Courtesan's Lover (26 page)

Oh sweet Jesus! This simply cannot be happening. Small wonder Luca's face seemed familiar at San Domenico…God has finally run out of patience with me. For so many years I have been so terribly afraid of dying—of going to Hell. But perhaps not quite frightened enough. It now seems I don't need to worry about death after all. I am to be punished for my wickedness
before
I die.

God must hate me so very much. He's going to take Luca away from me. I knew it would happen. He's given me just this one tantalizing glimpse of…of what I want so very much…just to show me what I've been missing, and then—
oh, Dio!—
He's going to snatch it all away from me.

I think I might be sick.

“Gianni,” Luca says, “I'm glad you've come back down. Forgive us if we finish our meal. Do you want some?”

Gianni shakes his head.

My plate is still half-full of Luca's lovely
peposo
, but I know I won't be able to eat another mouthful. Luca and I sit back in our places, while Gianni pulls out another of the folding wooden chairs from where it stands against the wall; he shakes it open and sits down at the far end of the table.

“Signora Marrone has been kind enough to come and keep me company for supper this evening.”

Gianni stares at me. I can feel my heartbeat shaking my whole body.

Luca has either not noticed the horrible tension shuddering between Gianni and me, or he is deliberately ignoring it. He says, “Tell us about your trip. How was your journey?” His voice has a brightness about it, but then, when I look at the fork in his hand, I see a tremor in his fingers. Gianni doesn't answer immediately; he cannot take his eyes from mine. Will he say something? Will he give me away and ruin everything? He is holding me out over the edge of a precipice by my wrists and could let go at any moment. A long way below me lie jagged rocks.

He finally drags his gaze from my face and turns to his father. “It was long, Papa. Very long. Piccione lost a shoe about thirty miles out of Napoli, and we had to walk for a couple of hours until we could find a farrier.”

“Were you able…?”

Gianni nods. “He's quite sound again.”

“What about Bologna?” Luca asks.

Gianni shrugs. He picks up and begins to fiddle with one of the pieces of bread that lies on the cloth, pulling the soft crumb into tiny shreds. “I am not sure how helpful it was. Signor Trotti set me various tasks, most of which I've managed to accomplish. But I shan't really know until he has seen and commented on what I have written. Perhaps you could cast an eye over it all for me, Papa, before I give it to Trotti.”

Luca smiles, nods and says, “Would you like a drink, Gianni?”

“Thank you, Papa.” The bottle on the table is all but empty. “There's not much left in that one,” he says. “I'll go down to the cellar and get another.”

“No—I'll go, Gian—take a moment to talk to Francesca while I run down and get another couple of bottles.”

Gianni and I stare at each other as Luca leaves the room. His footsteps ring clear on the stairs.

There is a moment's screaming silence.

My face burns with shame as I remember the warmth of this boy's mouth on my scar, the feel of my legs wrapping around his waist, the taste of his skin, the exquisite, shivering conclusion of our coupling; and then he pushes back his chair. He walks across to the window and, leaning his head upon the glass, says coldly, with his back to me, “How much has he paid you to be here?”

My head is icy and hollow. “Nothing.” My voice comes out as a whisper.

He turns to me, arms folded across his chest, shoulders high. “Nothing? Then why have you come? I didn't think you did it
gratis
.” His voice cracks.

“He doesn't know, Gianni. He doesn't know I'm a— He doesn't know about any of it. I gave it all up the day I met him. I'm not whoring anymore. Oh, God, Gianni, please,
please
don't tell him!”

He frowns. “What do you mean—you've given it all up?”

Tears are blurring my vision.

“It's because of him. Your father. I can't explain now—it's too complicated. He'll be back in a moment. Please…”

I hear footsteps; I quickly wipe my eyes and nose with my fingers, expecting to see Luca as the door opens. But a slight, fair-haired young man leans in through the doorway, a twisted smile lifting one corner of his mouth. I stand up.

“So, he's found himself a woman after all this time…” the young man says. “If you don't mind my saying so, Signora, you don't appear to be particularly happy about it.”

There is a loud pause and then Gianni says stiffly, “Carlo—this is Signora…Signora Marrone.”

The man called Carlo bows with an exaggerated flourish and Gianni turns to me. “Signora, this is my brother.”

The man whose money paid for Gianni's defloration.

Oh, dear God—this is a nightmare!

“And the two of you have been getting to know one another. How nice,” Carlo says. Gianni reddens. Carlo sees his flush and grins. Leaning in close to Gianni's ear, he says quietly, though with his eye on me—he means me to hear—“I know you've developed a bit of a taste for it, after your encounter with that beautiful bitch of Michele's, but this one here is Papa's, Gian. Hands off, I'd suggest.” He pats Gianni's cheek softly with the flat of his hand.

