Merchants of Milan

by Edale Lane

  “But what?” Maddie asked. “Your vendetta is complete. He isn’t dead, but Don Benetto now knows the pain of losing all his wealth and power, driven from Milan in shame and humiliation.”

  “Yes,” Florentina agreed. “Only now I have a new mission, to find out who tried to kill you and stop them. In the meantime, you must be protected from any further attempts on your life, and the Night Flyer is in a better position to do that than a child’s tutor or even a lover,” she expounded. “I understand you were angry with me, and I swear on the Blessed Virgin that I never meant to cause you pain or distress or emotional indecision. How was I to know you would be attracted to a shadowy character that people were calling a criminal?”

  A bemused smile wiggled across Madelena’s full lips. “You should have known, since I was attracted to you.”

  Florentina blushed. Then her expression turned deadly serious. “My Sweet, I’ll understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore. I realize I wasn’t honest with you and it has been difficult enough to pursue this relationship without that added offense. But you cannot and will not stop me from protecting you or pursuing this investigation. You can banish me from this House if you like, but I will not give up the quest to keep you safe and end the person or group who wants to harm you; that I vow.”

  Maddie raised a hand and stroked her cheek, a hint of sorrow clouding her verdant eyes. “Fiore, don’t you know?” She leaned forward and brushed her lips to Florentina’s. “Sometimes I have trouble making decisions, and when I do make them I tend to second guess myself. My moods can run hot and cold, and yes I was hurt that you didn’t confide in me about this. Now I also understand why. But the truth is that if you had been killed tonight instead of that man, I would be the one shattered. You have brought joy and passion and adventure to my life, and I have treasured every minute spent with you. I may get angry or flustered at times, but please, never doubt how much I love you.”

  Florentina was swallowed in a wave of relief and elation. She leaned in, returning the kiss, completely absorbed by the feel of her lips, the taste of her mouth, the nearness of her breath. She boldly caressed Madelena’s clever tongue and reached a hand to glide through her long locks of flame. Intoxicated by her scent, Florentina pressed nearer so that her breast closed into Maddie’s. She eagerly delved deeper into the kiss, a primal urge driving her to ever increasing heights of yearning and passion. It had been an intensely emotional hour; Florentina was overcome with the need to reaffirm life. She desperately longed to hold her love so close that they melded into one. But in truth, she didn’t know how.

  With ragged breath, she withdrew from the kiss, her lips lingering near, and gazed into Maddie’s eyes. In them she saw the same flame of desire that blazed in her own heart, and she sat on the edge, anticipation creating a tingling sensation throughout her being. Then she heard the melodious tones and magical words falling gracefully from Madelena’s lips.

  “Tonight, my love, I shall show you a new way to fly.” And so she did.

  Sneak Peak - Book Two

  I hope you have enjoyed reading Merchant’s of Milan, Book One of the Night Flyer Trilogy. Here’s a taste of Book Two – Secrets of Milan:

  The Night Flyer had brought Florentina and Madelena together but now threatens to drive them apart. While Florentina searches for a mysterious underworld organization that has attempted to murder the woman she loves, Maddie struggles to deal with the danger Florentina is courting. Her brother, Alessandro, has become the most prominent merchant of Milan, but the Night Flyer uncovers a secret so shocking it could destroy them all.

  Secrets of Milan is the second book in Edale Lane’s Night Flyer Trilogy, a tale of power, passion, and payback in Renaissance Italy. If you like drama and suspense, rich historical background, three-dimensional characters, and a romance that deepens into true love, then you’ll want to continue the Night Flyer saga. Look for Secrets of Milan coming soon!

  To discover other books by this author, visit https://pastandprologuepress.lpages.co/

  Heart of Sherwood - Chapter 1

  Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire, July 1193

  Brown leather boots trod softly on the dirt path beneath a canopy of oaks and birches, skirted by verdant shrubs and lush ferns that overlaid the forest floor. A covey of quail were disturbed and scurried off cooing nervously to each other.

