Another clearing of the throat. He looks first at Roberto, then at Raffaele. Coraggio, he tells himself. He must draw upon all the reserves of courage he has. Of faith in God as well. He mustn’t waver in the face of adversity; isn’t that what he has been telling Gabriella throughout their journey? To trust that God will protect her?
A sound in the bushes near the entry of the clearing makes them all startle. Roberto throws down his pipe and reaches for his pistol before leaping over to Don Simone. Raffaele sprints in the opposite direction to the edge of the forest, his hand extracting a pistol before disappearing through the trees.
The carabineer who appears is pointing his rifle at them. Don Simone feels Roberto’s breath on his neck. Two armed men, and him between them. His thoughts of faith and trust in God dissipate as he feels his blood congeal. He trembles as Roberto presses closer against him, grabbing his left shoulder while extending his right hand to aim his pistol straight for the carabineer.
“Put down your rifle unless you want the good Father to go straight to heaven,” Roberto yells out.
Don Simone watches the merest flicker of uncertainty in the carabineer’s expression. Someone’s going to die. He gulps and shuts his eyes. Is he a hypocrite then, for thinking that perhaps God has forsaken them?
Roberto’s fingers are digging into his shoulder like talons. He winces, and as a shot is fired, his stomach contracts. A scream in his ear forces him to open his eyes. Don Simone feels his knees buckle. As he falls to the ground, he waits for the sensation of unbearable pain searing through his heart and lungs, but it never comes. He sees Roberto writhing on the ground, three fingers of his hand blown off, and the rest a scarlet pulp. His pistol has skittered several yards away.
Don Simone’s breathing is shallow, and he makes no attempt to get up. He watches the carabineer approaching quickly, his rifle aimed at Roberto. The brigand is emitting moans that make the hair on Don Simone’s arms rise, The carabineer proceeds to plant a boot firmly on Roberto’s good hand, and then points his rifle and blows a hole through the brigand’s head.
Don Simone begins retching as his eyes take in the bloody mush splattered on the ground. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes too blurry to identify the man who is now standing next to the carabineer, he hears the voice of the carabineer.
“Colonel Russo, I am indebted to you for your timely intervention. Had you not shot him first, I might have ended up where he is now.…”
AFTER RIDING ON RUT-FILLED MULE PATHS for almost three quarters of an hour, Gabriella was relieved to finally stop. There was no sign of any activity at the tavern. Dismounting, Dorotea quickly tethered her mule to a post and ushered Gabriella inside through a side door and down a dark corridor to a far room on the main floor, a room she also opened with her own key. The walls were a pale yellow-lime, and one shuttered window kept out the light but not the heat.
An iron washstand in one corner held a white enamel bowl filled with water. After dipping a face cloth into the bowl, Dorotea squeezed it out and wiped her face. She dipped it into the water again, twisted it and handed it to Gabriella. Although the water looked clean enough, Gabriella saw a dead fly floating in the bowl. Masking her distaste, she took the cloth, and while Dorotea bent down to tighten the laces on her boots, Gabriella set it back on the stand and proceeded to open the shutters on the far wall. She leaned out onto the windowsill and felt a rush of gratitude that they arrived in safety. No carabineers, no brigands, just a bevy of quail rustling through the woods.
The sky was just beginning to show hints of the approaching dawn with its pale coral streaks, the sun arching above the horizon. Other than the faint crowing of a rooster in the distance, the air was still. Gabriella felt a twinge of uneasiness. Did I do the right thing in leaving the hideout with Dorotea? she wondered. Should I have talked to Don Simone myself?
Gabriella closed the shutters, leaving open just a crack. Dorotea instructed her to stay in the room until she returned. The chief would likely be back in an hour or two, Dorotea reassured her. Gabriella nodded and sat down in a wicker chair in one corner of the room, feeling the tension compressed within her muscles and joints. She eyed the single bed, and after walking over to examine it for any sign of infestation, she pulled off her boots and lay down on top of the faded green coverlet. The bed was comfortable and felt luxurious after sleeping in Stefano’s hut. Gabriella wanted to close her eyes and rest, but her thoughts kept her awake. Thoughts about Dorotea’s plea and what was to come.…
She let out a long drawn-out breath, wondered if she could allow herself a nap. She couldn’t remember feeling as tired as she did. Drained. Even the toil of harvesting olives from the church lands or of pounding bundles of flax to soften and prepare the fibres for weaving didn’t compare with her present fatigue. The throbbing in her thumb and leg wounds had subsided, but the pain of her father’s death and the uncertainty of Tonino’s safety were always there. Her only consolation was that Luciano was being cared for by the Sisters at the Convent of St. Anna, and would be there until she returned for him.
