The King's Agent (17 page)

Battista stewed in sullen silence; this mission became more convoluted and perilous as it continued. Why did he feel as if Dante’s own fraught-filled journey would pale in comparison before it ended?

He turned to Ascanio, a narrow-eyed stare at his snickering friend who was clearly amused at the notion of Battista in costume. “Would you make for the Teatro Comunale?”

Rubbing his sensual mouth still stuck in a grin, Ascanio jumped to the task. “Fine idea. I am sure the community theatre will have just what we need.” He chafed his hands together merrily. “A mustache, and beard ... oh, and a plumed hat. No one will know of the rascal you are beneath a nobleman’s regalia.”

“It should be as ostentatious as possible,” Aurelia called after him with a reserved grin. She met Battista’s annoyed gaze. “It is the type of people they prefer, these Barberini, those as flamboyant as they themselves.”

“So then we shall have to order you some new clothes also, madonna.” Battista put his elbows on the table with a thump and clapped his hands together. “One with an immodest neckline and some cosmetics for your face.” He stared at her, at the unadorned beauty needing no enhancement, waiting for her determined demeanor to crumble, for her amusement to vanish, but he was soon disappointed.

“If it is what we must do, then we must.” She tipped her head to the side with an easy shrug. “A noblewoman’s heavy veil will allow me anonymity.”

Battista pushed out of his chair, pacing away from her insufferable acquiescence. “Barnabeo, Pompeo, I want you with us,” he announced, choosing one for his brawn and the other for his youth. The group would encompass Frado as well, as always.

Battista stalked about the house, thoughts flung in every direction. They had to follow Aurelia’s clue, for they had nothing else to go by. He believed her, believed her assumption that the temple of profligacy that was the palazzo in Prato was their destination. Her motives troubled him, though, for he could not gauge them.

Battista possessed clarity of vision, the ability to see the truth in others, and his refined intuition had enabled him to surround himself with those dedicated and loyal to him his whole life. But Aurelia remained a mystery, though he had spent more than a few days in her company. There were mysteries beneath her depths, and though he found enigmas intriguing in other women, he found them disturbing in her. Beneath all these thoughts lay one ... did she lead them into some sort of trap?

Such musings went round, as he himself did, but there was naught for it.

“Pompeo, you and Barnabeo will set up a camp as close to the palazzo as is safe,” he continued his instructions.

“It will not be close, I assure you,” Aurelia piped in, but he gave her words no pause.

“Frado, you will be the humble servant of the conte and contessa di Panzutti and will accompany us into this den of vipers.”

“Humble servant, forever the humble servant.” Frado closed his book with a snap and shuffled away, whether to return it to its place or rid himself of the company no one could be sure.

“It is only because you are so very humble,” Battista tossed at his friend’s back, but Frado would not be pacified, waving the consoling words off with the flap of a hand.

“Conte and contessa?” The squeak in Aurelia’s voice rivaled that of any fleeing mouse.

Battista stopped his pacing, turned with a barely suppressed sneer, and smugly crossed his arms upon his chest; ah, at last he had wrought a reaction.

“Well, yes, of course.” He sauntered toward her, narrow hips below broad chest swaying with masculine grace. “I imagine to present ourselves as anything but married would put you in a very precarious position, would it not?”

No simpering smile spread upon her lips now, he saw with a snide sort of pleasure.

“Uh ... I s-s-suppose ... uh ... y-y-yes ... ,” she stammered.

“An unmarried woman, of your beauty?” Delighted to have finally flummoxed her, he leaned down over her, one hand on each arm of her chair, pinning her into it. Though she tried to hide it, he saw her push back into the cushion, as if to escape him. He allowed a rakish gaze to scour her, from bottom to top, and he saw the heat of it rise up her neck and onto her face. He lowered his voice to a sultry growl. “You would be the toast of the evening,
sì?
”

Her jaw jumped; she understood exactly what he meant, and for a moment he thought—hoped—she would bow to the threat. But she denied it, the fear he taunted her with, and the steely narrow gaze of her eyes turned thunderously dark; she refused to be cowed, not even by this.