Gianni swears, glares at Carlo as though he is trying not to hit him, and then, with a last swift glance at me, turns on his heel and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

It opens again a second later, and an anxious-looking Luca, a bottle of wine in his hand, says, “What in God's name is the matter with Gianni now? He almost knocked me down the stairs.”

“Told you the other day, Papa, he lacks a sense of humor,” Carlo says. His mouth is still twisted in amusement. “Excuse me—I have things I should be doing. Delighted to have met you, Signora.” He bows ostentatiously to me once more and, walking with a curiously boneless gait, leaves the room.

Luca puts both bottles down on the table. “I'm so sorry, Francesca. Oh,
cielo
—it was probably a dreadful idea in the end, our having our meal together on the night the boys came home.” He turns toward the closed door of the
sala
. “I have no idea what's got into Gianni.”

I stare at him, the explanation for his son's behavior screaming inside my head.

Luca stands in front of me and strokes my hair. My longing for him is stronger than my fear, and without my deciding to do it, my arms slide around his waist. He bends and kisses my mouth once more, pulling me in toward him with one hand, pressing the other hand up between us and onto my breast. His knee pushes in between my thighs. A little noise of longing escapes me and I cling to him as though I were drowning. This might be as much of him as I will ever get—I'm going to snatch every second I can have.

But, after a moment or two, Luca takes his mouth from mine, shakes his head and says, “No. I am going to have to take you home, Francesca. In another moment or two I'm not sure I'll be responsible for what I am doing. I don't want to do anything to compromise your reputation.”

Oh, God. My reputation? I am close to weeping.

“Come on, we'll take our time walking, shall we?” Luca says.

***

The night is warm, and a faint wind from the south carries a smell of salt, tarred rope, and fish up from the dockside. It hasn't rained for weeks; the street is blurred with dirt. The place is almost empty—there are very few people out, though a couple of ragged little boys are sitting astride a low wall, kicking the stucco with grubby bare feet and staring unabashed at the two of us as we pass them.

Luca and I walk side by side, not touching, as close as propriety permits in the open street.

“I'm so sorry,” he says.

“Why? What for?”

“For my son. His behavior was quite…Oh, Francesca, I don't know what to say! It simply never occurred to me that he would react like that—he is normally so good-natured…I just…” He trails off and I stop walking and turn to him.

“You don't have to apologize for him. He isn't you. It's you I want—not him.” My words hang glittering in the air between us as though I have shouted them at the top of my voice. My unthinking, nakedly honest words, blurting out a sentiment horribly inappropriate for the sedate widow I am supposed to be. Luca stares at me. We stand there in the street, facing each other and not speaking.

Luca does not respond to my outburst directly. He says, “Perhaps I can see you again. On Monday?”

I cannot speak. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out of it, and I close it again.

My head feels stiff upon my neck and I wonder if I shall be able to move it. But then I manage to nod.

“What are you thinking?” Luca asks.

“That…that you know so little about me.” I am an empty eggshell, a stupid, fragile nothing that he could crush with ease in the palm of one hand.

He smiles and lays a hand on my cheek. “I know as much as I need to know for now,
carissima
. I will have leisure enough in the future to discover the rest. And if it comes to that, the obverse is also true—you know next to nothing about me.”

A melting feeling of warm longing starts in my throat, catching behind my nipples on its way down through my body, when I see the deep laughter lines curving around his mouth.

Luca says, “It is getting late,
cara
. I should get you home. I will come and find you on Monday morning.” His smile broadens. “I'm going to take you out. If you are happy to, I should like to take you to see a seamstress friend of mine, the redoubtable Signora Zigolo, and you can choose cloth for a new dress.”

My heart jolts as though I have missed my footing on a flight of stairs. Bianca? Oh,
cielo
! I can just imagine the expression on her face when Luca and I walk into her shop together. I will have to send a note round to her straight away—and hope to God she keeps her mouth shut.

***

“So that boy who came here that time is his
son
?” Modesto leans back in his chair and runs the fingers of both hands through his hair. “
Cazzo!
”

I nod. “Oh, Modesto, it was so terrible,” I say. “When Gianni walked in, we just looked at each other, and—Oh,
God
!” I cover my face with my hands and bend forward until my knuckles rest on the tabletop.

“But he said nothing?”

I shake my head. “No. I think he thought at first that Luca had paid me to be there.”

