by David Blixt
Kate's sister Bianca was present, come from Pisa with her husband Lucentio. She tried flirting with several men, then retired in a huff when she perceived that all the masculine attention was on her sister. Her father was red-faced with laughter at the jokes being told at his daughter's expense. He had never been more proud of her.
A feeling not shared by her eldest daughter, who slipped away to weep on the shoulder of another Paduan, Signor Salvatore. That the weeping ended in passionate kisses surprised her. But as Vittoria thought of the humiliations her mother had heaped upon her that night, she decided to rebel by letting the kisses grow into something more.
She was not alone in feeling scandalized. Several women, Madonna Montecchio and Madonna Castelbarco among them, were shocked. But then, Katerina Minola in Bonaventura had always been deemed mad. Yet there seemed no shame in the proceedings, when even the Bishop of Verona had cried with laughter.
The night ended as it should have, with the city guards coming to disperse the loud and querulous crowd outside the Casa Bonaventura. For once it was not the Rakehells who were the cause of the trouble, but the elder generation – Nico, Hortensio, Pietro Alaghieri, and Castelbarco. The Scaliger himself was there when the guards came. He declared himself under arrest and issued his own pardon in the same breath. Even Mari and Antony showed that they were capable of setting their dislike aside for a night. As the drink flowed they even found themselves with their arms about each other, voices raised in harmony as the friends they should always have been. In the morning they would be sober, their amity forgotten. But for one night, they were again the comrades they had been when Petruchio had first met his mad wife.
It was a night that would have made the dead man proud to have lived.
Twenty-Four
Friday, 6 January 1329
TWO DAYS AFTER the funeral, on Twelfth Night, the Feast of the Epiphany was a subdued affair. Planned as the pinnacle of the Christmas celebrations, the festivities were scrapped in favour of simplicity. No musicians, no jugglers, no actors. Instead they all retreated into the safe security of ritual, with the Bishop reading aloud: Arise, be enlightened, O Jerusalem: for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.
In place of a lavish feast, Giorgio Gioco served a dish that every Veronese recognized as comfort food – boiled meats in Pearà sauce. A winter dish, it was cooked over a strong fire, allowing the heat to break up day-old bread mixed with butter, marrow from the ossu buco bone, and meat broth. After hours of slow boiling, cheese was added, along with nutmeg and a large amount of black pepper. The thicker the Pearà, the more it tasted like home, and childhood, and safety. Even if safety was only an illusion.
They buried Cesco's mother the following day in a small gathering – just Cesco, Cangrande, Pietro, Antonia, Poco, and Detto. Cesco had decided on the place, one that only Cangrande and Detto had visited before. But the name was too apt to be ignored. Santa Maria in Stelle.
The priest of the old church was asked to say the prayers and bless the earth, but not told the surname of the woman he was laying to eternal rest. Her grave was not given a name either, but the marker was there. Someday perhaps her name might be added.
Cesco came dressed all in white, the garb of mourning. Cangrande chose to forego that colour, and declined the chance to speak for her, which Pietro found infuriating.
On the ride back to the city he said so. “He's the only one who knew her at all!”
Cesco shrugged this off. “Do you think if we put him to the torture, he would relent? I have my doubts.”
“Did he love her at all?” asked Detto.
“At least once,” remarked Cesco. “Love is a motion of the loins, not the liver. Speaking of which, this is where I leave you.” They had come to La Rosa Colta.
“Cesco,” said Pietro sternly. “You should go home.”
Cesco's jaw jutted, but he forced a smile. “I don't think my lady wife would approve of me bringing the whores back home with me.” He glanced down the street, where he saw Benedick, Salvatore, Petruchio, Hortensio, Barto, and Berto. “Ah, the Rakehells have come to help me drown my filial sorrows. Perhaps for the nonce I'll trade the rose for the sword. Come, lads! To the Albergo delle Quattro Spade! I must raise a cup to a lady and honour her name for me by being wavering in all my affections! To Donna Maria in Stelle! For my mother is now among the stars.”
Anticipating the revelry about to commence, Cangrande cantered close. “No trouble today.”
