Bianca (12 page)

The next afternoon, Bianca found a new note beneath Darius’s collar. Unable to restrain her curiosity, she pulled it out and opened it.
Who are you?
the note read. She crushed the parchment and stuffed it into the pocket of her cape. The afternoon after that there was another message attached to the dog.
Tell me your name,
it begged. She smiled, unable to help herself.

“He is flirting with you,” Agata said, chuckling.

“He shouldn’t be. Until I am told otherwise, I am a married woman,” Bianca said.

“But he doesn’t know that, and perhaps it doesn’t matter to him. Men are like that, mistress,” Agata responded.

“He cannot know who I am,” Bianca replied. “Must I cease walking upon my own beach because this man is harassing me?”

“You can walk,” Agata told her. “He will grow bored with this game if you do not play with him. Men can be such children.”

So Bianca walked, and each day Darius would join her, but there were no more notes beneath his collar. Then one afternoon the dog appeared before her carrying a small covered basket in his mouth. He stopped, placing it before her on the pebbled sand, and sat down, looking up at Bianca anxiously. She heard a distressed sound from the willow container and lifted the lid. There, within, was a small, very furry white kitten.

“Oh!”
Bianca exclaimed, unable to help herself from lifting the kitten from the basket. “Aren’t you a darling!”

The small creature trembled and meowed piteously at her. Bianca cuddled it close, making little soothing noises in hopes of comforting it. It was the most beautiful beast she had ever seen. On closer inspection she saw it had a gilt leather collar studded with tiny seed pearls. She kissed the kitten’s head and seeing a note within the basket took it up with her free hand to read:
My name is Jamila. Please give me a home, gracious lady of Luce Stellare
. Bianca laughed softly. What was she to do? She could hardly refuse such a charming request.

Jamila managed to escape the confines of her hand and crawl up to her shoulder. Once there, she snuggled into the crook of Bianca’s neck and began to purr. With that perfect feline maneuver, Bianca was lost. “You are a wicked little thing,” she scolded the kitten softly. Then plucking it from its perch and tucking it back in the basket, she began to walk home again while Jamila complained and cried to be picked up and cuddled. The household of women fell in love with the kitten immediately.

“How could I refuse to take her?” Bianca asked them helplessly, and they all agreed that she couldn’t, even Agata. Jamila quickly established herself as queen of the household, and Bianca was happier for her presence. She tucked a note beneath Darius’s collar the next day, thanking her neighbor for the kitten.

The summer came, and still she heard no word from her family. Bianca could only surmise that Sebastiano Rovere was refusing to allow an annulment. The fact that he still had the power of life and death over her was unnerving. Nevertheless, she took comfort in the fact that he didn’t know where she was; if he did, he would have come for her. The thought of going back to his large, dark palazzo with all its secrets frightened her. She avoided thinking about it, instead reveling in the warmth and sunshine of the summer months.

One afternoon as she walked her beach, she saw her neighbor standing on the heights above. He waved, and before she could stop herself Bianca waved back. Then she chided herself for her foolishness, but he had not taken the casual waggle of her hand as an invitation to join her, for which she was relieved. He was not there again for several days, but the second time he waved at her she was bound by her first actions to answer him back. Then she turned and walked quickly back towards Luce Stellare.

Bianca had to admit that she was as curious about her neighbor as he seemed to be about her. Who was he really, this man they called
the prince
? Was he really a prince?
A foreigner
, Filomena and Gemma said dourly. A foreigner—and foreigners were dangerous. He was a prince, little Rufina assured her mistress. She had spoken with a servant from the neighboring villa who was her male cousin. The prince, Rufina said, came and went back and forth to Florence.

Fascinated in spite of herself, Bianca asked the girl, “What does he do in the city?”

“Luigi says he is a merchant of carpets and rare things,” Rufina told her. “The great Medici himself patronizes this prince’s undertaking.”

