Rose Red (2 page)

Rosalinda hugged Bianca more tightly, hoping
thus to reassure her that the terror of her early childhood was
long ago and far away. Physically, the sisters were not at all
alike. With her soft blond beauty and gentle manner, Bianca, at age
twenty-one, resembled their mother. Two years younger than Bianca,
Rosalinda was very like their father in appearance, having
inherited his dark, lustrous curls and his flashing gray eyes.
Bartolomeo, who had been their father’s best friend, claimed that
Rosalinda was also similar to him in character, brave and daring
like Girolamo Farisi, the late Duke of Monteferro.

Rosalinda believed the comparison was
inaccurate. She could not deny her impetuous nature, least of all
to herself, but the closest she could come to bravery was to ride
her horse into the mountains whenever she had the chance, in
defiance of her mother’s wishes that she should always stay close
to the villa.

“Despite what you and Mother think, I do pay
heed to what she says when she admonishes me.”

Rosalinda looked over her sister’s shoulder
to the mountains she loved to roam. The first frosts had come and
gone, their icy touch changing the leaves of the trees and the
thick undergrowth that grew upon the lower elevations to soft
shades of red and gold, or to rusty browns. Where shadows fell upon
them, the bare gray rocks of the soaring mountaintops turned a
misty shade of purple. Some of the nearer peaks displayed a faint
white hint of early snow. Above the mountains and the protected
valley where the villa stood, the northern Italian sky stretched
deep blue and clear, with only a few fluffy clouds. But the wind
was chill. For warmth Rosalinda was wearing a short jacket cut like
a man’s doublet over her brown wool dress.

“There will not be many more days like this
one. Winter is coming. You of all people, Bianca, know how I hate
to be confined by the ice and snow. Will you begrudge me a final
taste of freedom while it is still possible?”

“Of course not, my dearest,” Bianca
responded, touching Rosalinda’s cheek in a loving gesture. “But
please do take care. You ought to ride with a groom and a
man-at-arms.”

“The men-at-arms who are not standing guard
are all busy helping with the last of the harvest. Bartolomeo
cannot spare anyone to attend on my pleasure. Besides, I prefer to
ride alone. I love it up there in the wild mountains. I feel free,
as I never can be here at the villa. Alone, I can be quiet and
watch the birds and the animals without frightening them away.
Today I saw an eagle and a bear. Mother would have liked the
eagle.”

“An eagle is not likely to threaten you, but
a bear?” Bianca cried, her eyes widening with a new fear. “Oh,
Rosalinda, you should not have told me. Now I will be more worried
about you each time you go out. Bears can be dangerous.”

“Not that bear,” Rosalinda declared. “I am
sure the bear I saw was afraid of me, because he stood up on his
hind legs and ran off into the trees as soon as I rode around the
curve in the path. I am late because I wasn’t sure of what I had
seen and I spent time looking for him. It was a strange place for a
bear to be at this time of year. He should have been down here in
the valley, fishing in the streams or searching for honey to fill
his belly before he goes to sleep for the winter.”

“If a bear comes to the valley, I trust the
men-at-arms will kill him,” Bianca said. “Then we shall have a bear
rug to lay before the fire in Mother’s sitting room.”

“If that were to happen,” Rosalinda
responded, “I would feel sorry for the poor bear and never look at
the rug we made of him. Meanwhile you, dear sister, would probably
sit upon his unmoving back each evening and roast chestnuts in the
fire.”

“You are teasing me. But I am not quite the
coward you think I am,” Bianca snapped. Putting on her best
big-sister manner, she continued, “I am older and have seen more of
the treacherous world than you. Therefore, I know when to be
cautious. Bears are dangerous. Some men are even more so. Never
forget that, Rosalinda.

“Now, you have wasted enough time. Take care
of your horse as quickly as you can,” Bianca instructed. “I will
see to it that you have a pitcher of hot water in your room for
washing. Try not to be late. I will tell Mother that you have come
home safely and will be down in time for the evening meal.”

A short time later, with her horse settled
for the night, Rosalinda hastened through the garden toward the
rear entrance of the villa. It was the quickest way from the stable
to her room on the upper floor, and it was also her favorite way to
enter the house. She loved the scented air in the garden. Each time
she walked along the gravel paths, she wondered what her
grandfather, who by all accounts had been a rough fighting man,
would think of what his daughter had made from the area just beyond
the rear terrace of his house in the mountains.

Well
concealed in an untraveled area where the higher reaches of mere
foothills began to rise into the soaring heights of the Alps, Villa
Serenita had been built by Rosalinda’s grandfather, Mariano Ricci,
a famous and highly successful
condottiere.
Fully aware of the perils to
which a mercenary commander like himself was exposed during the
constant warfare and political intrigues taking place amongst
Venice, Milan, Genoa, and the other city-states of Italy, Mariano
had decided it would be wise to maintain a safe, carefully hidden
retreat in case his way of earning a living should turn even more
dangerous than usual. But throughout his long life, Mariano’s
fortunes had never faltered. He had died in bed at the age of
seventy, rich and full of honors, though somewhat concerned over
the future of his only child, Eleonora, whom he had married off to
his last employer, Girolamo Farisi, the Duke of Monteferro. Through
his clever banker, Mariano was able to make secret arrangements to
leave Villa Serenita to Eleonora.

Mariano’s
worry about his daughter was well founded. Five years after
Mariano’s death, the Duke of Monteferro was assassinated by a
political rival who brought in his own army of mercenaries to take
over the small but wealthy city-state. Knowing her children were
certain to be murdered as well, since they could be considered the
only legitimate heirs to Monteferro lands, the quick-thinking
Eleonora gathered up her daughters and a few belongings and made a
hasty escape from the city. With her husband’s majordomo and close
friend, Bartolomeo, his wife, Valeria, and a dozen men-at-arms who
remained loyal to the murdered duke’s family, Eleonora sought
sanctuary at Villa Serenita. There, known only as La
Vedova,
the widow, to
the few inhabitants of the small and isolated nearby village, she
and her daughters embarked upon a reclusive life.

During the ensuing fifteen years, Eleonora
had found her only relief from constant worry for the safety of her
daughters in the creation of a garden on the sheltered southern
side of the villa. There, it was warm enough for a plum tree to
grow, along with an apricot tree, and other tender plants. A low
wall of the same pale yellow stone used for the house and
outbuildings enclosed the garden, and within it Eleonora planted
lilies, lavender, thyme, rosemary, and other useful herbs,
including a few Florentine iris near ä small pool.

In tribute to the daughters she loved more
than life itself, Eleonora added two rosebushes to her garden,
planting them on either side of the steps leading down from the
terrace at the back of the house. One rosebush bore pure white
flowers, while the blossoms of the other were bright crimson. The
bushes bloomed most profusely during the long, warm days of June,
though occasionally one or the other would send out a few
late-season flowers, as if to bid a sweet farewell to summer’s
fleeting warmth.

Rosalinda hastened through this garden,
pausing for only an instant to breathe in the air that was scented
by her mother’s herbs. As she brushed past the rosebushes, she
noticed one red blossom. Quickly she plucked it, deciding she would
wear it in her hair that evening.

Like Bianca, the white roses Eleonora had
planted in her name were dainty and delicate, and they breathed
forth a pure, sweet scent. But the red roses planted in Rosalinda’s
name unfurled many more petals to each bloom and their fragrance
was rich and mysterious, beguiling Rosalinda’s senses when she
inhaled it, making her wish for something more than the placid life
she lived at Villa Serenita.

She did not know exactly what it was that she
wanted, only that she longed for someone to speak to her and to
touch her in a new way, a way in which no one had ever spoken to
her or touched her before. With her nose buried in the soft red
petals, Rosalinda dreamed of laughter and music, and of falling
stars blazing across the velvet night sky. She imagined warm
masculine lips gently touching hers, in the way in which she had
once observed Lorenzo, one of the men-at-arms, kissing his wife.
After a long moment Rosalinda gave a wistful little sigh, went into
the villa, and ran up the stairs to her room.

* * * * *

Luca Nardi was the older brother of that same
Valeria who was Bartolomeo’s wife and Eleonora’s dearest friend and
constant companion. The House of Nardi had long served as bankers
to the family of the late Duke of Monteferro and, thanks to Luca’s
honesty and cleverness, a fair portion of the duke’s wealth had
been saved from confiscation after the assassination. Thus,
Eleonora was not destitute and she was able to provide for the
people who had escaped into the mountains with her.

At first the men-at-arms had thought of
themselves only as warriors, but as time passed, they had been
compelled to learn additional skills. A few of them had become
expert hunters who made valuable contributions to the villa
larders. Other men-at-arms were skilled carpenters, while some
tended the livestock. All of them worked in the fields when
necessary. They still took their turns at sentry duty and regularly
attended weapons practice, joined now by their sons. For, by the
good offices of Luca Nardi, the families of many of the men had
been spirited out of Monteferro to join their husbands and fathers
in the safety of Villa Serenita. There, some of the younger men had
married the teenaged daughters of others and, within a few years, a
self-sufficient community was established under Eleonora’s rule,
with Bartolomeo as her second in command in charge of defenses and
masculine concerns.

Over the years Luca Nardi made periodic
visits to Villa Serenita, always bringing with him a single,
trusted servant and two pack horses loaded with supplies that were
not locally available. Eleonora and her daughters regarded Luca as
an old friend and always made him welcome.

On this first evening of Luca’s latest visit,
Rosalinda arrived in her mother’s sitting room slightly out of
breath, just as Luca was beginning to distribute the personal goods
he had brought at the request of household members.

Eleonora’s cool look stopped her tardy
daughter just inside the door. Rosalinda noted that Bianca was
already there, standing beside their mother, quiet and composed as
a lady should be, in a blue silk gown. Valeria, in dark red
brocade, and Bartolomeo, in a deeper red doublet and brown hose,
both looked happy to see Valeria’s brother again. Eleonora wore
gray and silver brocade, with her still-lustrous gold hair piled
high beneath a sheer silver scarf. All of the ladies’ gowns were
similar in style, with low necklines, long sleeves, high waists,
and flaring skirts. Even Luca, who as a newly arrived traveler
might be forgiven a crumpled appearance, was freshly bathed and
clothed in his dignified dark blue banker’s robe that reached below
his knees, with matching hose and shoes.

Seeing how elegantly attired the rest of that
company was, Rosalinda felt sadly disheveled in her hastily donned
russet silk gown. Her face was still damp from washing it and her
hair was smoothed back with her hands instead of being properly
brushed and re-braided, and the red rose she had plucked from the
garden was tucked loosely behind one ear. She tried to straighten
her skirt but caught her mother’s stern eye and immediately stilled
her fluttering fingers, folding her hands at her waist as a lady
should.

Upon a wall of the sitting room, a portrait
of Girolamo Farisi hung. Candlelight reflecting on the surface of
this painting suggested a gleam of humor in the eyes of the late
Duke of Monteferro. Regarding her father’s likeness, Rosalinda
wished she could remember him, but she could not. She had been only
three years old, little more than a baby, when he was killed, and
so she was forced to depend upon the portrait and the recollections
of others. She wondered if, like her, he had always been so
preoccupied with more interesting matters that he was frequently
late for meals. And if he was, had his wife recalled him to
recognition of his social duties with the same look that had just
put Rosalinda in her place?

“As always, I wish I could bring more,” Luca
said, handing Eleonora a package containing a book for her library.
He then presented fabric for a new gown to Valeria and a thick
sheaf of parchment to Bartolomeo, who used it to keep the estate
records and for the writing he did late at night. “But if I were to
lead a train of packhorses or carts loaded with goods to the villa,
we would attract notice. I will do nothing to draw unwanted
attention to this area. Even after so many years have passed, there
are still people in Monteferro who fervently wish you and your
daughters dead, Madonna Eleonora. Many folk believe that you are
dead, that you were all killed along with the duke and your bodies
hidden to prevent a public uprising at the outrageous murder of
innocent babies.