Dante's Flame

by Jannine Corti-Petska

  She had read the message many times over before she realized it was from King Rene d’Anjou. His signature was barely legible, and she still couldn’t determine the meaning behind the written words. Yet she knew it was meaningful…to the French. This proved her theory. The tutor worked for the French cause. But where did he fit in if, as he said, he was merely the translator?

  The parchment irritated her tender skin where she kept it hidden in her bodice. Fear her cousins would find it forced her to deceive them. She had no knowledge of politics and wasn’t sure who would rule Naples in the best interest of its people. However, she knew getting mixed up in a political war could be far more dangerous than searching for stories to write. No matter if she questioned the tutor’s loyalty to the city in which he was born, she must return the missive to him.

  Alessa retrieved her journal and leaned back against the headboard. She flipped the pages to her last entry and read aloud.

  “Demons escaped the fiery pits of hell in the form of thunder and lightning. The avenging angel rescued the fair maiden from certain death and carried her away on his mighty steed. Dark and powerful, bold and handsome, the angel reared his head and roared his discontent. Rain poured relentlessly upon them, melting the demons back into the earth. The maiden clutched her angel, his body strong with muscle, sinew and bone.”

  The door swung open with a bang, startling her. Attilo, it seemed, was the family’s messenger. “My mother wants to see you in the kitchen. Do not dawdle.”

  Alessa glanced at her chafed hands. They could not endure another bout of cooking and cleaning. She feared they’d soon look as old and ugly as Amalia’s. Perhaps she could argue her future husband would not cherish taking a bride with hands as rough and calloused as a ship loader’s.

  “I shall be down shortly,” she said, seeing no practical way out of more work.

  ****

  In the shoemaker’s shop, Dante faced Fabroni squarely. The man had sent a messenger after him. He dreaded not knowing the nature of Fabroni’s urgency. That he’d been denied seeing Alessandra for three days didn’t sit well. He often wondered if Fabroni allowed his eldest son to discipline her after she’d lost herself in the city. The thought of Alessandra’s fair skin bruised and broken by the devil-spawn Benito tangled Dante’s intestines into knots.

  He stared intently at the shoemaker. If he stood idle much longer, he’d wrap his fingers around Fabroni’s throat and shake the words out of his mouth. “Your pardon, Signor Valente, but I am a busy man.”

  “Si, I am sure you are. I asked you here to discuss a matter of importance with you.”

  A ship’s anchor dropped to the pit of Dante’s stomach.

  “I promised Alessandra’s father I would not send her home until she was schooled in the ways of a woman. So, too, she must curb her lust for adventure and abandon the lurid tales she is wont to write. I am in a position to choose a husband for the girl. I believe marriage is the only way to stifle her improper behavior.”

  The skin around Dante’s mouth tightened a little more with each word Fabroni spoke. He knew what was coming, and he wasn’t sure how he’d react.

  “My wife has tutored her, and the girl is coming along in her duties. She learns quickly. I believe she is ready to take a husband.”

  Dante’s fingers twitched where they dangled at his side, and he couldn’t stand still any longer. He rocked on the balls of his feet, all the while trying not to appear anxious in any way.

  “We have yet to discuss payment for your services,” Fabroni went on. A tick caught his cheek. Apparently, he was just as uncomfortable with the path he chose to take.

  Dante sought to relieve the situation. “Pay me what you see fit, as I have already said.”

  “That is all well and good, Signor Santangelo, but I have another purpose—”

  Dante held up his hand to silence the man and ventured on to end their inane conversation. “I believe I know what you are about to say, signore.”

  The man’s brow quirked upward. “So say you. And what might that be?”

  Dante swallowed back his apprehension. “Marriage to your cousin.”

  Smiling broadly, Fabroni beamed like a proud father. “How intuitive.”

