by Edale Lane
Merchants of Milan
Book One of the Night Flyer Trilogy
Edale Lane
Past and Prologue Press
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Sneak Peak - Book Two
Heart of Sherwood - Chapter 1
Heart of Sherwood - Chapter 2
Heart of Sherwood - Chapter 3
About the Author
Merchants of Milan
By Edale Lane
Published by Past and Prologue Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Melodie Romeo
Cover art by Enggar Adirasa
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition January 2020
Copyright © 2020 by Edale Lane
Printed in the United States of America
Created with Vellum
Dedication
I am dedicating book one of the Night Flyer series to my first and best teacher, Patty Grice Burns, my mother, who passed away in December 2000. When I was a small child, she filled our home with classical art and music: a table sized replica of Michelangelo’s David, the Blue Boy and Pinkie on the wall, a bookcase overflowing with classics and mystery novels, and my favorite – a huge collector’s volume of everything Leonardo da Vinci every wrote, painted, sketched, or designed accompanied by their historical context and significance. She passed that bound treasure to me in her will.
Mother adored da Vinci and we would spend hours poring over the images and text in the large book. She taught me about his genius as an inventor and art innovator and we studied details of the Last Super, the Mona Lisa, and other masterpieces. Therefore, I think it is highly appropriate to publish this Renaissance novel in which Master Leonardo while never appearing in the book plays a central role, in her honor and memory.
A professional educator for many years, Mother’s degree was in history, although most of her career was spent as an English and Literature teacher. I was fortunate enough to sit in her classroom where we read Treasure Island and practiced proper grammar and usage. Patty Burns had been a saxophone player, a drum major, and a soprano choir member and soloist who passed on her love of music to both of her daughters. But in addition, she was my biggest cheerleader and supporter, always encouraging me to strive to reach my goals and make my dreams come true. Of all the knowledge she bestowed upon me, the most valuable lesson she conveyed was for me to believe in myself. I love and miss you Mama, but have all confidence you are somewhere smiling at me, praising my success. Thank you for everything!
Prologue
Milan, Italy, June 1502
“Tell me artisan de Bossi,” Don Benetto Viscardi broke the silence at the formal dining table. “Do you find the canard à l’orange and pecorino cheese to your liking? What of the fava beans and pears?” A slight lifting of the wealthy merchant’s chin cast haughty slate-gray eyes over a Roman nose onto the guest seated to his left. Benetto’s chiseled jaw was clean shaven and his hair, an alloy of iron, nickel, and granite, flowed smoothly to the top of his shoulders in keeping with Milan fashion. His belly bulged enough to proclaim his status without being so great as to hinder his movement.
The fifty-four-year-old patriarch of the Viscardi family raised his wineglass to thin lips as he regarded the inventor he had employed for the past year. Luigi de Bossi was his inferior in every way, from his disheveled attire and unmanageable walnut curls to his thick, square brown beard. True, he was younger with a sturdier build, but his dusky olive complexion attested to a humble lineage. Clearly the man had brains and talent or he would never have served as an assistant to the esteemed master, Leonardo de Vinci; nonetheless, he had proven to be… unsatisfactory.
Luigi smiled, his deep-set chestnut eyes sparkling with delight at the delicacies before him. “I must say, Don Viscardi, this is a feast indeed–quite a savory and appetizing fare. But what is the occasion?”
Donna Daniela Viscardi, who sat heavily upon a cushioned chair at the other end of the ornate walnut table coughed, and raised a linen napkin to her mouth. Nervous azure eyes darted across the diners before she lowered her head to the subservient posture she was expected to assume. Her face was properly caked with white powder, save for rouged cheeks, and the blonde braided updo she boasted was in reality an expensive wig, as years of bleaching had destroyed her own hair. Their daughter, the comely Agnese, also remained quiet as a proper lady should when dining with men. Niccolo, the son Benetto took pride in, was away at the University of Bologna studying business and law.
“Occasion?” Benetto asked after swallowing his wine. “Let me propose a toast to good, loyal Luigi for the profits his latest invention will bring our House.”
“Here, here,” added Benetto’s younger brother Stefano as he raised his glass, a signal for all to follow suit. Stout and muscular with short coal hair brushed with ash at his temples, Stefano was dutiful to his brother, forgoing the frequent in-house wars. He realized he wasn’t smart enough to run the business with Benetto’s level of success.
Luigi’s cheeks reddened above his unruly beard. “My lord, you are too kind. Why, the exploding shells I am developing are not even ready for use. Perhaps within the year,” he gestured nonchalantly.
“Precisely the point.” There was a sudden harshness to Benetto’s tone that exploded through the air darkening the mood.
