“Maestro Mosè only says that you travel, and wish to travel swiftly, but even more travel unnoted. Why?” Jachobe was not smiling now. He tapped the Jewish mark on his breast. “What risks would I or anyone within my sphere of influence be running to aid you? You know who we are, you know how we live now only on the sufferance of the princes of the land and the princes of the church. Why should we risk anything for you?”
“I gave Maestro Mosè ten florins to get me to Bologna as quickly and quietly as possible,” Francesca said. “I will give you twenty florins to get me to Brescia ahead of pursuit.”
“Pursuit?” Jachobe’s voice grew a little colder as Davit’s eyes narrowed. “And who would be pursuing?”
“Agents of the grand duke of Tuscany, I fear. And no, I have stolen nothing from them, and harmed no one in their family or in their employ. I simply wish to…be free.”
“And they will have reason to object?”
“They may view it that they have a claim on me.”
“And do they?”
“No legal claim,” Francesca said, her voice shading toward iron. “No moral claim. They have had nearly forty years of my life. It is enough. I would spend my remaining years my own woman, and bring my daughter out of bondage as well.”
“Ah.” Jachobe brought his hands up, placed his elbows on the table, and rested his chin on his thumbs. “To be free of an unlawful bondage…that, I—we—can relate to.” He looked to Davit, and received a nod in reply. “Very well, Donna Incognita. We will take your commission, and see you to your destination. But why Brescia? Why not Venezia? Or Marseilles?”
“I have my reasons,” Francesca replied.
Jachobe tilted his head at a slight angle as he considered her. Then his eyes widened, and a smile appeared on his wrinkled face. “I…believe I see. Well played, Donna Incognita; well played, indeed.”
He looked to his son. “Davit, they are your charge. See to their commission.” With that, he levered himself back up to his feet. “I will not see you again, undoubtedly, Donna Incognita, but I look forward to hearing of your reaching your goal. Go with God.” The last was in Hebrew. He turned, and made his way through the rear door.
“Do you ride, Donna?” Davit inquired.
“Not really,” Francesca confessed. “I have ridden a donkey and a saddle mule before, but it has been a very long time since I have done so. And Marco Sabatini, my attendant,” she gestured toward Marco, “is no better a rider than I am.”
“That is unfortunate,” Davit murmured. He eyed Sabatini. The name identified one of bastard birth, and he was obviously trying to decide if the name fit or if it was a nom de guerre. After a moment, he gave a minute shrug, and continued with, “I suspect any pursuit will be coming on horseback.”
“I think we have two days on them, maybe as much as three,” Francesca said. “I laid a false trail that will take them a bit of time to uncover.”
“But you cannot count upon that,” Davit said. “We need you on the road as soon as possible, because men on horseback can travel much faster than even a light carriage, especially if they are willing to buy or rent fresh horses every few hours.”
Francesca felt a ball of ice form in her gut. “I know.”
Davit turned to the other two men. “Sansone, go tell the stable master to harness the two best horses to Jachobe’s light carriage, and stock it for a week’s journey. Tell him to have it ready in an hour.” One of the men nodded, and left out the front door. “Bartolomeo, have a message sent up the road immediately. Use the path to Modena, Mantova, and Cremona. We will want fresh horses, good horses, waiting for us at each location. We have no time to spare. But it is to be done as quietly as possible, not be obvious.” The other man left by the rear door.
“Donna,” Davit said as he turned back to Francesca and Marco, “please, come with me. It will take a little while to have all ready, and you should rest and have some food before we start.”
He beckoned them around the table, and they followed him through the rear door. Another younger man slipped through the door in the other direction, and Francesca caught a glimpse of him settling into the chair at the table as the door closed behind them.
Davit led them down a hall, turning two corners as he did so, until they arrived in what was undoubtedly a kitchen. “Clara,” he called out.
A stoutish woman, with her hair pulled back under a scarf, turned away from a table where she was sorting carrots and put her hands on her hips. She, too, wore the Jewish mark on her vest. “And what is it now, Maestro Davit?”
