Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2)

by Hogarth Brown

Later that night after Lucia had done the required things to use half her winnings to secure the dowry of a poor unmarried girl, she returned all that she had borrowed, from her friend to the Juliet balcony of Seraphina’s window. Her friend slept within the embrace of her client that had, at last, turned up.

  She left Seraphina’s things wrapped, scented, neat, and folded, with a sealed letter of thanks and a last goodbye. Lucia floated in the darkness next to the balcony. She looked at her dear friend for the last time as she slumbered with her lover. She whispered a blessing, waved and blew a kiss to Seraphina before she rose higher into the air, in the small hours of the night, upon the broomstick she had borrowed from the parlour of her lodgings. Lucia ascended among the clouds to hide from those below. But the streets were abandoned at that time of night.

  The sorceress, once satisfied with her height, then moved forward with speed through the misty clouds. It would be a long, arduous flight to Madagascar. The return trip would take her at least three days. It had been many years since she had last made the journey. 'He will have his souls' Lucia said to herself, 'but I will also have mine.'

  And with that, her speed increased as she flew high over the Venetian lagoon to cross the Adriatic Sea.

  Chapter 15

  Courtly Love

  Padua, Morning, Thursday the 30th of November 1611

  Beppe stood outside the Master Tailors of Padua and fidgeted while the shutters raised upwards. When they lifted the apprentice gave a weak smile of recognition, to the man who had given them no peace since his first inquiry - he had returned twice after leaving his first fitting the day before, and each time with new instructions. The Master Tailor had put all aside to satisfy the man, due to his enthusiasm to have the tailoring completed.

  The apprentice who went about his chores opening the showroom with diligence, but not speed, began to sweep away the remnants of the debris of the night before.

  Wagons with various produce trundled by, in the street, and stopped at some of the shop fronts to make their deliveries. The wagon drivers hollered their greetings to their clients with raucous enthusiasm and proclaimed their goods with pride. Beppe peered around at secular life that had become alien to him, vigorous, loud and profane. He cowered before he stepped inside the shop, and out of the grey cold that had fallen over Padua in the previous days.

  ‘Is the master in?’ he said, closing the door and peering around, already knowing the answer. The apprentice yawned.

  ‘Yes, Signore’ came the flat reply, ‘my master always awaits in great fervour to see you’ the apprentice added in a dry monotone. Beppe gave a doubtful smile to the apprentice’s words that rang hollow to him. The second apprentice cleared overlooked scraps from the working table and spread out the new patterns that needed cutting for other clients.

  Beppe lingered in the silence as the apprentices went about their work to leave him where he stood. The Master tailor emerged from a back room, bleary-eyed, with a bundle of bright coloured clothes, and gave out a huge yawn that he could not control. He had not seen Beppe standing to the side. He laid the clothes on the table. ‘You seem tired?’ He said. The Master tailor jumped at the voice and clapped his hand to his chest.

  ‘Signore, I didn’t see you’ said the tailor, spinning round and blinking hard. The Inquisitor, had his neck stretched and head inclined. ‘Your clothes are ready for you’ he added, clearing his throat. Beppe felt a rush of butterflies within him, as he stepped towards where his new clothes lay. Without being asked he tossed off his cloak and then removed his doublet, letting it drop to the floor before he reached his hands forwards toward his new garments. ‘Just a moment, Signore’ said the tailor with a raised hand to block his way, 'would you not prefer a changing closet?' He shook his head and stepped forwards. The tailor held up his hand again. 'Then let me check the stitching in the light.'

  With that the Master tailor unfurled one garment after another, and raised each one into the air, slow and seductive, to show off his workmanship, and leave Beppe in no doubt about the standard, and expense, of his new clothes. He wriggled as he watched the tailor turn the items. ‘Fetch the mirror’, declared the master tailor to his apprentice, once more, when he had felt he had tortured his client enough.

  The apprentice, indifferent, then fetched and stood with the mirror in front of Beppe as his master robed the thin man. The tailor watched his client’s expression change as the bright coloured fabric, too vivid to be worn by a male, encased his slender frame and gave the man a structured elegance he did not possess without the garments. He looks ridiculous… but rich, the apprentice thought. Beppe eyed himself, piqued.