What would Lorenzo di Medici buy from this prince? Bianca wondered. But then she recalled that Lorenzo had a passion for antiquities and rare things, as well as for beautiful women. If this foreign prince catered to the di Medici tastes, then he would, if he had not already, make his fortune, for the di Medici did not quibble over the price of any item they desired. Their various homes were filled with beautiful paintings, sculptures, and other items of great value. And the rest of the wealthy in the city would follow the di Medici and buy from this merchant prince as well.

Bianca considered that her neighbor might be as interesting as the elderly silk merchant whom her father used to bring home for a meal now and again before the old man died. In his youth and middle years, this man had traveled to China, bringing back bolts of fabric greatly prized by the wealthy of Florence. He told wonderful stories of his adventures, which she and Marco were allowed to sit and hear.

It was the first glimpse of the world outside of her father’s house that Bianca had ever had. She had once even told her parents she wished she might travel, but they had laughed and said her future was a wonderful marriage and a family of her own. Well, Bianca thought, that had not turned out quite as her parents had planned. She would have been better off traveling to faraway places. Perhaps this prince had marvelous stories to tell, but then, she wasn’t a child any longer. She was a woman in hiding from a brutal and dangerous husband who would probably kill her if he could find her.

Still, Bianca reasoned with herself, she hadn’t spoken to another human except Agata and the house servants in months. She had never heard of this foreign prince until she discovered him to be her neighbor. Certainly she would have known something of him if he had been known to her family or to her husband. And like her villa, his was always quiet and peaceful, with no guests or other visitors. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might allow him to speak to her. Perhaps she would even speak with him.

But how was she to open a dialogue with him after rebuffing him so strongly? Of course! What an
idiota
she was! She would write to him and have Darius deliver her note. The next day she tucked a scrap of parchment beneath the hound’s collar when she was ready to send him home to his master. Bianca could have sworn the animal was smiling, his mouth open, his tongue lolling, as he loped off.

Amir smiled. When taking the note, he read:
Are you really a prince?

The next day Bianca opened his reply.
I am Amir ibn Jem, the sultan’s grandson,
it read.
Yes, I am really a prince.

A daily correspondence began to go back and forth between them.

Is it true you sell antiquities to Lorenzo di Medici?

A Florentine who is not a merchant enjoys no esteem whatsoever,
he replied, quoting the famed saying among the Florentines.

Bianca smiled as she read his answer and responded,
But you are a foreigner. You were not born in Florence.

I am a Florentine by choice, my lady.

I thought all Turks were warriors.

When you are the sultan’s grandson it is better to be a merchant.

Why? Was your father a merchant?

My father is a warrior. He quarrels constantly with his brother over who shall inherit my grandfather’s throne one day. Eventually my uncle will kill my father,
for he is more determined to be sultan and better suited to it. Royal Turks kill anyone, including family, that they consider rivals to their personal ambition.

If you do not want to be sultan one day, then I understand your desire for anonymity and privacy.

Could you not tell me your name?

It was such a simple request, and he had told her his name. She didn’t have to tell him her whole name. She could tell him her first name. Bianca was not an unusual name.
I am called Bianca,
she wrote.

Now that we are friends, Bianca, and I hope you will consider me as such, may we meet one afternoon upon our beach and talk face-to-face?

I am a respectable woman, Prince Amir. If you understand that, if you understand that I am not seeking an adventure, then perhaps I could agree to your suggestion,
Bianca wrote him back.

Bring a servingwoman with you if you fear for your good name, Bianca. I will not be offended. I would have you at ease with me, and not fearful that I will set upon you in some shameful manner.

“Well, well,” said Agata, who was privy to her mistress’s correspondence with the prince, “he is thoughtful of you. If you were a maid, of course, you should have to refuse, but you are not. You have been very lonely, I know. As long as the behavior you and this man exhibit is proper, and I am there to assure it, I see no reason you should not talk with him, mistress. Perhaps he may even have word of what is happening in the city since your mother has not felt secure enough to write to you.”

