Courtesan's Lover (42 page)

“Right about what?” Luca asks.

“Surprises,” Gianni says.

He is just about to expand on this when we are all startled by a frantic knocking at the front door. Luca races downstairs, Gianni and I following. My heart is thudding wildly all over again—something about the urgency of that sound presages yet more unpleasant shocks.

Luca fumbles with the latch, then pulls open the door. There on the door sill, breathless, disheveled and frightened, and wearing the same green doublet in which I first saw him, stands the young man with the overlong hair who arranged my meeting with Gianni, that day on the low wall outside the Castel Nuovo.

“Nicco,” Luca says. “What on earth?”

“They've arrested Carlo,” the man called Nicco says, leaning forward, his hands gripping his knees, his breath ragged in his throat. “Oh God, Signore—they're saying he's killed Cicciano in a brawl.”

Cristoforo di Benevento dismounted, pulled his saddlebags off the mare's broad rump, and handed the reins over to a horseboy. He dropped the bags at his feet, and, stretching and rolling stiff shoulders, looked around him, breathing in the comfortable smells of horse and straw, and then wrinkling his nose at the more acrid reek rising from a nearby pile of droppings. The garrison stables was almost deserted this afternoon, he thought; as the boy led his mare away—her head hanging wearily, her coat gleaming with sweat—only one other stableman was visible, leaning against the flank of a huge gelding and bending to brush dry mud from the creature's legs. This scene was quite different from the clattering bustle of departure three weeks earlier, when some forty-five fully armed men and horses had clanked and stamped their way out onto the main road heading for the east coast and the garrison town of Bari. “She'll be thirsty,” Cristoforo called as the boy rounded a corner with the mare. “Make sure she has a drink, will you? And hay.”

The boy made no reply, but turning, nodded in acknowledgment, patting the mare's neck affectionately as he went off out of sight.

Saddlebags now over one shoulder, Cristoforo began to walk away from the garrison block, wondering where he would go first. The sky was the clear blue of a robin's egg, though a few ragged wisps of cloud hung like pale smoke overhead. The city was still drowsing after the heat of the midday and most of the streets were almost empty. But behind closed doors as he walked along the Via Forno Vecchio, Cristoforo could hear disembodied voices—men in vehement argument; the petulant squeal of a scolded child; a woman's lilting song. Seductive cooking smells hung in the air, seeping from a window in a house on the corner of the street. A group of skinny boys, barefoot, tangle-haired, and wearing little more than tattered breeches, bounced and jostled each other out of a side alley, shoving and hooting and pushing as they ran, their laughter skidding across several octaves from shrill treble to a grating bass.

There was something engaging in their camaraderie, Cristoforo thought, and the prospect of the empty silence of his apartment seemed suddenly unappealing. He had not expected to be back in the city, away from his men, until well into the early months of the new year; his rooms would have an unwelcoming chill about them, he was sure, despite the warmth of the afternoon. It was more than just the empty rooms, though—thinking about it, Cristoforo realized that he wanted food, wine…and a woman.

He would go to Francesca's first. She might, of course, be otherwise engaged, but, already aware that what had been no more than a passing fancy a second ago was quickly becoming a necessity, he was willing to risk the possibility of rejection. And she might even let him stay. He turned right and strode quickly toward Francesca's house in the Via San Tommaso d'Aquino.

Reaching the house, he was surprised to see that the front door was ajar; pushing it open, he stepped inside into a thick and airless silence. He felt unnerved straight away—the hairs on his neck stood up. Something was not right. It was too quiet. Cristoforo peered into the kitchen, which was all but empty, then he took the stairs two at a time.

Francesca's chamber door was wide open. The manservant's chair was outside the door as it had always been, but as Cristoforo entered the room, he saw at a glance that all Francesca's opulent furniture and decorations had been stripped out and, apart from the bed, the room was bare.

The bed.

A frisson of shock caught in his throat, and he swore softly under his breath. A bloodstain—as wide across as the span of both his spread hands—stood out dark against the brocade of the mattress. Reaching out, he touched it with the tips of his fingers. Right in the center, it was still damp.