Agnese, who was but in her teen years, inclined her head to her mother. “Mother, may I be excused?” she timidly uttered.
The patriarch shot a glare toward the women’s end of the table. “You may both be excused,” he commanded rather than allowed. Mother and daughter hastily withdrew from the eloquent dining hall. To one side of the lace-covered table was a grand fireplace adorned with intricate carvings and topped by an inviting fresco of a wine bottle, glasses, and bread; the opposing wall was covered in windows, the glass open because of the summer heat. A set of oak double doors stood at both ends of the hall, the ones to the study closed and those to the sitting room providentially open for the women to skitter through. The surrounding plaster walls were all hand painted by one of Milan’s many talented artists as was fitting the station of the head of a prestigious House.
Benetto returned his attention to Luigi whose former blush had now turned to pallor. “I had a generous buyer who greatly desired those exploding shells to give him the advantage over his enemies in the ever-ongoing wars from which I derive my profit, hence your income as well.” He paused to blot his lips with a linen cloth. “Unfortunately for us both, you did not deliver in time and he has removed his order and placed it with one of my competitors.” Luigi’s blank stare prompted his host to continue. “I have just lost a fortune because of your ineptitude.”
“But my lord,” Luigi addressed in earnest, “No other inventor has developed a successful exploding shell. Your customer is being taken advantage of! Once he is on the field of combat and the shells fail, he will return to you and I can promise with more time and tinkering I shall provide reports that will fire as intended. You see, there is a precarious balance to be struck with the detonation device–too thin and the slightest rocking of the ammunition wagon will set it off; too thick and it will not explode on impact. It requires much trial and error, and we do not want those errors to cost the lives of our customers.”
The explanation sounded reasonable enough, just as it had six months ago. No. It was clear to Benetto that he needed a new inventor. Luigi had cost him dearly, and he would have to pay. “That may all be correct, de Bossi, yet the fortune I was to make is now forfeit because of your delays. Is it true that you have no son to carry on your work after you are departed?”
A puzzled expression crossed the artisan’s face. “I have no son, my lord; only a daughter.” Benetto watched as a grimace pained his guest who grabbed his stomach. “My lord, I should retire. I am not feeling well.”
A satisfied half grin grew across the aristocrat’s lips. “Stefano, brother, will you see our guest gets home safely?” With a crisp nod of his head, Stefano rose and assisted Luigi up from his chair. In obvious distress, Luigi doubled over, slapping a hand onto the table to hold himself upright.
“There now, de Bossi,” said Stefano as he steadied him with a strong arm. “I will see you home. It is too bad you weren’t able to deliver on the goods you were contracted to produce.”
Then Benetto saw the recognition in Luigi’s eyes, the moment he knew his life was ended. He raised a regal chin, a blaze of power in his air. He was Benetto Viscardi, patriarch of one of the most–no, the most important merchant House of Milan. No one crossed him, no one disappointed him without paying the ultimate price. And since Luigi had no son to avenge his death, and the constables would never inquire of him anyway, there was nothing to fear. This would be the end of it. Besides, the poison he utilized was very difficult to detect and created a perfect imitation of a heart attack. What difference would it make if a mere daughter suspected anything was amiss? He expelled a breath of contentment as he watched his brother carry the dying man out.
Chapter 1
Three months later
Florentina de Bossi stood tall and confident in the grand entryway of the Casa de Torelli. The wealth of Milan was evident in the quality of fabric and design afforded to one as humble as an artisan’s daughter; the simple V-neck forest green dress with long, straight white sleeves and full skirting, while not being as fine as society garb, suited her well. It was not position nor wealth that construed the young woman with assurance, but rather a vast store of knowledge and skills with which she was certain of a future. While she had appealed to the master of the House, Don Alessandro Torelli, to take pity on an unmarried female who had recently lost her father and her home, she had in fact engaged in rigorous research to select the right House to tie herself to in service. Though she was the applicant having sent her documents and qualifications seeking a post, she considered herself to be in control of the whole process. The Torelli’s were the Viscardi’s most formidable rivals for dominance in the city, and while the Torelli family’s primary trade was in silk rather than arms, both Houses diversified their assets to ensure their wealth would not suffer in the event of a slow market in one commodity or another. No, she chose this family, this House specifically because it suited her to do so. Perhaps Alessandro would turn her away, but she had read about his sister’s recent loss of her husband who was killed under questionable circumstances. Rumors abounded, but it was Florentina’s deduction that the same vicious man who had poisoned her father did away with Donna Madelena’s husband. They were allies now, even though Alessandro didn’t know it yet.
