by Edale Lane
Salvador nodded in agreement. “Yes, that is precisely what I thought. Therefore, I must warn you that there is a new gang of miscreants causing trouble. I suggest you double the guard on all of your shipments until they are caught and brought to justice.”
“Yes, yes, I shall,” Alessandro considered thoughtfully. “Come now, Salvador, let me offer you some refreshment.”
As he walked out with the watchman, Iseppo returned escorting a lanky, well-muscled young man with a charming air about him. “Luca will help the new tutor with her things,” he uttered with an expression of disdain. Madelena paid the butler no mind. She was fixated on the half-smile adorning Florentina’s face and the capricious sparkle in her amber eyes. What secret inspires that look of knowing amusement?
Chapter 3
Don Benetto Viscardi stormed through the main hall of Casa de Viscardi bellowing powerfully enough to rattle the windows and shake the chandeliers. “Zuane, Stefano, how could this happen!’ He shook off his calf-length brocade pleated overcoat and a nervous servant scrambled to scoop it up. He yanked the black beret from his salt and pepper hair and threw it at his wife who stood quivering near an interior door. Daniella managed to catch the cap before dashing out of sight.
Benetto spun on his heel, scanning for his men just in time to see them rush to his summons. Stefano was still chewing his brunch and held a pear in his hand. “What is the matter?”
But Zuane knew, Benetto thought as he focused piercing gray eyes on his man-at-arms. Look at him, he thought contemptuously. In the prime of his life, strong and broad shouldered, experienced with sword and arquebus, yet he lets the vandals get away! “How did this happen!” Benetto was too angry to wait for an explanation. He felt as if he may explode. “Hellfire and damnation! That shipment of weapons was for Gian Giacomo Trivulzio, King Louis XII’s captain who is engaged–even as we speak–in warfare with the Spanish! He counts on me to supply his weapons, Don Benetto, the greatest arms merchant of Milan, no in all the city-states. What will I tell him? The king depends on me. In fact, one reason the Viscardi House holds sway in Milan is because I sided with the French king against the Sforzas; I played a major role in his victory over the Duchy, and so now that Milan is in French control, I have the king’s favor. But if I can no longer deliver weapons to his armies, how long will that favor last?” Benetto realized he was physically quaking with rage and stopped his rant to take a deep breath.
“That is not good,” Stefano stated the obvious and shook his head. “Zuane, what went wrong?”
The man-at-arms stood at attention, an unreadable expression on his ruggedly handsome face. Benetto dismissed the breech in fashion of his choice to wear a beard; at least he kept it neatly trimmed and his hickory brown hair hung right above his shoulders as it should. Dressed in a leather jerkin and pantaloons over stocking clad calves, Zuane’s military bearing fostered confidence. So how had a small band of thugs outwitted and out maneuvered his stalwart men?
“True, I was there,” Zuane began in a measured timbre. “We had the usual number of guards, two in front, two in the rear, and two on each wagon, but to be honest it has been years since any bandits dared attack our caravans. The last one’s who tried never saw judge nor jailhouse.”
Benetto nodded and tried to calm his pounding heart. “So, why last night? How many were there? How many did you kill?”
“Well, you see,” he began, and relaxed his attitude of attention in favor of one of humility. “It was twilight, and we were nearing the inn where we always spend the night. But as autumn approaches, the days get shorter, so it was getting dark earlier than we had anticipated. Then the mayhem started. Suddenly there was smoke everywhere–under the wagons, in front of us on the road, in the trees. We became confused, and I circled about on horseback trying to find the fire. All the guards were on high alert and formed a circle around the cargo, but then there was an explosion, and the first wagon was blown to pieces. The driver was thrown clear and suffered a broken arm. Then the second and third wagons were struck and caught fire. That is when I ordered the men to spread out and search for the cannon. It had to have been a cannon–you know there is a war on. I suspected a Spanish patrol, except… why would a patrol be dragging about cannons?”
“Did you find the cannons?” Benetto demanded.
