by David Blixt
Positions were chosen by lot, six rows of four horsemen riding abreast. The flag dropped and everyone kicked, their breath misting the air. The race was made more treacherous by the fresh snow on the ground. The horses were shod with heavier shoes, the better to not slip on the cobblestone and marble route. One horse and rider did just that, ending both the horse's life and the rider's ability to walk for months to come. It was a knight from Brindisi come for the revels, and he was bitterly cursing the snow as he was taken to his inn in a cart.
Cesco shrugged. “If you run the race, you run the risk.”
Still getting to know one another, Cesco and Abastor were not the victors. That prize went to Detto and his dun-coloured Vegliantino.
“That's twice in a week,” groused Cesco. “I'm beginning to think about arranging a little accident for you before the Palio.”
“If you do, I'll make sure you get the same. Only it won't be an accident.”
Second place went to Salvatore. To him, Cesco was more magnanimous. “Well run! Had Detto not caught that last turn, you would have taken the spurs.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the Paduan evenly as Cesco passed him a bag of silver.
Detto received the congratulations of his peers with a wan smile that disappeared when Cesco made a show of presenting him with the golden spurs. “This Orlando came in first, not last, and still has his wits about him! Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” said Detto simply, face expressionless. It was up to Cesco to grab his wrist and hoist the trophy triumphantly into the air, allowing the others to cheer.
Young Petruchio was shaking his head. “The Veronese are not doing well. Twice, we lose to the cat-eater.”
Hortensio agreed. “Perhaps we should devise a sport that a cat cannot win.”
Grins, nodding heads. Cesco said, “Very well. What shall it be? Something that the horse cannot win for him. A wrestling match – no, he's enormous. A cat-batting? A goose pull?”
“Goose pull! Goose pull!” roared the Rakehells.
“Could it not be a battle of wits?” pleaded Benedick plaintively. “Something I have a chance of winning.”
Cesco began to recite: “ 'The voice of the wild goose, caught by the bait, cries out…' ” He stopped suddenly, his eyes glazing over. Then he shook himself. “But what can the Egyptians of old teach us that we do not already know? We shall order the good Ziliberto to find us a prime goose and we shall pull it, or the goose shall pull us, and in the end we shall end with our ends ended and our bottoms bottomed. Which is as much to say—”
“Goosed,” groaned Benedick.
Cesco grinned. “Why do you honk so, gander?”
“He who would pun would pick a pocket.”
The jests that followed had them all grinning, the laughter lasting right up to the moment that Cesco and Detto returned to the house on the via Pigna. Doffing their outer wear, they were greeted by Cesco's new steward.
“Suor Beatrice called, my lord,” said Fidelio, handing over a slip of paper. “She left this.”
Cesco read it at a glance, cursed, and threw his hands dramatically into the air. “Fine! So long as she doesn't bring her wretched Abbess with her.” With that curious declaration, he stormed off to change clothes.
Hurrying after, Detto found Cesco in his bedroom. “What is it?”
“A holy houseguest,” muttered Cesco, pulling off his hose so forcefully that it tore. “A nunnish neighbour. A lordly lodger. A saintly sojourner.” There was a knock on the door. “What!”
The door opened and a woman gasped. Cesco snarled, “I said 'what,' not 'come in'!”
The door closed again at once. Through it Dahna said, “You're not having another feast, are you, lord?”
“What do you care if I do?” demanded Cesco.
“It's my lady – your wife. She got into your pine nut brittle and is now unwell. Too much sweet.”
“I thought I smelled vomit on the stairs,” said Cesco unconcernedly.
“Yes,” said Dahna through the door. “Well, she's napping, so any noise…”
“We're going out,” said Detto before Cesco could erupt.
The chastened nurse disappeared, followed by Cesco's shout of, “And keep her away from my pine nut brittle!” He continued to mutter, throwing his damp clothes across the room. “There's nothing that's actually mine. Why should there be? I mean, it's only my house, my name, my life. But no, people come and stay whenever they choose, eat my treats, steal my pleasures. Fut!”
