Torrent (26 page)

I’m engaged.
I supposed that I had been technically engaged to Rodolfo, too, but that had been like a sentence—this was like a delicious, secret promise, filled with hope. I paced the room, thinking of a wedding, of looking into Marcello’s eyes and promising him forever, of kisses that didn’t have to end with separation…

And then I stopped cold.

Mom and Dad are gonna SO freak.

And yeah, not in a good way.

The only thing that got me going again, the only thing that got me appropriately sober to face my family, was that I had to dress for my trek to Fortino’s gravesite. I was feeling kinda manic, alternately up so high I could barely stand still as Giacinta buttoned up the back of my tight-fitting bodice, and so low that I wanted to sink to my knees on the floor and weep at the thought of saying a final farewell to Fortino. It didn’t help that I was pulling on a beautiful, white gown. In medieval society, apparently everyone dressed in white for funerals, symbolic of the afterlife, and blue for weddings. But of course I was totally thinking
Brides
magazine.

I’d been thinking of my wedding day for a few years now. What girl didn’t? I’d always imagined it as a small ceremony, with us barefoot on the beach in someplace like Hawaii. But it’d probably have to be different here, marrying Marcello. The whole
Sound of Music,
massive church gig in Siena…

“M’lady?” Giacinta asked.

“Hmm?”

She paused, and I gathered this wasn’t the first time she’d spoken to me. I buckled down, trying hard to concentrate.

“Father Tomas,” Giacinta said, “he asked after you.”

I nodded, shoving away a pang of guilt for pretty much forgetting about him in the last forty-eight hours.

“He’s a kind man,” she mused, tackling the next set of buttons at my back. “The nicest sort of priest.”

“Indeed. I like him very well.”

“The men told me you saved him, back in Roma.”

I paused, trying to remember. It was honestly fuzzy in my memory, from the time of our escape at San Giovanni to my breakdown on the road.

Giacinta led me to a seat where she could begin work on my hair. She pulled apart a section and began to comb it, then twisted it into a coil that she wrapped into the next. I didn’t truly care. I trusted her—she’d done miracles with my hair before. “They say that he was done for this world, slumped over, bleeding to death in the saddle when you made it through the gates.”

“They exaggerate.”

She paused. “You did not go back for him?”

It was my turn to pause. I remembered the sound of it. Clashing swords. The cries of men. The dancing light of torches. The Roman guard, riding hard, toward us…

“Oh, m’lady,” she said, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Forgive me. I’ve upset you.”

“Nay,” I said. “’Tis all right. We got through. Escaped. That is what is important.” I heard the waver in my own voice. Did she?

“Truly,” she said agreeably. But she was pretending, suddenly chirpy in her chatter about her toddler daughter, Cook’s return to work at the castello, and what was transpiring over at Lord Paratore’s.

“Giacinta,” I said coolly, “do you know if Lord Paratore is actually in residence across the valley?”

“He is, m’lady,” she said grimly.

Our old nemesis, so close, and with a hundred reasons to try to bring us down. Was my dream of peace, of happily ever after on Marcello’s arm just that—a mere dream?

There were a few years left before plague would decimate this valley and the ancient cities of Italia—all of Europe, really. We needed times of peace, prosperity to prepare. To shore up food, supplies. So that we could withdraw, close the gates, and do our best to weather the storm. Because after all this, there was no way I would lose Marcello to the Black Plague. No way.

All I had to do was to convince my parents and sister to weather it with us.

Uh yeah, that…
I thought, feeling another pang of doubt, panic.

But first I had to see Marcello through his mourning.

Chapter Twenty-three

We walked up from the castle into the winter-brown hills and, even with a wool cape around my shoulders and Marcello beside me, I shivered in the damp cold. The charcoal gray skies rumbled, a storm ready to break in minutes. We followed Father Tomas. My family trailed behind, giving us a little space. The hundred men on guard—seventy-five between us and Castello Paratore, twenty-five on the other—notsomuch. Clearly their goal was to make sure we got in, got out, without incident.

Marcello held his arm firm beneath mine, but one glance at him told me that tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Fortino had been his last living family member. What would it feel like for me, if Mom and Dad were gone and I was burying Lia? Was I mean, making him come back here?

I could not imagine it, trading places with him. I glanced back at them, Lia on Luca’s arm, Mom on Dad’s, just to reassure myself that they were truly all there, with me.

I fought the urge to ditch the formality and come under Marcello’s arm, wrap my own about his waist, to support him in the way I knew I’d want it. But this had to go his way, for him, now. Still, I kept stealing glances at him to make certain.

We climbed higher up the dirt path, up the hill, and for the first time I recognized that far more guarded us than I’d thought. There were hundreds of armed Sienese knights protecting us. Forming a living barrier between us and Paratore, to our north. But they were paying their respects again with us as much as paying attention to their duties. Wanting to say good-bye to Fortino. To silently say thanks. For sacrifice. For courage. For believing in what made the republic uniquely theirs.