  ‘Do you think it too feminine?’ He said, twisting and slanting himself in front of the mirror. The Master tailor shook his head with force.

  ‘Signore, all of Europe will have such things: why half the men of France already wear this style.' He nodded absent-minded, for he would have worn the clothes whatever the tailor said because the mirror showed him a man he struggled to recognise and a character he could play as if upon a stage.

  ‘What’s the cost?’ he said admiring himself, as he stroked his hands over silk and gold brocade. The apprentices exchanged looks with one another before their master offered their client some robust wine - and a chair. Beppe spluttered at the expense when he heard it, which used up a good portion of his money, but he later stepped out of the showroom, with such confidence, as if he were an exotic bird released from a cage.

  The Inquisitor made his way through the streets to find an Inn to have breakfast, and enjoyed a peculiar pleasure within as people, far duller than himself, looked on with astonishment at the bright creature that passed among them. When he walked into the Inn, all eyes turned. When he asked for service all were polite and attentive. While he ate he knew he had the best food, and when he left all said goodbye: before the men or women turned to their companions to discuss what they had seen.

  This is how it feels to be a prince thought Beppe as he strutted along the street, and of such things, princes are made. With that thought, he then flagged down a small carriage for himself with an extravagant gesture, got in and called out, in mighty tones, his destination to the amused driver.

  ◆◆◆

  Orsini looked over his new wardrobe, with its tasteful improvements, and had said to Cook, as she prepared food in the kitchen, that she had followed his instructions well. He tried on a few things, venturing up and down the stairs in different garments, and requested that Cook cast her womanly eye over his choices, and smiled when she told him he looked good. When back in his room he flung himself down on his bed, saw images of Illawara in his mind's eye, and then looked at his maturing face from where he lay. Orsini sighed at his reflection. His eyes still smouldered, but the rest he liked less, and he stood up to turn sideways, suck in his stomach, and clutch at what had once been willowed and taught.

  ‘Time is a bitter mistress’ he griped, before the scent of roasting meat and spices wafted up into his room, via the stairs, and titillated his nostrils. Orsini looked at his waistline in the mirror but wrung his hands as the smell of cooking intensified. His mouth watered, and he flapped his arms with resignation, before taking himself downstairs to eat Cook’s tasty food. He resolved to present himself to Illawara the following day.

  ◆◆◆

  Beppe emerged from his carriage at his desired destination, after checking with the driver that he was delivered in the correct place: ‘she lives there’, said the driver with a gruff gesture to an upper window in the shaded street.

  ‘Are you sure?’ ventured Beppe,

  ‘Of course,’ said the driver somewhat irked, ‘there’s scarce a day in the week when I don’t drop off somebody here.' The driver held out his weathered hand for payment and drove off as soon as the coins touched his palm before Beppe could thank him.

  ‘Will you pass back this way?’ He called back over the noise of the carriage pulling away. The driver just wafted an arm in response as he whipped his hor
se onward to find more trade. He took in a deep breath and turned to look up at the building where the Deacon said the mysterious beauty lived. ‘This is no palace’ he muttered.

  He saw a mature man, and another figure, pull away from an upper window before he moved to cross the overcast street. Beppe walked to the door he figured to be the communal entrance, similar to his lodgings downtown. He mused on his situation and the restrictions of sumptuary laws. He looked down at himself. 'This is barely legal' he whispered. But the tingle of a thrill tickled through him before he ruminated on his responsibilities to The Church. He heard the crisp crunch of his new shoes walk across the ground, while his blood rushed through his ears. He neared the door before he asked himself if he had ever felt so alive as he did that day: in his whole life. He reached the door and patted himself down before he raised a gloved hand to knock on the wood.

  The door flew open before his knuckles could make a sound. A short greying squat man stood there with mischief in his eyes.

  He felt a knot of adrenalin coil within him; his situation had become real, but, as if upon a stage some dull part of himself fell away to leave his spirit emboldened.

  ‘I’m here to see Illawara’ he said to the short man.

