“Did you lure her from her room?”
Dante kept his features stoic. “It is more than I that lures Signorina Podesta from her room. Yet I wonder…” Dante’s audible contemplation turned Benito’s censure onto himself. “Why were her window shutters not locked to prevent her from climbing out? Was the front door bolted against her leaving?”
As Dante expected, the man had no answers, only a warning. “Do not be smug, Signor Santangelo. I will be watching you.”
No doubt he would, Dante mused. As closely as he would be watching Benito.
****
Early the next morning, Alessa stood under Father Damiani’s sharp-eyed watch. Fabroni accompanied her instead of Amalia, making certain she spoke her confession to the elderly priest, who was of medium stature with a girth larger than the rest of his body. His forehead chased his hairline back to the middle of his head. What hair was left had gone stark white.
Leaving her in the father’s care, Fabroni left the Church of San Giovanni, his parting echo lingering in the vacant hall. Alessa dared not attempt to humor the priest. She knew when unwarranted talk would not sway a person. Father Damiani’s brown-eyed gaze surveyed her up and down. She fidgeted, feeling her soul was dirtied. She had done naught wrong to withstand his damning perusal. Perhaps Fabroni had forewarned the priest about her escapades.
“My confession,” she reminded him.
“The way I hear it, you have much to confess.”
“Mayhap the telling was not accurate.” She spoke without so much as an inflection in her voice. She’d not give the priest any further reason to look down upon her. “I do not live by adventure alone. I am diligent in learning woman’s work under my cousin Amalia’s practiced guidance.”
Would God strike her dead for speaking boldly to His disciple inside His house of worship?
“Should I promise to curb my wanderings, would that suffice in place of a confession?”
“I commend your learned speech and the educated words you shower upon me. But be advised, signorina, you cannot fool me with empty promises. I see the light of mischief in your eyes.”
“Is there anything else you see?”
Without intent, Alessa offended the priest. He narrowed his eyes, and for a brief moment, she thought he would strike her. She had heard stories of priests who disciplined with a heavy hand. She aligned her spine stiffly for safe measure to protect herself against his physical chastisement.
“You speak recklessly, my dear girl. Your husband would do best to manage your loose tongue with a wise hand.”
Alessa sealed her lips to thwart a misspoken word and awaited his command.
Undoubtedly pleased he silenced her with the threat of a beating, he bade her to follow him to a private room where she sat upon a dark wood bench. Naught else but prayer beads hanging on a nail in the wall graced the prison-like room.
When all was said and done, she had regaled the priest with stories of her life—some real, others imagined. Once she began speaking, she couldn’t stop. More than once she wondered if the man was listening at all. He appeared shocked when she revealed her curiosity about men and admitted she tallied up the number of men she had kissed and rated them according to marriageable prospects.
Father Damiani rested his forehead in his hand. He acted as if she had slain his beliefs, though she knew not why. Wasn’t confession meant to cleanse the soul? Wasn’t she supposed to expose her sinful thoughts and cravings for God to replenish her with more virtuous behavior?
“I understand now the reason your cousin is concerned and has bid you to marry the learned tutor.” He lifted his head. “Know you the tutor well?”
“Well enough.” The priest misconstrued and his breathing turned to distress. “Almighty! Think you I am a harlot?”
He made the sign of the cross before he chastised her. “Do not speak freely of our Lord.”
Alessa blushed at her mistake. It was the one word her father and mother had tried to break her of speaking aloud. She’d always been more careful in the presence of the clergy.
“I beg your forgiveness,” she said wisely.
“It is more than my forgiveness you should beg for.”
As he imposed a list of penance, Alessa’s mind scrambled to remember them all. They’d take hours to recite. She nodded numbly, wondering how she could talk her way out of saying each and every prayer.
Aware of Father Damiani watching her as she left the church, she walked dutifully through the door and paused on the steps, squinting in the bright light. The city came to life as vendors filed in as if on a pilgrimage. A herder’s goats roamed the streets, leaving their excretion for everyone to sidestep.
