Veronica COURTESAN (9 page)

‘Pray, let me do it.’ Marco reaches for the fob.

‘I can manage, my lord.’ I nudge him out of the way, turn the lock and push the heavy door open. My household has retired long since.

All is dark except for a tallow candle left burning on the stairwell. It provides just enough light to see up to the
piano nobile.
I hop on one foot, trying to unlace one of my chopines. Marco steadies me, removes his sword, and kneels to take off both of my shoes.

I wriggle my toes. ‘Oh, such relief.’

He touches my calves, behind my knees, and the outside of my thighs, sending a tingle to my core. I place my hands in his hair, and tug gently. ‘Come, my lord!’ I urge him to his feet, then walk up the stairs. He follows me to my chamber, and stands in the doorway, watching me, while I light candles.

Thank God Lena has her courses and is not waiting for me in my bed. What about my lemon? A child from Marco Venier is a risk I’m willing to take. I pull the earrings from my ears and the bracelet from my wrist, setting them on my nightstand. Slowly, I untie my bodice. Reaching behind I undo my overskirt. My clothes fall to the floor and pool at my feet. Only my underskirt remains. Soon that joins my other garments. I’m standing naked now except for my pearl choker.

‘Pray, unclasp me, sir!’

Turning around, I lift my hair. In a few steps, he’s standing next to me, reaching for the clasp of my necklace and unhooking it, setting it on the nightstand next to the earrings and bracelet. He rests his palms on my shoulders and slides them down my back, breathing fast and deep. I catch the scent of musk and his citrus cologne.

‘Disrobe now,’ I tell him. ‘For this challenge, you are required to do exactly as I tell you.’

Marco disrobes and I go to stand behind him. I take my fragranced cloth and run it from the back of his neck, trailing all the way down his spine to his buttocks. His head falls forward and I rub my breasts against him. Wrapping my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, I pull his head back. ‘Don’t move!’ His arms fall to his side and he stands still.

‘Walk to the bed,’ I prod him and he steps forward. ‘To the middle and lie down on your back.’ He obeys my orders. ‘Put both hands in front of you and clasp them together.’ I reach into the drawer of my commode and take out a soft rope, then wrap it around his wrists, weaving it around and in between, leaving the ends dangling. He watches me intently. ‘You agree?’ I ask.

‘Yes, my lady,’ he whispers, his voice cracking. I pull his hands above his head, and tie the loose ends to the bedpost, securing his arms. I run my thumb across his lips, and he licks it, drawing it into his mouth, making my
figa
flood. I lower my head to his nipples and nip and suck on each one. He writhes and moans.

I find his prick. He’s hard, as I knew he would be. ‘Is this for me?’ I spread the moisture that has leaked from the tip with my finger and he moans some more.

I go to stand at the foot of the bed. His feet are dangling just off the end, and I spread his legs. Marco’s chest rises and falls with each shallow breath he’s taking. Kneeling between his legs, I can see how ready he is. I sniff his balls; they smell musky, but clean.

‘Do you want me to delight you, my lord?’

He closes his eyes and his breathing becomes more rapid.

‘Answer me! Do you want me to delight you?’

He shakes his head from side to side.

‘No? Your upstanding prick is telling me otherwise.’

I run my fingers up and down his length until he bucks his hips. ‘Tell me you want me to delight you!’

His body shudders and he opens his eyes. ‘I want you to fuck me,’ he pants.

‘Ah, no longer do we engage in the flowery language of courtly love.’

Straddling him, I settle my
figa
against his prick. He clamps his legs together, lifts his buttocks off the bed, and pushes back at me until he’s fully inside. Now I let myself feel him, breathe him, and love him, as I ride him, arching my spine, closing my eyes, and throwing my head back, my hair cascading down to tickle the swell of my arse.

‘Untie me,’ he pleads.

I rock myself up and down, taking my time. ‘Not yet.’

Leaning forward, my taut nipples brushing his chest, I stroke his face. My lips pull at the soft skin of his neck and I give him light kisses behind the ear.

‘I need to touch you,’ he groans.

Reaching up, I pull at the tie and his hands fall from the bedpost to the pillow above his head. I don’t stop moving, but with one hand release the cord from around his hands and wrists. He fondles my breasts, then holds onto my arms. Our bodies move as one and it’s as if we’ve made love together like this every day for years.

‘Such harmony,’ I murmur. My legs are clamped to his hips, holding him exactly where I want him. He thrusts back. ‘Reach your joy with me,’ I command.

A low growl escapes his throat as he plunges into me one last time. I let out a squeal, my
figa
throbbing as his pulsating prick pushes me over the brink.

Collapsing on top of him, I feel his fingers brush gently through my damp hair and I press a kiss to his lips.

