by Edale Lane
“Alessandro, you’re home!” beamed Portia as she glided toward him. Halfway, she halted and gave him a disapproving stare. “You are late. I have been worried all day. I think perhaps I should be cross with you.”
“It snowed one day on the return and we had to wait it out,” he explained innocently. “But here I am, all in one piece, humbly asking for your forgiveness.”
Madelena had already reached him for her welcome home hug. Then she turned to Portia giving her the eye, and his wife relented. “Drivel,” Portia uttered bashfully. “Naturally I forgive you.” The pout was replaced by a glowing smile and he enfolded her in a tight embrace before planting a kiss on her lips.
Pollonia still bounced. “I’ll go get Bernardo,” she bubbled. “And does he have a story to tell you!”
Alessandro laughed as she bounded off. “And where is the versatile Florentina this evening? Entertaining the children?”
“No,” Maddie scowled. “She seems to believe the entire production process was her responsibility while you were away. I think she has spent more time over there refitting looms than she has conducting lessons for Betta and Matteo.”
He gave her a knowing wink. “It is after dark; she’ll return soon. Actually, I am quite impressed that she has been so diligent with her tinkering work. With the profits we stand to make from this deal, I may have to consider raising her wages.”
“Ally,” Maddie said with a change of expression, “there is something I wanted to discuss with you concerning profits.”
“Are the books in order?” he asked with concern, one arm still wrapped around Portia’s petite frame while she clung to him possessively.
“Yes, all is in order,” she said hesitantly. “It can wait until Monday,” she admitted and waved the matter aside. “Go take Portia upstairs before she bursts.”
More laughter ensued, followed by Bernardo’s retelling of the football game and the Night Flyer’s exploits, and just before Alessandro could sweep his wife off her feet, Florentina appeared in the doorway looking positively radiant.
“It is good to have you home,” she said. The smile she offered him was sincere, but when her gaze turned to Madelena, he recognized the ardent devotion her eyes conveyed.
“It is good to be home,” he replied as he reveled in the love of his family.
Chapter 21
Don Benetto paced the length of the portico outside the magistrate’s office for almost an hour waiting to be admitted. What was the wait for? He had made an appointment. And after I have shown nothing but support for the French, he thought impatiently. Even when Ludovico Sforza had briefly retaken control of the Duchy before he was finally defeated and imprisoned, when everyone else flocked to embrace him, the Viscardi family stood by King Louis XII. So much for my loyalty being rewarded!
“The magistrate will see you now,” an aide announced at last. Benetto followed him through the arch and across a carpeted foyer to a closed door. The aide opened the door and ushered Benetto through.
Seated at a large walnut desk in front of a window looking out into a central courtyard sat a Frenchman some ten years younger than Benetto. He knew the man’s name as he had done business with him. Girard Delafosse rose from his seat, set down a clutch of papers, and deliberately strode around his desk. “Ah, Don Benetto,” he greeted with an outstretched hand.
Benetto shook it appreciatively. “Thank you for seeing me on this most urgent matter.”
Girard Delafosse was most decidedly French, from his accent to his style. His black hair was cut short, and he sported a thin moustache and goatee. A high ruffled white collar which obscured his neck stood out in contrast to the black velvet jerkin and accented his matching white hose. But the entire ensemble was overshadowed by his prominent codpiece–an addition which was yet to come into fashion in Milan.
“Indeed,” Girard agreed. “Most unfortunate circumstances.” He shook his head with a serious deportment.
“I implore you to commit more resources to dispatching with this dangerous criminal known as the Night Flyer. He is wreaking havoc on the city.” Benetto had rehearsed his speech and was intent on maintaining his composure.
“Certainly, certainly,” he agreed with a hand stroking his tiny beard. “He has dealt you quite a blow, has he not?”
“I have lost some merchandise and money, but nothing that cannot be replaced.” Benetto did not want to appear desperate to the French representative. “My biggest concern is the damage he could cause to all the merchants, to the city itself. No doubt he is targeting the wealth of Milan as it is known around the world.”
Girard half sat on the edge of his desk shaking his head, then looked to Benetto dismissively. “King Louis does not agree.”
Benetto’s eyes grew round and his voice rose a level. “The king has heard of this?”
Ignoring his question, the magistrate continued unemotionally. “The evidence tells a different story. This masked felon only attacks your shipments, only steals your coins, and only displays any intent of harming you. Therefore, it would seem he is your problem–not Milan’s, and certainly not King Louis’. The crown wishes me to seek another provider for our army’s weapons since you have become… unreliable.”
“What?” Benetto fought terror and temper over the pronouncement. The French military was his biggest client. Without them, how could he maintain his prominence? His heart raced even as his previous countenance of expectation was supplanted by a contortion of desolation. “No, no, please, Your Honor, I can deliver, truly I can!” Don Benetto had never begged for anything in his life… until now. “Give me another chance, I beseech you. I will hire an army if I must and destroy the Night Flyer myself-”
But Girard only shook his head. He stepped back around his desk, placing his hand on its smooth surface. “The French government along with the administration of the city of Milan do hereby cancel any and all contracts with Viscardi Arms and Weapons. I am sorry, Don Benetto, in truth I am, but we must be practical. Wouldn’t you do the same?” The Frenchman sighed and sat again on his cushioned chair.
