by David Blixt
“He’s the one who always steered me away from you, and his men were camped around mine. A neat trick.”
“But he never said anything outright?” pressed Cangrande.
“No. No, it was Federigo who contacted me.”
The breath hissed from between Cangrande’s teeth. “Of course. The last Scaliger standing. It’s almost clever, except that Verona will never follow him. What did he say to you, Antony? How did he think he could manage it?”
“With my support. He…” Capulletto tried to speak more, but his words came out in an exasperated sigh.
Cangrande thought he understood. “Extortion, obviously. Whatever it is, Antony, I pardon you. Though I might not have if you hadn’t goaded Montecchio into being my personal guard. What made you do it?”
It is difficult to shrug while riding a horse, but Antony managed something of the sort. “You needed protection. If I volunteered to guard you, the conspirators would have ordered me to do the deed myself. Federigo is in my house at this moment, holding my family hostage.”
“And using your house as a base,” said Cangrande, thinking aloud. “Not bad. A stone’s throw from the palaces, and your home is walled in, so he and a dozen men might go unnoticed.” Cangrande saw Capulletto’s expression and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’ll free them. How did it start? What was their toehold?”
Colouring again, Antony spoke in fits and starts that had nothing to do with the rhythm of the horse. “Some – business dealings. With Padua. Before the truce.” He took the plunge. “Arms. I sold arms to Padua.”
Cangrande chose to laugh. “No wonder they moved on you! Technically, that’s treason. How did they learn of it?”
Antony’s voice was almost inhuman. “I imagine my in-laws let something slip. It’s how they forced me to marry their daughter.”
Cangrande’s eyebrows shot up. “Another riddle solved! It’s shaping into quite a day.”
Capulletto cleared his throat. “I am at fault for not braving all and coming right to you. If I have to die, you’ll get no argument.”
“O Antony, do not beg your death of me! We are all guilty of a little treason, now and again. I’ve done far worse, I assure you. And you quite made up for it by making sure I was protected. I confess I’m surprised you chose Mariotto as my champion.”
“He’s the only one I could have baited into it. And he’d die to protect a friend in battle. I know.”
“That’s very honest, Antony, as well as clever. I like you the more for it. Should we tell Mariotto your high opinion of him?” Before Antony could protest, the Scaliger swept on. “No, we couldn’t without mentioning the extortion. A shame! It might soften his heart towards you. It’s far past time the two of you made up!”
“Maybe,” allowed Capulletto. “But not this minute.”
“Quite right. First and foremost, we have to get back to Verona and make certain your family is safe. And put down cousin Federigo’s little revolt!”
♦ ◊ ♦
Verona
Cesco and Detto arrived in Verona three hours past midday. The city was in the midst of celebrating San Martino’s day, and there were roars of cheers for Castelbarco, being feasted in the Piazza dei Signori with his wife and grown son. Like Cangrande and Bailardino, he had been knighted on this day, and here in Verona he had the celebrations all to himself.
The boys avoided the central square. Nor did they head for Capulletto’s house, which Cesco said was their ultimate destination. Instead they skirted the eastern edge of the Adige.
“How do you know Federigo’s at Capulletto’s house?” demanded Detto again. “Or even that it’s him?”
“I have powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men,” replied Cesco mysteriously. “Also I’m a good guesser. Federigo is the only Scaliger who won’t be at Modena, and Capulletto was anxiously trying to tell Cangrande something the other night. Bonaccolsi stopped him with a very heavy-handed quote. I’m surprised I didn’t see it all then. Keep your hat on, and your head low. If we’re recognized, our ship is sunk. This way.”
Detto followed Cesco down a winding sidestreet. “Why not go to Castelbarco”
Cesco was already turning at the next bend. “First, if I’m wrong – don’t look so shocked, it happens!”
“I’m just shocked you’re admitting it.”
Cesco blew a raspberry. “Figs. If I’m wrong, which I’m not, and Federigo is somewhere else, which he isn’t, we’ll have let him know we’re looking for him. Also we will have scared all the nice people in the Capulletti household. On the other hand, if I’m right and Castelbarco breaks down the front gate, there’s no telling what a bunch of desperate men trapped in that house will do. Again, women and servants suffer. Better to sneak in and find the lay of the land.” Cesco beamed at Detto. “Besides, who do you trust more – the adults, or us?”