When her eyes took to the daylight, she searched for her cousin amidst the growing crowd. She waited and waited. Finally, when the sun rose higher and its rays beat down hotly, she wandered away, praying Fabroni would not get angered if she saw herself home.
But the wide open gates beckoned her to the vast land beyond. Her curiosity irreversibly captured, she was lured by temptation like Eve to the apple. What harm was there in exploring the outer city? The day was young and night was far off. She’d be back in plenty of time before the gates were locked.
After a thoughtful glance back to the church, Alessa realized she shouldn’t have made a promise to the priest and to God she couldn’t keep. Pray God was more forgiving than Father Damiani.
Slipping unnoticed through the gate, she struggled against the flow of people. The excited voice of the gatekeeper, who was the tax collector as well, captured her fascination. No merchant or peddler entered the city without paying him a seller’s fee. He argued with a man who refused to pay, insisting he wasn’t entering the inner city to sell goods. He carried none. Neither did he pull a small cart laden with saleable goods.
The gatekeeper commanded the man to sit on the stone bench beside the gate. The man refused. When the lanky gatekeeper placed his hands on the man’s shoulders and forced him down, a steady string of crunches waved laughter and snickers from anyone within hearing distance. Something wet spread across the man’s clothing, and Alessa giggled. He had tried to sneak in eggs to sell at the mercato. He was no longer as rotund as he first appeared.
Happily, she turned her attention beyond the main road. Castles were spread far and wide. Unlike the inner city where streets lay in darkness and a few olive trees survived, the outlying country was a startling contrast of greens. Stone pine, laurel and olive trees, as well as grapevines, painted the landscape. She recalled her father telling her how Naples owed its thriving flora to the sputtering volcanic ash from Mount Vesuvius. The proof was in the eyes of anyone who searched the area. She hadn’t seen land this verdant since she had visited her cousins in Florence.
The day blossomed beautifully, the temperature pleasant and the wind barely noticeable. She stepped off the main road and followed the lesser traveled path to the nearest castle sitting slightly higher than the surrounding fields. Its beauty took her breath away, as did the blanket of flowers leading up to the castle walls.
Alessa came upon huge iron gates left wide open with no guards in sight. In fact, no one wandered the inner grounds. Exploring further, she found a garden, harvested bare in places. She noticed a stable, a few scattered cottages, and other buildings that, upon closer look, were in ill-repair. Whoever lived here most assuredly was of noble background. Perhaps not wealthy, though. The family crest had been erected against the castle wall. At the entrance waited a handsome carriage fit for a king.
Cautiously pushing open one of the enormous double doors, she sneaked into the great hall. The instant her eyes took to the dimmer light, she stared in awe. Colorful tapestries hung from the tallest walls, and a hearth as large as a store room ate up one entire wall. A table long enough to accommodate more than twenty rested against another wall, and the rushes beneath her shoes were clean and fragrant.
Alessa moved farther in, quiet as she approached the center of the giant room. Shining armor and gleaming swords decorat
ed the walls, and again she noticed the family’s crest. Moving closer, she focused on the slanted words.
“Santangelo,” she read under her breath. “Oh, no!”
As luck would have it, she stumbled upon the family castle the tutor had mentioned to the Valentes. She couldn’t believe it was in near shambles. Was he poor? Or was he simply not adept at running a castle?
So much for believing this was a noble’s castle. Dante Santangelo comported himself like a man of privilege, but he certainly did not demand to be treated as one. Perhaps he lost his nobility in disgrace?
“A noble does not tutor or waste his time acting as a translator,” she muttered.
Voices turned her thoughts away from the question of the tutor’s birthright. She found a door left ajar. One very distinct voice scurried chills down her back. Signor Santangelo was here, in his castle. And she was trespassing.
Who did the woman’s voice belong to? A lover? The thought upset Alessa, though it shouldn’t have. She and the tutor had no designs on love. Still, it made her wonder if he’d keep secret lovers after they were wed. “I care not.”
