Orphan of the Olive Tree - Historical Romance Saga
Page 1
Orphan of the Olive Tree
Mirella Sichirollo Patzer
Orphan of the Olive Tree
A deeply evocative story of lies, secrets, and betrayal, Orphan of the Olive Tree is a family saga of two unforgettable women, an oath sworn in blood, a curse uttered in envy, and the dark secret that destroys their lives.
From two neighboring villas in the heart of the Tuscan countryside to the elegance of Siena; from a world steeped in ancient superstitions to a culture where family honor is paramount comes, this multi-layered novel of the lives, loves, secrets and strivings of two women and their families in the 13th century.
Felicia Ventura is an unpretentious woman, alone in the world, who is happily married to Enrico. She dreams of a simple future raising a family, but her hopes are shattered because of a curse and the casting of the evil eye by her envious neighbor, a Sicilian beauty named Prudenza.
Prudenza is worldly and materialistic and her envy of Felicia knows no bounds. She casts the evil eye on her adversary. When Felicia gives birth to twin sons, Prudenza revives an ancient superstition and spreads a rumor that Felicia’s twins were fathered by different men. The scandal destroys her life. Soon, Prudenza gives birth to her own twins - daughters. Desperate to save face, Prudenza rids herself of one infant, keeping the child’s existence secret. But as the years go by, the truth has a way of making itself known. Soon Prudenza’s deception will lead to the unraveling of everything she values in life.
Orphan of the Olive Tree is an unforgettable novel about wicked intentions, superstition, undisclosed secrets, unstoppable destinies; and two generations of women and the extraordinary event that will vindicate or destroy them.
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Mirella Patzer
Internal design © 2012 by Mirella Patzer
Cover design © by Mirella Patzer
http://mirellapatzer.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews - without permission in writing from the publisher or author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or location is entirely coincidental. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used factiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Kindle Edition September 2012
Cover artwork: Young Roman Water Carrier
Artist - Diogene Ulysse Napoleon Maillart
File Sources: Creative Commons, Attribution License
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Maillart,_Diog%C3%A8ne_Ulysse_Napol%C3%A9on_-_Young_Roman_water_carrier.jpg?uselang=en-gb
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siena
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sacred_lotus_Nelumbo_nucifera.jpg
http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rotonda_de_Montesiepi
ISBN – 978-0-9868439-1-4 Trade Paperback
ISBN – 978-0-9868439-4-5 Electronic Book
Dedication
For the amazing and beautiful women in my life:
My mother, Ersilia Sichirollo
My daughters, Amanda and Genna Patzer
My cousin, Emilia Lanzillotta
Acknowledgements
Many talented friends and colleagues have helped breathe life into this story and helped me produce this novel in one form or another. To them I owe my most profound gratitude.
To my wonderful mentors - Lisa J. Yarde, Jeanne Kalogridis, Anita Davison, and Cori Van Housen, all gifted authors who have taken time from their busy schedules to coach me through plot dilemmas, publishing pitfalls, and character predicaments. You have made my story much, much better.
To my scrutineers, Lisa J. Yarde, Cori Van Housen, and Diane Scott Lewis, brilliant authors and editors who proofed my manuscript. I am honored and eternally grateful.
To my critique partners, L. Gregory Graham, Dave Lefurgey, Carolin Walz, Carolyn Heinemann, Margaret Chrisawn, Christina Dionne, Jane Fox, Diane Scott Lewis, Rosemary Morris, Ursula Thom, Jen Black, Jennifer Pittam, and Walter Rabbani who have all, at one time or another over the years, added incredible input to chapters. I have valued your friendship and support in the two on-line Yahoo groups I belong to – Historical Fiction Writers Critique Group and Historical Fiction Authors Critique Group. You have raised my novel to greater heights.
To my most cherished childhood best friends with whom I have shared nearly five decades of my life – Sandra Falconi, Paddy Cush, and Ersilia Ward. Your unconditional love, unfettered support, and constant understanding are my greatest blessings.
To my incredibly generous husband, Richard, for two red laptops to help me write, the iPad for reading and researching, and the brand new Ford Escape, and for taking such good care of me always. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know.
Last of all to Amanda, Genna, my brilliant, successful daughters, and Joseph, my smart little grandson – I am so very proud of you all.
Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go by any rules. They're not like aches or wounds; they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material
F. Scott Fitzgerald
You don’t choose your family. They are God’s gift to you, as you are to them…
Desmond Tutu
We cannot destroy kindred. Our chains stretch a little sometimes,
But they never break…
Marquise de Sévigné
Family is the most important thing in the world…
Princess Diana
Prologue
Monteaperti Hills, Tuscany
September AD 1260
“Look out behind you, Enrico!” The warning shout arose over the howls and bellows of men in the violent throes of battle. Enrico Ventura recognized the voice as that of his best friend, Carlo Benevento. Before Enrico could look behind him, a Florentine warrior drove a spiked gauntlet at his head. He bent to avert the blow, but was not swift enough. The metal spikes struck the side of his face hard. The void between life and death swallowed him before he hit the ground.