  How obvious, Dante thought. From the moment they met, he feared the shoemaker would approach him with Alessandra’s hand in marriage. At first he believed Fabroni intended to set her in his midst to learn damaging information about the French. But once again he wasn’t so sure. The Valentes had no idea what his mission in Naples was or his reason for tutoring French in a town on the verge of war between the French and Spanish. Of that he was certain. And from what the girl had intoned, she came to Naples at her father’s bidding, to learn how to be a proper lady.

  “I must point out the impropriety of marrying Signorina Podesta without first meeting with her sire. Not that I have agreed to marry her, you understand,” he added in haste. Until his affairs with King Rene were settled, marriage was an impossibility.

  “A messenger has already been dispatched.”

  Dante frowned. “You were sure I would agree?”

  “I have seen how your eyes follow Alessandra with interest. You must admit, she is a comely woman.”

  “Comely, sì. But is it her wish to be wed…to me?”

  “Is it any woman’s wish to be wed to a man not of her choosing?”

  So the girl didn’t want to marry him. Dante’s frown deepened. “I am certain I am not what she needs in a husband.”

  “Come now, Signor Santangelo. You are quite the gentleman. And you are wealthy, no?”

  “If those were the only requirements for marriage, then many a maiden would be happy. Alas, my disposition may not be suited to Signorina Podesta’s.” Especially if she was brought to Naples to aid the Spanish, a fact he’d do best to keep in mind. Truth be told, he wouldn’t mind taking Alessandra to his bed. His only complaint was her diminutive stature. He could not deny he found her intriguing. She had caught his attention from the first moment he saw her face and golden hair. If only she came to Naples to live with a different family, he might see her feminine appeal more clearly and without suspicion.

  “If you are concerned the girl has naught to bring to the marriage, I assure you, she will have an impressive dowry.”

  Her wealth was not a concern at all. A woman’s family couldn’t provide any more than he already owned. Besides, gifting a man with a dowry was little more than bribery, in his opinion.

  “I assure you, I am not interested in what my future wife brings to our marriage. The woman I marry must be strong, intelligent and have a good heart. I have no need for a title and social standing or for money and land.”

  The shoemaker’s eagerness for the union puffed out his cheeks and turned his skin red. He all but jumped over his workbench to welcome Dante into the family. No man could hide his loathing for what Dante represented if he knew the truth. Convinced now that Fabroni had no idea of whose side Dante supported, he realized he held a priceless advantage. However, when he had approached Rene with his undying service, he’d never thought marriage to a woman he hardly knew would be part of his offering.

  “Do you agree to a betrothal?”

  On a long, drawn out sigh, Dante surprised himself by saying with quiet certainty, “Sì.”

  “You’ll not be sorry, Signor Santangelo.”

  He’d be the judge of that. “I would ask for a long betrothal, one that is not announced. The contract will be between you and me until I meet the girl’s family.”

  Fabroni’s nod cast a dark shadow in Dante’s heart. A new plan formed in his head, one he was not proud of. He intended to use the betrothal to gain further access into the Valente family, to get much closer than a tutor ever could. His deception didn’t sit right, but he knew of no other way to carry on his investigation for Rene. Pray he’d not break Alessandra’s heart, for she seemed vulnerable and easily influenced.

  ****

  When quiet descended over the entire
house, Alessa bundled herself in a fur lined cloak and stepped onto the street, praying no one heard her leave. The sparse night stars twinkled as curfew approached. The gates to the city were closed by now, and no one remained on the street except a homeless man looking for shelter from the bitter cold and a scraggly dog following him.

  The French soldiers patrolled the area by night but not a one was about. Pulling her cloak hood tight around her head, Alessa swept a glance up and down the street, making certain it was safe. She kept to the shadows of the buildings, working her way toward the district where the French made their camp. Although that section of the city was off limits to respectable women, she couldn’t avoid it on this night and hoped the streets there were as deserted as the rest of Naples. With luck, she’d find the tutor posthaste.