Gabriella opens her eyes and blinks at the sunlight streaming into the room from the slit between the shutters. She has napped. Surely more than an hour has passed. Where is Dorotea? Stefano? She stands and tries to stretch the stiffness out of her body from sleeping in trousers. She bends down to put on her boots. While she is lacing them up, she hears a key turning in the lock. She rises, her pulse quickening. Stefano. The door opens. Her heart begins to clatter against her ribs. Alfonso Fantin.
Gabriella takes a step back, bumps into the bed, and stops herself from falling back. The room feels stifling. Alfonso’s face is flushed, dotted with beads of sweat. He watches her but doesn’t move, like a cat who plans to amuse itself with a cornered mouse by flipping it about and watching it squirm and flounder before clamping its jaws into its neck. Alfonso moves one arm forward and she stiffens. The scent of his perspiration hits her and her stomach roils.
She doesn’t have to glance about to know that there is no escape. Even if she were to dash for the window, by the time she threw open the shutters, he’d be upon her. Her neck prickles. She takes in the wide bands of dampness at his armpits, his chest and stomach rising and falling. Her gaze drops to the white alabaster handle of the dagger sticking out of his right pocket. Her eyes fly up to his face that is openly smirking now. Gabriella gasps. So this is Dorotea’s doing. She has no time to wonder how or why; her instinct tells her she has to somehow try to stall Alfonso. He wants his revenge. It is clearly stamped on his face. And she has no illusions as to what form it will take.
The same anger that she felt after seeing the destruction in Calvino begins to suffuse her now. As Alfonso takes a step forward, she draws herself up and takes a sharp breath. “The brigand chief is on his way. He will be here at any moment.”
Alfonso smiles and stops. “The ‘Galantuomo’? You’re not counting on him to rescue you, are you, Signorina Gabriella? Surely, you must realize by now that Dorotea had to fabricate a story to get you here.”
“How did you know where to find me?” Gabriella keeps her voice calm.
Alfonso smiles. “I hired a guide to help me search for you. Your friend, Valerio.” His smile widens as she gasps. “We needed lodging for several nights; he suggested this place. Dorotea served us and overheard our conversation.” He licks a droplet of sweat from the corner of his mouth. “She had ‘heard’ that a girl and a priest were in the company of a brigand chief. I made a deal with her to find you and bring you here.” He takes off his jacket and flings it in one corner. “I don’t have time to give you the details. I have something to give you in return for the present you left me….” He twists his head to show Gabriella his neck scar. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for not taking my life.”
When he turns to face her again, the amusement is gone from his eyes. They are narrowed, ugly. Gabriella feels her anger mounting even more than her fe
ar. He was responsible for her father’s death; she is the one who should be filled with revenge. And she is. She wants to pummel him, slap him, claw his eyes out. Kill him. Her thoughts fly to the knife she has strapped to her leg as Stefano instructed her to do the night they left for Calvino. She has no time to reach down for it and unstrap it. Her stomach muscles tighten. God help me. She takes a tentative step back along the side of the bed. Alfonso could pounce and be on top of her in seconds, but he simply takes another step forward, his eyes gleaming lustfully. With every step she moves back, he moves forward, until he is only an arm’s-length away. A shadow by the window distracts her for a second. He notices her glance and looking over his shoulder, laughs. “I have waited long enough for this moment, Signorina Gabriella.” He advances purposefully.
Gabriella stiffens. Nobody can save her. Not Stefano, not Don Simone, nor God himself. Alfonso stops to fling off his vest and unbutton his shirt, revealing the golden-brown thatch on his chest. The bile rises in her throat. It reminds her of the straw in the hayloft. When Alfonso looks down to unclasp his trousers and remove his belt, Gabriella has a flash of memory: “You might need it one day.” Her heart drumming, she plunges her hand in her trouser pocket and extracts the gift Stefano gave her.
