Rose Red

by Speer, Flora

  “I call heaven and earth and all here present to witness your confession,” Eleonora declared in a deadly voice. “Niccolo Stregone, you are condemned out of your own mouth.”

  Bianca was sobbing, with tears pouring across her face, but still she clutched the dagger Stregone had used to strike down her father. She struggled to speak clearly, so everyone could hear her.

  “After murder, you resorted to looting,” she said to Stregone, “and to still more looting before you murdered Federigo Sotani.

  “Vanni, I believe that is the treasure he stole from your father, that you were searching for when I first met you,” Bianca went on, pointing to the bundles on the ground as she spoke to Vanni. “I think some of it must have come from Monteferro, too. Stregone told us he has been accumulating it for years and hiding it in the cave behind the waterfall.”

  “Give up, Stregone,” Andrea shouted. “You have confessed. Now answer for your crimes like a man.”

  “I know of no reason why I should answer to men of lesser wit than mine,” Stregone responded. “I will never surrender, and you will not take me. I always leave myself an escape route.”

  So swiftly that no one could guess what he was going to do or try to stop him, Stregone snatched his dagger back from Bianca and sheathed it. He leapt to the rope, which was still attached by one end to the second heavy bundle of treasure he had let down from the ledge. By its other end the rope remained secured inside the cave. As agile as a monkey, Stregone began to climb up the tautly stretched rope toward the cave.

  “There’s no purpose in trying to escape that way,” Vanni called after him.

  Stregone’s only response was a scornful laugh, as if he would defy human reason.

  “I’ll cut the rope,” Andrea said. “If it loosens suddenly, he may fall off. Then we can pull him out of the water.” He rushed to the bundle, to slash at the rope with his sword. He severed it from the bundle with one stroke and the lower end of the rope swung free.

  “Too late,” Vanni said. He squinted, looking upward against the bright sunshine. “He doesn’t need the rope any longer. He has reached the ledge behind the waterfall.”

  From far above them Stregone laughed again, mocking Andrea’s effort to stop his escape. Reaching for a sturdy tree root, Stregone left the ledge and began to climb along the rock face beside the waterfall, pulling himself upward with the sureness of long familiarity, toward the top of the cliff and freedom.

  “Let’s send some of the men-at-arms around the side of the hill and up to the top by the easier slope, to capture him there,” Andrea suggested.

  “It would be a waste of time,” Vanni objected. “It will take too long. By the time they get to the top of the waterfall, Stregone will be gone.”

  “He must not escape!” Eleonora raised both her fists to the sky and shook them as if she would shake down Stregone from his high perch.

  “He has already escaped,” Bianca said, moving to stand next to her mother.

  “Let all the saints in heaven render justice on this murderer of honest men,” Eleonora shouted. “In the name of Girolamo Farisi, of Federigo Sotani, and of all the others whom he has killed, dear heaven, do not let this wicked creature escape to destroy still more lives!”

  From the high rocks above there came a derisive laugh in response to Eleonora’s pleas. With a shout of triumph, Stregone reached the top of the cliff and climbed over it. He stood there, a dark shape against the bright sky, legs apart, his fists planted on his hips. His scornful laughter at his opponents rang on the wind. Watching him, Eleonora groaned and sank to her knees, her hands clasped, her head bowed.

  “I do not ask for vengeance’s sake,” Eleonora cried, “only for justice. For evil to be punished. Please! Please!”

  An inhuman scream silenced everyone in the clearing. Slowly Eleonora came to her feet again, Bianca and Rosalinda flanking her, the eyes of all three fixed upon the sight of Niccolo Stregone capering along the rocks. It was not a dance of victory over his enemies, but a desperate attempt at escape.

  To one side of Stregone, the wall of rock continued upward for another hundred feet or so. From that higher elevation, an eagle had just swooped down upon him.

  “The eagles have a nest up there,” Vanni explained to those in the clearing, who drew closer together to stare at the drama. “When I was climbing around on those rocks, I took great care not to get too near to it. I stayed on the opposite side of the stream. An eagle will fight to the death to protect its nest and its young.”

