The Time Contessa (The Time Mistress Book 3)
Page 3
“Certainly, signore, certainly. For now, the price of the three nights in advance? Two scudi, two quattrini. An excellent deal.”
“Very well.”
Jake extracted a small purse from one of his pockets and fished around, selecting the coins. The innkeeper craned his neck to see into the purse, but Cassandra glared at him and he withdrew sheepishly. Jake laid the coins on the desk and the Italian scooped them up.
“One other thing, signore,” Jake said to the man.
“Anything, good sir, tell me.”
“The commission from my master. Can you tell us where we can find this Lauro Sampieri?”
“Oh yes, everyone knows of his studio,” the innkeeper declared. “It is not far from here. You take the first street that leads north from the Palazzo Pubblico, Via Rinaldini, cross Via Banchi di Sotto and make a slight right onto Via San Vigilio. Then turn left at Via Cecco Angiolieri. Continue a few steps until you see a large iron gate on your right. A sign is above the gate. You will see the artists working within.”
Cassandra would have no trouble remembering. Her memory was excellent for names and directions.
“Thank you. You have been most helpful,” Jake said.
The innkeeper jingled the coins in his hand.
“Oh.” Jake reached into the purse again, pulled out a smaller coin, and examined it.
It was obvious he didn’t know what amount was expected. They were both going to have to learn more about what things cost. However, the man smiled happily as he plucked the coin from between Jake’s fingers.
He led them up a wooden staircase and opened a door for Cassandra, then continued down the hall, keys clinking. Jake remained in the room with her. The floors were of rough-hewn beams, the walls were smooth, red plaster. A wooden, four-poster bed stood in the center. She pushed at the coarse linen sheets that enclosed a straw mattress. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out a packet of white powder, and blew it into the air.
“Good idea,” said Jake. “That straw is probably crawling with bugs.”
She shivered. “This stuff has never failed me.”
“Signore!” the innkeeper called, “come see your fine room.”
“Meet me downstairs for dinner,” Jake said as he left.
After they had eaten a simple meal of bread, cheese, ham, olives, and fruit in the main room of the inn, Cassandra and Jake retired. In her room, she removed her bodice, outer skirt, and petticoat, and laid them over the end of the bed. The long-sleeved chemise and bloomers she left on would do to sleep in. In the dim light from the late-setting sun, she grasped the ceramic pitcher of water she’d requested and poured it into a basin on the bedside table. She drew her toothbrush from her satchel, an entirely convincing replica of a wooden, horsehair teeth cleaning tool of the Renaissance era. She uncorked a jar of toothpowder, dipped the tip of the tool in, brushed, and spit into the chamber pot. She next fished a small, clay pot from the bag, uncorked it, and dipped two fingers in. The grey lumps that would pass for soap to a person of the 1500s melted between her fingertips into her favorite cleanser. Saying a silent thank you to the brilliant chemists who had concocted it especially for her, she washed her face. Then, from another corked jar, she dipped out a fingerful of white cream and spread it gently over her skin. She inhaled deeply as she felt it soak in; it was thanks to this stuff she still looked so young. Replacing the jar in her bag, her hand knocked against a small glass bottle that contained a potent sleep elixir. Should she use it tonight? No, better not to sleep too soundly. She crawled into bed. The straw crunched as she moved into position under the quilt, and poked her through the sheets. She lay still, holding her breath, anticipating a nip from some revolting insect, yet it seemed the powder had done its job.
There was no glass in the windows to hamper a cool breeze from blowing in over her face, carrying with it an odor of dung and rotten garbage. She lay there for what seemed like a long time. A loud snorting sound came from somewhere outside. What on earth! She got up and tiptoed to the window. It was just possible to make out the large shapes of pigs eating the trash off the ground of the Campo. She crept back to bed and closed her eyes. The bells of the city seemed to toll continually, even long after sunset. It was difficult to count the actual hours. There, that one was telling the time: one, two, three. Three o’clock? No. She had to count the time from one at the hour of sunset, which had to have been about eight o’clock. Therefore, three tolls of the hour would make it eleven o’clock to her modern way of telling time. How would she sleep though, with the constant ringing?