  Dusky gray woolen trousers brushed the boots of the figure draped in a dark green cloak. The hood was pulled up around the sojourner's face while a bow and full quiver hung across the back and a short sword dangled in its sheath from a leather belt fastened around a rust-brown doublet. The cream sleeves of a linen tunic were also visible, but the tall, lean traveler's face remained hidden.

  Sherwood Forest itself was timeless, a mix of primeval vegetation and fresh, new growth, inhabited by a myriad of animal life. It was a place of wonder, adventure, and danger. Rumors abounded of bandits that hid out in the woods as well as mystical tales of spirits and sprites. As with all the great forests of England, Sherwood was technically owned by the crown which with King Richard away meant his younger brother, Prince John Lackland. Those caught poaching in the forest faced severe penalties at the hands of Godfrey Giffard, the current Sheriff of Nottingham who, having found favor with the Prince, had power over the shire. However, the magnificence of nature that wove the forest together, leaf and vine, hart and fowl, had no inkling that their existence was merely for royal pleasure. They continued to thrive as if kings and princes were of no more consequence than a dung beetle.

  The new human interloper was no stranger to Sherwood. Each step took Robyn farther from the home of her birth and further into the unknown. Her emotions churned like the North Sea in a violent storm, flowing into anger, then ebbing into grief. Nothing was as it should be and, for the first time in her life, she felt totally powerless. She did not care for that feeling. She was so immersed in her own thoughts she did not notice the mountain of a man who stood in the middle of the narrow bridge until she was almost atop him. She halted abruptly and stared up at him with curious chestnut eyes, careful that the hood concealed her face.

  "Ah, a hearty traveler," he greeted jovially in a booming baritone voice, gripping a staff the breadth of a small tree in his left hand. Standing erect, he towered over her–despite her being a tall woman–with a frowzy tree-bark beard, tousled shoulder length dusky hair, deep-set hazel eyes, shoulders as broad as a door frame, and arms as thick as Yule logs. "I must ask that you pay the toll."

  Robyn narrowed her eyes, contemplating the colossal older fellow. "What toll do you mean, sir?" Her voice was naturally deep and somewhat ambiguous to gender, but she altered her accent to sound more common and less high-bred. She knew he could not make out her features beyond the lack of a beard on her jaw because of the hood she wore. That and the men's clothing she donned would give the first impression of her being a young man. "Last I heard, this was a public road."

  "Ah, well, yes, you see," he began, relaxing his stance, a glint of humor in his broad face. "It seems Prince John is taxing everyone nowadays. And, while I admit the tax I charge will not be adding to His Highness's coffers, it will help me and mine to have a better meal or two. So, out with it, lad. Let me see your coin."

  Under different circumstances, Robyn may have been amused or felt compelled to donate to the unfortunate bandit, but he had caught her in a foul mood and quite lacking in resources. "I am sorry to disappoint, oh mighty man of the bridge, but I have nothing to donate to your supper. So if you will kindly step aside, I have places to be."

  He bellowed a roaring laugh and declared, "What an impudent little insect! I must teach you a lesson. Have you a staff?"

  Robyn held out her arms, dropping a bag filled with belongings she had hurriedly packed. "You can see I do not. While I do have bow and sword, I prefer not to kill anyone today."

  The bridge master, clearly feeling not the least bit threatened, replied. "I see you are a man of honor who deserves a fair fight." He s
tepped away to pick up a more averaged size staff from the other side of the stream. Robyn removed her bow and quiver to achieve a better range of motion, but kept her hood up. "Here you go!" He tossed the wooden rod in Robyn's direction and she caught it. "First one in the drink loses."

  She let her hands become accustomed to the feel of the staff, balanced it, spun it a few times, and then settled on a grip style. She gave him a satisfied nod, putting her shoulders back confidently.

  "You have grit, lad–I like that." He held his staff in a relaxed stance and motioned for the traveler to attack first. Robyn opened with a standard thrust that her father had taught her to test the giant's mettle. He moved with remarkable speed for someone his size, handily blocking the move and taking a swing of his own.

