by C. D. Baker
“Padre, come sit by my side.”
Pieter grimaced but obediently left his children and went to the head table.
“Ha!” roared Gostanzo. “This old one looks so feeble and frail! But he cut down my enemy with a keen eye and a steady hand. To him I owe my very life.” The lord lifted his cup toward Pieter. “You are welcome here always.”
Pieter bowed humbly.
Padre Antonio, the Verdis’s favored priest, then approached the center of the hall in his finest vestments and pronounced a prayer of thanksgiving and blessings on all gathered. The feast had begun.
Antonio had barely finished his “Amen” when the famished crusaders lunged at the food before them. They grabbed and tore at slabs of boiled bacon, salted pork, mutton, steaming venison, poultry, and roasted fish. They laughed and giggled amongst themselves, returning for portion upon portion; cherries and pears, apples and honeycomb … ah, the true treasures of God’s earth! What pleasure each enjoyed in the lick of a greasy finger or the gulp of stout beer! All that is, save Wil, who picked at his sparse, tin plate, despondent and wanting of all happiness.
Karl’s voice cracked high above the din. “Oh, if only Georg were here!”
Jon laughed and tossed a pork bone to one of the dogs drooling by his side. “Georg would surely have stripped this table of all but the trays themselves.”
“Oh, Georg,” Karl sighed, “I do miss you so. Perhaps you are watching from above? I hope that would be true.”
Gostanzo suddenly leapt from his chair and bellowed, “I am told we’ve a minstrel here. Mine was burned and I’ve need of music.”
Benedetto froze.
“You there, little one. You’ve the look of a ballad-maker. Come close.”
Benedetto stepped timidly toward the lord’s table and bowed deeply.
“Si, Signore, I… I am yours to command.”
Gostanzo put his hands on his hips and peered at the musician.
“You are a toy of a man, are you not?”
“Si, my lord.”
“But it is said you’ve a voice to stir the angels?”
“Some have so said, my lord.”
“Hmm. This day past is filled with both sorrow and joy. I command both a sad song and a glad song.”
“I… I oft fail at remembering sad songs, Signore.”
“You would deny me this?” Gostanzo was agitated. “My heart is yet heavy and is need of a song of life’s brevity, its vanity or—”
“I… I have no songs of these, my lord.”
Gostanzo frowned.
Benedetto began to perspire but suddenly brightened. “Ah, Signore … I do recall one little ballad that speaks on these matters.”
Gostanzo sat down and closed his eyes, preparing his heart for the melancholy it sought. The great lord looked suddenly worn and troubled. He slouched in his beech-wood throne and waved the minstrel to his table. “Here, come stand before us atop this plank … and sing well, little toy … sing well.”
Benedetto cleared his voice and closed his eyes. He let his mind drift to the beloved dock he now wished he had never left and imagined he was sitting on its edge with his feet dangling over the cold Rhône on a hot summer day. He strummed a few chords and began:
If I but a vapor be,
Then let me ride the breeze
In such a form that could be free
To coil ’tween the trees.
Or free to choose a better place
And free to choose a form,
Which drifts a steady, worthy pace
And weathers well the storm.
I would not choose a harbor fog
Which grips the moaning masts,
Nor would I hang o’er darkened bogs
Where shadows seldom pass.
I would not choose to join a cloud
Though lofty seems its quest,
For thunderheads are brash and loud
And fickle are the rest.
A coastal haze hides breaker’s death
And I would not be there,
Nor would I be but heated breath
Blown into colder air.
Nor would I choose the moon-time smoke
That lurks about the night,
The hedge and thicket are its cloak
It scurries from the light.
If I but a vapor be
Then what sort ought I choose,
For vapors pass so rapidly
That time I cannot lose?
I think to choose the twilight mist
That drifts the pastureland
To waken with a dewy kiss
The tiny and the grand.
It nudges beaded bud and blade
And rolls in clover white,
It readies colors that are grayed
And waits with them for light.
