by Sam Barone
“But the baby,” Nicolo asked. “Why aren’t they searching for Antonio?”
“I don’t know.” Maffeo eased his body to the ground. “Perhaps they thought him dead, or forgot about him in the confusion. Whatever the reason, we’ll have to get moving as soon as it’s light.”
“I swear to rip Masina’s heart from her body for this,” Nicolo said.
Bernardo sat beside his father, comforting the child and soothing its whimpers each time it started to cry. Nicolo put his arm around his son’s shoulder and pulled him close for a moment.
For her own evil ends, Lady Masina had nearly killed them all, including his son, Bernardo. For that alone she must die. Despite his rage, Nicolo’s hands still shook, and he kept his sword close to his unsteady hand. The night’s chill added to the trembling caused by the aftermath of the fighting. Everything had happened so fast, one moment asleep, the next fighting for his life. Nicolo shuddered at the close call with death, more for the danger to his son than to himself.
Bernardo’s arm encircled his father’s shoulders, and they stayed together to share what little warmth they had. The rest of the night passed slowly.
When dawn broke, they moved westward. The baby whimpered softly, its cries muffled by the blood-spattered blanket. Behind them, the sun had cleared the horizon before they worked the stiffness out of their muscles. Not long afterward, they spotted two of the escaped horses at the edge of a meadow, grazing contentedly on the sparse tufts of grass.
“I’ll get them, father.”
Bernardo handed Antonio to Maffeo. Nicolo watched his son sidle up to the horses, taking his time and talking to them in a gentle voice, until their flickering ears steadied and he could grasp the halter ropes.
Nicolo breathed a sigh of relief and walked toward the animals. The saddles were back at the camp, but at least they could ride. They mounted the animals, Bernardo sitting behind his father, while Maffeo held the baby in his good arm, guiding his horse with the other.
“Where shall we go, Nicolo?” Maffeo asked. “If we head north, we should be able to find some farms to get help.”
Nicolo thought of his duty. He’d failed his uncle, but not completely. Filippa had died, but Dom Pietro’s son still lived to carry on the Contarini line. They could return to Venice, appeal to the council, and petition the Doge. But Nicolo had no evidence, not even Filippa’s body. Masina Contarini, with all the money and power of her position, would be unassailable. Worse, her assassins would be searching for them the moment she learned the child still lived.
The murderers would have Filippa’s head to deliver as proof of their success. They’d earn their promised ducats.
All the blood spilled demanded revenge, but that would have to wait. Filippa’s child began to cry, no doubt hungry and irritable from so much rough handling.
“No. We continue west, to Genoa, as planned,” Nicolo said, gathering his thoughts back to the present. “We must get little Antonio to England. He’ll be safe there.”
Maffeo grunted. “Then let’s be off, before anyone comes looking for the babe, the horses, or us. They might even try to block the road to Genoa. And we’ll need to buy saddles. And find a wet nurse for the child.” Practical as always, Maffeo put his heels to his horse and led the way, cradling the whimpering child against his chest.
Nicolo shook his head. Without a wet nurse, the infant would be dead in two days. He’d have to find a woman willing to go to England, or more likely, buy a slave girl in Genoa to nurse the babe. The search would slow them down, but couldn’t be helped.
“What about us, Father? Will we be safe in England?”
Nicolo urged his horse after Maffeo’s, comforted by his son’s arms around his waist. “Yes, my son. England’s king will protect us.”
They rode in silence, while Nicolo thought about the future. Lady Masina had a long reach. If she learned of little Antonio’s escape, even England might not be far enough away from her wrath. And no matter what, he could never return to Venice, not while Masina lived. For better or worse their fate, and their future, now lay across the length of Europe.
“England will be our new home, Bernardo. Perhaps for many years. But I swear on my honor that one day, we will return to Venice and take our revenge for this night’s evil work.”
Chapter 2
London, 17 years later . . .