Cristoforo stood still for several seconds, rubbing his now red-stained fingers against the ball of his thumb, then he turned on his heel, ran down the stairs, and out into the street. Saddlebags clutched in one fist, he began to run, heavy footed, heading south through narrow streets, ducking the washing strung on lines between the houses and edging between carts and laden barrows, apologizing to people he jostled, racing down toward where he knew Francesca's other house was situated. He had been there once before—had once walked her home. Could he find it again? He had to know what had happened to her.

Several moments later, his chest now laboring, he stood in front of the church of Santa Lucia and tried to remember where to go. Something about the crooked wall of the house on the corner was familiar, he realized gratefully, so he headed up into the Via Santa Lucia. Several houses farther on, he recognized it: Francesca's house, he remembered now that he saw it, had curving, wrought-iron grilles across the bottom half of the ground floor windows, and three steps up to the front door—the top one with a large chunk missing from its leading edge. He was sure this was right.

He banged on the door with his fist. Waited. Banged again, harder.

After several minutes, he heard footsteps. There was a sound of a bolt being drawn back, and then the latch rattled and the door opened. A woman glared out at him, her expression blurred and baleful. She was heavy featured, ruddy faced, her hair loosely wrapped in linen.

“I'm looking for Signora Felizzi,” Cristoforo said.

“She's not here.”

“Is this the right house?”

The woman frowned at him. “It's her house, yes. But she's not in it. Who wants to know?”

Cristoforo could see—and smell—that the woman was drunk. “A friend,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Do you know where she is?”

The woman said, “It's because the children disappeared, isn't it?” Her voice rose in pitch and volume as she expanded upon her many reasons for complaint. “I know they all think it's
my
fault, because I should have been watching them, but I was only doing what she pays me to do—it's not as if I was slacking. I'd been preparing her food, like I always do. When I
think
about her and everything I know about her carryings-on. Shameless, she is. Shameless. And those children! They're no better. They'd been playing me up all day, little brats. Driven me mad. No wonder I didn't complain when everything went quiet.”

“The children have disappeared?”

But the woman shrugged and pushed out her lips in a dismissive moue. “Oh, they've found them, all right. But none of
them
thought fit to come and tell me about it—only sent some grubby little
moccioso
they'd picked off the street to deliver the news, didn't they? They've found the children, he said, but someone's finally taken a knife to
her
. Been asking for it for years, she has, if you want my opinion.”

“A knife? Dear God! Where are they? Where is the Signora?”

“Can't remember.” She stood for a moment, eyes closed, leaning against the door jamb.

“Please, Signora, please try.”

The eyes remained closed for several long seconds. The creases of the woman's frown deepened, as though she was searching her memory for the elusive information. Then she opened her eyes and said. “Piazza Monteoliveto. That's what she said before. Monteoliveto.”

Thank God, he thought. He knew the place. “Do you know which house?”

She shook her head.

“Can you tell me
anything
that might help me to find it?”

The woman closed her eyes again, suppressing a belch, and sagged against the side of the door jamb. “It's only a little piazza she said.” A pause. “Won't take you long to look. The church. She said something about ‘opposite the church.'”

“Thank you, Signora,” Cristoforo said, swallowing down his irritation. He shouldered his saddlebags and began once again to run. Heading north, he ran on and on, up the long, straight Via Toledo, eventually turning eastward and winding his way through several streets, taking several wrong turns and doubling back on himself, until at last he reached the place the woman had named. The flat grey facade of the church loomed darkly at one end. Cristoforo stood before it and regarded the houses opposite. He crossed the piazza and lifted a hand to knock at the door.

No. No one here by the name of Felizzi. Sorry.

He tried the house next door. No reply.

Now with his hopes of finding Francesca fading, Cristoforo raised his hand to knock at the door of the third house down from the end of the piazza.

Luca felt sick. He stared at Niccolò, then, hissing, “Quick, Nicco, come in!” he grabbed the young man by the wrist and pulled him into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind him.

