Rose Red (18 page)

“Dependable, quiet, good little Bianca!
Unnoticeable Bianca! Invisible Bianca!” With that, Bianca tore
herself out of her sister’s arms and left Rosalinda’s room, where
she could not bear to stay a moment longer.

“Well?” Niccolo Stregone glared at the man
standing before him. “Where did he go?”

“
Signore,
forgive me.” The man’s teeth chattered in fear, though he was far
larger and physically more powerful than his master. “These
mountain trails – I am a man of the city, signore. I lost my way
and lost the person I was following.”

“Lost him?” Niccolo Stregone repeated, as if
he could not believe what he was hearing. “Lost him?”

“I beg you, forgive me, signore.”

“
Imbecille! Cretino! Incompetente-!”
Stregone’s hand rested on his
dagger. He would have liked nothing better than to slit the throat
of the man who was now kneeling before him. But they were presently
housed in a monastery, in a pitiful little cell with none of the
luxuries to which Stregone was accustomed. He detested everything
about the monastery and could not understand why Luca Nardi should
make a habit of visiting

it two or three times a year.

Unless,
of course, there was some reason other than the state of his soul
that brought Luca Nardi to such a desolate location. Since Nardi
himself was far too valuable to the Guidi rulers of Monteferro to
be dragged to the
castello
and interrogated under torture, as Stregone wanted
to question the head of the House of Nardi to obtain all his
secrets, then another way must be found.

Stregone had set his spies to watch Luca
Nardi day and night, to discover all they could about his opinions,
habits, and activities both social and political. Having learned
enough interesting details to make him even more curious about
Nardi, Stregone had then directed a supposedly trustworthy spy to
trail the mysterious young man who had recently paid several
clandestine visits to Nardi’s house. From the description furnished
by his people, Stregone thought he knew who the young man was. He
considered the matter important enough to prompt him to leave
Monteferro and venture into the mountains on the heels of his own
spy, who had now most ineptly lost the young man.

“Signore?”

The
wretched spy looked up at him, a situation Niccolo Stregone found
entirely pleasing. It was always a delight to force others to their
knees – or onto their bellies or backs – so he could look down on
them. Being of abnormally short stature himself, Stregone cherished
a deep resentment against big, strong, handsome men.

“Signore,” the spy said, his voice quavering
in fear, “shall I return to the place where I lost the man I was
tracking, and try to find him again?”

“Of course not, you fool. He is long gone
from that location by now. No, I want you to carry a message for
me.”

“A message, signore?”

“Yes, a message, you dolt. What kind of a spy
are you, that you cannot understand a simple statement? Don’t
worry, you won’t have to remember what I want to say. I will write
it down and you will deliver it only into the hands of Marco Guidi
himself.”

Stregone found parchment and quill on the
small table in the room. Quickly, he wrote the message. When he was
finished he folded and sealed it, wishing he could be present when
Marco Guidi read it, so he could see the smile on the face of that
most bloodthirsty nobleman. The river that ran through Monteferro
was deep and swift in early springtime. Dumped into that river, a
man’s body would be carried out to sea before he was missed, and no
one would be the wiser about his fate.

The spy who remained on his knees, looking
distinctly relieved to be sent away from the mountains and the
presence of Niccolo Stregone, would never make another stupid
mistake like the one he had made this day. Only at his journey’s
end would he realize that the message he carried to Marco Guidi
contained in its postscript his own death warrant.

“Before you go,” Stregone said, handing the
sealed parchment to the spy, “I want you to tell me exactly where
you tracked that young man you were following. Give me every detail
you can remember about the last place you saw him and the direction
you believe he was taking.”

“Are you going to track him yourself,
signore?” asked the spy.

“Indeed, I am. I could not possibly do a
worse job than you have done, could I?” Stregone said. “Besides, I
have other business to conduct while I am in this area. I can kill
two birds as easily as one.” Stregone smiled at his own words.

Seeing him smile, the spy shuddered.