“I can go,” said Detto softly.
Cesco froze, then took a deep breath. “No. You're entitled. And you don't steal from me,” he added, pulling on fresh hose.
“I would, but I don't like the taste of it,” said Detto. “I'm guessing your aunt Antonia has invited herself to stay?”
“To help look after my wife, she says. In actuality, to muzzle me. And how can I refuse?”
“You could make the little girl stay with her parents until she's of age.”
“Can't,” said Cesco, pulling on a new tunic. “She's got to live in my house until she bears a child. Then there's no chance it's not mine. The Capitano wants no doubt about the bloodline. They tell me seven or eight years and she'll be ready, but I think I'll wait a little longer.” He shrugged as he pulled tall boots over the fresh hose. “Whatever. I plan to be away as much as possible for the next ten years – we've got wars to wage, fiends to foil, and stars to startle. You won't credit it, but I'd much prefer to do battle with a sword rather than words. Hm – all you have to do is move the 's' and words become a sword. So the pen is mate to the sword, not its master. Or perhaps it means that words said are equal to a sword – dead!” He held up his hands apologetically. “Took it too far. But it was a good start to something…God dammit!!!” he added, leaping a foot into the air and clutching his chest as the fluffy cat Felix streaked past his legs.
Detto couldn't restrain a laugh. Cesco gave him the fig.
♦ ◊ ♦
AFTER DELIVERING HER MESSAGE, Antonia returned to the convent of Santa Maria in Organo. Entering, she took a breath of homecoming. Of safety. For three years she had lived within these walls, and for two of those years she had served as personal aide to Abbess Verdiana. Her call here was twofold – first, to check upon the progress of the Bibles being lovingly copied by her fellow sisters, a lucrative project that also brought great esteem to the holy house. Second, she had promised to report to her mistress before she departed.
Early in their acquaintance, Abbess Verdiana had treated Suor Beatrice coldly, keeping the headstrong novice at arm's length. After learning of her rape at the hands of the monstrous Fuchs, the wizened lady had taken the wounded sister into her care, given her renewed sense of purpose and duty, and helped her find God's grace again.
She set only one condition. She had made Antonia vow there should be no secrets between them. At first it had felt like a betrayal. But she had come to see it as cleansing.
All was well in the copyists' room. Books were proceeding apace, the sisters as diligent and exact as the lay scribes she had hired in Florence. After praising the finished pages and making sure they had an ample supply of chalk and ink, Antonia marched across the chilly yard to the Abbess' solar.
It did not surprise her that the door was shut, as the Abbess would often closet herself away. Antonia took herself to the small chapel just outside the solar and knelt. She first prayed God for forgiveness, then asked the Virgin for protection and guidance for Cesco and all those working to aid him in his quest to become whole.
After twenty minutes she heard a door open. Finishing her prayer, Antonia rose and found herself facing a woman dressed in exquisite fashion. Their eyes connected, and Antonia felt an unwelcome swell of shock and dislike. She curtsied. “Madonna.”
Giovanna da Svevia barely inclined her head. “Suor Beatrice. An unexpected delight.” Her smile was frostier than the air outside. It had been this woman, Cangrande's powerful and aging wife, who had con
trived with the Count of San Bonifacio to have Cesco murdered years before, hoping to clear a path for Paride to be the Scaliger's heir. Found out, she had shown no remorse. Nor had she made her dislike of young Cesco's role in Veronese life a secret. His recent behavior was clearly a source of satisfaction for her, as she proved by saying, “I understand you are attempting to tame the young knight. May God aid you in all your endeavours.”
Abbess Verdiana appeared, tiny and hump-backed with age. Blinking once, she said, “Suora, you come in a happy time. Donna Giovanna called to offer us gifts in honour of Santa Lucia's day, and I am at a loss how to make best use of them. I am certain you will have several excellent ideas.”
Antonia curtsied again, but made no reply. Santa Lucia's day was very important in the lives of the Veronese, marking as it did the day of the year with the least light in the sky, and the longest night.
