The Marriage Portrait(18)

Four years after Cosimo had first seen her, Eleonora set sail from Naples, accompanied by five maids, her old nurse, Sofia, and seven galleys laden with her dowry of gold, plate, silks, brocades, beads and oils. Lucrezia knew—because her papa liked to tell them—that he had waited impatiently for news of Eleonora, staying awake to hear if any messenger came in the night, praying that the winds would be fair. As soon as he received word that they had landed at Livorno, he made preparations to leave Florence and set off for the coast, to meet his bride. The court advisers frowned at such impetuous behaviour: it was unthinkable, unbecoming for a man to travel towards a woman. It would give the wrong impression to her of the balance of power in their marriage: Cosimo should stay put, in his palazzo, waiting for her to come to him. But Cosimo did not listen. He took the road to Livorno and met Eleonora halfway, to bear her, like a prize, back to Florence. When they arrived, the people of the city lined the streets to be the first to see this new, exotic grand duchess.



* * *





Lucrezia met her future husband only once before their wedding, and he was, at the time, betrothed to her sister Maria.

They passed by her on the highest battlement surrounding the bell-tower, Maria and her fiancé, his head inclined towards Maria’s nervous chatter. Lucrezia was perhaps ten at the time, with the flat and featureless body of a child, and she stood there, holding her pet mouse cupped in her palm. The fiancé’s eyes had left Maria—her flushed cheeks and trembling chin—and travelled over Lucrezia’s face, to the mouse, then back to her face, and his lips curved up in a wry smile. Maria’s hand had been hooked into the green velvet of his sleeve, with her opposite hand pressed on top of it, as if she was afraid he might attempt an escape. Lucrezia had flattened herself against the rough stone of the wall as they approached, nestling the mouse close to her chest. The fiancé, who would one day be a duke and came from a very old family—one that could be traced back to the time of the Roman Empire, she had heard her father say, more than once—paused, his boots slowing down, and he said, Who is this child?

Maria’s gaze swung towards Lucrezia, then away. One of my sisters, she said, and they sidestepped her, moving on, past the columns, to the opposite side of the tower, where, as Maria was telling him, they might see a view of the cupola.

As he walked away, the fiancé, whose ancestors had defended the Emperor, brushed his thumb along Lucrezia’s cheek, and then, very quickly, so quickly that afterwards she was never sure if it had actually happened, he twitched his nose at her and pulled—she was sure of it—a face like a mouse. One sniffing at something it liked, cheese perhaps or a tasty breadcrumb.

Lucrezia laughed, up there on the tower, at the accuracy of this impression, at the unexpectedness of a revered man making such a face. How did he know so well the way mice could look? And for him to have done that, without Maria seeing, just for her, Lucrezia. Delighted, she watched her sister and her husband-to-be walk away from her.





The End of the Meal


Fortezza, near Bondeno, 1561





“You look cold, my love.”

Lucrezia shakes her head and shivers, all at the same time. Alfonso is looking at her intently, leaning in close, his hair falling over his brow, his expression solicitous.

Then he stands, pushing back his chair, takes her hand and leads her towards the fire. Beneath her skirts, beneath her damp stockings, she is aware of a tightening in the muscles of her legs, urging her to run, to sprint away.

She moves to sit in the smaller fireside chair, but he draws her towards him, on to his lap, putting his arms about her. It is a strange moment as she allows herself to be settled there. Feeling his grip tighten, she finds herself wondering if this is indeed affection or if he means to finish her right here.

Lucrezia is finding it hard to meet his eye, to behold him at this proximity, but she forces her gaze towards him and sees him looking back at her, smiling gently. His face, she knows, is handsome. People comment on this all the time. He has a well-formed physique with broad shoulders and strong limbs. Placed on his lap, however, and in this shuddering light, she cannot tell, cannot say whether his visage is pleasing or threatening. She can see only parts of him: now his brow, now his cheek, the whorl of his ear.

Is it possible that she has made a mistake, that she has misjudged the situation here at the fortezza? Perhaps he is as good as his word; maybe he has brought her here for a rest, for a change of air. Is it just her imagination—which all her life she has been told is too active, too excessive—or a trick of the mind that has persuaded her he intends to harm her?

His arms are about her waist; his legs support her; she rests her fingers on the back of his collar. In the amber-coloured firelight, out of the corner of her eye she is almost convinced that he is, once again, wearing slashed green velvet sleeves, even when she knows that he is dressed in a travelling suit of worsted wool.

On an impulse, she leans forward and kisses his cheek. His skin is prickly with a day’s growth of beard, and his face, when she moves upright again, is pleased and quizzical.

“What was that for?”

“To…” she improvises “…say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For…bringing me here.” She sifts her mind, rapidly, for any words that might persuade him to spare her, if that is indeed his plan. “For taking care of me. For…”