****
Amalia Valente set a table worthy of a noble. Indeed, it was far richer and more elegant than a shoemaker’s wages could ever afford, Dante mused. A silk table linen, silver spoons and knives for every person, and plates decorated in extraordinary colors. Even the serving bowls spoke of tableware seen only on the wealthiest tables.
Suspicious, Dante would know the truth soon enough, if all succeeded as he hoped. He now gained legitimate access to the Valente home, and he’d be careful not to make them distrustful of him, although Benito already made his misgivings known. Had he discovered Dante came to Naples to teach French and Latin at the University solely to watch Fabroni Valente, who was believed to be the architect behind Alfonso’s slow gain on Naples? Doubtful, it was, else Benito would have exposed him by now.
He observed Amalia as she cleared away the plates. She wore her dark hair in a coiled braid. Her eyes remained downcast, and she behaved subservient, perhaps cowed by her husband or, more likely, her eldest son.
Dante rested back in his seat, the taste of the exquisite food lingering on his tongue. He hadn’t eaten a picea since leaving Naples in his youth. His mother was never fond of the disc of bread dough topped with herbs, fish and vegetables. He never lost his taste for it, even though he had grown accustomed to the richer foods of France. So too, he cherished the fruits dipped in sweetmeats of honey, another treat he hadn’t eaten in years.
When Alessa set a bowl of sugared almonds near him, the side of her breast brushed his arm. Dante held his breath. No doubt the imp planned the teasing gesture. What she didn’t expect, he was fairly certain, was the impact the improper touch created within her nubile body. The startled reaction on her face proved it.
Benito gripped Alessa’s forearm and yanked her away. “Bring us more wine,” he demanded unkindly.
Dante cringed inwardly at the man’s innate cruelty. Alessa could well be part of the Valente’s scheme to overthrow Rene’s rule, but the girl didn’t deserve her cousin’s harsh ways.
“Tell us, Signor Santangelo,” Fabroni began, disapproval keen in his demeanor. Apparently he, too, was in disagreement with his eldest son’s behavior. “How did you come to speak French as if you were born into it?”
His reply rolled off his lips. “I showed proficiency for languages at an early age. I speak not only French and Latin but also English and—” Did he dare reveal his knowledge of Spanish? At the moment, it was best kept to himself. “And many dialects of our own language.”
Approval flashed across Fabroni’s face. “We came to Naples ten years past. I have heard mention of a Davide Santangelo who lived outside the walls, mayhap twenty years past.”
Dante chuckled to conceal his growing tension. It had been seventeen years since his father and mother left Naples. “You have spoken of my father.”
Fabroni’s interest grew. “What of him? Was he not a noble? A baron, mayhap?”
“He moved north to be close to his ailing sister,” Dante lied.
“And your mother?”
“She and my father are both well.”
Dante kept his lies straight, but he feared Fabroni knew more than he let on. Or did he? Perhaps he was fishing for answers about how Dante was so adept in speaking French. If Fabroni knew Davide Santangelo had married a French woman, certainly he wouldn’t have hired Dante to tutor Alessandra. It was plain to see the man was leery of all Frenchmen.
“Alas, I have lived a quiet existence in my father’s home since I returned to Naples to teach at the University.”
“Your father has never returned?”
Dante held back a frown at the man’s persistence. “His heart is in Naples, however, he and my mother have taken over his sister’s estate since her passing.”
Dante reached for an almond and dropped it into his mouth. Sugared almonds were not common to Naples. They were an expensive treat brought down from Rome. He picked up one more almond and rose. The path Fabroni’s questioning traveled made him uncomfortable, and he prayed he succeeded in concealing it.
“I beg your pardon, signori, but I have another student awaiting me. With your permission, I shall return on the morrow to continue Signorina Podesta’s lessons.”
None of the Valente men attempted to rise. Just as well, Dante preferred to see himself out. He didn’t want them to see the heat of discomfort at his neck.
