Daughters of the Doge (33 page)

She nuzzled my ear through the towelling. ‘Mmm. Sandro Botticelli would have been proud of you. Hardly Venus rising from the sea, but worth pursuing.’ Her hand moved from my shoulder, and unwound the turban. She kissed my ear, then, taking my hand, gave me a dry towel. ‘You can open your eyes now.’

I opened my eyes and as I stood in the bath she wrapped the towel around me. Taking my hand, she led me onward, into a further room. ‘I think you need a little attention.’

She was everything I had dreamed of. She did not dominate, nor was she the subservient maiden. Instead she led me into a world of shared pleasure, a true partnership, in which one signalled a pleasurable thought and the other, instinctively, delivered it.

She moved like a cat – slowly, as if there was all the time in the world. The skin of her breast was the skin of a peach, and when finally she opened to me, it was as if the peach itself had opened, at the moment of its ripeness, and invited me to enter into its rich and scented goodness. She showed me pleasures I would not have dreamed of, taking me to the peak of raw, hungry tension, then back again to a spent relaxation in which time itself stood still. I learned from her example and began to signal and respond as she did. All afternoon we offered and took and offered again, until the last shafts of light through the shutters were no longer enough to see the sparkle in her eyes and the first chill of evening had us reaching for the sheets for the first time.

We lay in the dusk, the sounds of the Grand Canal drifting through the shutters, the evening air caressing us. Beneath us the lute began to play again

She put her tongue in my ear. ‘What is it?’

‘It is called
Laudato Dio,
a popular piece by Juan Ambrosio Dalza,’ I replied, lazily.

She ran her hand down my belly, teasing me with the pretend promise of more to come. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’

I rolled towards her and teased her in return. ‘How could I ever forget?’

We lay back and dozed. My mind floated out of the window and observed us from outside, then rejoined us and relived the warmth and companionship of our love-making. It had never been like this for me before. In my youth I had stolen many quick moments of lust with easy-going village girls, especially after the harvest when last year’s cider was at its most potent. I remembered little Agnes, who wriggled like a puppy and giggled at every movement I made, but would not let go of me until dawn.

I thought of Lady Frances Grey, the mother of Lady Jane. She had chosen me as her birthday present to herself, and almost dragged me to her bed, taunting me when I held back, until, angry, I had mounted her and ridden her hard until she cried out in greedy satisfaction. I thought, too, of Lady Catherine; how, in the days after the death of her sister, we had clung to each other with an urgency born of shared grief and long-standing love.

I turned over and smelled Veronica’s breath on my face, sweet and sensuous.This was so different: so calm, so mature; a partnership in pleasure and mutual regard, but without implied promises or commitment to the future. Was this why courtesans were so popular in Venice?

We woke and drank one more glass of wine, and I prepared to leave. Now, once again, I was back in control and it was my responsibility to make the appropriate moves. I must not cling to her and act like a callow youth. I must understand the realities and enjoy them as they were – a shared moment only. Turning away from her, I reached across the bed towards my clothes, looking for my purse.

She sat up, watching me. ‘What are you doing?’

I held the purse. ‘Should I—?’

Pushing my wrist until I dropped the purse on the floor, she shook her head.

‘No, not at all. You need no money,
caro.
I am a courtesan, not a common whore.’

I fell back against the pillow, embarrassed and distraught. How could I have ruined such an afternoon so easily? ‘Please excuse my ignorance. In England, I am not sure we recognize the difference.’

As soon as I had said it I knew I had piled clumsiness upon stupidity. She might have lost her temper then, and thrown me out, or burst into tears, but she did neither. She simply smiled at me, as if instructing a child.

‘You will learn. The Republic of La Serenissima is a much more sophisticated place than your London. Here, our distinctions are more careful, more precise. A common prostitute is paid in hard cash; but a courtesan finds her reward in the relationship itself. It’s much nicer, don’t you think?’

I was grateful for her understanding, but too embarrassed to know what to do or say next. She saw my predicament and came to my rescue. ‘It’s also much slower.’ Smiling, she pulled me back to her.

I buried my embarrassment in the scented softness of her bosom, and let time stand still for a little longer.

C
HAPTER
39

March the 24th 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

The warm weather continued and I truly began to believe that the Venetian spring had arrived. Back home in England it would still be cold and windy. I paced up and down, anxious about Veronica’s arrival.

‘What have you been up to?’ Dr Thomas Marwood gave me his most professional stare. In return, I made my expression as opaque as I could and smiled back at him.

‘Nothing of any significance. Why do you ask?’

He continued to look at me with his penetrating gaze. ‘You look different.’

This was the first time I had seen him since my afternoon with Veronica. Did her effect on me still show so clearly? ‘Really? I can’t think why.’

‘Why are we summoned by the earl this morning? Who is this person we are to meet?’

I tried to look as calm and matter-of-fact as I could, but I could feel my heart racing at the thought of seeing her again. ‘Oh, I believe her name is Veronica Franco. She is a Venetian lady and I met her at Tintoretto’s
bottega.
She asked if she could meet the earl and I agreed to introduce them.’