Dismounting, Cesco handed his horse off. “Perhaps if you'd dressed the part, you could give instructions for how to mourn. As it is, I'll blaze my own trail.”
Cangrande stared after his heir for a long moment, then rode in the opposite direction. He knew what was coming.
Indeed, the brawl that day was the worst yet. It took a host of city guards to separate the incensed Paduans from the hot-headed young nobles of Verona. The bereaved Bonaventura twins were especially vigourous in their fisticuffs, laying about them with verve. Four men had to be carried off in a cart, and Ziliberto della Scala had his arm set in a splint and a sling.
His white clothes both muddied and bloodied, Cesco was escorted to the main palace for a stinging rebuke, without any visible effect. The moment it was over, Pietro closeted himself with Cangrande. “It's getting worse.”
“No,” said Cangrande. “It is just that the tenor of the city's opinion has changed. Wild youth can be excused. But with the good Abbot of San Zeno talking of demonic possession, the people are less accepting.” The Scaliger pulled a face. “Perhaps we should request an exorcism.”
Pietro was unamused. “Can you gag the Abbot?”
“Not without igniting more rumours. I think we must hold that second salon soon.”
“What, loose Cesco upon the Abbot full-force?”
“Fracastoro once told me it is sometimes better to make a disease worse, in order to cure it.”
“Just hope it doesn't kill the patient.”
“Truth is truth,” said Cangrande. “Though at this moment I wonder who the patient is.”
♦ ◊ ♦
RETURNING THROUGH the city center to change, Cesco and Detto were spied from a window. For weeks just the sight of Cesco had been enough to make Mastino scowl.
In all the Heir's burgeoning notoriety, the people of Verona had utterly forgotten Mastino. Worse, he had begun to be openly mocked. His fine jousting armour, his gilt spurs, his fine clothes – gifts from far-off princes who understood his worth – were the butt of jokes around the city. He'd heard several men refer to him as a dandy, and to his face they over-praised his finery with barely-concealed sneers. The Scaliger's own heir owned nothing so fine – or if he did, never showed it. Thinking he cut a fine figure, Mastino now understood he was seen as something of a buffoon, which in turn made men question his ability. Was he truly as skilled at jousting and contests as he claimed? Hadn't the Heir allowed Mastino to win the mêlée on their joint wedding day?
Mastino had never spent much time thinking of his own father. Alboino had died Mastino's fourth birthday, and had never factored into the lives of the five children he'd left behind. Maybe Mastino's sisters thought of their parents, but the girls had been sent off to be raised by nuns, preparing them for life as the political chattel they were. Mastino had never bothered to imagine what his father's life had been like – until Cesco had come to Verona.
As Mastino was to Cesco, so Alboino had been to Cangrande. The elder, rotting in the shadow of the brilliant younger. The parallel was exact, and damning. Mastino was determined not to end up like his father, dying untimely without a scrap of fame to his name.
Now Mastino sat impotently in the window seat and watched Cesco pass. It was all he did anymore – watch. And wait.
“My Lord?” asked his wife from their bed. “Are you well?”
“Fine. Tell them I'm ready for something to eat.”
She dutifully rose from the bed and dressed. He didn't watch, and she left Mastino
seething in quiet contemplation.
Perfectly aware that if any misfortune were to befall Cousin Cesco, he would be elevated to heir in an instant, every day Mastino prayed that the next stupid, pointless prank would be Cesco's last. Yet each day saw Cesco survive, skin undamaged, fame growing. He rode bareback with his hands tied behind him and didn't fall. He picked meaningless fights and came away no more than bruised. He played the fool with the Devil and came away unscathed. The boy was the personification of luck.
Mastino's best weapon was spent. He had truly believed the revelation of Rosalia's parentage would crush the bastard. Instead the little prick was more cock-of-the-walk than ever. But then he'd always been lucky – look at the way he had survived Fuchs' attempt to dispose of him. Poor Fuchs. Another reason to ruin Cesco.
Mastino sat back and imagined a day when he could call the little shit to account. It would have to wait until the Scaliger was dead. Then, and only then, could Mastino act.
The one thing Cesco lacked, Mastino would cultivate.
Patience.