“No, there were none, and no horse prints or retreating army at all. I ordered three of the guards to put out the fires while I took the rest on an exhaustive search. I can only conclude that either someone set traps in the road, or those who attacked the caravan were as silent and swift as deer in their getaway. Naturally, I rode ahead and informed the authorities straightaway, only now arriving back at the mansion. I’m sorry to confirm the cargo was a total loss.”
“Word travels as fast as our enemies it would seem,” Benetto sighed in dismay. “You mean you never saw the villains?”
Zuane shook his head as his gaze fell to the floor.
Stefano, who was swallowing a bite of pear, inquired, “Do you think it was Torelli?”
“Doubtful,” Benetto replied scrunching his brow. “That calculating goat would never destroy merchandise when he had a chance to turn a profit. No, if he attacked us–and I wouldn’t put it past him–he would have stolen the shipment, not blown it up. I don’t understand…” A confounded bewilderment consumed his features as he looked from his brother to Zuane. “Anyone would have. Unless… mayhap it was the Spanish, or a trap set in the road to inflict random destruction upon whomever passed. Miscreants, rebels, or some malcontent aligned with Sforza who simply wants to thwart King Louis’s efforts,” Benetto speculated, racking his brain. But it didn’t make sense. Who would destroy three wagons full of perfectly usable weapons that were especially valuable in the current climate? Then he sighed a deep sigh and lifted steely eyes to his man-at-arms. “Post extra watches at the factory and around the residence. Stefano, I want you to go out and hire more men–good, experienced mercenaries, not drunkards from the tavern. Tell them they will be paid well. We do not know that our business was targeted specifically yet, but we cannot let this happen again.”
“Truly, Benetto,” Stefano confirmed. “I’ll hire good fighting men with sober, watchful eyes.”
“And I shall distribute them to all the necessary venues to protect our goods,” Zuane added snapping back to attention.
“We’ve had setbacks before,” Benetto recalled. “Hopefully there will not be a next time, but if there is we shall be ready.”
“Good Madonna, woman, what have you in your trunks?” Luca pleaded as he followed Florentina up the stairs with one large ornately carved wooden chest on his shoulder and another more plain variety being dragged behind by his other hand. “I never knew a woman’s belongings could possibly weigh more than a full grown hog!”
“Drivel! Only women’s things, tinker tools, and books,” she said stifling a giggle. Florentina had a leather bag slung over her own shoulder and an armful of volumes as she climbed up to the top floor. “Books in a wooden trunk are indeed heavy, but a strapping young man such as yourself should have no problem with the load.”
“I say here, Luca, boy, pick up that chest and do not scuff the stairs!” scolded Iseppo most disapprovingly. “If as much as a single plank is gouged I will take it out of your hide!”
That butler is going to be trouble, Florentina considered as she led the way into the third-floor hallway. “Which room again?”
“Third on the right,” Luca panted as he lifted the second trunk off the step.
Florentina opened the door into a small, Spartan chamber with two single beds on either side of a little lamp table. The other furnishings consisted of two common oak Dante chairs and a vanity on which set a wash basin, water pitcher, and short stack of hand towels with a plain mirror affixed above. The bed with a trunk at its foot and dresses hanging on pegs across from it must be my roommate’s, she thought. Praise Heavens there’s a window!
Luca staggered in behind her. “Just put th
em there,” Florentina said pointing to the end of the unused looking single bed. The linens were clean and beds neatly made, but these quarters boasted nothing of expense.
“There you are,” Luca said as he rid himself of the cumbersome trunks. “You can push them where you want them to go.” He straighten his back and rolled his shoulders, then rubbed one as if it ached. “Angela has an afternoon break as she cleans up after dinner, so she should be around soon. Servants eat in the kitchen after the family’s meal has been served. We all prepare our own breakfast and lunch, but better ask Bianca–she’s the head cook–what you’re allowed to have. All the fancy foods are reserved for the Torellis.”
“Grazie, Luca,” Florentina said in honest appreciation. She was well aware of the contents of her trunks and why they were so weighty.
