The Marriage Portrait(43)

“He left, my lady. In a great hurry. I think to go to court.”

“Do you know why?”

The maid hesitates. “There was a letter,” she whispers, and Lucrezia steps forward, even though it is evident no one around them understands what they are saying. “A messenger came galloping from over the hills with it, all in a panic. The Duke read it and he…”

“He?”

“With respect, my lady…he became…” Emilia pauses, searching for the right word “…angry.”

“Something in the letter made him angry?”

“Yes. He threw his gloves to the ground and I heard him…” again, Emilia falters “…at least, I think I heard him curse his…”

“His what?”

“His mother, my lady,” the maid murmurs apologetically.

Lucrezia stares at Emilia for a moment, then bows her head. She needs to think, she needs to assess, and whatever deductions pass through her must be concealed from servants, who will always talk and gossip among themselves. Her mind is muddied by exhaustion but still she is hotly aware that to be left at the side of a road by your husband of several hours is a terrible slight, and that many, many pairs of eyes are upon her at this very moment, watching to see how she will react. So Lucrezia looks down. She sees her travelling gown, her feet, shod in thin leather slippers, standing on a stony path, her hands clasped tightly together. She thinks: His mother, my feet, my slippers, a messenger, a curse. She thinks: Biddable mare, throwing his gloves to the ground, how tired I am, his mother. She shakes her head and presses her fingers to her brow, trying to master her thoughts. Alfonso’s mother, she knows, has been the cause of much trouble in the Ferrarese court because…What was it Lucrezia’s father told her? That she was born a Protestant, in France, but renounced her faith to marry the old Duke. Lucrezia is relieved to remember this. But then? There was something else, another chapter to the story. She strains to recall what her father said (she had been only half listening at the time, instead craning her neck to peer at the rarely seen curios and treasures that lined the shelves of her father’s inner sanctum). Then it comes to her: a discovery that, years ago, the mother had been secretly attending Protestant Mass and consorting with Protestant sympathisers and—she remembers the shock of this—the old Duke had taken the children from her and imprisoned her somewhere in their castello. Lucrezia’s father had wagged his finger at her and said to her jestingly, so be on your guard, Lucrè. And they had laughed together, she and her father, and the attendants standing behind him. Later, however, this story had caused Lucrezia some disquiet, giving rise as it did to more questions than answers. How could a man imprison his own wife? Did the young Alfonso and his siblings not suffer at being taken away from their mother? The old Duchess, her father had assured her, was now freed from her imprisonment, after promising Alfonso not to revert to Protestantism again, but that such a thing happened to a duchess, Lucrezia’s predecessor, is confusing. How should Lucrezia greet such a woman? Should she affect to have no knowledge of the old Duchess’s religious rebellion or her incarceration? And, most pressingly, what can have been written in that letter to make Alfonso ride off, leaving her here?

“His Grace,” Emilia, still at her side, is venturing to speak, “said not to wake you. That he wanted you to sleep. He told me to tell you that he will deal with the matter at court and then he will meet you at the villa.”

“The villa?”

Emilia bites her lip, scanning Lucrezia’s face with an imploring expression. “Yes, madam.”

“But we are going to the castello, we are going to Ferrara,” Lucrezia says, her voice rising. Her father had told her that this was what would happen, so it must be true. “I will have the formal entrata to the city, and be met there by his mother and his sisters for the menare a casa,” she persists, “because…”

The girl is shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I am so sorry. His Grace, the Duke, has decided that we are instead to travel to a delizia, his villa in the country.” She points to the cream-flanked horse. “His Grace selected this horse for you. Also,” she says, holding up something, “I am carrying your painting.”

The oblong parcel, which Lucrezia had tied up, wrapping the stone marten in layers and layers of cloth, is gripped in the maid’s fist.



* * *





Afterwards, the journey over the mountains will assume the quality of a dream—something fleeting, evanescent, an experience outside life.

Images and impressions will intrude upon her over the coming weeks, like unwanted visitors to a room. She will be writing correspondence or listening to a courtier when her mind will be filled with the memory of a saddle, the way its leather squeaked as it moved, the neck of the horse, the lulling rhythm of hoofs on the mountainous path, how there was an indent she would grip whenever the horse missed its footing. She might be at the table, faced with a plate of roast swine on a bed of artichokes, and across her mind will flit the image of a torn crust of bread, eaten while sheltering behind a rock on a blustery mountain pass, while the guards milled about, blowing warmth into their cupped hands. She might be lying in bed, watching as Emilia glides about the room, shaking out and folding clothes, and Lucrezia will remember how, after several hours of riding uphill, she had asked for Emilia to be placed behind her on the horse, and they rode like that the rest of the way, the two of them, mistress and servant, Emilia’s hands resting on her waist, and how Lucrezia could feel the girl’s fear in the tremble of her fingers. Lucrezia had not known it was possible to fall asleep—or, at least, a halfway version of it—on horseback. That you could be riding along, a leading rein stretching from your horse’s bridle to the hand of a groomsman, mounted beside you, and your head could tilt forward, slowly, so slowly, and you would believe you were just resting your eyes for a moment, but then you would jerk it upright again and see that the sun had slipped down behind the rocks and the trees had clothed themselves in darkness and the night sky was a black bowl upturned over your head.