Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “No.”

  “It has to be Mastino!” cried Antony in disgust. “He’s the only one who stood to gain.”

  “Maybe,” said Pietro doubtfully.

  “Why keep it a secret?” asked Mariotto. “Why not tell the world? We could string up Mastino once and for all. At least send him into exile.”

  Pietro said nothing. In truth, he’d considered blaming Mastino, if only to thwart Cangrande’s plans to set the Mastiff at Cesco’s neck. But they lacked proof. And whatever they did, Cangrande would be three steps ahead. Sometimes the best way to deal with this family was to wait and see. Katerina had just provided a strong reminder of that.

  Yet – perhaps he could plant the seeds in his two oldest friends. “Cangrande knows and hasn’t done anything. I don’t see how things would change if it became public. But the council should know.”

  “They’ll be eating out of this one’s palm after tonight,” said Mariotto. “I’ve never seen riding like that.”

  “Uncle Tharwat saw such tricks once,” said Cesco. His shakes seemed to be behind him. “He told me. In Damascus. What were you doing there again?”

  “Picking apricots,” replied Tharwat.

  Cesco was recovering. Whatever the Moor had fed him, it was giving him strength. Pietro ruffled his hair. “You little menace. How long?”

  Cesco had the good grace to appear abashed. “Almost a year. In those few moments when I’d eluded my Shadow. My arms aren’t long, but I’m small so I don’t get hit by the horse’s legs.” His words came in short bursts, quite unlike his usual flow of speech. But the grin was entirely his own. “Never tried it without my harness. Glad it worked.”

  A cry from upstairs caused Mariotto to glance awkwardly at Antony. “I hope congratulations are in order.”

  Antony threw civility in Mari’s face. “My line will bury yours.”

  Mari’s face hardened at once. “Obviously your nephew learned his manners from you. Your line isn’t much to brag on.”

  Cesco shakily climbed to his feet. “Dear lord, do they never stop?”

  “I wish.” Pietro reached out a hand. “Let me help you.”

  “I can manage.”

  The Moor stared down at his charge. “Are you recovered?”

  “Enough to slip away from this venomous cant.” Cesco looked sideways at both Montecchio and Capulletto. “Vieni a veder Montecchi e Cappelletti, uom sanza cura: color gia tristi, e questi con sospetti. I came, I saw, but I could not conquer. So I leave.” Cesco headed back towards the festivities, Tharwat right behind.

  Pietro started to follow, but was forestalled by Antony. “What was that, a quote?”

  Mariotto snorted. “Feh! If you read, you’d know.”

  Pietro sighed. “A line my father wrote, a very long time ago.” He stalked away, leaving the two enemies standing nose to nose in the dim hallway. Above them little Tessa was again ripped through with screaming as she brought her daughter forth into the world.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “Here’s our chief guest,” called Cangrande as Cesco appeared from the balcony doors. Men made room for him, clapping and whistling.

  “I doubt he could have been forgotten,” said Petruchio. At his side, Kate added, “Not for long, in any case.”

  Guessing her identity, Cesco bowed to her. “Donna Bonaventura, this is your namesake’s day. Thank you for sharing it.”

  Kate brushed back her russet hair. “I am only a Bonaventura by marriage.”

  “And I a della Scala by default. We are kindred souls, known for our masters, not our selves.”

  “Don’t go calling me her master,” said Petruchio. “I had her do it once, and she’s never stopped since!”

  “I obey your every command, my lord,” said Kate, a twinkle in her eye. “Master Francesco, I believe there is another Katerina here you should be addressing. She waits for you.”

  Cesco turned dutifully towards Detto’s mother, who rose. Cesco bowed deeply. “Madonna, it has been far too long.”

  “Nearly three years.” Brushing her fingers through his hair, Katerina addressed the crowd. “Before my illness, I went with my son to visit him, in secret.”

  “Of course, her true identity was kept from me,” said Cesco, continuing the tale. “For a long time I thought she must be my mother. Now I know I am not so fortunate. Lady, please do not stand on my account.” Taking her arm, he guided her back to her seat and sat on the floor beside her.

