Betrayed by His Kiss. Amanda McCabe
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diamonds, sprinkled in your beautiful hair...’
‘You are a terrible poet.’ Lucretia laughed, but her gaze slid to the street below, where the merry Medici retinue was retreating from the square. ‘Were you thinking of them?’
‘Why would I do that? Everyone else thinks of them. At least one thought in this city must be for something else.’
Lucretia frowned. ‘My friend Jacopo Pazzi says...’
‘Something he has no business saying in front of you, I am sure,’ Orlando said. He didn’t want to think of Matteo Strozzi or his friends the Medicis, not now. The old wildness was coming over him again. He, too, knew some of the Pazzi family, the great, wealthy rivals of the Medici, and he knew how indiscreet they could be when the wine flowed. It was very dangerous. ‘Men’s discontent grows when they are in their cups, as you know better than anyone, my Lucretia.’
She still stared down at the square, where the Medici—and Matteo Strozzi—had been. They seemed to leave a shadow behind them. But she said nothing more about them. ‘I do wish you would come with me to Bianca’s tonight. She has a new pet poet, they say he is very amusing. It could distract you.’
‘I fear not, bella Lucretia. I’ve already agreed to another engagement with some friends.’
Lucretia laughed. ‘An engagement at a disreputable tavern outside the city walls? Are we too refined for you now, Orlando?’
A tavern was exactly where he was going, but he wouldn’t admit that to Lucretia, who had once been the most educated, most witty courtesan in all the city. He loved the cultured life she created around herself and her friends. But some nights, when the dark demons were creeping up on him, grabbing at him with their cold, skeletal fingers, only rougher pleasures could distract him. Cheap wine, pretty women, rude music.
‘Oh, Orlando,’ she said with a laugh. ‘One day you will find whatever it is you seek and it will make you want to be a better man. You are like a questing knight.’
‘Me?’ he scoffed, laughing. ‘A questing knight? I search for a fresh barrel of ale, mayhap, but a rare jewel? You have become a romantic in your retirement, I fear.’
She shook her head. ‘I know you. One day you will see, I promise you that. And your life will change.’
‘I will see you next week, Lucretia,’ he said. He took her bejewelled hand and raised it to his lips.
She gently touched his cheek. A sad little smile touched her lips. ‘I do hope so. I worry about you, Orlando, when you get that look in your eyes.’
‘No need to worry about me, bella,’ he said, trying to give a careless laugh.
But it was obvious Lucretia was not fooled. She stepped back and waved him away. ‘Go, then, if you must! You young men and your taverns...’
Orlando kissed her once more, and strode out of her elegant palazzo and into the increasingly crowded streets. He slipped on a black half-mask and made sure his daggers were strapped at his belt. The crowds grew thicker, louder, the farther he went into the city’s centre. The houses were taller, packed closer together until the stucco walls nearly touched above his head. The window shutters were thrown open to the night, women in loose camicie and bright gowns leaning out to call down to passers-by. The smell of cheap ale and rose water hung in the warm air. Only in a place such as this could Orlando forget what had happened to Maria Lorenza. Only there could he be free.
Yet that freedom never lasted long. The demons always caught up with him in the end.
‘Pesce, pesce! The finest, freshest fish in all of Florence, madonna, you will not be sorry.’
Isabella laughed at the fishmonger’s solicitations, waving him away as she guided her horse around the edges of the mercato. He shrugged and turned to the next passer-by and soon the acrid scent of fish rotting in the sun faded behind her, giving way to the sweetness of ripe fruit, the spiciness of cinnamon-coated nuts.
How odd, she mused, to find something so prosaic as fish in such a dreamland.
Ever since they’d entered through one of Florence’s twelve gates, the Gate of Fortune, and headed towards the Strozzi palazzo, Isabella felt caught up in a swirling fantasy, a land she could not have summoned up even on a canvas. Descriptions in books, and from her father’s friends, could never fully conjure such a place.
It was slow going on their horses; Isabella was trailed by Mena and two footmen, plus mules for their baggage. It gave her time to stare, to inhale deeply of the scents and sights, to absorb all of it into herself. She had to remember all of this, all the faces and facades, so she could commit it to her sketchbook. Then one day, when she was an old woman buried again in the country, she could gaze at the faded drawings and remember the day she came fully to life.
Florence was a city of twisting streets, some of them so narrow she and her party were forced to move in single file, their horses’ hooves clacking on the uneven flagstones. There were open squares, tall towers, fortresslike palazzi with massive, unbreachable stone walls, overhanging balconies where beautifully dressed ladies lounged and laughed on this sunny day, their hair spread out to catch the golden rays.
The old churches, silent and dignified in their ancient sanctity, presented facades of geometrical patterns of faded marble in black, white, green, pink. Behind them were high, crowded buildings where the workers and artisans lived, bursting with shouts, cries, shrieks of laughter. Behind them were convents and abbeys, barred, secure, mysterious.
The sheer life of the place was overwhelming. Isabella was used to her Tuscan home, a place where olive trees outnumbered people, where quiet contemplation reigned. Here, a rich cacophony blended and echoed all around. The patter of merchants selling fabric, vegetables, candles, feathers, perfumes. The pleas of beggars, the screams of children chasing down the calles, the barking of stray dogs, and snorts of pigs as they were led to market. It was crowded, hot, the air close with the smells of cooking meat, spilled wine, pungent perfumes, unwashed skin, sweet flowers in hidden courtyards.
Isabella loved it. She adored every reeking, noisy fragment of it all. Her heart lifted in her breast, rising up on those first tentative wings of freedom she had thought never to find. Life had been waiting here all along, in these narrow streets of Florence.
Isabella twisted her head around to study a church tower laid out in an intricate pattern of coloured marbles, all green and pink and bright white in the sun. She wished she had her sketchbook with her, so she could capture the lines and shapes of it all. It held her spellbound for a long moment.
She heard a shout somewhere ahead of her and spun back around, startled. Mena and the others had vanished and all around her was the press of strangers. People jostling together, roughly dressed, loudly laughing.
She felt a sudden cold stab of panic. At home she wandered alone everywhere, but those were fields and vineyards, her own gardens. This place that had seemed so beautiful and enticing only a moment ago suddenly seemed frightening, strange, an alien world, and she had no idea how to make her way in it.
She steered her horse down a narrower, quieter street. She tried to remember Caterina’s letter, which was tucked up now in one of the footmen’s saddlebags, the location of her cousins’ palazzo, but suddenly all the lovely buildings that held her so captivated seemed so very alike. The children who dashed past, the women who peered out from behind latticed windows, seemed as if they watched her with suspicions.
Confused and growing a little frightened, Isabella turned another corner and found herself in a small courtyard, tall houses leanings in on all sides, casting a shadow on the cracked cobblestones under her horse’s hooves. These buildings were certainly not as fine as the ones that lined the river. The plasterwork was flaking, the windows free of fine glass and velvet curtains, and the fountain at its centre was broken and silent.