Pointing the pistol at Alfonso, she waits until he looks up and as the smirk on his face freezes along with his body, her hand trembles. She will surely hang for this. Or at best, wither away in a prison workhouse. She will never see Luciano again. Or Tonino, if he’s alive. And if she doesn’t shoot, Alfonso will take what he has wanted from the beginning…her body, her dignity, her purity. Everything she wanted to give to Tonino as his wife.
All her life she has thought about others. Done for others. Tended to her father, a shadow of a man since his wife died. Cooked for him, cleaned, tried to bring him some comfort in his grief. Put on a brave face while grieving herself. And Luciano? He might as well have been her son; she has been more of a mother to him than a sister. Other than suckling him, she has raised him almost from the beginning. Without complaint or remorse, she has spent her youth and young adulthood sustaining both of them. And she has also done her part for Don Simone. Kept house, tended his animals and garden, cooked, washed. Yes, he, too, is family. She has done it all for her family. And she has never looked at taking care of the ones she loves as a hardship
But now she can’t think about them anymore. She must think about herself. Yet why is this so difficult to do? She wavers as Alfonso puts his hand up tentatively. His forehead is peppered with sweat.
“I beg you to put that down, Signorina. I….I promise your safe return to Camini.” His nostrils flare. “I will tell the authorities that it was an accident. You will not suffer any consequences.”
Gabriella hesitates. Could he be telling the truth? She hears the fear edging his voice. Does she have it in her to kill him? She senses a shadow falling across the window behind him. In the second that she looks at it, he lunges for her. Her gaze flies to his face. The fury in his eyes. The cruel twist of his lips. His true intent.
Without hesitation, she pulls the trigger and fires.
AS HIS OFFICER ACCOMPANIES THE PRIEST out of the clearing, Russo makes his way around the hideout, pistol in hand. His eyes take in the circle of stumps, the path to the night shelters, and the upper bench of the mountain where a hut has been constructed with branches and blankets. Galante’s den. Smiling, he dashes over to it.
It was by sheer luck that he had come across this wildly overgrown trail that to a regular eye seemed impenetrable. He had, at the last moment, changed his mind about accompanying his men in pursuit of a brigand for a recent abduction in the town of Siderno. Upon their departure, Russo and two of his officers—Rodolfo and Silvio, the ones who accompanied him to the Galante farm—nosed about the foothills in the area, hoping to uncover a clue or a villager that might be tempted to talk. A piece of brightly coloured cloth tangled on a bramble bush caught his eye as he was scanning the wooded slopes for any sign of movement. His men went off to investigate, returning with the exciting news of a hidden path much farther up the mountain and directions for it.
Russo congratulated them before ordering Silvio to investigate other entry points to that particular path, and Rodolfo to trail behind him. He then proceeded up the mountain to venture onto the hidden path. If they were fortunate enough to have finally found Galante’s lair, he wanted to be the one to drag the brigand chief away from it. After a dizzying ascent on a serpentine path that skirted cavernous ravines, Russo was glad to reach a glade that led inward. He tethered his horse at this point, and advanced quietly, careful not to snap a branch and reveal his presence.
The woodland resins hung heavy in the early afternoon air. Russo almost cried out when a squirrel’s scolding call shattered the silence. Pushing away protruding boughs, he had the odd sensation that the forest was closing in on him, sucking the oxygen out of his lungs. He stopped, took a swig from a thin flask within his vest, and wiped his brow. His scalp was beginning to tingle uncomfortably and as he scratched at it, a movement through the trees caught his eye. His officer, Silvio Bertoli, aiming his rifle at a brigand standing next to a priest.
“Put down your rifle unless you want the good Father to go straight to heaven,” the brigand barked.
Russo advanced quickly and immediately aimed for the brigand’s hand, wanting to keep him alive for questioning. Unfortunately, his carabineer proceeded to approach the wounded brigand and blow out his brains, In any other situation, that would have been acceptable as far as Russo was concerned. There were too many brigands and simply not enough time or resources to proceed with such frivolous things as trials.
