by Speer, Flora
Andrea was silent, as if he could not argue against her logic. After a while he asked, “Why does one man live while another, possibly a much better man, dies?”
“I do not know,” Rosalinda said. “Andrea, it is clear to me that a great loss is weighing on your heart. If it would help you to talk about it, I will keep your confidence.”
“I am sure you would,” he responded. “But I cannot burden you with knowledge that might put you into danger. No, my dear Rosalinda, this matter I must keep to myself.”
He said no more on the subject and Rosalinda had the impression that he was trying hard to dismiss his sad thoughts and be cheerful. He was basically a strong and healthy young man. Now that he was relieved of the stress of trying to survive in the wild, now that he was sheltered and fed regularly and the fever was gone from him, his condition improved with astonishing speed.
Careful probing by Rosalinda of her mother and sister, and of Bartolomeo and Valeria, revealed that Andrea had not mentioned to anyone else the sorrow with which he was wrestling. The fact that he had spoken of it only to her made her feel even closer to him.
Not that he displayed an overt affection for her. He was the very soul of discretion. Any casual observer might have thought that he enjoyed the company of Valeria or Eleonora or Bianca as much as that of Rosalinda. Only rarely did Rosalinda intercept a soft glance from his brown eyes that hinted at a warmer feeling toward her than toward the other ladies. Always, with him or apart from him, in Rosalinda’s own heart there resided a sense of connection to Andrea, as if their fates were woven together. He remained a fascinating enigma to her, but if they were given enough time, she was sure he would reveal the mystery that bound him to silence about his past.
While he was still at that stage in his recuperation during which he was restless without being able yet to get out of bed for any length of time, she read to him. Her discovery that he preferred Petrarch’s sonnets to Dante’s long, allegorical poetry suggested to her that their minds were well matched. She was even more convinced of this when he confided that he, too, had disliked learning Latin. She treasured the hours they spent alone together.
Then, to Rosalinda’s surprise, Bianca began to join her in Andrea’s room with some frequency, saying she ought to take a turn at reading, too. Once, when Rosalinda had stayed behind in her mother’s sitting room to find a particular book she wanted from the shelves there, she walked into Andrea’s chamber to discover Bianca smoothing back his hair and offering a cup of wine to him. Later, Bianca provided an explanation.
“Andrea is a fascinating person, unlike any other man here at Villa Serenita,” Bianca said. “I do believe he is even more clever than Bartolomeo. And you know how Mother values Bartolomeo’s keen wits.”
“I knew you would grow to like him if only you could forget your fear of strangers,” Rosalinda answered. But a knot had formed in her stomach as she watched her sister bestow that gentle caress upon Andrea. She told herself it was foolish to be jealous. Bianca was merely being kind.
There came a day, almost two weeks after Andrea’s arrival at the villa, when Bartolomeo decided the younger man was recovered enough to be shaved and to have his hair trimmed. Accordingly, Bartolomeo called in the man-at-arms who usually acted as barber for his fellows and for Bartolomeo. The ladies were banished from the guest room, several large buckets of hot water were carried in, and the door was shut upon the three men.
Two hours later Bartolomeo appeared in Eleonora’ s sitting room, where Rosalinda and Bianca were, as usual during the afternoon, engaged in their lessons.
“Well, Bartolomeo,” said Eleonora, seeing him at the door, “you look uncommonly pleased with yourself.”
“Madonna, I think you will be pleased, too,” Bartolomeo said with a smile. “Will you allow me to escort you to Andrea’s room? He would like to speak with you.”
“May we go too?” Rosalinda spoke up at once.
“I believe he would be happy to see you,” Bartolomeo said. Eleonora was already passing through the door, and behind her back Bartolomeo winked at Rosalinda. “Both of you may join us if you like.”