Alessandra emerged from the kitchen with a plate of sweet meats. The crestfallen look on her face gave him pause. Was she unhappy to see him leave? She had no cause to be, given she nearly roasted him for his fluency in French and for mingling with the French soldiers.
Outside the Valente home, Dante breathed a heavy sigh. He’d not prolong the matter of exposing them should the family be scheming with the Spanish. First, he must test Alessandra’s knowledge of her cousins’ activities beyond the shoemaking business.
As he started down the street, he heard the sweet sound of his name. He turned but saw no one. Glancing up at the window on the third floor of the Valente’s home, he found Alessandra hanging out the window, her blonde hair flowing over the window’s edge. The late afternoon sun shining down on her presented an angelic picture.
“Monsieur, until the morrow,” she said in perfect French.
Dante grinned and inclined his head to acknowledge their next meeting.
****
Staring into his mug, Dante’s agitation rode him almost to the point of stomping out of the tavern. His ale left a stale taste in his mouth, and the boisterous French soldiers turned his mood sour. Serving wenches attempted to gain his attention, though to no avail. Many knew he didn’t partake of the diversion they offered.
He stretched his legs out under the table, unmindful of Etienne watching him from across the room. When the captain joined him uninvited, Dante frowned. Mindless conversation eluded him, though the captain could not know it.
“How goes it, Dante?”
He eyed the Frenchman, a man of true loyalty to King Rene. But something about him did not sit well. Perhaps it was simply due to his suspicious nature. Etienne trusted no one, save for the French.
“It goes well,” Dante replied.
“Indeed.” The single word reeked of mockery.
“I know what you seek, Etienne. Oui, I tutored the cousin of Fabroni Valente.” And therein lay the root of his annoyance. The girl didn’t have the makings of a traitor. Yet he couldn’t dismiss her completely. After all, she wove illicit tales. What else was she capable of weaving? Lies to lure the French into giving over precious information? “She is the same girl we chased two nights past.”
“She is not!”
Dante nodded grimly.
“Sent by Alfonso, no doubt.”
“I know not if that is true. Not until I discover the Valente’s place in Alfonso’s bid to gain Naples will I know on which side the girl stands loyal.”
After a brief silence, Etienne inquired lasciviously, “She is a nice piece, eh?”
Dante’s intestines curled into knots. “Do not think she is fair prey,” he warned. “She is not a harlot. To the contrary, she is well bred. And as I suspected, she is not from Naples.”
Etienne’s renewed interest in Alessandra bothered Dante. With the truth out, he feared the captain would share it with the other soldiers. Dante’s position in Naples would become compromised, for he’d not let the French steal her virtue.
Chapter Five
Dante stood in the second floor hallway of the Valente’s home, facing Benito’s glare. The man’s reluctance to bid him entrance cast suspicion over the Valentes’ loyalty to King Rene, as did Benito’s distrust of him based solely on Dante’s fluency in French. But those alone were not enough to banish the entire family from Naples.
Stating the obvious to break the tense silence, Dante said, “I am here for Signorina Podesta’s lesson.”
Benito stepped aside, his wary gaze unflagging. “She is awaiting you.”
As Dante approached the main room, he felt Benito’s s
cathing eyes at his back. The instant he saw Alessandra, however, the encounter with Benito vanished, replaced with a strange feeling that intensified the instant she smiled. Her face lit up like a brilliant sun cascading down a mountainside.
He took note of her clothes. He’d wager she didn’t own one understated dress similar to what the Neapolitan women wore. Her coral undergarment peeked out from the jade dress, the puffed sleeves richly embossed and the bodice threaded with silk ribbons. Even her golden hair stood out in this land of darkness.
“Bon jour,” he said.
“Monsieur Santangelo,” she greeted sweetly.
Her long, blonde-tinged eyelashes fluttered becomingly. He suspected Alessandra’s flirtations came naturally. If not, he’d not be the one to explain the trouble she could beget by what she construed as innocent trifling for a man’s attention.