Bidding farewell to the first lady of the city, the Abbess returned from the convent gate and ushered Antonia into the solar and closed the door. “I shall be sorry to lose you, but I hope your presence will quell the prince's exuberance. You joining his household will, God willing, lessen today's perception that he does not believe in the Lord our God.” Verdiana pursed her lips. “His words were most troubling. I don't know which would be worse – if he were to say such things to provoke, or if he believed them.”
“If he believed them, surely.”
“Such belief is misguided, not malicious,” said the Abbess. “Malice is harder to correct. Unless it is not malice at all, but madness.”
“Madness? Cesco is not mad.”
Verdiana's gaze was level. “What of his addiction to the drug? It has lessened?”
Antonia frowned. “I – cannot say. If he indulges, it is not in my presence. But I can see traces of it in his eyes. He hides it well, but it is there if you look for it.”
“So he spends his time out of his senses, either in drink, in brawls, or in a bordello, if the reports are true.”
Antonia bowed her head. “I am afraid they are.”
The Abbess made a tutting sound. “In one way, I deplore it. Yet it may be for the best. He is a married man, and cannot yet partake of his wedded bed. One cannot entirely condemn him for sowing his youthful oats. It is natural. Does he take Bailardetto with him?”
“No,” answered Antonia. “But I think that is Detto's choice.”
“I am relieved to hear not all the young men of Verona are indulging in the fleshpots.”
“Detto seems subdued, likely due to the rift with his father. And he is younger than Cesco.”
“Yet perhaps wiser. What of the young prince's other companions?”
“They are young men. They are respectful in my presence, but take little note of my advice. Or my disapproval.”
“Name them, please. These Rakehells.”
Antonia ran through the list of them, starting with the noblest, Prince Rupert, and descending to the least noble, the two Paduans. “Signor Salvatore is quiet, but not dull. He often enjoys the last word in a debate. He reminds one of a cat, watching for the moment to pounce. But he has a very cheerful face, in spite of it.”
“And what of the other Paduan, this Benedick? Has your dislike of him grown?”
Antonia's brow furrowed. “I think him a better man than I first judged him. He is a devoted friend to Cesco, though he does have a tendency towards flattery that I deplore. He jests too much, mostly at the expense of women. In public I have been twice forced to put him down. Oddly, he seems to enjoy the repartee.”
“I'm sure,” said Verdiana knowingly. “And you?”
Blushing, Antonia confessed she enjoyed their verbal sparring. It reminded her of exchanges with an old friend, Petruchio's cousin Ferdinando, who had died before they had been able to explore any other mutual likings.
“I see,” said the Abbess gravely. “Are you in danger of falling into a relationship with this man?”
A laugh bubbled out of Antonia. “Goodness, no! Mother Abbess, I know very well who I am, and I see him more clearly than he sees himself. I pray for him, but were there a man for me, it would not be he, and I would never be the woman for him. I belong to the Lord.”
“Truly? Did you not tell me that you helped the Heir and his lover over the summer because you yourself did not act swiftly enough in the matter of your own heart?”
Antonia bowed her head. “And I am punished for it daily, Mother Abbess.” It was true.
The Abbess seemed satisfied. “Come, help me sort out these goods Donna Giovanna brought to us, and determine where they are of best use.”
Following her mistress, Suor Beatrice hid her unease. Servants could have easily delivered these goods. For what reason had the first lady of Verona come calling at this little convent? What had Giovanna been discussing with the Abbess?
For two years Antonia had poured all her secrets into this holy vessel, from Cesco's indulgence in hashish to the horror of the incest. It had been her oath, her sacred vow made before God, to keep no secrets.
For the first time it occurred to her that there had been no oath of reciprocity.
♦ ◊ ♦
Pisa
FAR OFF, ANOTHER BEATRICE heard a commotion outside her door and started down the stairs, wiping her hands quickly down her skirts. She had been busily mending the broken window, hammering wood over the shattered pane. The glass had been poorly blown, it seemed, and not equal to this unusual cold.