  The eagle attacked Stregone again, its wings flaring backward, its beak open and its sharp claws extended. Stregone fought it with his dagger, the only weapon he carried. The screams of eagle and man mingled in a terrible howl. Under the bird’s fierce onslaught, Stregone was driven to the very edge of the cliff. With another shriek, the eagle thrust its beak forward, pecking at the man’s eyes. Stregone flung out an arm to protect himself, stumbled back a step, and fell off the cliff.

  He landed beside the bundles of stolen treasure and lay there, unmoving. In the clearing absolute silence reigned, while in the sky an eagle screamed. Looking up, Rosalinda saw the bird, its wings spread, soaring high on the wind, wild and free. Eleonora saw it, too.

  “Farewell, my dear protector,” Eleonora whispered. “Your last duty to your daughters, and to me, is done.”

  Lorenzo was among the men-at-arms, and he went to Stregone to turn him over, face up. Into Stregone’s chest his own dagger was plunged to the foil length of the blade, with his hand still grasping the ornate hilt.

  “There’s heavenly justice for you,” Lorenzo said. “He has been slain in the same way and by the same knife he used to kill so many better men. He must have fallen on it when he landed.”

  As if it had been waiting for this final sign that Niccolo Stregone was indeed dead, the eagle dipped lower over the clearing, made a graceful turn, and flew out of sight. Watching it, Eleonora smiled.

  “What shall we do with him?” Lorenzo asked, indicating Stregone’s body.

  “Take him to the next village northward along the old road,” Rosalinda answered when her mother hesitated. “He told Bianca and me that he was born there. Let him be buried there, well away from our lands.”

  “Send two men-at-arms with him.” Eleonora had recovered from her momentary lack of words.

  “At once, madonna.” Lorenzo began to give orders to the men.

  “Andrea, you are to go with them,” Eleonora continued.

  “I would prefer to return to Villa Serenita with the rest of you,” Andrea responded, his eyes fixed upon Rosalinda.

  “Do not argue with me,” Eleonora warned him. “I have good reason for what I do. You are to tell the story to the village priest and let him decide on the disposition of Stregone’s body. Then you are to bring the priest back to Villa Serenita with you, and as promptly as possible. If you make haste, you ought to rejoin us about midday tomorrow.

  “Now, Vanni,” Eleonora went on, turning to the other twin, “unhand my daughter and see to packing up that ill-gotten treasure for transport to the villa. We will decide later what is to be done with it.”

  “Mother, some of those plundered goods belong to our family,” Bianca said.

  “Your mother is right, my dearest,” Vanni told her. “It’s best if we are gone from this place as soon as possible. We can examine what’s in those bundles and restore the goods to the rightful owners later. For the moment, I believe your sister would be glad of your attention.”

  “How pale she is.” Bianca regarded Rosalinda, who was standing very still, keeping her back turned and not watching as the men-at-arms carried Niccolo Stregone’s body out of the clearing to load it onto one of the horses. Andrea gripped Rosalinda’s shoulder in passing. Then, under Eleonora’s sharp eye, he hastened to follow her orders, striding off after the men-at-arms whom Lorenzo had just designated to accompany Stregone’s body.

  “Rosalinda,” Bianca murmured. When she put her arm around Rosalinda’s
waist, her sister leaned heavily against her. “What a terrible thing for you to see. Do you feel faint? Or ill?”

  “No, just sad and confused. This last encounter with that dreadful man must have been far worse for you,” Rosalinda said. With a shudder, she laid her head on her sister’s shoulder. “How brave you were, Bianca. You would have died for me.”

  “I am glad it wasn’t necessary. Come along, I’ll help you to your horse.” Bianca led Rosalinda out of the clearing.

  “Now it is time for you, Francesco.” Brushing aside the man-at-arms who had been tending the condottiere, Eleonora bent toward him. She put out a hand as if to touch his face, but halted in mid-motion. “Can you ride, or shall I have the men carry you?”

  “With so formidable a lady to sustain me, how could I do aught but ride?” Francesco lurched to his feet, but then he stumbled. “Perhaps just a bit of help to mount my horse. Then I should be fine.”