“Shall I sit where I did yesterday?”
“As you wish.”
Dante immediately began the lesson. Oddly, he was antsy to be gone from her. More so each time she repeated a word after him and he couldn’t stop himself from focusing on the gentle curve of her lips. He swore she purposely pursed them into a pout. Or was his mind playing tricks? One look at the playful twinkle in her eyes told him she was indeed toying with his male senses.
When he realized he was unable to stop frowning, Dante called an end to the lesson. “I sense you have more than French on your mind today,” he said straightforward.
“Why, Monsieur Santangelo, I know not what you mean.”
There was no way around the truth. “You were flirting with me.”
Her eyes rounded. “I-I did not know.”
He gave it some thought. Perhaps she spoke the truth and truly didn’t realize what she’d done. Dante rubbed his eyes and sighed. “If it is as you say, then you must learn to curtail your…womanly…” When her head inclined, he knew he stumbled onto a subject not fit to discuss in the company of a woman, especially Alessandra. “Just concentrate on French.”
“But I was.”
On the French tutor, more likely.
She rose gracefully and approached him. Unaccustomed to the spears of panic shooting through his body, Dante decided he’d best take his leave. Immediately.
“We shall continue the lesson on the morrow.”
She regaled him with her damnable pout again. “Am I not learning?”
“You are, I think.” For all her mind’s wanderings, she was retaining what he had taught. “However, I have other lessons to give.”
“Are they comely?”
“Who?”
“Your other students.”
Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat. “They are students, naught more.”
She tilted her head with curiosity. “My cousin thinks you are a French spy.”
Dante controlled his shock. “Because I speak French?”
“Benito says you drink with the French soldiers.”
Relieved his secret was not compromised, Dante replied. “I interpret for them, as they are not fluent in Italian.”
“Is it your custom to share a friendly drink with your enemy?”
“The French are neither friend nor foe. I drink with whomever I choose. You would do well to remember I am proficient in many languages, and I am a tutor.”
“So you do not care who rules Naples?”
Why was she questioning him about a subject she knew naught of? Had Benito coaxed her into prying? Or had Fabroni? “You reside in Venice. The ruler of Naples should not concern you.”
“Oh, but it should, since I am forced to remain here until my father feels I have mended my errant ways.”
“Then you would do best to mend them quickly and return to your father.” Unless she was summoned to Naples to aid her cousins’ cause, Alessandra had no place in a city in the midst of a political war. “I will see myself out.”
****
“I want to go out,” Alessa begged Attilo, who was at the kitchen table chomping on a leftover roasted chicken leg. She grimaced and stopped herself from making a face of disgust when he wiped his arm across his greasy mouth.
“The mercato will soon close,” Benito said from directly behind her.
Alessa jumped with fright and swung around to meet his dark countenance.
“There is naught you need there—” He scanned the length of her. “—except more appropriate garments. Your father should not have sent you here with your lavish clothing. You flaunt your wealth. Think you people have not noticed?”
“I do not flaunt. Besides, my attire concerns my father and yours…not you.”
Benito attempted to grab her, but Alessa agilely hopped out of reach. Thankfully, Fabroni entered the kitchen and stopped his irate son.
“Basta, Benito. Enough.”
“The slut is disrespectful,” Benito bit back, as if to justify the beating he was about to hand out.
“She is my charge. I will be the one to discipline her.”
The red ringing Benito’s neck grew darker. Alessa feared he might attack his own father. By the grace of God he backed down, but not before he speared her with a contemptuous glare.
She tore her gaze away and appealed to Fabroni. “I want only to go for a walk.”
“She is looking for more reason to write her filthy tales,” Benito spat.
“Attilo will accompany me.” She cast a hopeful look at the boy. He tossed away the gnawed chicken bone and wiped his hands on his clothes. This time, Alessa couldn’t hide her disgust.
“I will accompany her,” Attilo finally agreed.
“At what cost?” Benito asked.
