“Right.” Paolo bent a glower at the two hapless guards. “You know the way. Move.” Moments later, they were gone, and their footsteps were receding.
“Per Dio,” Cesare shook his head. “The maestra, she plans like a general. She must have read Machiavelli.”
“No need,” Alessandro said. “She grew up in the grand duke’s court, and was watching Duchess Christine for years. She needed no other lessons.”
“Indeed,” Roberto agreed. “As you said. Sly, subtle, sneaky, yet restrained. She did nothing more than she had to do.”
There was a long moment of silence, eventually broken by Alessandro. “This was planned, of course.” His voice was dry.
“Of course it was,” Roberto said. “And for quite some time, from appearances. Although I would like to know why she picked those two for her escape route.”
“Because they are the ones that everyone goes to to bring little things into the palace that may not have tariffs properly paid or may not have their provenance documented fully.” Paolo’s voice was dry as he walked back in the door. “The maestra was undoubtedly a past customer; she would know them, they would know her, she could approach them, they would take a wineskin from her. And she undoubtedly knew them for the kind of men they are. She knew they would drink the wine immediately, and with the poppy in it, they would go to sleep very quickly. She undoubtedly stood and watched it, and left at her leisure afterward.” The attendant shook his head. “Cold and hard. Don’t make wagers with this woman.”
Roberto began to laugh. “See, see? Maximum confusion, maximum obfuscation, with minimum effort. What a condottiere that woman would have made.” He shook his head in admiration, still smiling.
The smile trailed off a moment later. “So, the maestra has apparently been gone from the palace for over three days now, and her daughter has been missing longer than that. Her room has been cleared of everything of value to her except her lute. She’s not at Convento della Crocetta, or Paolo would have discovered her when he went to look for her daughter. And this,” he waved the paper, “makes it look like she planned to leave Firenze and head north.” He straightened, feeling his mouth set in a grim line. “The grand duke and the dowager duchess must hear what we have discovered, and I suspect they will not be happy.”
There were no smiles from the other men.
“I need to report this to the duke,” Roberto said. “And you,” he said, forestalling whatever Alessandro had opened his mouth to say, “will all be coming with me. Now.” And with that, he led the way out of the office, hearing them all fall in behind him.
It took them a while to locate the grand duke, but they finally located him out on the back terrace of the palace, testing one of his new telescopes.
“Your Grace,” Roberto said as he drew near. The others stopped a few steps behind him.
“Excellent,” Grand Duke Ferdinando exclaimed. For a moment the palace-major was startled, but then he realized the duke was referring to the new telescope. “I can see the Forte di Belvedere quite clearly. Make a note, if you would, to send word to the fort commander that the roof of the central keep has several broken tiles on it.”
“As you direct, Your Grace,” Roberto said. He pointed at Alessandro, who nodded. “In the matter of Maestra Francesca Caccini, Your Grace…”
The grand duke lowered the telescope and looked back at the palace-major, then around the terrace. “Is she ill? Is she…dead?”
“Neither, Your Grace.” Roberto saw the duke relax a bit.
“Is she with Duchess Christine, then?”
“No, Your Grace.”
The grand duke looked around and frowned. “She is not here, either. Where is the maestra, then?”
Roberto took a deep breath. “She appears to have left the palace, and probably Firenze, altogether, Your Grace.”
The grand duke turned and faced Roberto and his associates. “She what?”
“She appears…”
Ferdinando waved his hand. “I heard what you said. Piero,” he snapped. The page sprang up from a nearby bench. “Go to the dowager duchess, tell her we have word of La Cecchina, and I request her presence in the small reception room as soon as she can make her way there. Once you see that she is on her way, return to me there at once.”
Piero bobbed his head and took off at a run.
“You,” the duke said, almost snapping at them as well, “with me.”
Chapter 11
The walk to the reception room was made in silence. The grand duke led the way with very firm steps, almost stalking. Behind him came a couple of his guards, followed by Del Migliore, who was in turn followed by his companions. A couple more guards brought up the rear of the little procession. They trooped across the piazza and back into the palace, then down hallways and around corners until they arrived at the small reception room.
The palace-major followed Ferdinando into the room. The guards spread out and took their positions against various walls. The grand duke stalked over to a very ornate chair standing in the center of one of the side walls and seated himself. Roberto started to say something, but Ferdinando held up a hand, so the palace-major closed his mouth and settled himself to wait.
It wasn’t long before Piero hurried into the room. He paused before the grand duke long enough to bow, then moved to his own place against the back wall behind the chair. That meant that the dowager duchess shouldn’t be long in coming. Roberto hoped it did, anyway.
And it was only a short time before the duchess swept into the room through the doorway the rest of them had used. To Roberto’s eye, she looked ill: skin pale even below whatever she had applied to her face, and leaning on her companion’s arm. Nonetheless, she was walking with some energy, and strode to another chair set beside Ferdinando’s that was only slightly less ornate than the one that the grand duke was occupying. She turned and settled in the chair, then looked over at the grand duke.
“You requested my presence, Your Grace.”
Her voice was a bit cold. Roberto decided to be circumspect during the next discussion. He had no desire to get caught up in the middle of a ducal-level family tiff.