  Pietro watched from the balcony door. He’s good. First the boy had showed off his physical prowess and daring. Now he was charming them, just moments after shaking and feeling wretched. He never ceases to amaze me. Yet my heart breaks for him, over and over. Why is that?

  Katerina was examining his face. “Handsome. In a rather feral way.”

  “He needs a haircut,” observed Cangrande. “He looks like a dancing girl.”

  “Only because I am one.” Cesco leapt up and launched into an elaborate series of steps without faltering. Feeling a tear welling in his eye, Pietro blinked it away.

  Over and over.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  The rest of the night was a hot blizzard of conversations and asides, cheers and proclamations. During the course of it, Pietro kept himself at a little remove, mostly to keep an eye on Cesco, but also because he was still bitterly disappointed about Borachio’s failure to recognize Cangrande’s voice.

  Yet the night still afforded him one hope of tracking down the man behind the poison. That hope lay with Passerino Bonaccolsi. Pietro just had to wait for an opportune moment.

  It came when Passerino stood and said, “I have an announcement! It will seem a little anti-climactic after all this excitement – but I’m to be married!” There were wry cheers and well-meant jeers as everyone asked to whom. “To Ailisa d’Este, sister to Rainaldo and Obizzo. Sews up a nice little backyard alliance with the city of Ferrara. And she’s not hard to look at, thank God!”

  There were salutes and oaths and much more wine, Cangrande leading them, though to Pietro’s eye the Scaliger seemed bemused by the match.

  Having made his announcement, Passerino slipped down the servants’ stair to make water outside. Recognizing his moment, Pietro fell in step behind the Mantuan. “I need to clear the pipes. Have the same idea?”

  “More like the need made itself known.” Passerino was weaving a little. “Capulletto’s wine goes down too easily. Even if it is horribly watered-down.”

  Once in the yard, they took places side by side and fumbled with their points before relieving themselves. “Congratulations, by the way.”

  “What? Oh, yes. Thank you.”

  Pietro stared at the wall in front of him, as protocol dictated. “You’ve had an interesting couple of weeks.”

  “Not as interesting as yours. Raising Cangrande’s brat – that’s something!”

  “Something,” agreed Pietro. “The news of his death turned our world upside-down.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “How did that rumour even get started?”

  “What? Oh, I can’t talk about that.” Passerino gave Pietro a conspiratorial wink.

  “Ooo!” said Pietro, as if he gleaned Bonaccolsi’s meaning. “He started it himself!”

  “Shhh! That’s a secret!” Passerino sighed, placing one hand against the wall. “I thought it was a good prank.”

  “A dangerous prank. It kicked up a lot of chaos.”

  “You know, I did point that out. But he was determined. Damn. Need more light out here. Think I’m hitting my shoes.”

  “And you didn’t know anything about Cesco?” pressed Pietro.

  “What? No. Not until we came back to Verona and stumbled into the whole hornet’s nest.” Finished, Passerino retied his laces.

  Pietro started doing the same. “Were you with him the whole time?”

  “Oh yes. We laughed for days, watching everyone scramble. A great joke.” He patted Pietro on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, lad.”

 
; Passerino stumbled off, leaving Pietro wondering if he had learned anything, and which hand the Mantuan had patted him with.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  The revelry continued unabated into the small hours. Cesco was witty and lively, displaying no further sign of weakness. Twice he was persuaded to sing in concert with Manuel, the Master of Revels. They took turns at instruments, throwing them back and forth as challenges until each was playing three at once. An impromptu dance found men capering with men to off-set the lack of women. At the end of it all the dwarf bowed to the boy, sleeve-bells jangling. “I would sell my soul for such a voice.”

  “For such a price, you may have it and welcome.” Cesco kissed the old fool on both cheeks. They were much of a height.

  Pietro informed Morsicato of Cesco’s episode, which kept the doctor hovering with hawk eyes for any sign of fatigue. The Moor, too, was never far away. Twice more he gave the boy some little brown wafer to eat, followed by a pull from the flask.

  “What’s he giving him?” whispered Pietro to Morsicato.

  “I have no idea,” grumbled the doctor. “But I don’t like it.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s helping him to get through.”

  “Hmph. You’d think he was the doctor, not me.”

