The duchess turned toward the door, and Ferdinando rolled his eyes. His grandmother’s retreat into senility seemed to be a little worse every day. He shook his head after she left the room, trailed by Maria, and picked up the magnifying glass again.
Sometime later, a small noise penetrated Ferdinando’s concentration, and he looked up to see Piero standing in front of his desk. He raised an eyebrow.
“I went to Maestra Caccini’s rooms, Your Grace. Her door is barred, and no one answered my knock, even when I pounded very hard.”
Ferdinando frowned, and after a moment set the magnifying glass down. “Go find Palace-Major Roberto and tell him I want to see him.”
Piero bowed, and again hurried from the room. Ferdinando carefully slid the lens he had been examining back into its pocket in the velvet cloth spread on his desktop. He sighed. Always other things required his attention whenever he tried to focus on his love of science and optics. His old tutor Galileo Galilei had warned him there would be days like today.
Piero ducked back into the room and flattened himself against the wall beside the door. Roberto Del Migliore, the palace-major, appeared in the doorway. Ferdinando was, as always, struck by just how sinister the palace manager could appear. He was dressed, as usual, in a very dark color—a very dark forest green today—with a small collar and very little ornamentation or jewelry but for his badge of office hanging from a heavy gold chain and a very functional looking dagger hanging from his belt. The dagger was in a very nicely tooled sheath which was adorned by a gemstone or two. But the plainness of the serviceable hilt made it very clear that this was a serious weapon, and not some nobleman’s equipage that was more flash than utile.
With his iron-gray hair and the patch that covered his left eye socket, Del Migliore gave much the same impression to Ferdinando as that dagger did. The palace-major had spent much of what Ferdinando had once heard an English cleric call his “salad days” as a mercenary soldier. And he had apparently been a good one, having ended his career following close behind Ottavio Piccolomini, the well-known Firenzan condottiere who had been heavily involved in the warfare north of the Alps.
Having lost his eye in some skirmish in 1630, Del Migliore had returned home to Firenze, where a tidy sum had been saved from the spoils of his wars, and where Ferdinando had presented him with the prestigious (and lucrative) palace-major position when its previous occupant of the position had been caught with his hand too deep into the duchy’s coffers. That appointment had come about to a great degree because Roberto was a cousin of some sort to Ferdinando Leopoldo Del Migliore, a noted historian and scholar in Firenze that the grand duke had taken a liking to due to the coincidence of their names.
Del Migliore served well in his position, having noted on occasion that running the palace was no more difficult than running a mercenary company that was short of wine and hadn’t been paid in three months. And the grand duke was certainly both aware and appreciative of the competence of his new palace-major. Nonetheless, the presence of the occasionally grim and frequently dour palace-major sometimes made the duke uneasy.
“You summoned, Your Grace?” Del Migliore said with the slight bow that Ferdinando allowed all the senior palace servitors in private.
“Yes. This is a matter for which I might ordinarily utilize the talents of Lieutenant Bartolli, the grand duchy’s consulting detective, but he is traveling back to Grantville and Magdeburg to report to the owners of the borax operation and will be gone for some time. This cannot wait until he returns.”
Ferdinando stopped to make sure that Del Migliore appreciated the seriousness of the situation. When the palace-major nodded and murmured, “As you wish, Your Grace,” he was assured that the proper understanding had been reached.
“The dowager duchess has noted that Maestra Francesca Caccini has not made a promised appearance. Piero tells me that the door to the maestra’s chambers is barred shut, and no one answered his attempts to rouse a response.”
“Indeed,” the palace-major said. “I’ve not seen her myself in some days. I shall see to the resolution of this matter, Your Grace.”
“Your attention will be appreciated, Messer Del Migliore. The dowager duchess will be most appreciative. La Cecchina is one of the few bright spots in her life as it draws to its close.” After a moment, Ferdinando added, “You needn’t repeat that last to her, of course.”
“As you direct, Your Grace,” Roberto murmured. “With your permission, I shall see to this small matter.”
