DELUGE

by Lisa T. Bergren

  GABRIELLA

  I felt Marcello stiffen before my brain could fully compute who was there, in the very palace with us.

  “You,” my husband said, a sneer of sheer hatred on his face. And then he was in motion, ramming the small man against the hallway wall. He lifted him up, hand under his chin, his face a mask of rage.

  “Marcello!” I screamed, as the Fiorentini knights went after him, and the Forelli knights pulled at them…

  It was Lord Barbato and Lord Foraboschi, the men who had kidnapped me and tried to marry me off to Rodolfo Greco. Men who later kidnapped Alessandra and defamed her, trying to frame the Forellis. Men who had cost her her relationship with her father. Men who would still like nothing more than to take us down, one way or another.

  I loathed them. Seeing them infuriated me, as it had my husband. But this was not the place or time…“Marcello!”

  The Fiorentini managed to yank Marcello bodily away.

  “Wait! It’s all right!” I said as our knights prepared to draw their swords.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t break your neck right now,” Marcello seethed, still straining toward Barbato while two men held him back.

  “Come now, Forelli, aren’t we past all that?” sniffed Barbato.

  I had to give His Little Lordship some grudging admiration for not shying or backing away. Only in battle had I seen Marcello so fierce.

  “We shall not be past all that,” Marcello spit out, “until you pay for all you have done.”

  Lord Foraboschi moved toward me and looked me up and down, his eyes full of disdain. “Such a wild thing, your wife. Look at her,” he sniffed. “Out in public looking like a wanton nymph of the wood. A Barbarian let loose.” He smiled. “A She-Wolf in heat.”

  Marcello wrenched free of the Fiorentini and only my hand against the center of his broad chest kept him from knocking the tall, thin man into the far wall. I was practically squished between them.

  “I suggest you Fiorentini clear this hallway at once,” I said to both of them, “before there’s a scene that none of us wish to create for our hosts. Agreed?”

  Lord Barbato wound around Marcello and flicked a hand in the air. “Agreed,” he said with a sigh. “Come along, Lord Foraboschi. We shall engage these two at another time.” He was two paces away already.

  I looked back to our guys, who were now facing off with the four Fiorentini knights, circling, glaring, practically spitting on the marble floor. They all itched to draw swords, and I was only thankful they couldn’t, given where we were, and since Marcello and I were unarmed.

  Barbato made a sound at the corner, and the four Fiorentini reluctantly followed, two of them walking backward, watching us. When they finally turned the corner, Marcello rubbed his face and made a guttural sound of total frustration. Then he looked at me. “Are you well?”

  “I’m fine, fine. But what are they doing here?”

  “I do not know. The doge is no friend to the Fiorentini. But I suppose they are necessary to him for trade.”

  “And he to them.” I tucked my bare toes deeper under the edge of my skirt and ran a hand over my wild hair. “Forgive me, Marcello, for running out like this. I was so anxious to see Lia…”

  He shook his head. “Pay no heed to the man’s words. He’d have made some derogatory comment, even if you were dressed like the dogaressa herself.”

  Still, I was relieved to slip back in our room, close the door and bolt it. Having Barbato and Foraboschi here unnerved me. I thought they’d not have the chance to reach us physically. Not here, not with so many of our own around. But now that we were prepared, they wouldn’t catch us unaware again. As I braided my hair and pinned it into a somewhat-decent knot, I kept thinking about all the ways they might try and reach us…and that set my stomach in a knot, too.

  Once presentable, and having broken our fast, Marcello and I went to fetch my folks, Lia, and Luca, and tell them of the newest visitors to the Palazzo Ducale. Together, we went to the front foyer, where we were to meet the doge and his minions for a tour of the ArsenaleNuovo. They called the shipyard “new,” even though it’d been built a good twenty years before, but I was eager to see it. By all accounts, it was a marvel. “The closest thing to the Industrial Revolution we’ll ever see in this era,” Dad whispered to me as we walked out.

