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Standing there dwarfed by the building’s tall shadow, I
realized I could still change my mind. Should he ever ques
tion me, I could simply tell Gregorio that the contessa had
not allowed me my freedom. He could hardly question such
an excuse, being all too aware of his own subjugation to a
higher rank.
Then I shook my head. Too many bits of this broader
puzzle seemed to bear Gregorio’s lazy mark. I pictured the
Master’s shattered model of the horse, the pieces so small
that they were unrecognizable until they were fitted to larger
sections of the damaged clay. Now I had the opportunity to
learn how another, more important group of pieces might fit
together. And if I dared not take this chance, then perhaps I
should put on my boy’s tunic again and simply cease this
masquerade!
Thus steeled, I gripped the curved metal handle with the
same grim resolve I might have used in grabbing at hell’s
outer gates. Pulling open the heavy door, I abandoned sun
light and stepped inside.
Cool dimness washed over me like an ocean’s wave, the
sudden change from light to darkness as sharp as a blow. I
gasped reflexively, taking in a deep breath of air heavy with
incense and sin and redemption. That soft sound did little
to disturb the silence, for I was not alone here in the dark.
Around me, I could hear the echoed murmurs of prayers, the
rhythmic click of beads, and the soft tap of footsteps from
the many clergy and pilgrims wandering about.
I made a quick genuflection and paused to let my eyes
grow used to the darkness. I had never been inside Milan’s
grand cathedral before, having always attended Mass each
Sunday at the chapel outside the churchyard near the castle.
Portrait of a Lady
215
Still, I had heard many testimonies as to its grandeur, and
just as many jests regarding its design. For the cathedral al
ready was almost one hundred years old, and yet still the
workmen toiled upon it. Wags claimed that it might be an
other hundred years before the cathedral was deemed fin
ished. . . or maybe two hundred more years, given that
work had not yet begun upon its facade!
Though my artist’s eye noted several flaws with its plan, I
still stared curiously about me. How could one not be awed,
I wondered, by this white marble edifice larger than a dozen
chapels and built in the shape of an immense, blunt cross?
Niches filled with standing and recumbent stone figures
lined the outermost walls. Most of them were merely devo
tional images, though some served as top pieces for the sep
ulchers in which noble personages and clergy were interred.
Unfortunately, it was difficult to make out any great de
tail of the surrounding works. Other than the flickering
glow of candles arranged before the various statues, the only
light was that which spilled through the stained glass win
dows that lined either length of the building. Those jewel
like colors puddled like tempera upon the elaborate mosaic
of stone that made up the floor, adding an almost festive air
to the solemn interior. But those narrow casements were too
few and too low to fully illuminate such a vast space.
Thus, the already-encroaching shadows gave way to an
even greater darkness above that filled the cathedral’s im
mense arched dome. That vaulted ceiling ran the entire
length of the nave—the wide center aisle—which stretched
from entry to altar. Narrower aisles, two on each side, ran
parallel to the nave. These aisles, in turn, were delineated by
four long rows of marble columns that extended past the
transepts, the two lateral arms of the building that formed
the crosspiece of the cathedral’s cruciform floor plan.
There were perhaps half a hundred columns in total, I
saw in amazement. Each one was so large that five or six
people linking hands would barely be able to encircle it.
With their richly carved capitals, which broadened at the
216
Diane A. S. Stuckart
top, the columns resembled nothing so much as a frozen for
est of stone growing in neat formation in the darkness.
By now, I was used to the dim light and so could not put
off my mission any longer. Recalling Gregorio’s reference to
the stained glass image of Saint Michael, I began making
my way down the farthermost aisle, carefully searching the
colored images for the warrior angel.
I found that heavenly avenger with his flaming sword
tucked behind one of the columns just before the transept.
The colors of this smaller glass were somber, with the only
bright note the gleam of his golden sword. Had I not been
looking for it, I might have passed it by, so well did it fade
into the shadows.
