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Then, seeing my look of confused disapproval, he asked, “My
dear boy, surely you realized that such overblown flattery was
deliberate on my part, did you not?”
When I meekly shook my head, he reached over and gave
me a consoling pat upon the shoulder.
“Let this be a valuable lesson for you, Dino, should you
one day be forced to seek out your patrons to earn your
bread. It is but a game we play, bowing and scraping to
those of the moneyed classes who would pay for the privi­
lege of owning a work of art from our brushes.”
He was folding the letter as he spoke. Now he caught up
the burning candle at his elbow to let the stub drip onto the
paper and then stamped the resulting small puddle of wax
with a fancifully carved bit of stone.
Tucking the sealed correspondence into his tunic, he
went on. “We shower the noble and wealthy with honeyed
words and insincere flattery. In return, they dole out their
patronage. As for the painters unwilling to bend a knee,
they may pretend superiority to those of us who do, but they
soon find that pride makes for an unsatisfying meal at the
end of the day.”
“But surely Il Moro, or any noble reading such a letter,
would merely think you were making mockery of him,” I
protested.
The Master shrugged. “I fear not. Indeed, the more
ridiculous the rhetoric, the more satisfied these nobles
are . . . and the wider they open their purses. Of course, I al­
ways ask for twice the amount that I want. This way, when
they magnanimously count out but half that figure, both
sides leave satisfied.”
“I-I see,” I replied in consternation and lowered my gaze,
68
Diane A. S. Stuckart
feeling suddenly foolish. I should have known better than to
believe that Leonardo would author such a piece of frippery,
save in some sort of jest. Had I paid closer attention to my
father’s business, might I have seen that he also was forced
to pen such painfully subservient missives to his own clients?
“Come, Dino, do not despair,” he reassured me with a
kind smile. “Now that you understand the game and the
reasons behind it, you will find it easy enough play when
you are older. But let us move on to more important mat­
ters. Pray, tell me what you learned at Bellanca’s funeral.”
Eagerly, I left the one uncomfortable matter behind, even
knowing that its replacement subject was equally unset­
tling. While Leonardo listened attentively, I made my way
though the list of those I had seen in the chapel.
My conclusion that the trio of blond young women must
be Caterina’s remaining maidservants earned a nod, as did
my guess that the older woman wrapped in her tragic sobs
must be the same servant who had identified Bellanca’s
body in the surgery.
“Undoubtedly, you are describing Lidia,” the Master
agreed, “though we shall take the opportunity to view her
together to make certain. I grant that we will do well to
learn more about her relationship with Bellanca and deter­
mine what would spur her to such great mourning.”
He took equal interest in my descriptions of the porter
and the page, both of whom I had guessed might have had
more than a passing affection for the dead woman.
“Very good, Dino . . . I see you have learned something
from my lectures in composing a scene,” he said in approval.
“It is said that actions may speak with greater force than
mere words. The fact that these two took pains to sit far
apart from each other in so confined a space is telling. We
shall endeavor to learn more about them, as well. Perhaps
you might make me a small sketch of each man?”
I did as asked and was well pleased when he declared as
he reviewed my drawings that he would know either man
on sight now. That accomplished, I made quick work of de­
Portrait of a Lady
69
scribing the remaining mourners . . . that was, all save one.
My only hesitation came when I prepared to describe the
man who had slipped into the pew beside me.
MY first impression had been of a dangerously handsome
man. I guessed him to be a year or two younger than the
Master, though the hard lines of his face made such a deter­
mination difficult. He was not bearded, though it appeared a
blade had not scraped his cheeks in some days. With his
curly black hair sheared well above his shoulders and his
mercenary’s regalia, I guessed him to be one of the duke’s sol­
diers.
I had seen many such men as he during my time in the
duke’s court. When not embroiled in a distant battle or in
playing sentry at the castle gates, they did little more than
swagger aimlessly about the grounds. Brash and crude sorts,
these soldiers were, in their scandalously short tunics over
parti-colored trunk hose, with swords dangling rakishly from
their hips. Only the boldest of civilians, male or female,
would purposely choose to confront them.
Yet there was something about this man that was star­
tlingly different from his rougher brethren. Perhaps it was
the suggestion of lazy sensuality that clung to him like a
houri’s scent. Maybe it was the set of his wide mouth, which
managed simultaneously to suggest both sensitivity and a
certain chill brutality. Or it could have been as simple as his
hands, their digits well formed and oddly elegant for a man
who made his living brandishing a sword.
My gaze had met his just long enough for me to register
the supreme indifference reflected in his heavily lashed dark
eyes as he took in my youth, position, and supposed gender.
Just as swiftly, he’d apparently dismissed me as unimpor­
tant and turned his attention to the activity beyond the al­
tar rail.
I had promptly done the same, focusing on the monk as
he made the sign of the cross over the dead woman’s body
70
Diane A. S. Stuckart
and sprinkled her with holy water. I suspected this man
might be one of these mercenaries of which the Master had
so disparagingly spoken, one of those fighting men who had
given himself up to Mars. And so I should have viewed him
as frightening or even repellent.
Instead, though I had exchanged but the briefest of
glances with him, I suddenly found myself inexplicably fas­
cinated with the man.
I continued to keep my gaze rigidly forward, even as I
felt a hot blush creep up my neck and stain my cheeks crim­
son. I knew, however, that the man kneeling beside me was
unaware of my sudden discomfort in his presence. Doubt­
less, he had already forgotten me, would take no further no­
tice of me unless by some word or act I called undue attention
to myself.
But I would never forget him, I felt certain!
By then, the monk was making his final genuflections
while two stooped deacons dressed in rough garb emerged
from the shadows. They lifted the pallet upon which Bel­
lanca’s body lay onto their shoulders and followed the monk
down the aisle toward the chapel door. As I rose with the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]