The Reckoning - 3 (5 page)

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sure Ellen would want Bran to know; Ellen would do almost anything to give ner brother peace of mind. "Her reluctance had naught to do with Llewelyn. It was partly because she did not want to leave your mother, not so soon after
Richard's death. And partly because she was loath to live in Italy."
Bran showed neither surprise nor indignation, although women were rarely given a say as to whom they were to marry. He had, in the anguished aftermath of
Evesham, promised Ellen upon the surety of his soul that he would never allow her to be wed against her will. "Well, now that Guy's prospects are bright enough to blind, we ought to be able to do better than an Italian alliance.
I'll talk to Guy."
"Bran . . . how long can you stay this time?"
He gave her a sideways look, alerting her that his answer would not be to her liking. "Two more days," he said reluctantly, and then, "Ah, sweetheart, do not look like that! I cannot help it, in truth. I promised Guy I'd be back by the first week in March. Philippe and Charles have abandoned the Crusade, are on their way home. Guy thinks we ought to be on hand when they reach Tuscany."
Juliana bit back her disappointment; she was wise enough to realize that Bran would shy away as soon as she began to make demands. She smiled, said with forced cheer, " 'Philippe and Charles.' I presume you mean the King of France and his uncle, the King of Sicily?"
"Who else?" He sounded faintly bemused, and she hid a smile. To Bran, it was perfectly natural to refer to those powerful monarchs by their Christian names, and he could never understand why the familiarity sounded so strange to her ears. But then, he was the grandson and nephew of kings, not likely to be over-awed by crowns or the men who wore them. She sighed at that. How different were their worlds and how distant, for all that she lay within the circle of his arms, legs entwined, so close she could feel his breath upon her breast.
Having emptied his own cup, Bran now reached over to share hers. "I'll be back soon," he murmured, "mayhap even by Whitsuntide," sealing his promise with a lingering, wine-flavored kiss.
She nodded, knowing he would if at all possible. She doubted that he truly felt at home anywhere after Evesham, but for certes, not in
"afy, for there he was starved for sun, stunted and chilled in his brother's spreading shadow. Raising up, she kissed the pulse in his throat. So
°ften had she heard Ellen's childhood stories that she sometimes felt as she'd lived them herself. It had always been Harry and Bran, Bran and Harry, two halves to the same coin. They might have been twins, so closely attuned were they to each other's moods; it was a family joke at if Harry were cut, Bran would bleed. It was not surprising that Guy come to resent a comradeship so intense, so exclusive. With the

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plaintive clarity of hindsight, Ellen could see that now, see how Guy had sought in vain to impress, to belong, as young brothers have done since time immemorial.
And then, Evesham. Harry had died that day, and Guy almost did
He lay for weeks near death, a prisoner with nothing to do but to relive those last bloody moments, to watch his father fall again and again, and to wonder why Bran's army had not arrived. He cheated death, to the
^urprise of all, and then escaped, which should not have been a surprise, Tiot to anyone who knew him. Fleeing to France, he set about finding his brother, with murder in his heart. But when he did, he'd discovered that he had to forgive Bran, if only because Bran could not forgive himself.
And now, Italy. A brilliant battle commander, Guy had won a King's favor, won a future full of promise. Whilst Bran, Juliana acknowledged, had naught but a past, one full of pain. And it seemed to her that, even with the best will in the world, Bran and Guy were yoked together too tightly, shackled by too many memories, too many regrets.
Bran leaned over, deposited her wine cup in the floor rushes. As he did, Juliana trailed her fingers along his chest, hovering over the new scar that zigzagged across his ribs. So much she'd wanted to do for him, to keep him safe from harm, to heal his wounds, to ease his pain, to stop his drinking.
And she'd been able to do none of it. The only comfort she could offer was carnal, the only kind he seemed to want.
"Make love to me, Bran," she whispered. "Make love to me now."
I
SIENA, TUSCANY
March 1271
HUGH did not see how they could get to Italy in time to rendezvous with Bran's brother. While couriers had been known to travel from London to Rome in just twenty-five days, sucn couriers often covered close to fifty miles a day, and most travelers

