by Gian Bordin
"Misericordia, what’s going on?" wailed the innkeeper, shuffling in his wrinkled clothing into the room from the lean-to kitchen, an oil lamp in his hand. Chiara ignored him and checked through her things. Nothing was missing.
Mercurio came back, still panting. "They’ve fled. Are you hurt, Chiara? Did he get anything?"
"No … no to both," she replied.
The innkeeper came over, carrying the lamp, lamenting. "Messere, I swear by the Holy Madonna, I have nothing to do with those two. Please, believe me. I didn’t like the looks of them when they came in yesterday, but, alas, Messere, what can a humble innkeeper do but trust his clients… Please, believe me, I am as much a victim as your ladyship."
His protests of innocence made Chiara wonder. They had come rather too quickly, before anybody had even cast any suspicions. But then, it was not worth worrying about. "Dear man, calm down. We believe you. Just go back to sleep."
"Can I be of service to you, gracious lady? … No? … Really? … Thank you, thank you." He retreated backward, bowing repeatedly, and then disappeared in the kitchen. She lay down again.
Mercurio remained standing, fiddling awkwardly with the hilt of his sword. "I’m sorry, Chiara. I failed you again… I will keep watch, while you sleep,"
"Oh no, Messer Mercurio, you have no reason to take any blame, and I doubt there is any need for a watch anymore. And besides, you need that rest as much as I do. We’ll have a strenuous day ahead of us."
* * *
Her sleep after that was restless, disturbed by dreams of her father. At the break of dawn, they were off again. The closer they got to their destination, the more apprehensive she became. Would her father receive her? Would he forgive her? Would she again be his daughter? Not the young noble maiden of Elba, but Chiara of I Magnifici?
Late afternoon they entered Grosseto. Mercurio led her to the house of Giancarlo Denardo. When they announced their names, they were promptly admitted into a dark high-vaulted hall. Mercurio offered to take care of the horses. As he left, he said: "Courage, Chiara."
While she waited nervously, she wondered whether she should ask for privacy to change into her woman’s clothes. But there was nobody around. The house seemed eerily quiet. When she saw a priest come down the staircase, trailed by an acolyte carrying a box like the ones used to hold the instruments for the last unction, it felt like an icy hand was gripping her heart. Was she too late?
The priest scrutinized her clothing curiously. Her long cloak did not hide that she was wearing breeches. He seemed to be on the verge of addressing her, but then simply nodded in response to her greeting, and let himself be ushered out by an elderly gentleman. After having thanked the priest, he came to her.
"I am Giancarlo Denardo. Are you Chiara da Narni, the daughter of Alberto da Narni?"
"Yes, Signore. Please forgive my dress. I just arrived from Monte Pulciano where I saw Lady Maria d’Appiano two days ago."
"Two days ago?" he echoed. "You have come in time. I will conduct you to his lordship."
"Is my father ill?"
"Lady Chiara, he has lost the will to live." He went ahead up the stairs.
The single window of the room cast a somber light. On the wall opposite the door they entered, a white-haired man lay on a bed, his eyes closed. Chiara’s chest constricted. He was only a shadow of the man she had last seen.
Her host noiselessly went to his side and murmured: "Signore, you have a visitor."
After he had left the room, Chiara approached and knelt by the bed. Her father still had his eyes closed. She reached for his right hand. He opened his eyes. A flame of recognition lit them.
"Is it you, Sophia? Has God granted me my wish to join you?" His voice was no more than a horse whisper.
"Father, I’m Chiara, your daughter."
The flame died and he closed his eyes.
"My daughter is gone. I have no daughter."
Tears welled in her eyes. She held on even more fervently to his hand. "Father, I love you. Don’t deny me. Not now," she cried.
He looked at her.
"Please, father. I love you. I have done you wrong, but I am still your daughter. Don’t take that away from me. Don’t you love me anymore?"
He took a while to answer: "Yes, child. I still love you."
She kissed his hand.
"Why have you come back, child?"