“Yes, Duchess,” Ferdinando replied, looking at his grandmother. His voice was level and controlled, if not quite as cold as his grandmother’s. “Messer Del Migliore has things to tell us that he has discovered about La Cecchina. I thought it best that we both hear them at the same time.” He faced forward again and gestured toward Roberto. “Proceed.”
“As you direct, Your Grace,” Roberto said with a slightly deeper bow than what he had been using during their earlier conversations. Their current setting seemed to warrant a little greater formality. “After hearing of Maestra Caccini’s possible…indisposition from your lips earlier today, Your Grace, I undertook to determine what her condition was. We found the door to the maestra’s quarter barred and the shutters locked. No one responded to our serious knocking on the door, so my attendant,” Roberto gave a graceful gesture to indicate Paolo, “was able to open the latched shutters and sent a servant in to unbar the door. I had summoned my assistant Alessandro Nerinni and guard captain Cesare Falconieri to assist in the process and if necessary serve as witnesses as to what we discovered.”
Roberto paused there to give his hearers a moment to absorb what had been said and ask questions. Ferdinando made a short sharp gesture that the palace-major took to mean “get on with it.”
“The maestra was not in her quarters.”
“Then where is she?” the dowager duchess demanded. “She was supposed to come to me this morning, but she didn’t, and no one has seen her, and now you are saying she is not in her rooms. Where is she?”
The duchess’s voice was shaking, which alarmed Roberto more than a bit. He waited a moment, then responded in a quiet tone, looking only at the grand duke.
“When we examined the maestra’s quarters, Your Grace, we found that although all her court clothing and shoes were there, other plainer clothing and shoes were not t
here. Nor could we find any money or jewelry. In fact, everything of value was gone, except for her lute. And perhaps most telling, all of her music is gone.”
Ferdinando stiffened. “Her music? All of it?”
“Gone, Your Grace.”
“I begin to understand. Continue, Messere.”
“Based on everything else we have found, Your Grace, it appears that Maestra Caccini has left the city.”
“She’s left Firenze?”
“That’s what we believe, Your Grace. As I said, she appears to have taken everything she values, plus we discovered that she has removed her daughter from the care of the sisters at La Crocetta, and no one knows where the child is now located. We think they are together, and are headed for another city.”
“Where?” Ferdinando demanded.
Roberto held his hand out, and Paolo placed the carbon-rubbed piece of paper in it. Roberto stepped forward and handed it to the grand duke, then spent the next several minutes explaining the significance they had assigned to the letters.
“Brescia?” Ferdinando said after the account was finished. “Venezia I could understand. Milano I could understand. Roma I could understand. But Brescia? That makes no sense.”
“Unless she is planning on going beyond the frontiers, Your Grace.” Ferdinando raised an eyebrow.
“That puttana!” Duchess Christine suddenly erupted. “That little whore! After all these years of promoting her, of preferring her, of giving her support and freedom and protection to do her music, and she throws it all over to run north of the mountains. She’s going to France, I’m sure of it! They tried to hire her away from us before, and we rejected it. Now they’re trying again!”
Roberto felt his eyebrows rising pretty much of their own accord. That was certainly a possibility he hadn’t considered. But it wasn’t one he wanted to take seriously. It just didn’t feel right. Grantville still seemed like the only thing north of the Alps that would have much attraction for the maestra.
The duchess stood up and turned on her grandson. “You send after her, Your Grace! You send someone to find her, and drag her back by her hair, if necessary. I want her back here, before us, so I can explain to her what an ungrateful sow she is! I’ll have her well-striped, I will. The impudence. Whore.” Her voice dwindled away to inaudible mutterings.
Roberto noted that the dowager duchess was literally panting, almost hyperventilating, and her eyes were wild. The grand duke stood as well. He took his grandmother by the arm. “As you say, Duchess.” He looked to her attendant. “Lady Maria, the duchess is weary. Please escort her to her rooms, and see to it that she gets some rest.”
Maria dipped her head, took the duchess’s other arm, and began guiding her toward the doorway, murmuring softly to her with every step. After resisting the first step or two, the duchess seemed to change her mind and went along willingly. The others watched until she left their field of view through the doorway, then looked to each other.
It seemed to Roberto that the dowager duchess Christine was beginning to fail. Certainly, that outburst would never have occurred even six months ago. She was ordinarily much more controlled than that. Or she had been.
Ferdinando ran his hand down his face slowly, then resumed his place on his seat.
“I ask that you wipe the last few moments from your minds, Messrs.,” the grand duke said. His tone and posture indicated that he was speaking as grand duke and that, though phrased as a request, this was an order.
There was a responsive collective, “Yes, Your Grace,” from those in the room.
“Nonetheless, Duchess Christine, speaking as a member of the Medici family and as the dowager grand duchess of Tuscany, is correct that if the actions of Maestra Caccini are as you say, she has certainly cast a great insult on our family. That being the case, the most correct course of action would be to bring her back to stand before us and present her defense before she is, as the duchess indicated, thrown out onto the street.”
