Carlo sat at the head of the trestle table. As the meal progressed and the wine flowed freely, he became more boisterous, reeling with drink. A very drunk Enrico sat to his immediate right. Carlo slid his chair closer to his friend, slung his arm around his shoulder, and whispered something into his ear. Carlo grinned, and then the two men slapped each other on the back.
Goblet in hand, Carlo rose to his feet. He pulled Enrico up beside him and tapped his goblet with a knife to get everyone’s attention. “Amici, I thank you for celebrating Giustina’s baptism with us.” He grinned at Enrico, threw his friend into an amicable headlock, and yanked him close. “Enrico has been like a brother to me, just as our fathers were to each other. Our lives and those of our ancestors have been bound closely for many generations. There is nothing stronger than family. My good friend and I wish to announce that we have agreed to betroth my daughter Giustina to Enrico’s eldest son, Luca. Now we are truly one family, and some day, their children will officially bind us by blood.”
Aghast, Prudenza stiffened and stared at Carlo as the guests broke into cries of surprise and delight.
Carlo raised his goblet. “A la nostra famiglia! To our family!”
“A la famiglia!” the guests echoed with their goblets raised high.
Everyone drank and then cheered.
Blood rushed to Prudenza’s head. An indignant seed took root deep inside her. She wanted to stand up and forbid the betrothal, but instead, forced herself to remain seated. She must not act rashly. Carlo had not discussed this with her, but men rarely considered the opinions of their women. If he had, she would have argued that Giustina’s hand in marriage belonged to someone of greater wealth. Carlo and Enrico were equals in that regard. Now, her daughter would be relegated to this same life without hope of betterment. A man’s oath was sacred. If need be, Carlo would honor this pledge with his life, and because he had made it in front of witnesses, he would never rescind it. Only a sinful or illegal act on Luca’s or Giustina’s part could negate the promise. No amount of begging on her part would sway Carlo. Once he made up his mind, he was as stubborn as the listless ass that pulled their cart during the grape harvest.
Prudenza glanced across the trestle table at Felicia, who sat with her lips clenched, glaring at her husband. Clearly, she did not like the idea of their children’s betrothal either.
Felicia’s reaction not only offended Prudenza, it incensed her. How dare she frown upon her son’s union with her Giustina! “Is something the matter, Felicia?” Her chilly voice portrayed deliberate censure.
Suddenly, conversation stopped. Familiar with the animosity between the two women, the guests halted what they were doing and stared at Prudenza.
Deep in Felicia’s eyes, hatred burned.
Prudenza rose to her feet. In a voice filled with contempt, she asked, “You are displeased? Why? Do you find fault with my daughter?”
Carlo cast a stern look at her. He shook his head and pinched his lips with his fingertips in a gesture to shut her up.
The guests remained hushed, the silence adding to the tension as their gazes flitted between her and Carlo.
Prudenza ignored her husband and looked fiercely at Felicia again. “Answer me!” She fought the urge to reach across the trestle table and wring her neighbor’s neck.
The baker’s wife leaned forward, eyebrows arched. The butcher looked down at his hands in obvious discomfort. The stonemason’s mouth hung open. The pot maker’s eyes twinkled with excitement.
“You know why!” Felicia spoke the words in a venomous tone.
“No, I do not know why.” Prudenza deliberately cast Felicia her most malicious look.
Felicia’s face contorted with temper. “You’re the one who spread the dirty lies about the birth of my sons! But you’re a disgusting bitch and a gossiping biddy, for I slept with no man other than my husband.”
A murmur passed through the guests. Some nodded and some shook their heads.
“What lies? I merely spoke about how twins who do not look alike are born from two different fathers, and nothing more. It is no secret and everyone knows about it.” Prudenza knew she trod upon dangerous ground, but could not stop herself.
Felicia rose to her feet, her face red, her hands clenched tight into fists. She opened her mouth to reply.
Prudenza stopped her. “Think carefully before you speak. Anger can be an expensive luxury.”
“That’s enough, Prudenza.” Carlo grabbed her hand and tried to pull her away from the table.
Enrico tried to grasp Felicia’s arm too, but his drunkenness made him so unbalanced, he missed and nearly tumbled from his chair.
Felicia took no notice, her fierce look fixed on Prudenza. “I do not wish my son to have a venomous, evil-eyed witch as a mother-by-marriage!”
“Why, you ill-nurtured, addle-pated strumpet! I do not want my poor daughter Giustina forever bound to a weak-hinged brazen wanton like you.”
Felicia lunged across the table. She grabbed Prudenza’s hair, yanked hard, and shoved her face into a bowl of eggplant stew.
Prudenza came up sputtering, her face dripping with the thick, hot vegetable mixture. Her crespine had come partially off and strands of loose hair fell over her eyes. Through pieces of eggplant and strings of cheese, she looked down at her stained, ruined silk gown. She screamed wildly and launched herself at Felicia. Food and wine splattered against her gown as she crossed over the trestle and closed her fingers around Felicia’s neck, digging her fingers into her enemy’s throat.
Those who sat nearest jumped out of their chairs to avoid the flying splatters and spills of the melee.
Felicia’s fists pummeled Prudenza’s head and arms in a desperate attempt to get free.
Prudenza’s grip only tightened; her ire a burning inferno. She felt Carlo trying to yank her away, but fought to maintain her hold.
Enrico tried unsuccessfully to detach Prudenza’s arms from Felicia’s throat. The screams of her female guests permeated the air, mixing with the chants of some of the men who urged the fight on.
31
Nanino raised the chestnut mare’s front leg from the bucket of warm water and examined her wound. A month ago, he had led the mare in from the pasture with a strange cut on her left fetlock. The wound had not healed well. The bindings he kept wrapped around the leg failed to keep the mare from biting through them to chew at the wound.