"Because it pains me that I hurt you. I need your forgiveness, father."
"Forgiveness? … Yes, that is all I have left to give you, daughter. They took everything else, even my will to live."
"Oh, father, don’t say that. I love you. I want you to live. You will be with me and you will get well again."
A shadow of a smile fleetingly appeared around his eyes.
"Chiara, I wish it could be so. They took all I had. I have to live off the charity of others."
"I am rich, father. I can look after you."
A cough racked him. It sapped his strength, and he closed his eyes.
"Don’t talk, father. Just let me be with you."
She kissed his forehead and sat on the edge of the bed, stroking his gnarled hand.
After a while, he asked: "Chiara, is it true what Niccolo Sanguanero says about you?"
"Father, some of it is true, but it is only a half-truth. His father raped me on the Santa Caterina, and they planned to let me drown. I blinded him so I could get away and swim ashore… Father, will you tell me now why you arranged that I should marry Niccolo?"
"I may as well… Massimo Sanguanero threatened to renew the vendetta that raged between our two families before my father married your grandmother, unless I agreed to the marriage." He had trouble breathing.
"Don’t talk anymore, father."
"No, I have to tell you. They wanted to make sure that Nisporto and its harbor would go to them. They would have killed you otherwise."
"There is another reason, father. I heard them talking about getting their hands on a treasure, although I cannot imagine what that could mean."
He was catching his breath again before he murmured: "Yes, the treasure… Casa Sanguanero always wanted to get their hands on that. But they will never find it without the little book. It is fortunate that you took it along so they could not put their hands on it."
Chiara went hot and cold. "Oh, father, they stole it from me, together with my mother’s jewels."
"Then everything is lost. They will even desecrate that."
He lapsed into silence. Chiara did not dare to question him anymore, lest it might completely exhaust him.
"Don’t speak anymore, father, just let me be with you." She kissed him again and stroked his hand. "I don’t care about any treasure. I only care about you. I love you."
He opened his eyes and they searched hers. She could sense his love for her, and a glow of happiness warmed her heart. She was his daughter again. He had forgiven her. After a while his lids closed and he fell asleep. She watched his shallow breathing. His face was slack, loose skin over bones. Silent tears ran down her cheeks. She knew he was going to die and she still wanted to tell him so much.
A middle-aged woman tiptoed into the room and asked if she needed anything, if she wanted to have a hot drink. Chiara said no and thanked her. When the light was fading, the woman returned with candles. Her father stirred and opened his eyes, searching hers again. They were shiny.
"Chiara, my daughter," he whispered.
"Yes, father. I am here. I love you." She had the need to tell him this over and over, to make up for the months she had not told him.
"Child, will you say a prayer with me?"
She only managed to nod, while tears flooded her eyes. She knelled by his bedside, holding his hand in hers. With a trembling voice she recited the paternoster and added a short prayer for her mother’s soul, as she had heard him say so often.
There was a serene smile on his face. He pressed her hand and whispered: "Amen… Now I can die in peace, dear Chiara… Don’t cry… I am happy to join
your mother."
He remained quiet. Chiara thought that he had fallen asleep again.
"Chiara, I am glad that you are with me when I go."
"Oh, father. I want you to live."
She sobbed. He raised his hand to her cheek, but it fell back before he could touch her. She put her head on his chest and he stroked her hair.
"Please, father, give me your blessing," she begged.
"I bless thee, my child." It was barely a whisper.
She kept her vigil at this bedside the whole night. He stirred a few times and searched her eyes, a weak glow in his. The middle-aged woman brought new candles and a herbal tea for Chiara, which she drank gratefully. She must have fallen asleep toward morning. When she woke, her father’s face was a mask. She touched it. It was cold.
"Oh, father," she cried and fell to her knees, her head on the blankets.
A hand touched her shoulders. She looked up and saw the kind face of the middle-aged woman.
"He had the consolation to see you again, my child, and died peacefully. Come and get some rest yourself. I will prepare him for burial."
