Italy was a term of convenience. Hugh knew there was no “Italy” in the same sense that there was an “England” or a “France.” The independent city-states of Tuscany and Lombardy were part of “Italy.” So were the Papal States. So, too, was the Kingdom of Naples and Sicily, which was ruled by a Frenchman, Charles of Anjou, uncle to the French King Philippe, and Guy de Montfort’s powerful patron. They were not linked by language, for each region had its own dialect, its own accent, its own idioms. Even in Tuscany, the Sienese speech was notably less guttural than that of their Florentine neighbors. Nor were they bound by political affinities. People were “Guelphs” or “Ghibellines,” the distinction part of an enduring quarrel that had its roots in a forty-year-old breach between the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor. Cities like Siena and Florence and Venice minted their own money, adhered to their own systems of weights and measures, even their own calendars. And their rivalry was known the length and breadth of Christendom; men spoke of Siena and Florence or Venice and Genoa in the same breath with Rome and Carthage, Athens and Troy.
So even before they reached the Apennines, Hugh had judged Italy and found it wanting; a veritable Tower of Babel, an alien land of bandits and blood-feuds, a region notorious for its “pestilent air,” its “Roman fevers and catarrhs,” a foreboding world of droughts and earthquakes, volcanic mountains that “belched forth infernal fire,” and Lombard money-lenders almost as unpopular as the Jews. It was the true measure of Hugh’s devotion to Bran that he’d not balked upon learning that Italy lay at the end of their journey.
He was to discover that the Italy of his imagination was not a total distortion of reality; the roads were indeed bad and fevers were rampant and he had trouble remembering that the lira was not a coin but still worth twenty silver soldi, the same as a gold florin. He’d not expected, though, that Italy would be so beautiful, a land of alpine grandeur and icy mountain lakes and deep valleys and burnished, bright sunshine. The Tuscany hills put him in mind of his native Shropshire; he took pleasure in the vales and woods of chestnut and cypress, the olive groves and vineyards, the snow-white oxen and the lingering twilight dusks. And he had not expected that the people would be so friendly, so quick to offer assistance to wayfarers, so tolerant of the peculiarities of foreigners. He liked the zestful, genial citizens of these Tuscan highlands, and he was impressed by the prosperity of their cities, by their paved streets, formidable walls, spacious piazzas, lavish palazzos, and elaborate public fountains, centers of privilege and vitality and beguiling worldliness.
Within a noisy circle, men were casting dice, and Hugh squirmed closer, trying to see. Treading upon someone’s toes, he quickly murmured, “Scusatemi,” for he was determined to learn as much of this Tuscan language as he could. The man smiled; in the flow of words that followed, Hugh understood only “inglese” and acknowledged that “si,” he was indeed English. There was a growing undercurrent of resentment directed against the French, for Charles had won his crown by the sword and there were many who begrudged him his battlefield sovereignty. But the English bore no such taint, and the Sienese grinned, told his neighbors to make room for the young inglese.
Hugh came forward shyly, warmed by the crowd’s friendliness. He could hear snatches of conversation, the name “Guido di Monteforte.” To Hugh, it sounded like a brigand’s name, conjuring up visions of bandit chieftains and Barbary pirates. It was Hugh’s secret conviction that it suited Guy de Montfort perfectly. It had come as a shock, the realization that he distrusted Guy, for he adored Bran, was in awe of the Lady Nell, bedazzled by the Lady Ellen. And Guy, too, was a de Montfort. So why, then, did he harbor such qualms about Bran’s brother?
Shifting, he gazed over at the Vicar of Tuscany. Guy was a magnet for stares, a man to turn heads, tall and dark, with a rakish grin and a soldier’s swagger, the only one of Simon’s sons to have inherited his battlefield brilliance. But he lacked his father’s honor, flourishing in this world of tangled loyalties and tarnished allegiances as Simon himself could never have done. One of Count Ildebrandino’s squires had sworn that Guy had accepted four thousand florins that past year, money offered by the Florentines so that they could plunder their rival city of Poggibonsi. Hugh had been shaken by the revelation; how could a son of Simon de Montfort accept a bribe? But he did not doubt the accuracy of the squire’s account; it rang true.