She raised her chin at him in unquestionable defiance. “Then when do we leave ... Husband?”

It had been four days since they had finalized their plans, four days to give Battista’s wound time to finish healing, four days in which the tingle of excitement, the anticipation of the journey awaiting them, riled her with unrelenting restlessness.

The light patter of spring rain upon the shutters sang to her, keeping the day huddled in the darkness all the longer, as if to further tease her with the possibility of leave-taking. She knew not what transformed her; she had become an addict, the adventure she had lived the last fortnight was no longer enough, she yearned for more—it was the opium she craved.

Aurelia deluded herself with thoughts of duty and purpose, with arguments that one could serve both while enjoying oneself simultaneously, but she knew it all as sophistry, saw it for a petty pretext, one allowing her to continue without guilt. She had done her duty for so long, she deserved these moments of pleasure at last, she had earned them.

Battista had not permitted her another excursion into the city on her own and the long, monotonous days had found the walls of his home growing thicker with every passing moment; she began to wonder if she had exchanged one prison for another. Only the certainty of the coming expedition smoothed the hard edge of her wanderlust.

For the third time, she arranged the new gown and all its frilly undergarments and accessories in the satchel that would hang across her horse’s back, but she saw it for the busywork it was, activity to pacify hands refusing to remain idle. Aurelia pulled down on the doubletlike bodice of her honey-colored travel costume, pleased with its fineness and finesse, its almost-masculine lines.

Battista had surprised her with the clothing he purchased on her behalf; his knowledge of women’s fashion far exceeded her own and she wondered who had offered him such tutelage. Too much about this man she could not reconcile, a dimension of this adventure that sat awkwardly upon her shoulders.

Quiet caught her attention, and she turned to it, returning to the shuttered window. Aurelia heard no more than discordant dripping, the last remnants of the gentle storm slipping off the roof. She pushed open the carved wood, breath catching on the greeting vision; there, in the distance to the east, the pale glow of dawn beckoned with a smile, the coming sunlight pushing through a crack in the cloud cover. She backed away from it, stepping back to the lone chair in her small chamber on the third floor. Aurelia sat and stared out across the rooftops of Florence, her eyes following the road to the north, past the ancient Porta alla Croce marking the edge of the city, and the unknown land beyond.

The glory of departure was imminent, and she longed for it with unfeigned delight; she conceded to the truth of it. Aurelia gave the hands clasped tightly together in her lap a squeeze, as if to remind herself of the greater purpose she served; she must never forget it. Though niggling self-doubt pestered her, poking a finger at the question of whether her purpose might be more forthrightly served had she stayed in Mantua, she refused to allow it to gain hold. She could serve both masters—those of the universe and those in her heart—and she would.

Beneath her, wood creaked as a man’s weight shifted upon it and just outside the window, on the abandoned street below, she heard the whinny of horses and the jangling of tack. With a smile that would not loosen itself from her lips, she snatched up her satchel, raced down the stairs and out through the door.

As Pompeo and Barnabeo tied the horses to the post, as they removed her sailcloth bag and hitched it to her horse, Aurelia stood grateful beneath the fading stars that had come out to bid farewell to the receding night. She did nothing to stop herself; she threw back her head and laughed softly into the twilight depths. Now, as the moment was upon her, Aurelia would be worthy of the challenge of her life.

Thirteen

Pride, Envy and Avarice,
The three sparks which have set the hearts of all on fire.

—Inferno

M
any a lord held residence in the hills and mountains of the Italian peninsula; many the castle had been built on these cliffs as a stronghold against the violence of a less civilized era. In the wake of those turbulent days, these same castles had become palaces of luxury. To the fortress-type structures, large windows and columned porches had been added, nexus points for an unfettered view of the rolling hills and meadows at the feet of the privileged. These pleasure domes had neither political nor economic purpose, but existed solely for the intellectual and aesthetic gratification of their masters.

