Pregnancy

Mellin Island, 1505

Celia Senese

I knocked on the door of the workshop and waited patiently, a tight knot forming in my throat.

Tancredi Gonzaga was my last hope.

Many people turned to him when they had a problem. They came to Croviglia from every corner of the island just to see him.

No one had seen him out on the streets for more than ten years. He never left his house. He had a trusted servant who brought him food and clean clothes, and the only way to contact him was to send a letter and wait for his reply.

That was what I had done.

Tancredi had chosen to live as a hermit. When he opened the workshop door, I understood why.

He bore the Black Hand.

It did not look like a stain upon the skin, nor like an illness that had merely changed the colour of the flesh. The skin was rotten, swollen in some places and shrivelled in others, as though it were slowly decaying without ever quite wasting away.

It was his left hand—the sign that he had made a pact with a demon.

Did Tancredi practise goetia? Was that why he kept himself hidden from prying eyes? Could it be that the Holy Council had never intervened?

He looked me up and down.

“Celia Senese?”

“That is me.”

“Welcome.” He greeted me with the warmest smile I had ever seen. “Come in, please.”

He ushered me inside and helped me remove my cloak from my shoulders. He hung it from a crooked nail on the wooden door. I thought the nail might snap at any moment, but there were greater problems to worry about that day. It would hardly be the end of the world if my cloak fell onto the dusty floor of a workshop in the town centre.

“Would you like some water?” he asked. “Or perhaps some wine?”

“Nothing, thank you. Could you simply light another candle?”

It was broad daylight, yet Tancredi sat in darkness, hidden like a sewer rat fleeing the rays of the sun. The windows were covered with heavy cloth curtains, and there was only a single candle burning.

“I am sorry.” He shrugged. “But that is not possible. I lit a candle only to make you feel a little more at ease. But he does not like the light.”

He?

I hesitated, but asked no questions.

The darkness made it difficult to make out any details. There was little more than a collection of odds and ends scattered across the table: brushes of various sizes, ground pigments, small mortars, pastels of every kind and fragrant oils. Against the walls, I could just make out poorly crafted frames and paintings concealed beneath dusty sheets.

Some said Tancredi could have become one of the finest painters in Croviglia. He had even worked for the Vicar in the past. Then came his seclusion, and his reputation had slowly begun to fade until it vanished altogether.

He had taken to solving problems that no one else could solve, or so people said. In time, he had built himself an entirely different kind of reputation.

To me, he looked like nothing more than an eccentric painter who had squandered his talent.

“Wait here,” he said, disappearing behind a small wooden door.

I parted my lips, but said nothing. He had not given me the chance.

He returned a moment later carrying a stool, which he placed in the centre of the room.

“Sit down and tell me more about your problem.”

I obeyed and drew a breath.

“As I wrote in my letter, I am married to Enzo Doria. We have been trying to have a child for several years, but…” I hesitated. “I cannot become pregnant. He suggested that I come to you for help. You helped his family once before, several years ago.”

He took a blank canvas and set it upon a wooden stool that had been gnawed by termites.

Was he even listening to me?

I continued speaking, despite the fact that he seemed to pay me no attention.

“The problem is that the Doria family needs an heir, and Enzo’s parents are putting pressure on him. I think…” I swallowed. “I think they want to convince him to repudiate me as his wife. They suspect that I am incapable of fulfilling my role and my marital duties.”

“Do you believe you are barren?”

“Y-yes. I am afraid I am.”

“And what if it were Enzo Doria who was barren?”

“It would change nothing. As far as his family is concerned, I am the one on trial.”

Tancredi folded his arms behind his back.

“Why have you come to me for help?”

“B-because… I must become a mother. I must give the Doria family an heir, whatever the cost. Can you help me?”

“Do you love Enzo Doria?”

I stiffened. I had not expected the question.

“What does that matter?”

“It matters. I can help you, but only if your desire to become a mother is genuine.”

“What are you implying?”

“I am not afraid to imply anything. Being repudiated as a wife is not a pleasant thing. Besides, correct me if I am wrong, but the Senese family consists of craftsmen and washerwomen. Becoming the mother of a Doria would bring honour to your family name.”

“I am not doing this for the honour of my family name, Master Gonzaga.”

Tancredi looked down at me.

“I will ask you again. Do you love Enzo Doria?”

“Yes.”

“Are you telling me the truth? I must be certain, because if you are not, my help could have catastrophic consequences.”

“I said yes. I love Enzo Doria. And I want to be the mother of his children.”

Tancredi sighed.

“Did you bring what I asked for?”

I opened the purse tied to my belt and took out the coins.

“Twelve lironi. Count them if you wish.”

I felt like a fool. How could I have believed that this fallen painter might be able to help us?

And yet Enzo had been certain.

Perhaps desperation had driven him to it. Over the past year, we had tried everything. Natural herbs, vegetable-based diets, amulets. Enzo’s mother had even given us a book of astrology. Needless to say, it had proved useless.

Tancredi took the coins without counting them. The Doria name I carried upon my shoulders was synonymous with honour and trustworthiness.

He placed the payment on the table and returned to the blank canvas.

“Lift your chin slightly and place one hand upon your belly,” he instructed.

I frowned.

“Wait. I did not pay twelve lironi for a portrait!”

“Do you or do you not want a child? Do as I tell you.”

I sighed, but in the end there was nothing else I could do but put my trust in him.

Enzo had told me many stories about Tancredi Gonzaga. A mute woman from Croviglia had spoken again thanks to him, and a family from Palmaferro had recovered a pendant that had been lost at sea years before.

So I raised my chin slightly and placed one hand upon my belly.

“Is this right?”

“Perfect. Let me look at you.”

He picked up a piece of charcoal and began to draw upon the canvas.

“Now you will have to make an effort to move as little as possible.”