As the spring weather grew warmer, relations
between Bianca and Rosalinda grew steadily cooler. No matter how
often Bianca might hint that she would listen without indulging in
any further criticism and would keep her sister’s confidences,
Rosalinda steadfastly refused to reveal the entire story of what
had happened on the night when she had met Andrea in the servants’
quarters. Bianca had some idea of what had occurred, but she did
not like to think about it, for every time she did, she became
aware of disturbing emotions of her own that she would prefer not
to feel. All too often during those lengthening days, while she
watched the earth turn green with the promise of fresh growth and
eventual fruitfulness, Bianca found herself hard pressed to
maintain her quiet, polite demeanor.

Always before when she was upset she had been
able to talk to her mother. That source of comfort was no longer
available to her, for Eleonora was increasingly distracted and, on
occasion, short-tempered. Bianca was sure the change in her mother
had something to do with the secret plans that involved Andrea.
Again, as with Rosalinda, Bianca could draw no information out of
this other beloved relative. Never had Bianca been so lonely, never
had her desire to be a good and perfect daughter and sister seemed
so unattainable. She did not know how much longer she could contain
her anger or that other, unidentifiable, emotion that sometimes
threatened to choke her.

“I am going riding,” Rosalinda announced one
sunny afternoon. “Mother, you cannot object. Bianca and I have
finished our lessons and our household chores for today. The snow
has melted except in the highest passes, and I promise I will not
go near them. I will stay in the valley and the lower hills.”

“I wish you would remain at home,” Eleonora
said.

“If I do, I am certain to get into trouble,”
Rosalinda said, only half joking. “I am so bored that I hardly know
what to do with myself.”

“Then take one of the men-at-arms with you. I
do not like you to ride alone.”

“No, I don’t want a man along.” Rosalinda
paused, regarding her sister with a speculative gleam in her eyes.
“However, I would enjoy Bianca’s company. Tell her to go with me,
Mother. You know if we are together, I won’t venture into rough
territory.”

“Why not?” Bianca snapped. “Is it because you
think I am a coward?”

“Perhaps it’s because I think you have better
sense than I,” Rosalinda responded.

“If you stay off the higher, dangerous paths
that still have ice on them,” Eleonora said, “and if Bianca goes
along, then I will agree that you may ride for an hour or two.
Rosalinda, I am glad to see you are trying to repair the ill
feeling between you and your sister. I never did understand why you
have been at odds during these past weeks, but I beg you to be
friends again as you once were.”

“Well, Bianca?” Rosalinda challenged. “Are
you willing to make an effort, too? Will you ride with me?’’

“If you promise to obey the rules Mother has
set down,” Bianca said, “then I will ride with you for an
hour.”

It was hardly the warmth that Eleonora wanted
to see restored between her daughters, but she appeared to think it
was a start. She sent them off with a smile and only one warning to
be sure to dress carefully, since the spring winds could turn chill
at any moment.

“Where shall we go?” Bianca asked when the
two young women were mounted and riding out of the stable yard.

“I would like to race into the hills and
beyond,” Rosalinda said with a laugh. “But I have promised to be
good. Let us ride along the meadow to the river, and then just into
the foothills. Some of the early flowers should be blooming. You
would like to see them, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

Bianca’s politeness was so artificial that
Rosalinda made a face and caught at the reins of her sister’s
horse, pulling it close to hers.

“I wish we could be friends again,” Rosalinda
said. “I miss you, Bianca.”

“So do I miss you,” Bianca responded. “But
you have gone to a place where I cannot follow. You live with
secrets you will not divulge, and with hopes that I can only
imagine.”

“I have changed, that’s true. But I still
love you, Bianca. You are my best friend.”

“I thought that was Andrea.” Bianca could not
keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“Don’t separate yourself from me this way,”
Rosalinda cried. “Yes, I need Andrea, but I need you, too. You and
I were so close that we always knew each other’s heart.”

“I have not stopped loving you, Rosalinda.
It’s only that I am bewildered by your actions. I feel lost, and
very much alone. I can confide in no one.”