‘You truly are more delightful than Venus,’ he whispers against my neck.

‘So you concede defeat?’

‘Not yet.’ He picks up the flex, and with one deft movement, ties my hands together. ‘Have you another cord?’ He slides from the bed and rummages in my night-stand. ‘What, pray, is this?’

Dio mio!
’Tis the Murano glass phallus Ludovico uses to pleasure my
figa
when he rides my arse. Lena likes to wield it too. ‘A toy,’ I say.

‘Intriguing.’ He twirls the tip around each of my nipples. They stiffen once again and my
figa
responds.

‘Does that delight you?’

‘Oh yes,’ I nod.

He moves the cool glass down my belly and presses it against my hot labia.

I purr softly. He gently inserts it, then pulls it out with infinite slowness. Finding my nub, he rubs the tip against it. My thighs shake, and I spread my legs wide.

‘My lord!’

‘Beg me, sweet lady, beg me for more!’

‘No!’

‘You will not beg?’

‘Yes! No! Yes! Don’t stop!’

‘I’ll take that as a plea, then,’ he chuckles.

I feel helpless, wanton, yet infinitely desirable. My
figa
milks the glass as he pushes it in. His strokes are deft, and, too soon, ripples of joy are spreading through me, and now, Marco is inside me, pressing his prick into my centre, and the frenzy grows and grows, and he’s loving me and I’m loving him and ’tis so, so perfect, and we arrive together a second time. Truly we are made for each other…

He kisses me. ‘Do you concede defeat?’

‘No. No more challenges. We are equally matched.’

‘Indeed.’

We lie in each other’s arms, sometimes stroking, sometimes kissing, and murmuring sweet nothings, languid with love.

On the cusp of sleep, I whisper. ‘Tonight, I will not charge you.’

He grunts. ‘I wish I were free to marry you. For I would.’

I’m fully awake now. ‘I’m not suited to marriage.’

‘I would have you in exclusivity.’

I sit up, shocked. ‘You would not, sir!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No man will ever own me again.’

‘My dear, I can give you security.’

I’m crestfallen, undone. ‘You must know I cannot gratify you in this. Cannot means
will
not.’

‘Your household can continue as before. The only change will be that I shall have exclusivity. What say you?’

‘I say no. Sir, I will not be your possession.’

He frowns. ‘I cannot believe that you are refusing me, cruel lady.’

‘If you truly loved me you would not ask me this.’

‘I ask because I love you. How can it be, in the most tender part of your body, that your fair, fine, white breast can enclose a heart so hard and pitiless?’

‘Courtly language again. Well, two can play the same game. I do not love you,’ I lie. ‘You want to fly without wings and rise too high all at once.’

‘You are tearing me apart. Pray, give me some hope that you might reconsider.’

‘The pathway of hope is not direct, for more often than not, it corrupts with lies and false pretence,’ I quote from one of my verses.

‘Veronica, though you’re young now and fresh as a flower, the years fly past so swiftly. Beauty is born and is wiped out in a moment, like the rose that blooms and withers all at once.’

He too has almost certainly quoted from one of
his
poems. ‘I tell you again,’ I sigh. ‘If you truly loved me, you would not ask this. I have no more to say. Pray, go in peace.’

After I’ve seen him to the door, I walk with heavy limbs up the stairs, slip off my robe, and stretch out under my blankets. If only Marco could be more like Andrew, who would share me with the world. Dear, generous Andrew. But, perhaps if Marco were like Andrew I would not desire him as much. They are like night and day: Marco, dark and brooding; Andrew, full of light and laughter. Oh, how I would like to have them both! ’Tis not to be, however, and I must resign myself. Desire is what I create in my lovers; I must not give in to it myself. Thank God I had the strength to refuse Marco, even though it breaks my heart. Yet my heart would break even more if I gave up my freedom. I curl in on myself, hot tears of regret wetting my pillow.

There’s great excitement in Venice today: Henri III of Valois, the twenty-two year-old King of Poland, is visiting the city on his way to France to assume the kingship after the death of his brother, Charles IX. The King is accompanied by his cousin, Alfonso II, Duke of Ferrara. There have been balls, theatrical presentations, musical performances, attended by Henri and Alfonso. I’ve even joined in a poetic masque, where the King was praised as the most valiant Roman Catholic leader fighting the Protestant Hapsburg menace.

More than two years have passed since I last saw Marco, and I believe I’m finally cured of my longing for him. Perhaps God has deemed me greedy, and has withheld my heart’s desire as punishment for my pride. I confess my sins all the time, so the good Lord knows about me. There’s a new priest in the parish, an earnest youth, and it must be hard for him to hear the repeated confessions of a woman whose activities probably seem shocking to him. Yet he absolves me each time.