The young man left and Florentina strode to the window to inspect her view. Looking out she could tell it was the back of the house, not the majestic front nor the quaint, Roman-style courtyard. Below was a narrow side street rather than the main thoroughfare, but that would be better anyway. She noted the sparse number of pedestrians, mostly laborers and servants she supposed by their attire. I’ll have to find the roof access, she thought as she turned back to set her books on the lamp table and drop her bag beside the bed. She pushed the ornamentally carved oak chest square with the end of her bed and drug the plain one into the nearest corner. Then she returned to the masterful chest and brushed her fingers over its hand-crafted surface.
Papa made this for me for my sixteenth birthday, she recalled wistfully. He thought I may wed soon and would need something suitable to pack and take to my new home. That never happened. She felt along the edges near the bottom and across a raised carved plank. The brass fittings were more than corner braces and the exquisite workmanship more than decoration. Papa thought of everything. Florentina’s smile warmed at remembrances of her father… and of her plan to avenge his death.
The Italian vendetta was more than simple vengeance. For centuries it had been society’s way of punishing criminals, particularly when murder was involved. While there were watchmen whose job was to keep the streets safe and judges and magistrates who ordinarily heard civil cases of citizens’ grievances with one another, in 1502 Milan had no professional to discover who had perpetrated a crime when no witnesses were available, no one to use logic and the powers of observation to uncover the criminal’s identity, and no one to dispense justice upon them. That was considered to be the obligation of the wronged family, primarily of the closest male relative. But her father had no son, so by Florentina’s reasoning that cast the responsibility to her. The authorities enacted no investigation at all regarding her father’s death; they declared natural causes, and that was that. But Florentina knew better. Luigi had lived long enough to tell her what had happened. Now she was going to make Benetto Viscardi pay.
Her adept, nimble fingers worked over the carving and she was just starting to apply pressure when the sound of footsteps coming from the still open doorway startled her. She jerked her hands away and shot her head up, wide eyes searching, hoping it wasn’t that scarecrow of a butler. Relief washed over her and a little tingle as well when she spied the lovely face of Madelena.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she commented pleasantly. “I only wanted to make sure Luca got all your things brought up. I know it’s small, but-”
“Oh, no, the room is more than adequate, Donna Madelena,” she jumped to confirm.
“At the moment these are the best accommodations we have available. I’m glad they will be sufficient. So,” she brightened. “Are you ready to start the children’s lessons tomorrow?”
“Yes!” Florentina rose from her squat by the chest and rushed to pick up a leather bound children’s reader. “This is the book I first started to read with,” she said holding it out to Madelena. “I also have secured two small chalk boards and chalk for them to practice their letters. To keep them from getting bored, we will go out into the courtyard to study nature and atmospheric conditions, and from time to time I may want to take them on outings to observe the majestic art and architecture of this fabulous city! I do need to ask where you wish the lessons to primarily take place.”
Florentina gazed expectantly at her dazzling employer. She noted approval in the expression with which she was met. “They share a large chamber that was Alessandro’s room when he was a youth. It is equipped with a study area near a set of windows onto the courtyard, with which you will undoubtedly be pleased.”
“Indeed! We shall begin as soon as they clean up after breakfast.” Florentina could not control the glow that she knew blossomed across her face. Then something unexpected sent her heart racing.
“You should call me Maddie; it’s what friends and family call me, and all the time you will be spending with the children makes you like family,” she explained, rushing to add, “Unless it makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Florentina confirmed. “It makes me feel… privileged. Leonardo used to call me Fiore, little flower. He got Papa to calling me that too, but no one else ever has; I mean, I had an unusual upbringing and didn’t play much with other children, so…” Stop babbling! She doesn’t want to call you her little flower!
“Fiore it is.” Maddie’s smile was definitely amiable, but was it affectionate? I know what I’ll be dreaming about tonight, when I’m not dreaming of flying or taking Viscardi apart piece by rotten piece!