  Thankfully, the Fiorentini were not in sight. We processed out in twos, first six guards, then the doge and dogaressa, followed by minions who carried enormous umbrella-like coverings on long poles to shield the nobles from the November sun. Though when I thought about it, even when the sun was not out, they were present. I didn’t think I’d like to live with someone constantly covering me with such a thing. It’d be a bit like walking under a perpetual raincloud. I’d be craving my share of Vitamin D, a little sun on my face…

  “Gabriella?” Marcello asked quietly. We were about halfway back in the procession of twos, with a total of about forty of us heading toward the Arsenale. “Are you all right?”

  “I am well,” I reassured him. “Only thinking about those silly ombrellinos,” I whispered.

  He smiled with me. “The most powerful do not need such things to shout about their power.”

  “Like you, husband.”

  He lifted a wry eyebrow. “Or you, wife.”

  “I am not feeling so powerful,” I said, resting my free hand on my belly. “Only…bulbous.”

  “You are hardly bulbous. You are simply round in all the right ways,” he whispered mischievously.

  We exited the Piazzetta and walked down along the front of the Rialto, the busy, green lagoon on our right, alive with so much sea-traffic I wondered that there weren’t more accidents. Fishermen were rowing inward, galleys were weighing anchor and lifting sails, and boats of all sizes moved back and forth along lanes marked with white poles. In the distance, I could see our ship, bobbing on waves, glittering under the morning sun.

  Up and over two bridges we went, and when we were almost half a mile from the Palazzo Ducale, we arrived at the Arsenale gates. Men guarded it, even as a boat sailed inward, hauling a second one with a broken mast behind it. We gathered around the doge, who waved Lia closer. Luca ushered her over, and I thought that she’d never looked more beautiful, so happy was she. Did the doge think it was all on account of last night? For as much as she’d managed to best him in his challenge in the piazza, he seemed to hold no grudge today. No, her success seemed to garner her greater status in his eyes. A good thing, I mused, if we’re to get out of here before winter sets in.

  “In a moment I shall show you Venezia’s greatest prize—her prowess at building everything the sea requires, from rope to keel to sail. We harvest our own wood from the Veneto, and build the finest ships in all the seas. This is how we’ve built the strongest navy among any of the Republics. This is why the world fears us.”

  He gazed around at us proudly. “Even the poet, Dante, wrote of this place,” he said to Marcello and me. “You know his words, yes?”

  I blanched. I knew Inferno a little better than most American-educated students knew it, but could hardly quote it. But Marcello cleared his throat. “Indeed, Serenissimo.”

  “He was a man of your lands, yes?”

  “He was. Castello Forelli was honored to host Lord Dante at its table, at times.”

  The doge lifted his chin in quiet surprise. He gestured with his hand. “You remember the passage of which I speak?”

  Marcello thought a moment and then began, “‘As in the Arsenal of the Venetians boils in winter the tenacious pitch, to smear their unsound vessels over again, for sail they cannot; and instead thereof one makes his vessel new, and one recaulks the ribs of that which many a voyage has made. One hammers at the prow, one at the stern; this one makes oars and that one cordage twists. Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen…’” Marcello looked back to the doge. The beautiful words were as lyrical as any music, and I suddenly had a new appreciation for the poet…especially when my husband’s gor
geous lips were the ones saying the words. “And so it goes.”

  “And so it goes,” the doge repeated, nodding appreciatively. “No doubt the poet’s words made you curious to see our fine Arsenale.”

  “Indeed,” Marcello said. “We have been most eager for a glimpse.”

  “Then come, come, my friends.” He turned on his heel, his wife took his arm, and we resumed the procession inward. We passed dock slip after dock slip, men swarming the ships, hammering and sawing. The acrid smell of hot pitch filled the air; and we could see men sweating as they lifted heavy paddles from boiling cauldrons on the dock then scurried toward the ships to swab the planks and joints with the sticky, dark pitch, sealing them. There were long buildings, three stories high, where dockworkers lived, and women of questionable standards in front of them, waiting for their men to return come night.

  We passed an acre where women were drying hemp in the sun, twisting the stalks into a yarn-like substance, and then again into thicker strands. Men carried bolts of those strands indoors, into a long building called a ropewalk, where they were braided together in one long length. The workers glanced at us nervously as we passed, clearly unaccustomed to the doge paying them a visit. But we moved on to a sweltering building full of forges, all of the metalsmiths at work on anchors and cleats of every size you could imagine.

