Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Of course, the content of the books made here were substantially different. Writing of Heaven and Hell, indeed! Hardly fit for Christian eyes.

  In daylight hours the sisters worked here in the Scriptorium, laboriously creating blackish-brown ink from tree-sap. The workshop in the abbey was not a grand enterprise such as she had been used to in Florence and Verona. Still, Antonia was allowed to employ an illustrator from the city, and two of the older sisters whose backs were no longer strong came three times a week to aid in the scraping of parchment. Each new book was a commission from some wealthy noble, endowing the house with tremendous riches in return for a personalized bible, complete with a family tree.

  Suor Beatrice was a diligent worker. When she was not at prayer or at meals, she could be found in her little room with lamps, a brazier, and her inks. Yes, the cloister suited the girl more than anyone thought. Morsicato knew her only regret was her reduced contact with her brother and his charge.

  Finishing with the doctor, she reached over to stroke Cesco’s damp curling hair. In repose the dimple beside his eye was more pronounced, as if when waking he could will the tiny scar away. There was a rude bandage on the boy’s chin that Morsicato would have to replace in the morning. It would insult the girl to do it now.

  Idly, Morsicato lifted a vellum parchment from the table. By the light he saw the illuminator’s drawing, and read beside it Antonia’s own fine script: He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more. Apt. In more ways than one.

  “There’s more news than the house, I’m afraid,” said Morsicato softly, darting a glance at the older nun across the room. “Pietro got the message tonight.”

  Deliberately cryptic, he hoped the girl would follow his meaning. It wasn’t so much to deceive the chaperone nun, who could have no conceivable interest in their affairs beyond simple gossip. Morsicato suspected Cesco was feigning sleep, and the doctor owned strong feelings about letting the boy know too much, even at this late date.

  Fortunately the girl was quick as a whip. “From the Feltro?”

  The doctor nodded. “He’s gone. Word came tonight.”

  “So the fire..?”

  “Probably. Your brother says you know what we require. I have no idea what he meant by that.”

  Antonia leaned back, staring at the doctor without actually seeing him. Then she turned to the other nun. “Sister Adela, could you find Mother Abbess and see if she is free? I need to speak to her on a matter of some importance.”

  Obviously conflicted, Sister Adela went to fetch the abbess. The instant her footfalls were lost in the cacophony outside, Antonia wrenched Morsicato to his feet. “Help me!” Grabbing an awl used for scraping parchment clean, she rushed to the back of the Scriptorium.

  Following, Morsicato knelt beside her as she jammed the awl into a crack between flagstones. “Lift it,” she urged him. “Hurry!”

  Morsicato obediently heaved upwards. The flat stone groaned without giving more than an inch. “They patched the floor last year, and I didn’t want to…” She pushed awkwardly down on the awl, adding her weight.

  At last Morsicato realized what they were about. He glanced over his shoulder. The door was empty, but a pair of eyes hidden by curls watched them intently. Damn the boy.

  The doctor told Antonia to go intercept the abbess when she came. As she departed, he shifted his position to strain at the awl, levering the slab upwards inch by inch.

  Their timing was fortuitous. The doctor heard Suor Beatrice greeting her mistress just beyond the door. Pietro’s sister used an over-loud welcome, while the Abbess spoke in lower tones. “The children are well?”

  “Over-tired after all the excitement, that’s all,” replied Suor Beatrice. “They’re sleeping now. Doctor Morsicato is looking after them.”

  “I heard the doctor had come. I thought he would be helping prepare the salves.” She sounded disapproving.

  The awl slipped. Morsicato swore under his breath.

  “I’m sure he will,” said Suor Beatrice. “He wanted to look at the boys first. But he brought me news. There has been a death in the family.” A careful lie. She hadn’t said whose family.

  “Your brother?” asked the Abbess at once.

  “No, no. A distant relation. But it requires a journey to see to his affairs. I must leave tonight.”

  There followed a pause in which the doctor was certain the noise he was making would bring the old harpy down upon him. But when the Abbess spoke her suspicions were clearly directed elsewhere. “Your brother’s house burns down, and a death in the family? An unfortunate night for the house of Alaghieri. However, I doubt it requires you to break your vow to this house.”