♦ ◊ ♦
“BUT WHY DOES Thibault have to go?” whined Giulietta.
Frowning, Capulletto took the time to squat down beside his daughter. “He has work to do, princess. He's getting older, and his studies aren't what they should be. Now now, my little Giulia,” he said, tapping her nose as she began to protest, “I let him stay through Twelfth Night, just for you.”
“But he won't see the baby!” the three-year-old said.
That's the idea, Antony didn't say. Aloud, he was more circumspect. “Thibault is destined for a priesthood. Especially if this is a little brother to you. Then he'll stop being my heir and need some employment of his own. And if this is a sister, he still needs to work on his numbers and penmanship. Thibault hasn't learned his letters half as well as you have, and he's almost a man!”
Not being immune to flattery, Giulietta giggled and preened. Yet she remained doggedly fixed on her goal. “But can't he stay until the baby is born?”
“Since we don't know when that is, no,” said Antony. “And he keeps getting into trouble. He was in another fight today, in the street. Better he should go and be taught manners than stay and be caught in the Devil's wake. No, Giulietta. Thibault must go.” His tone had an air of finality, and by standing he showed her the topic was closed.
Which she accepted. Giulietta loved her cousin, but her father was as fair a man as existed upon the earth. With her nurse and the groom Andriolo – indeed, all the servants! – Giulietta's little world was filled with people who loved her.
The sole exception was her mother. Though she did not understand it, Giulietta felt her mother's coldness on a visceral level. Not that Mama was ever cruel – never mean, never shouting, never raising a hand. She was simply distant, uninterested. And nothing Giulietta could do would gain her mother's attention for more than a moment. Tears would earn her a call for the nurse. Laughter, a call for the nurse. Questions, a call for the nurse. There were times when Giulietta wished the nurse were her real mother.
But then she would not be the daughter of Lord Capulletto. Her darling papa was a bull of a man, a broad-shouldered but gentle beast who was fierce only in his loves. And he loved his daughter more than anything. It helped that he was as disdainful of Giulietta's mother as she was of her daughter. The little mind did not see a connection.
Noticing her father holding out his hand, she took it, feeling his large fingers wrapping protectively around her small ones. They started to walk together, and she gave a little skip. Laughing, he imitated her, and soon they were skipping side by side down the stairs and out into the enclosed yard.
There stood Thibault. He had neglected his hat despite the cold, and his ice-blond hair was bright in the slanting sunlight as he cinched the straps of his saddlebags. Beside him was Giulietta's mother, heavy with child. Her face looked warm and open – until she noticed her husband and daughter approaching. Then she closed up tight and stepped away to speak to one of the bustling servants.
Giulietta rushed up to give her cousin a hug about his thighs. “I wish you didn't have to go!”
He patted her head before disengaging her arms. “I'll miss you, snowflake. Stay away from the horses – you're so little, they might step on you. And look after your mother. She'll need you, since she won't have a man in the house.”
Giulietta was about to ask, 'Where is father going to be?' when Thibault went flying backwards and struck the wall, sinking to the ground in a daze. Her father was shouting and rubbing his knuckles while her mother shouted back as she knelt beside Thibault, who was just beginning to stir.
Giulietta took a few fluttery steps, first to one side, then the other. She had never seen her father's face contorted in such fury. She knew he didn't like her cousin, but she wasn't sure what Thibault had done to deserve being yelled at. Then she saw the blood across Thibault's face and realized her father had struck him! With his hand! What had Thibault done?
Whatever it was, he now launched himself forward. Drawing a sword from his saddle's sheath, Thibault thrust it at Giulietta's father. Giulietta screamed, as did her mother, though they were two quite different sounds, one fearful, the other excited.
Giulietta needn't have feared. Thirteen was no match for thirty-two. With two careless blows, Thibault was stunned, disarmed and turned, his right arm pinioned behind his back. Her father's arm curled about her cousin's throat. “You little shit!” he shouted in Thibault's ear. “You think because you race with princes that you are one? You're nothing. You'll never be master here, never a proper lord. I'll leave my estate to my girl sooner than you. Especially now you've raised a hand against me – thanks for that!” Her father's lips curled back into a smile. “I have cause, now. I could have you executed. Your life is in my hands. Even if I spare you, I know you'll never be grateful. I've had little enough thanks for housing you, feeding you, sheltering you, raising you. Ten years, I've kept you alive. My brother would never have done as much for any son of mine. He tried to frame me for murder once, did you know that? Your perfect father, who hated me for being better than him.”