The smell of blood and death filled Enrico’s nostrils. Shards of pain shot through his head, stirring him from the depths of oblivion. Fog clouded his mind as he opened his eyes. He could see only blackness; not the battlefield, nor the sky and earth, not even his own body.
“Dio,” he moaned. Agony battered his rib cage and head. He swallowed back his terror and listened. The sounds of combat and battle cries, the whoosh of arrows, the clash of weapons had vanished. The battle must be over. Now, only the moans of the wounded cleaved the air. He felt his chest. Someone had stripped him of his armor. He groped about for his lance and broadsword, but could not find them. How long had he lain unconscious?
He struggled to sit up, but the soreness from over-strained muscles stung him. His face throbbed and his entire body ached. The smell of his own blood filled his senses. For now, all he could do was lie powerless and wait for the litters to arrive. They would carry him off to lay with the other wounded. Then
he could return home. He clung to that hope with near desperation.
“Carlo.” Enrico shouted out for his friend, but only a hoarse rasp, hardly more than a whisper, sprang from his parched throat. “Carlo!” He tried again. The groans and cries of those around him smothered his feeble voice. Enrico feared the worst. His gut wrenched with fear at the possibility that Carlo lay wounded nearby and he could not see him or do anything to help.
All his life Enrico had protected Carlo, who was born with his right leg shorter than his left and his foot twisted at a slight angle. Were it not for his friend’s warning during battle, the blow from the gauntlet might have killed him. Carlo had saved his life. He owed him a great debt. Somehow, as soon as he could, he must find him. He prayed he would find him alive.
Enrico waited and soon lost track of time. Blind and hurting, he endured the sun’s rays that scorched his skin. Hours of intense heat had ripened the stench of blood, urine, and guts from the battlefield around him. Then, as if from a great distance, he heard someone shout his name.
“Enrico! Enrico Ventura!” The gravelly voice belonged to Carlo and it came from somewhere to the right.
It jolted Enrico to full consciousness. There could be no mistaking the voice. The sound washed over him like a soothing tide. “Here, Carlo!” Enrico winced with agony at the effort to reply. He heard the scrape and tread of Carlo's familiar limp as he came to kneel by his side. “Wine.” Enrico could not manage to say more.
“Dio buono! Here. Drink, my friend.” Carlo lifted Enrico’s head and raised a flagon to his mouth.
Enrico's parched lips and throat relished the warm wine. He drank until the liquid soothed away the dryness. Then he paused, fortifying himself to speak aloud the words he feared. “I can’t see, Carlo.”
Carlo squeezed his shoulder. “It’s morning now. The battle raged until sunset, but we won. The enemy must have stolen your armor and weapons in the dark. I’ve heard ten thousand Florentine men are dead, another four thousand are missing.”
“How badly hurt am I?”
Carlo paused. “I won’t lie to you. You took a brutal blow. There is a gash on the left side of your face, from eye to chin, and your right eye is swollen shut. But the rest of your body appears to be unharmed.”
“Other than the fact I can’t see.” Enrico swallowed and a lump formed in his throat. “I’m grateful for your honesty and my good fortune,” he said grimly. His injuries could have been much worse.
They rested in silence, both exhausted.
After some time, the chirurgeon found them and offered Enrico more wine to help dull the throbbing. The man cleaned his wound and wrapped a cloth around his eyes and forehead. When he finished, Enrico overheard the chirurgeon whisper to Carlo. “His left eye is lost and the cheek beneath is crushed beyond repair. God willing, once the swelling subsides, he will be able to see with his right eye. Take the man home and make certain the wounds do not putrefy.” With those words, the chirurgeon shuffled away to tend others.
Carlo was not wounded. The knowledge sent a surge of relief through Enrico. At least one of us is whole, he thought.
Battle-weary and numb with exhaustion, Carlo looked out over the Monteaperti hills one last time. The Arabia Creek meandered through the landscape. Its waters, once a glorious blue, now ran scarlet with blood. Tens of thousands of men lay dead, scattered like refuse everywhere on the hills, their bodies rotting beneath the new day’s sun. The smell of the bloodbath and dead flesh burgeoned in the late summer heat.
The hill of death; those who survived had already begun to call it so. The morning sun revealed the true extent of the combat; the eerie sounds of men shouting for help and water, moaning with agony. It would take weeks to bury the dead, but their souls would surely haunt these hills forever. Carlo wiped the sweat from his brow with his filthy, blood-splattered sleeve. Already crows and buzzards circled in the sky, eager to feast on the freshly dead. The metallic odor of blood saturated the air.