Russo questioned the priest instead, pleased that he had found him. Don Simone, his face ashen, was barely coherent, mumbling only that Galante was gone, and that Gabriella was with a brigantessa named “Dorotea.” Impatient, Russo ordered his officer to take the priest back to the military station in Caulonia to recover from the shock. The girl couldn’t be far off, and neither could Galante. How wonderful it would be, he thought, if I came upon the two of them together….
Russo now pulls aside the blanket and enters the hut. His gaze falls on two pallets that still have indentations and he is taken aback when he spots the neatly folded clothes that must belong to the girl. There is no sign of violence, of rape.
Even if Galante has been a “gentleman,” he will still hang, Russo thinks grimly. I will see to it. The brigand chief may not have been a degenerate with Gabriella, but he has caused enough havoc during his rule to warrant a punishment more severe than life imprisonment.
Shoving his pistol in his holster, Russo grabs a dark cloak that is hanging over a protruding branch on one side of the hut. He rifles through the hidden pockets and discovers two daggers and a purple pouch with Galante’s initial embroidered on it. Loosening the drawstring, he discovers a gold bracelet, a pocket watch, and several rings. He looks closely. No, not Liliana’s. He feels his jaw clenching. Stuffing the bag in his trouser pocket, Russo spins around and strides out. He clambers up the ledge behind the hut and scans the valley below. He can make out the figures of the priest and his officer descending the mountainside. Quite the eagle’s view. No wonder Galante has not been apprehended. Even if somebody had discovered the mountain trails, Galante would have spotted them and left long before they had reached the summit.
Russo jumps down from the ledge and returns to the meeting area. Skirting the mangled body of the dead brigand, he glances around before moving over to the path his carabineer took. A rustle in the bracken makes Russo stiffen. He lets out a breath when he sees that it is a squirrel. Nevertheless, he reaches for his pistol.
“I wouldn’t do that,” a deep voice advises.
Russo freezes. His gaze moves upward in the direction of the voice. The man he desperately wants is watching him steadily from the ledge that Russo has just vacated. Despite the heat of the day, Galante is
wearing a dark grey cloak. It takes Russo a second to realize the brigand chief has a pistol in his hand, and the barrel is pointed at him. He must stall him. Damn it, where is Rodolfo? Russo meets Galante’s gaze. Those strange eyes stare at him without blinking, and Russo’s jaw clenches as he tries to conceal how unnerved he feels, as vulnerable as he did when Galante attacked his carriage and bound him up.
“I will see to it that your sentence is reduced if you turn yourself in,” he says evenly. “Life imprisonment instead of hanging.”
“That’s generous of you, Colonel Russo, but I’m not at the end of my rope yet,” Galante drawls, his lips curling into a sneer.
Russo’s scalp is on fire, but he knows better than to make any sudden move.
“My men are on the mountain. It will only be a matter of time before they surround you. You may wish to reconsider, Signor Galante, before they appear and swarm you. They will have even less mercy on you if I am….hurt.”
“Your men, Colonello, are otherwise occupied. And I have no intention of hurting you, unless it is to defend myself,” Galante says. “I simply want you off the mountain. After you drop your pistol on the ground.” His eyes narrow menacingly. “And trust me, if you even attempt to use it, I’ll shoot off every finger on both your hands and you can join the brigand Roberto in heaven if there’s anything left of your soul after I’ve riddled it with bullets.”
Russo’s stomach twists. His forehead is prickling with drops of sweat. Galante has him by the balls. Again. He considers his limited options. Drop his pistol and walk away unharmed, if he is to believe Galante—which he doesn’t—or take a shot at the bastard.
“I’ll leave the mountain,” he calls out in a conciliatory voice. He watches as Galante nods and lowers his hand slightly. Now, an inner voice urges. Russo drops to the ground, and in mere seconds, grabs his pistol and aims at Galante. By this time, Galante has already fired, sending up a spray of dust by Russo’s face as the bullet hits the ground by Russo’s ear. Russo shoots again, and is stunned to see Galante’s body jerk back, his shoulder a splotch of crimson.
La Brigantessa Page 34