Though vapors are but here and gone,
Yet something should it mean
To rise and meet the blaze of dawn
And fade in meadow green.
Benedetto opened his eyes and stared at his silent audience. Signore Gostanzo paused thoughtfully, opened his eyes, and began to clap. “Well done, little fellow,” he said slowly. “Life is but a vapor … is it not, Padre? Well said, indeed. I wonder if I am the sort of vapor I should really rather be? ”
Pieter finished his wine and winked kindly at Benedetto. He leaned over to the Signore. “Your wine, sire, is a joy to the palate. A bit of a bite and a most lively nose … methinks of the Refosco vine? ”
“Si, si! How did you know this?”
“I have traveled some in my many days. But I do confess it a wonder that your cellar is home to a grape from Fruili!”
“Ha, ha! It travels well, but not as well as you!” Gostanzo’s eyes danced.
“Nay, ‘tis a delight, my lord, far better than the Piedmonts—no offense, of course.”
“None taken! And you’d be right. Our Piedmonts are not to my liking. Battifole here swears by his Barbera vines but I say they’d be bitter and smelling of cherries. Nor do I enjoy the Nebbiolo wines of Lombardy; I find them to taste of tar and roses.”
A goblet flew across the table and crashed at Gostanzo’s plate. Battifolle bellowed. “You’ve no taste for wine or woman, y’old fool!”
Before Gostanzo could respond, Pieter changed the subject. “Signore, indulge me if I may: I am told that this war with the Visconti was begun over a false charge against your family many years past.”
“Si, si.” Gostanzo slammed his fist on the table. “A false charge indeed! They will not listen to reason. For two generations we have pleaded our innocence in the murder of their count. We had nothing to gain from it. We have priests who have sworn before the cardinal that the Verdi family bears no blame, yet still they do not believe us. The bishop of our see went to Rome, and it was in vain. And so for two generations they have waged vendetta and have kept our people in poverty and our lands in frequent ruin. Ha! And by God, we have kept them in scarcity as well.”
Signore Battifolle cried out from his seat. “And we have helped you!”
“Surely, good cousin; without you we would have been crushed.”
Pieter pondered the lord’s words for a moment. “Have you considered why they’ve denied good testimony?”
“No, and it plagues me all my days. I cannot grasp their blindness and have no other course than to war with them.”
Pieter picked some pork fat from his beard and looked carefully at the signore. Unsolicited counsel was often seen as impertinence and the old man needed to choose his words with great care. “As the wise and discerning sovereign of this realm I am certain you have considered that one must open the heart before one can open the mind.”
Gostanzo looked at Pieter with a blank stare. He set his forefinger against his pursed lips and gestured the priest continue. A hush fell over the room.
“There is an ancient saying in the northland that is most likely unfamiliar in these parts, for it is somewhat childlike and simple. We say: ‘A man conv
inced against his will is of the same opinion still.’”
Gostanzo sat for a moment, tapping his fingers impatiently on the wooden table. “Yes, yes … go on!”
“Ah, ja… so … I’ll speak plainly of what my learned lord must surely already know. Behind every belief is a premise; behind every premise lies a desire. Decisions are more often made by the will than the mind. We choose what to believe from our heart, not from reason. If one wants to change a man’s mind, one must first change his heart.”
Gostanzo shuffled in his seat. Battifolle, ever keen and clever, leaned forward. “Are you suggesting the Visconti want to believe my cousins guilty of this murder?”
“We all believe as we want to believe. For the Visconti the alternative is perhaps more … distasteful?”
Battifolle jumped to his feet and smashed a fist into his palm. “Si. Gostanzo, si! This old sage has it! What is it that you have always claimed to be the alternative; what have you always said is the truth? ”
Gostanzo stood to his feet and raised his arms in the air. “This is so. I so swear the real murderers are the Malaspina family from the eastern edges of Liguria. They are strong and wealthy, allied with both Genoa and Milan and in league with the pope. Who would dare accuse them but me?