The guestroom had been cleared of all traces of medicines and of the barbering and scrubbing that had taken place there. The bed was freshly made up, with the covers turned back as if to invite the occupant of the room to lie down and rest. But Andrea was no longer in the bed. Shaved, shorn, newly bathed and wearing clean, borrowed clothes, he was sitting in a chair by the window. At Eleonora’s brisk entry, he rose to greet her.
The beard had made him look older than he was. Rosalinda thought he could not be much more than twenty-five. He was still lean after weeks of near-starvation and illness, but from his tall frame it was clear that he was a man of considerable strength. His black, curly hair was trimmed to his earlobes, and the absence of a beard revealed sharply carved features accented by his high-arched, Roman nose and a remarkably firm jaw.
To Rosalinda’s eyes he was the most handsome man she had ever encountered and far better-looking than she had imagined before seeing his entire face.
“Oh, my.” Upon entering the room behind her sister, Bianca came to a sudden halt, staring at the man wearing one of Bartolomeo’s too-large doublets, and hose, both in a rich shade of dark red that made his skin look fascinatingly pale and his hair and eyes mysteriously dark.
“Madonna Eleonora,” Andrea said, bowing to her, “I must thank you for all you and your household have done for me. I do hope and pray there will come a time when I am able to repay you, though nothing would be adequate payment for the kindness of saving my life.”
“As always, you use fine words.” Eleonora motioned with one hand. “Sit down, young man. I can see that you are trembling from some residual weakness.”
“I believe I will be stronger very soon, madonna.” Nevertheless, Andrea did sit, waiting only until Eleonora had taken the chair that Bartolomeo placed facing him.
“In that case, you may join us for meals whenever you feel well enough.” Eleonora’s eyes were sharp as she regarded her guest. “I have promised to respect your wish for privacy about your past, and I will do so. However, I do have one question, born of a very natural curiosity. Now that your voice is stronger, and now that I am able to inspect your features without the barrier of that thick beard, I have the impression that you were born and raised north of Rome.” Eleonora paused, looking at Andrea expectantly, but he let her wait for a long moment before he answered.
“You have guessed truly, madonna, but I must beg you not to ask any further questions of me.”
“Nor will I. As I have already told you, Andrea, you are welcome to remain with us until you are completely healthy once more.”
“Again, madonna, I am eternally in your debt.”
“Perhaps you will repay that debt in part by contributing to our evenings,” Eleonora said. “Our life here is a quiet one. We read aloud or play games for entertainment.”
“I play a fair game of chess, madonna,” Andrea offered.
“Bartolomeo is doubtless glad to hear that,” Eleonora said with a glance in the direction of her faithful friend. “Valeria and I are much too easy for him to best.”
“I find it difficult to believe that anyone might win over you, madonna.” Andrea’s voice was soft, holding an inflection the listening Rosalinda could not understand, save that it was there and it puzzled her.
“Do you play the lute or sing?” asked Bianca.
“I do, indeed, Madonna Bianca.” Andrea smiled at her.
“Yes, I rather thought you would,” Eleonora said. Her eyes on Andrea were shrewd. “We sometimes make up stories to entertain each other. Perhaps you will tell us new stories, about life in the world beyond these mountains.”
Andrea went very still, looking back at her. Again he let Eleonora wait before he responded. Watching the two of them, Rosalinda thought they were playing a game of some kind, the rules of which were a mystery to her.
“I am fond of fanciful ta
les,” Andrea said at last, “though I think it would be wise of me to listen to the stories you and your companions have to tell before I venture to recount one of my own. Thus, I will make no embarrassing mistakes.”
“You are a clever man, Signore Andrea.” A faint smile curved Eleonora’s lips. “Since Bartolomeo and I have work to do, we will leave you with my daughters to entertain you for an hour or two. I feel certain they will be delighted to avoid further lessons for this afternoon.”
“Your appearance is much improved,” Bianca said, taking the chair facing Andrea as soon as her mother had vacated it.
“I thank you for the compliment, Madonna Bianca,” Andrea responded with great seriousness.