She opened her eyes again. Maybe she should record the day’s events in her travel journal. No, it was more important to sleep. Tomorrow they would go find Sampieri and perhaps from him, learn about Giuliana and the artist Francesco Marino. Maybe Jake was right. Things were already falling into place.
A key jiggled in the lock of her door and she sat bolt upright. She felt around on the bedside table for her knife, grabbed it, and sprang out from between the sheets. Heart pounding, she crept to the door. A glint of metal told her the key was still in the lock, where she’d left it. Suddenly, it dropped out onto the floor at her feet with a tinny clank. The jiggling stopped. Whoever it was out there, she sensed them waiting, could almost hear them breathing. She moved behind the door. There was no way to block their entry now. After another few moments, the jiggling of the lock resumed. It clicked, and then the door creaked open. There was no light from hallway, nor moonlight from the window, to give her a hint of the person’s identity.
The intruder stepped inside. What did he want, money or sex? As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she recognized the curly head of the innkeeper. He made his way toward the bed, but stopped just short of it. He gently reached out and patted the mattress, feeling his way around. As he was about to touch her clothes, she sprang toward him, knife held at the ready.
“What do you want?” she managed in Italian.
He stumbled backward. “N-nothing! Just….”
“Get the hell out of my room!” Did her words convey the right meaning?
“No, no! I’m not going to hurt you.” He held his arms open to show he had no weapon. “Please, signora!” He raised his arms, then struck out and grabbed her wrist, twisting it. She screamed and the knife fell to the floor.
“Now!” he growled, holding both her arms tight. “You choose, your money or your virtue. You and that brother of yours must have more silver stashed somewhere.”
“All right! But you have to let me get it. It’s hidden.”
“Fine.” He wrenched one arm behind her, freeing the other.
She reached for her skirt at the end of the bed, then jutted her leg backward and stamped on the instep of his foot.
“Aahhh!” He screamed, and cursed in Italian.
She hurled her best vindictive at him while she kicked him in the groin. He collapsed on the ground, and she grabbed her knife.
“Now, you son-of-a-bitch, get the hell out of here!” She kicked at his backside, but he grabbed her foot, and she lost her balance. She fell to the floor. He rolled over her and pinned her down, but she still had hold of the knife.
“Now you’ll get it!” He let go of one of her hands to strike her.
She slashed her nails across his face before his hand could make contact. As he screamed and let her go, she jabbed the knife into his stomach. It sank into his fat belly. He howled in pain.
The door burst open and Jake ran in. “Cassie!” He grabbed the innkeeper by the hair. “Get out, you filthy pig!” He heaved him into the hallway, where his head smashed into the wall.
Was he dead? Had she killed him? He began to moan. Slowly, he crawled down the stairs.
“Oh my God, Jake!” She fell into his arms.
“Are you all right?” He held her close, stroking her hair.
“Yes, yes. What are we going to do? Do you think he’s going to die?”
“What difference does it make? It’s not like anyone’s going to report it
to the police—they don’t even exist as such. Besides, you’re the one who was attacked.”
“What should we do? Where will we go? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Come to my room.”
She grabbed her things, and they scurried to his room. In the hallway, she thought she saw a door open a crack, then quickly close. Once he and Cassandra were inside, Jake shut the door and began pushing furniture against it.
“Jake, I don’t want to stay here!”
“We have no choice. It’s even more dangerous to go out into the night at this hour. Help me.” They dragged the heavy bed into the other furniture against the door.
“No one’s getting in now.”
“What if he sends someone to get us?” Her mind reeled with all the terrible possibilities.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen. He’s badly injured. We have no choice but to stay.”
