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 wa
ited 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.”
“It’s true,” Mom said softly. She slid a hand over Dad’s shoulder. Her affirmation echoed of support. I looked to her in wonder, as did Dad.
“You’re in favor of this?” Dad asked, exasperation in every line of his face.
“I wish we had had the opportunity to speak of it before, Ben. But yes, I suppose there’s an inevitable aspect to it.”
Dad shook his head and then paced, hands on hips. “We have yet to even speak of how long we’re to be here,” he said, throwing out one hand. “Do you not all see that her marriage also commits us to life here forever?”
“And yet if we return, we do not know if we shall be together,” Mom said, staring into his eyes.
Dad resumed his pacing, his fingers pinching his scalp as if he might be able to pry wisdom out of it.
Lia met my gaze. You okay with this? I silently asked her.
She smiled and glanced at Luca, then shrugged, as if to say, How could I leave him? And then she glanced at Dad. We were all worried—worried that if we went back, he’d disappear or ultimately meet his death again. We had no idea how much sway we had with history, with destiny. Sure, Castello Forelli had been rebuilt, whole. But was that really because of us? Or because of events that had transpired when we were here, therefore changing the future? Would such changes go as far as changing life itself?
There was only way to be sure that we would be together: We had to stay here.
I stared at the stones of the floor, waiting for Dad to come to the same conclusion. If Lia and I were both on board, and Mom was somewhat supportive, then he had to come along for the ride. The question was…would he go for this whole marriage thing?
He stood there, staring at the logs in the fireplace, hands on his hips now. Thinking.
He turned and looked at Mom, Lia, me. “A large portion of your desire to remain here is to save me,” he said quietly. “But what if,” he asked, each word tinged with misery, “I lose each of you?” He shook his head as if that were the most intolerable thought in the world. “We have seen the mortal danger of this place, firsthand,” he said, coming over to me and touching my chin.
“I swear by my life that Gabriella, and you, sir—your whole family shall—”
“Nay,” Dad said, cutting Marcello off as he lifted a finger toward him. “You cannot promise safety. You cannot! A day is coming, Lord Forelli, that no number of men and swords and arrows can guarantee victory.”
The plague. He was referring to the Black Plague.
“And then what?” he went on, looking into my eyes. “Then shall I be risking not only my wife and daughters—and son-in-law,” he added, brows wide in exasperation, and a dismissive wave toward Marcello, “but also grandchildren?”
“Gabriella,” Marcello said slowly, his gaze on Dad, “of what does he speak?”
I shook my head. “We cannot tell of it yet.”
“If it concerns your safety, then I must—”
“’Tis…of the future,” I said, finally looking at him. “And it is as dire as my father makes it sound. We shall all be in horrific danger here.”
Marcello stared back at me. “Then we shall go away for a time.”
To where? America had yet to be discovered by Columbus, and all of Europe would suffer as wave after wave of the plague decimated their populations. And as for the Far East…I had no idea if they had suffered too, or when.
“A journey would not spare us,” Marcello said, reading the expression in my eyes.
“Nay,” I said s
orrowfully.
“Is it Firenze?” he guessed.
“Please,” I said, begging him not to press me. “I cannot say. We are not certain how our presence, let alone what we share, changes the future. We’ve already seen some evidence that it does.”
“But if it is for good that you change it,” Luca said, stepping forward, “who would argue with it?”
I rubbed my right temple, feeling a serious headache coming on. “I don’t know. Maybe God?” Suddenly I wished that Father Tomas was in on this conversation, that he knew what had happened to us, that he could help us figure it out…
“God is for life,” Marcello said, turning to face me and taking both my upper arms in his hands. “Are you telling me that we shall be in danger of losing you and there is nothing you could do to stop it?”
“It’s an illness,” Luca guessed, walking among us, looking at our faces. In a second he knew he was on the right track. “You wear the same expression that you did when I was so taken by the plague.” He stopped by Lia, and she looked quickly to the ground, as if she could hide the truth from him by not letting him see her face. “’Tis a plague, m’lord,” he said.
Marcello frowned and pressed his fingers into my arms. “Gabriella. Tell me.”
I stared into his big, brown eyes and thought of him taking ill, of saying good-bye to him forever, of seeing him die like Fortino, and a lump formed in my throat. He was not going to let me go, not without knowing. And yet if I told him he might send me far away—
“It shall be one of the worst the world has ever seen,” Mom said at last, clearly aching over each word. Telling him what I could not. “Before the decade ends, a third of Siena’s population shall die.”
His mouth dropped open, and he released me, staring at me as if I had uttered such words, not Mom. “Siena.”
“Siena,” Mom said, and my eyes confirmed it for him. “Firenze. Venezia. Roma. Germania. Brittania. Few shall escape it. It will roam, far and wide, like a dragon with endless hunger.”
Torrent Page 24
