The Master of Verona (81 page)

Besides, Pietro needed him. They had to flush out the game.

His leg was agony, so against his will he lifted his cane from the saddle. It was made of mahogany, pitted and scarred where he'd fended off some cutthroats in Venice two years before. Using it was better than slipping and being unable to stand again. The noise of the rain would cover the occasional breaking of twigs.

Sword drawn, he crept forward.

Antony and Luigi Capulletto reached the Castello San Bonifacio to find it still manned by the Scaliger's loyal troops. These soldiers had seen neither hide nor hair of any Paduan and knew nothing of the attack on Vicenza. Learning of the Capitano's kidnapped son, the captain of the guard formed a search party to cover the ground east of the castle.

Mission accomplished, the brothers left their men to spread out while they turned back towards Vicenza. Stopping at an inn along the way, Antony exchanged his helmet for a wide-brimmed hat, the better to keep the rain off his face. Buying three skins full of wine, they continued on.

The brothers encountered a small patrol of men belonging to old Montecchio. It was led by Benvenito, the fellow engaged to Mari's sister. Luigi wanted to join up with them, but Antony said no. So they simply exchanged news and went their separate ways.

"Why the hell not join up with them?" demanded Luigi.

"Because we're going to be the ones to find the boy," said Antony. "And we're not sharing the glory with anyone."

"You mean we're not sharing it with Montecchio."

"With
anyone
," said Antony. "Look, if you want to go off on your own, do it. It'll make us both happier. I grant you leave."

Luigi bristled at the implication that his brother was his master. "Fine!" He spurred his horse hard up the dirt road, leaving Antony behind.

Antony was glad to be rid of Luigi — always watching, always ready to leap in with a jibe or cutting remark. It was partly Luigi's presence that had made Antony issue that idiot challenge to Mariotto, a move he was already regretting. It was true that a large part of him wanted Mari dead as a salve for his pride. But that wouldn't win Giulia's heart back. Giulia, his perfect woman.

Yet if he'd been able to be honest with himself, it was less about the girl than Mari. His best friend. Among all the drinking companions, panderers, and revelers he'd associated with for the past two years, nowhere had Antony found a friend to equal the one he'd lost in Mari. That betrayal had cut deep. He'd thought their friendship, forged in a day, would last forever. It hadn't. If there was a reason to kill, that was it.

This morning in the close fighting he'd twice been at risk, and the sword that saved him both times had been Mari's. Antony had repaid him in kind, protecting Mari's flank as he battled away at some Paduan spearmen. For a heartbeat the enmity fell away and things were as they had been.

But the challenge had been issued. He couldn't retrieve it, not without shaming himself in front of his friends and father. And that bastard Luigi. Giving his mount a vicious rake with his spurs, Antony pressed on.

Gargano Montecchio led a band of soldiers through the woods. They came across another party of his men, led by Benvenito.

"We saw the Capulletto brothers, they said that the road between here and San Bonifacio is now being watched."

Lord Montecchio nodded. "Then take four men and scour the other side of that hill. Look for Mariotto's party. He knows these parts. There are lots of places a fugitive can go to ground." His daughter's fiancée turned to go, but Gargano laid a hand on his arm. "Son? Watch your back. Having successfully negotiated the battle, it would be a tragedy to lose you before we welcome you to the family."

Benvenito saluted his prospective father-in-law, then called a few men to follow him. The men looked to their lord, who nodded. Reassured of the safety of his own family, Gargano Montecchio returned to searching for the heirs of Cangrande and Bailardino.

It was a nerve-racking quarter hour as Pietro followed Mercurio through the heavy brush. Each moment he expected the muted twang and thunk of a bolt being fired and sliding home between his ribs. Soaked to the skin, Pietro wanted to lie down and sleep for a year. His gauntlets were stiff around his sword and cane. His right leg had hardened into a rigid, brittle limb that hampered each step.

The dog skirted a patch of earth and Pietro saw it was an old game trap of some kind. No, too big for game. It was a pit loosely covered. He had to be doubly careful.

The trees around them were not of a kind. Some were tall and towering, providing a canopy. Some were barely twice Pietro's height, with thin needles that made him wince as they brushed his face. Often these were surrounded by shoulder-high bushes that worried Pietro more than anything, for they could hide a man with ease.

Mercurio pressed on. Ahead stood a series of large rocks embedded in the side of a hill. On the hilltop, above the largest rock, a tree stood tall and glistening in the rain. Passing it, Pietro noticed a twig broken and hanging by the barest thread of bark. Pathino had passed by here. How recently? The rain had turned any footprints to mud. But when he looked at the interior of the twig where it had been snapped, he saw that it was still dry inside. It couldn't have been long.