The cliff passage appeared unnatural: straight and precise, as if the incision into the mountain had been carved out with a mighty chisel. No fewer than ten guards armed the imposing black steel gate at the end of the dusty stone corridor. The troupe observed the soldiers huddled at the foot of the scrolled metal, scuttling about like ants at the foot of a giant. From the crest of an opposing hill they studied the obstacle before them.

“We dare not go further.” Battista held them with a hand in the air. “To step one pace upon that path would be to reveal ourselves.”

Not a one offered an argument, for there wasn’t one. Aurelia had warned them how well-protected the palazzo would be; if all her information was as accurate as this, they had indeed followed her rightly.

“Your verdict appears justified, Aurelia. Well done.” Battista gave grudging credit where it was due.

She accepted the praise with a silent nod, yet not even her thickly thatched black veil could completely guise the sliver of her smile.

Barnabeo lifted himself off his saddle, straightening legs anchored in stirrups.

“Then it is up we must go.” He jutted his square chin toward the forest-covered slope to their left. “Those trees provide both perfect camouflage and aspect. We will be hidden yet able to watch for you.”

In silent acquiescence, the group followed his lead, the only sounds the snapping of twigs and crunching of bracken beneath horses’ hooves. In the dappled shade, Aurelia folded up her veil and lifted off the velvet riding hat, revealing the pile of pinned plaits, and the line of moist sweat gathered beneath its brim. How strange she looked with the heavy kohl lines around her eyes, their blackness intensifying the green flecks by contrast. Battista cared little for the cosmetics she wore, the thick powder, the berry stain on her lips. What may enhance a plain face only obfuscated her beauty, disrespected it with but mocking refinement.

With an equal relief, he pulled the fuzzy
beretto
from his head, feeling the cooling breeze rake its fingers through his ponytailed hair. He had refused to wear a wig, allowing only for his long tresses to be bound and tucked under. He couldn’t recall a spring so hot, especially this far north on the peninsula, or was it simply that they drew ever closer toward the fires of Hell?

From their vantage point on the northern edge of the foothill, they discovered that the swath cut through the stone curved itself round each side of the mountain, a castle’s empty moat. From that lowest point the mountain and the palazzo rose up like a hovering leviathan, splendor its weapon.

Pompeo jumped from his horse, tied the reins to a nearby pine tree, and retrieved a hatchet and a small, thin saw from his saddlebag. As if he studied a painting, he surveyed the sparse forest with a purpose.

The group dismounted, more than a few stretching away the kinks of the five-hour journey. Aurelia reached down, plucking one five-pointed flower from the hundreds covering the forest floor, raising it to her face.

“A gentian,” Battista told her. “Have you never seen one?”

“I do not think so.” She shook her head, gaze flitting about, too much beauty to see at once. Like a magnificent carpet, the blue, almost-violet flowers rose but a few inches off the ground, covering their feet. “Certainly not like this.”

“This one, I think,” Pompeo announced, slapping the thin trunk of a scraggly pine.

Battista looked up. “It is already half-dead, that is for certain,” he said, spying the brown needles protruding from the top of the partially denuded tree. “It will go down easily.”

“And see there?” Pompeo pointed to a fluffy, healthy olive tree beside it. “It will catch there. It will be easy to see against the pale green.”

Battista nodded, pleased with the marking Pompeo would put in place once darkness descended. He turned his gaze back to the palazzo; the felled and angled trunk would create a clear demarcation from any escape point south or west of the mountainside palace. Pompeo and Barnabeo could not risk lighting a fire, exposing their presence; the fallen tree would be the only sight to mark their location. If necessary, Battista would launch a burning rag from one of the windows visible from this hilltop, a signal for help.

A shaft of sunlight found them as it lowered into the descending posture of late afternoon, and they stepped back from it.

“We should present ourselves,” Aurelia said, climbing into her saddle once more. “It would not do to arrive after dark. They will look more kindly upon guests who call before the meal is prepared.”

Battista conceded easily to her superior knowledge of court life. He bobbed his head, scratching hard at the fake black beard gummed to his face, and stepped to his horse.