Lovers have come and gone since that mournful night when I refused Marco, but I still have my two faithful regulars, Ludovico and Andrew, and ’tis thanks to Andrew that I’ve been invited to take my place on the Doge’s enormous state barge, the Bucintoro, for a regatta in honour of the visiting monarch. I’ve reached the pinnacle of success to have been placed among the nobility of the Republic. Their wives are in mixed company for once, such is the occasion, and I’m not the only courtesan present. But I am the only one who’ll be sitting with the ruling crow class. I can’t help feeling pleased.

Perspiration prickles my armpits as Andrew holds my hand and leads me up the ramp to take my seat. His wife is lying-in at home after the birth of their fifth daughter, which is why he’s asked me to be his escort. And the Doge has given his approval, wishing to show-off not just the beauty of the city but also her women. None of us is wearing masks; we are all on show. The late-afternoon sun is fierce, for ’tis high summer, and the blue sky is cloudless. Fifteen galleys and hundreds of boats are out on the water, ready to follow behind us like a team of ducklings. The barge is resplendent, having been recently re-gilded from top to bottom to impress Henri of Valois.

The sound of trumpets, and we get to our feet. The King has arrived. He’s small and slight, his dark hair cropped short under a plumed hat, and he wears a black doublet studded with rubies. So young, six years younger than me.

Below deck, the 350 man crew dip their oars, and we set out into the lagoon. Happily, I’m seated under an awning, otherwise I would suffer from sunstroke. I feel the heat of a gaze upon me, and turn around. My hand flies to my throat. Maffio Venier!

He smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling in his pudgy face. ‘I see you are engaged, like the rest of the courtesans, in showing your delightful nipples to our visitor.’

I glance down at my neckline. Indeed, they are fully on show. I pull down my bodice to make them even more visible. ‘Sir, I am not like the
rest
of the courtesans. Don’t you remember that you, yourself, once called me “unique”? And I don’t need to show anything. Men come to me; I do not go to them.’

‘I see you are still most humble, Madonna Veronica.’

‘And I see
you
are as vile as ever.’

‘I’m as innocuous as an angel. My knife is my tongue… against which you struggle to defend yourself.’

‘If you had been here two years ago, I would have fought a duel of words with you.’

‘Which you would have lost.’

‘That, I very much doubt.’

I decide to ignore the cuckold of a cur for the remainder of the evening, and I’m relieved to have learnt that Marco has been seconded to Constantinople, as a diplomatic envoy to the Sultan, for the sight of him would quite undo me, in spite of my telling myself that I’ve forgotten him.

Soon night falls and the fireworks display starts. The Doge’s Palace is lit up with tallow candles, the illuminated figures of stars and coats of arms placed around the outside of the building. On a gun signal, artificers on smaller barges shoot up fireballs that burst into stars. Oh, ’tis a wondrous spectacle! I quite forget who is curled on his seat like a snake behind me, and I grasp Andrew’s arm in delight. For the finale, the men launch a great volley of flying fire-lances, constructed so that, once in the firmament, their long tails trailing, they explode and send forth even more fiery spears. A giant detonation of flames and noise and smoke, truly as if the heavens are falling to the earth or the fires of Hell have risen up to consume us.

A thunderous round of applause at the end, and the Bucintoro takes us back to the palace for a sumptuous banquet. Dish after dish after dish. I catch the young monarch studying me, his eyes hooded, and I smile at him with a fluttering stomach. Sitting next to Doge Alvise Mocenigo, Henri whispers into the old man’s ear. My heart thuds. Has the young King asked about me? It would truly be an honour to bed the future King of France.
You aim too high, Veronica! Verily unique you are, yes, but even so…

He does ask for me, heavily encouraged by his entourage I’m told. It seems they are concerned he might still be a virgin, for he’s never been seen with a woman. Who better than Veronica Franco, the most sought-after courtesan in Venice, to deflower him?

This evening, he’s at a banquet in the
Fondaco dei Turchi
, following which Andrew will bring him here. In the meantime, I’m preparing myself. The King’s night of love must be truly memorable.

Lena is helping me. This afternoon she bathed me in rose-scented water then plucked my
figa
free of hair. She curled my tresses and threaded them with strands of silver and gold, my only adornments. My breath has been fragranced with mint, and I’ve rubbed honey on my pearl in anticipation. If ’tis true that the King has never bedded a woman before, I shall teach him where to put his tongue and find my sweetness. My nipples, rouged ready for the King, stiffen in expectation.

Lena takes a roll of scarlet silk ribbon, wide as the width of my hand, and flicks it across the bed. Then, from the chest by the window, she lifts the bolt of fabric we bought yesterday, and pulls the entire length off its roll. She flaps it all out, as if she were shaking out a freshly laundered sheet. The material is sheer and golden – almost transparent – and it shimmers in the candlelight.