Antonio woke at dawn, the first rays of the sun providing just enough light through the tiny window above his head to illuminate his bed chamber. He tossed the coarse wool blanket aside and stood, ignoring the chill in the small bedroom he had to himself, a rare luxury even among London’s more prosperous merchant class. Dressing quickly, Antonio poured a bit of cold water into the basin and splashed it on his face.
Today was March 26, 1564, and while it might be his 17th birthday, his duties remained the same. Six days a week he labored at the foundry under his father’s direction, helping to cast the great guns that made Nicolo Pesaro one of the most respected cannon makers in all of England. Only on the Sabbath, three days away, did Nicolo and his workers cease their toils, giving everyone a full day of rest.
As for Antonio’s birthday, his father would ignore the event until after the day’s labors ended. Nicolo’s obligation to the English Crown was almost as sacred to him as his family responsibility. Nothing as inconsequential as a young man’s birthday would affect that duty, at least not until the sun went down.
Nevertheless, Antonio couldn’t stop smiling. Today he would be a man, recognized as such by English law and common custom. Already he was old enough to marry and start his own family, not that he wanted such responsibility, though lately his mind dwelt more and more on the many girls who smiled at him each day.
“Wait a few more years, Antonio,” his father had said only last week, “until I find a proper bride for you. There will be women chasing after you soon enough.”
Antonio spread his blanket across the foot of the bed to air the bedding out, pulled on his boots, and left the chamber. By the time he descended the stairs, the sun had touched the window set high over the house’s entrance, sending a wavering shaft of golden light through the thick rippled glass.
In the dining hall, Nicolo had already taken his place at the head of the table. Antonio slid into the seat beside him. “Good morning, Father.” From habit, Antonio raised his voice to compensate for his father’s loss of hearing. Years of testing cannons took their toll on one’s ears, despite however many bits of rags one plugged into them.
“Good morning, Antonio,” Nicolo answered, as formal as ever when he sat at table.
The cook entered carrying a breakfast tray from the kitchen. She greeted both of them as she set bread and a pitcher of weak beer on the table. “Happy birthday, Antonio,” she added, resting her hand on his shoulder for a moment, before disappearing back to the kitchen.
“Where’s Maffeo?” Antonio glanced at the empty chair opposite his own. Maffeo’s age and arthritis made sleeping through the night difficult, and he often awakened long before dawn.
“He had some things to attend to this morning,” Nicolo said, his answer curt enough to stop further questions.
His father preferred to eat breakfast in silence, and Antonio knew not to interrupt Nicolo’s thoughts. Tonight’s meal would celebrate Antonio’s birthday with extra helpings of wine and meat, the cook’s special cream custard, and probably some tarts filled with preserved berries. But now father and son finished the morning meal and drained their cups. The sun had cleared the horizon, and it was time to go.
They left the house and strode briskly through the winding lanes already filled with Londoners going about their business, many still yawning as they walked and too deep in their private ruminations to take offense should anyone bump into them. The stable where Nicolo kept his four horses was several lanes away, a distance long enough to give pickpockets and cutpurses plenty of opportunity. London had its share of both, and any man of substance needed to stay alert and ready for tr
ouble even at this early hour. As the saying went, one hand on your purse, and the other on your sword.
Maffeo’s truculent countenance usually kept such petty thieves at bay. In his absence, the duty of protecting Nicolo fell to Antonio. He stayed a half step behind his father, his eyes moving, studying the faces of those around him, and always expecting the unexpected, just as Maffeo had instructed him. Antonio didn’t carry a sword, but wore a knife fastened to his belt, a fine blade of Spanish steel given to him on his last birthday by Maffeo, who had shown him how to use it. Strong for his size and quick on his feet, Antonio had practiced hard and in time earned Maffeo’s grudging approval.
Father and son navigated their way, avoiding the refuse and worse that littered the muddy lanes as the inhabitants living above the shops and ale houses emptied their slop pails from windows and balconies, often without bothering to glance below or call out any warning. They reached the stable just as the hostler brought out their horses, saddled and ready.