Tomorrow,
he read later that day when he opened the little piece of parchment he found beneath Darius’s collar. Amir smiled to himself. He had not been so intrigued with a woman in a long time, but like the skilled hunter he was, he had let her come to him on her own terms. He was not surprised to see her coming towards him the following afternoon in the company of another woman. Perhaps she really was a respectable woman, but how respectable remained to be seen. He considered now that she was a wealthy and powerful man’s discarded mistress, given a villa and sent away because she had become an inconvenience for whatever reason. Certainly the woman of a good house would not be alone, as she was.

He wore white trousers and a white tunic that extended to just below his knees as he walked towards her, his dark boots crunching the pebbles beneath into the sand. The white suited his sun-bronzed complexion and dark, wavy hair. The dog was by his side.

“Now he looks like a Turk,” Agata said softly. “And he is very handsome.”

She is beautiful,
Amir thought as they approached,
and young too. What fool of a smug Florentine has tossed her away so casually?
She wore a silk gown, lavender in color. The puffed sleeves were plain and the dress had no train. It was a simple garment, but the fabric was of the best quality, he could see. Of medium height, she carried herself well. The aristocratic little face was not one of a peasant. Her hair was ebony. It wasn’t dyed to suit the Florentine fashion of blond or red. Her skin was clear and very pale. Her eyes were light, although at the moment he could not tell what color, for she had them lowered politely. Yes, whoever she was, she was of high station and had manners.

“Your eyes are blue!” she exclaimed, surprised as they came close enough to truly see each other. “I did not know that Turks had blue eyes.”

“My mother was English,” he said. Then he bowed politely to her, and taking up her small hand in his, he kissed it. “Your presence honors me,
madonna.
”

An odd thought struck Bianca as he released her hand. His kiss had seemed like a brand upon her flesh. She felt her cheeks growing warm with color.

“Your eyes are like aquamarines,” he said, “but then I am certain many have told you that before. I apologize I cannot be more original for you, Bianca.”

“I am told the color of my eyes comes from a northern ancestor,
signore
,” she responded.

“Let us walk,” he invited her. “Darius and your servant will act as our chaperones.”

It was mid-September. The warm air held a faint hint of autumn today. The turquoise sea was calm, its waves small and delicate, barely making a ripple upon the water as they fell with a gentle sigh upon the sand of the shore. Above them the ever-present gulls soared, complaining to one another in the light breeze. Bianca and the prince walked in silence for a time and then Bianca spoke.

“Why do you live here instead of Florence?”

“I do not like your city of Florence,” he admitted. “I don’t even keep a palazzo there. When I am forced to remain overnight, I sleep in a small apartment above my warehouse, but few know that. It gives me an excuse to avoid entertaining. My tastes are simple, and I have little patience with ostentation. I leave that to others who seem to need the acclaim such excess brings them.”

“Do you belong to a guild?” she asked him.

“Not really, although the Arte di Calimala have said they consider me one of their own, despite my foreign origins,” Amir told her with an amused smile.

“The cloth merchants are very important,” Bianca said, “and your carpets are fashioned of wool and some of silk,” she pointed out.

She was educated enough to know this, and he was more curious than ever. “Who are you?” he asked her.

Bianca stopped a moment before moving on again. “I cannot tell you that,
signore
, and I beg that you do not press me further. I will tell you that it became necessary for me to flee the city. My very life is at risk, even now. The villa in which I reside belongs to my family. I am a respectable woman, not a courtesan, but if I am to remain safe I must remain unknown to you.”

“I will respect your wishes, Bianca, if you will agree to continue to walk with me,” he said with a smile.

“I will agree, for I find your company pleasant,
signore
.”

For several weeks, Agata accompanied her mistress each day as she walked with the prince. Then there came a day when Agata was sniffling, sneezing, and snuffling.

Bianca bade her remain at home, for it was a windy day. “I can go without you. I believe you will agree that Prince Amir has proven himself now.”