“Us, definitely.” Detto grinned. “We just broke someone out of a Venetian prison!”
“Out of the Doge’s Palace,” corrected Cesco. “Has a grander ring to it. Here we are.” He reined in half a block from the gate to the convent of Santa Maria in Organo. “Go and ask for Suor Beatrice.”
“Why don’t you?” demanded Detto.
Cesco rolled his eyes. “Because, dunce, we’re on a secret mission. If I go, they’ll recognize me for sure. They might not you. Even if they do, it won’t cause as much of a stir.”
“Don’t call me dunce, you moron. What should I tell her?”
“Exactly what I told you. Then ask if she’s willing to take a risk and go call on the household. We’re going to need a distraction.” Cesco produced a small sticky wafer and popped a piece of it into his mouth. “If she says yes, tell her to go now. If she says no, leave as quick as you can. She’ll run right to Castelbarco, and we won’t have much time.”
“What’s that you’re eating?”
“Nothing,” said Cesco, stuffing the sticky remnants into the leather case on his belt.
Detto held out his hand. “I’m hungry. Give me some.”
“It’s medicine,” said Cesco. “For the poisoning, the after-effects.”
“Oh.” Detto withdrew his hand. “Where are you going to be?”
“I’ll wait at the Torre dei Lamberti. From there we can climb to the roof overlooking the Capulletti house. Meet me there, no matter what she says. Go on!” Cesco turned the horse’s head and rode off.
Detto watched his friend go, then rang the convent’s bell, hoping to gain God’s attention as well.
Forty-Six
On the floor of his cousin Giulietta’s nursery, trussed like a Christmas hog with a rag stuffed in his mouth in place of an apple, Thibault Capulletto watched the comings and goings of the household servants with what he hoped were withering looks. He’d been allowed the same freedom until he had tried to stab their captor’s neck. That had earned him a beating. When he’d tried again, he’d been bound hand and foot and tossed into Giulietta’s room, high in the tower. When he hadn’t stopped yelling, even after a repeated kicking, he’d been gagged. So now there was nothing left to do but glare at the servants who weren’t fighting back, weren’t even trying to do anything but stay alive. Cowards!
It was loud in the nursery. Babies are sensitive to their environs, and the tension in the air caused a great deal of wailing. Angelica sang softly to the infant at her breast, but every few minutes one of the mercenaries would come in and tell her to keep it quiet, or else. As they left Thibault tried to do with his eyes what he wanted to do with his dagger.
The most recent time the order had come, Thibault had waited for the mercenary to leave, then writhed and kicked until Angelica noticed him. “I’m sorry, my lovie!” she’d told him. “If I let you loose and you get caught, they’ll know who did it, and they might hurt the girls. O, if only you weren’t such a hothead, you might have slipped away and spread word!”
Run? Was she insane? It would just the thing his uncle could use to keep him from his birthright – a
n accusation of cowardice. And clearly this was Uncle Antony’s fault. He wasn’t a real man, to have let his home be taken over in secret like this!
A bell rung below, meaning someone was at the gate. Spread the alarum! thought Thibault fiercely. Take the risk! But he knew the porter was a coward. It was infuriating for ten year-old Thibault to know he was the only real man in the house.
He imagined what was happening in the tunnel three floors below: the porter shambling to the small door within the large wooden gate, a knife at his back. The courtyard filled with a dozen mercenaries, surrounding the household staff. Meanwhile the leader would climb to threaten his best hostages.
On cue, Federigo della Scala rose from the open staircase into the highest room of the house. Behind him was a mercenary, dragging Tessa by the arm. Even in distress, she was beautiful. Generally Thibault had little use for women, but motherhood had endowed her with a kind of steel he hadn’t seen in her before.
It was evident now. Her eyes didn’t go to Angelica or to her child, but to Thibault. This would never have happened if you were my wife! He imagined he saw the same thought in her eyes as she was tossed into a corner chair.
