The Master of Verona (18 page)

She half turned to glance over her shoulder. "My brother-in-law. He, too, had to have a bolt removed from his body—but he was attempting to do the surgery himself. He had the notion that I would be angry with him for some reason. Can you imagine that? A grown man, a knight, avoiding me?" Somehow French seemed to suit her mood, carrying both amusement and scorn.

"It is beyond all comprehension."

"Quite. When my girl found him, he refused to come. I had to send several of my pages to fetch him here. As soon as Morsicato was finished with your wound he began on Lord Nogarola's. There is some doubt as to the condition of his shoulder, but evidently he will live to face my wrath. Do you fear my wrath, Monseuir Alaghieri?"

"I should fear doing anything to displease you,
madame
."

The soft mirthful ripple was more breath than voice. "Diplomacy is a lost art,
monsieur
. You ought to lend it your skills. It would no doubt undergo a renaissance."

"
Oui, Madame Nogarola
."

"Pietro," she said, switching back to their native tongue, "I have been informed that you have, beyond all reason, risked yourself to save my brother's life. And that you rode into a band of armed men alone and unaided, thus winning the engagement for our city. When we are in company, you may refer to me as donna, domina, or
madame
. In private, my name is Katerina."

Pietro looked into the eyes of this woman twice his age, knowing she could never be his. He also knew it didn't matter.

"Yes, Donna."

The conversation continued in fits and starts, pausing as Donna Nogarola checked her brother-in-law or sent servants for fresh linens and water. After each brief interval, she returned to Pietro's bedside to ask more questions. He tried to describe her brother's actions, but she seemed more interested in Pietro. He found himself being asked about his life — growing up in Florence; the exile of his father; the brilliant, ambitious little sister; the youthful deaths of two little brothers followed by the death of his older brother Giovanni, which catapulted Pietro to the role of heir. He talked of the journey two years before to join Dante in Paris, after being separated from his father for ten years. He described their return to Italy in the wake of the Emperor Heinrich, and their eventual settling in Lucca.

When he reached their arrival in Verona the night before, the lady leaned back, her eyes narrowed. "So you had never met my brother before today?"

"Yesterday," he corrected as if it made a difference.

"Ah. Yet you rode, unhesitating, to his rescue?"

Pietro shook his head. "He didn't require rescue, Donna. We probably only got in his way."

She waved his protestation away. "Nonsense. He would be dead this minute, and the city entirely in the grip of the Paduans, if not for you three. You must be very skilled."

Pietro grunted. "At being a pinchushion."

"No self-pity," said the lady firmly. "Francesco is blessed to have such inspired knights to remove his neck from the noose he made for himself."

"None of us are knights, Donna."

"Not yet, at any rate. That, at least, is something he can rectify."

"Yes, I can," came a deep voice from the doorway. "And will."

Pietro sat up, but the lady did not even incline her head. "You took your time."

"I stopped to pick you flowers, Donna, but there was a frost when I entered your hall and they all withered away." The Scaliger approached as he spoke. Hooking a bench with his foot and dragging it to rest beside Pietro's daybed, he seated himself opposite his sister's perch. "How fares my guardian angel?"

"I'm fine, my lord."

"He will live," supplied Donna Katerina. "No doubt he will follow you again someday, so you can attempt once more to cure him of that failing."

"I do what I can. No doubt Pietro will throw himself in the path of a hail of arrows next time and complete my chastisement." Cangrande's posture bespoke a tension that he had not evidenced even in battle. "It is fascinating to see you so —
motherly
, Donna. Perhaps the lady wishes to rectify a past error?"

"I tender my mercies on those I find deserving of them. And I am like Pietro. I loyally follow orders."

That riposte went ignored. "The room is quite warm, in spite of your chilling presence. I assume that it is Morsicato's advice?"

"Indeed, we must try to burn from these men the fever of their devotion to a false idol. We can only hope that they will regain their senses."

Cangrande glanced around the chamber. "Is that Antonio?"

"You noticed?" The lady's voice carried a mild surprise. "Indeed. He, too, turned pincushion for your cause. He was foolish enough to try to remove the pin himself. I cannot imagine why. Perhaps he heard a folk legend that inspired him."

"No doubt," said the Scaliger crisply.

Pietro couldn't believe his ears. The Capitano was losing his temper.

Katerina gazed down at Pietro. "There is a tale of a knight who was wounded thrice by his enemies and left overnight to die of bleeding and exposure."

"Perhaps Pietro has already heard the tale," interrupted Cangrande.

His sister ignored him. "As it goes, the knight removed the shaft of a crossbow and dressed his other wounds in the pelt of a wolf that had tried to dine on him. The next day he found the camp of the two attackers and gave them wounds identical to those he had borne, then left them together to fend for themselves." Finally, her eyes rose level with the Capitano's. "They did die, did they not, Francesco?"

"They did, Donna, but not from their wounds. They died because there was a frost that night and no friendly wolf came along to give them his warm fur."

Katerina held her brother's eyes without flinching. "Then it seems then that you are fortunate in your friends. They are always there to rescue you."

"I need no rescuing, Donna, when I am not in your presence."

"Then I shall relieve you of that need by removing myself." Rising from her stool, the chatelaine handed him the damp cloth. Pietro noted that they were careful not to let their hands touch. "Signor Alaghieri, if you will excuse me."