  One last heave, the sound of stone grinding stone. Morsicato shifted the slab, revealing a small crevice beneath. Within it rested a long tube, sealed at both ends. Plucking it out, the doctor quickly stuffed the tube up the sleeve of his gown. Replacing the stone as best he could, he stood and turned.

  The boy at his elbow, just out of the light. “What is it?”

  “You could have helped,” whispered the doctor tartly. “Go back to bed.”

  “It looked like —”

  “Nothing. Get back in bed.”

  “Why, when we’re leaving so soon?” But Cesco did go back to the bed and lay down. Closing his eyes, this time it looked as if he might try to sleep. Infuriating imp!

  Outside the Scriptorium, the argument was gaining heat. Though Antonia would never be deliberately insolent to her superior, there were three subjects she could be obstinate about. The Abbess had hit upon one.

  “No, you may not go. I forbid you to have contact with your brother as long as he is outside of God’s view.”

  “Mother Abbess, surely it cannot be a sin to refuse to over-tax the people of Ravenna. Charity is a Christian act.”

  “Excommunicate is excommunicate. And look at his household. I shudder to think what those boys learn at the knee of that heathen devil. Surely these unfortunate family events are a sign. Now they are under my roof, they will be made good Christians again.”

  “I’m afraid both boys must leave with me. They have been summoned as well. As you say, there is trouble in my family, and we are all needed to set things right. I swear to you, before God, it is only for the children that I ask your leave.”

  A pregnant pause. Then the Abbess sniffed. “You’ve not yet taken your final vows. You are free to go wherever you wish. Now, if you’ll allow us, the sisters and I have duties to attend to.”

  That was ominous. Morsicato didn’t want Antonia to be as unwelcome in this convent as her brother was. Brushing himself off, he stepped into the hallway. “Mother Abbess,” he said, bending into a deep bow. “A troubled evening.”

  She dipped in return. “Indeed. Pray God that the fire does not spread.”

  “It is in God’s hands. But we are fortunate that you are here. I saw the salves your charges were preparing – excellent. Now, may I have a word with you? In private?”

  “I have much to do.”

  “Then I shall accompany you. Suor Beatrice can look after the boys.” He escorted the Abbess back to the main yard, speaking sotto voce as they went. “Mother, I will be brief. I need Suor Beatrice to accompany me to Vicenza. We – she, her brother, and I – are all charged with the safety of the children currently in your care. In short, we do not believe the fire was an accident. As long as they are under your roof, they bring danger to this house.”

  The Abbess was genuinely shocked. “Who would harm children? Even ones as notorious as those two?”

  Morsicato put on a grim face. “Bailardetto’s father is an important man with many enemies. We must take him back to where he can be safe. And of course young Cesco must come as well. You know they are inseparable.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “And you need a nun to join you? What, to bear holy arms?”

  Morsicato chuckled. “No, alas, or else we could take Father Stefano. He has some skill i
n war, I hear. No, we need Suor Beatrice to bear witness to a document. It is a complicated legal matter, I won’t bother to…”

  The Abbess stopped in her tracks. “That’s three stories. A death in the family, the children’s safety, and now some legal quibble. Which is it?”

  “All three, lady,” answered Morsicato tiredly. “All three. The death caused the legal mess, and has led to danger for the children. She will not be gone long. But it is vital to the children that she goes.”

  There followed an extended pause, and Morsicato admired her skill in creating it. She was waiting for him to fill the void, give her more information. He merely waited, immune to that particular trick – his wife did it far better. Finally the Abbess sent him back to inform Suor Beatrice that she was permitted to travel with Ser Dottore Morsicato – not her brother! – and remain absent until the boys were safe, both in body and spirit. Suor Beatrice was to make a vow to that effect. But first the Abbess made Morsicato check over the salves.

  Returning to the Scriptorium, he passed a whispered conversation with Antonia. She began by thanking him, then proceeded to speculate on what might await them in the north until a certain rigidity in Cesco’s posture made him wave her to silence.

