His Last Duchess by Gabrielle Kimm Page A

Signora?” he said.
    They turned to him.
    â€œFranco?”
    â€œFra Pandolf is here, with the initial sketches, sir, when you have a moment.”

6
    Alfonso said, “Excellent. When did he arrive, Franco?”
    â€œA few moments before you did, Signore. I have shown him into the small chamber by the North Hall.”
    â€œGood.”
    Alfonso reached for Lucrezia’s hand, and together they followed Franco Guarniero, the chief steward, back towards the stairs. Both men walked fast, Lucrezia taking two steps to every one of Alfonso’s long strides.
    â€œWho is Fra Pandalf?” she asked.
    â€œPand o lf,” Alfonso said. “He’s a painter. A Franciscan friar, from Assisi itself. The man is a genius—very popular in court. He has works in several royal palaces and—”
    â€œWhy is he here?”
    Lucrezia saw what she thought might be irritation on Alfonso’s face, and the familiar clutch of anxiety tightened across her scalp. She bit her lip. Not again. Was it because she had interrupted? Was it her ignorance? Since the disastrous wedding night, and the repeated failures since, she had begun to dread displeasing Alfonso, and an uncomfortably heavy consciousness of every word she said hung over her now, each time she spoke to him. She had determined to try to make up for whatever was so wrong in their bed by attempting to smile, be attentive and engage him whenever they were together during the day, but so often, as now, she seemed only to manage to annoy him.
    She saw his gaze move to her mouth, and then he said, “I have been talking for some time about commissioning a fresco to be painted along the wall of the gallery in the hall on the north side of the castle. Pandolf is here with his first drawings.”
    â€œWhat is the painting to be about?”
    â€œWait until you see the drawings.”
    ***
    The aforesaid Fra Pandolf, Lucrezia discovered, was a grey-haired, plump little friar, whose unremarkable appearance and expressionless eyes gave no indication at all of the extraordinary artistic talent Alfonso had described to her. He seemed, she thought, particularly dull and colourless. As she and Alfonso entered the room, Fra Pandolf stopped the muttered conversation he had been having with a tall, black-haired young man of some twenty years and bowed to them.
    The smile was audible in Alfonso’s voice as he spoke to his visitor. “Fra Pandolf, what a pleasure to see you in Ferrara again.”
    â€œSignore, I am honoured,” Fra Pandolf replied, in a flat, reedy tone. Turning to the dark boy, he said, “Jacomo, find the drawings for the Signore…”
    The young man called Jacomo nodded and unrolled a length of heavy oiled cloth, which was protecting several large sheets of ivory-coloured paper. It must have been rolled for some time—it kept springing back on itself, and curling itself up again and the young man struggled to flatten it.
    â€œCan I help?” Lucrezia asked, stepping forward.
    â€œTh-thank you,” he stammered, too involved with what he was doing to look at her. But Alfonso snapped his fingers and Franco Guarniero stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the room with a heavy candlestick in one hand and a large book in the other. Bowing, he edged in front of Lucrezia and, between the two of them, he and the boy called Jacomo managed to tame the unruly papers.
    Fra Pandolf held out a pudgy hand and Alfonso stepped forward. He stared intently at the drawings for some minutes, brows puckered in a frown, breathing audibly. Lucrezia craned her neck to see around his shoulder. He appeared to have forgotten she was there: he did not move, and offered no opinion on the drawings in front of him for several long seconds, but then he began to nod, almost imperceptibly.
    â€œMmmn,” he said, at last, in little more than a whisper. “Brilliant. It is a conception of pure genius, Pandolf.”
    Lucrezia felt