  ‘I figured you had.’ Beppe raised his nose in the air.

  ‘Are you surprised to see a man of such quality in these parts?’ he said, thrusting his shoulders back.

  ‘NO… But I am surprised to see such a colourful one. On a drab day like this, you remind me of my summers in India.' Beppe paused, unsure how to respond: surprised by the comparison and that the unremarkable looking man had ventured to such an exotic place. ‘I’m Signore Dondo, of Genoa’ the short man ventured after his pause. The Inquisitor gathered his wits.

  ‘Oh, you’re a seafaring man, now I understand...’ he said turning to check the street.

  ‘And you are?’ said Dondo, but he had not thought of a new name for himself. He paused again.

  ‘PRINCE Cavalieri. Rondorodito Cavalieri’ he said with a flourish and surprised himself at the new character that had created. But Dondo squinted. He tried to hide a smirk.

  ‘What a curious name. Very well’ said Dondo, with mirth dancing in his eyes, ‘you shall be the first Prince that we’ve had the honour of visiting us. Allow me to lead the way.'

  Dondo turned around, in his smart clothes, to lead his new guest up the stairs to meet and greet Illawara and Bianca, and took pains to speak of the etiquette expected when calling upon a great beauty as her potential suitor. Beppe was glad for the concise, and unexpected, advice offered to him as they climbed the stairs, for he had not the first clue as to how to court a woman.

  He embraced his new character role, but thought of his responsibilities to The Church and reminded himself that he came to do God’s work via the Inquisition. Dondo led his guest to the front door. The Inquisitor yielded to the urge to cross himself before he entered the threshold, but then became self-aware, so instead turned his instinctive gesture into a roving scratch of the brow. However, unseen by Dondo, his lips then itched with a silent prayer as he moved into the dwelling place of the woman that had gripped him.

  ‘Welcome’, said Dondo, with a motion of his arm to encourage him to enter further. But he took half a step back, when he saw a thin woman with searching eyes, press forward from behind the door. He presumed her to be the maid.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ She said, with a smile that surprised him with its brightness in comparison with her dark and grey-streaked hair, ‘can I take your cloak perhaps? We wouldn’t want something so fine to get crumpled.' But before Beppe could answer, the slender woman had stepped behind him and drawn off his cloak in one movement. Dondo flashed the woman a look, but she ignored it. ‘Can I bring you something to drink or eat, Signore?’ She added, but he had yet to formulate a response. Dondo made a gesture toward the woman before she spoke again.

  ‘This is…’

  ‘I’m Grizelda’ the woman interrupted, adding a curtsy before Dondo could finish.

  ‘This is our maidservant’ said Dondo with a rigid smile, ‘Grizelda, this is Prince Cavalieri.'

  ‘A PRINCE?’ Gasped the maid, and in haste, she inspected Beppe as a peahen would inspect a prize peacock, ‘that I can well imagine’ she said, down casting her eyes. She gave another curtsy, lower than the first. By the time she had risen again some colour had come into her face.

  ‘It’s a pleasure’ said Beppe offering his gloved hand. He acted as if he were a real Prince, saying his words with all the warmth of a man that felt his royal blood were beyond doubt. The maid thrust her lips upon the green velvet glove, and they tingled when they brushed the raised edges of the gold embroidered flames sewn there. Dondo tried to move his guest on and had to tug his hand from Grizelda’s embrace. Beppe's body fizzed with excitement. I'm upon a pedestal he thought to himself, and he enjoyed the feeling.

  The maid gazed at him with wide eyes, he looked back, and she made a move to speak again, but Dondo interrupted.

  ‘Grizelda, would you be kind enough to bring our guest some of our best wine, before he calls on Illawara?’ The beaming smile crashed from her face at the mention of the name, and she, rendered mute, nodded and sloped off in the direction of the kitchen. Beppe followed her with his eyes as she walked away.