Chapter 4
Florentina’s first week at Casa de Torelli flew by, but much had been accomplished in that short time. Matteo and Betta could recite, read, and write all 26 letters of the alphabet as well as numbers one to one hundred. They had also begun common phrases in French. Maddie had been so surprised when they asked her, “comment allez-vous, Mere?” On other fronts, Florentina had learned her way around the estate as well as the schedules of every person residing in it. She knew two ways to the roof–one through the kitchen ascending a narrow outside stairway, and another on the far side of the building through a storage room window and up a drainpipe. The roof was hipped and low-pitched, covered in in reddish clay tiles. Important rooms, such as Alessandro’s and Madelena’s chambers, boasted balconies, some which faced the courtyard and others the street. The residence along with its neighboring offices, warehouses, and production buildings, comprised a whole city block. While some great Houses located their living quarters away from their merchandise, Alessandro followed his father’s practice of keeping everything in one place; it was easier to protect that way.
Alessandro had taken Florentina on a tour of the production facilities and shown her the equipment she would be responsible for maintaining. She had examined the silk looms, and the wool looms, noting the differences and similarities and even began considering possible ways to improve upon their quality and efficiency. But mostly she was committing to memory the layout, noticing where offices with their ledgers and documents were, where privately hired watchmen were stationed, and whether or not upper windows designed for airflow were equipped with locks. She had no intention of robbing her benefactors, but supposed that Viscardi’s buildings would be arranged similarly. Before my next move, I will need to don my costume and spy out the Viscardi warehouses to be sure. I know many of his weapons are actually assembled in his holdings north of the city, just as the Torellis’ wool comes from flocks on their land in the countryside, but he keeps stockpiles in town along with the records and books. I wonder how much cash he holds on hand in a personal safe and how much he places on deposit with the bank? And does he use the Medici Bank or another? I cannot endanger Torelli money while seeking to abscond with Viscardi funds. There is so much to discover!
In 1502 Milan was a thriving golden trading metropolis of over one hundred thousand residents, not counting those in the country-side of the northern Italian city-state. Though ruled by a Duke for generations, it had recently come under the auspice of the French crown and was being administered by French repr
esentatives while the wars over its eventual future raged on. Fortunately, none of the fighting actually occurred near the urban center and business continued as usual. Trade brought wealth to Milan and wealth gave rise to art, architecture, education, and the eye of the Church as well as political intrigue. Prosperous merchants such as the Viscardi and Torelli families were not nobility–and likely never would be–therefore, did not directly hold ruling authority. However, their money equaled power, and they wielded vast influence as well as enjoying lifestyles more opulent than many a rural lord. They had witnessed a break with tradition in Florence where the Medicis gained direct control over political authority regardless of having no noble ancestry, and despite the fact that Lorenzo de Medici’s incompetent son Piero had managed to lose the reins of power at the moment, the banking superiority established by the family throughout Europe ensured their sustained success.
In the wee hours past midnight only a week after the attack on Viscardi’s weapons shipment, Florentina crept out of bed. She had paid close attention to each floorboard in the room, determining which would creek even when too dark to see them. She crouched at the chest at the foot of her bed and felt the secret buttons carved into the decorations that when pressed in the proper sequence would open the hidden compartment comprising the bottom third of the storage space. There was just enough moonlight shining through the window for her to see its contents.
She glanced up at the sleeping Angela. Don’t worry; she won’t wake up. That tea I made for her will keep her out until morning, she thought and pulled out the drawer beneath the false bottom of the trunk her father had designed. She lifted out a black silk blouse with long, fitted sleeves and a pair of black leather leggings and supple black lace-up boots. Next she retrieved the matching coif and facemask that completed the ensemble. Underneath them in the compartment were safely tucked away the tools and weapons she had devised to carry out her vendetta. She spied a half dozen iron spheres about the size of small caliber cannonballs only fitted with wicks. Some were explosives while others were merely smoke bombs. These were what she had used on the caravan, both to create confusion and to destroy the cargo. I won’t need these tonight. Beside them was a curious device about as long as her forearm with a cylinder in the middle and a crossbow configuration at one end with a handle and trigger mechanism at the other. She pulled it out dragging behind it a cord with which she could strap it to her waist or hang it over her shoulder. Better have this just in case.
