Votive (32 page)

L
ORD
W
ATERFORD SHUDDERED
as he read again the fancy gilt card that had been delivered while he was sitting in his sun-drenched portego overlooking the Circolo Canal. Written in his language, it was clumsy and misspelled, but clear in its intention. There was to be an official function to acknowledge, not simply his arrival in Serenissima, but celebrate the new treaty between the canal-city and Farrowfare. It was to take place in the Doge’s palazzo in two days’ time. He was guest of honour and, as such, would be escorted to the palazzo by no less than one of the current heads of the Council of Ten, Nobile Zanino Nicolotti.

He threw the invitation back upon the tray and rose, gesturing to a servant to refill his cup. Damn, but that cafe the Serenissians drank was addictive. Initially appalled to discover his store of tea was damaged en route, he had soon adapted to the drink of the locals. Bitter, it left a strange taste in the mouth that was easily offset with sugar. He found he not only liked it, but preferred it to his customary drink.

Taking his cup to one of the windows, he gazed out over the jade waters, the surface crazed by the glacial wind that came in from the north, brilliant under the cloudless azure sky. Snow had fallen overnight, covering the fondamenta and surrounding casas in white cloaks. He watched as gondoliers brushed the pristine powder from the top
of the felzes, pulled back the heavy covers that protected the seats, periodically pausing to slap life back into their frozen hands as they worked. Gondolas glided past, nobiles and artists standing erect in the bottom, their faces fixed on their destination, refusing to be distracted by the journey. Below him, people scurried along the cobbles, their capes wrapped warmly around them, their caps snug upon their heads. Many had masks firmly fixed to their faces. Such a strange custom. He supposed he must find one to wear to the Doge’s welcome. What would his wife make of all this?

He lifted his eyes and stared beyond the pinnacles of the Doge’s basilica and the towering campanile in the piazza, towards the lagoon, imagining the wide expanse of ocean beyond. An ocean that led back to his homeland, to his wife, Annabel and son, Karlin – back to his queen. He wondered briefly how Annabel was faring. Trapped on their estate in the west, he knew she would be finding his absence difficult, especially since the queen had appointed an overseer to care for his affairs – someone keen to ingratiate himself with Zaralina. He remembered Sir William Oxford. A simpering lightweight who only ever acted in his own interests regardless of the cost to others. Annabel would not be fooled by his false charm. She could play her role, and well.

On the fondamenta below, a small boy begged for soldi from passers-by. A woman wearing those ridiculous wooden heels the courtesans favoured paused and reached into her purse. He watched the young boy bite the coin and scurry away, grateful for so little. Like Farrowfare, even this civil place, where rich and poor lived side by side, had its hierarchy, a class structure that not even wealth could penetrate, for all it pretended otherwise.

A wave of sadness passed over him. He’d missed his Karlin’s ninth birthday. He hoped Annabel remembered to buy him a pony from Sir Giles; no-one bred horses the
way he did. Would Zaralina allow Annabel the freedom to contact their neighbour, or would that be something else Oxford controlled?

Zaralina. The view before him disappeared as an image of his queen took its place. Her ivory skin, pale blue eyes and that flaming hair. By the gods, she was beautiful. And dangerous. And clever. And able to utilise supernatural resources.

He glanced over his shoulder as if checking who was about before allowing his thoughts to wander.

Only four days ago, he’d been in his bedroom, reading a most outrageous book by a local poet, enjoying his wine and the candelight, when the fire had momentarily guttered and a chill had pervaded the room. Before he could react, a Mortian had manifested, stealthily, silently.

Leaping to his feet, Waterford had knocked his glass flying, spilling the red liquid on the shining floor. Some had splashed into the fire, causing it to spark and smoke in protest. The Mortian had followed its trajectory before turning to Waterford with his huge mournful, empty eyes. Without a word, he’d handed him a fine piece of paper.

Trembling slightly, and not only from the sudden cold, Waterford had opened it. Before he could read it, there was a knock on the door. The air had shuddered for a moment and the Mortian vanished, dissolving into the atmosphere, the walls, he was never sure.

‘Yes?’ called Waterford, his voice cracking slightly. ‘What is it?’

The door opened and his valet, Jack, appeared. ‘Everything all right, my lord? I heard a noise.’ Jack noted the spilled wine and broken glass. ‘Oh. I’ll get you another glass, shall I, sir? Ask Catherine or one of them Serenissian girls to come and clean this up?’

‘Leave it, Jack. It can be tidied in the morning.’

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure, my lord? Won’t take a moment. By the gods, it’s cold in here. What’s wrong with these fireplaces? They don’t seem to throw out much heat, do they my lord?’

‘They’re fine, Jack. Please. Leave me.’

Jack frowned. ‘Of course, my lord.’ With a bow, he shut the door behind him, flashing his master a last look of concern.

