“You are a dangerous woman, Beatrice,” Gabriele said, breathing hard. “Spectacular and dangerous. I shall imagine you like this, open and wanting, until the night when you are mine at last.”
“God, please don’t stop now, please.” I was almost crying.
He pressed his body into mine so that our hands, caught between us, pressed into the tender spot at the base of my belly, where I could feel the ache building. “I am sorry, Beatrice, but I shall have to stop. When we are wed, you shall have what you deserve. And so shall I.”
I managed to get the words out. “You still want to marry me, even though I use incomprehensible words and touch you when I’m not supposed to?”
Instead of answering, Gabriele kissed me on the mouth. Through that point of contact, his insistent mouth on mine, I could sense the rest of his body and his will: the tension and power in his limbs, the fierce desire held barely in check. It was only a kiss, but he was right—through it I knew what I was in for. He drew back, freeing my hands. Then he closed my cloak gently and solicitiously around my neck.
“Despite, Beatrice, and indeed because of that.”
* * *
After my meeting with Gabriele, I was useless for the rest of the day. I had to toss three bungled pages, I spilled a pot of ink, and I couldn’t add a column of numbers. By evening, I was so agitated that I made my way to the chapel for Vespers. I knelt in one of the pews, trying to let the Latin fill my head, but instead I found myself staring at a young nun whose dress marked her as a novitiate. I watched her kneeling in prayer, the shape of her body hidden by her habit, and wondered what it must be like for her to anticipate a celestial bridegroom instead of an earthbound one. She looked like a paragon of serenity, but who knew what was going on beneath that veil. I gave up on prayer and returned to my chamber. I spent most of the night staring into the opaque darkness of my room.
I woke to the cathedral bells pealing for Prime. Instead of wasting another day in the scriptorium making mistakes, I went for another walk. I’d sold some of the jewelry I’d brought back with me from the twenty-first century, and spent the proceeds on warm winter clothes. I had a pair of soft leather boots, a long linen camica—a chemise—a simple housedress called a gonella, and over those I wore the gown and the heavy gray cloak from my century.
Outside, the biting wind made me wish for the down coat I’d left hanging by the front door of Ben’s modern Siena house. I put my hood up and started walking quickly toward the mercato. The stalls were just opening and I made my way to a pastry seller’s display.
“What’s in those?” I pointed to a high pile of glossy hand-size pies brushed with egg and dusted with sugar.
“Pumpkin, Signora, spiced with cloves. They are still hot—can I tempt you?” I bought two and held one in each hand, eating as I walked and scattering flaky crumbs onto my cloak. The pumpkin was sweet, baked into a custard with a rich mixture of egg and cheese, and it warmed me from the inside. Throughout the market the winter vegetable offerings were sparse—dried herbs, root vegetables, a few squash, and baskets of onions and garlic shedding papery skins. Whole dead rabbits hung trussed by their ankles, furred ears stilled and pointing toward the ground. The crowds were not as dense as I’d remembered—it’s winter, I thought at first, not the best time to be browsing in the market. But then the truth made the pie heavy in my stomach—it’s not just winter. Half the population is gone.
The bells had just rung for Terce when a familiar voice startled me. “Monna Trovato?” The voice came from a figure heavily bundled against the cold. When a small hand emerged to push the hood back, I recognized Ysabella, Gabriele’s cousin.
“Beatrice, please,” I said, smiling. “I’m so glad to see you again.”
“And I to see you.” She smiled back. “For a time we thought you had died in Messina.”
“I almost did. I heard about your father, Ysabella, I’m so sorry.”
Ysabella’s smile faded. “I will mourn him until the day I leave the earth. And Rinaldo is gone too. But they are with God.” She stopped speaking, collecting herself. “Let us not dwell further in despair—now, I hear, it is time for celebration, and Gabriele can speak of nothing else.” Ysabella’s smile was back.
I could feel myself blush. “I’m trying to pass the time without losing my mind. That’s why I’m walking around here in the freezing cold.” It was surprisingly easy to confide in her.