27
anaged less than thirty. Hugh soon discovered, though, ^ "\jj CQUid be as steely as that of his formidable father. He ro
:«/-m siai-m-rti-ncr \^r»ntai-oic Th*ire> tV»*^\7 TAforo crreofoH V»\7
^1117 H Of _, *, ^yA H
since departing Montargis. There they were greeted by Guy de *}*
%f^ d'Aldobrandini, Count of Sovana and Pitigliano, known tSiena by midday on Sat^ ^,, *l
7th of March. It was a day to banish their bone-chilling rri^j. fy, 3 those alpine glaciers, to evoke forgotten echoes of sprit\R Of|^ drenched noon under a vivid sapphire skyHugh's fifteen^
.' ^
\
ALTHOUGH Ildebrandino had a house in Siena, they accept^ pitality of the
Tolomei, an influential local family in uneasy al|;a ^ L the Count. Once they were settled in the Tolomei palazzo, y^N,,, suggested that they might enjoy watching a game of elmora ^ iJ1 consequence, Hugh soon found himself riding through the st^' S ' mg streets that led to the Campo, listening to the applause 0?' O People as they recognized il Rosso and his dashing son-in-lay, ..V.' of Tuscany. h<\
Hugh suspected that the welcome was politic, for he kn
w ' mat these
Tuscan city-states were profoundly suspicious of ^V Predatory neighbors like the Count. And Guy de Montfort was^^ °r Podesta, of Siena's great rival, Florence. But even if they ^\^ vated more by expediency than heartfelt enthusiasm, the^ei\' oed buoyantly on the mild, sunlit air, and Guy acknowj^ ^
8«du 'V

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plaintive clarity of hindsight, Ellen could see that now, see how Guy had sought in vain to impress, to belong, as young brothers have done since time immemorial.
And then, Evesham. Harry had died that day, and Guy almost did He lay for weeks near death, a pnsoner with nothing to do but to relive those last bloody moments, to watch his father fall again and again, and to wonder why Bran's army had not arrived. He cheated death, to the 'i ^surprise of all, and then escaped, which should not have been a surprise not to anyone who knew him.
Fleeing to France, he set about finding his brother, with murder in his heart.
But when he did, he'd discovered that he had to forgive Bran, if only because
Bran could not forgive himself.
And now, Italy. A brilliant battle commander, Guy had won a King's favor, won a future full of promise. Whilst Bran, Juliana acknowledged, had naught but a past, one full of pain. And it seemed to her that, even with the best will in the world, Bran and Guy were yoked together too tightly, shackled by too many memories, too many regrets.
Bran leaned over, deposited her wine cup in the floor rushes. As he did, Juliana trailed her fingers along his chest, hovering over the new scar that zigzagged across his ribs. So much she'd wanted to do for him, to keep him safe from harm, to heal his wounds, to ease his pain, to stop his drinking.
And she'd been able to do none of it. The only comfort she could offer was carnal, the only kind he seemed to want.
"Make love to me, Bran," she whispered. "Make love to me now."
SIENA, TUSCANY
March 1271
OUCH did not see how they could get to Italy in time to rendezvous with Bran's brother. While couriers had been known to travel from London to Rome in just twenty-five days, sucn couriers often covered close to fifty miles a day, and most travelers

27
eed less than thirty. Hugh soon discovered, though, that Bran's m . j^ be as steely as that of his formidable father. He rode fast and de hard, and the knights of his household were pressed to keep
Bv the time they reached the Mount Cenis Pass, they were avpace. vy erasing forty miles a day.
A winter passage across the Alps was every traveler's nightmare. B an and his companions were more fortunate than many, for they were pared the most lethal perils of alpine crossings: blizzards and avalanches. Even so, their journey was a daunting one. A local guide was killed when he ventured ahead to mark their trail with wooden stakes. It was so bitter cold that the men's beards congealed with ice and Bran's wineskin froze solid. At one point, the slope was so glazed that they were forced to bind their horses' legs and lower them down on ropes. When they finally made their way to safety, Hugh was vowing that he'd live out the remainder of his days in Italy ere he'd face Mount
Cenis again.
Bran had laughed, mercifully forbearing to remind the boy that ahead of them still lay the mountains of the Italian Apennines. They crossed at La Cisa, took the ancient Via Francigena that led toward Rome, and rode into the city of Florence on March 2nd, just twenty-six days since departing Montargis.
There they were greeted by Guy de Montfort and the powerful Tuscan lord who was his wife's father, Ildebrandino d'Aldobrandini, Count of Sovana and
Pitigliano, known to all as "il Rosso" for the auburn color of his hair. Three days later they took the road south, reaching the city walls of Siena by midday on Saturday, the
7th of March. It was a day to banish their bone-chilling memories of those alpine glaciers, to evoke forgotten echoes of spring, a sundrenched noon under a vivid sapphire skyHugh's fifteenth birthday.
ALTHOUGH Ildebrandino had a house in Siena, they accepted the hospitality of the Tolomei, an influential local family in uneasy alliance with the Count.
Once they were settled in the Tolomei palazzo, their host suggested that they might enjoy watching a game of elmora, and in consequence, Hugh soon found himself riding through the steep, twisting streets that led to the Campo, listening to the applause of townspeople as they recognized il Rosso and his dashing son-in-law, the Vicar °' Tuscany.
Hugh suspected that the welcome was politic, for he knew by now these Tuscan city-states were profoundly suspicious of powerful, Predatory neighbors like the Count. And Guy de Montfort was the Vicar, odesta, of Siena's great rival, Florence. But even if they were mo-
^ated more by expediency than heartfelt enthusiasm, the cheers still
°ed buoyantly on the mild, sunlit air, and Guy acknowledged the