“I leave it in your capable hands, Messere,” Fernando said.
The palace-major gave another of the slight bows, and left to see to “the matter.”
Ferdinando relaxed. He did so appreciate competent service.
The grand duke reached for the nearby wine cup. Empty. When did that happen?
“Piero, my wine cup is empty. A dolorous condition, that is. Please alleviate it.”
“Immediately, Your Grace,” the page said as he stepped away from his station by the door. “Would you prefer the red or the white?”
“I believe the red.”
And as Piero busied himself with filling the empty wine cup, Ferdinando removed a new lens from its velvet pocket and held it up between his eyes and the light. Beautiful, he thought. Flawless work…as good a lens as I’ve seen anywhere from anyone. He picked up his magnifying glass and lost himself in the detailed examination of the lens. He wanted his new telescope to be perfect.
Chapter 7
Roberto Del Migliore strode toward the back of the palace. “You,” he called out to a servant crossing the hallway before him, “Ernani. Come here.”
“Yes, sir,” the servant said, pivoting in the intersection of the corridors and approaching the palace-major, obviously wondering what he might have done.
“I need Alessandro Nerinni and Cesare Falconieri to meet me at the quarters of Maestra Caccini immediately. And that means now, not a quarter-hour later.” The palace major twisted a simple ring off a finger and handed it to the servant. “Take this. They’ll recognize it and won’t argue with you. Alessandro should be in our offices, and Cesare will either be in the armory or the stables. Find them, and then meet me at the maestra’s quarters. If you see Paolo Gagliardi, tell him as well. And don’t be the last one to arrive.”
The servant swallowed, and took off at a near run. Roberto quirked one corner of his mouth up in amusement, then continued on his way.
No surprise, Roberto was first to arrive at the maestra’s rooms. He tried the door’s latch. It moved easily, and he could feel it disengaging, but when he pushed on the door, it moved very little. He tripped the latch again, placing one hand on the door about shoulder level and leaning into it. The door seemed to move more above his hand than below it. So Piero’s observation about a bar on the door was probably correct.
“Consulting detective, indeed,” Roberto muttered. “I believe we can do this without the aid of the up-timers.”
Roberto stood back and crossed his arms. He took a deep sniff of the air. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than a hint of someone’s chamber pot being in need of a cleaning. Of course, that didn’t signify anything. The servants’ quarters on some of the back hallways didn’t get as much cleaning sometimes as they needed.
It did concern Roberto, though, that the maestra had been out of sight for perhaps two or three days, and the door was barred. It wouldn’t be the first time someone died in their sleep and wasn’t found for a few days. He made a wry grin to himself. He could face the prospect of battle with its attendant bloody casualties with a very calm spirit…almost placid, even. But let him be faced with perhaps finding the two- or three-day-old corpse of a woman who died quietly in bed, and his stomach tied itself in knots. God had a sense of humor, there was no doubt.
The sound of approaching footsteps registered. More than one set of feet, it sounded like…two pairs, at least, maybe more. Roberto looked around as two men rounded the corner of the corridor and headed toward h
im. Alessandro and Paolo—good—his assistant as palace-major and his longtime attendant both on the battlefields and off.
“What happens, Roberto?” Alessandro said. “Ernani didn’t say.” As an ex-condottiere, Roberto allowed a certain amount of informality from his staff.
“That’s because he didn’t know to say,” Roberto said. “At the moment, all I know is Maestra Francesca Caccini has missed an appointment with the dowager duchess, which has Her Grace unhappy. It appears that she may not have been seen for some time, and the door to her room is barred.”
“Barred?” Paolo asked in his gravelly tones. “Not locked?”
“See for yourself,” Roberto said. “No lock on the door.”
Paolo’s mouth twisted as he examined the door. “Right. No lock. Solid frame. Solid door. Not so good, then. She might be dead in there and we wouldn’t know it.”
“Dio forfend,” Alessandro said, crossing himself. “She’s not that old, I don’t think.”