  The next building was solely for the keel-makers, men who carved the spine of ships from massive trees hauled in on rolling tracks and then rolled them through to the next building, where burly workers created the framework for ships, big and small. On and on it went. Sailmakers. Carpenters in charge of detail work. And then we were at the far side of the docks, next to a lovely, sleek galley.

  The doge paused to gaze at me and Lia and smiled benevolently. “It is my understanding, Lady Betarrini, that you have accepted a marriage proposal.”

  Several ladies gasped behind us and twittered in excitement. My eyes narrowed. How had he possibly learned about it so quickly?

  “I have,” Lia said, with a glance at Luca and a blush that splashed across her lower cheeks.

  “She has made me the happiest of men,” Luca said to the doge.

  “Well, you should be,” the doge said, lifting a gray brow. “For you’d be hard-pressed to find a finer female in all the Republic. When word of this spreads, a plague of heartbreak shall be upon us.”

  “You honor me, your grace,” Lia said, her blush spreading further.

  The man stepped forward and lifted her chin. “’Twould be my honor to host your wedding. I shall send you and yours off in a ship like this as my gift to you,” he said, gesturing toward the one beside us.

  Lia managed to pretend surprise. He’d reacted exactly as we thought he might, wanting to hone in on the celebration. I managed to hide my pleasure.

  “You are most gracious, Serenissimo,” Lia said, with a slow curtsey. “It would be our honor to accept your invitation, but I do not know if it is possible.”

  The doge frowned. “What could be impossible from a court that can produce wonders such as this?” he asked, gesturing around the Arsenale.

  Lia took Luca’s arm, as if gathering strength, and Luca smiled at the doge.

  “We have loved one another for quite some time, Serenissimo,” he said, lifting her hand to kiss it. “It has taken me a long time to convince her to be my wife.”

  “A She-Wolf is not easily tamed, is she?” the doge asked slyly.

  Luca paused as the doge—and then all his minions—broke out into laughter, and we all pretended to chuckle along with him. Hilarious, that one, I thought. There was nothing like Medieval Machismo to get under my skin.

  “Now that she has agreed to it,” Luca went on as soon as the laughter abated, “we wish to marry within the week.”

  The dogaressa frowned in alarm and the doge’s nose twitched, as if he could smell that something was up. “A week,” he echoed.

  “A week,” Luca repeated earnestly. “And then it would be our honor to sail out on your fine ship. We will be the envy of all in Pisa.”

  The doge was silent for a moment, and we held our breath. His eyes shifted back and forth, over Luca, then Lia, then Marcello and me. “I suppose you wish to take your Betarrini cousins with you.”

  “We would,” Luca said slowly.

  “Very well,” he said, lifting a hand and turning. “Take them. I tire of them. Your nuptials shall distract me from my agitation,” he said over his shoulder. “It shall be the finest wedding Venice has ever seen.” He paused and lifted a finger. “On one condition.”

  “Anything, Serenissimo,” Luca said.

  “Not of you, Sir Forelli. This, I ask of Lord Forelli.”

  Marcello’s eyes hardened. “What do you ask of me, Serenissimo?”

  “You bring your child to court. I want to meet the offspring of a She-Wolf and one of Siena’s Nine.”

  “When the child comes of age. It shall be our honor, Serenissimo,” he said.

  I was still holding my breath. Comes of age? That will be when the child is twenty-one or so, right? Because there was no way we were coming back here in the next few years, to this future cesspool of all-things-plague.

  But I knew he’d had no choice but to promise the man. It was our perfect opportunity to not only leave, but leave with the Betarrini boys in tow.

  With a grip of his arm, securing the pledge, the doge turned again and led us out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EVANGELIA

  The dogaressa proved to be the dragon lady of wedding coordinators. If I was a daisy kind of girl, she was all Casablanca lily—over-the-top fancy and smelling up the room. Not that they had flowers in weddings in this day and age—the most I’d get was a nosegay of herbs for good luck. Besides, it was November, and while the palace had the occasional bedraggled, exotic palm shipped in from who-knew-where, flowers were few and far between.

