The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,72
poor maid to be shackled to a cruel fellow with no interest in her person? No . . . bedsport?” I could not think of anything worse.
“You are talking like a simpleton. The compensations of such a match are great—he has lands; she does too, and a shipping fortune to boot. I thought you understood such transactions. Love does not enter into the case. And if it did, I doubt whether you yourself would have made much of a living in your former profession.”
He was quite correct. Marriage was more about business than feeling. But it wasn’t right. “It’s not right.”
“I never said it was. Such transactions of noble heirs like so much exalted cattle is morally abhorrent to me—it’s one of the reasons I entered Holy Orders in the first place, else the maid of Venice would have been destined for my bed, no doubt.” He grimaced like a gargoyle. “But happily, human love is no longer my concern. I know only of divine love as every monk should.”
I toyed with the idea of telling him how many of his order I had screwed in the hallowed precincts of his own foundation. But I thought I had a more exalted argument. “Fra Filippo Lippi was a monk,” I said, naming one of Florence’s most famous artists, “and he married a nun, and had a child!”
Brother Guido shrugged delicately. “Some there are that leave the order and enter worldy life. But not I. I hope to strive for divine love, in a state of chastity, for the rest of my days.” He did not quite meet my eyes. “And besides, I cannot pretend to understand such an emotion anyway. Human love, and the excesses it drives people to, is a mystery to me. What is love, anyway?”
I did not quite believe his protests. That dying kiss he had given me, on the sinking flagship—not acknowledged, not mentioned—had more to do with human feeling than he believed. Or human passion at any rate. Not for nothing had he striped his own back in penance like the Christ. But he had asked an interesting question, and I thought I knew the answer.
“Love is when you like someone so much you have to call it something else,” I stated, pleased with the notion. My friend did not look convinced, so I returned to the earlier theme. “And when is the wedding to take place?” My confused mind could not at once separate Brother Guido from Niccolò—I almost felt it was the former who was to be married, not the man he impersonated.
“I know not. ‘Twas all settled when I was at Santa Croce. But unless it is in the next few days, I am quite safe from the horns of matrimony.”
The dance ended and he bowed, hiding a smile. I did not see what was so funny, and burned with curiosity as we returned to the high table, where the king clapped enthusiastically and his toadies followed suit.
“Capital!” he cried. His Majesty reached for my hand and I made a courtesy as he kissed it. He seemed loath to let it go so I took Brother Guido’s seat and sat happily next to him, for I had some questions.
“The lady who is betrothed to my lord . . .” I began.
The king inclined his head indulgently. “The dogaressa’s daughter?”
“Why is she called so? Why not the doge’s daughter?” For I knew that “doge,” meaning “duke,” was the title of the ruler of my former city of Venice, and “dogaressa” the title of his wife.
“For the reason that the mother and daughter are said to be as like as two peas in a pod. And added to that, the dogaressa is a remarkably strong-willed lady—she hauled herself up from the streets, for she was once no more than a courtesan. She is reputed to rule her husband; they say that beneath her fine gowns hangs a prick and her balls clang together like a ring o’ bells, for the doge has none.” He chuckled, with a confidence that suggested that no one would dare slander him in this way. But I was not concerned with the politics of the situation. “And is she fair? The daughter, I mean?”
Now he smiled, amused that a businesswoman such as myself should feel the sharp thorns of jealousy; after all, for most loyal mistresses, a marriage did not mean the end of a relationship, as his own ménage proved.