The Master of Verona (85 page)

Francesca. Francesca and Paolo, the illicit lovers. The damned lovers.

Wrenching herself away she stared at him in horror. "This isn't the — no! No, Antony! Listen to me! We can — we're supposed to be friends now, that's all —"

"How now?" said Antony, frowning sharply. "What is this to you, a game? I'm serious, girl! You are all that I want in this life! You are my everything! You are my Giulia!" She pulled away from him, and for a long moment he stared at her. Then he cried, "Damn it! Does he get everything? Then give him this!" Drawing out a silver knife he gripped it tightly, tears running down his face.

What he was about to do, she never afterward could guess. She was certain he would never have harmed her, or told herself she was certain. Would he have given her the knife? Hurt himself with it?

Whatever Antony intended, she was saved from it by the sound of horses approaching. Antonia had found a group of five men, led by Benvenito. "Gianozza, are you all right?"

Gianozza gazed at Antony, who stood still in the rain looking back at her. Then he turned away. She called out, "I'm fine!"

Antony stayed long enough to ensure she was safe. Then he clambered up into the saddle and rode away. Gianozza watched him go. Just before he passed out of sight she saw his gloved fingers open, releasing the silver dagger. It fell, landing point first in the muddy earth.

Antonia was kneeling beside Gianozza. "What happened?"

"I made it worse! I made it worse! I told him not to — he's supposed to listen, to love me enough to listen—"

Antonia sighed. "What did you think would happen, Gianozza? That if you played the scene right, all would be forgiven? This isn't a play, or a poem."

Gianozza wept. Eventually they persuaded her to mount a horse. All the long ride back towards Castello Montecchio, she repeated one thought over and over. "This isn't how it was supposed to happen."

They did not see the man who'd been watching, who now came forward to take up the silver dagger.

In the cave they heard distant hoofbeats. At first Pathino grinned. "I'm sorry, Ser Alaghieri, but I'm afraid the Count won't let you walk alive from this place. Perhaps if you beg."

The sound multiplied. Four or more horses trampled the earth not far away.

"Was he bringing friends?" asked Pietro.

"He could have brought some Paduans with him," protested Pathino feebly.

"And have them kill him when they learned this whole enterprise was a feint for him to kidnap a Veronese child? I doubt it." Pietro stood up. "It's time."

Immediately Pathino leapt to his feet, dragging the child up with him. "Don't!"

"You know what I think? I think the Count has been captured, and in exchange for his life he's given them you." Pietro reached out an open hand. "Give up now and I won't let them hang you." Subtly he edged his left foot closer to the protruding half-burnt stick. Mercurio's eyes were open now, though his whimpers were too soft for Pathino to hear.

Pathino glanced wildly about, then smiled again as the hoofbeats rode back the way they had come. Pathino's relief brought back his awful version of Cangrande's smile. "You won't let them hang me? How generous. But I think it's time I do something about you, Count or no." He brandished the knife.

Pietro made a show of sagging. His next move would have to be bootless, and he'd pay for it later — if he survived.

Now
.

Pietro stepped into the fire. With the flat of his foot he kicked the half-burnt stick through the air towards the
spaventapasseri
. Pathino's hands flew up to ward off the flaming embers, and Cesco dropped to the ground and rolled away. Cursing, Pathino grabbed, his fingers clutching only air. Dagger in hand he turned on Pietro, still across the fire pit.

Pietro shouted, "Mercurio!
Avanti
!"

The great greyhound rose from the pool of its own blood and threw itself through the flames. The long mouth clamped down hard on Pathino's left hand in a spray of blood. The bastard Scaliger screamed as the weight of the dog yanked his arm down. The hound pulled, driving his teeth in with a savage growl.

Pathino plunged his long thin dagger into the hound, piercing its eye. Mercurio's jaw went slack and the greyhound fell to the earth without a rattling whisper.

From somewhere in the darkness a young voice screamed, "M'cur-o!"

Pietro had already scooped up his sword and was running around the fire pit. Pathino freed his blade from the dead dog and lashed out at Pietro's face. Taking the slash across the back of his hand, Pietro heard the next cut whistle past his ear. He rolled, putting distance between himself and Pathino. Leaping to his feet, he twisted around to lunge at his enemy.

Only Pathino wasn't there. The bastard was running to his horse, tethered just a few feet away. He slashed the leather ties and clambered into the saddle.

Sword raised, bellowing like the devil himself, Pietro limped towards the horse. But he was too slow. Pathino kicked and the beast jumped. His scalp brushed the ceiling of the cave where it dipped low, pushing through the dangling roots of the giant tree above. Then he was around the fire, angling towards the cave's exit.

Pathino had forgotten the tripwire. The horse's forelegs caught it, sending both Pathino and his mount headlong into the muck. Struggling to free himself of the flailing horse, the firelight exaggerated his scarecrow figure into a grotesque form in the shadows on the cave walls.

Pietro jumped the tripwire and splashed after him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cesco, free of his bonds, running towards the dead dog.

A flash of reflected firelight brought his attention back to Pathino. He still held the miseracordia and he swung it wildly. Pietro's sword had a better reach, though. He thrust with it and Pathino had to leap backward in the knee-high water, scrabbling to keep his feet.

"Damn you!" cried Pathino, turning and racing for the mouth of the tunnel. Pietro slogged after as best he could, knowing that it was hopeless. He was too slow. Pathino would be free in moments.