“Time does stretch when we wish it would shrink, and the reverse,” she said, sagely. “Will you accompany me to the calzoleria, where we may speak in greater comfort? I have a pair of repaired shoes to collect.” We entered the shop, which was warmed by a fire in its hearth.
“Bianca’s shoes were worn nearly through,” Ysabella told me as she greeted the shopkeeper. He disappeared into a back room. “I am the only source of income in the house, with my father and brother gone, and it has not been easy to feed three mouths on the earnings of a new midwife. Gabriele, once he has a commission again, will help, though an artist is no baker.” She passed a few coins to the cobbler when he returned and tucked the shoes into a basket. “Ser, may we speak for a time in the warmth of your shop? My cousin is blue with cold.” It was nice to hear her call me cousin. He nodded, and Ysabella motioned me to join her on a bench along the calzoleria’s wall.
“Beatrice, I’ve wanted to talk to you about something. Not as happy a matter as your betrothal, I’m afraid.”
“Please. If you need money I can certainly help.”
“No, thank you for your offer, but we are managing thus far.” She dropped her voice. “We had a strange visitor last spring while you and Gabriele were away. He called himself Giovanni Battista, but when he said he was the Ospedale scribe I knew he was lying. He said he was Gabriele’s friend too, but I didn’t believe him.”
“What did the man want?”
“He was looking for Gabriele,” she said. “I didn’t like it at all.”
“Did you tell him anything?”
“I told him Gabriele was not home—at that time we had no idea whether he’d survived the Mortalità in Messina—and I turned the man away. But when Gabriele was accused of murder, I began to wonder whether this visitor had some evil purpose.”
Giovanni Battista—neither Umiltà nor Egidio had mentioned a Battista scribing at the Ospedale since I’d left. “It does sound suspicious. Did you see him again?”
“No, never. You don’t know anyone by that name?”
“I don’t. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I certainly would—a more unpleasant-looking man would be hard to imagine.” Ysabella made a face. “He did give me an address, though it may have been as false as his name.”
“That’s as good as any other piece of information I’ve got.” Ysabella nodded and told me the street name and landmarks. It was in a part of the city I didn’t know well.
“Please be careful, Beatrice. The visitor looked like trouble.”
I nodded, not wanting trouble either. But I suspected, as Ysabella did, that any man bent on making trouble for Gabriele would probably not have given his real name and address.
The Torre bells rang, marking the hour. “I must be off, Beatrice. I promised milk for little Gabriella.” Ysabella embraced me before we left the calzoleria. “Welcome, cousin,” she said into my ear. Her words warmed me as I made my way back to the Ospedale. But the thought of the visitor who’d claimed to be a scribe lodged itself uneasily at the back of my mind.
PART XII
DUCTIO AD MARITUM
I wrote my own marriage contract.Umiltà dictated and Gabriele watched silently.
On this ninth day of January, in the year 1349, I, Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, pledge to take Beatrice Alessandra Trovato as my wife, under oath and in the presence of God and witnesses. And I, Beatrice Alessandra Trovato . . .
Once the ink was dry, Gabriele and I signed. At the threshold Gabriele paused to look at me. In this atmosphere of medieval restraint, meetin
g his gaze directly felt shockingly intimate. He bowed his head and then let Umiltà lead him out. I’m not the first person to feel the weight of two names paired on a marriage contract, but seeing our oaths documented so clearly under the date did more than cement my connection to Gabriele. The numbers embedded me firmly, inescapably, in this place and time.
* * *
You bade me seek news of your quarry. He has returned from Messina. The denunciation did not stick, despite our witness. That upstart bitch of a scribe saved her painter from the gallows—the Podestà’s court has granted him his freedom. And now Accorsi will marry the object of his lust, for their betrothal was announced in the Campo a few days ago.
I am still at liberty to forward your cause, at the right price. Shall I call upon you tomorrow? I did like the wine you got last time so find me more of the same.
