Bianca: The Silk Merchant's Daughters

by Bertrice Small

  “A favor, Lorenzo,” Amir said. “Will you allow my slave, Krikor, to return to my villa to fetch my dog? I am particularly fond of that hound. I raised him from a puppy, and he came with me from Turkey. I should like to have him when I return home.”

  “Of course, of course,” Lorenzo di Medici said, understanding. A man’s favorite dog was a part of him. “The slave may come and go freely, even if you cannot. You may desire a courtesan to come and visit you. It is quite permissible. I am told you are most popular among these ladies. Warn Krikor, however, that he is not to attempt to contact the lady we have so carefully shielded from gossip this day, my friend. If he is caught he will be severely beaten. I cannot be defied in this matter.”

  “I understand,” Amir said. “I value him too much in one piece to endanger him.”

  Lorenzo di Medici stood up. “Then I shall leave you,” he said.

  “What? You will not give me an opportunity to beat you in chess?” Amir asked.

  Lorenzo di Medici chuckled. “Another time, old friend. I have sat as long as I can today. I have not yet ridden, and you know how much I enjoy both the exercise and the outdoors.” He stood up and stretched his long limbs. “Perhaps one day you will ride within the piazza with me. I know you are an active man, and being cooped up here will eventually become frustrating for you.”

  “She can’t be forced into another marriage,” Amir called after his guest.

  Lorenzo di Medici turned. “Eventually she will have no choice,” he said. “You have met her mother, I know. Orianna will have her way sooner than later.” Then he was gone, leaving Prince Amir ibn Jem to consider their conversation. Oh, Signora Pietro d’Angelo would try her best, but he did not believe she would overcome Bianca’s determination.

  Orianna Pietro d’Angelo was not getting her way in the matter of her eldest daughter. Upon her return, Bianca had refused to speak with her mother, despite the warm and loving welcome her family had given her. She would not eat unless the meal was brought to her chamber, and then she ate only what was necessary to sustain her, making a point of sending back her favorite dainty delicacies that were brought to tempt her. She began to lose weight—and she had never been a full-figured girl to begin with. Her lustrous, long dark hair became dull and lost its healthy sheen.

  Orianna was at her wits’ end. “Why do you refuse to understand that what has been done has been done for your own good?” she demanded of Bianca one day.

  Bianca said nothing. Indeed, her eyes were not even focused on her mother.

  Orianna shrieked with her frustration. “You are an ungrateful girl!”

  Bianca shrugged, then turned and walked away from her mother. It was an act of defiance such as had never been seen in the Pietro d’Angelo household.

  “I will send you to a cloistered nunnery until you come to your senses!” Orianna screamed. “I will give orders for you to be beaten daily, and fed on bread and water!”

  Bianca turned. “Anywhere I do not have to listen to the sound of your harping voice, signora, will be paradise,” she said. They were the first words she had spoken to her mother in the month since she had been brought home.

  Orianna’s mouth fell open with shock, and she collapsed against her servingwoman, Fabia, gasping.

  “You are a wicked girl!” Fabia scolded Bianca.

  “If I am, I have learned it at your mistress’s hand,” Bianca replied coldly.

  Orianna made a noise that sounded very much like a squeak.

  Bianca laughed and then said, “With your permission I will go and make my confession for these sins of disrespect to Father Bonamico.”

  Orianna could not speak but she nodded weakly. Perhaps the priest could talk some sense into her stubborn daughter.

  Bianca called for Agata to join her, and the two women put on their hooded cloaks, left the palazzo, and walked across the piazza to Santa Anna Dolce. They found the elderly priest, and Bianca told him she would speak with him in the confessional while Agata waited for her.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began.

  “Tell me the nature of your sins, my daughter,” the priest answered her.

  “I hate my mother,” Bianca said, and heard a small gasp from the priest.

  “She only wants what is best for you, my daughter,” Father Bonamico replied.

  “No, she wants me to live my life with a man I don’t love, as she has had to do, and I don’t want to follow in her footsteps, Father. I want to wed the man I love.”

  “I am told he is an infidel.” The priest’s voice was disapproving.

  “Such things matter not to me,” Bianca told her confessor. “I love him, and he loves me. Now he has disappeared, and they will not tell me where they have taken him, or if he is all right.”

  “Your immortal soul should concern you, my daughter,” Father Bonamico scolded her gently. “Physical love is fleeting, a passing fancy. God’s love will never fail you.”

  “Why can I not love God and Amir too, good Father?” she asked him.

  “Physical love has but one purpose, my daughter. The procreation of children to sustain our faith. You cannot give this infidel children, for he would not allow them the one true faith. He is among the already damned, and doomed to suffer hellfire one day. No. Better you love only God, Bianca. And you can show that love by obeying your parents. They are mindful of the great sacrifice you were forced to make for your family’s sake when they saw you wedded to Sebastiano Rovere. This time they will find you a good man who will truly care for and respect you.”

  “I will wed no man but the man I love,” Bianca said. She arose from the narrow little bench in the confessional and drew back the heavy velvet curtain to step out.