He had watched Guy ride through the streets of Florence, Lucifer-proud, blind to beggars, with a tongue sharp as a Fleming’s blade and an eye for the main chance. Even Hugh could not help but see how utterly Guy eclipsed his older brother. The more brightly Guy burned, the more shadowy Bran became, and the more he drank. Hugh could only hope that they would soon reach Viterbo, hope that after they answered Charles’s summons, Bran would then be free to blaze his own path. He might head south to Avellino, the fief given to him by Charles that past December. Or he might choose to go north, toward the city of Padua, where Amaury de Montfort dwelled and studied. Hugh didn’t care which road they took…just as long as they didn’t ride it in tandem with Bran’s brother Guy.
Guy had more than three hundred soldiers in his service, most of them mercenaries of the Guelph League. But there were some Englishmen among their numbers, supporters of Simon de Montfort unable or unwilling to come to terms with the English Crown after Evesham. One of these exiles, Walter de Baskerville, had made his way to Bran’s side, was murmuring intently in his ear. Their whispered colloquy caught Guy’s attention. Sauntering over, he poked Bran playfully in the ribs. “And what sort of devilry are the two of you plotting?”
“I was telling Bran that Pietro di Tolomei swears Siena has the best whorehouse in all of Tuscany. Just two streets away, La Sirena.”
“The Mermaid?” Guy’s interest quickened. “I’ve heard of it. And you were going off without me? What am I of a sudden—a leper?”
“I think you’ve forgotten someone, Guido,” Bran gibed, and Guy’s brows rose mockingly.
“God save me, not a lecture on fidelity and the sacred bonds of wedlock!”
“I did not mean your absent wife, Guy. I meant your wife’s very-present father. Or do you plan to invite him along?”
Glancing across the Campo at the sturdy, redoubtable figure of his father-in-law, Guy conceded defeat with a wry grimace. “Your point is taken, Bran. Be off with you, then. Enjoy yourselves, wallow in lechery. But for Christ’s sake, try not to catch the pox!”
They laughed, beckoned to Pietro, and began to thread their way through the crowd toward their horses. Bran remembered his squires just in time. Noel and Hugh were engrossed in a contest of zaro, a dice game similar to the English favorite, hazard. They came in reluctant response to his summons, but before he could speak, Noel asked plaintively, “Do you have need of us both, my lord? Hugh is willing to go in my stead, if that meets with your approval?”
This was apparently a surprise to Hugh, who looked distinctly taken aback to hear he’d volunteered on Noel’s behalf. Bran studied the two of them, a smile hovering at one corner of his mouth. “Actually, I was going to tell you both to stay. But I think your suggestion has some merit, lad. Can you find your way back by yourself, Noel? Just remember that the Tolomei palazzo is in the Camollia quarter, close by the church of San Cristoforo.”
Trapped, Hugh could only aim a muttered threat at Noel, sotto voce, before trailing dutifully after his lord, his unhappiness at leaving the Campo stoked by the echoes of Noel’s jubilant laughter.
Their arrival at the brothel created a stir. Pietro de Tolomei and the brother of Guido di Monteforte were customers to be catered to, and the men immediately became the center of attention, surrounded by flirtatious, scantily clad women, flattered and fawned upon and plied with the finest red wines of Chianti. There was much bawdy joking and laughter as Bran and Pietro and their companions drank and swapped raunchy stories and conducted increasingly intimate inspections of the prostitutes brought forth for their scrutiny and selection.
Hugh sought to keep inco
nspicuously to the shadows, struggling with two conflicting emotions: disappointment that Bran should be betraying Juliana, embarrassed excitement at sight of so much alluring female flesh. Pietro di Tolomei had not exaggerated; La Sirena was a bordello for men with discriminating tastes and the money to indulge them. The women were much younger and sleeker and cleaner than the usual inhabitants of bawdy-houses, and wherever Hugh looked, he saw curving bosoms, trim ankles, glimpses of thigh. After a time, he began to attract glances himself. It flustered him, and he retreated into a corner, to no avail; still they giggled and whispered among themselves. It was only when one of the women came over, ran her fingers through his hair, and murmured, “Che biondo-chiaro!” that he understood; they were intrigued by the uncommon flaxen color of his hair.