Glancing sideways, Luca saw Francesca and Gianni standing side by side in the shadow of the staircase. Niccolò, though, appeared not to have noticed they were there; he was fighting to regain his breath, desperate to impart his news. After a moment, he managed to say, “There was a fight, apparently, Signore, a few hours ago, in that tavern in the Vicolo Cieco, and—oh, God—Michele's dead: Michele di Cicciano. Apparently there were at least two dozen people in there—though nobody's prepared to say how it started, of course—but when the
sbirri
arrived, Carlo was standing in the middle of the room, they said. He had a newly split lip and a dirty great black eye, and there was blood on his shirt and his hands, and they've taken him in. He's refusing to say how he came to be there, or how he got his injuries, so of course they're presuming the worst. What do we do? He's with the fucking Spanish—what the hell can we do, Signore?” His voice cracked as he added, “If they decide he's guilty, you know they'll burn him.”

Luca had read somewhere about the “weight” of guilt, and now, in an instant, he understood entirely what that expression really meant. It was as though his chest had been filled with clay.

“He didn't do it, Nicco,” he said.

“Oh, God—I hope not, Signore!”

“No. You don't understand. I
know
he didn't do it.
I
did.”

Niccolò froze, mouth open, staring at Luca.

Luca said, “At least, I might have done. I was part of that fight, along with someone else—someone who's left Napoli now—and somehow in all the confusion, Cicciano was hurt with his own knife. I don't know exactly how. But I have to go and tell them. Now. I have to explain what really happened.”

“But, Papa—” Gianni sounded horrified.

“Gianni, be quiet! It's the only thing to do. He's my son, as much as you are—whatever he's done—and I simply can't allow this to happen.”

“Whatever he's done? What do you—” Niccolò began, but Gianni interrupted him

“Papa, please! Think about this. There has to be some other way.”

“But what else can I do other than go to the authorities, tell the truth, and plead for clemency? I have no influence, have I? I've got nothing.”

Francesca stepped forward, and a shaft of light from one of the windows caught the side of her face. Luca heard Niccolò gasp.

She said, “I think there's a possibility—if you'll let me try it.”

“What do you mean?” Luca said.

“I hardly dare tell you,” she said. “But something Modesto said yesterday made me think of it. He said it was my insurance.”

“What? Insurance? I don't understand.” Luca's head was hollow with trepidation.

“If you don't want me to do this, I won't, but it might save Carlo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I…er…oh, Luca, I don't really know how to say this.” She dropped her voice. Moving closer to him, she said, “I
know
one of the Spanish. An army captain. Perhaps rather more…
intimately
than he might care to have made public. I have no idea if he's directly involved in all this, but whether he is or not, perhaps I might be able to…to
use
that knowledge. Play on this intimacy. Use it as a lever. Will you let me try?”

Luca said nothing. Francesca took his hand. He gripped her fingers, images of her “intimacy” with this unknown Spaniard now battling in his mind with others—of Carlo in some godforsaken cell, awaiting an unspeakable death.

“But why would you want to do such a thing?” he said. “Carlo has behaved unforgivably toward you and your children. Why would you even consider helping him when he tried to…tried to take your babies away from you? And it's not safe—would you not risk—”

She cut across his words. “Risk doesn't matter. Because, whatever he's done, Luca, he's your son.”

Luca swallowed uncomfortably.

Francesca said, “I can't bear the thought of your unhappiness if Carlo were to be convicted. And anyway—risk? What am I supposed to be worried about risking? My reputation?” She gave a soft little laugh. “I don't really have one of those, do I?”

Luca stared at her, then wrapped his arms around her. “I don't deserve you,” he said into her hair.

Nobody moved. Then, breaking away from Francesca, Luca saw that both Gianni and Niccolò were staring at the two of them—Gianni anxiously and Niccolò with an expression on his face as though he had just been slapped.

“Papa,” Gianni said. “Listen, you can't let her do this. Francesca, you can't. It
is
a risk. What if they decide to arrest you too? For…for…” He trailed off, but Luca understood. He turned to Francesca. “He's right,
cara.
”

“But, Luca, it might be the only we have chance to—”

“No. You mustn't do it.”