  “Giuseppe, help him,” Eleonora commanded. “And stay close beside him. I don’t want him to fall from his horse and break his neck before he can make his excuses to me.”

  Bartolomeo appeared just as Bianca and Rosalinda left the forest. It was he who lifted Rosalinda to her horse, and he who rode beside her on the homeward journey.

  “Thank heaven you are safe,” Bartolomeo said. “When Andrea and the others arrived to warn us that Stregone was coming here, we were all sorely worried about you. To cover as much ground as possible as quickly as possible, our party split into two groups. I led the men under my command toward that path into the mountains that you are so fond of traveling.”

  “Bianca and I were there earlier,” Rosalinda said. “You probably just missed us.”

  “Tell me what happened. Your mother has given me only the barest explanation. I am glad to see she is greatly concerned with Francesco’s well-being,” Bartolomeo said with a smile.

  As they rode along, Rosalinda recounted the tale of the fatal meeting with Niccolo Stregone, noting with considerable admiration the way in which Vanni had taunted Stregone into making his confession of murder.

  “Just as I told your mother, that young man is remarkably clever,” Bartolomeo said with satisfaction at having his judgment of Vanni confirmed. “She sent for a priest, did she?”

  “I don’t know why,” Rosalinda said. “Mother didn’t explain and I am too tired to try to reason it out.” And too upset by the way Andrea left me so easily to care about anything but his going, she added silently to herself.

  “You are unusually pale.” Bartolomeo looked closely at her. As if he could read her thoughts and wanted to comfort her, he added, “Andrea will surely return on the morrow, and I do not think your mother will send either of those young men away in anger again.”

  Bartolomeo must have seen more in Rosalinda’s set face and haunted eyes than he allowed her to know, for as soon as he lifted her down from her horse, he gave her over to Valeria with stern instructions for her care.

  Under Valeria’s supervision, Rosalinda was helped to her bedchamber, undressed by a sympathetic but unprying maidservant, and supplied with a tub of hot, scented water. She was so grateful for the opportunity to ease an assortment of bodily aches and twinges that she almost burst into tears as she sank into the tub.

  Half an hour later, warmed internally after drinking one of Valeria’s hot tisanes, and with the two shallow wounds on her arm smeared with Valeria’s herbal salve and bound with clean linen by that competent lady, Rosalinda climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Whether from the herbs in the tisane or because of her own sleepiness, a sense of peace and security began to steal over her.

  Bianca was with Vanni. Through her open window Rosalinda could hear their voices from the terrace below and she could tell that they were not arguing. Bartolomeo had assured her that Andrea would return soon. Niccolo Stregone was dead and could never hurt any of them again.

  Most important of all, her baby was kicking merrily, sure proof that the horrors of the day had not damaged the fragile life growing within her. With a tender smile, Rosalinda turned on her side and wrapped both arms around her belly.

  Of course, there was still the question of how she was going to explain to her mother that she was carrying Andrea’s child. And how she was going to tell Andrea, and what would happen then.

  Before she could become caught up once more in the worries that had consumed too many of her recent hours, Rosalinda’s healthy body asserted its need for rest. She sank into a deep slumber, where murder, treachery, and political intrigues ceased to matter, where even the question of Andrea’s feelings for her seemed unimportant, and all that concerned her was gentle repose and the knowledge that her baby was safe.

  Chapter 22

  “You were fortunate, Francesco,” Eleonora said as she finished wrapping his chest with clean linen strips. She had refused to allow Valeria to attend to Francesco’s wound though, as always, that faithful friend stood by in case she could render some service. “Your chain-mail shirt and thick doublet deflected Stregone’s blade. You have suffered only a flesh wound, and I think it is a clean one. It ought to heal quickly, unless you are foolish enough to attempt some manly action that tears open the stitches I have made.”

  “There is only one manly action that interests me at the moment,” Francesco responded, catching Eleonora’s hand and bringing her fingers to his lips, “and to it, I do not think you are yet willing to agree.”

  “To it, I do not believe you are yet equal,” Eleonora snapped back at him.