The grand duke was silent for a moment. “It is unfortunate, perhaps,” he finally resumed, “that our consulting detective is not available to us for this work.”
Roberto felt a flash of irritation at the reference to the up-timer. “Your Grace,” he said, “what we have now is not a matter of chemistry or deduction. There are no tests to be performed. What is before you is a hunt, not a puzzle, and you have some very fine hunters in your train that you can release to run the quarry to ground. Not all problems can be solved with a hammer.”
Ferdinando sat back in his chair. After a moment, he gave a slow nod. “You are correct, Messere. Very correct. Although your final statement should perhaps be more wittily phrased as, ‘Not all problems can be solved with a microscope.’ But your point is well taken. So if I am to send out the huntsmen, how would you recommend organizing the hunt?”
Roberto had already done that consideration in his mind, and now he set it forward for the grand duke’s consideration. “Let Messer Nerinni and Captain Falconieri remain here in Firenze to search the city and the immediate surroundings, to ensure that she has not remained here, and to look for anything that might confirm our thoughts or substantially alter them. Meanwhile, I will take your warrant in hand and take a small group of guards and companions and will pursue this trail,” he lifted the paper, “trusting that a mounted group of experienced soldiers and riders can outdistance a woman traveling with a girl. I believe that we will catch her up before Brescia.”
Ferdinando sat again for a long moment, obviously mulling over Roberto’s recommendations. “Let it be as you have stated,” he said at length. “And you will have your warrant. But all of you,” he looked around the room, “I want her returned alive and well and with no damage. She is a talent given by God, one who graced our court for decades, and despite her recent actions, she is worthy of respect. See to it that she is so treated. Is that understood?”
Another rumbled collective, “Yes, Your Grace,” was heard.
“Good.” The grand duke stood. “Be about it, then.”
Chapter 12
Francesca led the way down the Bolognese street. It had taken a bit of time to get directions to the street of goldsmiths. Then it had taken a bit more time to find someone who could direct her to the place of business of Jachobe the moneylender. But they were finally on the right street, and she was counting doors under her breath as they moved down it.
“…Four…five…six…” Francesca stopped in front of a door. “…Seven…” She looked up and down the street, and at the painted signboard swinging from an iron rod overhead. “This is it.”
Marco pushed the door open and led the way in. The interior of the shop was lit by a number of large candles—beeswax, from the faint scents on the air. An older man, perhaps close to Francesca’s age from the looks of the gray in his hair, was seated at a table writing. He looked up as they entered.
“Yes? Do you have an appointment?”
“I was told to seek Jachobe the moneylender,” Francesca said quietly. She reached inside her vest and brought out a folded paper which she handed to him. He unfolded it, and read the contents once, then laid it flat on the table and brought out a magnifying lens to read it again.
Putting the lens away, the man folded the paper back up. “Both Maestro Mosè and Maestro Bigliamino speak well of you. Wait here, please.” With that, he stood and left the room through a door behind the table.
It wasn’t long before he returned, this time ushering an older man with very white hair and a thick white beard that flowed down his chest. The younger man walked him to the chair behind the table and helped him settle, then stood to one side.
A couple of large men dressed in sober clothing also entered the room from the rear door and flanked the door on either side, standing against the wall. Francesca wasn’t intimidated by them, exactly, but they looked as if they would be very capable at dealing with any kind of physical threat that might arise. Oddly enough, that gave her a certain sense of comfort.
; “Good afternoon,” the old man said in a breathy tone. The Jewish mark was prominently displayed on his clothing, and he wore a skullcap over his thinning hair. That was not unexpected. Francesca looked at the other men, and noted that they also wore the Jewish mark.
“Good afternoon,” Francesca responded.
The older man held out his hand, and the younger man put the paper into it. The older man opened the paper and held it before his face for a long moment, then lowered it to the table and folded his hands atop it. “Maestro Mosè was careful to not name the bearer of this note,” he observed. “I assume, Donna Incognita, that you are the person he wishes aid and assistance granted to.”
Francesca nodded, but said nothing.
The older man smiled after a moment. “A woman of wisdom, I see. The less you say, the less can be used to trace you or against you.”
“A hard-bought wisdom, I’m afraid,” Francesca said with a slight nod.
“Most wisdom is acquired at high prices, I find,” the older man said. “The wisest know that, and pay the prices willingly, for wisdom is invaluable; rarer than finest pearls and richer than much fine gold.”
Francesca nodded, again in silence.
“I am Jachobe, Donna Incognita. This is my son, Davit.” He gestured to the man who had greeted Francesca when they had entered the shop. “And this,” he said, tapping a fingernail on the paper, “is an unusual document. It is not often that one of our people will request unconditional assistance for a stranger.”
“For one of the goyim, you mean,” Francesca said in a dry tone.
“Not to be too sharp about it, yes.” Jachobe folded his hands and rested them on the paper. “Do you speak Hebrew, then, Donna?”
“Read it to some extent,” Francesca said, “but speak only a few words with any facility.”
Jachobe smiled. “Nonetheless, I will warn all to be wary of how they speak around you. I suspect your facility is better than you will admit.”
Francesca shrugged.
1636- the Flight of the Nightingale Page 8