The Spy of Venice_A William Shakespeare Mystery by Benet Brandreth

Author:Benet Brandreth [Brandreth, Benet]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B077J7QSRV
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 2018-08-07T00:00:00+00:00

Interlude

Venice, June 1585

Made him give battle to the lioness

‘Madonna. For the sake of us all, sit still.’

Isabella paused in her pacing but did not sit. Her mind was in a motion perpetual and her body matched it. Her striding was replaced with the fluttering of a fan.

‘Mother of God. I cannot bear this fidgeting,’ the old man said as he slapped his palette down.

He began to clamber down the scaffold. Behind him, far from finished, lay his latest work. It was destined for the Salla della Scrutinio in the Doge’s Palace. One of several showing the triumphs of Venice as she built her empire. The Capture of Zara from the Hungarians in 1346 amid a Hurricane of Missiles; this was but a working title. He would think of something more succinct, more pithy, in time. Or maybe not. People would call it what they will. He had never really cared for titles. After all, he had been born Jacopo Comin, but everyone called him something different now, Tintoretto. Except for the lady, except for Isabella Lisarro. In this, as in so many things, she was exceptional.

Isabella snapped her fan shut. The noise loud in the space of his workshop.

‘How can I sit still when he is out there?’ she said. ‘I know nothing, Jacopo. Nothing.’

She slapped her fan against her hand. She wore high britches that day, aping a man’s style. It was the fashion in Venice for the women, at least the more daring among them, to dress in men’s clothes. The dark green silk of the britches was complemented by a jacket of white silk. It bore a high-collared ruff of pearl and lace that plunged low and was a source of considerable distraction to the painter.

‘Be patient, Isabella, and all will be well,’ he said.

‘You can say this,’ she retorted. ‘You, whose imagination can expand to encompass that possibility. I cannot. How can the stomach be filled by bare imagination of a feast? How can I make all well by the mere thinking of it so?’

‘Often have I heard you make this argument,’ he replied. ‘I know it false as I know your claim to lack imagination false. Be calm and put your mind to work.’

Tintoretto was in an unhappy mood. Ordinarily he would welcome a visit from his friend, but Isabella had been of late as changeable and dangerous as a lion with a thorn in its paw. Tintoretto loved women and, of all women, he loved those with wit and creativity and the spark of danger in them most. He thought of his daughter, Marietta. She had that to her. She was a painter of rare skill; skill greater than that of his son Domenico, poor boy. A smile, infrequently seen on the intense little man, creased his face and lifted the drooping eyes for a moment.

He wanted Isabella to sit still for a moment so that he could have calm to resume his work, but he also wanted to watch her walk and see

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