Federigo strode to the window overlooking the street. His henchman asked, “Can you see who it is?”
Federigo craned his neck. “A nun, I think. Alone. Who is she?” Tessa shrugged defiantly and Federigo slapped her across the cheek. Thibault writhed as Angelica gasped, burying her face in the suckling baby’s neck. “Who is she?”
Still a few months shy of her thirteenth birthday, Tessa’s steel only went so far. “Suor Beatrice. A friend of my husband’s.”
“Will she want to come in? What does she want?”
Angelica answered for her mistress. “She’s here to ask after the little ones, that’s all. A courtesy.”
“And if she’s told to go away?” asked Federigo.
“She’ll go, and come back tomorrow.”
Federigo considered, still peeking out of the tower window. “Go, make sure she’s gotten rid of.” The henchman trotted down the stairs, leaving Federigo alone with Thibault, the women, and the children. As a precaution the traitor drew his long dagger, letting it hang loosely by his side, a passive threat.
No one said anything. The tension was as thick as it had been when the armed men had first arrived the day before, under cover of darkness. Federigo leaned out the window. “Good. She’s going. Lucky for all of you.”
Thibault heard light footfalls on the stair. Still watching the nun suspiciously, Federigo said, “What did she want?”
“She bore a sad message, cos,” replied a laconic young voice from the lip of the stairwell. “No coup d’état, I’m afraid. Just a coupé.”
Gasping, Federigo whirled about. Had his mouth been clear, Thibault too would have gasped. The Scaliger’s heir was leaning against the rail of the stair he had just ascended. Thin and wild-eyed, when he saw Thibault lying trussed on the floor his features became darkly amused. “O mighty Ratcatcher, how low have we fallen?”
“What are you doing here?” demanded Federigo breathlessly.
“A family reunion, of course! I got your invitation and decided I couldn’t refuse! Ah ah!” he said, wagging an admonishing finger. “Don’t call for your men. Before they arrived, I’d have your guts out for my lute strings.” He showed his own dagger, just as long and wickedly sharp as Federigo’s. “I’m young and much faster than you. Besides, by now our sweet Suor Beatrice has informed Lord Castelbarco and the city militia is descending upon this place in droves. Soon your men will have other concerns.”
Federigo’s mouth was working on soundless protests as Cesco swept into the room, taking in his surroundings. “Really, cos, I must commend your choice of bolt-holes. Enclosed and thus invisible to prying eyes, yet within a shout of the palace. The only mistake is something you couldn’t possibly have guessed. You see, I’m very familiar with the rooftops hereabouts. Getting in was no problem – a cat once showed me the way.” He sent the ghost of a wink Thibault’s way.
Federigo held his knife towards Tessa. “Don’t come any closer, I’ll kill her!”
“Lord Capulletto will be devastated. He’ll have to find another child to warm his sheets. Maybe one of Petruchio’s girls this time?” But Cesco stopped walking.
Federigo stared at Cesco as if the boy could be killed by willpower alone. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Oh really, it was bound to come out, one way or another! Such a shabby, bungled, hole-in-the-wall affair! I’m stunned you’ve lasted as long has you have. The Venetians know, Passerino knows, Capulletto knows. One of them was bound to talk. Cangrande is outside the city walls, waiting to hear you’re dead. Passerino is deposed, Capulletto in chains, Dandolo in disgrace. They’re all talking to save their necks. You know the old saying – two men can keep a secret, when one is dead.”
Cesco took a lazy step forward, coming within striking distance of Federigo. The older man seemed frozen, fascinated by the way those feverish green eyes were boring into him. “Here’s what I say – don’t give the Scaliger the satisfaction. He’s far too smug in his certainty that you’ll die, either by Castelbarco’s hand or your own. That’s why I snuck in here, to tell you to give up. Publicly. Demand a trial. Air every bit of dirty laundry you know. Don’t give the Capitano the joy of seeing you dead. Make him squirm in the best way possible – hurt his pride, wound his vanity, make it bleed.”
“You’re lying.” The words were barely a whisper. “He’s in Modena, he’s going to die in the battle.”