  “My daughter, I have not given you your penance,” Father Bonamico said.

  “I suffer each day I am apart from Amir,” Bianca told him bitterly. “That is my penance, good Father. It is more painful than anything you could give me.” Then she called softly to Agata and the two women left the church. She had always found comfort in the Church, but today she had not.

  As they slowly walked across the broad piazza, a large, long-haired, golden hound loped up to block their way. Both women gasped with surprise, for there was no doubt it was Darius. The dog whined, pushing his long nose into Bianca’s hand.

  She knelt. “Darius! How did you get here?” Her other hand stroked him, and when it touched the dog’s collar she realized there was a note beneath it. She slid the paper out, secreting it in the hidden pocket of her gown, then stood up. “Go back to your master, Darius,” she ordered the dog, who then loped off into the little park on the edge of the piazza. She did not see where he went, but it didn’t matter. “Let us hurry now so I may read the note,” she said to Agata.

  “Krikor was probably with the dog,” Agata said in a low voice. “The prince would have come into the piazza and taken you away.”

  Gaining the palazzo, the two women hurried to Bianca’s bedchamber. Agata locked the door behind them as her mistress drew the note from her pocket, opening it to read what was written inside.

  Beloved, it began. Do not fear for me. I am held captive in the Palazzo della Signoria, but well treated while they await an answer from my grandfather to recall me to Istanbul. Krikor is free to come and go, but our old friend Lorenzo has warned me if he is caught attempting to communicate with you he will be severely punished. I cannot allow it. Do not attempt to communicate with me. Soon I will be freed on the sultan’s orders. Do not despair. I will find you, Bianca, wherever they take you. You are mine, and I, yours. This will be the only message I dare to send. Remember that I love you. I will always love you. Amir

  Bianca began to weep softly. “He is safe,” she said. “I was so afraid that they had killed him, or were torturing him, but he is safe.” She held the parchment to her breasts.


  Agata waited a moment and then reached for the missive. “It must be burned so no one finds it,” she said. “You want no one knowing he has reached out to you, mistress. They could be less forgiving of his behavior if they learned he had defied them.”

  “Let me read it over once more,” Bianca said, and she did. Handing the parchment to Agata, she watched as her servingwoman refolded the note into a small rectangle before stuffing it in her pocket.

  “I’ll take it to the kitchens and burn it,” Agata said. “The fires are hotter there.”

  “I am suddenly hungry,” Bianca announced. “I want a bowl of pasta with olive oil and cheese.”

  Agata smiled. “I will tell the cook, who will be happy to know it,” she said and then she hurried off to do her mistress’s bidding. And while the cook crowed delightedly at the news that Bianca was hungry, Agata took advantage of his distraction to see the prince’s note burned to ashes.

  Bianca would still not talk to her mother, which distressed Orianna greatly. No one had ever treated her in such a hard fashion, and she was not used to it. It did not occur to the mother that the daughter was very much like her in her determination to have her own way. But Orianna was relieved that Bianca had begun to eat again. Her pale skin lost the sallow look it had developed. Her ebony hair grew shiny once more.

  Seeing the improvement in his daughter’s features, Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo decided that it would be better to send Bianca to her grandfather in Venice, where her younger sister Francesca currently resided with her mother’s family. Perhaps if Bianca was away from her mother, her attitude would improve.

  The silk merchant had never seen his strong-willed wife driven to her knees, but Bianca was doing just that. He was in a perverse sense admiring of his eldest daughter’s resolve, although he would never make such an admission. She had recently taken to replying to almost everything Orianna said with the words “Amir will find me wherever you send me, and he will take me away.” Those simple words had begun to get on Orianna’s nerves, and her husband had almost laughed aloud the other evening when Bianca repeated them once again. Orianna had only been able to half muffle her shriek of frustration. She had shot her husband a furious look, seeing his struggle to contain his humor. He had been forced to reprimand their daughter. Bianca merely shrugged, giving him a half smile as if they were coconspirators.

  “Why does she hate me and not you?” Orianna asked him afterwards. “It was your decision, not mine, that married her to Rovere. I protected her for as long as I could. And when I learned of the abuse she was suffering, I took her from Rovere’s palazzo and hid her. It was I who begged my father to help us intercede in the matter of an annulment. Yet she hates me. Me!”

  “You were her friend as well as her mother,” Orianna’s husband explained. “She knows you were the guiding force that took her from the man she loves. Do you not consider that a great betrayal, wife? Our daughter does.”

  “But, Gio, this prince is an infidel!” Orianna wailed.

  “And the man you loved before you were wed to me was married to another, cara mia. That did not stop you from loving him, or trysting with him in defiance of your family. You have never ceased loving this man, although you were required to wed me, yet you have been an exemplary wife to me. So do not, I beg you, be surprised at our daughter’s behavior over her prince. Like you, she will give her heart once, and she has done so.”

  “Would you allow this foreigner to carry her off?” Orianna demanded. Although she had always known her husband was aware of her youthful passion, he had never until this moment spoken of it. It made her uncomfortable to hear him voice her girlish indiscretions aloud, to understand that he knew her so very well when all she realized she knew of him was that he had been indulging her all these years.

