That night, we dined with Ser Niccolò. He had a rented house – really, very like a palace. We did not eat peacock, nor was any of the food gilded. Instead, we ate a number of dishes I had eaten before, but served hot, and not on gold or silver, but on plain pottery dishes. The wine flowed freely, and was served in beautiful cups of brightly coloured glass, green and blue and yellow.
I can’t remember everything we had, but I remember a fine dish with noodles and duck and truffles, and a game pie. And roast beef served the way the Italians serve it. Several times, Ser Niccolò would rise from his place at the head table and walk among us – there were forty men or more, and as many women, so that for me it seemed a feast in a royal court. He served wine to some, and brought a sauce to another, as if he were a page or squire.
I sat by Ser Nerio, and after the master had offered me wine – delicious red wine – I turned to Ser Nerio. ‘His wife is very beautiful,’ I said.
Ser Nerio laughed. ‘That’s not his wife,’ he said. ‘That’s Donna Giuglia Friussi, his mistress and the mother of two of his children.’
Mistress or wife, she was the hostess of the evening, and she summoned minstrels, applauded a poet, and led the ladies in a fast-paced estampida that seemed more like a fight than a dance.
After a second dance, she came to our table and we all rose and she seated herself with two of her ladies. She was warm from dancing, and she had a scent I had never before experienced, something from the Levant. ‘You are the famous Ser Guillaumo the Cook!’ she said. ‘Ah, every girl in Florence pines for you, messire. Do not, I pray you, break too many Florentine hearts.’
‘Madonna,’ I replied, ‘I promise that, should I ever see a sign of a Florentine lady casting an amorous glance at me, I’d do whatever I could to make sure that her heart remained unbroken.’
She laughed, not a simper or a giggle. ‘Your Italian is good, and so are your manners,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you were ever really a cook.’
I liked this kind of game, always have. I sat back and played with my wine cup. ‘Perhaps if we were to slip into the kitchen, I could prove myself,’ I said.
The two ladies-in-waiting both giggled.
Donna Giulia leaned forward, and I could smell her scent again, more like musk than flowers, and yet at the very edge of perception. Her presence was … palpable. I have known a few women like her, where up close, the impact of beauty and personality can rob you of breath. She put a warm hand on my arm. ‘You play this game very well for an Englishman. What would you make me, in the kitchen?’
I sighed. Italian ladies can play this way for hours and mean nothing, or mean everything, where an English girl would be reduced to giggles – or a blow with her hand. I thought of Sister Marie, Donna Giuglia’s direct opposite.
I leaned forward. ‘I should make you …’ I said softly.
She smiled.
‘… dessert,’ I finished. ‘Perhaps a nice apple tart.’
Now the whole table laughed; some at me, and some with me. Ser Nerio, beside me, gave me a look that told me I’d found the right path. We had skirted the marshy ground, for flirting with your host’s mistress is a dangerous game at the best of times.
She threw back her head and laughed, not a ladylike simper, but almost a roar.
Ser Niccolò appeared at my shoulder. He poured his lady wine and she told him of the whole exchange, word for word.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘But of course you must go make her an apple tart. I insist only that I have some too.’ He grinned. ‘Think of it as a feat of arms. Or a task of love.’