“Sorry, that’s one battle that will never be fought. To forestall it, he took it upon himself to negotiate a peace. Bologna gets Modena, in return for some money and a few smaller castles further north. A bad bargain, but it got him back here in time to deal with you.”
“I am going to be Capitano,” protested Federigo feebly.
“Tch! You barely escaped with your life last time. The condottieri will never support you now that Cangrande is back – he pays their contracts, not you. The real Veronese soldiers despise you, while the people believe you were responsible for the summer’s chaos. Now, you and I both know that mess was Mastino’s fault. If you give up, the Anziani will be forced to give you a real trial, during which you can speak the truth, explain how you were used, how betrayed, how cast aside.”
Caught in the grip of those bright eyes, Federigo was wavering. Thibault took his chance. Kicking out with both legs, he put his heels into the back of Federigo’s knees. Cesco instantly lunged forward to strike the killing blow, but Federigo’s doublet was thick and Cesco’s long dagger caught the fabric, dragging the point aside before it could pierce flesh.
Angelica tried to run past the stumbling Federigo. His flailing hand grasped her mantle and he gave her head a clout with his dagger’s pommel. As she fell to the ground Federigo snatched the baby from her arms and put his back to the wall, his knife at the infant girl’s throat.
“Giulietta!” shrieked Tessa. The infant’s answering wail was almost soundless except when she gasped for breath.
Thibault twisted around, trying to see what was happening. Cesco was standing entirely still, staring at the knife against the infant’s throat. Federigo grasped the squirming, screaming baby tight. “I’ll kill her!”
A pounding on the gates below made them all jump. The next moment they heard a clatter as city soldiers emerged from neighbouring buildings, spears threatening the mercenaries below.
“It’s over,” said Cesco looking even more wild-eyed, shivering and sweating all at once. What’s wrong with him? thought Thibault. Attack, attack now, while he’s dazed!
But Cesco’s only move was to lower his dagger a fraction, taking it off the line of attack. “Don’t hurt the child. Don’t.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was a plea. Thibault wanted to spit in disgust.
Hearing footsteps below, Federigo shouted, “Stay back or Capulletto’s girl dies!” Instantly the footsteps stilled, repla
ced by murmurings that drifted up to them.
Cesco roused from whatever trance he’d been in. “You’re a fool, Federigo. So far you haven’t killed anyone, they might let you live. If the child dies, you’re sure to hang. Tortured, flogged, racked, unhanded, castrated, and hanged. They’ll let the father take his choice of revenges and then the women will pluck out your eyes and your tongue and make you eat them.”
Thibault twisted again in frustration. Stop talking at him, you idiot, and attack! In his struggles, Thibault’s feet made a thumping sound on the tile floor.
Federigo thought it was a foot on the stair. “Don’t come up here!”
Thinking to frighten the traitor, Thibault thumped his feet again. Several things happened at once. Federigo threw the baby at Cesco. Tessa screamed as Cesco dropped his blade to catch the little girl, who had ceased her low wail. Cesco had to fall to his knees to catch her, and in so doing he escaped Federigo’s desperate lunge by an inch. Tessa was out of her chair, shrieking with all the power in her twelve year old lungs. The other infant in far the crib echoed her, and their combined screams roused the nurse where she lay dazed on the floor.
Leaping desperately past them all, Federigo fled down the stairs. There were shouts from below, the sounds of a struggle. Ignoring the noise, Cesco yanked the rag from Thibault’s mouth and pressed it against the baby’s neck.
Instantly the cloth went from white to a blossoming crimson. Federigo’s knife had done its work.
“Tessa!” croaked Thibault. “Tessa, untie me!”
Tessa was staring at the baby, whose mouth was beginning to show little pink bubbles. Blood pooled on the tiled floor.
Angelica rose to her knees, shaking her head like a dog. Then she saw the baby and screamed. Thibault struggled against his bonds, calling out her name and Tessa’s. But everyone was focused on the bleeding baby.
The room flooded with men. A bald man and a blackamoor and someone who looked like a young Dante, plus several soldiers, all packing themselves into this cramped little room.