Naked, except for a carnival mask, with feathers at the side for allure, I lie down in the middle of the bed, both ribbon and gauze stretching out flat on either side of me. I fold my arms under my breasts. Lena stretches across me and lifts the fabric back towards her, letting it fall so that it completely covers my body. She gently tucks it under, all down my side, then goes around the bed and repeats the process. I feel her tying the ribbon, and now I’m neatly wrapped like a gift. This is Andrew’s idea. He said Cleopatra had been delivered to Julius Caesar rolled up in a carpet. I’m grateful he’s devised a more comfortable way for me to be presented to the King, even though I’m trussed up like a chicken ready for the pot.

Lena pats my arm. ‘How fare you, Veronica?’

‘Well,
grazie.
’ My words sound muffled, as if they’re coming from a long way away.

‘I’ll wait downstairs,’ she says.

My breath is steamy inside my silken sheath, and sweat beads my brow under the mask. I hope Henri of Valois will arrive soon, for his “chicken” will surely roast before too long. I bite my lips to redden them, and wish I could move my hands to pinch my cheeks and bring even more colour than Lena has applied. Will he find me to his liking? Of course he will. Why am I panicking? I’m skilled at what I do and will go above and beyond to win this conquest, for it will be the making of me. I think about the sonnets I’ve written for him. Perhaps ’tis presumptuous of me, yet I hope he will accept them along with the miniature painting I’ve commissioned of myself.

Male laughter echoes, and heavy footsteps thud on the staircase. I wriggle, feeling an itch in my right foot. And then the door crashes open, making me jump as it bangs against the wall.

Men’s voices, speaking in French. Their indecipherable conversation reverberates for a moment. An order is barked out, footsteps retreat, and the door slams shut. Somebody strides across the room. A high-pitched voice says, ‘Is this for me? I wonder what it can possibly be…’ His Italian is breathy and heavily accented, and my heart is beating madly.

A faint tug near my middle pulls me slightly to one side as he undoes the ribbon. Taking his time, he peels back the fabric. His breathing rattles in his nose.

‘Well, well, well,’ he says, his dark eyes flashing, ‘the finest whore in Venice, laid on to delight me.’

I roll off the bed and drop down into a deep curtsey, not liking his reference to “whore”. Perhaps they don’t have courtesans in France? I straighten up. We’re much the same height, the King and I. His beard and moustache are so thin, they make him appear even younger than his years. He has a sensuous mouth, however: a bow-shaped upper lip and a full lower one. Should I kiss it?

‘Pray, put on some clothes,’ he says in a frosty tone. ‘Your nakedness disgusts me.’

My heart skips a beat. ‘Do I not please you, your Majesty? I don’t understand.’

He gives a hollow laugh. ‘You will, soon enough.’

I go to my chest and open it. He’s right behind me, peering at my dresses. I catch the scent of garlic and cologne. ‘Madonna Franco, such finery!’

Henri points to my dressmaker’s latest masterpiece, an extravagant creation in pink cotton damask, threaded with silver and intricately embroidered with flowers and bows on the sleeves. ‘Truly ’tis the prettiest frock.’ The King holds it up. ‘I would like to try this on.’

I cannot stop my mouth from falling open. A man dressing like a woman? Never before have I come across such a thing. So slight and small is he that we are the same size. I shall have to agree. ‘Of course, your Majesty, if such is your pleasure.’

He strips off his doublet, pantaloons and hose. At the same time, I take off my mask and put on my boys’ attire. Now I know what might delight the King, I hope to salvage the situation. For if I do not bed him, my reputation will be in tatters, and all my hopes of this assignation being the making of me will be dashed.

‘Pray, help me,’ he says, indicating that I should tie the bodice. ‘Swear to me on your life that this shall be our secret!’

‘I do. And, if it pleases you, sire, you may ride my arse.’

He sighs. ‘’Tis not my wont, signora. I do not ride arses. I prefer that others ride mine, and I do not think you have the tackle to fulfil that task, in spite of the way you are dressed.’ He giggles like a girl and twirls around in my dress.

What to do? An idea has taken root. I think of the double-headed Murano glass phallus in the drawer of my nightstand. Lena’s and my latest toy. Will it work? It has to work, or I’m done for.

I reach under the King’s skirts and find his prick. He jumps like a startled rabbit. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I think I have the solution to our predicament, sire.’

‘What predicament?’

‘Your entourage expect me to deflower you. If I do not, then suspicions will arise about your penchants.’

‘But I do not desire you...’

‘Wait. I am a professional seductress. I can create such desire in you, if you will allow me.’

‘How?’

I reach into my nightstand, extract the phallus, and wave it in front of his face.