1636- the Flight of the Nightingale

by David Carrico

  Francesca opened her eyes a bit long enough to see Marco crouch by her and hold his hand out to touch her, only to stop as he realized he didn’t know what to do and anything he did might make things worse. She closed her eyes and focused on holding her neck and throat still, although a moan spasmed through her throat when the engines started up and added vibration conducted through the hull to jar her. She opened her eyes and held one hand out to Marco, who took it. She grasped it tightly and used the leverage to pull her back away from the rear wall, reducing the feel of the vibration, but not eliminating it by any means.

  It seemed like an eternity, but was probably less than half an hour before Bonaro and a crewman turned up and crouched down beside Francesca on the opposite side from Marco. She opened her eyes, which were still oozing tears.

  “So what happened, boy?” That was Bonaro.

  “I think she got hit or slapped in the throat when she was struggling with that one guard,” Marco said. She could hear the almost panic in his voice and see the strain on his face even through her tears.

  The other man whistled. “That is not good,” he said in gravelly tones. “Maestra, I need to see your throat. Can you move your hands, please?”

  Francesca held herself very still, and slowly lowered her hands, trying very hard not to tense up and cause the pain to flare up again. It had settled to a dull hurt as long as she didn’t move.

  “This is Guillermo,” Bonaro said. “The insurance company insisted that every airship crew has to have at least one crewman who has had advanced medical training for wound treatments and other medical conditions. Guillermo is it for this crew.”

  “Can you lift your head any at all?” Guillermo said as he moved about, trying to view her neck from every angle. “Your chin is shadowing your throat.” Francesca breathed slowly and steadily as she tried to raise her chin a bit more.

  “Relax,” Guillermo said as he sat back. “There is some swelling on the throat, and some bruising. I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like her larynx—her voice box,” he said in response to the quizzical expressions he got from both Bonaro and Marco, “—is pushed over to the side a bit, which would indicate some pretty serious damage under the skin. But I don’t know anything about that. About all they taught us about the neck and throat in the medic training is how to clear out an obstruction from the trachea, how to start an IV in the neck if absolutely necessary, and how to do a tracheotomy to restore breathing and bypass damage or an obstruction. But none of that applies here, because she is breathing on her own.”

  “So what can we do?” Bonaro said.

  “Just trying to apply some common sense,” Guillermo said, “she probably should be lying down to rest. No talking, no eating for the next several days. No more drinking than she has to do. If I had some opium, I would give her some of that to alleviate the pain. Best we’ve got is some cheap brandy. She can take a little of that at a time. I’d guess it’s going to hurt like the fires of hell for her to swallow.”

  Francesca raised one hand back to her throat, and pointed emphatically at Guillermo a couple of times with the other before it joined the first.

  “So there’s nothing more we can do?” Bonaro asked.

  Guillermo shook his head. “Nothing I can splint or wrap or suture. We don’t have any ice to use for cold compresses. No opium. All we can do is make her as comfortable as we can. When we get to Chur, she needs to see a doctor and spend a couple of weeks resting.”

  Francesca took her right hand off her throat and made a short sharp horizontal gesture.

  “I’d guess that means ‘No,’” Bonaro said with a twisted grin. “Why don’t you go see if you can find that cheap brandy, Guillermo, while I try to find out what’s going on here?”

  Guillermo rose and moved toward a door in the rear compartment wall. Bonaro looked at the two of them. “You named yourself as Donna Negri when we bargained, but that Firenzan officer said you were Maestra Francesca Caccini and this young man called you Maestra Caccini. After having to face down that Firenzan and his lackeys, I think I deserve to know who you are and what I may have gotten my company in the middle of.” He shifted his gaze back and forth between them expectantly.

  Francesca pointed to herself, then pointed to Marco and waved her hand at Bonaro.

  “You want me to tell him?” Marco asked.

  Francesca pointed at him twice, with emphasis. Marco sighed. “All right.”

  He turned to look at Bonaro. “Her name really is Francesca Caccini. She has been Maestra Caccini, one of the greatest musicians of northern Italy, for longer than I’ve been alive.”