Tears flowed down my cheeks anew, and I wiped my face again and again with a white handkerchief. At the top of the hill, we came to a stop, and I looked around again, amazed at the numbers. The funeral had already happened. Today they were here to be
present,
for Marcello, for me. Out of respect for Fortino. And somehow that was twice as moving.

Father Tomas stood at the far end of the mound of dirt that covered Fortino’s grave. He bent, with a grunt, and grabbed a handful of dark, rich earth, letting some of it sift through his fingers. Then he took a pinch with his left hand, let most of it fall away, and eyed us. “Fortino began as little more than a speck, no greater than this,” he said, flicking the rest away in the breeze. “And his body shall be reclaimed in time by this hill, this earth.” He waited until we looked back at him. “But his soul shall live forever. In heaven he has already found freedom and peace and the healing that he so longed for in his last days on earth. Father,” he said, lifting his face to the sky, “we trust that You have received this son into Your kingdom. Amen.”

“Amen,” we repeated after him. With one glance at Marcello’s face, I knew he had never heard such a thing from a holy man. It was much too personal, far too informal. I was scared that Marcello might lose it.
I
was about to lose it. But he seemed to gain strength from Tomas’s words instead. Perhaps it was the words of peace, healing, wholeness that helped him most. Because that was what Fortino had longed for, long before those last hours in the Sansicino cell.

Tomas said a few more words in Latin, picked up another fistful of dirt, and let it filter down over the mound, as if he was deep in thought. He took a final fistful, strode over to us, and picked up Marcello’s hand. Tomas looked into Marcello’s eyes with pure compassion. Marcello tried to steady himself as he returned the gaze. But when Tomas poured the crumbling dirt in his hand, Marcello’s tears began anew—and of course mine followed. “The body decomposes, becomes dirt,” the priest said in a whisper, “but what God created inside your brother lives. You shall see him again. Yes?”

Marcello nodded. “Yes,” he said, through choking tears.

The priest went back to the top of the grave, closed his eyes, and made the sign of the cross, then stepped back. Then we all turned to leave.

And it struck me anew that Fortino was gone. Never coming back.

I glanced up, over to Castello Paratore, its crimson flags waving in the wind. They seemed to embody Fortino’s suffering, his demise, his death.

Oh yeah,
I thought.
They have to go. They simply have to go.

We were a parade of people as we left the gravesite. I passed the simple stones that marked the graves of Marcello’s mother and father. Under the branches of three scrub oaks, I saw for the first time a stone monument with the statues of two nobles side by side, man and woman, lying on their backs.

I’d only seen such a monument in the high churches of England, France, and Italy. “Who is buried there?” I asked Marcello, pointing toward it.

He rubbed the last of the tears from his eyes and searched to see where I pointed. “My great-great grandparents. They loved each other very much and insisted that they share a tomb; they died within days of each other.”

I considered that. “How long has your family been here, Marcello, in this part of Toscana?”

He thought about it a moment. “More than two hundred years. Our land once stretched all the way to Firenze, but we could not hold such a vast property for long. My grandfather was the one who established the borders we now maintain, except for that which we share with Castello Paratore.”

We walked in silence. Two hundred years. Being the daughter of Etruscan archeologists, I was kinda used to the idea of ancient history. But
personal
ancient history? I didn’t know many back home in Colorado who’d had family there for more than two generations, let alone two centuries. I felt Marcello’s connection to this land and the castello in a new way. When you lived in a spot so beautiful, a spot that had seen old generations die and new ones born, you fought for it. It was yours in more than a name-on-a-mortgage-document sort of way. It was yours because it had been claimed by your own, years before.

I spotted Mom and Dad ahead, speaking to an older man with a terrible hump in his back. “Who is that?” I asked, gesturing with my chin. I’d never seen him before.

Marcello looked down the hill. “Ah, yes. Signore Cavo. He’s a dealer in ancient artifacts. I imagine they shall get on quite well.”

It figured. Mom and Dad seemed to have an inner sense, a gift for finding those who shared their passion.

I thought of the beautiful amber and copper jewelry that Rodolfo had given me. Perhaps the merchant could get them back to him. The faster I could get rid of anything that reminded me of that day, the better.

Through a go-between. I doubted Marcello would be cool with me hanging out with Rodolfo at all. At least for a while.

We walked along outside the castle wall, and my eyes traced the line where new stones had been placed against the old. The Fiorentini had done a good job rebuilding the castle; it was hardly a patch job. You had to really look to see where they’d replaced stones. I remembered that terrible night, when we came back to see the front destroyed, the wall torn down. What did it feel like to Marcello, to once more be home? He’d never complained, never spoken of worry, just waited for his opportunity to regain what was rightfully his.