  Dondo tried to show Beppe every flourish of the frescoed ceiling painted in the new ornate style, still smelling fresh. The Inquisitor looked at the extravagance of the fresco and looked again at himself and found a match. He gave wooden smiles as Dondo pointed out particular examples of virtuosity by the fresco painters. The Inquisitor heard warnings ring in his ears from the pulpit as his host pointed to every new embellishment that adorned the place. Beware vanity, sermon givers had thundered, beware the beguiling treachery of the most seductive of vices. Their speeches echoed in the back of Beppe’s memory, but the vibration of their voices trembled across his conscience. He shook off his Goosebumps.

  He let Dondo talk at length as he drew his eye to every feature of the place, often new and bright. It became clear to him, as Dondo suggested how he should speak to his new potential bride, that a lot of new money had splashed over the place. Dondo reached his hand to the ornate doorknob of the living room door and gave his last words of advice to him before he would open the portal. His palms started to sweat again as they did in St Anthony's Basilica.

  What am I doing here? Thought Beppe as he nodded along with Dondo's words he could no longer hear. Dondo swung open the door, and the Inquisitor forgot who his character was, recognising Illawara and her companion in an instant.

  There Illawara sat radiant in her dress and raised a hand to cover her mouth as soon as she saw him. He detected laughter in her eyes. He walked forward but his knees started to shake. Dondo closed the door behind him.

  ‘May I introduce Prince Rondorodito Cavalieri’ said Dondo with gravitas. But the introduction and the fictitious name sounded different and ridiculous on Dondo's lips: this seemed to humour Illawara all the more. Like a professional courtier Dondo carried on the introductions, ‘this is Donna Bianca Marconi, Dowager, and mistress of this house’ he said, gesturing to the grand woman sat in a velvet upholstered chair identical to Illawara’s.

  Bianca then turned, from profile to the door to give a sage nod, but her eyes bulged like oranges for a moment in comprehending Beppe.

  She started fanning herself, and the Inquisitor spied the glow of sweat that began to form on Bianca's high plucked brow. He tried to keep still as his breathing wobbled, and standing up became an effort. ‘And allow me to introduce Donna Illawara, the Dowager's niece’ said Dondo, who acted with all the smoothness of a man that had spent years in a royal court.

  ‘A pleasure' said Illawara trying to control a smile that miss behaved and twitched, 'we are honoured that a PRINCE should grace us with his favour.' Beppe’s mind went blank, as he felt the heat rise to his face. The fraudster changed complexion and rivalled the hue of the pink stockings he stood
in which also matched the lining of his pea-green jerkin. Face and stockings seemed to merge into one. He fiddled with his puffed pantaloons and stammered for words. Then his mouth opened and closed like a land stranded fish, as he looked down to the floor and intensified in colour. The three hosts exchanged glances with one another. Dondo’s face settled into one of concern, Bianca raised one brow, and Illawara looked away so as not to laugh out loud. The impact of seeing the dazzling young woman at close quarters disturbed him, and thinking that she in some way found him ridiculous made things worse. Inside he asked God for strength and pretended that he held his favourite rosary in his hand, as he always did at night.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you both’ he said, at last, with a cough and a bow. ‘I… I wanted to call upon you to' he coughed again, 'to see if the rumours about you were true?’ He ventured on, even though his face had frazzled his brain to emptiness.

  ‘What rumours?’ said Illawara, her eyes focusing on the Inquisitor. He seemed surprised that the young woman would address his statement. He coughed yet again and touched the door behind him with his fingertips. It did not open. He would have to yank at the handle to flee the room if he ran for it. Beppe swallowed and reminded himself of his original feeling he had upon leaving the tailor. He cleared his throat and straightened up. ‘I wanted to see you for myself, and validate the extraordinary rumours about your beauty, of course’ he said with a sweep of his arm, and a stoop, ‘why else would I travel all the way from ROME to see you?’ He added. With his heart pounding he ventured a glance at the young woman, but Illawara looked humourless.

  ‘And what’s your conclusion?’ she said. Beppe paused to think of a flattering response.

  ‘I’m forced to admit that the lofty praise is true’ he said, almost bowing, allowing the blandishment to fall from his lips sure his words would woo Illawara.

  ‘That’s original’ she said, cool as marble. He froze for a moment, mid-gesture. Dondo and Bianca exchanged looks. Then he stood up like a totem.