She took her by the hand into an adjacent room.
"Here, lie down and try to sleep. I will wake you when it is time."
* * *
The burial took place in the morning of the following day. Violating all burial conventions, Chiara was one of the pallbearers together with Mercurio and two of Denardo’s servants. Chiara gave the priest a florin to say a mass for her father. She insisted on refunding Giancarlo Denardo any debt owed by her father. He handed her a leather bag containing her father’s documents and papers. He urged her to study them promptly. She decided that it could wait until she was back in Monte Pulciano.
Early afternoon, she and Mercurio were in the saddle again with fresh oats for their horses. If the pace had been fast coming down to Grosseto, it was blistering going back. They reached Cinigiano after nightfall. The gates into the small town were already shut, but when Mercurio identified himself as one of Lord d’Appiano’s men, they opened one side to let them in. Up before dawn, they covered the sixteen leagues to Monte Pulciano in twelve hours.
During these long hours they talked little. On the first afternoon, Chiara could only think of her loss. She lived and relived every second she had just spent with her father. The happiness of these moments, of his forgiveness, of his blessing, made the sadness of his passing away bearable. On the second day her thoughts returned to why her father had given in to Massimo Sanguanero. To prevent the resumption of the vendetta between the two families. Strange as it was, she was glad that this was the reason. He had done it out of love for her, because he thought that this would save her life, although she doubted that it would have. From the way father and son Sanguanero had talked on the Santa Caterina, she was convinced that they would have arranged for her to die promptly after her father.
The news that the treasure actually existed came as a big surprise. She had not thought that her father would have kept such a secret from her. Maybe he had told her brother. Maybe he had planned to tell her after the marriage. She would never know. She had not dared to broach that subject again. He was too weak to talk. All she got confirmed was that the little book was the key to it, but she still had no clue as to the nature of the treasure. He had only said ‘They will even desecrate that’. What could that mean? Some religious relics? But why would her father be in possession of religious relics? … unless they had been entrusted to him by the Knight Templars who wished to save them from confiscation by the French king when the Pope banished their order more than thirty years ago. Any relics would fetch high prices if sold. Then she remembered that her father had said that the feud between the two families had been about the treasure. So its origin went farther back.
I’ll never know … unless I get that little book. But that was hopeless. It was in the hands of Niccolo Sanguanero. They might by now have already recovered that treasure. Maybe not. She was sure that none of the poems contained any hidden reference, let alone an open one, to a treasure. If there was, it was so artfully disguised that it would take an extremely clever person to decipher it and she did not put Niccolo into that category. Would she be able to do it, she wondered? What started as a stray thought slowly grew into a determination. She must regain possession of that book. It alone and no other copy contained the secret. If Niccolo thought that they had won, he had not counted her in. She would plan and bide her time until she could create the right opportunity to snatch it back. Dear father, all not is lost. It will not be desecrated, whatever it is. This was her solemn pledge.
Upon entering Monte Pulciano, she called on Lady Maria before returning to the players.
"Chiara, you are back already? Did you not go to Grosseto? Messer Mercurio, you promised that you would get her there and back safely."
Rather than come immediately to his defense, Chiara could not resist the temptation to hear his answer first.
"My Lady, we have been there and spent almost two days in Grosseto."
"Messer Mercurio, do you take me for feeble minded … or has Lady Chiara been conniving with you to say that."
The poor man was wringing his hands and looked to Chiara for help.
"Chiara, you promised to visit your father. Why did you not do it?"
"Lady Maria, please forgive us for upsetting you. But as Messer Mercurio said, we went there and I saw my father." The thought of her father brought tears to her eyes. "He passed away while I was there."
"Oh my poor child. Come." She embraced Chiara, patting her back.
"He has forgiven me and has blessed me," Chiara murmured.
"I am glad I could play a small part in that."
"I will be eternally grateful to you for urging me to see my father immediately. Even a day later and I might have arrived too late."
"I see. You must have had a premonition. That is why you rode so fast. But I still cannot understand it. You must have flown."