“I’ll never sleep, never!”
“Come on, get into bed. You don’t have to worry, I’ll keep watch.”
“I can’t sleep. There’s no way.”
“Okay, just crawl in here and lie down.”
She did as he instructed, rubbing the sore places on her arms.
He rummaged in his bag, and then came to her side. “Shhh,” he said, stroking her head. Something cool and wet touched her wrist.
“Jake, is that the sleep potion?”
“Yes, but don’t worry, I’ll stay awake. You need to sleep.”
“Jake, no!” It was too late, she was getting drowsy already. Her lids began to close. “No, I have to stay awake….”
Chapter Three
Sunlight streamed through the window. Cassandra sat up with a start. Jake was sleeping next to her. The sounds of the Campo coming alive with people and animals floated through the room.
“Jake.” She shook him.
“What?” His eyes flew open.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Yes, let’s go.”
They jumped out of bed and quickly dressed. They pushed the furniture out of the way and grabbed their bags. Jake opened the door to peer out. “No one’s there,” he said.
They drew their knives and crept down the stairs. When they got to the bottom, Jake held his arm out to block her. The innkeeper was hunched in a chair, his eyes closed. There was blood on the front of his tunic, but not a lot. They stared at him a moment. His chest rose and fell and a grunt escaped his lips. He was alive. They crept out the front door and into the street.
It was market day on the Campo. Carts, booths, and stands of every description crowded into the enormous space, each vendor vying for the attention of housewives, cooks, and itinerant merchants. Young men gathered around the gambling booths, and their owners beckoned to Jake as he and Cassandra passed. Food sellers called out to them too, while the travelers made their way across the plaza, but Cassandra had no appetite. Smells of decaying meat, overripe fruits and vegetables, unwashed human bodies, and animal waste filled the air.
Once past the Campo, they continued to the northern third of the city, into the maze of winding, narrow streets, trying to follow that bastard of an innkeeper’s directions. A group of small barefooted boys ran past them and hurled some kind of rude remark at Cassandra that she found unintelligible. She lifted her skirts high to avoid the puddles of urine—human or animal? Yet the rounded doorways and carved balconies along the street were too beautiful to ignore this morning, and the fascinating brick work of the buildings and cobbled roads began to take her mind off the terrible events of the night before.
Eventually they came to iron gates, open to the streets, over which a sign hung with the words PITTORE SAMPIERI E SCUOLA (School of Painter Sampieri, Cassandra roughly translated) masterfully carved alongside a painted image of an easel, a paintbrush, a hammer, and a chisel. Through the entryway, she spied a large, paved patio, busy with working artists.
“This is it,” said Jake.
Some artists were painting, others sculpting. Some—mixing colors, cleaning, or watching their master’s work—were probably apprentices. Cassandra took a deep breath. As she and Jake entered, the artists looked up one by one and stopped what they were doing.
A man approached them, paint splotches and marble dust covering his clothing. He walked with confidence, and when he smiled, he exposed a set of straight teeth.
“Buon giorno!” he greeted them. He continued in his language, “What can I do for you this morning?”
“We are looking for Maestro Sampieri,” Jake replied.
“I am he, at your service.” He bowed low with a sweeping gesture of his right arm. When he straightened, he looked directly at Cassandra and smiled. His shoulder-length dark hair was peppered with gray, and he had large dark brown eyes. Full lips, high cheekbones, and a straight nose complemented a firm jaw and muscular neck. He wasn’t tall, nor very short. He had broad shoulders and powerful looking arms under the full sleeves of his shirt. His face was tanned, with lines around the eyes.
“And who is asking?” His speech was clear and easy to understand.
“I am Count Jacopo Grenefeld of England, and this is my sister, the Contessa.”
“Exquisite!” Sampieri whispered.
Cassandra dropped into a curtsey, eyes downcast.
“If you don’t mind me saying so,” the artist continued, “you do not dress like aristocracy.”