“It could be different between us. We
quarreled from time to time when we were children, but we always
made up and became friends again.”

“We are no longer children.” Bianca wanted to
return to the loving affinity she had once enjoyed with her sister,
but she could not. She was not sure why this was so. It was not
entirely because of the changes wrought by Rosalinda’s close
relationship with Andrea. Something had also changed in Bianca’s
heart.

“Can we at least agree to try to be friends
again?” Rosalinda asked. “If Mother sees us making the effort, I
know she will be happier.”

“We can try,” Bianca said. She sighed,
feeling infinitely sad, and glanced across the spring-green meadow
to where an ancient bridge spanned the river in two very solid,
pale stone arches. The Romans had built the bridge and the
stone-paved road that marched in a northwestward direction straight
across the valley. Centuries ago, Roman armies had tramped along
that road on their way to conquer the barbarian tribes of the
north, but on this spring day the valley was entirely peaceful. The
river sparkled in the sunshine, blue as the sky it reflected, cold
as the mountain snows that fed it.

On the other side of the river the foothills
rose, robed in lacy shades of early green. Behind these more
delicate trees were the darker, sturdier evergreens of the deep
forest and, higher still, the bare gray rocks of the mountain
peaks, most of them cloaked in white. In the clear sky an eagle
soared, gliding lazily on the wind currents. The beauty of the
landscape and the sight of that single bird caught at Bianca’s
heart as never before, holding her spellbound, making her ache with
a peculiar dissatisfaction and a longing for she knew not what. She
heard her sister’s voice as if from a great distance.

“Since we are to be friends again, could we
also agree to race as far as the bridge?” Rosalinda was grinning at
Bianca as if all of their differences had been put behind them.

“I can see that you won’t be stopped no
matter what I say, and I know you have tried to be patient during
all the winter days when you were kept indoors.” Bianca could not
admit to her own, more recent, restlessness. She could, however,
issue a teasing challenge that would result in the physical action
she suddenly craved. “In fact, dear sister, you are so weak from
sitting at lessons all winter that I do believe I could win a race
against you.”

“Never!” Rosalinda laughed aloud at the very
idea of Bianca winning over her. “Count to three, and we’re
off!”

“One, two, three!” Bianca dug her heels into
her horse’s sides and headed for the bridge. Rosalinda was right
beside her. Together they galloped across the field, Rosalinda
laughing and shouting that she would surely win, Bianca quiet and
concentrating on handling her horse. Neck and neck they raced
across the bridge and pulled up together on the other side.

“A tie!” Rosalinda brushed several locks of
loosened hair out of her eyes. “Bianca, my dear, that’s the best
race you have ever run.”

“I am glad we both won.” Bianca reached over
to catch yet another lock of her sister’s hair, to tuck it behind
her ear in á once-familiar gesture. “You should have let me braid
it for you.”

“I was in too much of a hurry to leave the
house to think about my hair.” Rosalinda wriggled her shoulders,
took a few deep breaths of the earthy spring air, and let her gaze
rest with longing on the mountain heights. As if making a difficult
decision, she said, “No, I promised Mother I would stay in the
valley or the lower foothills. Bianca, shall I show you a place I
know, where tiny flowers bloom?”

“We could pick some to take home to Mother,”
Bianca said. “Which way do we go?”

“Wait.” Rosalinda put out a hand, signaling
silence. “Listen. Do you hear someone calling?”

“It’s probably only the water rushing under
the bridge,” Bianca said.

“There it is again.” Leaving the bridge,
Rosalinda began to ride along the side of the river.

Over the course of centuries, the river had
cut a channel almost six feet deep through the meadow. Because the
river was fed by melting snow and therefore was highest in the
spring season, the small, sandy or stony beaches that edged the
bottom of this channel during the rest of the year were presently
submerged, with the water reaching almost to meadow height. Here
and there a few large boulders reared above the swift current, and
foam eddied and surged around these wet rocks. On the flat top of
one of the rocks, a figure was hopping up and down and waving
frantically.