This final battle had been the most brutal. Their Sienese army had defeated the arrogant Florentines. He heaved an exhausted sigh – all this blood, all this death, and for what? Because forty-five years ago, a Florentine nobleman reneged on his betrothal to a noblewoman from Siena and married someone else. The Sienese swore revenge and killed him. This had ignited the long, cursed feud that culminated in this last deadly encounter. The war between Florence and Siena may have ended for now, but such hatred could not be so easily distinguished. And one woman at the root of all this death. Was the feud finally over? Who knew what the future held?
Carlo had never been so glad to leave a place. After seeing Enrico safely loaded onto a wagon, they set off. Heat waves distorted the road ahead as he trudged along beside the wagon. Each step led him farther away from the horrific site. He was glad Enrico could not see the dreadful aftermath. Carlo put one weary foot ahead of the other, ignoring the hunger that gnawed at his belly as he struggled to keep pace despite his awkward gait. He and Enrico had survived. Little else mattered.
Time passed far too slow as he walked in the hot afternoon sun towards home. Carlo ignored the throbbing in his misshapen leg and glanced over at Enrico. With every wagon jolt, agony etched his friend’s face, but he bore his discomfort without sound or complaint. Ever since childhood, Enrico had looked after him because of his lameness. Now that Enrico was the one to have suffered a wound, it felt good to return the favor and help him.
The farther he went, the easier it became to bury memories of the desolation and ruin, the groans of the wounded, the screams of the dying, and the stench of the blood-soaked battlefield. Behind and before them, hundreds of men walked, rank upon rank. Mail and armor clanked in an uneven cadence as they wound their way through the hilly terrain. Thankfully, in the aftermath of combat, weariness blanketed his sorrowful despair. Thoughts of home enticed him forward despite his exhaustion. Worn-out men dropped from the ranks and took their own paths home to villages or farms. He knew they would all relive the horrific visions of combat and death in their nightmares for years to come.
Soon, they arrived at the road that led to the village of Costalpino. Their villas lay on its outskirts.
Carlo helped Enrico down from the wagon, and with one arm around his friend’s waist and the other firmly gripping the arm over his shoulder, they bid farewell to their comrades and staggered down the lane. Familiar cypress and olive trees lined the road to the tiny verdant valley. His limp, coupled with Enrico's blindness and injuries, forced them to make slow progress. Carlo stopped to rest on the crest of the hill that overlooked their familial lands.
“We are home, Enrico.”
“Describe it to me, Carlo.”
Fatigued beyond words, Carlo did not want to expend the effort, but he understood. How could he deny his friend a description of this spectacular view? The sight appeared all the sweeter because they had survived. “I am looking down into the valley at our villas. They seem as large as castles. The little brook that separates our homes is as blue as the summer sky. Smell the lemon trees and wild thyme, Enrico. The wind carries a beautiful aroma just for us.”
With words, Carlo painted a picture of the long, tree-lined dirt road that led to Enrico's villa. It was named Casa di Fiore for the abundant flowers and rose bushes Enrico's wife, Felicia, nurtured. The villa lay on a slight rise. Shrouded on the north side by the gentle screen of olive trees, the elegant villa nestled like a jewel in its setting. Built around an intimate courtyard, the three-storied quadrangle of weathered, rose-colored stone presented a quaint image. One large olive tree, its trunk misshapen and twisted, with branches warped and sagging, stood at the center of the courtyard in front of the house.
Carlo shifted his gaze to his own home. Villa Bianca rested east of the brook dividing their properties. Pale grey stone comprised its facade, a contrast to the pink hues of Casa di Fiore. Burgundy paint colored its numerous doors and shutters. The grounds and gardens that surrounded the structure were vibrant with lemon trees and he
dges. His wife, Prudenza, had neither the skills nor the desire to grow anything. As a result, Villa Bianca appeared more rustic and hauntingly lonely.
“And beyond our two villas, on either side of the stream, stretch our vineyards and orchards.” Carlo sighed, enchanted at the sight of the lush valley beneath the rose and lavender sky. “What a welcoming sight it is. I have seen enough war and invasion to last my entire life.” He helped Enrico sit on the ground.
Enrico nodded. “That is certain, amico. If I never raise my sword again, I will consider myself a fortunate man.” A weary sigh escaped his lips.
Carlo sat down next to him and stretched out his legs.
“I am a lucky man,” Enrico said. “My face may now be uglier than that of a scarecrow, but we return home alive.”
Enrico’s attempt at humor was a testament to his good nature and it brought a smile to Carlo’s lips. Enrico had always been of a gentler spirit, less candid than he was.
Neither man spoke for a moment.
Carlo scanned the welcoming allure of their valley.
“What will we do now that the war has ended and the remainder of lives stretches out before us?” Enrico asked.
“Well, first, I will indulge in the soft flesh of my wife and hope to make many children.” Carlo grinned broadly. He rubbed his leg to ease the soreness caused by the long march and the shouldering of Enrico’s weight.
“And then what?”