His Last Duchess (27 page)

Lucrezia had been desperate to find Jacomo when she arrived back at the Castello after her ride, even though she knew it would be foolish to do so, but in the event it proved impossible: Alfonso was in the courtyard waiting to meet them. That in itself was unusual, she thought. He rarely chose to spend time with her during the day. There was something more than this, too: something disconcerting about his manner. He had, she thought, been distant and darkly brooding for weeks, and she had grown used to seeing a look of moody melancholy on his face—but now, she realised, there was a new agitation about him: a vivid, restless energy. He smiled up at her as he raised a hand to help her down from the saddle, though she saw no tenderness in that smile; his grey eyes glittered and behind them lurked what seemed like a hunger, a feverish appetite for—for something she could not fathom.

“Did you enjoy your ride, Lucrezia?”

She forced a smile. “Yes, thank you, though Signor Bracciante will tell you that I am still far from accomplished as a horsewoman.”

The ever-taciturn riding master said nothing, and Alfonso made no attempt to draw him into the conversation. His gaze was fixed upon Lucrezia. Her stomach lurched at the prospect of a resumption of his attentions. She had hoped, after that terrible night, that she would not have to face another encounter with Alfonso before fleeing with Jacomo and, indeed, had found herself counting the hours—almost the minutes—until she and her painter could leave the Castello. As Tuesday came ever closer, and Alfonso had kept his distance from her, she had until this moment thought she would be lucky. But it seemed that the sight of her today had aroused a memory of that night in Alfonso's mind too: with a sick feeling of inevitability, Lucrezia watched his gaze flick from her eyes to her mouth, from there to her breasts and back up to her face.

“Come, Lucrezia,” Alfonso said then, ignoring Signor Bracciante. “I have a mind to play a game of
dama
.” He reached for Lucrezia's hand and held it fast, turning and walking back into the Castello by the northern courtyard door at such a pace that Lucrezia found herself almost running to keep up. The black wolfhound paced, click-clawed, some feet behind them. “We have not played for some time, have we?”

“No,” Lucrezia said.

“Do you know what they are calling it in France, now that the rules have changed?” Alfonso said, looking again at her mouth.

“No.”

“
Jeu
Force
. Because now, unlike before, if you
can
take out an opponent, then you
must
do so. Much more exciting, would you not agree?”

“Such a rule certainly doesn't allow much space for compassion,” Lucrezia suggested, and Alfonso laughed.

“In this game there is no place for compassion, Lucrezia. Ruthless determination to rid oneself of what stands in one's way, and the courage to undertake what others might perceive as reckless moves in the pursuit of ultimate success—that is what will win you the game.”

A door banged open some few yards ahead, and Lucrezia's heart turned over.

It was Jacomo.

He was backing blindly out into the corridor, struggling under the weight of the heavy folding screen he had used to hide the final section of the fresco. Alfonso stopped, unable to continue because Jacomo and his burden were blocking the way. Lucrezia stared at her painter. She had not seen him since the portrait-sitting the day before when Alfonso had stormed away, looking so frighteningly angry. She still had no idea whether or not he had seen Jacomo look at her—but could only presume that he had; she had spent the time since then desperate to find Jacomo, but not daring to draw attention to him.

Now, though, she heard again in her mind the words Alfonso had just uttered, and a truly terrifying thought occurred to her. Had her husband seen the indisputable evidence yesterday, drawn his conclusions and decided to “take out his opponent”? Was this why he was so strangely agitated and unlike his normal self? Oh, dear God! She wanted to warn Jacomo—felt the words ready to burst from her:
stay
with
the
reverend
brother
at
all
times. For God's sake, don't go anywhere alone. He wants to hurt you. Stay away from him!
But here, in Alfonso's presence, she could only stand afraid and say nothing.

She saw that Jacomo's eyes, too, were wide with anxiety. He was deathly pale.

“I—I'm sorry, Signore,” he stammered, struggling to move the screen so that they could pass. “I'll shift it for you straight away.”