Benetto’s shoulders slumped, and he cast his gaze to the tile floor. Undeniably, he had done the same many times. He habitually ignored the pleas of others, always made decisions based upon his best interests, and if a customer couldn’t pay or a supplier not deliver… they would be fortunate indeed to only have their contracts cancelled and not their lives. Resigned to his fate, he turned and walked out of Girard’s office. I’ll regain my reputation and my fortune–as soon as I can kill that Night Flyer!
“Wow, this stuff is amazing!” Matteo cooed as Florentina escorted the children around Alessandro’s office. “Look at all these weapons.”
“Don’t touch anything,” his tutor commanded. “Your Uncle Alessandro has allowed us in here today to study the globe and look at maps for your geography lesson. We want him to let us come back another time, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do,” asserted Betta with a nod of her precious little head.
“I didn’t know he had this collection,” Matteo commented as his wide eyes passed over each historic sword, ax, bow, and spear.
“They are here as a reminder,” Alessandro spoke pleasantly from the doorway, “of just how terrible war is and why we should always seek to prevent it.” He nodded to Florentina and then stepped away.
“Come here,” she said standing beside the large sphere resting in its wooden frame. Betta and Matteo gathered around in curiosity.
“Is that the world?” Betta’s big blue eyes grew one size.
“As much as we know about it so far,” Florentina explained. “When I was your age, everyone thought it was flat and that if ships sailed too far from land, they would drop off the edge.”
“That’s silly!” Matteo exclaimed with a laugh. “If that was so, wouldn’t all the water just fall over the edge too? And then there wouldn’t even be an ocean.”
Florentina smiled at him. Such bright children! Just like their mother, she thought
. “Here we are,” she said pointing to the northern part of the Italian peninsula just below the drawn in mountains.
“It looks so small,” Betta noticed.
“Compared to the whole world, it is,” Florentina explained. “This is the Mediterranean Sea,” she said pointing and had them repeat its name after her. “Over here is Spain and France.” They followed her finger and then placed their fingers on each country saying their names. “Because like Betta said and our land looks so small, we are going to open one of these map books.”
Florentina removed a large volume from the shelves, opened it to the correct page, and laid it on a table. “This is a bigger image of just the Italian city-states,” she said as they peered at the colorful map.
“I see the word Milan!” Matteo exclaimed excitedly.
“Very good! Now, what we are going to do today is, on your own paper that I will give you, draw a copy of this map as best you can and then print the names of Milan, Venice, Florence, and all the rest into their spaces. And when we are done with that, we’ll take our papers back to your room and I have some watercolor paints for you to both color your maps. Won’t that be fun?”
Two young faces beamed up at her. “We’ll be like geography artists,” Matteo said with a grin.
“Say, ‘cartographers’, Florentina instructed.
“Cartographers,” they parroted.
I love these children, she thought in wonder. It is likely I will never have a baby of my own, and actually I never gave it much thought. But what I feel in my heart for Betta and Matteo–if I ever did bear a child from my own womb, I couldn’t possibly love it more than I do them. If I am fortunate enough to be able to stay with Madelena, then in a way it would be like they were my children, too. She is such a good, loving mother! And I love her; God help me, but I do. I just wish… no, not wish. I pray that I can remain a part of this family, even if intimacy with Maddie must stay secret forever. And speaking of secrets, hers was the one thing she feared may ruin everything. If I’m not honest with her, how can I expect our relationship to grow? Then again, how can I tell her that the only reason I applied for a position with her House was to best serve my own vendetta, that I have lied to her this whole time, and that I am the Night Flyer?
Antonio interpreted as the older and more experienced sergeant led the artillery squads through the aiming and loading practice again. Sergeant Beaufort was a sturdy man with serious dark eyes, short sandy hair, and a beard tinged with russet highlights. He gave instructions in French, and it was part of Antonio’s duties as Standard Bearer to translate for those recruits who had not been fortunate enough to have gained an education. It would also be his task to command three cannon crews in the field, police their actions when they were not at their posts, and ensure than none of them ran away in the face of stampeding Spanish cavalrymen’s lances. To accomplish that, he must gain their trust and their respect, a demanding charge for a young man of eighteen years. Fortunately, Antonio had been raised to become a leader; he had been challenged, encouraged, and afforded opportunities to assert authority over members of the household staff and employed laborers at the production house. Father has been grooming me, he thought. He just didn’t know it was for this.
“Not bad,” Sergeant Beaufort said in faint praise, “but faster; you must move faster. Let’s give it one more try. If you can beat my count, I’ll stand you all to a round,” he promised. Antonio repeated the instruction and the enlisted artillerymen cheered. They moved with renewed vigor and Antonio smiled. Despite the fact that he technically held a higher rank, there was much he could learn from his sergeant as well.