Waterford let out a sigh of relief and, seeing that the Mortian didn’t reappear, sat back down and opened the letter. It was from Queen Zaralina. He read it quickly. So, they were using the Ottomans. Lord Waterford nodded. It was a risky strategy – those barbarians were unpredictable – but if it paid off, worth it. In the meantime, he was to make friends with the Ottomans’ ambassador and look for an ally among the Serenissian nobiles. Someone open to bribery. Someone ready to not only betray the Doge, but to topple him from power.

Waterford scoured the rest quickly. It contained the usual platitudes about his health and a brief, oh, too brief, report about his family. He read the entire missive one more time before crumpling it into a ball and throwing it in the fire. He didn’t need to respond. The Mortian’s absence made that clear. Where was the creature? Racing back to Farrowfare or lingering somewhere in the shadows? Observing him, formulating a report to take back to his master, that Shazet.

Waterford shook away the gloom the Mortians always made him feel and instead watched the fire take hold of the paper and flame brightly before it quickly died, leaving a charred wreck. He reached for the poker and broke it into pieces, some of which rose up the chimney, blackened bits of plot rising to blow over the city his people were set to betray. Fitting somehow.

It was the crackle of the fire that startled Waterford back into the present.

Turning away from the window, the invitation caught his eye. In the weeks he’d been in Serenissima, his agents had made contact with many traders, learned many things, but until his presence was made official, he’d been all but confined to the casa. Invitations to dinners and dances, never mind the casino, had not been forthcoming. All that was about to change.

He plucked the invitation from the table and looked at it yet again. This time, the spelling errors and poor phrasing made him laugh. How convenient was this welcome? After weeks of delay and formality, the time had come to make his presence known – only not in the way the Doge and his Council were expecting.

‘Oh, you silly people, with your masks and pretence, little do you know that among you is the greatest pretender of all.’

With a smile on his face, he decided to forgo another cafe. A glass of wine was in order.

‘Jack!’ he called, and rang the little bell on the table.

The door opened straight away. Waterford jumped. Jack must have been hovering on the other side, waiting. ‘Yes, my lord?’ asked Jack, entering the room swiftly.

‘Bring me a wine, would you?’

Jack’s eyes grazed the tray, containing the cup of cafe and bowl of sugar. ‘Yes, my lord.’ He bowed and turned to go.

‘Oh, Jack,’ added Lord Waterford.

Jack paused and raised his eyebrows. ‘Sir?’

‘Have you heard from your father recently?’

‘No, sir, not since the last missive. But I believe he and the family are well.’

‘I am glad to hear that.’

Jack hovered for a moment. ‘Anything else, my lord?’

‘While you’re fetching that glass of wine, you might as well bring me the entire bottle.’

Jack picked up the silver tray and its abandoned contents. ‘Celebrating, are we my lord?’

Lord Waterford thought for a moment. ‘Why yes, Jack, I believe I am.’

G
IACONDA PUT THE FINISHING TOUCHES
to her ensemble and then lifted her mask to her face. Coloured in varying shades of green, it matched her dress as well as her eyes, which glinted behind the wide, jewel-bordered slits. Hafeza quickly reached to help her, but Giaconda pushed her hands out of the way.

‘I can do this myself. I want you to make sure Tarlo is completely ready. Don’t look at me like that! I know you prepared her all afternoon, but it does no harm to check once more. Make sure she’s remembered to put the belladonna in her eyes. Then, I want you to wait ten minutes before bringing her to the portego. Carry her cape. I want Papa and Baroque to see what those at the reception will. Only they can appreciate the enormity of her transformation.’ Giaconda waved her away.

Hafeza bowed and left the room silently.

Giaconda began to pin the mask into place. ‘So, Papa, what’s the weather like?’

Ezzelino turned from the window and gazed upon his daughter, taking a few seconds to reply. ‘Almost as lovely as you.’

‘Come, Papa, save your charm for those we encounter at the function. Is it still snowing?’

‘No. The sky is bursting with constellations and the
wind has dropped. It’s a perfect silver backdrop for our little golden star.’

Giaconda’s lips curled. ‘She will cause a sensation, you know.’

‘Oh, I know.’ Ezzelino waited till Giaconda had finished sliding the pins in her hair and turned her head a few times to ensure her mask was secure, before offering her his arm. ‘Shall we?’

‘Grazie,’ said Giaconda as she placed her hand on her father’s arm and stood. She towered over him. Her emerald gown flashed in the light of the candles, in the firelight, the folds of her dress shifted like the waters of the canal, suggesting depths and variation. Ezzelino held his breath. It wasn’t only Tarlo who would do well tonight, he thought. Giaconda tapped him with her fan.

‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?’ she sighed, but there was no trace of annoyance. ‘I said, this is it, then, Papa – the end of all our plans, our years of hoping and waiting culminate tonight. It all comes down to Tarlo – will she succeed or fail? Will we be discovered or will she perpetrate the greatest deception of all times?’ She studied her father’s face. He frowned for a moment before his amber eyes became unreadable. ‘I’m a little scared, Papa. I admit it. If we should fail …’

‘Hush, bella. We will not fail, Tarlo will not fail. This is not the end. It is merely the beginning.’ He laid his hand over the top of hers, where it rested lightly upon his. ‘Now, I want you to pretend you’re the Dogeressa – all the while remembering that in the not-too-distant future, you will no longer have to imagine.’ He picked up her gloved fingers and kissed them one by one before patting them back into place.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘As I have never been before,’ answered Giaconda.

Allowing them a moment to compose their features, Ezzelino escorted her from the room.

S
TEPPING UNDER THE ARCHES THAT
formed the entrance to the Doge’s palazzo and into the huge central courtyard, I steeled my resolve. I would not think of Renzo’s bloody execution, which had taken place just feet away from where I now stood waiting to ascend the Scala dei Giganti, the huge stone staircase that led to the first-floor loggia of the Doge’s residence. I would not dwell on thoughts of discovery nor of failure. Not now. Not ever. Calmed by this, I fixed my expression and waited for our escort.

We’d deliberately delayed our arrival and the reception had already begun. Servants who had started to wander away from the staircase, assuming all invitees were present, quickly scurried back into place when they saw us, bowing, apologising and leading us up the stairs. From the looks on their faces, they were impressed with the spectacle we presented. Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli had choreographed our entrance down to the last detail. They would walk ahead of me and, once we reached the palazzo’s main chamber, which, I understood was on the second floor, they would be introduced before I would be officially presented.

My heart hammered as I went up the stairs, conscious of my towering zoccoli, of the yards of fabric swirling about my feet and of keeping my cape wrapped around me until such time it would be removed – at the top of the stairs, just outside the ballroom. I caught a glimpse of two enormous statues – remnants of the time of the Estrattore – one each of the gods of war and sea. If only there was a god for money, Serenissima would be captured in statuary.

We rounded the corner at the top and walked along an external walkway and, while Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli exchanged a quiet laugh, I took the opportunity to slide my hand out of my glove and stroke the stone balustrade. Silky smooth, it gleamed in the moonlight, made as it was from Istrian marble. I quickly extracted its strength, the focus of the workers who, with back-breaking patience, had hammered and chiselled the blocks that were now wonderfully symmetrical. I drank in their spirit and found my heart ceased to pound and the anxiety gnawing my stomach eased. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching as it poured from my mouth in a misty vapour. It was a cold, still night and yet I felt afire.

Giaconda had described the final staircase we would climb, the massive internal one, the Scala d’Oro, before arriving at the main room, but even so, it took me aback. Made entirely of gold, it glittered and sparkled, the lavishly painted ceiling and walls and tiled floor making it feel as if we’d stepped into a treasure chest. The intense glow reflected off every surface. I scrunched my eyes and searched for each step with the toe of my shoe. I felt like a dislodged gem.

At the top of the staircase were two huge golden doors. Liveried servants, also masked, reached for our capes and Signor Maleovelli’s hat. Amid all this gold, I unwound my black cape, handing it to a servant whose jaw dropped as he caught the first glimpse of my dress. I thought I was simply merging with the background – how wrong I was. Signor Maleovelli handed a man more intricately dressed than the other servants – the maestro della casa or major domo – his card and the huge double doors began to swing open. Giaconda gave me the merest of nods, her lips curled beneath her mask, before she turned her back and we prepared to enter.

The doors swung inwards releasing a burst of noise, music and chatter. I stepped into the largest room I had ever seen – not even the golden staircase could have prepared me for this. It paled by comparison as panels of dramatic art framed by golden carvings blazed from every surface and journeyed across the ceiling, which appeared to go for miles, unsupported, just one long mural of intense hues and iridescence. Along the walls were enormous sconces laden with creamy pillar candles, their flames long and steady, casting radiance above and below.

We paused behind the maestro della casa, who thumped a huge staff against the gleaming floor.

‘Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli of the Eighth Casa of Nobiles’ Rise; his daughter Giaconda Maleovelli and, introducing his ward, Tarlo Maleovelli.’ His voice was throaty and loud.

I don’t know what I expected would happen, but nothing changed. Conversations continued uninterrupted, the music played, the people remained focused on each other. I felt a wave of disappointment. All this anticipation.

As if they were actors acknowledging their audience, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli bowed and curtsied to the indifferent room and turned to face a large, low platform, upon which sat an old man – the Doge – in a garish, high-backed chair. His throne. To one side of him stood two men, both of whom resembled each other. I imagined they were the Princes, his sons. On his other side sat a pale man with blond hair who was dressed in peculiar clothes. This must be the ambassador for whom this function was being held. Behind him stood a tall, lean man in a rich, scarlet cassock. He had a matching cap on his head and the huge gold chains of his office dangled across his shoulders, meeting over his heart in a dazzling crucifix. The Cardinale. I swallowed hard.