  She blocked his blow, but its power sent shock waves through her hands and arms. She had spared with her brother before, but he had struck with far less force than this Herculean adversary. Robyn took a step back to re-evaluate. Why hadn't she chosen a different approach to this problem? She could have given him the money, or simply shot him with her bow. She could have lowered her hood and revealed her identity, believing he may let a lady pass. But no. She'd thought she could play his game. Now she wasn't so certain.

  Robyn adjusted her stance, feet shoulder width apart with her weight on her back foot. She feigned high and struck low giving him a good rap on the shin.

  "Oi!" the burly man exclaimed in surprise. "The insect can bite."

  He swung out at her chest high, but she hastily ducked and sent another jab, this time to his knee. Next he swiped at her low. Being light on her feet, she jumped the rod landing nimbly. They continued to knock their staffs together until, under a powerful blow, Robyn's snapped in two.

  She looked first at the severed pieces in her hands then up at her opponent. This could not be good… or could it? Two weapons, meant she could block with one while attacking with the other. She pursued this strategy, spinning and jumping to avoid any possible bone-breaking blows while bruising his shins and forearms with her lighter strikes. He was bigger than her, but she was faster. Seeing him loom to one side, she took advantage, crouching to sweep his feet out from under him with both pieces of broken staff in unison.

  His weight shook the wooden bridge when he fell. Utterly dumbfounded by this scrawny lad, he toppled over the edge through three feet of air to land with a splash in two feet of clear running stream.

  Robyn bent over the side, her hands on her knees breathing heavily and asked, "Are you harmed?" The summer day was warm and the water was likely refreshing, so she wasn't overly concerned.

  He sat up, spitting water and wiped a broad hand down his face, then peered up at her with rounded eyes. "What the blazes! How did you… who are…?" Then, if possible, his astonishment grew as he looked at her and really seemed to see her for the first time. "I know you–you're Lady Loxley! What the devil are you doing out here in the forest alone?"

  Robyn had not noticed that in the course of the fight her hood had fallen down after all. Without it, her flowing acorn brown hair and feminine countenance were revealed. She quickly threw the hood back over her head and began to run from him.

  "Wait!" he called after her. "I know your father; I am a friend, John Naylor."

  Robyn skidded to a sudden halt and hesitated.

  "My friends call me Little John," he added, though he still didn't advance on her.

  She knew that name from her childhood. Lord knew she could use a friend, but was it safe to expose herself when the sheriff had ordered her arrest? With some misgivings, she slowly turned to face the wet man.

  John stepped out of the brook leaning on his staff with the effort. "Milady, please forgive an old fool; I didn't know 'twas you."

  Her head down and covered she quietly replied, "I am no longer the Lady of Loxley. I am merely Robyn."

  "Nonsense," he said and motioned to a fallen tree trunk near the road. "Come, sit. Tell Little John what the problem is; perchance I can help."

  The adrenaline from the fight had evaporated, and all that flowed through Robyn's veins was cold reality. She sat beside Little John on the log and lowered her hood. After a moment of silence, she raised misty eyes to his gentle, rough-hewn face.

  "I recently received word that my father and brother Thomas, were killed fighting in the Holy Land. As proof, my father's sword was returned to me." She laid a hand on the sheath at her side and glanced down at it.

  "Oh no," he uttered in honest sorrow. "Dear, sweet Maid Robyn." Despite being wet, unkempt, and having just tried to knock her upside the head with a tremendous quarterstaff, Little John wrapped a compassionate arm around her shoulders. He drew her to his strong chest like she was his own long, lost child. "This is grave news indeed. Please know I admired Lord Loxley, and that I feel your loss."

  Regardless of all previously shed tears, Robyn felt the lump in her throat, the knot in her stomach, and the warm, moist trickle on her cheeks. She was almost glad of his next question, and the opportunity to change the subject.