Gianni said, “Money. What about money? Could we offer them money, do you think?”

“A
bribe
?” Francesca's expression was incredulous.

Gianni shrugged.

“Are you serious? We'd probably end up in a cell ourselves, accused of some sort of moral corruption. Isn't it obvious? My suggestion's far safer, and far more likely to succeed.”

Luca shook his head. “No it's not. If a bribe might get us arrested for moral corruption, then you simply
cannot
turn up there and suggest what to all intents and purposes is
blackmail
. And if it were to become known how you know this man—”

He broke off as a loud knocking shook the nearby front door, startling them. All four heads turned as one. More urgent thumps followed.

Gianni unlatched the door and opened it.

Francesca gasped.

***

The sunlight filtering through the closed shutters in Luca's
sala
made the figures in the tapestries appear to tremble as though they were holding their breath, listening to the conversation that was unrolling before them. They looked as though they were struggling to believe their ears. Luca looked across at the newcomer: stocky and muscular, crop-haired, with bright intelligent eyes and a twist to his mouth that suggested a dry sense of humor. In any other circumstances, this would probably have been someone Luca would instinctively have liked.

His gaze moved from this “Signor di Benevento” to Gianni, and as he did so, a singular thought struck him. There were three men in this room, and two of them had already coupled with Francesca. And one of those two was his son. They had both fucked her and he had not. For a moment Luca held his breath; he turned to look at Francesca and then closed his eyes; his cock shifted and lifted as his thoughts began to tumble wildly. She had held both of them in her arms: she had touched them, fondled them, gripped them, stroked them; she had sucked and licked and gasped and moaned and ultimately, no doubt—if he could judge by the brief glimpse of her skills he had been allowed in Mergellina—brought them both to unforgettable, quivering ecstasy. Those few moments came back to him now—after all, they were all he had had of her so far—her lips and her tongue and her fingers rousing him to a pitch of desire to which he had never before come anywhere near.

He looked back at her now. She was speaking fervently to the newcomer, splay-fingered hands held up in front of her in emphasis as though she clasped an invisible globe, her expression concerned and serious. He saw her nod to him, and then she gestured toward the floor above; saw Benevento considering what she said, and then obviously agreeing with her. Luca stared at her. His gaze dropped to the neckline of her dress. These two—Benevento and Gianni—had both seen her breasts. He, Luca, had not yet had that privilege. They had touched her breasts, held them, played with them, tasted them, enjoyed them. Luca felt them under his fingers now, imagined the look of them, the weight of them, imagined them moving under his touch, felt their softness and the silkiness of the skin. He shifted in his seat, drew in a breath and licked his lips, which suddenly felt rather dry.

***

“And you'll come with us, won't you, Luca?”

He was startled at the sound of Francesca's voice, and the vivid image of her breasts he had conjured vanished. Shifting position in his chair again, his face hot, he hoped that his unexpected but now uncomfortably pressing arousal was not immediately obvious to anyone else in the room.

He did not reply straight away, and after a second or two, Francesca spoke again. “Please. Will you come? With Cristo and me—to see Vasquez. Now.”

Luca had no idea who or what she was talking about. Unwilling to admit to the reason for his inattention, he said, “Of course. When do you want to leave?”

“Straight away. I'll just go and get the book.”

Francesca left the room. Luca heard her footfall on the stairs, the sound of a door latch clattering overhead, a pause, and then further footsteps. What book was this? What had they planned? She came back into the
sala
carrying a bag, accompanied by the two little girls. “Luca,” she said. “They can't come with us. Can they stay here?”

“Of course,” he said. “Gianni, you can look after them, can't you? Don't leave them alone for a minute while we are out. Not for a second.”

Gianni smiled at the twins and nodded to his father. “Don't worry,” he said. “I shan't let them out of my sight.” The little girls crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the window recess near to Gianni's chair.

Luca stood back as Francesca and Benevento left the
sala
then, smiling briefly at Gianni and the girls, he followed the others down the stairs and out of the house.