  “I know that name,” Bonaro muttered. “Caccini, Caccini…” he snapped his fingers. “La Cecchina. Right?”

  “Yes,” Marco admitted. “She has been called that.”

  “But that would make her part of the court musicians of the grand duke’s court in Firenze, wouldn’t it?”

  “One of its leading musicians for years,” Marco said.

  “Then why…” Bonaro spread his hands.

  “The maestra is very tired of being an ornament and being treated worse than many of the servants,” Marco said. “She has broken no rules, injured no one, stolen nothing. She brought nothing with her but the music she has written, a few items of clothing, and the money she has saved over the years and from her marriages. She left quietly, hoping to relocate to Magdeburg to join the musicians’ colony forming there without trouble. Yet the court has sent this Del Migliore after her.”

  “Ah,” Bonaro said. “I begin to understand. A case of wounded pride, most likely.”

  Marco nodded.

  “Well,” Bonaro continued, “I stand by what I told the officer. I—we—owe him nothing, certainly not in a case of harassment of a private individual.”

  He looked at Francesca with some concern from under lowered brows. “You need to see a doctor, maestra. You really need to offload in Chur and stay there.” Francesca repeated her right-hand horizontal gesture. “That means ‘No,’ I take it.” She pointed at him emphatically.

  “Your passage is paid through to Nürnberg,” Bonaro said. “But he,” pointing at Marco, “says you need to get to Magdeburg. Yes?”

  Francesca pointed at Bonaro twice.

  “Ah. Well, we may be able to help with that, as well. Let us wait and see what develops. Meanwhile, here is Guillermo with his brandy. I will leave you in his hands.”

  * * *

  Marco rose and moved aside at Bonaro’s beckon. He watched as Guillermo held a small flask to Francesca’s lips and tipped small amounts of brandy into her mouth, followed by flashes of agony crossing her face as she swallowed.

  Finally, she pushed the flask away, and Guillermo put a stopper in it. He rose and crossed over to Marco and handed it to him.

  “Try to get some more down her later. She needs whatever little relief from pain she can get.”

  Marco took the flask. “I’ll try.”

  “I’ll come back later and check on her.”

  With that, Guillermo turned away and began to talk to one of the other crew members.

  Bonaro looked at Marco. “Ask you a question?” At Marco’s nod, he said, “If you’re from Firenze, how did you lay your hands on an up-time-style pistol? Those aren’t easy to acquire south of the Alps yet.”

  Marco’s mouth quirked. “Maestro Davit sold it to me. Five florins of gold it cost me, but it was worth it. I just wish I’d gotten it out even a half a minute earlier.”

  “Hmm. I may need to maintain connections with Maestro Davit,” Bonaro mused. “A man of some means and resolution, it would seem, for all that he is a Jew. And one who made you a sweet deal. An up-time-style revolver would ordinarily run ten florins. Eight, at least.”

  “Five was all I had, “Marco replied, eyebrows drawn down for a moment. “But Maestro Davit is a good man,” Marco observed, “a very good man. He helped us more than we deserved.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Bonaro said. “You should,
too. Meanwhile, it looks like the brandy is working. Let’s help your maestra lie down.”

  Chapter 21

  Brescia

  October 1636

  Roberto Del Migliore stood on the edge of the airship field, Paolo at his side and two of the guards at his back. He was ready to confront the airship crew and force his passage back up the route in pursuit of Maestra Caccini. His warrant had been countersigned by the local Venetian governor, in exchange for a surprisingly small number of golden florins. He had the legal authority now; he simply needed to catch up with the woman, and he had no doubt he could do that, even with the delay of the airship returning.

  He was unhappy at one thing. The airship crewman had said it would be eight days before they returned. It turned out to be ten, and Roberto was well aware of just how much that added to Maestra Caccini’s time to run.