Beaufort completed his countdown just as the last cannonball was fired. Four squads drilled that afternoon, Antonio’s and three others, for a total of twelve cannons. Of those under his charge, two hit their marks and one was off by a few feet. “Much improvement from your gunners,” Beaufort said to Antonio, who could not determine if the man’s lips, camouflaged by the thick whiskers, lifted into a smile or not. Then he called to the company, “Recruits to the hall for your reward; Standard Bearers to me.”
Happy shouts arose as the soldiers trotted off to get their refreshment and the other three junior officers gathered with Antonio around the sergeant. “I have news for you all,” he began in a sober tone. Since the other Standard Bearers were second, third, and fourth sons who would not inherit their fathers’ titles or businesses, they had been privy to a similar education as Antonio and were just as fluent in the all-important language, so he no longer had to repeat words in Italian.
“We have received orders to move out tomorrow, so pack light, but be sure to bring everything of importance. The battalion is being called to Barletta, where the Ofonto River empties into the Adriatic, in the Kingdom of Napoli. We will bring our artillery and ammunition by ship to reinforce the city. Since negotiations between King Louis and Ferdinand of Spain fell apart this past summer, you know we have been at war,” he explained briskly as he stood in his traditional straight postured stance with his toes pointing outward at forty-five degree angles. “We will not let Napoli fall into the hands of that double-crossing Spaniard! When your men have had their drink, tell them to pack up. We leave at first light.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” they all confirmed.
After exchanging the obligatory small talk with his peers, Antonio drifted away toward the dining hall to give his squad the news when he saw something that caused him to stop dead still. His mouth fell open, and he blinked his eyes. A mirage, he thought. A waking dream. Surely it isn’t… it couldn’t be.
Agnese stood beside the back wall of the garrison dining hall at the edge of the practice field. She had been gazing longingly at her handsome soldier, memorizing every detail from his red felt cap to his knee-high mud brown leather boots. Only cavalry and infantry wore armor; ranged weapon wielders such as arabesquers, archers, crossbowmen, and cannoneers did not. Antonio’s cap identified him as a junior officer but the knee-length green tunic over a black and white long-sleeved shirt and matching two-toned leggings were those common to Italians serving in the French artillery. She recognized his personal rapier in its ornate sheath hanging from the left side of his belt and a new compact firearm–a wheel lock she thought it was called–snuggly tucked into the middle of his belt. She supposed the subtle leather pouch strung to the side held the balls, gunpowder and such needed to fire the mechanism. Agnese had made discrete inquiries and learned that officers were issued close range weapons for defense in case the infantry lines failed. She prayed he would never have to use them.
Her face lit as radiantly as a harvest moon when their eyes met. It was all she could do not to dash across the field and throw herself into his arms. Instead she offered him a coy smile and a bashful wave. Unable to completely hold back a giggle at his stunned expression, she lowered her waving hand to cover her mouth. He didn’t run either, but once recovered he picked up his pace and lengthened his stride.
She did take the final few steps to meet him with a vital, unbreakable embrace. His arms felt strong and comforting as he held her to his chest and laid his cheek to her hair. For a long moment neither of them said a word; they simply soaked in the feel, smell, and presence of each other. It had only been a month; how had she thought she would last the rest of her life without him?
“How did you know to come today?” he asked after a time. “I didn’t expect you would be here to see me off, but I am so glad you did.”
Agnese loosened her hold and stepped back, looking up into his face with unease. “See you off? Are you to leave for the war?” Her heart had begun to race, and she groped about for the strength to keep her lip from quivering.
“Tomorrow,” he replied calmly. “I thought that is why you came.”
“I didn’t know,” she answered, her voice weakening. No, I will not fall apart. That is not what he needs. I must control my emotions. “But this was my best opportunity to get away. Father is completely distracted by the Night Flyer and ha
s gone to see the French magistrate.”
She recognized the dreamy look in his dark eyes that threatened to break through every barricade, every sensibility she possessed and undo her. “It is fortune, then, or an answered prayer. Were you to come tomorrow I would be gone. As it is, I can sail with a joyful heart, and perhaps your favor.”
Love radiated from his body like heat from a summer sun, and Agnese smiled despite her anxiety. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a powder blue laced handkerchief and tied it to the hilt of his sword. “There you are, my knight with no armor; you shall carry my favor with you to battle.” As the weight of her words which were meant to be light landed heavily in her heart, a tear began to form.
“There now.” Antonio drew her back into his arms and kissed the glistening eye, then her cheek, finally lighting his lips on hers in a sweet, tender kiss of innocence. “All will be well. We are going to Napoli, and no, I do not know when I will return, but hear me, Agnese,” he instructed pinning her with intense eyes. “I will return.”
“Please be sure that you do,” she commanded in a rare display of authority. Then she sighed. “Why, Antonio? Why?” She gripped his upper arms tightly and steeled her jaw to hold back the flood that threatened. “Is it my fault? I never meant for you to-”
“No, no,” he admonished in the sweetest, most gentle tone she had ever heard resonate from the mouth of a man. “Shh, nothing is your fault. I know that. You must never blame yourself for anything I or another person chooses to do. You did what you thought was necessary to keep us both safe; I am doing the same.”
“But-” He cut off her protest with a deep and passionate kiss that aroused both longing and contentment in her soul. When Antonio slowly pulled back, he left her head swimming.