She crouched down and crawled behind a heavy piece of furniture. Craning her neck, she glimpsed the slim, fair-haired woman sitting on a deep blue velvet chair. The tutor sat across from her, a crimson, bejeweled goblet in his hand. The woman’s profile was flawless, and her distinguished carriage and grace bespoke of noble bearing. Alessa listened to her speaking French. Her voice was not sweet and honeyed like a woman who flirted with a gentleman. Quite the opposite, for the eloquence in her speech left Alessa feeling like a pauper’s daughter.
The woman’s gentle laughter followed by Dante’s deep-rooted chuckle bit into Alessa’s heart. Obviously, he enjoyed their easy conversation. An ease, she feared, eluded her and the tutor each time they spoke.
Miserable, she hung her head and crawled backward on hands and knees. She look down, shocked to find a pair of dust-covered black boots planted firmly to the tiled floor. Alessa gulped. With trepidation, she lifted her head.
“Going somewhere?” the French captain inquired.
Chapter Fourteen
Dante closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers in an effort to thwart his rising ire and frustration. What would it take for Alessandra to cease her dangerous wandering? Surely he wasn’t the man meant to tame her, he was beginning to think. If her father couldn’t control her, what made Fabroni believe a man of letters could?
Slowly lifting his eyelids, he imparted an apologetic smile on Queen Isabelle before bestowing his attention on the woman he’d soon marry. She faced Etienne, her slight stature reminding Dante of a fragile woman. But Alessandra’s fortitude and lack of fear gave her an uncommon strength most women would never possess in a lifetime.
Her head lowered, but Dante wasn’t fooled. More than likely, she was contriving a new adventure. What he tried to figure out was, how the devil did she escape the Valente family…again? And what the devil was she doing in his castle?
“Alessandra,” he called, lowering his voice.
She came around ever so slowly, lifting his frustration another notch. When she met his eyes, he hoped his disapproving glare sank into her stubborn head.
“Come here, Alessandra,” he commanded. “I must make the proper introductions.”
When she glanced at the queen, he noticed how she summed up Isabelle. The pull of her mouth exposed her displeasure. He prayed she’d not disobey him in front of Rene’s wife. He was about to command her again when the queen spoke up.
“She is lovely, Dante. You did not tell me your future wife is so fair and petite.”
“And willful, my queen,” came Etienne’s amused remark.
Isabelle laughed, the sweet sound spreading across the room. Alessandra’s contemptuous features confused him. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was jealous.
“Alessandra, may I present Queen Isabelle, wife of King Rene of Anjou.”
She perused the queen shrewdly.
“Bow your head,” Dante commanded.
She gave him a barbed glance before bowing in accordance to Isabelle’s station.
The queen graciously accepted Alessandra’s lack of propriety and smiled with kindness. “I shall leave you to your betrothed, Dante. Perhaps Etienne will see me to my home?”
The captain bowed in respect. “As you wish, my queen.”
Alessandra followed Isabelle’s departure with keen interest. At the moment the language barrier was a blessing. It prevented the girl from speaking her mind to the young queen.
“Are you daft?” Dante charged the instant they were alone.
“You know I am not.”
“Then what are you doing outside the city walls…alone?”
“Fabroni left me at the church. After my confession to Father Damiani, I could not find him.”
He quirked one brow upward. “Your confession did not take half the day? Mayhap you were not truthful with the priest.”
“Think you I am that sinful?”
“Sinful?” He stared at her in thought. “No, not sinful, but you are prone to lies, I think. To fabrication, more precisely.”
She lifted her chin high. “And what of you? You say you are not siding with the French, yet I find the French queen in your solar, quite cozy with your company.”
Bedamned, it was jealousy. He forced himself not to smile. “Queen Isabelle is a charming woman. She is also devoted and loyal to her husband and people. For a ruling woman as young as she, she is remarkably strong and intelligent.”
