The Marriage Portrait(50)

The man is talking now, upturning one palm, then the other, placing them together, as if entreating Alfonso in some way. Alfonso is thinking, she sees, his head lowered. She wonders if it is to do with his mother again, or perhaps some other trouble at court. Her father had told her to expect that Alfonso’s first year as duke might be difficult: there will, he had said, be many who wish to test or challenge a young new ruler, both inside and outside his court. Your Alfonso, Cosimo had said, will have to demonstrate that dissent will not be tolerated; he will need to prove to everyone that he is up to the task of ruling Ferrara. He may be required to make a show of strength and mettle: such is the way of these things.

Over by the hedge, Alfonso says something, with a decisive nod, and claps a hand to the other man’s shoulder, then turns and starts towards her, coming along one path, then turning right, then left, navigating the maze of pathways.

The other man melts back into the greenery, disappearing, almost as if he was never there in the first place.

When Alfonso reaches her, he says he has to take his leave of her, for now, he must return to his office, but she should remain here in the garden for as long as she wishes.

“I am sorry,” he finishes, with a brief smile. “I shall see you tonight.”

Lucrezia’s mind seems to fold in on itself, the garden and the bees and the flowers vanishing, so that all she sees is the bed beneath the frescos, its sheets turned back.

“Yes,” she falters. Tonight, she thinks, tonight.

“You do not mind?” He is looking at her with his penetrating dark stare.

“Of course not. Please don’t worry about me. I am very happy here.”

“Do not stay in the sun too long,” he advises, lifting her hand to his lips. “It may be stronger than you think.”

“Who was that man?” she asks, quickly.

“Which man?”

He releases her hand and it drops into the gap between their bodies.

“The one who came with the letter.”

“Oh.” Alfonso turns towards the large hedge, as if to look for him. “He’s gone? That was Leonello.”

“Is he…your friend?”

“My very good friend. Since childhood. We grew up together. My father educated him alongside us. He is like a brother to me, or a cousin. He has for a long time helped me with matters of state, and taken care of—” Alfonso breaks off, shading his eyes. “Where has he gone? I told him to wait for me.”

He strides away from her, towards the end of the path. “Leonello!” he calls, and lets out a piercing whistle, like a hunter calling his dogs. “Leo?”

Away in the distance, muffled by greenery, comes a reply: “What?”

“Where the devil have you gone? Come back!”

There is a rustle, a thud from the hedge, then an offhand voice: “Very well.”

“You need to come and meet my new wife. Where are your manners?”

The man emerges, shoulder first, from the branches, the papers still clutched in his hand. He makes his way through the garden but, unlike Alfonso, he doesn’t pick his way along the paths: he walks through the flowerbeds as if they aren’t there, striding over the low green hedges, through the blooms, scattering bees and petals in his wake. Here is a man, Lucrezia thinks, as she eyes his progress, who waits on no one, who lets nothing get in his way.

He stops a few paces from her.

“Leonello, may I present to you my wife and consort, the new Duchess of Ferrara? Lucrezia, this is my friend and cousin, Leonello Baldassare.”

Leonello makes a deep bow, almost—it could be said—too deep, as if he is exaggerating the courtesy of the moment, satirising it. Lucrezia does not miss this. She trains her gaze upon him: sharp cheekbones, yellow-brown eyes, a slightly thin mouth, hair perhaps lightened by the summer. He has a well-shaped form, with wide shoulders and narrow hips; she can picture him wielding a fencing foil, swishing its blunted tip through the air.

“My lady,” he says, in a languid drawl, “I am your humble servant.”

“I am very happy to make your acquaintance. Any friend of my husband I hope will be a friend of mine.”

Leonello regards her, as if considering these words. His name, she thinks, is entirely apt. He has a russet-brown mane framing his face, and his skin is smooth and golden. After a moment, he inclines his head, unsmilingly signalling his agreement. He is, she reflects, nothing like other consiglieri ducali she has met—he hasn’t a trace of Vitelli’s learned poise or reassuring deferential protectiveness. There is something unsettled and febrile about this man: she would not like to be alone in a room with him.

“Is she not a beauty?” Alfonso says to him, pinching Lucrezia’s chin. “Have you ever seen such skin, such clear eyes? Not to mention this hair.”

Again, she feels those tawny eyes on her but this time she does not meet them. She looks instead at her husband.

“Indeed,” the inscrutable Leonello replies. “Her Ladyship is an exquisite example of womanhood.” He taps the furled papers against his chin. “We had hoped as much, had we not? And, just as you said, that portrait was not a good likeness at all.”

“Oh, but I am going to commission a new one immediately,” Alfonso exclaims. “An allegorical scene or a religious one. Or, now I look at her here, I am thinking perhaps just a three-quarter profile, exactly as she is. A marriage portrait. What do you think?”