“What I meant to say,” Bianca went on, blushing a little, “is that you looked so much like a bear when you first appeared on the terrace that you frightened all of us.”
“I am sorry for that,” Andrea said.
“Except for Rosalinda, of course. Nothing ever frightens her,” Bianca said. “Tell us, please, why you were wearing that dreadful, smelly bearskin.”
“For warmth, Bianca,” Rosalinda said. She was feeling more than a bit exasperated with her sister. What was Bianca thinking of, asking silly questions and blushing and fluttering her eyelashes at Andrea? Since there were only two chairs in the room and Bianca had taken the second one – which, to be honest, Rosalinda reminded herself, was the prerogative of an older sister – Rosalinda pulled up a stool and sat on it. “Without the bearskin for warmth, Andrea would have frozen to death.”
“Yes, I would. The skin also served as a disguise,” Andrea told the sisters. “Which is why I left the bear’s head attached to the fur.”
“Why did you need a disguise?” Bianca asked.
“I have always heard that fierce bandits live in the mountains,” Andrea replied. “I reasoned that even the most desperate outlaws would run away from a bear without looking too closely at it. I do believe the disguise worked well, for never did anyone threaten me while I wore it.”
“But,” Bianca persisted, “why were you roaming in the mountains in the first place?”
“Bianca, if you ply Andrea with so many questions, you will tire him and impede his recovery,” Rosalinda protested. She could tell that Andrea did not want to answer Bianca’s last question. He was letting her wait for his response, in the same way in which he had let their mother wait.
“In truth, though I do not like to admit it, I find I am tired,” Andrea said at last. “Perhaps, if I were to rest for an hour or two, I might restore my energies enough to allow me to join you for the evening meal as your mother so kindly suggested.”
“Will you play the lute for us?” Bianca asked.
“If not this evening, then I promise I will do so soon,” Andrea said.
“We will leave you to rest.” Rosalinda was on her feet with a hand under her sister’s elbow, raising Bianca out of her chair. Bianca was not ready to go. Rosalinda had to exert a certain amount of pressure to make her stand up, and then had to keep her hand on Bianca’s arm to draw her toward the door and push her through it.
As she went out of the room Rosalinda glanced back and caught Andrea’s eye. He smiled at her, a warm, enticing smile that took her breath away and made her believe that he would like her to stay with him because he knew that, unlike Bianca, she would not ask questions he did not want to answer.
Chapter 4
“Why did you do that?” Bianca demanded, pulling her arm out of Rosalinda’s grasp. “I might have extracted some information from Andrea if only you were not so protective of his health.”
“With you and Mother both interrogating him at every opportunity, someone has to protect him or he will have a relapse,” Rosalinda snapped back at her. “Did Mother tell you to question him, because she has promised not to do it?”
“Of course not.” Bianca rubbed at her elbow. “I thought I could be of help to her, that’s all. I know she wants to learn more about him.”
“When Andrea is ready, he will tell us all we need to know about his life,” Rosalinda said, hoping it was true. Relenting, she went on, “Did I hurt your arm? I didn’t mean to, but you would not stop talking and, my dearest, you did ask too many questions. It seemed to me the only way to silence you was to get you out of the room.”
“My arm is fine,” Bianca admitted. “Rosalinda, don’t be angry with me. I was only trying to help Mother.”
“I know. Sometimes I talk too much, too. I am going to join Valeria in the kitchen. Would you like to come with me?”
“I think I will return to the sitting room and complete that Latin translation I was working on. Mother will be pleased if I get it just right.”
“I’m sure she will be. But I hope you know that Mother will love you, no matter what you do.”
“If I am very good,” Bianca said, “then she will have one less cause for worry. We should both try to be as good as we can.”
“I do try,” said Rosalinda with a rueful twist to her mouth. “For all my good intentions, I still annoy Mother far too often.”
“Then come to the sitting room with me now, and I will help you with your Latin,” Bianca suggested. “I know it would please Mother.”
“Perhaps there is something I can do to help Valeria instead. That will also please Mother when she hears of it.”