“These are a couple of guests of Father,” he said with a gesture to Francesca and Marco. “They will be leaving shortly, but Father wishes them to be fed and given a chance to rest while preparations are being made.”
“Preparations, is it?” Clara gave a ladylike snort. “I remember some of those preparations. You, go.” She waved a hand. “I’ll see to them.”
Davit grinned at her, and said to Francesca, “Clara is very good, and she will see to you. It will probably be about an hour before we come for you, but it might be a bit longer.”
“Go,” Clara ordered.
Davit went, still grinning.
“Sit,” Clara pointed to a couple of stools pulled up to a counter. Francesca sank onto one of them, sighing to get the load off her feet. Marco took the other, and even he made a sound of relief.
Clara bustled about, loading a couple of pewter plates with a couple of apples, a couple of bunches of raisins still on the stem, some slices of a creamy cheese, and two sections of a golden bread cut off of a large loaf. These she placed before them with instructions to “Eat! Eat! You look to be ready to fall down from hunger. Eat!”
The two of them tucked into the food, while Clara filled a couple of wooden cups from a bottle of wine standing on a back counter. “Here. This will give you strength.”
Before Francesca was done with the first apple, Clara was placing bowls of soup before them. The liquid was thick and filled with vegetables, while the aroma rising from them testified to the presence and influence of chicken in the recipe. The bowls were porcelain, among the finest that Francesca had ever seen, and the spoons that Clara presented to them were works of silver artisanry to match the bowls.
Francesca took the first spoon of soup into her mouth, and closed her eyes in sheer pleasure. Based upon the soup alone, Clara was the finest cook she had ever experienced, even considering the Pitti Palazzo in Firenze, the house of her deceased husband Tommaso in Lucca, and the houses and palaces she had encountered in France as a young woman. She ate slowly, savoring every morsel and drop of the food.
The wine was the equal of the food—dark, rich, sweet, yet with a fine flavor. That, too, she savored, looking around the kitchen and almost marveling at the contrast between the humble setting of the rough furniture and the kitchen and the simple food that was fine enough to grace the highest tables in Europe.
Francesca was cradling the wine cup when Davit reentered the room. “We are ready to leave, Donna,” he announced. She sipped the last bit of wine from the cup and set it down, then slid down from the stool, hissing as her tired feet made contact with the floor.
Turning to Clara, Francesca smiled. “Maestra Clara, the food was most excellent, and the fact that it was served from such a gracious heart made it even better. Thank you.”
“’Twas nothing,” Clara muttered, her hands wrapped in her apron.
“A cup of water from your hand would be a blessing,” Francesca said. “But food such as that…a miracle, an act of grace, a blessing upon a blessing. Thank you.”
Clara nodded once, apparently unable or unwilling to speak. Francesca smiled again, and turned back to Davit. “Lead on, Maestro Davit.”
Chapter 13
Once they had withdrawn from the reception chamber and returned to the palace-major’s office, Paolo looked to Roberto. “I’ll just see to packing our things and getting the horses ready, shall I?”
“Not quite yet
.” Roberto looked to the two other men. “Business as usual while I’m gone. Alessandro, you have authority to do whatever I would do for any situation that comes up. And do have our eyes and ears look for both the maestra and her daughter.”
“But you don’t expect us to find them,” Alessandro said.
“No, I don’t. But look anyway. Keep yourself before the grand duke at least every couple of days, and reassure him that you are looking everywhere diligently. Cesare,” Roberto turned to the captain, “I need at least four of your men, maybe six. All men who can ride well.”
Cesare nodded. “I expected that. I can let you have four. Any more than that will leave me shorthanded for the gate shifts.”
“Can your two miscreants ride?” Paolo asked.
“Giuseppe and Ercole?” Cesare replied. In response to Paolo’s nod, he said, “Giuseppe is about average for the guards. He can stay on at a gallop, and he can draw his sword while the horse is moving without cutting either the horse or himself. But he’s not a lancer, nor would he make a formation rider. Ercole, on the other hand,” the captain spread his hands, “turns into a centaur in the saddle. He’s the best rider in the guards. If he was only better at being a guard, I’d probably have made him at least a sergeant by now, if not an ensign or cornet.”