As I admired the work, I realized it was less the artistry of
the glass than it was the angel’s handsome dark face that held
my attention. The glass figure, with his sensuous lips and
look of cold pride that somehow befitted his Godly mission,
reminded me of Gregorio. Little wonder that the captain had
claimed this as his favorite, I wryly told myself. Likely he,
too, saw something of himself reflected in that image.
But where was he? Why had he not yet appeared behind
me, silent as any of these shadows, as was his habit?
Barely had I time to ponder those questions when some
thing stirred within the darkness of a broad niche beside
that very window. A chill swept me, and my first supersti
tious thought was that the statue within it had come to life.
I had raised one hand in the reflexive gesture to cross myself
as protection against that spirit, when I realized in relief
that the figure I had seen was indeed quite human.
Yet as Gregorio stepped from the shadows, I reminded
myself that perhaps I should be as wary of him as of any un
known being. I could not help but recall he was the man
who might know more than he should about two women’s
deaths . . . might even have been the one to set the stable
dog upon me. What was I thinking, to meet him here alone,
having told no one of my plans?
Then, with a lazy grin, he grasped my hand and pulled
Portrait of a Lady
217
me toward him, the warm flesh against mine reassuring me.
Leaning toward me, so that his lips brushed my ear, he
softly said, “I’ve been anxiously awaiting this moment since
yesterday. When the Angelus rang, and you were not here, I
feared you had chosen not to come, after all.”
“I hurried as quickly as I could,” I whispered back, un
commonly cheered by his admission. “But Signor Luigi was
busy, so I had to wait for him to finish with the barone, and
then there was the conte’s man, and then—”
His soft laugh stopped me short. “You need not give me
a litany of your day, my dear Delfina. All that matters is that
you are here now.”
He paused to glance about us, and then shook his head.
“I fear there are too many devout pilgrims wandering about
for us to speak without risk of being overheard. Come with [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl freetocraft.keep.pl
Standing there dwarfed by the building’s tall shadow, I
realized I could still change my mind. Should he ever ques
tion me, I could simply tell Gregorio that the contessa had
not allowed me my freedom. He could hardly question such
an excuse, being all too aware of his own subjugation to a
higher rank.
Then I shook my head. Too many bits of this broader
puzzle seemed to bear Gregorio’s lazy mark. I pictured the
Master’s shattered model of the horse, the pieces so small
that they were unrecognizable until they were fitted to larger
sections of the damaged clay. Now I had the opportunity to
learn how another, more important group of pieces might fit
together. And if I dared not take this chance, then perhaps I
should put on my boy’s tunic again and simply cease this
masquerade!
Thus steeled, I gripped the curved metal handle with the
same grim resolve I might have used in grabbing at hell’s
outer gates. Pulling open the heavy door, I abandoned sun
light and stepped inside.
Cool dimness washed over me like an ocean’s wave, the
sudden change from light to darkness as sharp as a blow. I
gasped reflexively, taking in a deep breath of air heavy with
incense and sin and redemption. That soft sound did little
to disturb the silence, for I was not alone here in the dark.
Around me, I could hear the echoed murmurs of prayers, the
rhythmic click of beads, and the soft tap of footsteps from
the many clergy and pilgrims wandering about.
I made a quick genuflection and paused to let my eyes
grow used to the darkness. I had never been inside Milan’s
grand cathedral before, having always attended Mass each
Sunday at the chapel outside the churchyard near the castle.
Portrait of a Lady
215
Still, I had heard many testimonies as to its grandeur, and
just as many jests regarding its design. For the cathedral al
ready was almost one hundred years old, and yet still the
workmen toiled upon it. Wags claimed that it might be an
other hundred years before the cathedral was deemed fin
ished. . . or maybe two hundred more years, given that
work had not yet begun upon its facade!