28
salutations with grace, with the polished poise of a man accustomed t0 public accolades. Just as his father had once been acclaimed in the streets of
London, so was Guy acclaimed in the streets of Siena, as HugK watched and marveled that this de Montfort son should have found his destiny in a land so far from England.
The fan-shaped Piazza del Campo was the converging point for the city's three hills, the heart of Siena. Here markets were held, livestock Sinned up, fresh fish kept in huge wooden vats. Here fairs were celeorated. Here were played the rough-and-tumble games of elmora, in which young men formed teams and did mock battle with quarter staves, and pugna, in which weapons were barred, and palone, a boisterous form of football. Here stood the baratteria, a stockade roofed in canvas that served as the city's gambling hall. And here were clustered the citizens of Siena, eager to take what pleasures they could in a bleak Lenten season, unwilling to squander such a spring-like Saturday on mundane matters of work.
Hugh was enthralled by it allthe noise and confusion and merriment, the circling doves and pealing church bells, the sun slanting off the red roofs and rich russet-brown bricks of the houses fronting upon the square, even the clouds of dust stirred up by the brawling elmora players. Siena seduced with practiced ease, and as he elbowed his way through the crowd, following Bran toward the baratteria, he decided that Italy was verily like Cockayne, that legendary land in which night was day and hot was cold, so completely had his own expectations been turned upside-down. For he had been utterly certain that he would dislike Italy, and just as sure he would like Guy de Montfort, his lord's brother.
Italy was a term of convenience. Hugh knew there was no "Italy" in the same sense that there was an "England" or a "France." The independent city-states of Tuscany and Lombardy were part of "Italy." So were the Papal States. So, too, was the Kingdom of Naples and Sicily, which was ruled by a Frenchman, Charles of Anjou, uncle to the French King Philippe, and Guy de Montfort's powerful patron. They were not linked by language, for each region had its own dialect, its own accent, its own idioms. Even in Tuscany, the Sienese speech was notably less guttural than that of their Florentine neighbors. Nor were they bound by political affinities. People were "Guelphs" or "Ghibellines,"
the distinction part of an enduring quarrel that had its roots in a forty-year-old breach between the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor. Cities like
Siena and Florence and Venice minted their own money, adhered to their own systems of weights and measures, even their own calendars. And their rivalry was known the length and breadth of Christendom; men spok£

29
a and Florence or Venice and Genoa in the same breath with Rome and Carthage, Athens and Troy.
So even before they reached the Apennines, Hugh had judged Italy
, found it wanting; a veritable Tower of Babel, an alien land of bandits
4 d blood-feuds, a region notorious for its "pestilent air," its "Roman ers and catarrhs," a foreboding world of droughts and earthquakes, Icanic mountains that "belched forth infernal fire," and Lombard ney-lenders almost as unpopular as the Jews. It was the true measure f Hugh's devotion to Bran that he'd not balked upon learning that Italy lay at the end of their journey.
He was to discover that the Italy of his imagination was not a total distortion of reality; the roads were indeed bad and fevers were rampant and he had trouble remembering that the lira was not a coin but still worth twenty silver soldi, the same as a gold florin. He'd not expected, though, that Italy would be so beautiful, a land of alpine grandeur and icy mountain lakes and deep valleys and burnished, bright sunshine. The Tuscany hills put him in mind of his native Shropshire; he took pleasure in the vales and woods of chestnut and cypress, the olive groves and vineyards, the snow-white oxen and the lingering twilight dusks. And he had not expected that the people would be so friendly, so quick to offer assistance to wayfarers, so tolerant of the peculiarities of foreigners. He liked the zestful, genial citizens of these
Tuscan highlands, and he was impressed by the prosperity of their cities, by their paved streets, formidable walls, spacious piazzas, lavish palazzos, and elaborate public fountains, centers of privilege and vitality and beguiling worldliness.
Within a noisy circle, men were casting dice, and Hugh squirmed closer, trying to see. Treading upon someone's toes, he quickly murmured, "Scusatemi," for he was determined to learn as much of this Tuscan language as he could. The man smiled; in the flow of words that followed, Hugh understood only "inglese" and acknowledged that "si," he was indeed English. There was a growing undercurrent of resentment directed against the French, for Charles had won his crown by the sword and there were many who begrudged him his battlefield sovereignty. But the English bore no such taint, and the Sienese grinned, told his neighbors to make room for the young inglese.
Hugh came forward shyly, warmed by the crowd's friendliness. He could hear snatches of conversation, the name "Guido di Monteforte."
o Hugh, it sounded like a brigand's name, conjuring up visions of andit chieftains and Barbary pirates. It was Hugh's secret conviction at.lf suited Guy de Montfort perfectly. It had come as a shock, the rea lzation that he distrusted Guy, for he adored Bran, was in awe of