Noticing the boy’s discomfort, Bran looked about for Pietro. But the latter was nowhere in sight. He hesitated, then decided he’d try to make do without a translator; after nearly three years in Italy, he’d picked up enough of the local dialects to make himself understood. La Sirena’s bawd was an unusually elegant woman in her forties. She came at once when he beckoned, ready to promise all the perversions known to man, so determined was she to please this free-spending English lord, kinsman to il Rosso.
“What I want,” Bran said in slow, but comprehensible Tuscan, “is a wench not too seasoned or jaded, one young and gentle in her ways, not brazen. You understand?”
The woman thought she did. “An innocent,” she said knowingly. “You are indeed in luck, signore, for it happens that I have a rare prize. Thirteen she is, with skin like milk and her maidenhead intact. Of course the price—”
But Bran was already shaking his head. “Too young. And I do not want a maiden,” he said, politely masking his skepticism, for he equated whorehouse virgins with unicorns and like mythical beasts. “I am not seeking a child. I want a whore who does not look like one, a lass who knows how to coax a man along, to keep him from spilling his seed too soon.”
She hastily lowered her lashes so her surprise would not show. She prided herself upon her ability to size up a man’s needs, and for this inglese, she would have picked Anna, who boasted she could set a bed afire without need of flint and tinder. Rapidly reassessing, she said thoughtfully, “I do have just such a one. She was christened Lucia, but we call her Serafina, so sweet is her voice, so angelic her smile.”
“A seraph?” Bran echoed, amused. Even allowing for the inevitable exaggeration in any sales pitch, Serafina still sounded promising. And when the girl herself appeared, slim and graceful and very young, he nodded approvingly. “Yes, she will do. But she’s not for me. I’ll take Anna, the wanton who was sitting on my lap. Serafina is for my squire.” And reaching for the girl’s hand, he led her across the room to Hugh.
“Your birthday gift, lad,” he said, and could not help laughing at the astonished look on the boy’s face. Serafina was not as diffident as the bawd claimed; linking her arm in Hugh’s, she sought to steer him toward the stairs. But he resisted, grabbing Bran’s sleeve and pulling him into the stairwell with them.
“What is it, Hugh? Is she not to your liking?”
“No, she…she is very pretty. But my lord, the monks at Evesham Abbey taught us that whoring is a mortal sin!” Hugh had not meant to blurt it out like that. He bit his lip in dismay, for he did not think he could bear to be laughed at, not by Bran. But Bran did not laugh.
“Well, it is hard to dispute that, Hugh. The Church does indeed hold fornication to be a sin. But to be honest, lad, few men could endure an entire summer of drought; we all need a little rain in our lives. For what it is worth, I think there are very few sins that God could not forgive. Now I would suggest you follow Serafina above-stairs; you’d not want her to lose face before the others, would you? After that—follow your conscience.” Bran turned to go, then swung back, his grin at last breaking free. “But whatever you decide to do, lad, I hope you’ll brag about it afterward to Noel!”
The chamber was so cramped that the bed seemed to reach from wall to wall. There was one shuttered window, a trestle table, a washing laver, a chamber pot, and a wick lamp, sputtering in a bowl of pungent fish oil. But the bed linen looked reasonably clean and there was a large flagon of wine cooling in the laver. Serafina sat down upon the bed, kicked off her shoes. She knew some of the other women wasted no time, began by bluntly instructing their customers to wash their privy members, but she preferred to ease into it, to pretend she was being seduced, not sold; she was fourteen and still in need of illusions. She smiled, asked Hugh to help her with the laces of her gown, before remembering that he didn’t speak Tuscan. He had not yet moved from the door, looked as if he might bolt at any moment. She was perplexed by his behavior, and hobbled by their lack of language. She had been proud that she’d been chosen for this young inglese with the bright flaxen hair, but it no longer seemed such an honor. What was he waiting for? Most men pounced upon her ere she could even get her clothes off. She’d never bedded an inglese before; were they all so shy? She sighed, lay back on the bed in a seductive pose, and looked at him expectantly.
