appear merry. ’Tis a farce. Pope Julius has issued an interdict against Venice, and has excommunicated every citizen of the Republic for the non-restitution of the Papal States.
Excommunicated!
We are no longer to receive any of the sacraments, and, when we die, we won’t go to heaven.
Maria Santissima!
This is serious and here we are, dancing as if we didn’t have a care in the world.

There’s a sudden commotion at the far end of the hall.
Gesù bambino!
My Lady’s brother has collapsed. A sick feeling washes through me and I shoot a glance at my husband. He’s smiling.
Smiling!
Quickly, Lodovico wipes the smile from his face and goes to Giorgio Cornaro’s side, helping to lift him from the floor to a chair.

The musicians have stopped playing and there’s a stunned hush. ‘Call my physician,’ the Queen commands. People start scurrying to and fro’ and the courtiers break into small groups to gossip.

I take advantage of the commotion and hurry to our quarters. My husband’s travelling chest is by the window, and ’tis unlocked. I rifle through it, not knowing for what I am looking. If he has poisoned my lady’s brother, Lodovico wouldn’t be so careless as to leave the poison lying around. Yet, I’m certain that’s what he’s done, for why else would Giorgio Cornaro collapse so soon after Lodovico poured his wine?

I let out a sardonic laugh, thinking of when I slipped valerian into Lodovico’s drink in Venice. The two of us are as bad as each other, although I didn’t go so far as to try and poison him. I’m angry with myself, for I was supposed to keep watch over my husband and have failed in my pledge to the Queen. I have to find evidence, but where?

Lodovico’s cape is hanging from a hook on the back of the door. I go to it and slip my hands into the pockets. At first, I feel nothing. Then my fingers encounter a small package. I pull it out and open it. Seeds. I take a couple from the package, which I then return to Lodovico’s garment before I dart back to the hall.

Giorgio Cornaro’s eyes flutter open and I cross myself.
Praise God!
He’s still alive.
The physician is ordering an emetic to be prepared. Clearly, he suspects poison. What to do? Should I point my finger or should I keep quiet? No. The future of the Republic is at stake; I need to flush out the traitor in our midst.