  But clearly, this wedding was her gig, not mine.

  The dressmaker was brought in, and with him came twelve servants, all carrying two bolts of blue material. While I gravitated toward a gorgeous, plain sky-blue silk, the dogaressa was all about a thick navy tapestry-like fabric, with silver thread embroidered into it.

  “Look at this, Evangelia,” she said, running her short, stubby fingers over it in envy. She lifted up the bolt and pulled out a length to drape it across my chest and shoulder. She sighed and her two ladies-in-waiting echoed her, and I knew I was done-for. I cast a glance over my shoulder at Gabi, and she widened her eyes.

  “You shall look like a queen,” said the dogaressa, shaking her head in wonder.

  “Do you think it best, Serenissima?”

  “I do, I do,” said the matronly, short woman, nodding so firmly that her chin disappeared into folds of flab. She was dressed in one of the finest gowns I’d ever seen, but her dark hair was greasy and she smelled so foul that I could barely tolerate being near her. She ascribed to the common belief that two baths a year were plenty, and had already expressed her concern that Gabi and I bathed far too often than was healthy. I’d pretended to agree as if I took her comments as correction, but that wasn’t going to keep me from a bath before my wedding to Luca. Nor him from one either. The thought of getting close to him and smelling like this one—dogaressa or not—made me shudder.

  “We’ll want this one,” she said to the dressmaker. “I assume you have designs to show us?”

  “Indeed, Serenissima,” he said, moving to a leather portfolio. He unwound the long strap from a wooden button and pulled out ten or more pieces of parchment. He looked to me, and down at his sheaf of paper, setting aside a few and bringing the others over to us. Again, it was the dogaressa he showed first. I was apparently a bridal mannequin. I stifled a sigh. I was marrying the best man I’d ever met, I reminded myself. So there was that. And this ceremony was our ticket outta here. Which we needed, especially with the “cousins” in tow…

  I looked at the sketches and was drawn to the lines of my normal sort of gown,
but the dogaressa was all about the tight undersleeve and the silly, long tippet—a streamer-like piece of fabric that extended off the elbow. I noticed that he had also sketched in a ceremonial bow and quiver of arrows in all of them. They expected me to arrive armed for my wedding? I lifted a brow and looked to Gabi, tilting the paper so she could see it. She pretended to be in awe, covering her smile with her hand.

  All of it made me long for my old pair of jeans and a t-shirt more than ever.

  “Oh, and her undergown could be in this silk,” cooed the dressmaker, reaching for another bolt of cloth. He gestured toward another sketch, where the overgown, lined in fur, came up in the front to about the knee, and cascaded in a V to a short train in back.

  The dogaressa nodded excitedly. “Yes, yes. That shall be perfect! Don’t you agree, Evangelia?”

  “Yes, Serenissima.”

  The short woman took her pet squirrel from one of her ladies and absently stroked the thing as the dressmaker rang a bell and more servants arrived, this time with shoes. Gabi and I shared a surprised look when we saw that they appeared to have been made for left and right feet—not the standard square or pointed toe that most were. But they were all terribly small. As in Japanese-bound-feet-small. Even most of the little women of medieval Venice couldn’t fit in them.

  The dogaressa lifted a pair of blue slippers that would match beautifully with the blue tapestry fabric, and then groaned as the dressmaker measured my feet. He frowned and shook his head at my hostess as if there wasn’t a chance for us to find shoes. “She’ll need to hasten to Cobbler Veraci. He will get them done in time.”

  “I hope so,” she said, casting a disparaging eye at my bare toes. She was just lucky she wasn’t dressing Gabi for Venice’s Next Hot Wedding. Her feet were a size larger.

  “We’ll go immediately,” she said.

  I hesitated, thinking that we had plans to sail to Borano for the day. “Forgive me, Serenissima, but we planned an outing this afternoon. To Borano. I thought I might find some lace for my wimple and veil,” I added hurriedly, belatedly thinking of it.