  On the other hand, it had allowed extra time for both Ercole and Giuseppe to begin healing from the wounds they had taken at the hands of the scrawny youth who had been at Maestra Caccini’s side. He still wondered who that was, but whoever he was, he had watched over the Maestra with some passion.

  He watched, hands behind his back to keep his fingers from drumming on his belt or from seeking his sword hilt, as the airship came to a halt and drifted lower, dropping mooring ropes as it neared the ground. Within a few minutes, the airship had lowered to the ground and had been snugged down.

  The first man out of the airship was the airship crewman who had confronted Roberto ten days ago.

  “I thought you said you would be back in eight days,” Roberto said in an accusing tone of voice.

  “We strive for the schedule,” the man said, “but between weather and other issues, sometimes we slip a bit. Messer Del Migliore, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Roberto bit the response off. “And who are you?”

  “Plain old Marcello Bonaro,” the man replied with a slight bow, “originally from Venezia, now from points north.”

  “Well, plain old Bonaro,” Roberto said in a voice of iron, “I have my countersigned warrant, so you will take me and at least one of my men back along your route and set us down wherever you released Maestra Francesca Caccini.”

  Bonaro shrugged. “I think I can take one,” Bonaro said. “I’m not sure I can take two. That will depend on what else has been contracted for to go north. That will be ten florins a head, however many go, payable in advance in valid coin.”

  “Fine.” Roberto wasn’t especially angry at the man. His irritation level, however, was beginning to rise. He turned to Paolo, vaguely aware of a disturbance that had happened behind him. “Pay the man.”

  “You may want to read this first, Capitano,” Paolo said, handing him a sealed dispatch. Roberto frowned at him. Paolo shrugged. “I don’t know about it, Capitano, but the only people who would be sending that are the grand duke or Alessandro.” He jerked a thumb at the dust-covered and obviously exhausted courier who was standing behind him with one of the other guards they’d left at the inn. “Either way, for them to have sent it fast enough to catch up with us this quickly, it must be important.”

  Roberto’s mouth twisted. “I wish I could say you were wrong, but we both know you aren’t. Open it, please.”

  Paolo pulled a thin-bladed knife from his sleeve and broke the seal on the folded page, then handed it to Roberto. Flipping it open, Roberto read through it once, stiffened, then read through it again slowly. When he was done, he folded it up and tucked it inside his tunic.

  “Merda.” Roberto’s voice was quiet, but still had the hard sound of his days as a condottiere.

  “What is it, Capitano?” Paolo frowned at the sound of his leader’s voice.

  “Dowager Duchess Christine is dead. The grand duke has ordered us to stop our pursuit of Maestra Caccini and to return home ‘to resume our duties.’”

  “And?” Paolo asked. “Do we finish our task first?”

  “No,” Roberto said with a hard exhale of breath. “Alessandro wrote the communication, the grand duke signed it, but Alessandro added a bit of a postscript to the bottom of the note: ‘He means it.’ That means I’ll be risking almost royal displeasure if I continue the hunt. If I could bring it to an end in a couple of days, I’d do it. But with this thing in play,” he jerked a thumb at the airship, “I’d be lucky to get back to Firenze in a couple of months, and that the grand duke would not appreciate.”

  Roberto gave another hard exhale. “So…” He turned to Bonaro. “I will not be needing those passages after all. And you can tell Maestra Caccini that the grand duke of Tuscany has decided she is not worth bothering with and no one will be looking for her.”

  With that, he pivoted on his heel, not exchanging farewells with the airship commander, and strode toward the gates into Brescia.

  Chapter 22

  Magdeburg, USE

  November 1636

  Marco looked at Francesca. “Are you sure about this?”

  Francesca was nervous for the first time in she didn’t know how long, but she hadn’t come this far to falter now. “Yes,” she husked.

  “All right.”

  Marco pushed open the door and gestured Francesca into Walcha’s Coffee House. He followed her through, and closed the door behind them.

  Francesca looked around the room. Every table was occupied. Every table was fully occupied. A couple had people sitting in concentric rings around them. But she didn’t see who she was looking for—not at that table, or that one, or that one, or… She saw a face in profile that she thought was the man she was looking for. She tapped Marco on the shoulder and pointed toward the table.