At the door she turned. "Please do not leave quite yet. I have news." With those words, she departed.

There was an almost imperceptible sagging in the great man, a release of air held tightly in his lungs. He returned his gaze to Pietro. "Are you well?"

"Yes, lord."

"Good." He gave no explanation of the interchange with his sister.

As the lady had herself noted, Pietro was adept at diplomacy. "Do you have word of the army?"

"Which? Ours or the Paduan?"

"Both."

"Ours will be here sometime in the morning — about ten hours from now, I would guess. No doubt ragged and ill-organized, but here. By then I expect the bulk of the Paduan army will have reached home and started the fortifying process."

"Oh." Pietro was fighting the desire to ask the next question.

The Capitano knew the look for what it was. All innocence he asked, "Is there something on your mind?"

"No, lord."

"You're wondering why I'm not riding headlong towards Padua and taking them unawares." Pietro nodded. "I tried that already this summer — you weren't here."

The Scaliger allowed Pietro to sit upright. "I heard about it."

"Good. So, last month I had the whole Veronese army and I couldn't take the city. There is nothing to make me think I could take it with less than a hundred men, no matter how invincible they feel. The Paduans are very secure with their series of rivers and walls, and they've got those damned priests, della Torre and Mussato, who can breathe backbone into a willow. So without my army, why bother?"

The words sounded hopeless, yet Pietro sensed something in the Scaliger's tone. "So we don't go to Padua?"

In reply, Cangrande changed the subject. "I didn't see their general, did you?"

Pietro thought. He had seen many nobles, over a hundred, but no one with the deportment of the leader of this army. "He escaped?"

"I hope so. I know another friend of ours has. Though we fished his armour from the river, the slippery Count Vinciguerra of San Bonifacio has eluded us. Vinciguerra means 'In War I Win.' I might just make him change it. Fishmonger, maybe."

"Is that why we aren't going to Padua?" asked Pietro, trying to find the connection. "Because he escaped?"

"Oh, we're going." Cangrande's voice was level. "I just want to give their army a head start."

"But they'll be warned, they'll man the walls…"

In the red light from the glowing coals nearby, the Capitano's face was demonically delighted. "Have you ever seen a broken army come home? Yes, Padua will have more men — but they'll be frightened men, fatigued men, disillusioned and panicked men. They were sure they'd win today. Dear God, how could they lose? Did you see their numbers? No, this time I'll let the Paduan army do my work for me. The sight of all their men running for their lives, led by San Bonifacio in his shirt and hose — that unwelcome image may break the Paduans more thoroughly than I broke their army." The Scaliger laid a gentle hand on Pietro's shoulder. "Now, rest. Morsicato is the best at what he does. I'd hire him in a trice if he'd ever leave Katerina. So let yourself sweat out the reaction to your wound and by tomorrow you should be able to move around a little."

"But, lord, I –"

"I promise, Pietro, that when we are ready to undertake the journey to Padua, I will inform you. You won't be left behind. But only if you rest now. Close your eyes. I have nowhere to be for some time. I will stay here until you are asleep."

He helped Pietro settle himself comfortably on the daybed, changing the sweat-soaked flannel for another, fresh with steam. He paused to check the dressing on Nogarola's shoulder, then returned to sit on the stool vacated by Donna Katerina. Taking up the cloth again, he laid it across Pietro's forehead. The wounded youth closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax. The heat of the room, the coolness of his brow, the soft smell of burning wood and spices in the brazier, all mingled into a drowsy miasma that consumed him.

Pietro dreamed. His head was filled with a series of images his unconscious mind could make nothing of. Though the setting was familiar, he didn't recognize the key figure, a shadowy fellow with long curling hair and a curved sword.

Waking with a start, he found Cangrande's eyes upon him. "You were talking in your sleep. Do you remember anything?"

"No, lord." His head was in a fog.

"Here, drink this." The Scaliger lifted the cup of wine with its mixture of poppy juice and hemp seeds that Morsicato had prescribed. As Pietro slipped back into the comforting mists he wondered absently what he'd been saying.

Pietro dreamed again, but this time the visions were less obscure. He was lying on a bed, eyes closed, listening again to the voices of the two beautiful siblings. This time man and woman did not spar. Their voices were kept soft, their tones clear and concise.

"You said you had news."

"A woman has been to see me. She serves the Signora de Amabilio."

"Ah."

"Indeed. It seems the signora's husband was killed falling from a horse last April."

The voice was grave. "I take it she has a request."

"Sanctuary, if you take the city."

"Tell her it is granted." In the dream the Veronese lord rose to leave.

"It is not that simple." A brief pause. "The signora has recently given birth."

A silence, then the brother resumed his seat. He sighed. "A boy."

"Yes."

"Have you taken any steps?"

"I've sent for Ignazzio."

"And the Moor." As it wasn't a question, the lady did not respond. "She cannot be allowed to keep him."

"No. For all our sakes, but especially for the child's. There has already been an attempt."

"Has there? Who else knows?" There was a long stillness between them, broken by the words, "I must take him in."

"Yes, you must."

"If he lives."

"He will live."

"This will hurt my wife."

"Better this pain now than the pain of her heir losing his station."

"If she has an heir."