Guido Baldi
After the failed trial, Iacopo stayed up into the night transcribing lists of Siena’s dead. His belly churned with nausea, and his head buzzed. Now that the Brotherhood can see my dedication to the cause, and my capacity, I will rise to lead them, as my birthright demands. I have carried out the first of your commands, Father: Siena, weakened by the Pestilence, is ripe for the taking. Are you not proud of your only son?
There was, of course, no answer.
But Iacopo’s success was hollow, for Accorsi had eluded him again. This persistent failure was a torment, keeping Iacopo awake night after night in his solitary room. Desperate for sleep, Iacopo visited an apothecary for a draught to make the nights endurable. With the bitter taste of poppy in his mouth he slept at last, and then for days awoke only to take a bit more mixed with watered wine. He resurfaced once the vial had been drained to its dregs, with foul breath and a gnawing hunger in his belly. Finally, he penned a response to Baldi, his hands shaking.
Messer Baldi,
I have grown weary of your schemes that fail so unerringly. Gather all the information you can about the painter, those he lives with, the hours they keep. This will assure greater success in achieving my aims. On this occasion I shall plan and you will execute my wishes. I expect to hear from you in several days—see that you are well prepared the next time.
In the name of God, Amen.
While he waited for Baldi’s response, Iacopo visited the Brotherhood’s allies in Siena to assure their continued allegiance. There were still casati families in Siena who harbored hope that with Florentine help, i Noveschi might soon be overthrown. Siena, a shadow of her former self, should fall easily to a well-laid plot from within her gates. He avoided Ser Signoretti, once his father’s strongest supporter in Siena, fearing the outcome of the trial had turned the man against him. He had not told the Brotherhood of the failed trial, nor his use of Signoretti as a key witness. God willing they would not learn what he had done and blame him for the loss of this crucial ally.
Iacopo managed, in his meetings, to keep the voices in his head at bay, though afterward his headaches raged, pulsing in his temples and sending a vicious stabbing to lodge behind one tearing eye. At the end of a week, when Baldi’s answer had still not arrived, Iacopo made his way back to Florence, where he waited for news and tried to avoid his mother’s watchful gaze.
Iacopo expected an invitation for the confraternity’s next meeting, where he might be rewarded for the success of his mission, but no message came. As the days passed, he grew anxious, inventing dark possibilities in his head—perhaps the plot had been discovered, and they all risked death by hanging. One afternoon when the wind blew cold off the Arno and through Iacopo’s heaviest cloak, a messenger at last arrived, requesting that Iacopo call upon Ser Albizzi at home, rather than in the Brotherhood’s usual meeting place. Albizzi bid him enter, for caution’s sake, through the servant’s entrance where he might not be seen.
Ser Albizzi welcomed Iacopo in his studium and motioned him to sit. As Albizzi waved his manservant out, Iacopo’s head filled with the triumph of all he had done. Now, finally, I will have my due. I have proven myself worthy beyond any expectations, and the leadership of the Brotherhood shall be mine, as it was my father’s.
When the servant was gone, Albizzi cleared his throat to speak.
“You have done well. Remarkably well.”
“Thank you, Ser. Your praise is most welcome.” Iacopo waited for what would surely come now, the announcement of his new role within the group, and plans for tightening the conspiracy against Siena under his leadership. But instead, Albizzi was silent. The fire in the hearth crackled, and a log fell suddenly with a small shower of sparks. One errant ember landed on the slate before the hearth and glowed briefly before going out, fading red to black.
Albizzi leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them. “Iacopo: I shall speak quickly and briefly. When I am done, we shall not mention anything that transpired here again. Nod your head to show me you have understood.” Iacopo nodded mutely. “I speak to you in honesty now because I respected your father, and now that he is gone, he cannot protect you.” Iacopo’s heart began to pound with apprehension, as if it were trying to exit from his chest. Protect me from what? Albizzi dropped his voice to a whisper. “Your knowledge is dangerous to the Brotherhood now.”
Iacopo could not restrain his response. “Dangerous? The remaining brothers, thank God for their survival, know as well as I what plans were formed, and how they were realized. What has changed?” Iacopo’s voice rose in pitch as his fear did, breaking on the last word.
