Vincenzio waited till she poured him a cup, then drank it immediately and demanded another. She had no idea what pressures taunted him. He was the head of a successful and very busy cloth business and he must manage the expectations of the Platonists and keep up with politics and his commitments to the monastery as well as his own readings. Yet he could not even rely on his wife to do his bidding without error. When he’d drained the second cup, he stood and felt the heat of the wine course through his blood.

‘You did not keep Luna home as I instructed,’ he said.

‘Forgive me, but you know how wilful she can be. I did my best.’

‘She went to the monastery, did you know? She fair near discovered the painting and that would have ruined all my endeavours. I do all this to ensure our family’s future but you thwart me, woman! Why am I the only one who can control the children in this family?’

Lucrezia’s hand shook as she filled his goblet again. Wine splashed onto a piece of parchment. The discolouration spread across the sheet.

‘You’ve ruined it!’ he shouted and swiped out with his hand, catching his wife on her chin. The noise of it was electrifying.

The force of the blow knocked Lucrezia to the floor. She dropped easily and stayed down. Vincenzio heard her gasping. He sat and poured himself another cup of wine whilst she gathered her wits enough to leave him in peace.

Vincenzio pulled a fresh parchment sheet from the pile stacked to one side of his desk. He dipped his quill into some ink and began to write, drawing up a balance sheet of his assets. A wool cloth business built to an impressive fortune though now reduced—he grunted with displeasure at the sight of the words on the page but continued nevertheless; his own likeness by Botticelli; his luxuriously bound copies of Petrarch and Virgil, and now the newly acquired Almagest; his Donatello sculpture; Apollonius, who came at great expense from a horse trader in Venice; a devoted wife. Here he paused, remembering the immense relief and pleasure he’d felt at securing Lucrezia and determining to better control his temper in future, if only she did not test him so. He resumed writing: one beautiful daughter and one talented daughter; a healthy son and heir; his friendship with the Medicis and other prominent families; membership of the Platonic Academy; and a residence that rivalled the Medici villa at Careggi in the finest and most beautiful city not just in Christendom but in the entire world.

When he’d finished he sat back and breathed in deeply; listing these things soothed him.

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN