The Angel of Soriano: A Renaissance Romance (4 page)

Aurelia stood on the plateau of the city of Vignanello. She leaned against her uncle’s plain, but huge stone keep. Below and off to her right, bright yellow hazelnut trees covered peaceful rolling hills for as far as the eye could see. However, in front of her in the piazza, townspeople grumbled and shouted.

The hour of her condemnation had arrived. She tried to be as brave as her beloved Savior but she shook as the priest spewed out the pope’s doctrine. Then the sun ducked under a cloud behind the church tower and all eyes turned in her direction.

An elderly woman in heavy black wool crossed herself and muttered prayers into her rosary beads. The others gazed up at the sky with worried looks. But it wasn’t until it thundered with a flash of lightening that a heavy Sicilian pointed at Aurelia and said, “Witch.”

The priest grinned evilly, stopped speaking, and gazed up. Slowly dark storm clouds sunk into the valley below. No wonder he’d waited for almost an hour. He’d timed his speech with impeccable accuracy.

When rain fell in heavy sheets and lightning struck the tower’s cross, the crowd rushed into the church, screaming. Aurelia shuddered. Soon a holy inquisitor would arrive from Rome. Her legs went weak picturing the devices that would be used to extract a confession.

Her handsome Spaniard’s last words infuriated as they came into her mind.
I will see you are well cared for?
Why then, did he leave her here with the devil incarnate? Worse yet? Why did she honestly believe that someone would take care of her? Hadn’t her mother taught her that lesson well? In this life, one must fight for oneself or die.

Pierpaolo dug his fingers into her shoulder and her knees buckled. Then he dragged her across the square by the hair and pulled her up the three church steps. Inside, he made her kneel at the altar and face the crowd.

Never having been accused before of anything, Aurelia wasn’t sure how to act innocent.

The woman who’d just called her a witch approached Pierpaolo. “Take her home. The holy church is no place for her.”

The priest cleared his throat, nodded at Pierpaolo, then strode slowly to the baptismal font. “Gather all you need and sprinkle it across the entrances to your houses. God will save you as he did the Israelites during the last plague of Moses. Her black soul will not be able to kill you while you sleep.”

Holy Christ’s blood.
Did he jest? Unfortunately, most of those gathered did as he suggested.

Then Pierpaolo walked her out of the church and across the slippery stones. The rain drenched her silk skirts and her hair clung to her face in long strings. She cleared her vision with the back of her hand.

Pierpaolo’s wife, built more like a man, followed, trailed by his mistresses, six children of various heights, and fifteen servants.

He pointed at Aurelia. “You, come with me.” Then he dismissed the rest of his entourage with a wave of the hand.

Inside the main hall, he shoved her to the floor and she gasped as his sharp toed boot bit into her side.

He whispered, “Soon you’ll be dead like your father before you.” He squatted on his heels, pulled on her hair, and brought her face to his. “Do you understand?”

She nodded, stars in front of her eyes from the pain in her scalp. When she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out.

He stood, paced, and muttered, “You will pretend to be a witch.
Capisce
?”

She tried to stand and shook her head, no.

“It’s easy enough. Even for the simple-minded.” His grin turned evil, he stood, and kicked her repeatedly.

Intense pain radiated from her insides and back and she curled into a small ball. On her hands and knees, she coughed up blood, helpless.

“
Bene
. Good. When you greet people in the piazza you are to say...now repeat after me,
Zoccara
,
Merdusa
”

Good for nothing full of shit?

He pulled her to her feet and shook her until her head pounded. “You are a wicked and deceitful witch. Do you hear me? Despite acting mute, I will call for the inquisitor and you will suffer.”

She spat into his face, pleased how it hit him dead center.

After wiping the spittle off his nose, he struck her so hard that she awoke sometime later, lying upon the cold marble floor. She scooted away, sliding on her wet skirt. A crazed rage burned in his eyes as he lifted his fist again.

She braced. It was going to be bad.

“Signore Nardini.” A lyrical feminine voice entered the courtyard.

She couldn’t believe her good fortune and muttered a brief prayer of thanks to God.

His mistress approached with a girlish pout. “You promised me you wouldn’t be long and I’ve been waiting and waiting.”

Aurelia ventured a glimpse between her knees as the young woman pulled him by the arm out of the hall and up the stairs. On the way out, she shot her a wink over her shoulder.

God had given her a brief retrieve, best not to waste it. She raced to her room and barred the door.

That night, a cuckoo lamented while small frogs chirped incessantly. It was time to stop procrastinating and proceed. Aurelia surmised by the position of the new moon that she had about an hour before dawn. She leaned out of the window and over the balcony’s cold iron bar. Except for the gurgling fountain, all was silent in the piazza below.

The portcullis guard leaned back on his bench with legs stretched long. His chest heaved up and down with hand resting on his sword’s hilt. No doubt the sentry posted at her chamber’s door was similarly armed but he’d been snoring for hours as well.

Using the moon’s dim light, Aurelia put the parchment with the red wax seal in the center of a linen cloth. Apparently it might hold some value. Bread pieces followed along with some stolen coins. Then she tied the fabric’s corners and put the makeshift bag in a boot.

She slipped into a knee-length silk shirt, laced a boy’s doublet so tight her eyes watered, and gasped at her image in the mirror. Cheeks, eyes, and lips swelled from Pierpaolo’s beating. A blessing, she supposed grimly, now that she needed a disguise.

With a deep breath, she prayed for courage and pulled her braid to the front. Clenching her stiletto in her right hand, she sliced hard and the clump of hair fell to the floor. Tears threatened but she blinked them back. She’d weep later.

After stuffing her hose, wine, and hair into the other boot, she tied them together. Then she wore them like a scarf around her neck and tiptoed to the window. Below, the guard still slept soundly.

She grabbed ahold of the window bar with a stout heart. One leg went over, she swiveled on a bare toe, and brought the other limb to meet the first. Then she grabbed hold of the bedsheet-rope, squatted, and slid her foot until the first knot nestled between her two biggest toes. Inch by inch, she lowered.

At the bottom, her heart pounded in her ears as she snuck across the bricks of the piazza. She stopped and loomed over the sleeping guard at the gate. The perfect place for her knife’s edge pulsed as she readied, clenching her stiletto in her palm and picturing how his blood would spurt high into the air.

My God. I can’t do this.
She lowered her weapon and backed away.

Purple at the sky’s edge reminded her that dawn was fast approaching. Her panic subsided somewhat when she spied a ladder. She used it to climb up to the top of the wall and paused.

Blessed Jesus. Now what?

She circled the narrow path at the top of the wall on tip toes and peered down. The east side was of a lesser height, but still, perhaps a twenty foot jump.

I could drag up the ladder and set it down on the other side,
said one inner voice.

Another argued back
, Too damn heavy. It’ll wake the whole keep.

Why in heaven’s name had she not planned better?

Because, she reminded herself, she was about to be burned at the stake, or tortured, or both.

She glanced over the sheer side again weighing the odds of breaking a leg.

The horizon slowly brightened to hues of dark blue and pink. Time was running out.

Suddenly, the answer came into her mind. Her hose!

A pike holding a banner provided the perfect place to tie one end while the other leg dangled down. This time her hands burned as she slid without knots for toe holds. The ground hit hard and fast, she almost screamed out, and tried to put some weight on her ankle but was rewarded with excruciating pain.

Ouch. Ouch.

No time.
Grabbing her meager belongings, she slipped on her boots and tied them tight. Then she half-limped, half-trotted, down the road. After several miles, the sharp pain dulled to a throbbing numbness.

When horse’s hooves barreled down the road behind her, she stifled a squeak and jumped to the side of the road, clenching her knife. It’d be useless against the huge knights but she’d fight to the death. Better that, than the inquisitor’s torture.

They slowed their horses to a trot and stared down at her. The drumming in her chest was so loud, she was certain they’d hear. As best she could, she imagined herself as she was disguised, a teenage boy. Then with a face as sullen as any young man she’d ever met, she glared back.

Two of the mounted men grunted and rode forward, but one stayed and regarded her from head to toe.

Her knees shook but she continued to stare up with insolence. Then without a word, Pierpaolo’s warrior clucked his tongue, dug in his heels, and his horse trotted down the road.

Stunned at her audacity or plain dumb luck, she limped after them.

Around mid-morning, she sat down on a large flat rock, her ankle no longer able to carry her weight. She ate her stale bread and prayed that a kind soul might come along the road. After all, she figured God owed her a favor.

When a donkey cart rolled along, she grabbed some clover and hopped to the middle of the road. “Buongiorno, kind sir.”

A middle-aged farmer regarded her bruises with pursed lips and a deep frown. Prepared, she fed flowers to the beast best known for its stubbornness. It flicked its ears, reached its neck down and nibbled. She tossed the rest to the road, hoping the beast would stay.

The man flicked the reins and clicked through his teeth but the donkey brayed with ears back. It hadn’t yet finished the gift she’d offered.

The man’s black brows furrowed under a hat that resembled an old flour bag. “What do you want? Be off. I’ve no coin for you, boy.”

“Please sir...” She needed a ride so badly, she’d beg if needed.

“Who do you belong to?” His shirt was gray with age and he wore no hose. Leather shoes had seen better days.

“...Uncle Pino.”
Damnation
. She bit down on her tongue. No serf would call a noble by those intimate terms.

The man’s demeanor changed all at once and he smiled. “Uncle Pino? Is that what you call your master?”

She nodded, hoping she’d not given herself away.

“Get on, then. I’ll take you home.” His hand outstretched, she grabbed it and hopped onto the rough plank of the cart. All the while she sang praises to heaven for the ride. Perhaps God was watching, after all.

“Did someone beat you?” Peering closely at her face, he frowned.

“No sir. I slipped and fell.” She lifted her hand to her swollen nose and inhaled sharply at the pain.

He tsk-tsked. “I don’t believe that, not for a moment, but I need some herbs for my wife. Have you been in his services long? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you there before.”

She tried to think of a reasonable response as the cart bounced over the rough road. Lying was a lot harder than she’d ever imagined. “Not long at all. I’m his newest apprentice.”

“Pino will no doubt be happy to see you. Did you try to escape him? Is that what this is all about?”

“Escape from Signore Aggi? No sir. Never. He’s a very kind man. He asked me to find news on Giuseppe Nardini, the doctor and his dear friend. I did but I’m afraid I drank too much and fell in with bad company.”

The man nodded, clucked his tongue, and pointed his finger at her. “That explains the beating. Don’t worry. I’m sure Signore Aggi will be compassionate. What did you learn of the dottore?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead. Felled by intruders.” Her throat constricted at the mention of her father. If he was watching from heaven, she prayed he’d ask God to give her a helping hand. But she knew better. God and the angels only helped those that helped themselves.

The farmer flicked a small switch at the donkey’s rear. It bucked, brayed, but moved along after a few more defiant moments.

In his personal chambers built into the tufa of the volcano, Bernardo gave up on his siesta and stood naked at the window. Below him, the red tiles of the village rooftops fell steeply away exposing hills filled with yellow hazelnut trees. His chest swelled. As captain of the guard, these farms and more were now under his protection.

A welcome breeze stirred the clothes drying in his open windows. To the south, black clouds lowered into the valley covering what little view he had of Vignanello.

Beautiful Aurelia. Did she ever think of him? Was she happy in her new life? If not, perhaps he’d offer her his warm bed and swollen lust. He’d stayed away several weeks as Pierpaolo had asked. Surely by now, it’d be appropriate to check on her well-being.

He shrugged into a clean silk shirt, careful not to catch his hand on the many slits of the bulbous sleeves. Then he tied the lacing of his leather doublet tight. A pair of damp hose hung by a hook, drying beside the window.

With a sigh, he buckled his sword’s belt and bounded down the dark tufa staircase. After passing under the arched doorway, he jumped over the odorous river of urine and horse manure. He’d speak to the lazy street cleaners later.

At the top of the sharp climb, he shouted, “Ho. Wake up.”

The gate guard jumped up from his nap and saluted.

Bernardo laughed, “Sit back down. It’s too damn hot for formalities. But stay alert. Who knows what evil abounds.”

Antonio lifted a skin of water to his lips and offered a sip to Bernardo. “I hearsay Rome is hotter.”

“Oh, my friend, it is. With clouds of mosquitoes thicker than mud. It’s good you remind me that all in Soriano is not misfortune.”

The words had barely left his mouth when a temper tantrum of the greatest proportion echoed off the walls of the keep and into the valley.

Bernardo clenched his teeth and shuddered. His fiancé would need to find some grace at dinner or find another place to dine. Shaking off Antonio’s sympathetic look, he strode across the bricks, through the black stone arch, and into the main hall of the castle. Best to get this over with.

Many of the higher ranking of the villagers were already seated upon benches. Twenty trestle tables sat in two neat rows of ten, laden with bowls of rice pasta covered in gravy.

His noble family sat in chairs, with his father in the center, facing into the whole room. Next to Bernardo’s empty seat, the almost grown Lucella sat with tongue wagging at her grandmother in their native Spanish. Her eternal frown and red eyes made what could’ve been a pleasant enough face, downright disagreeable.

His heart raced when his eyes shifted to the chair to his father’s right.

Pierpaolo Nardini? What was he doing here? Perhaps he could get news of the sweet Aurelia, by now a married woman of Vignanello.

Pasting a nonchalant look onto his face, he slowly meandered through the long hall, leaning over to say hello, winking at young ladies, and generally creating merriment. His next impulse was to run when his father cleared his throat and pointed to the empty spot next to his fiancé.

Christo.
The rest of the room stopped eating and stared.

Doffing his cap with a comical wave of his hand, he bowed low to all. “Buona sera, my friends. Wish me luck. May the wolf not bite me in the ass.”

Chuckles abounded at his theatrical entrance. A few banged knives on the table.

He pitched his voice to charm the room. “Thank you all. I will sit and dine now, with your leave.”

Lucella hissed at him when he sat, “I will tell Papa and he will have me sent home immediately.”

“I could only dream of such an outcome,” Bernardo said dryly. His pleasant smile faded as he picked up the latest three-pronged invention from the south. He used it to artfully stab at a piece of highly spiced lamb.

Daggers shot across the table from his stepmother’s angry eyes and his father tried his best not to be amused.

Lucella’s grandmother, Lady Joanna Santamaria, sat across the table, and glared. Frown lines, permanently etched into her mouth, deepened.

Face skewed, Lucella began to whine anew in a manner he no longer had any patience for. Lighting fast, he reached a bare hand into a bowl of pasta and stuffed a great wad into her mouth’s gaping hole. She coughed, choked, and spit it out.

Her grandmother stood, red with rage. “Inexcusable.”

“Enough!” Bernardo stood and jabbed his fork into the table with a force so hard that stemmed chalices toppled, crashing to the marble floor.

All conversation stopped in the room and heads turned to the main table. Careful not to harm her, he pulled Lucella to her feet, and stood her high upon her chair.

“If you are to become my wife, young lady, you will not whine. You will not screech. You will not cause my family or anyone in the vicinity, discomfort. Do I make myself clear?”

Bernardo suddenly realized that this may’ve been the first time in Lucella’s young life that any had ever challenged her behavior.

The look of shock wore off, her blond brows furrowed, and she screamed, “My Papa will have you executed for this.”

Across the table, his stepmother almost fainted. Bernardo’s father, looking all the part of the steward of Soriano, rose slowly. He may have aged since his last victories in Spain, but he was still a large and imposing figure. The hall was so full of tension that even the dogs sat motionless and watched. The deafening silence broke when a pigeon fluttered and cooed in the rafters.

Dideco Carvajal glared at Lucella. Without taking his eyes off from her, he rounded the table, picked her up by the waist and put her down upon the floor. Then he said to her grandmother, “She does not return to a meal or out of her room until she’s learned some grace. No one is to feed her until I say so.”

Bernardo had never felt more fondness for his father. That is, until his wrath turned upon him. “You goad her too much, son. It must stop now or I will ban you as well. Do you understand? Certainly, for the few hours you must endure your intended, you can do it with the honor of a Carvajal.”

A performance worthy of any great minstrel in Florence, Bernardo bowed low to the table and then to the rest of the room. “My apologies father, to you, to the family Santamaria, and to you Signore Pierpaolo.”

His father winked, hidden from all, before sitting back down.

It was high time someone chastised the brat-child. Perhaps she’d grow into a lovely young woman. If not, he doubted he’d ever be able to make a legitimate heir.
She’s still young. I could die in battle before the inevitable nightmare comes to pass.

Table cleared of unpleasantness, his appetite increased a little and so he focused on the Earl of Vignanello. When the man’s gaze lifted to his, Bernardo asked, “How goes it with the fair Aurelia?”

Pierpaolo’s face darkened and his voice went to a whisper, “What have you done with her?”

“Scusami?” Bernardo’s heart raced, his stomach wrenched, and he swallowed down bile rising in his throat.

“Don’t act innocent. She went missing this morning. When I prove you have her, I’ll demand satisfaction.” He stood, hand on sword.

Bernardo kept seated, not needing another scene at this meal nor more of his father’s wrath. “I assure you, Signore, I’ve done nothing such as what you accuse me of. I would gladly add a few of Soriano’s men to help you search for her.”

No doubt the conversation would’ve resulted in sword play if Dideco hadn’t suddenly turned pale and vomited over half of the table.

As is the way of such things, almost all did the same. Soon the room was full of those either holding their stomach, retching, or rolling on the floor in filth.

Poison?
“Antonio, sound the alarm! Now!” Bernardo stood and raced over bodies.

The young captain who’d been sitting closest to the entrance, shot out of the hall. Soon clanging resonated from the bell tower. Bernardo jumped over the last of the writhing bodies and out the door.

He paused at the foot of the tower and put a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “Tell the garrison what you saw. Divide into four groups. Make sure the gates are all down. I’m to the parapets.”

He prayed that the extensive training would yield good results as he climbed the ladder or they might all be dead by morning.

From the castle’s highest tower miles above the valley, he scoured the dimly lit scene for any sign of an army approaching. No torches, no flickers of light, no sounds. At his house not far away, a light flickered in a window where Fulvio no doubt was being woken and dragged away from a warm wench. He heaved out a deep sigh of relief and climbed down.

Should this have been a true invasion, their defenses might not have been sufficient. He’d need to station guards at more of the primary roads.

Although quite certain there was no danger other than that in the kitchen, he trotted back into the main hall. His family was already abed upstairs, no doubt along with their honored guest, Pierpaolo.

Many of the help were ill as well but those who were not aided the rest.

He found one of his favorite maids and asked, “How bad? How many have died?”

She curtsied despite the misfortune, “None, signore. Most just moan and hold their stomachs, and puke.”

“Tell all, noble and serf, I’m going for an herbalist.”

“Si, signore. Grazie.” The girl hurried back to her duties.

He mounted at the stables and stopped at the main portcullis, which to his relief was down.  Antonio saluted. “Are we under attack?”

Bernardo answered as truthfully as he dared. “It would seem not. Best to stay alert, however, until morning.”

As an afterthought, he added. “You’re from around here. No?”

The man nodded, “Si, Si, Not far at all. Bastia. Lived here all my life.

“Do you know of an herbalist... ah ... named Uncle Pino?” He felt a bit foolish using the name, but could remember no other.

“Oh yes, a great and learned man.” His head bobbed up and down, and he grinned.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

The man hesitated. “You mean him no harm?”

“God’s blood, no. I need his services or we may all die from the piles of vomit accumulating in the keep.”

A map was drawn with stick into the dirt, Bernardo nodded his thanks, and the gate was raised. Then he squeezed his thighs encouraging his horse, Monstro, forward.