I hate del Balzo more than I have ever hated any man. Oh, I am giving those on the shore a good show, and I do not care. I throw back my head and howl “God in heaven is watching you this foul day!”
Hugo del Balzo leans into my face with an ugly laugh. “God does not love black-skinned infidels any more than I do. I have killed uncounted numbers of them in Holy Crusades with His blessing. What are two more?”
I spit at him. It lands on his cheek. His derision turns to fury. He wipes away the mark of my contempt and snarls to his men, “What are you waiting for?”
The rack groans and creaks as it extends, and Sancia shrieks in agony. The lash whistles through the air, followed by a wet sound as it digs into Robert’s bared back. He grunts, once again refusing to cry out. The sounds of my family’s suffering surround me. I pray to God to strike this monster down, but my only answer is the hard brilliance of the faithless sun shining down on us.
When Robert passes out they throw salt water on his back. Still he will not scream, but moans and jerks convulsively against his bindings like a speared fish. Sancia is roused from fainting three times before her voice gives out. Then del Balzo motions toward me.
My heart pounds as they lead me to the rack. My breath comes in little gasps that leave me faint-headed, but I do not waste my energy in struggling. At least they must take my poor granddaughter off the rack to put me on it. I pray her child has not been harmed. A ripple across her abdomen reassures me it still lives. One of the men has seen it too; I give him a hard look. He turns his face away quickly.
The wood is cold against my back as I lie on it, and slick with sweat and salt spray. Two men pull my arms over my head as far as they will go and strap them there while others shackle my feet to the farthest reach of the boards. The stiffness in my joints complains already, before the ordeal has even begun. I tremble and sweat as I wait for them to turn the crank, closing my eyes so they will not see my terror. Dear God, let me bear this in silence. Every nerve in my body is on edge waiting for the pain to begin.
I hear the whistle of the lash. Sancia emits a raw, choking sound, no longer able to scream. I turn my head to see her tied to the mast, her naked young body on full display for those watching on shore. Are they not satisfied yet? Has she not suffered enough for them?
The crank beside me turns. My legs and arms begin to stretch, the pressure building to a burning pain as my joints protest. I hear the pop as my left shoulder dislocates, and then my right, and I cannot stop myself from screaming...
I gasp, choking on salt water, coughing my way back to consciousness and searing pain. Another turn and they will surely tear my arms and legs from my torso. But the wood groans, the lever turns, and I am not torn apart, although I wish to heaven I was, to put an end to this agony. I prepare to die, will myself to death. I am an old woman and ready to leave this world.
My great-grandmother’s voice comes to me amid the inferno of my body. The final words of her prophecy, which my mother never wanted me to know: She will die in misery and all that she has accomplished will come to nothing, crushed under Fortune’s wheel.
The prophecy, and Fortune’s wheel, have come full circle. The sun fades to a dullness, and my agony recedes...
“Mother Mary, take me.”
The broken whisper reaches me as from a great distance. Not my voice, though it is my prayer as well. Not my surrender, but Sancia’s.
Sancia and her baby. Preparing to die.
No!
I reach toward the daylight, toward the pain. It is a long way and I do not want to return. I want peace, but I will not have it if I allow this. Sancia, I call in my mind. Sancia!
I cannot hear her. Am I too late? I struggle against the pull of darkness.
“Sancia...” My voice comes out, a strangled croak.
You cannot die. You cannot sacrifice your child’s life.
I feel hands at my wrists and ankles. The release of pressure stretching my limbs is agonizing. For a moment I am lost in this new pain.
Beneath me the boat shudders into movement.
“Sancia!” I croak. Why is she silent? “Sancia, live. For the sake of your child, you must live.”
A short distance away, Sancia moans.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
February, 1301
City of Naples
I lay still in the bed with my eyes closed, barely breathing, listening for any sounds in the room. Silence. I risked opening one eye enough to peer through my lashes. I had thick, dark lashes. They obscured my view annoyingly, but I was able to assure myself that I was alone in the bed this morning. I opened both eyes without moving my head. No one in sight, and still no sound in the chamber. I sat up and looked around, sighing with relief.
There was a small click as the latch was raised and the door began to open. Too late to lie down and feign sleep, so I drew a breath and called out, “Who is there?”
The door stopped moving. “It is only me, Madame,” a female voice responded. “I have brought you mulled wine and come to dress you and do up your hair, if it please you.”
Dress me? Do my hair? I almost laughed. But I had eaten very little dinner, and whoever it was had mentioned mulled wine. “Come in then. You cannot do it from there.”
The door opened wider. A young girl slipped in, perhaps thirteen years old. She curtsied, nearly spilling the wine she carried. I motioned impatiently, half expecting her to trip as she hurried across the room. Surely as the owner of a manor like this, Raymond could afford to hire more experienced servants. I took the mulled wine while there was still some left in the cup and watched as she lit a fire in the fireplace. It was odd to drink my wine under the covers, watching someone else blow on the embers, a task that had been mine only a year ago.
“Where is...” I took a sip of wine to cover my hesitation, “...your master?”