“Your failure with Ser Signoretti is known to the confraternity, and its leadership no longer trusts you. I fear they will make it certain that you will not reveal the conspiracy’s secrets—permanently. You are not safe here any longer, Iacopo. Am I understood?” It was all Iacopo could do to keep silent while his mind raced. All that I have done, for them and for Firenze, has come to this?
“When we are finished here you will leave as you entered. Keep your hood up, and do not let yourself be seen on your return home. I have done all I can for you. Is this clear?” Iacopo rose, his legs trembling. It was clear—frighteningly clear.
* * *
Of course I knew nothing whatsoever about medieval weddings. Since I’d already theoretically married the imaginary notary from Lucca, I should have been better informed than your average newlywed. I just kept my mouth shut and let Umiltà and Clara take over.
The next step was the delivery of the receipt for the dowry in the presence of the notary.
“I have arranged your dowry with Ospedale funds,” Umiltà said, briskly. I was itching to find out my bride price but couldn’t bring myself to ask. “Now we require a notary.”
“What about the Ospedale notary?”
“Dead,” Umiltà said, grimly. “Since the Mortalità few remain, and many are charlatans. Transactions came to a near standstill in this awful year, and those that transpired were terribly mismanaged. God be praised that the winter has brought some relief from the contagion.” I had a nasty thought about what the spring thaw might bring. Gabriele and I should be immune, but that wasn’t true of most people.
“Compose an announcement to be read by the criers in the morning. I shall choose among the candidates,” Umiltà said. I went back to the scriptorium to write out a medieval classified ad.
Three days later Clara came to my room before dawn and shook me out of sleep. I rolled out of bed and onto the floor, which was freezing cold. When Clara set her lantern on the table I could see she was smiling broadly. “He’s sent your ring.”
“The wedding is today?”
Clara laughed. “I do wonder how a widow like yourself can be as unknowing as a babe sometimes.” I knew she was not as innocent as she looked. “The notary presides over your mutual consent and exchange of rings. The painter had this made for you, but Umiltà worries that it may not fit your hand.” Clara held out a small velvet pouch. I took it from her but didn’t open it. “Though I don’t doubt the painter knows every bit of your body perfectly, at least, the parts he can see.” She
giggled. Definitely not innocent.
I opened the pouch and looked inside. “Oh, Lord.”
“Is it not lovely? Messer Accorsi had the goldsmith work yours especially.” The ring was engraved with a pattern of intertwining vines and flowers, the center of each flower a polished unfaceted dark red stone.
“It is lovely.” I slipped the ring on my finger—it went from cold to warm. I hesitated before giving it back to Clara.
“You’ll have it back soon enough, Signora, and before you know it, more than a ring will be wrapped about you.”
“Clara!” I’d never heard her like this.
“You are no stranger to the joys of marriage, nor am I,” she said pertly. “Now, let me help you with your gown and hair.” I didn’t mention that my familiarity with those joys had nothing to do with marriage.
* * *
The notary looked at least ninety years old. His features were surrounded by a sea of wrinkled skin, and when he wrote, his hand and the excess flesh of his face and neck trembled with the effort. Umiltà presided over the event, as usual. Gabriele arrived with a young man as witness, someone I’d never met. Gabriele introduced him as Tommaso Barocci, a fellow painter and friend from Martini’s workshop.
I didn’t know you had any friends, I thought silently. But of course there was a lot I didn’t know about Gabriele. Tommaso greeted me graciously, and I returned the formal greeting. When Clara entered she was not alone—a familiar bulky shape followed her through the door.
“Provenzano!”
He bowed, his wide face creasing with pleasure. “I would have come sooner to see you, but I’ve been in Arezzo on business. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, Monna Trovato, for your advice that sent me to the contado, away from the lash of the Mortalità. And an even greater debt for lending me your lovely maid. I’ve kept her, to our mutual pleasure.” He put his arm around Clara, who was approaching his width as her pregnancy advanced.
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