Red-faced, Thibault sputtered, “Just like you hate me.”
Giulietta's father hugged Thibault tighter, his big arms bulging. “Don't flatter yourself, whelp! What, you think I fear being eclipsed by a young hot-head like you?”
“Father!” gasped Giulietta. Thibault's face was purple now, his eyes bulging.
He didn't hear her. “Give you your head and you'd be dead in a month. But not before you wrecked this house and all I've built – I built, not your father! He never did anything but whine and watch from the shadows – just like you! Trying to stab an unarmed man? Not too chivalrous!” The sound Thibault was making was barely voiced, just a gurgle. “A pity you couldn't have gone to live with your mother. But she didn't want you, boy! She didn't want you. No one wanted you. No one cares if you live or die!”
“Husband!” came an angry voice. “Let him go!”
Giulietta turned to see her mother holding a knife. It was at a strange angle, though. It wasn't threatening anything except her pretty gown. Pointed down, it looked like she was resting the tip on her own belly.
Giulietta frowned. The baby was in there. Mama must have forgotten.
Ashen faced, her father stared. “Is it even so?”
Her mother said, “Let him go.”
There was a terrible moment where it felt like Giulietta's heart would snap from being so torn.
Then a splash made her father gasp in surprise. Andriolo the groom had thrown a bucket of icy water over him. Sputtering, her father released Thibault, who sank to the ground, clutching his throat and gasping. Giulietta's mother rushed to his side and helped him move away.
Seeing that her mother was holding Thibault, Giulietta wrapped her arms around her father. He was soaked, but she didn't care. If she could hold him back, he wouldn't hit Thibault anymore.
Amid more shouts and recriminations, Thibault
mounted. Blood flowing all across his face, he couldn't clamp his mouth shut the way he normally did. Instead he raised his chin and used the reins to start his horse moving. “Don't worry about me coming back!”
“Do and you're dead!” she heard her father say. Giulietta looked up at his flushed face. He glowered at Thibault's back as it disappeared through the tunnel and out to the street. Then with a final furious glare for his wife, he turned on his heel and stalked back into the house.
Without moving her head, Giulietta slid her eyes over towards her mother. Mama was not crying, but standing with her eyes closed and taking long, deep breaths. Her hands were on her belly, but the knife was gone. Without a glance for her daughter, Tessa Capulletto trudged carefully through the snowy cobblestoned yard and into the house.
“How now, little one,” said a soothing voice.
Giulietta jumped. Bigger and burlier even than her father, Andriolo swept her up and perched her upon his forearm, his other hand steadying her back. “Was that frightening? I suppose it was.”
She could ask Andriolo, though it came out in a whisper. “What did Thibault do?”
“He was disrespectful. Deserved what he got,” said Andriolo with assurance. “But you reap what you sow,” he added with a covert glance at the house.
“What?”
Andriolo smiled into her face. “Nothing, pet. Just remember to mind your father. You'll never need fear, sweet thing like you. He dotes on you. Thibault's just jealous, and that makes him say stupid things.”
The reaction hit her and she burst into tears. The groom rocked her, cooing in her ear and petting her hair. She loosed all her fright into those tears until she was spent, shaking and hiccoughing.
Finally she felt embarrassed. She didn't like to cry. Through her shuddering breath she said something unintelligable. Andriolo pressed his face closer. “What's that, poppet?”
“You g-gave father a b-b-bath,” she repeated.
Andriolo laughed. “Well, we all need baths! Even great lords. All better now?” Receiving a nod, he put her down. “Sadly, I have to go get more water now. I was on my way to clean up the stables. Your father's off tonight with that Scotsman, and I still have yet to retrieve the new horses from-” He paused to glance up at the wall behind him, then put his nose close to her ear. “Don't tell anybody, but I'm buying some horses from the Montecchi stables.”