“He rose at dawn, Madame. He has gone to look over his troops.” She laid some twigs carefully upon the now-glowing embers.
His troops? Could he be leaving already? I considered how to ask the question without displaying my complete ignorance about my—about Raymond.
“He instructed me to tell you he will be back for supper.”
“Yes,” I said, as though I had assumed as much. As though I was not now faced with another host of questions. Was there a cook? Did he or she know what Raymond liked to eat? Did I need to send someone shopping? And then I realized: Raymond will be gone all day. If I left soon, I would be far away before he even knew I was gone. I could take a horse, if he had horses. I remembered my terrifying ride to Violante’s tent back in Sicily and shuddered. No, I would not take a horse.
The girl sat back on her haunches, watching the little blaze she had achieved for a moment before she rose and curtsied, offering to bring a bowl of rosewater for me to wash in. The curtsey was not very low, a little bob. I noticed that and motioned her to leave without so much as inclining my head. Then I settled back in my covers to let the room warm while rosewater was being fetched for me. I permitted myself a laugh after the door closed behind her.
As quiet as it had been, the sound echoed in the large room, my own laughter mocking me. Did the servants here know they were waiting on an African slave and a fisherman’s daughter? Well, they had to know about Raymond, and even if they did not know my origins, they would know I was little better than they or I would not have been married to him. I must be on guard here. They would resent me putting on airs, and resent me even more if I did not.
I leaned against the headboard and sipped my mulled wine. Perhaps it was a good thing the girl waiting on me was so young. Was she a general chamber maid, or was she intended as my personal maid? There was something familiar about her, something in her appearance or her voice. Had she been serving at the feast last night? I did not remember her. She was small and brown-eyed, with thick hair so dark it was nearly black, like so many girls from my village.
I sat up so quickly the wine sloshed in my cup. Like the girls in my village?
And her familiar voice, with a touch of the Sicilian accent left in it—how had she gotten here? How had she gotten here, in Raymond’s home? She was from Sicily, but was she from my village? Did she know who I was?
I stumbled out of bed. My hands were shaking, spilling wine onto the floor. I set the cup on a table before I dropped it and sank into the chair beside it. Had she told Raymond? Was that why he had not slept with me, because he knew our union was a sham? That I was already married to another?
I took a deep breath to calm myself. The girl might not even be from my village. She might know nothing. It might be a coincidence that she was a servant here.
If it was deliberate, if Raymond had hired the girl to—to what? To keep me here? To threaten me with exposure if I tried to leave? I had thought about leaving...
The door opened, admitting the girl again. It was all I could do not to demand Who are you? What do you know? But I had been well-trained in subtlety, first by my cunning father and then by two years at court.
“See that you do not spill it,” I said as the girl carried the bowl to the table by my chair. A light mist rose from it, and petals floated on the water. Warmed rosewater. I sat back and closed my eyes, pretending to be relaxed as the girl washed my face with a cloth.
“What is your name?”
“Cicillia, Madame.”
“Cicillia. That is not a common name in Naples.” I knew full well it was a very common name in Sicily.
“I am from Catania, Madame. I came with my mother when the soldiers returned to Naples.” She patted my face dry.
I opened my eyes. My throat had gone dry. At least she was not from Trapani. But the two towns were not far apart.
“Shall I comb your hair, Madame?” she asked, saving me from responding. But she would know I was from Sicily. My accent, for all that I have worked to lose it, would be as apparent to her as hers was to me. It would not be natural to let the comment go, if I had nothing to hide. I might even be pleased to meet someone from home. If I had nothing to hide.
“What a coincidence,” I murmured, the words nearly choking me. “I am also from Sicily.”
She said nothing, the comb stroking through my hair smoothly. I looked straight ahead into the fire and let her comb my hair in silence. She knew something. Did she know something?
“How does your mother like Naples?” I said at last. It was foolish to be talking like this to my servant, but the ominous silence was too much for me.
“My mother died last summer of the fever.”
“I... I am sorry to hear it,” I told her, trying to sound regretful.
“Thank you, Madame.” She returned the comb to the little drawer in my table. “What would you like to wear, Madame?”
For a moment I sat there silent. I should have brought something with me. My mother had warned me often enough that my pride would lead me into trouble if my temper did not find the way first. I opened my mouth to tell her I would wear my wedding gown. I came in it, and I would leave in it.
But how could I leave until I knew what this girl knew? What she might tell about me? She was the bait with which Raymond had caught me—for now.
The girl was waiting. Reluctant to admit I had nothing but my wedding kirtle to wear, I said, “I will have something new for my new life here. Send for a dressmaker.”
“Of course, Madame,” the girl said. “But in the meantime, would you care to wear one of the kirtles your husband has had made for you?”
I looked at her sharply. Was that a hint of amusement in her eye?
“Well, your master has left me a pleasant surprise. You had better bring me one and dress me. Then I will go see the cook.” A man who had a set of clothing made for his new wife would have a cook.
She brought me a fine linen undershift in a soft cream with a light green kirtle to go over it, made of silk. It was all I could do not to gasp when I saw the expensive silk cloth. Green for spring, for a new start, for the stirring of life. The symbolism was not lost on me.