She'd heard the horses, but thought they were passing by. Riders? To see me? Beatrice de'Leonati had no notion who would come calling on her. She had seen almost no one since her mother's passing months earlier, and as the money ran out had dispensed with most of the household staff. She'd kept her maid and the old groundskeeper, but had taken up the cooking and cleaning herself. The time was fast approaching when she would have to sell this small estate and find her way in the world.
Such a though might have been daunting for an unwed orphan girl of twenty-three. But to Beatrice it was a cross between an adventure and an inconvenience.
Passing another window as she descended, Beatrice noted that her visitor's servants remained outside, seeing to the mounts. His retinue alone was impressive, and a little daunting. Was there a bill unpaid? Some debt owed that she had missed? Full of wary trepidation, she opened the door to the sitting room.
The visitor, dressed in fine clothes, had taken the time to brush the muck of travel from his boots and change his doublet and hose before calling. More than his excellent attire, he had a proud chin and a complexion bespoke a lack of lack. Yet there was something that wore on him, a grain of sand in the oyster of his life, as if he had suffered a recent reversal.
When Beatrice entered, he was looking over the books on the shelf with evident interest. Turning, he bowed smoothly. “Donna Beatrice. I am Don Pedro of Aragon. Forgive me for intruding. Your noble uncle, Leonato de'Leonati, asked me to call upon you and beg your company back to his estate in Messina. I expect he wrote to you?”
Trouble evaporating on the air, she had to laugh. “If he did, it never found me! You are most welcome, Don Pedro. And let me state that I will be ready to leave just as soon as your horses are rested.”
♦ ◊ ♦
Outside Lyons, France
ACROSS THE ALPS, hooves beat the road, echoing around the steeply ascending landscape.
Throwing a frightened glance over his shoulder, the fugitive slipped in the mud of the road. Scrambling on all fours, he lunged for cover, chest bursting. Thank Heaven he was fit, without an ounce of fat on his light bones. But he'd been running for so long!
In fact, Benjamin had been on the run since taking ship twelve days earlier. Last night he'd spied the hunters loitering outside his inn. Hoping to fool them, he'd left his horse stabled and slipped away in darkness. But no, they'd figured it out. Damn damn dammity damn damn.
The horses were racing nearer. The night was moonless, and the road was curved. They weren't yet in sight. Benjamin had secon
ds to decide. He couldn't hope to outrun pursuit on the open road. But horses couldn't climb. Nor could they swim. That was the choice: turn right and scale the rise of the Alps, or throw himself into the Savoy River and swim.
It wasn't the damp that made him shy of the water. He was already soaked through, and the prematurely receding tide of his hair was plastered down with sweat. He might soon wet himself.
No, outside the drenching, the Savoy would take him back the way he had come, away from his destination. Nor was he a strong swimmer.
The climb was an equally dangerous choice. They might have bows. Even a well-placed rock could fell him.
Choose!
Veering right, Benjamin scrabbled at the steep incline, fingers digging for a hold. He grasped low scrub, looking higher to where trees grew, wondering if he could reach them in time. Within moments his mud-spattered hose were torn to tatters by nettles and branches. Already he was regretting his choice, but it was too late to go back. The horses were just around the bend. A few more moments…
Wriggling fingers of light touched the nearest rocks and shrubs. Like a deer sensing onrushing hunters, the fugitive froze face down along the hillside, prone between the low branches of bracken.
As the horses approached, the torches cast a nightmarish light over the ground. Let them pass, let them pass, O God, I will never sing that song again, you know which song, the bad one, I swear, just please for the love of all that I hold dear, let them pass…
But God must have approved the song, or disapproved of the singer, because the hunters reined just down the slope and slightly ahead of their prey. Cursing mentally, Benjamin had another conversation with God about the nature of requests, and of how perhaps it was unfair to judge a man for a song, no matter how vulgar, or for what he'd done with that lady's maid in the castle at Devon, and yes he'd done it several times, but once you're damned, why stop…?
“Why stop?” The question made Benjamin jolt. The speaker wasn't talking of the maid, but asking why they had halted. As it was a question of some importance to the figure on the slope, he listened.