“We are trying not to attract attention,” Jake confided.
“Well, you are failing miserably,” the Italian said, and laughed.
“Truthfully,” replied Jake, “these clothes are just for traveling. What we need to find is a place to stay, fitting to our rank, and a tailor. We came with almost no clothing and no luggage, in order to avoid thieves. As it is, my sister underwent a terrible ordeal last night when the keeper of the inn we stayed at attacked her and tried to rob her. God knows what he might have done had it not been for her quickness, bravery, and skill with a knife.”
“Brava, signorina!” Sampieri cried.
“Signora.” Cassandra quietly corrected him.
“Scusi,” said Sampieri, bowing low.
Cassandra nodded.
“My sister was recently widowed,” Jake said.
“Mi dispiace.”
She bowed her head at his expression of sympathy.
“Are you well now after your ordeal, signora? May I offer you breakfast?”
“No, but thank you so much.” Her stomach was still a jumble.
“Thank you for your concern, Maestro,” Jake continued. “But what brings us to Siena is to commission a painting.”
“Not Florence? Everyone goes to Florence these days!” Sampieri said with an edge of bitterness to his voice.
“In my travels to this region in the past,” said Jake, “I studied the art of both cities and prefer the style of the Senese school.”
It was a necessary lie. Cassandra would have done the same.
“You pay me a great compliment since I consider myself the innovator of our modern style. Siena has a history of many great artists from the previous century. You share the first name of one of our most renowned, Jacopo—”
“…Della Quercia!” said Jake with a laugh.
“Ah, you do know the art of our city!”
“Of course,” said Jake with a nod and a smile.
“However, what we do in this studio is try to move beyond that tradition, to do something more realistic, and not always religiously based or necessarily paying tribute to the classic Roman and Greek traditions as they do so much these days in Florence.”
“You refer to the young Michelangelo Buonarroti.”
“And Maestro Donatello.”
“I was privileged to see their Davids. But Michelangelo’s is….”
“Perfection,” Cassandra breathed.
Sampieri looked at her with eyebrows raised. “I agree. We strive to develop that level of greatness here in Siena as well. We will not let the Florentines outdo us.”
“Do you mind if we look around your studio at the artists working here? Or perhaps you would be willing to take on the commission yourself. It is to be a portrait of my sister,” said Jake.
“I mostly work in fresco, but I will show you examples of my portraiture. I may be willing to offer my talents if you approve of my work. But first, I want you to take a look at what my artists are capable of. I will not push myself in front of them if you prefer their style over mine.”
“Yes,” said Jake, “please introduce us to your artists. We would like to see what kind of work your people are doing here. However, if you are available to do the portrait, Maestro, we would be honored. And I believe we can pay whatever you wish.”
“Come, you can choose for yourself,” the maestro said.
As the man turned away from them, Cassandra caught Jake by the arm and mouthed, “What about Francesco Marino?”
Jake shrugged and whispered back, “We’ll see.”
They followed Sampieri around the garden, and while they did, the artists returned to their work, though more than one glanced at Cassandra furtively as she passed. Sampieri introduced the foreigners to the painters and sculptors alike. One artist was working on a small statue of a horse. The detail of the muscles was extraordinary, as was that of the delicate hair of the mane and tail. Equally impressive was the sensitivity portrayed in the creature’s eyes. Another man was completing a still-life painting of fruit on a platter: not an original subject, but he seemed to be perfecting the technique of chiaroscuro…what was the exact translation? Oh yes, light/dark. Artists she loved, from Fra Angelico to da Vinci to Rembrandt, had all used it.
“And this is Signor Marino!” Sampieri said with a flourish of his arm.
He stopped next to a slim young man with wavy, light brown hair and equally light eyes that were almost golden. Marino rose and greeted Jake and Cassandra. He was so tall, and so handsome! She made a conscious effort to keep her mouth from dropping open.