  Marco led the way, threading between the backs of people in the many chairs, even having to turn sideways in some places to make his way through. Francesca followed him. No one paid any attention to them. Apparently tight quarters was nothing unusual here, she mused.

  They arrived at the table in question. In addition to the man she sought, there were two couples at the table: two men that she could tell were down-timers even though they were wearing some up-timer-styled clothing, and two women who were, without a doubt, up-timers. Francesca had spent enough time in Grantville on her way north to be able to recognize them. There was just something about the way the up-timers carried themselves, especially the women.

  Her quarry looked around at them. “Yes?” he said in a very cool soprano voice, which confirmed Francesca’s identification of him and sent a wave of relief through her.

  “Are you Maestro Andrea Abati?” Marco asked.

  Abati blinked his eyes. “Yes, I am. Why do you ask? Do I know you?”

  “No, you don’t know me,” Marco said, “but may I make you known to Maestra Francesca Caccini?” He bowed and gestured to Francesca.

  Abati shot to his feet, knocking his chair over onto the floor behind him. “La Cecchina! Here?”

  Francesca felt a broad smile growing on her face, and she nodded, holding out her hands to him.

  Abati took her hands and raised them both to his lips, giving them both kisses. “Dear Francesca, how wonderful it is to see you again after all these years. But what are you doing here, and why didn’t you let me—us—know you were coming?” He waved at the table. “Let me introduce you to my friends. Here you see Marla Linder, the prima soprano of Magdeburg, and her husband Franz Sylwester, dirigent of the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, and Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, whose name I’m sure you recognize, and his wife Elizabeth Jordan.”

  They all smiled and nodded, and Francesca felt some warmth flowing into her. This was what she was looking for.

  “My friends,” Abati continued, “you see before you Maestra Francesca Caccini, La Cecchina, the Nightingale of Firenze, the crown jewel of the musical crown of the court of the grand duke of Tuscany, the finest singer of northern Italy and one of the three best musicians of all of Italy.” He turned back to Francesca, and said again, “But what are you doing here?”

  “I have come to make my future,” Francesca fi
nally spoke, husking the words out.

  She saw the surprise appear on Abati’s face: the shock, followed by the horror at the sound of her ruined voice.

  “What…what has happened…”

  “An injury suffered in escaping the attentions of the court,” Francesca said, the tones of her mutilated voice grating on the ears of them all, she could tell.

  “Oh, my God,” Marla Linder breathed. “How horrible.”

  “Not so much, Maestra Linder,” Francesca said. “My sun is setting. My years of singing were about to pass anyway. I will not miss the singing…much.” She swallowed at that moment of honesty, and felt the phantom of pain of days past. “The doctors in Grantville said that if I had been able to be seen by them, especially Dr. Nichols, right after the injury, they might have been able to repair the damage. But by the time I—we—managed to make our way to Grantville, the healing had already progressed to the point where they could not promise any improvements with their surgeries. So, it is what it is. But I can still play, and still compose, and still hear, so there is much I can do yet in the autumn of my years. But my future, now, that is still bright.”

  Francesca reached out a hand to draw Marco to stand in front of her. She took Marco’s cap off of his head, and tossed it on the table before the others. “This is my future. Behold my daughter Margherita, whom I have brought out of Firenze and Italy to this land, to place in your hands, to grow and bloom and blossom into the musician she should be without paying the prices I have paid. Cherish her.”

  Marla Linder was on her feet and circling the table to come stand before them. She stared first into Francesca’s eyes. “Absolutely. She will be cherished. Count on it. The more so, because of the price you have paid to get her here.” Francesca could read the iron determination in the other woman’s eyes, and she smiled in acceptance.

  “And you, young woman,” Marla said, looking to Margherita, who had almost slumped to the floor now that her role was ended, “you are a very special gift, and you are very welcome. Call me Marla, and call on me whenever you need anything. Got it?”