It was not expected for an important merchant to rush to meet a potential servant for an interview, so Florentina was content to wait. She stood upon a colorful woven carpet surrounded by pastel plastered walls outlined by intricately carved moldings and a columned staircase. The décor included a small cushioned bench, brass wall lamps, a large mirror, and several paintings, but her eye was drawn to a clock that rested on the mantle of the entryway’s hearth. She stepped closer to examine the piece. The brass housing was fashioned of two circles, the larger one on top of the smaller, and was supported by a stand carved from black walnut featuring two rearing winged horses facing away from each other which cradled the rounded bottom of the brass. The clock face sported a circle of Roman numerals with two brass hands, one longer than the other. Crowning the casing was a pair of lovebirds huddled close together in an intimate posture fashioned from polished brass. She reached out her hand and gently stroked the masterfully constructed time piece, savoring the feel of the polished wood and smooth metal, a bittersweet smile gracing her lips.
“Splendid, is it not?” sounded a musical female voice. Florentina was so engrossed in admiring the clock that she had not heard anyone enter. Turning curiously to see who had spoken with such fluid intonation, she was taken aback by the beautiful woman stepping toward her. Flame hair braided with a gold ribbon and coiled around her head contrasted her alabaster complexion. She had a high hairline as was fashionable, but only wore a small amount of rouge as her heart-shaped face needed no powder to achieve the desirable skin tone. Deep forest eyes shone like jewels beneath airy brows. While clearly older than herself, the woman maintained a youthful figure poured into an embroidered silk gown with a low square-cut neck drawing the eye to her ripe breasts, taut in the middle to emphasize her tiny waistline, then flared at the hips to complete the image.
Florentina surmised by her attire that this was no servant and must either be Alessandro’s wife or sister. Immediately, she became self-conscious of her own eccentricities. Her skin was olive and her hair brown, her figure not so curved, her feet not so delicately petite. She was an oaf, a misfit, a socially awkward flounder. The confidence she displayed only a moment ago evaporated in an instant, replaced by a shroud of inadequacy. But that wasn’t all. Something tugged at her from the inside. She had certainly appreciated beauty in women for as long as she could remember, but the feeling stirring in her core was beyond appreciation. Unfamiliar and indescribable it leapt in her heart with anticipation, though she had no idea for what. She was so dumbfounded she could not utter a sound.
“Everyone who visits our home comments that we have the finest clock in all the city, and I believe it to be true.” Madelena Torelli Carcano stopped as she reached the hearth and stood close to Florentina and the clock. “Besides being an exquisite piece of art, it is even more accurate than the one at City Hall. That’s because it is a da Vinci design, you see, with springs instead of weights, and it displays the minutes as well as the hours, chiming on the hour and the half hour.”
Madelena cocked her head as she studied the potential employee; she was not at all what she had expected. This woman did not display the posture or bearing of the servant class. Her downy, wavy brunette hair extended past her shoulders signaling her single status. She had an interesting face–not unattractive, not beautiful–her nose a little too large, no plastering of powder for whitening, thicker than fashionable brows, and a scattering of indiscriminate freckles. However, her deep-set amber eyes shone with intelligence and her full lips were pulled into a half-smile, as if she was amused by secret thoughts. Tall, athletic, confident, old enough to be a wife yet not, the raw potential for beauty without the desire to pursue it... yes, interesting indeed. But why the sudden onset of nerves? It must be because she is anxious about the interview. “I am Donna Madelena Carcano, Don Alessandro’s sister, and you, Florentina, have an eye for fine craftsmanship.”
Florentina dipped her head in deference as was expected, then met Madelena’s eyes. “My father made this clock,” she said wistfully.
“Oh, I should have made the connection,” Madelena repli
ed in sudden realization. “I saw the name de Bossi on the papers you sent but didn’t think. Certainly, and that explains much.” Madelena recalled meeting Master da Vinci’s assistant whom her brother had contracted to craft a one of a kind clock for his entry hall, though she was unaware he had a daughter. “I was saddened to hear of your father’s passing,” she said gently.
“And I was sorry to hear of the untimely loss of your husband,” Florentina responded in kind. “You must have loved him very much.”
“He was a good husband who did not deserve to die so young,” she said, but pondered Florentina’s comment. Had she truly loved Vergilio? Though the marriage was arranged, she considered that she had fared well. He was a competent businessman, a good father, and treated her with respect. They were friends, partners even; but, something had been missing. The poets’ verses and minstrels’ songs spoke of passion and longing of the heart, things she had never experienced with her late husband. But love was not all passion and thrills; it was hard work, standing by one’s side, even standing by his grave. Perhaps she loved him in the same way he had loved her–just enough to not be unhappy with each other.