Mercurio recovered his voice. "Yes, my Lady. You could say that. Never in my long career as a soldier have I been driven along without mercy like this. And Lady Chiara tells me that unless I am up by noon, I will miss her performance."
"But Chiara, you must rest too. You will not have a steady hand unless you are well rested. Even well rested, it is too dangerous what you do. I really should forbid you to expose yourself ever to danger like this."
Chiara could not suppress a smile.
"Oh, I know you. Chiara. It is no use to forbid it. You would do as you please anyway."
"My Lady, I am distressed that you have such a low opinion of me."
"Chiara, Chiara, I do not believe you… You said the performance will be again early afternoon?"
"Yes, my Lady. But now I must return to my friends and then take that rest that you recommend."
The countess’ laugh filled the room like the trilling of a lark.
"Go, child, go, before you are the death of me."
Chiara curtsied and then said to the guard: "Messer Mercurio, thank you for your protection, but even more for your company and support."
She was surprised to see the seasoned soldier blush. As she walked out, she heard the countess say. "So, Messer Mercurio, I am certain his Lordship will be pleased to hear that it is possible to ride from here to Grosseto and back in four days."
* * *
The following day, Piazza Grande was overflowing. Word had spread quickly that I Magnifici would offer their last performance. Chiara searched for Mercurio and found him close to the stage among a large group of guardsmen. After the knife throwing act she quickly skipped to him. It was obvious that he had no idea what was coming when she kissed him on both cheeks to the boisterous cheering of his fellow guards and the crowd. She noticed Lady Maria and Heloïse in the center window of Palazzo Del Monte. Veronica started her collection with the soldiers, who jested with her and gave generously, and then went again under the window of the palazzo where she received another fat purse.
&nb
sp; 12
Siena, middle of November 1348
My father was dead, but I felt rich. He had forgiven me and I had his blessing. I even overcame my reluctance to look through the leather case of documents he had left me. The first object I saw was the pouch which I recognized as containing the da Narni seal. I took it out, not able to suppress my tears, and pressed it to my bosom. There was the deed for his knighthood; the marriage contract to my mother; two documents for the transfer of funds between branches in Naples and Pisa of a merchant banker, the most recent one dated a few months prior to my brother’s departure for Naples — I guessed to arrange funds for my brother to touch on once he was in Naples; various letters — I recognized the name of two well-known Florentine families; several property deeds for our lands on Elba; the settlement compensating Massimo Sanguanero for the loss of his sight, transferring Castello Nisporto and all its lands to Casa Sanguanero. I was shocked when I saw my father’s signature. It had lost the firm, elegant flow I remembered and looked frail — the signature of an old man who could hardly hold the quill anymore. How it must have affected him. My heart bled.
The last scroll I unrolled was the contract for my own marriage to Niccolo. My first impulse was to throw it into the fire, but I stopped my hand in the last moment. A devious thought flashed through my mind. Impersonate the daughter of a rich merchant family and trap Niccolo into a marriage contract with the lure of a highly profitable commercial venture that would fleece Casa Sanguanero and hopefully bankrupt it. It might therefore be useful to have copies of legal documents on which to base any forgeries I might need for the various transactions.
The ideas were still hazy and only partially formed. I would explore them carefully, ponder on all possible aspects and work out a detailed scheme that covered all eventualities and therefore would succeed. I put all documents back into the leather case.
Would Niccolo or any of his men recognize me? Lady Maria did, but more by my gestures than my face. I knew that I had grown at least half a hand width since I left Elba. I studied myself in the mirror. The woman who looked back was the one I had become familiar with since we had left our refuge. There was no trace of the chubbiness of my teen years. The face was lean, the high cheek bones even more pronounced, the nose and chin giving it strength, the lips delicate, maybe a bit too thin — an aristocratic face I had to admit to myself. If I plucked my eyebrows, maybe dyed my hair black, wore a wig of tresses, padded my breasts, nobody who did not know me well would recognize me.