  “My recuperative powers may surprise you. Pleasantly.” Francesco grinned when Eleonora pulled her fingers out of his grasp.

  “You need to rest,” she said, not looking at him, handling the unused bandage as if rolling it up neatly were the most important thing in the world to her. Only the flush on her cheeks indicated that her inner emotions were not as serene as her outward appearance.

  Without protest, Francesco swallowed the entire contents of the goblet of spiced wine that Valeria offered to him. Shortly thereafter the herbs with which Valeria had infused the wine began to take effect and Francesco dozed off.

  “I will call someone to sit with him,” Valeria said.

  Outside Francesco’s room, Eleonora suddenly slumped, putting a hand on the wall to steady herself. At once, Valeria’s hand was at her elbow.

  “My knees are weak,” Eleonora said with a self-deprecating laugh. “How embarrassing.”

  “Not at all.” Valeria helped Eleonora toward her own suite of rooms. “From what Bartolomeo has told me, you might have lost your daughters this day. Furthermore, by Stregone’s confession you have learned a great and unexpected truth. It would be surprising if you were not feeling somewhat unsettled.”

  “Unsettled?” Eleonora repeated with a gasp. “Valeria, for more than fifteen years I have been wrong about Federigo Sotani. I have maligned a decent man, repeatedly calling him a murderer. How could I have been so mistaken?”

  “Your grief at the death of the husband you loved was too deep,” Valeria said. “In those days you were not thinking clearly. Once your mind fixed upon an idea, you could not let it go, so you continued to believe in Sotani’s guilt.”

  “I do repent that false belief now,” Eleonora said.

  “Your mind will be easier tomorrow, after you have had time to consider all that has happened,” Valeria assured her friend. Releasing Eleonora to stand by herself, Valeria opened the door to Eleonora’s private suite of rooms.

  “Yes,” Eleonora said, entering her dressing room. “Tomorrow. After the priest has come and I have made my confession. After I have torn that wrongful hatred toward Federigo Sotani out of my heart, where it has lain, corroding all my thoughts and actions, for so many years. Then, perhaps, I can begin anew. Do you think I am capable of change, Valeria? Or am I too old?”

  “You are only one year older than I,” Valeria replied, her eyes sparkling with delightful feminine secrets, “and Bartolomeo tells me with some regularity tha
t I am still remarkably young. And attractive.”

  “Does he?” Eleonora sounded wistful.

  “Eleonora, I am your oldest and dearest friend. I know you better than anyone else, even your daughters. And I tell you that you can do anything you want to do. Now, today, tomorrow, whenever you want. For the first time in your life, you are free.”

  “Not quite,” Eleonora said. “There is still Monteferro. And Bianca’s future. I must work out a plan She fell silent, lapsing into deep thought.

  “And Rosalinda,” Valeria added. “I have been meaning to talk to you about her. But not now, not after today’s events. It is possible that Rosalinda’s problem will resolve itself without our help.”

  “What did you say? What about Rosalinda? She’s not ill and trying to hide it from me, is she? I have noticed how pale and quiet she has been of late, but I put it down to longing for Andrea and assumed she would get over it in time.”

  “Doubtless, she will, in time,” Valeria said, and went away, leaving Eleonora alone with her thoughts.

  * * * * *

  On the terrace, Bianca and Vanni were still talking, Vanni having just completed a vivid description of the way in which he, with the help of Luca Nardi and a few other brave men, had seized Monteferro from the Guidi family.

  “And so now you are Duke of Monteferro.” Bianca’s eyes were lowered, so Vanni could not see the look in them, nor could he guess at her feelings.

  “My sweet Bianca,” Vanni plunged on with what he meant to say, “your mother’s chief objection to my proposal that you and I should marry has been her belief that my father was in some way responsible for the murder of your father. Now she has heard from Stregone’s own lips that my father had nothing to do with that crime. Therefore, Madonna Eleonora’s objection is removed and we are free to wed.”

  “Do you really want to marry me?” Bianca asked.

  “Of course I do. How can you question my intentions?” Vanni exclaimed.