Fear passed across Attilo’s brown eyes. “She will never leave my sight.”
“Then go,” Fabroni granted. “Just mind where your walk takes you.”
Alessa dashed down the hall and grabbed her cloak before Benito talked his father into locking her in their home. On the street outside the shop, Attilo awaited her. He was willing to abide her wish for a stroll when usually he preferred to be rid of her. Just what plan trespassed his mind? Would he find another excuse to leave her on her own?
Impossible, considering Benito’s wrath. His heavy hand went unspoken in the Valente home, yet Alessa sensed it was a source of fear for Amalia and Attilo. Fabroni neither condemned nor condoned the liberties his eldest son took with his family. For certain her own mother and father had not been aware of the secrets or neither would have agreed to trust them with her care.
“I have seen the mercato aplenty.” Alessa pointed to her left. “I want to go there.”
Attilo lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug then walked away. The boy was brooding. If he didn’t want to accompany her, he had only to say so. She gathered up her dress and hurried after him.
Alessa saw two women standing at the alcove of a building and smiled. One was braiding the other’s long, coarse black hair. Were they siblings? Often she longed for a sister to share secrets with. She had many friends in Venice, as well as her cousin Bianca in Florence, with whom she spent one month out of the year. In fact, she had argued with her father to send her back to Florence instead of Naples. He had staunchly refused, citing her familiarity with the city. He had also reminded her of how her wandering eye distracted the men who worked for Cristiano de’ Medici, Bianca’s powerful husband. It wasn’t her fault a man’s mind traveled a wayward path in the presence of a woman. Or that it was far too easy to stir a man’s passion.
Approaching a crossroads, Alessa paused to watch a juggler perform. When he tossed six oranges into motion, she squealed and clapped. “Look there, Attilo. Do you see his talent?”
“I care not that he tosses oranges in the air.”
“Look how he keeps them in a circle. And with only two hands!”
Attilo rolled his eyes. “It does not take much to amuse you, I see.”
Her cousin’s naysaying failed to dampen her lightened mood. “Look, Attilo.” Something else down the street caught her attention. “A storyteller. Can we list
en to him?”
Before Attilo opened his mouth to respond, Alessa walked away. He hurried ahead and blocked her path. “Do not get any ideas, Alessa. I am warning you.”
“Ideas?”
“You cannot stand on a corner and impart your stories upon everyone. You will be arrested and my family will be humiliated.”
The corners of her mouth ticked with a budding smile. “Why, Attilo, how know you my stories will get me arrested? Have you, too, sneaked into my room and read my journal?”
“Have you no shame?”
“Do not fret, cugino. My tales are not meant to share.”
He glanced at the crowd gathered around the storyteller, an elderly man sitting upon a short stone planter. “I do not understand what attracts people to a man who weaves false tales.”
“The stories he weaves come from his heart.”
“Believe what you will, but I know the truth. The storyteller is an actor who memorizes tales written by another’s hand.”
She’d not let him take away the romance of those tales. “Does it matter, Attilo?”
He frowned but gave in. “All right.”
Attilo remained tightly at her side while they listened.
“Ladies that have intelligence in love
Of mine own lady I would speak with you;
Not that I hope to count her praises through,
But telling what I may to ease my mind.
And I declare that when I speak thereof
Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me…”
Excitement rushed through Alessa’s heart when she recognized the poem. “You were right, Attilo. He is an actor. However, he is superb in retelling Dante’s story about his love Beatrice.”
He looked down at her as if she’d lapsed into madness. “The tutor has written a tale?”
“What?” The instant the word left her mouth, Alessa realized his puzzlement. “Not the tutor. The poem was written two hundred years past by another Dante.”
“How know you that?”
“My cousin Bianca is married to a Medici, and he owns many books of writings by Dante and other poets.”
He shrugged. “I care not.”
She believed differently. He was as caught up in the story as was everyone in the small crowd.
Dante's Flame Page 4