“Yes … yes! If the Visconti were to believe the Malaspinas are to blame, their honor would demand vendetta against them. But they seek the same alliances and do not want to war against them. We are the easier mark—allied outside the cities’ league and tied to the Piedmont.”
Gostanzo paced behind his chair, running long fingers through his black hair. Battifolle slammed his hands on the table. “Now, old man, I see the game is to remove the Visconti’s fear of the Malaspinas so that they might embrace the truth.”
Pieter nodded.
Gostanzo beckoned his cousin and his counselors to circle close and gestured his other guests to return to their feasting. He pulled the old man to the center of the group and leaned close to him. “And how would one alter their fears?”
Pieter thought carefully. “Sire, you tell me the power of the Malaspinas lies in their alliance with both Milan and Genoa; a remarkable feat given that these cities are oft at war against each other and their hatred grows.”
“Yes, yes, go on,” muttered Gostanzo.
“Then what you must do is ally with one … methinks Milan the better choice since the Malaspinas are Ligurians, as are the Genoese.”
The signore’s face tightened but he did not speak.
“Then you needs force a wedge between the Malaspinas and Milan … some intrigue to cast a doubt on their loyalty. It strikes me plain that they walk in grave peril, being the friend of the other’s enemy. Once—”
“Ha!” blurted Battifolle. “We’ve just the sly fox for a match as this: a cunning falconer and crafty diplomat from Torino. He is skilled in matters of alliance and has no love for the cursed Malaspinas.”
Pieter continued. “A man as he must needs walk with eyes in his back and vinegar in his veins.”
Battifolle winked.
“My lord,” advised Pieter, “a final word: If you succeed in dividing the Malaspinas from Milan, the pope shall surely cool toward them, for he is in great need of the Milanese—especially as it is a key to the whole of the Lombard League of free cities. As your alliance with Milan tightens, the Church may heed your appeal for justice.
“The Visconti also need Milan and the league, Lombardians that they are. Two things shall happen: Firstly, in order to avoid suspicion, the Visconti will find it profitable to reconsider their accusation against the Verdi family. Secondly, as the Malaspinas are isolated from the Lombards and the Church, they shall be seen as weakened and vulnerable. No longer will the Visconti need you to blame. Instead they shall offer peace and surely appeal for justice from the papal courts against the Malaspinas.”
Battifolle roared and smashed his fists on the table. “We’ll be vindicated. Ha! Or, Padre, we might simply gather our new alliances and attack the Malaspinas. They’ve earned a good butchering. They have broken our trade routes, violated our lands, and not been tested for many years. The Genoese shall be suspicious of the past alliance with Milan. Without support they shall fall like ripe pears into our hands and then, by God, the Visconti shall fall on their knees and beg our pardon!”
The lord’s rising voice hushed the hall and to those eavesdropping it seemed evident that the priest had inspired a new call-to-arms. The knights of both families stood to their feet and pounded their tankards on the tables. “War, war, war!” they chanted. “Morte, morte, morte!”
Pieter closed his eyes and sighed. You fools, he thought. Always to the sword. You’ve learned little….
Gostanzo stretched his arms wide as if to embrace the whole hall. “Grazie, brave knights. No man has led better warriors than I. Our course shall be discussed in council. Padre, you are as wise as your white hair would claim. Daughter, Lucia … sit by my side. And, minstrel, sing for us a happy song and let the wine flow.”
Benedetto was relieved for the better mood now charging the hall and he leapt atop the table once again. He tipped his pointed hat toward the signore. “Now, my lord, now, we sing!” The minstrel laughed and strummed his lute and pranced along the table singing:
What heals the brokenhearted,
What helps the weak and tired,
What hallows sacred moments,
And hastens good cheer?
What brings both good and evil,
What brags and boasts unfounded,
What buries serf and master,
And bolsters our fears?