  “Prince Amir is an infidel,” Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo said quietly. “Any serious or permanent liaison between him and Bianca is unthinkable. I do not disagree with you, Orianna, but I also believe that Bianca will recover more fully away from the mother she believes betrayed her. And she will have Francesca for company. Despite the four years difference in their ages, they always get on well. Her younger sister will divert her.”

  “They have not seen each other since Bianca married Rovere,” Orianna pointed out. “Bianca is already eighteen, and Francesca thirteen. My father writes that he believes she will be ready for marriage in another year. He will choose the right man for her, you may be certain, for he adores her. Now, however, he will also have to seek a husband for Bianca. Still”—and Orianna laughed—“Papa does enjoy ruling his little world. Bianca will not be able to get around him easily. He did have five daughters himself.”

  “Then you agree that Bianca should go to Venice,” the silk merchant said.

  “Yes!” his wife replied. “The sooner, the better, for I will admit to you, husband, that my nerves are in shreds from dealing with her.”

  By chance, Agata spotted Krikor in the small market that catered to scent makers near the Ponte Vecchio. She made her way through the crowds until she was standing next to him. “Do not turn your head, Krikor. It is Agata. Tell your master that the signora is being sent to her grandfather in Venice soon. He is Prince Alessandro Venier,” Agata murmured in a low voice.

  “Tell your mistress that a troop of the sultan’s Janissaries arrived today. We leave for Istanbul tomorrow,” Krikor replied, and then he moved away from her.

  Agata made a small purchase of a carved ivory bottle filled with attar of roses, and then hurried home so she might report her news to Bianca.

  “Perhaps he will take us on the road to Venice,” Bianca said hopefully.

  “No, that is unlikely,” the practical Agata said. “The Janissaries will travel quickly with the prince, for they will want to bring him to the sultan as swiftly as possible. But perhaps he will find you in Venice. I told Krikor your grandfather’s name, and he will tell the prince. He has promised that he would find you, mistress, and he will. Will you, however, want to go with him then?”

  “Yes!” Bianca said. “I will never cease to love him. My heart is not a fickle one.” And then she began to consider the road that Amir and his escort would traverse come the morrow. They would certainly begin by taking the Venice road, although they were unlikely to go to Venice. They would go early, of course, and if she was fortunate and quick enough, she might at least get to see him pass by.

  She didn’t tell Agata. Her servingwoman was loyal and loved her mistress, but she was likely to discourage such an adventure. Instead she sought out her younger brother Georgio. “I know you are responsible for Rovere finding me,” she said without any preamble. “You owe me a debt for that, little brother.”

  “I had no choice in the matter,” her sibling said, flushing with his guilty shame.

  “I know the man who threatened you. You were right to be afraid of him, but that does not erase your debt to me,” Bianca said in a hard voice.

  “What do you want from me?” Georgio asked her.

  “Two things. Your company early tomorrow, and your silence about it,” Bianca said to him.

  “Will it distress our mother?” the boy asked her.

  “Only if she knows, but you will not tell her, Georgio, for if you do, I will revenge myself upon you in a manner you would not like,” Bianca threatened.

  “Oh, very well,” the boy conceded. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Before dawn to the gate leading to the Venice road,” Bianca said. “There is something there I would see, and when I have I will return home.”

  “You swear it?” he asked her.

  “You have my word, Brother,” she said.

  “And my silence?” he inquired.

  “You will understand tomorrow,” Bianca told him.

  “And all debts between us are satisfied if I do this?” he said.


  “Yes,” she promised him.

  “How early?” he wanted to know.

  “Two hours before the dawn, for we must walk the city to reach there,” Bianca replied. “I suspect the early streets could prove dangerous.”

  “They could, but if you dress discreetly we will not attract any attention,” he told her. “Do you have a dark cloak with a hood, Sister?”

  “I do, and I will wear it,” Bianca said.

  “Wear sturdy shoes, for the streets can be dirty and wet at an early hour,” he advised his sister. “You’ll destroy a pair of silk slippers if you wear such on your feet.”

  “I’ll wear my boots,” she replied.

  “The trick to getting in and out of the house at that hour without attracting attention is to be quick, and to be stealthy. I’ll meet you at the front door, Bianca.”

  “I’ll be there before you, Georgio,” she told him. “Do not be late.”

  He laughed. “Why didn’t you ask Marco?” he wondered.

  “The debt Marco owes me can never be repaid,” Bianca replied to his query. “He has suffered over it, and I would not give him any more pain than he gives himself,” she explained to her younger brother.

  He nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

  There! It was done. If she was fortunate, she would get a passing glimpse of Amir as he departed Florence. She needed to see that he was unharmed. She slept poorly, rising carefully and quietly so as not to disturb Agata, who lay upon her trundle snoring. She dressed quickly in a simple dark gown, and pulled on her boots. Then, gathering up her cloak, she slipped from the bedchamber. She had not bothered to undo her plait and brush her hair, for fear of awakening her servingwoman.