Paolo gave an evil grin. “Give us four good guards and those two. I’ll deal with them for you while we’re gone. A couple of weeks’ hard riding should serve to shape them up.”
Alessandro and Cesare grinned to match Paolo. “They are yours, with my blessing,” Cesare proclaimed.
“Well, I’ll just go get them out of their confinement, then, and share the good news,” Paolo said. He looked at Roberto. “Anything else you need me for right now, Capitano?”
“No.” Roberto waved his hand. “Go get us ready.” Cesare followed the attendant out the door, leaving Roberto and his assistant.
“Do you think you’ll catch her?” Alessandro asked.
Roberto shrugged and juggled his hands. “It’s possible, but I’m not going to place any wagers on it. I am planning on driving hard to Brescia, without spending a lot of time in checking the cities and towns as we go through them. She has too large a lead to lose that much time. If we spot something along the way, or if she has some kind of mishap, well and good. But my plan at the moment is to trust the paper and ride for Brescia. I don’t intend to kill horses doing it, mind you. The duke would not appreciate that, either. But eight trained men on good horses should be able to run down a woman over a week and a half, even if she has a three-day start and has a horse of her own and is a good rider. She won’t be conditioned for that kind of ride. And if she’s walking, it will be that much faster.”
“Makes sense,” Alessandro said with a nod.
Roberto headed for the doorway. “I’ve got to get out of these velvets and silks and into some canvas and leather. And hope that my best boots are still in the back of the wardrobe and haven’t been stolen or thrown out by one of the servants. Draw me a hundred florins from the ready cash for expenses and bring it to my rooms. Also, for emergencies write up a letter of credit that I can take to a moneylender, and have that ready for me as well. I’ve seen too much merda happen to even the best plans to not have some backup plans available.”
* * *
Three hours later, Roberto led his little company through the Porta di San Gallo. It was late in the afternoon, but there was enough time to get down the road. They should be able to make it to Fiesole before it was full dark, and Roberto and Paolo between them knew that city well enough to know where they could find an inn with rooms.
Once they were well clear of the gate, Roberto sighed. He leaned forward and gave his mount a couple of light slaps on the shoulder, then sat back in the saddle and felt tension drain away. This wasn’t his old campaigning horse. That had been a bay that he had named Fulmine, or Lightning. That poor old horse had been aging when Roberto was in the skirmish which had cost him his eye. It had also cost him Fulmine. And with his decision to leave the wars after that, he hadn’t bothered to find another war mount. This was one of the mounts that Falconieri had acquired for the guards, and while he was a solid animal, willing but not overly temperamental, he wasn’t the mount that Fulmine had been. But even so, it felt good to be back in the saddle, despite the twinges that told him that he was going to regret not having ridden more.
Being in campaign clothes felt good, too. Heavy breeches, high-top boots, buff coat, wide-brimmed hat with a plume, sword at his side and pistols in the saddle holsters…it all felt so right. Roberto started wondering if he had made a mistake leaving Piccolomini’s staff.
This wasn’t the first time in the last few years that he had wondered that, of course. But it was the first time he had felt seriously tempted to go back to the mercenary life.
“Feels right, don’t it, Capitano?”
Paolo’s voice came from Roberto’s left, where the former sergeant customarily rode. Roberto’s mouth quirked a bit, then he said, “Old times, Paolo. Old times.”
“Good times, too.”
“That they were,” Roberto said. “That they were. But they’re behind us now. As much as I’m tempted, I’m not going back to them.”
Paolo shrugged. “I’ll ride with you wherever you say, Capitano.”
They rode a ways farther down the road. After they crested a slight rise, Paolo rose up in his stirrups and looked back over the riders following them two by two. He settled back into the saddle with a grim chuckle.