“Your lord husband knows fine clothes,” Cicillia murmured, stretching on tip-toe to lift the kirtle over my head while I obligingly bent.
He did indeed. He had always dressed exceedingly well at court, but I had not imagined he would be so generous with me. I found myself holding my breath as Cicillia slipped it over my head. The skirt was so full she had to straighten it at the hips, but for all the material, it was as light and comfortable as it was beautiful, and perfectly suited to my dark coloring. I was so delighted I turned in a circle just to watch it twirl and hear the rich rustle of the shimmering fabric.
“There is also a blue one,” Cicillia said, moving behind me to pull the lacing tight up my back.
“Light blue?” I guessed. I looked over my shoulder and caught her blush. The color of true love. Well, I would leave that one for now.
“And a yellow one, as bright as the sun,” she hurried on.
“Yellow?”
“It would not suit most women, but on you...” she trailed off. Yes, I knew what it would look like on me. When had Raymond seen me in my yellow dress? I did not doubt he had. Had he suspected I would not bring it, or had he feared I would? I shook my head. He was a complicated man.
“The undershift is white, bright white, to bring out the yellow.” Cicillia stepped around to arrange the folds of my kirtle.
Three new silk kirtles, and an undershift to go with each gown. For a wife who did not even bring him a dowry. He was indeed a generous man. Or a proud one.
“Shall I do up your hair, Madame?”
I nodded and sat on the chair. “Where did you learn to be a lady’s maid?”
“My mother taught me, Madame. She said I would need to make my way. But I think she only wanted me to serve her.”
I laughed. The girl was entertaining in her odd way. “How old are you?”
“I do not know, Madame. My mother said I had ten summers in Sicily. Enough to remember our lives there and be grateful to her, she said.”
“Are you still not grateful?” I asked, amused at the tone of her voice as she mimicked her mother.
“I miss the smell of the woods, and the feel of the earth under my feet. Of course, Naples is a majestic city,” she added quickly. I nodded slightly, distracted by her words. They brought me the smell of green leaves unfolding in the sun and the coolness of the warm river mud between my toes and the soft breeze on my face. I felt a swell of homesickness. It was all I could do not to confess my feelings to this girl from my homeland. From my past.
God forbid she knew my past! Heaven help me if I let my guard down to her nostalgic enchantments. The past was past and I was no longer a simple maid. I had to protect my present and look to my future. Let this foolish child dream of a time past. I was overworked and hungry and beaten in that past, and no doubt she had experienced similar privations. What a bewitching fantasy the past was.
I said no more. I had asked enough questions and given away too much already. The girl was more intelligent than her years, but sooner or later she would not be able to keep what she knew from me.
It was pleasant, though, to have my hair combed and braided and pinned up for me. To have nothing to do but sit and wait while my maid went back to the wardrobe and returned with a light green headdress in the newest fashion. A headdress to match my gown! He had put much thought into my wardrobe, this new husband of mine. I considered that as Cicillia tucked my braids in under the beautiful headdress. When she was finished she held up a glass for me to see myself in. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud as I preened in my glorious outfit. If only my mother could see me now. The thought made me pause. If only there was a way I could let her know that I was well. Perhaps even send some money to her.
Was I well? Was a green dress and matching headwear and a maid to serve me all it took to content me? I stood up.
“Oh, I forgot!” Cicillia cried, laying the glass down. With a quick curtsey she ran from the room, returning a few moments later with a piece of the gree
n cloth in her hands. “Master said to give this to you when you put on the green kirtle.”
I reached for the kerchief, but it was heavier than I expected. When I drew back the folds of green silk I saw a stunning gold necklet with three large emeralds embedded in the center. I gasped with surprise and nearly dropped it.
“How beautiful!” Cicillia cried, clapping her hands with delight. “Let me put it on you, Madame.”
I handed her the necklet and accepted the looking glass she offered me. She lay the brilliant stones against my breast and drew the gold chain round my neck to clasp it together.
“How beautiful it is on you!” Cicillia said. I gazed into the glass. The emeralds glowed against my skin, drawing me into their depths...
“Take it off!” I threw the glass clattering onto the table. “And the headdress, also! I will not wear them.”
Her mouth was a round ‘O’ of surprise but she said nothing as I sat down again in the chair. I stared straight ahead refusing to watch as she unclasped the necklet and wrapped it in the piece of silk, and then unpinned the fashionable headdress.
“Take them away,” I said when she hesitated. “When you return I will see the house, and the kitchen, and the stables, and learn what my...” I hesitated only a second, then looked her full in the face. “What my husband needs me to manage for him.”
***
When Raymond returned I met him in the hall as a proper wife would. “When would you like your supper, my Lord?” I watched his face, trying to read there what he knew, what Cicillia might have told him of me.
“Good evening, Madame Wife,” he said with a sweeping bow, mocking my own brusque greeting. He glanced at his man, standing a step behind me.
“Your basin and tunic are waiting for you, Master Raymond,” the man said.
The Girl Who Tempted Fortune Page 18