“And at the same time you will avoid the Latin lesson until later,” Bianca teased.
“I would avoid it altogether if I could.” Leaving her sister, Rosalinda headed for the kitchen, where Valeria supervised several of the wives and daughters of the men-at-arms, who did the cooking and the other kitchen chores. Rosalinda was not especially interested in cooking, though she did willingly help Valeria when it was her turn to do so, and she agreed with her mother that every lady ought to know what went on in the kitchen of her home. Rosalinda’s consuming interest of the moment was Andrea. She thought Valeria might have a few answers for her about the actual state of his health.
On her way to the kitchen, Rosalinda passed the room that Bartolomeo used as his office. There he kept the account books for the estate, and in the late evenings after the ladies had retired, he worked upon the history of the Farisi dukes of Monteferro that he was writing. It was not at all unusual for Eleonora to be in the room with Bartolomeo, either discussing matters having to do with the estate or reading the most recently completed pages of the history.
Rosalinda paused at the open door, intending only to stick her head inside and tell her mother where she would be. What she heard kept her rooted to the spot where she stood. Her mother and Bartolomeo were talking about Andrea.
“There is no question in my mind that he is nobly born,” Eleonora said. “Just think, Bartolomeo! What an opportunity presents itself in the person of that young man.”
“I have no wish to contradict you,” Bartolomeo told her, “but a nobleman who has been wandering alone in the mountains must have some tragic event in his past. It is my belief that Andrea has gone into exile, either because he was sent away from his home by his family as the result of a scandal, or he left by order of the authorities wherever he once lived, or perhaps he has fled to avoid imprisonment.”
“All the better for us,” Eleonora insisted. “Many fine and capable men are exiled because they disagree too vigorously with their governments or because they are fleeing rival family members. There is no disgrace in exile, which is a kinder fate than imprisonment or assassination.
“I believe that Andrea is the weapon for which I have been waiting all these years,” Eleonora went on. “Heaven has sent him into my home and made him obligated to me for saving his life. Now I will use him as heaven must have intended me to do.”
“Use him?” Bartolomeo repeated. “Madonna Eleonora, what are you planning?”
“If I place an army of mercenaries at Andrea’s disposal and offer him a high office as reward for his efforts, he may be willing to help me regain control of Monteferro,” Eleonora said. “Which, from
what Luca told us during his last visit, will also mean taking over neighboring Aullia, since the Guidi family now controls both cities.
“Then, at last, I will force the Guidi into exile, as I was once forced to leave my home,” Eleonora went on. “And I will imprison that miserable wretch of a dwarf, Niccolo Stregone, for the rest of his life! Since the Guidi have already conveniently killed the treacherous duke of Aullia for me, and doubtless the duke’s entire family with him, we can forget about them. Perhaps I will grant the governorship of Aullia to Andrea. But only if he first shows skill in managing my army.”
“Raising an army will cost you all the money you have deposited with the House of Nardi,” Bartolomeo objected. “If you lose this gamble, you will have nothing left with which to make another attempt. And Andrea may not be willing to fall in with your plans.”
“He will if I wait until the perfect moment to approach him. That young man has the necessary spirit,” Eleonora said. “You have heard how he bandies words with me, how clever he is. And how careful to keep his own secrets.”
“Those same secrets may defeat us before we begin,” said Bartolomeo.
“Have you lost your courage, old friend?”
“No, but I do worry about your daughters, whom I love as if they were my own children. Knowing you, I am certain that you have thought of what will happen to them. If Andrea is all that you believe he is, then gratitude for his life or not, he will surely demand one of those girls in marriage in return for helping you.”
“Let him but help me regain Monteferro for Bianca and her future children, and I will marry Andrea myself if he asks for me!” Eleonora declared with a laugh.
“Your late husband always said that you were far better than he at planning and intrigue.” Bartolomeo’s voice was tinged with admiration. “I do believe Girolamo was right about you.”