Hugh was discovering that Serafina’s silence spoke louder than any voice of conscience. His brain and body no longer worked in harmony, were suddenly at war. His head was filled with thoughts of sin, but Barnabas was throbbing with urgent need, caring naught for hellfire or the monks of Evesham. Jesú, she was so pretty, with dark eyes like Juliana and a mouth that needed no lip rouge, as soft and red as strawberries. He must not do this. But his legs received another message; they took a hesitant step toward the girl on the bed.
She had an expressive face, had been regarding him in puzzlement that was slowly turning into impatience. But then she cried out and clapped her hands together. She had a light, pleasing voice, and her words pattered about him like raindrops, an assault of musical notes. He seized upon a familiar word, the one she kept repeating. Primo. First. He nodded slowly and pointed to the bed. “Si,” he said softly, “primo.”
Serafina was delighted to have her suspicions confirmed, delighted that she was to be the one to initiate this young inglese into the mysteries of manhood. It was great good luck to bed a virgin. Rising, she came toward him, took his hands in hers. “I know you do not understand me. But I will teach you all you need to know. You shall find joy in my bed and you shall remember me, English. You shall remember me even when your hair has greyed and your bones ache with age. For a man never forgets his first.” Raising up on tiptoe, she kissed Hugh on the mouth, then drew him toward the bed.
When Hugh would later acquire the experience that allowed for comparison, he’d realize how well Bran had chosen for him, how fortunate he was to have found a Serafina. She was patient and tender and she made him forget the sordidness of their surroundings, forget the fire-and-brimstone sermons of Evesham’s parish priest, forget that she was a Sienese whore. They might have been two youngsters out in a meadow, under a haystack, alone in a world whose borders ended at the bed’s edge. Serafina was right; she did give him joy and he would remember her.
Hugh was awed by his body’s explosive response to Serafina’s caresses. He understood for the first time why the Church looked upon women with such suspicion, for lust did indeed allow them to exercise great power over men. But then he thought of Juliana, risking pregnancy and scandal and damnation for Bran. Mayhap women, too, burned with the same fever. If so, it seemed unfair to blame them for the cravings of men. After a moment, he began to laugh. “I cannot believe that I am lying in your bed and thinking of theology!”
Serafina did not understand a word he said, but she laughed, too, and he bent over, kissed her cheek. They were both very pleased with themselves, Hugh proud of his performance and Serafina proud of her tutoring. She was no less gratified by his attentiveness afterward, for she was accustomed to men who lost interest in the time it took to roll off of her. But Hugh continued to hold her in his arms, to murmur “bella” and “tesora.” Men often told her she was pretty, but none had ever calle
d her a “treasure.” No man had taken her brush and combed out her long, dark hair, either. She was so delighted with Hugh’s gallantry that when his hand slid from her shoulder to her breast and his mouth sought hers again, she did not rebuff him. Instead, she broke an iron-clad house rule, gave a customer two tumbles for the price of one.
Fetching the wine flagon, Serafina offered Hugh the first swig. “For a man’s work, a man’s thirst,” she said coyly. Hugh accepted the flagon, but when she called him “Barnabas,” he burst out laughing again.
“Ah, no, lass, that was a joke! My real name is Hugh—Hugh,” he repeated, thumping his chest. But she merely giggled. He was still trying to break through their language barrier when a knock sounded on the door. They both stiffened, not yet ready to have the real world intrude, to have Serafina claimed by her next customer.
“Chi è?” she called out warily.
“Sono io.” A singularly unhelpful response: it’s me. But then the door swung open and Bran entered. His eyes flicked to the clothing strewn wildly about the room, but he kept a straight face as he said, “I thought I’d best look in on you, lad, make sure you were not being held hostage by that conscience of yours.”
Hugh did not reply, made mute by a sudden realization, that behind Bran’s banter lurked a genuine concern. He might never admit it, but he’d been worried enough to investigate, to make certain his birthday gift had not done more harm than good. Hugh was enormously touched by this evidence of affection. No more than Bran, though, could he have acknowledged such emotion. He sought, instead, to match Bran’s playful mockery, saying with a bit of bravado, “Well, at least I shall have a right interesting sin to confess on the morrow!”
The Reckoning Page 5