His father’s house, while more than comfortable, hadn’t been built to accommodate horses. Not to mention that Nicolo preferred to keep the animals elsewhere, avoiding the smell, flies and the expense of hiring a groom and stable boy. A glimpse into the stalls told Antonio that Maffeo’s horse was absent, so the old bodyguard’s business, whatever it was, must have taken him out of the city.
They rode to the city’s wall and passed through one of its eight gates before turning onto the north road. The cannon foundry lay more than a mile from the outskirts of London, tucked behind low hills that helped keep the sound of the guns from disturbing the inhabitants. Nicolo set the pace at an easy canter, pulling his cloak around him to ward off the early spring chill. Out on the road, Antonio breathed in the fresh country air, leaving behind the sooty smoke from thousands of coal fires, a smell peculiar to what many claimed was Europe’s most populous city.
Even this early in the day, the dirt road carried plenty of traffic, almost all of it heading toward London and its markets. Farmers in drab homespun herded animals or guided carts filled with produce or goods to be offered for sale. Farm girls carrying huge baskets of vegetables mingled with the men. Strings of children accompanied most of the women, each tyke bearing his own burden. All of them gave way to the two horsemen. Only men of property owned horses, and inferiors were expected to defer to their betters. A few children waved excitedly at their passage and Antonio always waved back.
After more than a mile on the road, Antonio and Nicolo reached the small fork that led to the foundry, another quarter mile away. Not much traffic used this trail, little more than a cart path, but they overtook a creaking wagon heaped to overflowing with firewood, headed for the same destination. The furnaces that melted the bronze and iron needed to burn with great intensity and for long periods of time. Should the flames lose some of their fierce heat for even a few moments, the molten bronze or iron’s integrity could be ruined.
The most junior apprentices took turns working the bellows, pumping air into the base of the furnaces, and keeping the ores white hot. More wagons would arrive throughout the day, some bearing coal and charcoal, essential to raise the fire’s temperature hot enough to melt the iron ores or fuse the molten tin and copper into bronze.
The land here, too hilly for farming, belonged to the Crown, loaned to Nicolo by King Edward, and reaffirmed six years ago by young Queen Elizabeth after her coronation. Good Queen Bess, as she was called, had ascended to the English throne in 1558, when she was 15 years old. Many had doubted that any woman, even a daughter of Henry the Eighth, had enough strength to rule England. But Elizabeth had proved them wrong, and the people’s doubts had turned first into respect and then into admiration.
Nicolo’s guns had lorded over the empty dale for so many years that everyone called the meadow Gunner’s Glen. Here the Queen’s master armourer built and tested his new designs, and made sure every weapon that left his factory functioned properly.
More than 40 people labored here, all under his father’s direction. A dozen odd-shaped structures covered the landscape, and included kilns, casting pits, ore separators, woodsheds, and every other conceivable necessity for making cannons and the projectiles the guns could hurl over a mile. One sturdy and weather-tight structure stood off by itself. Gunpowder was mixed and stored there.
A broad meadow lay behind the foundry and served as a firing range. The testing ground stretched to the base of a steep hill pitted with gouges and holes from innumerable cannon balls. The barrow’s height was supposed to stop the missiles, but more than a few errant cannon balls had skipped their way over the top. One had killed a farmer’s cow last summer, and Nicolo had compensated the angry owner for his loss.
Little more than an hour after sunup, father and son reached the end of the pathway and dismounted before the largest structure, handing off the horses to one of the men. Masters, apprentices, and laborers already bustled about attending to the day’s activities. Many laborers lived nearby, and those made sure the foundry was ready when Master Nicolo arrived. Everyone knew their duties, and not a moment of daylight went to waste.