“Oh, for God's sake, boy,” Alfonso snapped, “just get out of the way!”

Jacomo managed to drag the screen to one side of the passageway and Alfonso strode past him. With tears behind her eyes, Lucrezia snatched a glance at him as she moved on up the corridor, her hand still held fast in Alfonso's. It was unbearable. A howl of longing swelled high in her chest and it was all she could do not to pull her fingers from her husband's grasp and run—back to where Jacomo stood staring after them.

“Was that not Pandolf's young assistant?” Alfonso said irritably, as they walked on.

“I believe so,” Lucrezia said.

“It would appear that that great stain on his face indicates a distinct lack of intelligence—the boy's a veritable idiot.”

Lucrezia said nothing.

“Pandolf says he is a gifted painter—a
gifted
painter
? I have to say that I struggle to believe him. It strikes me as extremely unlikely that such an inarticulate peasant could have any highflown aesthetic sensitivities. No doubt Pandolf exaggerates his minion's skill from some misjudged sense of Franciscan charity.”

Lucrezia's face burned. If this was a genuine opinion then her fears were groundless, Alfonso had seen nothing and had no thoughts of harming Jacomo. But, she thought, what if this was his teasing idea of a way to exact as painful a retribution for this newly discovered infidelity as he could devise? Maybe he wished to belittle Jacomo in front of her, to humiliate her for her—in his opinion—poor choice of lover, before he destroyed him. But before she could think any further upon this conundrum, they arrived at the games room and Alfonso was holding the door open for her. Going in, she saw that he had already set up the
dama
. The little round pieces were in place on the red-and-white chequered board and a chair stood at each side of the table.

Lucrezia looked around the games room, her thoughts in turmoil. Behind the
dama
game, the
biliardo
table had been left ready for play, with several balls scattered untidily across the cloth surface. Two lutes were propped against one wall, a jumble of tennis racquets lay on the floor beneath the window and, on another, larger, table, lay a number of dice, a chess set and a
zara
board. The coloured squares, circles and stars lay heaped in an open, carved ivory box. Upon the walls hung a number of tapestries depicting various sports, while several brightly coloured
commedia
dell'arte
masks, beribboned and spangled, grinned from wall brackets—brackets which, Lucrezia thought, just then seemed more like gibbets. In the past, she had enjoyed spending time in this room, but today its vivid cheerfulness seemed wilfully to be mocking her anxiety.

Alfonso spoke into her tumbling thoughts. “Come, Lucrezia, you play white. I shall play red and start the game. Remember that when I
can
take you out, I shall do so—I shall have no choice.” And, placing his forefinger on one of the circular playing pieces, he slid it forward across the diagonal, from one red square to the next.

***

“Thank you, Alfonso,” Lucrezia said, some time later, when he had, to his delight and her relief, won the game with some ease. “You play with more skill than I ever shall.”

“Perhaps,” was his only reply.

“I'm tired now. I should like to return to my chambers,” Lucrezia said.

“Well, then, I shall accompany you. We can dine there, too.”

Alfonso, Lucrezia and the ever-present black ghost made their way across the castle to her apartments.

Why? Lucrezia asked herself. Why? Why? Why? Why, after all these weeks and months of avoiding her presence, did Alfonso now wish to act the devoted husband? Something had changed: she knew it. Something had altered within him and it unnerved her. She felt alone and vulnerable. As they neared her chambers, she reached a decision: she had no idea what lay behind this change in Alfonso's demeanour but, whatever the reason, she decided that she would do whatever it transpired he wanted of her—however much it might distress or disgust her. For, she reasoned, keeping Alfonso happy must surely be the best way of keeping Jacomo safe. She had survived the last ordeal, after all. At most, there could only be a few more days of purgatory. She could endure it.

There was a whining voice inside her head, though, to which she could not bring herself to listen. It bored into her soul, sharp and thin as a wire, goading her to distraction:
you
do
not
think
he
would
carry
out
such
a
deed
himself, do you? Perhaps
, the voice whispered,
he
wants
you
in
your
chambers, away from Jacomo, so that some minion can carry out his orders and rid him of his “opponent” even as you lie in his arms. Perhaps…while you submit to Alfonso's attentions, sure that in doing so you are keeping Jacomo safe, elsewhere in the castle—

“Crezzi!” A voice broke into Lucrezia's reverie, and she heard running footsteps. Alfonso checked his stride and turned with her. Lucrezia nearly cried with relief to see Giovanni.

He ran up, slowing as he reached her side. “Signore, forgive me.” He bowed to Alfonso and then turned to Lucrezia. “Crezzi, I've not seen you since the day before yesterday.”

“No. Where have you been?”

“Readying myself to return to Cafaggiolo, apart from anything. I leave in a few days.”

“Oh, Vanni, I had not realised you were going so soon. You should have come riding with me and Signor Bracciante—”

“Tell me, Signore,” Alfonso interrupted, “have you enjoyed your stay at the Castello, this time? Were you suitably impressed by the unveiling of our fresco?”

“Indeed, sir, I—”

“And the portrait?”

“Of course, it's not yet finished, Signore, but I promise I will tell my aunt and uncle what an extraordinary likeness of Crezzi Fra Pandolf”—Giovanni flicked a glance at Lucrezia—“has already produced.”

Alfonso seemed gratified. Staring at Lucrezia, he said, “You can tell them how fortunate it is that your cousin can be thus…immortalized…as a permanent decoration within the fabric of the Castello…”

Giovanni turned to Lucrezia as Alfonso spoke, and she saw, with surprise, that his eyes were wide and dark, and tiny beads of sweat clung to the line of his upper lip. He seemed profoundly ill at ease.

“Are you…are you quite well, Vanni?” Lucrezia asked, reaching for his hand. His palm was cold and damp.

He smiled and nodded, but she was not reassured. His discomposure echoed the forbidding atmosphere that seemed to be hanging over the entire castle that day. Lucrezia began to feel as though an anonymous, menacing being was loose in the building—a savage version of Folletto—padding upon soft paws along the corridors of the Castello, a creature that might confront them at any moment, snarling and ready to strike.

“Would you care to dine with us, Vanni?” Lucrezia asked, as they neared her apartments.

“Oh, I am sure your cousin has many things he should be doing, Lucrezia. Doubtless he will not wish to waste the short time he has remaining here in Ferrara cooped up in your chambers,” Alfonso said, with unnatural geniality, before Giovanni could answer.

But Giovanni said, “On the contrary, Signore, I should be delighted to spend as much time as I can with Lucrezia before I have to leave.”

Alfonso still had hold of Lucrezia's hand and she felt his fingers stiffen at Giovanni's words, which, even to her ears, sounded impertinent.

“You misunderstand me, sir. I do not care to have to spell it out so obviously, but since you put me in the position where I am forced to do so, I must explain. I wish to dine alone with my duchess.”

Giovanni flushed. “Forgive me,” he said—but he said it to Lucrezia, rather than to Alfonso. He sketched a rough bow and strode away.

***

The light had almost gone, and Lucrezia and Alfonso had finished eating. The candles in the brackets on the walls were alight, and a small fire was burning, casting shivering shadows across the rush-strewn floor.

Lucrezia was beginning to feel sick at the thought of what would soon be expected of her, for Alfonso had made it clear all evening that he quite certainly had something in mind. His gaze, Lucrezia thought, had been searching and hungry since the moment he had helped her from her horse some hours before. A clot of dread sat high in her throat as she waited for him to make his first suggestion. She was astonished, therefore, when he rose from his chair and said, “You seem tired, Lucrezia. I shall retire to my chambers and let you sleep.” He paused. “I shall, however, look forward to the morrow.”

Doing no more than running his fingers up the length of one of her arms, and gripping her shoulder for a second, Alfonso left her.

She sat staring into the embers, fear for Jacomo's safety pricking at her painfully, but she dared not leave her room. Sleep seemed impossible, and after having retired to bed, she lay awake for hours, gazing at the sky through her uncurtained window.