The foreigner rose to his feet as our names were called and the Princes helped the Doge struggle to his. Once again, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli sank into deep obeisance and only stepped away from me once it was my turn to greet the Doge. At that moment, I stood unaccompanied, exposed, at the base of the platform in the centre of the room.

It was then that conversation ceased and the music spluttered to a stop. All eyes turned in my direction. I watched as groups of men and other, elegantly clad women, spun to look at me, their mouths dropping open. The silence was complete. No murmurs, not a movement, only my breath in my ears, long, juddering.

Framed by the platform and the huge, dark painting that loomed behind it, I stood proudly, just as I’d been instructed, my head held high, my mask intact, my dress a work of art befitting this grand room. A voice in my head kept talking to me:
smile, do not look around, bow your head, curtsy, keep your hands still.

The Maleovellis left me there for as long as protocol would allow, just enough time for me to catch some of the whispers.

‘Gold! She’s wearing gold!’

‘How dare she!’

‘Stunning.’

‘Good god, she’s beautiful!’

‘Who is this creature?’

‘Maleovelli, the wily old bastardo, where has he been hiding this vision?’

‘She dares to wear gold before the Doge?’

And on they went. As I rose out of my curtsy, I risked a quick sweep of the room. It told me that no-one else was attired in the metallic tint that seemed to dominate the palazzo – that was, until my eyes met those of the Doge.
He’d shuffled forward to the edge of the stage, his face creased in a frown. Of all the nobiles clustered in this vast space, only he wore the colour in which the Maleovellis had chosen to attire me.

I sank to the floor once more, my dress billowing around me, the jewels that adorned the slashes in my sleeves and rimmed my bodice flashing in the candlelight. The feathers of my mask caressed the front of the Doge’s togati as I rose, running from his groin to almost his chin.

The old man regarded me steadily through his creased eyes. He held out a shaking hand. I placed mine ever so lightly in his. ‘Maleovelli, I didn’t know you had added another filly to your stable.’ I glanced at him quickly. His pitted tongue ran over dry lips. ‘She’s a beauty. A golden beauty.’ He nodded his approval, my hand still in his, holding me at arm’s length, appraising every aspect of my gown, his eyes lingering over my daring décolletage.

The silence that had held the room in thrall broke and the conversation quickly rose to a crescendo. I didn’t need to hear what was being said to know they were discussing me. It was only later I discovered that the Doge’s first words to me were paramount. He could have ordered me taken from the room, stripped, and my clothes burned. I could have been flung out into the piazza or, worse, the dungeons. Instead, he’d not only welcomed me but, through his greeting, also given me permission to be so bold as to dress like him. To wear the Doge’s colour: gold.

I had gotten away with breaking one of the greatest taboos in Serenissian society. No wonder the Maleovellis had insisted the dress be kept secret. It also explained the look of fear that crossed Hafeza’s face every time she laid eyes on it.

Before I could grasp the enormity of what had just happened, it was time to be introduced to the Cardinale.
I knew not to offer him my hand. Giaconda had described him as a Roman puritan who, unlike other members of the church, did not seek a woman’s company. Nor a man’s, according to rumours. He was a celibate. Puzzling to Serenissian sensibilities. My heart hammered as I met his eyes, afraid he would see straight through my mask, notice the belladonna and denounce me on the spot. As we nodded to each other, I saw the disapproval behind the façade. He did not like what I represented – something the Church could not control in men or women: lust. I also sensed that he fought hard to control his own.

Then it was time to meet the Doge’s sons and the foreign ambassador.

After that, the evening became a blur. Every nobile and courtesan wanted to be introduced, to be seen in my company. I was like a new drink everyone wanted to try. Giaconda stayed by my side, keeping the conversation safe, the men at arm’s length. Many tried to get closer, but she would slap them playfully with her fan and warn them away.

We’d been there for what seemed like hours. The bells in the campanile had long since chimed midnight and, through the windows along one side of the room, I could see the sky was beginning to lighten.

Just as dawn’s timid fingers reached over the horizon, one of the Doge’s sons and Signor Moronisini’s, Giacomo, the one upon whom I had spied in the Maleovellis’ casa the night the colleganza was made, joined the group of which I was centre.

At first, I noticed only Giacomo. He grabbed Giaconda’s hand and kissed it, but his eyes were upon me. Up close, he was very handsome, more so than I remembered. He had smooth olive skin, hazel eyes that twinkled behind his mask, and a generous mouth. He was about to say something to
me when the group around us parted. The Prince stepped into our midst.