What stains both frock and doublet,
What starts both smiles and quarrels,
What spills from cask or goblet,
And’s better than beer?
He threw his head back and crooned:
’Tis something I must have much of!
’Tis nothing fair maids should run from!
’Tis chosen over treasures …
’Tis wine … bring some here!
The crowd cheered and clapped and bade him sing it again … and again. Happy to please, the minstrel jumped from table to table, dodging good-natured jabs of mutton legs and flying grapes.
The revelers sang and danced late into the night. The rollicking knights chased each other over and under the tables like schoolboys, slipping and tripping their way through the well-picked bones and bread crusts underfoot. But soon their lively play and drunkenness turned more dangerous as they began swinging the flats of their swords at each other and lofting javelins across the chamber into the wooden columns behind the signore.
Pieter now wisely chose to escort his spellbound children out of the hall and into the safety of a distant corridor.
“But Pieter,” protested Otto, “’tis fun!”
“Pieter, Pieter,” begged Heinz, “can’t we sta—”
“Just follow me,” huffed the old man. “Just follow me.”
The disappointed children finally settled against the edges of the shadowed corridor; Wil to the farthest edge. And, after a time of pouting and whining, most were soon laughing and sharing stories, belching and wrestling until sometime between midnight and lauds they began to doze in the torchlight … safe, well fed, and ready for the morrow.
At prime Pieter wakened his groggy children and led them through the disheveled great hall, now filled with sleeping knights. They stepped carefully past growling dogs and then passed through the doors into the morning mists of the courtyard.
The bailey was well raked and swept and fit for a new day, and wagons were already arriving with thatch and lumber for the needed repairs. The spirits of the craftsmen seemed high, though the groans of the infirmed wounded restrained them from singing or whistling very loudly.
“Come, my lambs, ‘tis time to march again. Good Wil must be ready to move us south.”
The familiar voice of Signore Gostanzo suddenly broke through the early morning air. He peered down on them from his apart
ment balcony and rubbed his baggy eyes. “Farewell, brave pilgrims. God’s mercy to you on your Holy Crusade.”
The children turned and waved to the smiling lord. To be acknowledged by the simplest gesture of a lord was honor enough, but to be spoken to in that manner was inspiration! A very tired Sebastiani then appeared in the courtyard, pulling hard on a stubborn mule. The mule, in turn, labored under heavy baskets of bread and sacks of meats, fruits, and meals.
“My good friend, Pieter,” Sebastiani grunted as he approached, “I bear gifts from my lord in gratitude for your valor and wisdom. And for you, my little minstrel, a gift of his finest wine.”
Benedetto grinned from ear to ear as he gratefully received the wineskin. He bowed deeply. “Many thanks to your gracious lord from his most humble servant.”
“Humble, indeed!” chuckled Sebastiani. “Children, unload this poor beast and God go with you.”
Sebastiani embraced Pieter. “I wish you well, my friend.”
“And I you.”
“Where is the golden-haired lad? Wil is his name?”
“There. I fear he suffers much pain.”
Sebastiani walked to Wil and looked carefully at him. “Good morrow, lad,” he said. “If you pardon my saying, you shall be a fine soldier.”
Wil kicked at the ground. He’d be happier to be left alone.
“I have rarely seen such fire in the eyes,” Sebastiani continued.
Wil looked up slowly as the Verdi warrior stepped closer.
“I am always fearful in battle, my brave friend. It is fear that has kept breath in me—both fear and my comrades. For I would never survive a single combat if not for the good eyes and quick hands of my fellows. No man fights the battle alone, ragazzo, not one.”
Wil fidgeted uncomfortably and then looked curiously at Sebastiani. “I thought you to not speak our tongue.”
“Oh,” said he, “I never tell all. ‘Tis another trick of an old soldier.”
Wil smiled faintly and nodded as the man rubbed his dusty, blonde head and gave him a rough slap on the back. “Now, join your crusaders and take command. Let none quench the fire in your heart.”