  The missive scratched the skin between her breasts. She intended to question Signor Santangelo about its contents. To allay her fears that he was working for the French against the Spanish her cousins supported, she told herself. He’d not be happy to see her out alone at night. What did she care? She would be another man’s wife soon enough, though she thought Fabroni had approached the tutor with a marriage proposal. No matter, she doubted she’d ever stop writing imaginary tales about the tutor. Perhaps her husband would allow the French lessons to continue.

  Shivering in the wake of a chilling breeze, Alessa worried she’d not find Signor Santangelo and make it back to the Valentes before the temperature dipped lower. Like a sprite, she moved swiftly, grateful the tall buildings provided cover. Finally, she found the forbidden street. At the end of it, lights flickered through the open windows of a tavern. Laughter and a boisterous song in French spilled outside. Alessa slowed her pace. Focused on the tavern door, she pressed deeper into the shadows.

  Halfway there, the sound of water spilling onto dirt caught her attention. She stopped and listened intently. Peeking around the building’s edge, she was shocked to see a soldier relieving himself against the side wall. She snapped back, her heart hammering forcefully in her chest.

  The soldier whistled a tune she didn’t recognize. He swayed and steadied himself with a hand pressed to the stone wall. He was besotted. Alessa swallowed down a slight touch of anxiety. Her nerves of steal came close to bending, yet she denied the fear willing her to turn back. The soldier stumbled away, using the building to keep him upright. Relieved, she sprinted across the alley and disappeared into another shadow.

  Beneath the tavern window, she squatted and steadied her breathing. Once her bravura revived, she rose just enough to see above the ledge. Stunned by the lascivious scene, Alessa plopped down, gasping for air. She closed her eyes, unable to expunge from her head the sight of half-naked women riding the laps of soldiers while the men openly fondled their breasts. Her dreams of entertaining a lover were far more innocent than what she’d witnessed. Not even the bold tales she wrote lifted her imagination to such inventive heights.

  “Oh, my Lord,” she whispered, fanning herself with spread fingers.

  When her breathing returned to normal, she stole another look at the debauchery going on. Alessa sunk her teeth into her bottom lip as she watched in fascination. A soldier closed his mouth over a woman’s tiny breast and suckled it as ferociously as a hungry babe. That there wasn’t much of a banquet to feast on didn’t seem to bother him.

  Another woman pushed her man’s face between the deep crevice of her uncovered breasts, thrice the size of her own. The poor soldier would surely suffocate! Her wide-eyed gaze fell on yet another soldier slipping his hand under the skirt of a prostitute straddling his lap. The woman’s hand was….

  Alessa gulped. What in God’s name was her hand doing? Leering now as the woman rubbed low at the front of the man, at first Alessa thought the woman was enticing the sheath on the man’s sword. But no, it was another weapon of choice the woman caressed, a weapon more powerful than any mere mortal created. The soldier’s breathing turned ragged, and his tortured features made Alessa believe he was in pain. Glorious pain, perhaps. Caught up in his excitement, she gasped when the man’s guttural moan added to the babble of the raucous crowd.

  She slumped back against the tavern wall to control the panting that had overcome her. Several moments later, she found the strength to move on. She realized finding the tutor would be much too difficult. For all she knew, he was at his family’s castle outside the city wall. She’d best head back to the Valente’s, for she was cold and her teeth started to chatter.

  A glance back through the window brought Alessa to a sharp halt. A man dressed in civilian clothes sat among the soldiers. A buxom woman leaned into him. If he turned his head, his mouth would graze her protruding nipples. Something about him stirred the hackles on Alessa’s neck. Then he chuckled, the same mystifying sound she’d heard before. Her eyes narrowed on him, willing him to turn aside. Instead, he rose, dropped several coins on the table, then patted the woman’s ample backside. He said something to her, and the man sitting at the table laughed uproariously.

  The tutor favored whores!

  Angry, Alessa marched away, unmindful of the street lamps casting a pale light upon her. She failed to hug the buildings, to use their protective shadows. Her mind replayed the ease with which the tutor spoke to the French and the position of his hand upon the harlot. Unknowingly setting herself up for danger, she forged ahead down the center of the street. A quick movement caught her wayward attention. Four buildings down, she saw the musician. He played the same song she’d heard him play before as he gestured for her to tag along.