Behind him came a splashing sound. Pietro threw a glance over his shoulder. Cesco was in the water, chasing Pathino too. Turning back, Pietro saw that Pathino had stopped in the tunnel.

Cangrande's bastard brother gave his pursuers a look of wild delight. His left hand came up, grasping something, then yanked down hard.

Pietro paused as he heard a horrible sound from above. Wooden beams hidden in the roof just above the doorway shifted. They creaked and groaned for a moment, the noise they made sounding like earthen screams of agony.

Then the beams fell.

It was an old trick, designed by the ancient horse thieves to seal off the cave in times of trouble. In desperation, they could leave their stolen mounts and hide all evidence. But now it worked too well. The heavy rainfall had softened the earthen roof above. Almost half of the cave shifted, then came crashing down.

Down upon Pietro and Cesco.

Reaching the open air, Pathino looked about him and cursed. He'd hoped that Alaghieri had left his horse hobbled right outside the cave, but there was no sign of it. "Of all the damned..."

Damned. Yes, that was the right word. He was damned. He had hoped that only the entrance to the cave would fall. But now he had broken the one rule of his family. He'd killed his father's blood kin. He would certainly burn in Hell.

Stumbling down the path, away from the collapsed cave and into the forest, Pathino tried to orient himself so that he was traveling north, but without the sun it was difficult.

After ten minutes of walking, he heard hoofbeats. Ducking behind a tree and clambering up into the low branches, Pathino held his thin knife white-knuckled in his grip as he waited for the rider.

A lone horseman approached. Obviously a noble, with a fine beast and delicate tabard. Pathino had grown up in these parts, he recognized the Montecchio crest. He climbed higher in the branches just as the knight turned towards the cave. The mounted man's face under the cheek pieces was hidden. That worked for Pathino, as did the rain. With the water hitting the metal shell, the rider didn't hear the snapping twigs above him as Pathino dropped, landing hard on the rump of the horse. The rider cried out and began to turn. Wrapping his left arm over the rider's neck, Pathino slid the knife's point into the man's right armpit, just where the front and back plates gapped. The rider's life ended with a gasp.

Pathino struggled to free his dagger, then tossed the corpse from the saddle, fighting to remove the feet from upturned stirrups that dragged the body along with the cantering horse. Done, he turned north and rode for Schio. In an hour he would turn east for Treviso. It was only twenty miles from Treviso to Venice. From the great port he could take ship for anywhere in the world. For now that he was damned, what did it matter where he went?

Yet — yet he wasn't through. He was the Greyhound, he felt it in his bones. With or without the boy, he would carry out the plans he and the Count had made. He would redeem the blood that flowed through his veins, and in so doing, he would redeem himself before God.

The boy's death, though regrettable, meant nothing in the end.

It was an hour before sunset and Mariotto's men were riding yet again along the river bank looking for a sign, any sign. They were all tired, huddling under their capes and hoods for protection from the rain that was obliterating any traces that Pietro may have left.

Mariotto was doing his best to hide his fatigue as he pushed his men further. He shared the fear that their quest was hopeless, but refused to be the first to turn back. His thoughts were so focused on home and hearth that when he heard the noise he didn't register it as important. Then slowly he became conscious of a sound different from rain and river and horses and trees in the wind. They were voices. A man's and a woman's, to be precise, issuing orders loudly. Gesturing to his men, Mariotto set out to find the sound's source.

As they rode, the voices grew in number and in volume. Mariotto's troop arrived at a clearing high on a hill. There were several Scaligeri soldiers about, their armour discarded, their arms tossed aside as they knelt around the base of a toppled tree. The tree didn't so much look fallen as sunken, held aloft by branches stuck on other trees.

In the midst of the diggers knelt the Capitano, using his breastplate to scoop up and toss aside clods of damp soil. Others were doing the same. Standing at one side was the Scaliger's sister, still clad in male attire. By the way her weight shifted back and forth it was clear she wanted to dig, but was withholding herself in favor of her physical superiors.

Dismounting, Mari made his way carefully along the slippery slope to the lady's side. "Donna, what news?"

Cheeks flushed and lips tight, Katerina said, "Mariotto! Thank God! This is the cave, isn't it? Your brother-in-law gave directions. Bonifacio hinted that Cesco and Detto were under the earth." She gestured to the base of the hill. "We arrived to find the cave collapsed. They're buried in there. We're trying to dig them out!"

It took Mariotto only a moment of thinking before he cried, "What a fool I am! It's perfect! But do we know that this is what Bonifacio's hint...?"

"There are traces in the part of the tunnel uncollapsed. Hoofprints. Pietro's shirt, boots, and cane. They were here — and they were buried. The position of the tree, look at it. It fell in the last couple of hours, the side leaning away from the rain is still soaked."

Unable to argue with her reasoning, Mari volunteered to help. As he stripped off his armour he asked, "Where can we best be of service?"

Katerina looked at her brother, already knee-deep in a hole he and twenty knights had made. "Start in the tunnel. We began here to provide us with more room — there's nowhere to throw the excess dirt down there. But if your men set up a relay, tossing the rubble outside, you might have better luck."

Mariotto touched his hand to his forehead and ran skidding down the mud-strewn hill, one hand on the felled tree for balance. Behind him the tree's roots angled towards the black and grey sky, twisting like fingers reaching for God.