Modesto says nothing, but there is a new stiffness about his expression that has been there much of the time since I returned home from the play and first told him about Luca. My hovering suspicions about Modesto's feelings are growing stronger by the day, but I cannot think too deeply upon this right now; my heart is in too fragile a state just at present to withstand much probing or investigation.

I ask him for paper and quill.

“Luca is taking me to Bianca's on Monday morning,” I say. “He has no idea that I know her, and I simply have to warn her to keep her mouth shut before she sees us together. You know what she's like.”

“Write her a note, Signora,” Modesto says, placing paper, pen, and ink in front of me on the table, “and I'll take it round tomorrow.” He turns away, but I catch his hand.

“Thank you,
caro
,” I say.

He holds my gaze, then squeezes my fingers and smiles. “Let me know when you're ready,” he says.

I dip the quill into the ink and begin to write. I write too quickly; the nib catches on the paper and a little spatter of tiny droplets flicks across one corner of the page.

Bianca, cara—I write in haste. Forgive my poor handwriting, but my fingers are shaking. Be prepared for the unexpected, Bianca, and if you have ever considered yourself my friend, for God's sake, heed what I tell you now. You hold my future in your hands. I shall be seeing you tomorrow, but I shall not be alone…

And I write as much as I dare.

Cristoforo di Benevento leaned out of the window of his apartment in the Castello Svevo and, in a voice that blasted out with ease across the already noise-filled morning, roared his disapproval. “Hey! You! What the
hell
do you think you are doing?”

Fifty heads snapped round and looked up, searching for the source of the interruption to their activities.

Cristoforo pointed down toward an ill-dressed youth, almost out of sight behind a palisade, holding a heavy black horse by a taut length of dirty rope. The horse was pulling away from him, snorting and stamping. The boy's left hand, held out sideways, clutched a thick switch. “Yes! You! Holding that Murgese mare! Put that fucking stick down! And stay right where you are!” Slamming shut the casement, snatching his doublet from the back of a chair, he ran from the room.

***

The scruffy youth hung his head and stared at the ground as Cristoforo shouted. As he yelled, Cristo took in the boy's fear, saw his shame and his ignorance, and pitied him, but there was a weal on the mare's flank, and Cristoforo had watched her shy away from the boy, eyes white-rimmed in frightened pain as the lad had hit her; the boy's actions had been unforgiveable and he had to know it.

His reprimand complete, his anger abated, Cristoforo pronounced sentence. Half rations for a week and two days under lock and key. He watched the boy led away in one direction, the mare in another, turned, and went back inside.

Heavy footfalls followed him up a flight of stone steps. He turned to see an unwashed and thick-set young soldier. “
Capitano
?”

“What?”

“Message for you, Signore.” He held out a note, folded and sealed.

“Thank you.”

Cristoforo carried on up the stairs back to his apartment, unfolding and reading the letter as he went. Cursing at what he read, he entered his room and sat back down at his table. “Why? Why now?” he said aloud. “Nearly two weeks it took to get here, and a good week more it will take to get back to Napoli. And I'm needed here! What are they playing at?” Wanting advice, he called his lieutenant. “Alberto!”

“
Capitano
?” Alberto Maccari peered into the room. Middle-aged, mild-mannered, and self-effacing, but, Cristoforo knew from experience, this was a wise soldier, ferocious in battle, with many hours' combat under his belt and someone he was always happy to consult
in
extremis
. Cristoforo held out the note. “Take a look at this.”

Alberto strode across and took the note. “Are they mad?” he said, looking up.

“Probably.”

Alberto shook his head in disbelief. “With Soliman stockpiling on the Turkish coast—I know for a fact that a dirty great fleet of galleys has been seen in the harbor at Smyrna within the last two months—we should be consolidating, here in Bari, should we not? Not losing one of our most experienced officers for a month because of some bloody stupid logistical piece of nonsense back in Napoli.”

Cristoforo pushed fisted hands down in the pockets of his breeches and swore.

“Just get the job done quickly,
Capitano
, and return as soon as you can. You can go to Napoli, meet with Alfàn, help him come to a decision, and be back here at Svevo within four weeks. Three if you're lucky.”

Cristoforo stood up and, smiling grimly, clapped his lieutenant on the shoulder. “You're right, as always, Alberto.”

“You have no choice,
Capitano,
in any case. This is direct from the Crown.”

“It is indeed. I'll just be as quick as I can.”

“I'll look after things while you are away.”

Cristoforo smiled his agreement, dismissed Alberto, and strode off into his bedchamber to pack. He would take the opportunity to visit Francesca, he thought, as he went. He could find out how her liaison with Vasquez was progressing, and make sure the little Spaniard was treating her as he should.