Though my artist’s eye noted several flaws with its plan, I
still stared curiously about me. How could one not be awed,
I wondered, by this white marble edifice larger than a dozen
chapels and built in the shape of an immense, blunt cross?
Niches filled with standing and recumbent stone figures
lined the outermost walls. Most of them were merely devo
tional images, though some served as top pieces for the sep
ulchers in which noble personages and clergy were interred.
Unfortunately, it was difficult to make out any great de
tail of the surrounding works. Other than the flickering
glow of candles arranged before the various statues, the only
light was that which spilled through the stained glass win
dows that lined either length of the building. Those jewel
like colors puddled like tempera upon the elaborate mosaic
of stone that made up the floor, adding an almost festive air
to the solemn interior. But those narrow casements were too
few and too low to fully illuminate such a vast space.
Thus, the already-encroaching shadows gave way to an
even greater darkness above that filled the cathedral’s im
mense arched dome. That vaulted ceiling ran the entire
length of the nave—the wide center aisle—which stretched
from entry to altar. Narrower aisles, two on each side, ran
parallel to the nave. These aisles, in turn, were delineated by
four long rows of marble columns that extended past the
transepts, the two lateral arms of the building that formed
the crosspiece of the cathedral’s cruciform floor plan.
There were perhaps half a hundred columns in total, I
saw in amazement. Each one was so large that five or six
people linking hands would barely be able to encircle it.
With their richly carved capitals, which broadened at the
216
Diane A. S. Stuckart
top, the columns resembled nothing so much as a frozen for
est of stone growing in neat formation in the darkness.
By now, I was used to the dim light and so could not put
off my mission any longer. Recalling Gregorio’s reference to
the stained glass image of Saint Michael, I began making
my way down the farthermost aisle, carefully searching the
colored images for the warrior angel.
I found that heavenly avenger with his flaming sword
tucked behind one of the columns just before the transept.
The colors of this smaller glass were somber, with the only
bright note the gleam of his golden sword. Had I not been
looking for it, I might have passed it by, so well did it fade
into the shadows.
As I admired the work, I realized it was less the artistry of
the glass than it was the angel’s handsome dark face that held
my attention. The glass figure, with his sensuous lips and
look of cold pride that somehow befitted his Godly mission,
reminded me of Gregorio. Little wonder that the captain had
claimed this as his favorite, I wryly told myself. Likely he,
too, saw something of himself reflected in that image.
But where was he? Why had he not yet appeared behind
me, silent as any of these shadows, as was his habit?
Barely had I time to ponder those questions when some
thing stirred within the darkness of a broad niche beside
that very window. A chill swept me, and my first supersti
tious thought was that the statue within it had come to life.
I had raised one hand in the reflexive gesture to cross myself
as protection against that spirit, when I realized in relief
that the figure I had seen was indeed quite human.
Yet as Gregorio stepped from the shadows, I reminded
myself that perhaps I should be as wary of him as of any un
known being. I could not help but recall he was the man
who might know more than he should about two women’s
deaths . . . might even have been the one to set the stable
dog upon me. What was I thinking, to meet him here alone,
having told no one of my plans?
Then, with a lazy grin, he grasped my hand and pulled
Portrait of a Lady
217
me toward him, the warm flesh against mine reassuring me.
Leaning toward me, so that his lips brushed my ear, he
softly said, “I’ve been anxiously awaiting this moment since
yesterday. When the Angelus rang, and you were not here, I
feared you had chosen not to come, after all.”
“I hurried as quickly as I could,” I whispered back, un
commonly cheered by his admission. “But Signor Luigi was
busy, so I had to wait for him to finish with the barone, and
then there was the conte’s man, and then—”
His soft laugh stopped me short. “You need not give me
a litany of your day, my dear Delfina. All that matters is that
you are here now.”
He paused to glance about us, and then shook his head.
“I fear there are too many devout pilgrims wandering about
for us to speak without risk of being overheard. Come with [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]