  With the cessation of the cries from above, the only dampening on the evening were the dour faces of Capulletto and Montecchio. That, and the grim mood of Bailardino Nogarola. He put up a decent front, smiling when spoken to. But when not engaged, his face returned to an unusually austere countenance.

  Cangrande himself broke up the evening. “It is so late it will be early, by and by. We should impose no more on our host, whose happiness has caused his wife so much distress.”

  “No no, my lord!” cried Antony. “She’s a hearty girl! Stay!”

  “If I do, I’ll have to be carried home in a cart! So much to celebrate – an heir to each of us, my sister returned to me, Ser Alaghieri as well, a wonderful romp through the streets, and the best food I’ve tasted since I died! Truly a night to be fabled in song. You hear, Manuel! I want a song!” Manuel was under a table. “Yes, a song! And paintings! We’ll have Taddeo back to repaint your walls, Antony, and this time it’ll be naked girls and flowing wine, a Dionysian Bacchanal!”

  “A fitting way to honour a holy man,” said Cangrande’s sister, quite sober.

  “As fitting as honouring Christ with a cross,” said the Moor. He meant it only for Cesco’s ears, but Cangrande repeated it, adding, “How would it be if we only honoured every man for the way he died?”

  Cesco said brightly, “Then every man would get what he deserves.”

  It was generally agreed to be the wittiest remark of the evening.

  IV

  Towering in Pride of Place

  Twenty-Nine

  Emerging from Capulletto’s tunnel, Pietro and company were waylaid by one of Cangrande’s servants. “Ser Alaghieri, your presence is requested at the palace.”

  Yawning, Pietro blinked. “Mine alone?”

  “Yours specifically.”

  Nodding tiredly, Pietro continued to walk along with Tharwat, Morsicato, and Cesco. Detto and Valentino trailed along behind them after saying goodnight to their mother, who said she would see them in the morning. A morning not so very far away. Bailardino had already left, asking Pietro to take all three boys back to their over-crowded house.

  Once on the street, Cesco became a limp doll, muscles replaced by straw. As Tharwat lifted him off his feet, the boy closed his eyes, suddenly a babe in arms again.

  “What do you think he wants?” asked Morsicato softly.

  Pietro didn’t want to speculate in front of the boys. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

  They passed through the Piazza delle Erbe, under the monstrous bone of la Costa, and into the Piazza dei Signori. On the far side of it, Pietro broke away. “I’ll see you. Cesco, you’re not fooling me. Be sure to sleep.”

  From behind shut eyelids, Cesco said in a sing-song voice, “Nor riddles, nor mysterious parents, nor even the chance of flinging mud in Mastino’s face, could keep me from my bed.”

  Pietro glanced at Tharwat. “You have a package to retrieve from the friar.” As the Moor nodded, Cesco raised a curious eyebrow over one closed lid. Let him wonder.

  Passing between palace guards bearing halberds and axes, Pietro climbed the stairs to the first floor. He was so tired that at first the voices didn’t penetrate his consciousness. When they did, he stopped in his tracks.

  “Dammit, Kat! I’ve tolerated a lot of nonsense between you and him, but this is the limit! Two years! Two years denying your children! Denying me, your husband!”

  Katerina’s tone was her most infuriating, completely calm yet sharp. Pietro had heard her use it before, but never with her husband. “You accuse me of feigning the stroke?”

  “You damn well didn’t just recover in the last two weeks! How long have you been able to—”

  “A short while,” said Katerina soothingly. “It’s been slow progress, and it tires me. I wanted to surprise you.”

  Frozen on the stair outside, Pietro was considering turning right around when a voice in his ear said, “Quite a row.”

  Startled, Pietro lost his footing on the stair. Cangrande caught his arm. “I’ll have to create a new order of knight just for you. The Keeper of the Keyhole.”

  Flushing, Pietro removed his arm from Cangrande’s grip. “You asked me here.”

  “I did no such thing.” Cangrande glanced at the door. “It must have been some other in my name. My apologies. And in fairness, they can be heard in the Antipodes. Well, come along. She’s summoned us. I’m dying to know what she wants, aren’t you?”