“They all still in place?” Roberto asked, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.
“They are,” his companion said. “Even Giuseppe and Ercole.”
“Good.” After riding a little farther down the road, Roberto asked, “You going to make them ride the tail the whole distance?”
“For a few days,” Paolo chuckled. “They can stand to eat a little dust. But I’ll start switching them around some before long, just to keep everyone alert.”
They rode another mile or so before Paolo said, “So, Fiesole tonight, then what—two days to Bologna? Three?”
“Three,” Roberto replied. “These horses are strong enough to do it in two, but they’d need a rest after that. I’d rather make the steady progress than rush, then rest, then rush, then rest, and run the risk of injuring any of the mounts.”
“Right,” Paolo said. “No guarantee of what kind of horses we could find to replace any of ours.”
“You were the one who told Captain Falconieri about the demand for horses.”
“Yes. Still, these are good strong horses. We might make it past Bologna in three days. Some village or small town on the road to Modena.”
Roberto nodded. He looked ahead. “Road’s level, traffic’s light. Let’s trot.” He nudged his mount with his heels, and the horse responded by moving into the easy motion of a trot. Paolo caught up with him after a moment, and behind him Roberto could hear the increased drumming of horse hooves hitting the road.
Chapter 14
Francesca looked at the carriage with distaste. After three days of riding in it nonstop, her body was beginning to rebel at the thought of mounting into it again. She shuddered to think of what her bottom and back would be saying to her if there were not some rather thick cushions in the carriage.
“Come, Donna Negri,” Davit said as he came alongside her. For a moment, she forgot that she was Donna Negri—that they had agreed on that alias when they began the journey. “Antonio says all is ready.”
“Not all is ready, I fear.” Francesca placed a hand in the small of her back, and gave a slight moan.
Davit smiled for a moment. “I fear that we are not made for sitting in one place for extended hours.”
“Especially on a conveyance going over roads at speeds. Most especially when we are past the first bloom of youth.” Francesca’s tone was very dry, and she felt her face moving to a wry grin.
Davit outright laughed at that. “My bones are old enough and I have enough
silver threads in my hair and beard that I completely understand and fully agree with you, Donna. Yet,” he gestured toward the carriage, “it is your necessity we serve, and we should be on our way. We should not waste daylight.”
“True, Maestro Davit,” Francesca said. “Very true. So, on we go.” She handed her clothing bag to Marco and made her way to the side of the carriage, where she stepped stiffly up into the carriage and settled herself in the corner of the rear seat, carefully arranging the cushions before she settled down with a sigh. Moments later she was joined by Marco, who had seen to stowing their bags, and Davit.
Davit waved a hand to the driver before he closed the door to the compartment, and just as he settled on the forward bench, the carriage lurched forward as the horses began moving and took up the slack in their harnesses. Davit handled the motion with a practiced manner, but uttered a sigh. “Antonio still has somewhat to learn about being a carriage driver, I fear.”
“New to the work, then?” Francesca asked.
“Oh, he is an experienced driver,” Davit explained. “But he has heretofore brought only barrels and boxes and bales in his wake. But our usual driver broke his leg and is unable to serve, so Antonio was brought in to travel this route, with little chance to learn that a cargo of people should receive some gentler consideration than his usual hardware.”
“He seems skilled to me.”
“He is, or we would not have considered him. But he and Benvenuto both are new to Father’s direct service, so we are giving them some new experiences with this trip.”
“Benvenuto? The one who rides with Antonio?”
Davit nodded. “Our guard.”
“I wondered at that,” Francesca admitted. “I hadn’t seen any weapons.”
Davit’s face took on a slight smile. “You wouldn’t. For those of our folk,” he obviously meant Jews, “to be seen with obvious weapons could lead to…problems…in some locations. But with the right connections, and a certain amount of gold, one can obtain new weapons, in the up-time designs, from points north. Weapons that are smaller and easier to conceal than what has been available until recently, yet at the same time are more reliable and more effective.”
1636- the Flight of the Nightingale Page 9