  “Gather your things,” he said, passing her the sealed tube. “We leave before dawn.”

  Five

  Verona

  Sunday, 14 July

  1325

  The same rising sun that found Pietro Alaghieri’s house a smouldering wreckage also cast its light on the great palace that now belonged to Mastino della Scala, which he was now strutting through. Strutting was the word, for he was dressed in a multicoloured doublet that made him resemble a peacock in full plume. This, when the other members of his family were dressed in the white of mourning.

  Room after room, Mastino gave orders crisply and efficiently, if without grace. “Remove this, replace this, have this delivered to Alberto’s rooms. Send this as a gift to the Pope, this to the Emperor, that to Robert of Naples.” These acts had clearly been laid out in Mastino’s mind for a long time, and the satisfaction he took in seeing them finally come to pass was manifest.

  Among Mastino’s retinue was Guglielmo del Castelbarco. At the start, he’d been at a loss why he was required to witness these changes, which had little to do with the running of the city government. However, Mastino’s barbed comments, toss-away jests, and shrewd glances quickly informed him that he was here to be put in his place. Castelbarco found himself the butt of a half-dozen jokes to the minor lords who, like licker-fish, had attached themselves to the new Lord of Verona like leeches.

  Arriving at the library, Mastino waved his hands at the shelves of books and pigeonholes of scrolls. “This all has to go.”

  “Why?” asked Castelbarco baldly.

  Mastino threw open the shutters and gazed down at the crowd below, waving. “My brother needs an office. Co-captains we may be, but we can’t be expected to share everything.” A smirk. “If you want it to stay, perhaps you could convince the Anziani to build my brother a public palace of his own.”

  Castelbarco demurred, pointing out deferentially that there was no money for such an enterprise because, of course, all the city’s funds were already engaged in military matters.

  “Then this will all have to go,” repeated Mastino with a grand smile. “Won’t it?”

  “Perhaps Alblivious will learn to read.” This sarcastic comment emanated from Niklas Fuchs, Mastino’s close companion, just arriving.

  Where Mastino had found Fuchs was a subject of some debate within the Anziani. His accent was heavily German, yet his birthplace was unknown, as was his family. A tall man, lean but solid, Fuchs owned an enviable reputation in the lists. Jousting had made him wealthy, so unlike Mastino’s other companions, he was not in search of favours. Rather, he and the Mastiff were kindred spirits.

  Fuchs’ remark caused Mastino to burst with guffaws, though Castelbarco thought perhaps he laughed a trifle too much. The gate having been opened, others threw out comments denigrating Mastino’s older brother, making up in insolence what they lacked in wit.

  “What news from Serravalle?” Mastino’s elder sister was married to Rizardo de Camino, titular lord of that city. When he’d come to power just a year earlier, Rizardo had contemplated changing sides and joining the Guelphs. The Scaliger had quashed that idea, hard. Mastino wanted to be sure that, with the old dog dead, Rizardo had no intent of trying it again.

  “Your sister has him properly cowed,” reported Fuchs. “He’s pledging his loyalty.”

  “He’d better.” Mastino’s eyes rested on a merlin, blindfolded and tethered to his perch. The former owner of this palace had loved his hunting animals, and every room housed at least one of his fabled three hundred hunting birds.

  Reaching out a hand, Mastino caressed the bird’s beak. He hadn’t noticed it wasn’t corded shut. Letting out an angry caw, the bird snapped. Mastino jerked his hand away, but not swiftly enough to avoid losing an inch of flesh from the palm of his hand.

  “Damn!” Cradling his injury, he looked around in vain for the man responsible for the palace menagerie. “Tell Ziliberto to have that animal destroyed. And clear this room out.”

  The Grand Butler of the palace, Tullio d’Isola, had visibly aged over the past two days. “What shall we do with the books?”

  “Burn them.” Accepting a cloth from Fuchs, Mastino pressed it against his bleeding palm. “Or sell them. Makes no difference to me. But get them out of here. Today.” He stalked from the room, trailed by Fuchs and the rest of the leeches.

  The Grand Butler sank heavily upon a box-stool. “We haven’t even buried him!”