  Alessa figured it would be harmless to follow him. Musicians by nature were a gentle lot. Perhaps he’d take her mind off the wretched tutor.

  A cold gust shot up her cloak. She shivered, feeling a strange sense of spirit. The buildings suddenly became shrouded with fog. She couldn’t see much more than the cobblestone leading to the musician.

  Was she caught up in one of her fantasies? Would a gentle warrior rescue her once again?

  “Wait,” she called to him. “Please, stay and play for me.”

  He continued farther until he evaporated into the thick haze. Running, Alessa thought she might catch up to him. Of a sudden, naught looked familiar. She was about to turn back when two hands entrapped her upper arms and dragged her along the street.

  Warmth from the man’s breath hovered around her ear when her hood slipped off her head. Strong ale assailed her nostrils. When he spoke in French, Alessa grappled with all her power against what she feared was about to happen. It was useless, though. Her abductor was much stronger.

  And her voice lodged in her throat.

  God help her. She didn’t want to die.

  Chapter Eight

  Disgusted, Dante walked out of the tavern. He wanted no part of the soldiers’ lives, of willing women who exposed themselves in public, of endless ale and drunken brawls. If it wasn’t for his mother and her relationship to Rene, he’d have remained in Bologna where he had taught at the university before Alfonso made it known he’d fight for the title of the Kingdom of Naples.

  Regret had its own demons. It forced Dante to take a closer look at the life he truly desired. He was a scholar, not a warrior. While political wars abounded throughout the countries, he preferred teaching to fighting. It had naught to do with fear over losing his life. More was his devotion to his fellow man. By nature, he was not a violent soul, unlike the soldiers in the French army who regarded human life with virtually no deference.

  Why hadn’t he taken his leave earlier? With the gates locked, he was forced to sleep in the city tonight where he retained a room in a baker’s home, away from the soldiers’ quarters. An icy chill suddenly attacked him and he shivered. Mist rolled through the street, eerily casting shadows where none normally existed. He glanced at the dark clouds overhead, warning another storm was brewing.

  Etienne stepped out of the tavern. “You did not want the girl?”

  Dante angled a reticent look at the captain. “I no longer bed prostit
utes.”

  “Indeed, for you have not given one a second glance.”

  He had swatted the woman’s backside to show he was a good sport about losing a bet. He paid his debt, thanked the woman for her help, though she was more of a hindrance while he held his hand of cards. If she hadn’t fawned over him, he would have won that last game. He had allowed her to sidetrack him, her caressing fingers upon his neck turning his mind to Alessandra Podesta.

  “My men are wondering if your preference runs a different course,” Etienne continued.

  “Let them believe what they will.” He’d not respond to the inference that he might lean toward taking a young man to his bed.

  “Mayhap you are saving yourself for the right woman, no?”

  “Do not attempt to judge me else you will find me unwilling. And foul of mood should I be forced to defend myself over who shares my bed to either you or your men.”

  Etienne smiled knowingly. “It is the cousin to the Valentes, eh?”

  A tense sigh billowed Dante’s breath around his mouth. “She is my student and my only way to get close to the family. Leave it be, Etienne.”

  It rankled Dante deeply to use Alessandra as he was about to. If there was another way to gain access to the Valente family, he would have done so long ago. Yet with her innocence still in question, he’d steal himself from feeling guilty until he proved without a doubt she was not brought to Naples to aid the Spanish.

  “Since Monsieur Valente has ceased your tutoring sessions, how will you return to favor with him?”

  “I am not out of favor with the man. We have already spoken.” A knot formed in his gut. He hated to keep secrets from Etienne, but he couldn’t impart any information on his recent betrothal just yet. He had accepted Fabroni’s offer only as a means to gain the man’s confidence. He had no intentions of actually going through with the nuptials. Hence his insistence of no formal announcement and a long courtship. “He assured me the lessons will resume soon.”