Mercurio seemed lost, and Pietro wondered if the hound was having difficulty holding onto the scent. Which brought another thought in its wake — if Cangrande used his hounds to trace Pietro, would they be able to follow that tortuous path by the river after a few hours of rain?

Now he was conflicted. He thought of poor Detto. If anything happened to Pietro, Detto might never be found. An insistent voice kept telling him to turn about, cut his losses, and take Detto to safety. He could lead Cangrande's men back here and trap the bastard.

But if Pathino left between then and now, taking Cesco with him, Pietro would never forgive himself. He glanced up at the top of the hill. A hard climb for him. The grass would be slick, the rocks treacherous. Making up his mind, Pietro took a deep breath and carefully placed his cane for the first step.

He'd hardly gone five feet up the slope before realizing the dog wasn't with him. Looking back, he saw the dog snuffling around the large stone. Then Pietro saw a pair of hoofprints in some dry earth sheltered from the rain by the rock. Moving from right to left, he noticed a gap in the center of the rock that was wide enough for a horse to ride through.

A cave. This had to be one of the hiding places Mari's ancestors had used when they absconded with their neighbours' horses.
Clever bastard
. Pathino intended to hide the Scaliger's son right under his nose, on the lands of the Montecchi.

Pietro was trying to make up his mind when he heard a blessed sound. Hoofbeats. Not Pathino, he was sure of it. He debated making noise and settled for showing himself in the open.

The rider wore the Bonaventura crest. When he saw Pietro he shouted, but Pietro waved him to silence and beckoned him forward.

"Alaghieri?" asked the man.

It wasn't Petruchio, didn't look anything like him. But Pietro thought he remembered the face and took a chance on the name. "Ferdinando? Quiet. He's around here somewhere."

Ferdinando nodded and made to dismount. Pietro gestured him to stay where he was and quickly related the news. "Here's what I want you to do — go that way and find Detto. Get him to safety and bring back Cangrande or anyone else you can find. I'll keep the bastard trapped here as long as I can."

Ferdinando cast a dubious eye over him. "Are you sure? Together we would have a better chance."

"We have to keep Detto safe. And we'll have a better chance if someone knows where I am."

Still Ferdinando hesitated. "If you get yourself killed, your sister will never forgive me."

Why does he care what my sister thinks?
"If you know my sister, you know she'd tell you the same thing. Don't waste time, get Detto to safety. I'm counting on you."

Ferdinando muttered something about Florentines. He didn't look happy, but he trotted off in the direction Pietro indicated.

Pietro turned back to the cave. The dog was looking up at him. Detto was safe. That left Cesco. Raising his sword, Pietro ventured silently into the darkness.

Having recovered as much composure as a dying man may, the Count of San Bonifacio greeted his guest with a smile. "My dear, forgive me for not rising. Would you like to start with thumbscrews? Have you any salt? Or would you prefer to unleash one of your brother's menagerie upon me? If I may choose, I think I'd take the baboon. I have never seen one."

"The jackal is more appropriate. Or the leopard. That was what Pathino tried to feed Cesco to — a leopard. He told you?"

"Some. I try not to rely too heavily upon his word. Is that wine?"

"It is."

He sniffed it warily. "Poppies?"

"Not much. Morsicato's own brew. When the pain leaves you, I will give you nothing but water. We must talk."

The Count lifted the sweet-smelling mixture of wine and drug to his lips and drank deeply. Wiping his lips he said, "Certainly, we shall speak. Let me tell you about my father."

"Fine. Then I will tell you of my son."

The cave's depth was surprising. The path was steep, and the twisting descent masked the distance down to the main chamber. Pietro was surprised to hear drips of water hitting a pool. Was there a spring down here? Or was the roof so saturated with the rain that water was seeping down into the secret stable below?

He smelled the fire before he saw the glow on the curved tunnel wall. How best to handle this? His cape was heavy with wet. His sleeveless leather doublet was stiff and cold. His shirt clung to his skin, hampering his movement. He stripped these off. He knew he ought to remove his breeches, but if he was running to his death he was going decently covered.

The water-filled boots were a problem. They sloshed as he walked. If he took them off, his bare feet would be at the mercy of whatever ground was down there. He couldn't do with noise, though, so he removed them as well. Barefoot and bare-chested, Pietro laid his cane carefully across the path. Then, gripping his sword in his good hand, he moved ahead, placing each foot with care.