Alessandra’s dislike of the praise he heaped upon the queen was transparent. He gave pause to her strange behavior. She had naught over which to be jealous. Neither he nor Alessandra was keen on their coming marriage. And neither cared enough about the other to exhibit jealous tendencies.
Dante cleared his head of the vagrant thoughts and stepped over to her. “Come with me. I am returning you to Fabroni.”
Instead of walking alongside him, she held her ground. He released a breath of continued frustration and stood toe to toe with her. He couldn’t believe she didn’t flinch from the brutal look he knew crept into his features.
“I will first hear what you have to say about your ties to the French.”
“My ties are as I have said.”
“I beg to differ.”
Weary of defending his allegiance to Naples by way of contriving his real connection to the French, he closed his fingers over her shoulder to move her ahead. “You may beg all you want, but you have no cause to doubt me. Unless, of course, you are well-schooled in politics and oppose the French in favor of the Spanish.”
“If I favor the Spanish, will you report me to Queen Isabelle? Will you allow her to imprison me?”
He faced the light of challenge in her eyes. “I should have you imprisoned for the nuisance you are,” he grumbled and started for the arch leading to the great hall.
“I beg to differ,” she shouted at his back.
Dante stopped short. “I did not know you were prone to begging, Alessandra. What else will you beg from me after we are wed?”
A typical woman might saunter up to him, swinging her backside like a church bell, and reach up with a kiss that promised carnal pleasures lay ahead. Not so Alessandra. The wench marched up to him with purpose and punched him in the arm.
“Almighty!” she cried out, shaking out her hand. “Have you a rock in your sleeve?”
Dante forced back a grin. The exasperation spread across her face was somewhat alluring and touched a soft spot in his heart. “I apologize for my brutish behavior. Will you allow me to escort you safely to the inner city?”
His calmer approach worked. He defused her temper and watched in amazement as she shed her militant pose right before his eyes. She trotted ahead to the huge doors.
“What excuse will you give my cousin for returning me to him yet again? Think you he’ll not run for Father Damiani the instant you and I appear at his d
oor?”
A feasible point, to be sure. Dante pulled open one half of the double doors and followed her through. He contemplated whether to leave her at the city’s main gate and trust her to go directly home, or to personally see her safely to the Valentes.
“You are frowning.”
He loosened the tightness around his mouth, cursing his sudden inability to make a simple decision. “May I show you Naples outside its gates before returning you home?”
Her surprise mirrored his own. He hadn’t meant to invite her along. Judging from the sparkle of light turning her eyes a brilliant blue, she’d hold him to the invitation.
Forgetting for the moment the consequences of being in her company without a chaperone, Dante steered her toward the Bay of Naples. He mulled over what to show her, for there was naught here to impress a woman who came from Venice and often visited her cousins in Florence. What more did Naples have to offer?
They fell into a companionable stroll. Dante glanced at her profile. The mid-morning sun created a halo of spun gold over her hair. The beauty of her innocence struck him oddly and pinged in his heart. He looked away. Marriage alone wouldn’t settle her down. If anyone changed, Dante had a strong feeling it would be him.
“I would like to broach a subject you may not care to discuss,” he began. “After we are husband and wife, I will not tolerate your flirting with other men. Should you feel the need to flirt, you may do so only with me.”
An amused smile curved her lips. “What will I gain from flirting with you after we are married?”
“What do you hope to gain?”
“A kiss.”
He chuckled at her innocent fantasies. “Sì, Alessandra. But should you flirt too often, a kiss may not suffice.”
“So say you.”
“So I know.” He drew in a ragged breath. What he had inferred was much more than he would offer to her. With regret, he’d not carry out his husbandly duties. He intended to keep their marriage in name only. Perhaps if he repeated the vow daily, he might one day believe it. Looking at her now, hope brightening her features, he was hit with a sobering realization. He might not be able to abide any such promise of celibacy with Alessandra.
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