  Remaining behind, Castelbarco laid a sympathetic hand on the elderly retainer’s shoulder. “Everything changes. Where’s his brother?”

  “With Signor Alaghieri,” sniffed d’Isola, his disapproval manifest.

  Castelbarco could hardly disagree. If Alberto della Scala was with Jacopo Alaghieri, it meant he was surrounded by whores and empty flagons. “A pity Jacopo di Dante doesn’t take after his father.”

  “Or his brother,” added d’Isola wistfully.

  Plucking a scroll from a pigeonhole, Castelbarco glanced at the title. “Ecerinis.”

  D’Isola nodded. “Maestro Mussato’s play.”

  “I hear it’s stirring.”

  “It was excellently written.” The aged Grand Butler hesitated. “It excoriates the Capitano in the person of Ezzelino the Tyrant.”

  “How he must have loved that.” Grimacing, Castelbarco tucked it back into its cubby. “You seem to have many copies.”

  “The Capitano bought all he could. I believe he intended to destroy them, but the poetry was such that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he hid them here.”

  “A shame.” Castelbarco scanned the shelves. “There are so many treasures in this room. Letters from poets, statesmen – popes, even!”

  “More than you know. Of late he’s been collecting works by the old Romans. Snapping them up sight unseen. No one knows what’s in this library – plays, letters, histories. None of it has been catalogued. He never found the time…”

  Guglielmo stood straighter. “Then we can’t possibly let this library be lost.”

  “But who would risk Mastino’s displeasure by taking it?”

  Castelbarco’s impulse was to do just that. But the young prince would make him pay dearly, one way or another. He offered another solution. “Send it to the friars at the Chapter Library.”

  Possibly the oldest library in Europe, the library at the great Duomo of Verona was originally a Roman scriptorium. The friars there kept original copies of Justinian’s Codes and the Institutiones of Caius. Scholars flocked from the corners of the earth to study the library’s contents. “Tell them it’s a donation from their new Capitano. If we give them to the Church, there’s no way he can protest without soiling the gloss of his new title.”

  Tullio smiled in relief. “I will do jus
t that. Lord Castelbarco, when do you plan to read the will?”

  Not many men knew there was a will. But of course the Grand Butler would. “We must wait for the delegation from Venice to arrive, and Madonna Giovanna ought to be here as well. At the end of the week, probably.” Castelbarco added, “I want him laid to rest first. Lord Bonaccolsi is bringing the body home.”

  With that sobering thought, they girded themselves to follow and hear the rest of the Mastiff’s dispositions.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  At that moment the clutch of riders from Ravenna were already an hour into their journey, the hot summer sun hanging over their shoulders. A troop of horsemen rode before and behind, a gift from the lord Guido Novello. Some had served in campaigns with Ser Alaghieri and wondered if the midnight fire had been an attack. Certainly their presence hinted as much. They had not been told, as Novello had, who it was they were truly protecting.

  The core of the party was made up of Pietro and his sister, Cesco and Detto, the Moor, and Morsicato and his wife. The presence of Esta da Ferrara in Morsicato was a surprise to Pietro, but it was a battle the doctor had lost and Pietro had been too exhausted to relitigate.

  They traveled without servants. Pietro had left his household staff behind to salvage what they could from his house. Although he believed them honest, he’d been duped by a clever servant once before. One in a long list of betrayals.

  As unusual as their party appeared, it was easily explained. Anyone who stopped to look would think Detto and Cesco were Pietro’s pages, al-Dhaamin his servant. For this reason Cesco and Detto rode before Pietro, with the Moor clad in Pietro’s livery just behind him, leading spare horses.

  The twin greyhounds Cato and Virgil ran along with them, helping to keep straying mounts in line. The five knowing adults did the same for the boys. They were afraid that this pair would gallop off on one of their ill-timed larks.

  So far there had been nothing untoward. Detto was all curiosity about their destination, but Cesco seemed entirely unconcerned. Before leaving the convent, he had wet his eyelashes and stuck out his lip to one of the sisters, wailing his lost possessions. As a result he carried an old lute, which he strummed absently as he sat his saddle.