  The Scaliger happened to be standing beside a likeness of himself painted on the wall by Maestro Giotto. The look of fierce joy on the face of the frescoed Cangrande he rode to battle was a stark contrast to the grim expression the living one wore as he braced himself to wage an entirely different kind of war.

  Cangrande pushed wide the double doors without knocking. Following, Pietro saw a red-faced Bailardino opposite his wife, who was bolstered by a cane. “Ah,” said Katerina, “the rest of the hanging party. If Ser Alaghieri will be so good as to close the doors, you may both join my husband in venting your spleen.”

  “I have none to vent,” said her brother, languidly seating himself on a box-bench. “But I will gladly watch.”

  Throwing up his hands, Bailardino fell into a chair. “I’m sick with it! All of it. Kat, Francesco – I’m tired. Of you both. I love you, but – Kat, the children! Is it worth depriving them of a mother just to win this endless—”

  “I know, dear.” Katerina crossed to scratch the nape of his neck with the fingers of her good hand. “I admit, it looks like I’ve been playing you for a fool.”

  Bail shrugged her off. “Because you have.”

  Pietro had always liked Bailardino, sometimes envying him, sometimes admiring him. Never before had Pietro pitied him.

  “Not intentionally,” protested Katerina. “You know how I hate solicitude. I wanted to be fully well before I returned to the public sphere.”

  Cangrande pointedly studied her cane. “I take it you were thwarted. Or was the opportunity of stealing my thunder too much?”

  “Not at all. As pleasing as it might have been, I have never been one for creating a scene. That was always your way. Or has resurrection changed your nature?”

  Bailardino waved an angry hand. “There you go again!”

  Cangrande clucked his tongue. “Yes, Kat, please. You’re upsetting Ser Alaghieri. For God’s sake, boy, sit down. This isn’t formal court. This is family.”

  Pietro remained on his feet. “I’m fine.”

  “Well I’m not,” said Bailardino. “Thank God for you, Pietro. You took the boy away – dammit! Tomorrow I’m sending both my boys back to Ravenna with you.”

  “No you’re not.” The smoothness vanished from Katerina’s tone. “Cesco will need all his frie
nds around him.”

  “Besides, Pietro’s not going back to Ravenna.” Cangrande was mockingly sympathetic. “There’s nothing for him there, anyway.”

  “Bail darling, I truly did want to surprise you first. But my plans were upset by a new element. While I sat in my room, listening to the reports of my brother’s miraculous resurrection, I had a visitor.”

  Cangrande did not speak, yet from across the room Pietro could feel him tense.

  Bailardino frowned. “A visitor? You won’t let anyone —”

  “She is unique,” said Katerina. “I had to hear her out.”

  “She? She who?”

  Katerina’s eyes may have been on her husband, but her answer was for her brother. “Francesco’s mother.”

  “His mother?” asked Bail in confusion. First he looked at Cangrande. Then realization hit. “You mean little Cesco? His mother is alive? She’s here?”

  Cangrande shook his head. “Don’t look at me, Bail. I didn’t send for her.”

  “No,” said Pietro. “Donna Katerina did.”

  “She would have come regardless.” Taking a seat beside her husband, Katerina laid her cane across her lap. “Thinking you dead, Francesco, she wanted to be certain her son received his due. That was the bargain, after all. She was concerned there would be trouble with the will. As you must admit, there was. Her intent was to testify in court as to who Cesco’s father was. By the time she arrived, you were alive again and Cesco nowhere in sight. She was naturally worried, but didn’t wish to create a scene. So she came to me.”

  “Ironic, that.” The Scaliger sent a meaningful glance at Pietro, who knew Katerina had arranged an attack on baby Cesco while he was still in his mother’s arms. “And where is the good lady now?”

  “Here, in the palace. I took the liberty of setting her up in the guest-suite disguised as one of my servants.” Sensing her husband was somewhat mollified, Katerina gestured to Pietro. “Ser Alaghieri can tell you if it’s her. He has met her before.”

  Under Bailardino’s stare, Pietro had to nod. “We weren’t introduced, but I’ve seen her.” It was true. He’d met Cesco’s mother on a stormy night, long ago. His recollection of her was as a beauty, but he might have romanticized her in his memory. Lord knows I’ve been guilty of that before.