“A bit over fifty,” Roberto said after a moment’s thought. “I remember asking when she came back to the palace and resumed her place at court after her husband’s death and the passing of the plague years.”
“She doesn’t look it,” Paolo said. “I would have called her no more than late thirties, myself.”
“She has children,” Alessandro said. “A daughter by her first marriage, and a son by her second.”
“Twice-married?” Roberto asked. That bit of information surprised him. “I didn’t know that.”
“First to another musician in the court; second to a Luccan nobleman,” Alessandro said. “Twice a bride, twice a mother, twice a widow. After her second husband died in the recent round of the plague, she eventually came back to the court here. His family was not very accepting, apparently.”
“Ah,” Roberto said with a nod. “He married outside the normal ranks, and some of them resented it?”
Alessandro shrugged. “That’s probably the root of it. But a lot of people don’t need much excuse to be nasty, especially to anyone not of their social rank.”
Paolo snorted. “Right. Me and the capitano,” he nodded at Roberto, “seen more than our fair share of that over the years.”
Roberto grimaced slightly at the reference to their mercenary days, but Paolo had been his sergeant, attendant, and companion for most of those years, and the notion of Roberto being his captain was so ingrained in him that it couldn’t be removed. Paolo knew his place in the order of things.
More steps were sounding, and the three of them looked to the corner in time to see the servant Ernani scurry around it, followed by Cesare Falconieri a moment later. Roberto gave a small smile as he saw Ernani holding out the ring and hurrying it to place it in his hand. And he had made an obvious effort to not be the last one to arrive, in accordance with the palace-major’s instruction. Whether he did so out of fear of the consequences if he did not—or more likely, out of certain knowledge of the consequences—made no difference to Roberto. Obedience was the desired result; obedience was what he received. That was as it should be, he thought.
Falconieri, the head of the palace guards, joined them as Roberto accepted the ring from Ernani. The servant started to turn away, only to freeze at a gesture from the palace-major. “Sorry,” Falconieri said. “I was in the stables checking the new horses. They’ll do for now, but we need to find some better ones.”
Roberto grimaced, and Paolo chuckled. “Every horse that isn’t locked up is being sent north,” the attendant said. “Between rebuilding regiments that have been hammered to dust in the Swede’s campaigns, the fighting that happened in Poland and Bavaria, and now the Turkish onslaught, all of them—the Swede, the Austrians, and the Americans—are paying top prices in florins, ducats, guilders, or dollars for horseflesh right now. You’d best post extra guards over the stables to make sure ours don’t wander off.”
“Go teach your grandmama to spin, Gagliardi,” the guard leader said with a rude gesture. That brought a round of chuckles from all the men.
“So why are we here, Roberto?” Falconieri asked.
“Maestra Francesca Caccini’s quarters,” the palace-major said, nodding at the door. “She hasn’t been seen in a few days. The door is barred. And no one responded when His Excellency’s page Piero came banging on the door a little while ago.”
Awareness dawned on all the men’s faces at the same time. “You think she may…” Alessandro began.
“It is a possibility. Regardless of what we find when we enter, since we will likely be reporting to the dowager duchess, I want unimpeachable witnesses.” Roberto turned to Paolo. “Can you open the door?”
Paolo walked over and leaned one hand against the door, feeling its weight against the bar. He bent down and examined the door and doorframe in the area where the bar crossed behind them.
“Probably,” the attendant said, straightening again, “but it might mess up the door.” He looked up and down the hallway. “Let’s try something else, first. There’s a window in this room, right?” Alessandro nodded. Paolo grabbed Ernani by the arm. “You, come with me.”
They went down the hallway in the other direction and turned into a different cross corridor. Roberto looked to Alessandro. “So how long has the maestra been a part of the palace musicians?”
“Oh, for years,” his assistant replied. “Way before my time here. She started as a child, if I remember what someone told me correctly. The dowager duchess liked her so much that she even refused to let the king of France hire her when her family was touring there a long time ago.” He shrugged. “Or at least, that’s what the duchess’s ladies say. I wouldn’t know. Way before my time.”