As soon as Antonio was old enough to hold a broom or carry a pail, Nicolo put him to work cleaning up. From that humble start, he learned the trade of cannon-making. His father might own the foundry, but years ago, Antonio had earned the respect of everyone there. Nicolo believed every apprentice, including his son, needed to work hard, and despite Antonio’s tender years, kept him as busy as any common laborer, interrupting duties at the factory only for the boy’s daily lessons with his tutors. The hard physical work had strengthened Antonio’s compact frame, and if need be, he could lift almost as much weight as any of the tall English workers.
With the same speed he applied to his lessons, Antonio mastered the basics of the factory. He learned the secrets of separating and purifying ores, mixing gunpowder, casting molds, pouring molten metal, and mixing the fiery bronze. He achieved journeyman status at age 13, full apprentice at 15, and for the last two years, he worked at his father’s side as a master apprentice.
Like his father, Antonio took his duties seriously, and he approached every task with the same determination and purpose. Nicolo knew more about making cannons than any man in England, but both father and son understood that in another year or so, Antonio would first equal and then exceed his father’s mastery of the art.
Antonio started toward the main fire pit to check on preparations for the day’s castings, but his father’s voice stopped him.
“Walk with me, Antonio.” Nicolo turned toward the rear of the foundry. He led the way past the testing area, where the guns were fired, to a row of apple trees that fringed the long side of the meadow. Rough benches stood on either side of an old and worn table. The two sat facing each other beneath branches that were just sprouting their leaves.
Antonio had learned many of his scholarly lessons at this very place, with the sound of chirping birds interrupted by an occasional cannon shot. He practiced his French and Spanish here, just as he labored through his Latin grammar to accompany the Italian spoken at home – at the factory everyone spoke English. Hired mathematicians taught selected apprentices and skilled workers the mysteries of geometry which allowed them to determine the distances and angles required to hurl varying pounds of shot. Numbers and computations also needed to be mastered, to calculate the precise weights and proportions of ores and gunpowder.
Except for twice a week sessions in French and Spanish, Antonio’s tutors had ended their lessons almost a year ago. Since then he spent more and more time with his father preparing the ores and forming the molds used to shape the fiery metal. Now, under the cool canopy open to the sun, Antonio noticed his father’s pensive, almost worried, expression.
“Antonio, today is your 17th birthday. For many years, I have looked forward to this day, though I have sometimes wished it would never come.” He took a deep breath. “First let me say that I have always loved you as much as I love Bernardo.”
&
nbsp; The serious words caught Antonio by surprise. “I know you do, Father.”
Bernardo, Antonio’s elder brother, was in Ireland, fighting with the King’s soldiers against the rebels. He’d left home before his 17th birthday, against Nicolo’s will, to join the English army. Disappointed and angered by his son’s decision to forsake the trade of cannon-making, Nicolo had brooded for years. The rift healed in time, but despite Nicolo’s frequent pleadings to return to the foundry and carry on his father’s work, Bernardo stayed with the army.
Antonio had cherished each of Bernardo’s visits, and the bond between the two brothers remained strong, despite the long absences and the gap between their ages. Bernardo was getting old. Soon he would be twenty-nine.
Nicolo acknowledged Antonio’s words with a brief smile. “You are a man, my son, and today I must speak of things that I have wanted to say many times over the years.”
He reached across the table and clasped Antonio’s hand, an unusual gesture of affection. “It’s best to say this plainly. I am not your father. Your family name is not Pesaro. It’s Contarini. We are cousins.”
Antonio sat there in shock, unable to believe his father’s words.
“You are the illegitimate son of an Italian nobleman named Dom Pietro Contarini and his mistress, Filippa Altieri,” Nicolo continued. “Both your parents are dead, murdered just after your birth. Dom Pietro, your father, was my uncle, and he assisted me many times over the years, treated me as if I were his son. His dying request was that I bring you and your mother to safety, and see to your upbringing. I failed to save your mother, Antonio, a failure that still weighs heavily on my soul. Every day I offer prayers for forgiveness and for her salvation. And I have done the best I could raising you, to honor your mother’s last wish. I could not have loved you any more than if you had come from my own loins. Dom Pietro, may he rest in peace, would be proud of you.”