We entered the gates, and inside the Great Hall, Cook and the other servants had created a feast, setting it before us on a massive banquet table. There were fat chickens, slow roasted on spits; piles of loaves of bread; fish; oranges from Seville; and mince pies. It didn’t take me long to figure out that this was some delayed funeral celebration. Apparently they’d been waiting for me.

Servants circulated, refilling goblets of wine, and soon, people were singing and telling stories of Fortino. One man stood up and told of hunting with him when they were boys, regaling us with tales of his superior marksmanship. Another told a joke that had always been Fortino’s favorite. I wondered if this was what an Irish wake was like—the goodwill, the laughter.

Marcello rose, raised his goblet, and waited for all hundred guests in the room to do the same. When every eye was on him, he said, “Fortino was the finest brother that I could have ever asked for. He was not only a brother to me, but a fine friend, and I shall mourn his loss forever. But I choose this day to celebrate his memory. To celebrate his loyalty and sharp mind, his generosity and care. I choose to celebrate that, even when he was so near death, he enjoyed a period of renewed health, vitality because this woman entered our lives.” He gestured to me.

The room erupted in “hear, hears” and then settled.

I smiled at the people, nodding once, pleased that I had been able to help Fortino, at least for a time, but then thinking Marcello would go on to speak about his brother.

But he was looking intently at me, and my heart stilled.
Oh, no. Not yet! Not here! Don’t say it! Not in the middle of all these people—

He looked to Dad. “We mourn the passing of my brother. But my brother knew that your daughters were some of the finest women to ever pass through our gates.”

I could see Dad slowly rising to his feet in the corner of the room, and yet I could not bear to meet his gaze. Marcello walked over to him, utterly confident, never fearing—apparently never considering—that Dad might turn him down. Mom stepped forward, sliding her hand through Dad’s arm.

“Lord and Lady Betarrini, I am deeply in love with your daughter, Lady Gabriella.”

Dad’s brow lowered. Mom looked concerned.
Oh no. No, no, no—

Marcello saw it too and hesitated.

But then everyone else was coming to their feet, faces full of anticipation and hope. There was no way through but through. Quickly I moved to Marcello and took his hand. He smiled down at me and lifted it to his lips to kiss it. The action seemed to strengthen him. “Lord and Lady Betarrini, I humbly ask for your blessing over my coming nuptials. I hope to make your daughter, Gabriella, my bride, as soon as possible.”

The people erupted, applauding and coming over to us, dividing us from my parents, thumping Marcello on the back, kissing both my cheeks. It took about ten minutes for the crowd to abate and people to flow out into the courtyard for dancing and singing. I was a little surprised at the festive mood—who knew funerals could be such fun? I’d never been to a medieval funeral feast; I only knew we were already at capacity at Castello Forelli.

Marcello stiffened when my parents were finally able to approach us again, chins high, shoulders back. They did not offer congratulations and hugs. Lia and Luca were to one side of them, their expressions screaming
You Are SO Busted
.

“Family meeting,” Dad said in English, staring right into my eyes.

Inside I was thinking,
What? Now?
But I knew better than to debate it. I took Marcello’s hand and squeezed it. “We can go to the library,” I said. It was the only room in the castle that was likely unoccupied.

Dad led the way—out the door, across the courtyard, and into the wing that stirred sweet, warm thoughts of Fortino whenever I entered. But as we all filed in—Mom, Dad, Marcello, me, Luca, and Lia—it was about as cold as a room could be. Logs had been laid in the corner fireplace, ready to be lit.

Luca closed the door and stood to one side of it, arms folded.

“How could you?” my dad said, striding over to Marcello and poking him in the chest.

“
Dad
,” I said, holding tight to Marcello’s hand, angry at my father’s aggression.

But Marcello took it. I’d never seen anyone attack him so—or him be so docile in response. He was showing deference, respect. Could Dad not see that?

“You should have asked for our blessing in
private
,” Dad ground out, almost nose to nose with Marcello. “She is underage,” he added, casting a furious finger in my direction.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Marcello said, eyes to the floor. “Forgive me for not coming to you and Lady Betarrini alone. I only thought…” He paused, took a deep breath and then lifted his other hand, palm up. “My only defense is that it was Gabriella I met first, long before I met Lia, her mother, and now you, sir. From the start”—he lifted my hand in his and looked into my eyes—“she claimed my heart. Like no other. I know that for her—for you all, sir—this seems rather sudden. As though it’s happened within weeks. But you must understand; for me, Gabriella has carried my heart for almost two
years
. I feel as if I’ve been engaged to her for the past year and a half, when she promised she would return to me. And here, sir, here in
Toscana,
Gabriella
is
of age. Many women who are fifteen or sixteen marry.”