“In you go.” They all heard Paolo’s voice sounding through the door. “Get the bar off the door, and don’t touch nothing else, chiaro?” A few moments later, they heard the grating sound of the bar being slid out of its brackets, and a moment after that the door swung open.
Roberto was the first through the door, followed closely by the others. Paolo stared at them for a moment from where he stood outside the window, flashed a grin, and disappeared, obviously on his way back. Roberto looked to where Ernani stood, still holding the bar. “Put the bar there,” he told the servant, pointing to the nearest corner, “then go stand in the hallway. I may need to send you someplace else in a moment.”
Ernani almost dropped the bar, he moved so fast to get rid of it and get out of the room. He nearly ran into Paolo as the attendant entered the room, but managed a fast side-step and disappeared into the hallway.
“Look around,” Roberto ordered, “all of you. What do you see?”
“Neat,” Falconieri said after a long moment of surveying the outer room. “Clean.”
“Too neat,” Alessandro added. “Looks like a presentation, not a room that is lived in.” He waved his hand at the table. “Everything organized and in its place. Like an accountant lives here, not an artist.”
“Capitano,” Paolo called from the bedroom. “Come see.”
Roberto led the way through the narrow arched doorway. He found Paolo standing at the head of a bed where a figure lay covered by a blanket. For a moment, he thought his fears were realized, but then Paolo flipped the corner of the blanket back to reveal that the figure was nothing more than a couple of sacks of…he stepped closer…straw.
“So, no maestra here, even though the door was barred and the shutters were latched,” Roberto said in a musing tone.
“Her court shoes and dresses appear to be here,” Alessandro said, his voice muffled from inside a wardrobe.
“Any plain clothes?” Roberto asked. “Any practical shoes?”
Alessandro rummaged around some. “No.”
“This looks like a jewelry box.” Falconieri held up a box he’d picked up from a table.
“Anything in it?”
Falconieri had it open and stirred the contents with a finger. “Some lead pilgrim medals, some brass chains. A couple of broken silver coins, and a small
tarnished crucifix with one arm broken off. Trash.”
Paolo spoke up. “The candlesticks are wooden, painted with silver paint.” He set them back on their table.
“Hmm.”
Roberto walked back into the front room. He scanned the room again. “What’s missing?”
The others looked around with furrowed brows. Alessandro finally held his hands up in a “who knows” gesture.
“Maestra Francesca Caccini, La Cecchina, is a musician. So where is her music?”
“Merda,” Paolo muttered. “There’s none here.”
“Exactly,” Roberto replied. “And whoever saw a musician’s room without scraps of paper or parchment with scribbles on them?”
“You’re right,” Alessandro said disgustedly. “It’s like no one lives here.”
“Exactly. She’s left.” The others looked surprised, and Roberto shook his head. “Look at it: no sensible or practical clothes in the room, no jewelry worth anything—and don’t tell me a wife of even one of the minor nobility wouldn’t have some jewels—and most importantly, not a scrap of music. She’s left. She’s run, without telling us, the grand duke, or the dowager duchess.”
“But this is still here,” Alessandro said, walking over and placing a hand on the lute that hung on the wall. “This was her favorite. I heard her call it her bambino. She wouldn’t leave this behind.”
Roberto considered that, and after a moment began to nod. “Yes, she would if she was truly planning to break all ties and move fast and far. A woman traveling with a master-class lute such as that would attract attention on the road, wouldn’t she?”
“Undoubtedly,” Alessandro said, nodding himself.
“The maestra sacrificed it to gain speed and invisibility,” Roberto said.
“She’s serious about this, then,” Paolo said. “That’s a lot of gold hanging there on that peg.”
“Indeed.”
Falconieri snapped his fingers. “Her children. She wouldn’t have run without them.”
1636- the Flight of the Nightingale Page 5