  "But, why are you alone in Sherwood dressed as a boy?"

  She sniffled, wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and raised a defiant face that smoldered with barely bridled rage, the bite of which sounded in her voice. "The Sheriff of Nottingham paid me a visit no sooner than the envoy had left the manor. He claimed he was there to pay his condolences, and to see that I was well taken care of. You may know my mother and younger siblings died eight years ago from the pox and so now I am all alone. But then the law does not allow for a daughter to inherit her father's estate. Subsequently the Sheriff offered a 'solution' to my problem: according to the law, I could still inherit the land and title if I married. But with so few young lords available, who was possibly eligible enough to wed a woman of my station?"

  John shook his head with a snort. "Let me guess."

  "Right. Nottingham said he would be most agreeable to marry me and take over Loxley Manor–as if I could ever abide such a thing!" Robyn reverberated with fury. "When I told him I'd rather wed a donkey, he didn't take it so well. The next thing I know he has declared me a traitor to the crown and all my title and lands forfeit." She sighed, trying to release that wave of anger. "He was determined to have Loxley with or without me; so it was without me. The problem is, I am now wanted for treason. There is no way I will be judged fairly with Prince John's friend Giffard as my accuser." She lowered her head to the big man's shoulder releasing some of her tension. "I thought I'd run away, hide my identity, and maybe somehow I'd get by with it. 'Tis only my first day away from home, but already I am found out."

  "Now there, do not fret child; Little John won't tell anyone. I'll protect you; in fact…" He made a dramatic pause, his vocal inflection rising to an optimistic tone. "I have an idea."

  Robyn lifted her head, her eyes gazing up at him with suddenly renewed hope.

  "You see, the Sheriff declared me an outlaw, too, and put a price on my head all because I tried to make sure there was enough food to feed my family. They are still safe on the FitzWalter lands, but all because I wouldn't give him and his damnable tax collectors every penny and bag of flour–" He stopped, shook his head and gave her shoulder a pat. "Well anyway, there's a small gang of us who have taken up residence in Sherwood. You could stay with us, at least until you figure out something that would better suit you."

  Excitement flashed across her fair face. But she couldn't afford to get too excited. Not yet. "You must give me your oath." She straightened up, her enigmatic eyes pinning his with demand. "I want no one else to know who I am."

  He looked puzzled and absently stroked his beard. "I don't understand. These boys would show you respect. If they didn't, I'd crack their heads."

  "That isn't it. I'm not afraid of being assaulted; but I fear that anyone who aids me could face a hangman's noose. It is safer for everyone if they think I am a random boy who ran away from Sir Guy of Gisborne's cruelty or was spotted stealing bread or something. Please, if you hono
r my father as you say you do, keep my secret."

  Little John exhaled with a nod. "Aye, sweet lass, if you are sure that's what you want; I'll do it for Lord Loxley, and for you."

  Little John helped pass the time as they strolled along the dirt road by telling all about the forest and the band of men who had gathered around him.

  "Deep in the heart of Sherwood," he said in his best story-telling voice, "stands the oldest tree in all of England. Huge, it is, an oak with branches reaching as far as you can see. That is where our camp is set, snug under her protection. We call her Grandma. 'Tis nothing but a tent village, but it's home - close enough to the stream for getting fresh water and far enough away to not flood when the rains come hard."

  Robyn tried to listen, but stray thoughts continued to shoot into her mind like needling arrows, preoccupying her with memories and imaginings of what might have been if her father and Thomas had returned from the crusade and if the pox hadn't taken her mother and younger siblings.

  "We are almost there now," she heard Little John say and giving her hood one more tug. She stood a bit straighter. "Good afternoon, fellows," he called.

  Robyn smelled the smoke of the campfire and something that could have been rabbit stew coming from a large iron pot. Some of the men sat around the fire chatting and shooting dice while a few others meandered up to the group wearing curious expressions. They ranged in age from younger than herself to older than John Naylor, and they were all dirty and smelled of male sweat.