He released the leg and gave the mare a hearty pat, stepping back to examine her. Soon after he had first noticed the injury, the horse became lethargic and depressed. It worried Nanino. She appeared confused, a peculiar, glassy look emanated in her once gentle eyes. Her jaw hung open, dripping globules of drool. With each passing day, the poor creature grew more aggressive, prone to fits, and biting. His size made it difficult for him to handle her.
He had feared the worst, and now he had no doubt, for he had seen it before – the raging madness. Even though he knew it would be hopeless, he was particularly fond of the pretty mare he had helped enter the world, and had tried everything to cure her, hoping for a miracle. He had boiled the thorny light green leaves of milk thistle and its purple flowers and mixed it with a mash of oats, but the well-known remedy proved fruitless. He had even prayed to Saint Umberto, known to intercede in such cases, but without result. There was no longer any choice but to release the poor creature from misery. He cast a glance at the knife that rested atop a nearby bale of hay. Not yet, he decided. Let the mare enjoy her last meal.
Nanino removed the bucket and lugged in another filled with fresh water from the trough. He tossed a pitchfork of hay into the stall and watched the mare as she tried to eat and drink.
She swayed a little and nearly stumbled as she lowered her head to eat. Her lips grasped a small mouthful of the sweet smelling hay, but she dropped it all as if she had lost control of her mouth. Again, she lowered her head into the bucket. This time, she slurped up a bit, but it dribbled out because she could not swallow. Her lips twitched spasmodica
lly and she convulsed. Then she let out a shrill neigh. With a wild toss of her head, she sent the bucket flying into the air. She reared, and then slammed her front legs down onto the side of the stall.
“Whoa,” Nanino called out, but the mare ignored his command. At one time, the mere sound of his voice calmed her. Now, it only seemed to enrage the unfortunate equine.
The mare screamed and reared again. She crashed into the side of the stall. In a resounding smash of splintering timber, the wood crumbled beneath her weight. All the years he had spent training and caring for horses, Nanino had never feared a horse as much as he did this one at this moment. The mare reared, and then charged him. Nanino scrambled up the ladder to the hayloft. Frenzied, the mare struck the ladder. She toppled it and broke its rungs. Over and over again, she reared and slammed down upon whatever object crossed her path.
Nanino watched helplessly as the poor beast thrashed about in uncontrollable fury. Then, with one mighty thrust of her front legs, she burst through the barn doors and escaped into the pasture. Nanino jumped down from the loft into a pile of hay and ran after her.
32
For as long as she could remember, Cosma had never been this happy. She was returning home with Vincenza and baby Gianni – her new family. When she first became ill so far away from home, she had worried about her goat and hens, but Salvo walked faithfully each day to Costalpino and back to feed and care for them. He had assured her the animals were safe and content in their well-vented stable.
For their journey to Costalpino, Salvo had insisted she ride on the back of a donkey, which he led. A second donkey, tied to the one Cosma rode, carried their possessions. Vincenza walked beside her, the babe sleeping soundly in a sling across her back. For the first time in her life, Cosma felt the love and bond of kinfolk, and she relished every moment.
Lemon and fig trees lined the road to Costalpino providing patches of shade. The hot sun warmed Cosma’s shoulders and tired bones as the trio made their way down the dirt road. Despite the donkey’s short, choppy steps, the ride was surprisingly smooth.
Before long, they passed the villas of Ventura and Benevento families. Cosma admired the small valley in which they rested, and the lush fig, persimmon, and olive trees that surrounded the two homes. She stared at Villa Bianca and wondered about Prudenza. How did she fare? Did she feel any guilt over giving away her child? Cosma shuddered. She had never before met a mother with such a cold heart.
“What a peaceful little valley,” Vincenza exclaimed as she studied the landscape that had attracted Cosma’s attention.
“Looks can deceive,” said Cosma. “Often what gleams on the outside is rotten within. Peace is a state that must be guarded, for it can easily be lost.”
At that moment, there resounded a mighty crash and the splintering of wood. A horse charged through the barn doors of one of the villas and raced through the pasture towards them. The creature reached the fence that separated it from the road on which they traveled. It rose upon its haunches and gave out a shrill, haunting neigh then slammed its front legs through the wooden fence.
Both donkeys bolted in fright.
Cosma fell off, landing hard on the ground.
The horse freed itself from the pile of splintered wood and charged towards them.
Salvo raised his hands to scare the galloping horse away or stop it, but the crazed beast hurtled toward him. It reared once more and brought its hooves down on Salvo’s head. He collapsed to the ground.
Cosma froze. Her head swirled in a dizzying spin. What a time for the pain to return, throbbing in her brain.
Vincenza tried to flee, but her sudden movement attracted the horse’s attention. The horse veered in her direction. Vincenza stumbled over a loose rock. Her son rolled free of the sling, bawling, and landed on the dirt road behind her with a sickening thud.
The horse pawed the ground and thrashed its head. The mare locked her jaws tightly around the infant’s neck, and then with a great toss of her head, flung him into the air. The baby thudded into the trunk of a tree and slid down the rough bark to the ground. The little one whimpered once, and then lay silent, unmoving in the dark grass underneath the tree.
Cosma could not bear the horror of it. She prayed for death, for merciful blackness to engulf her so she could fall into its hollow oblivion and suffer this nightmare no more. Cruelly, God did not hear her prayer.
33
A woman’s blood-curdling scream cleaved the air. The hideous sound brought both Prudenza and Felicia to a sudden halt. Despite Carlo’s efforts to pull Prudenza off Felicia, she still straddled her nemesis who lay prone on the ground. Prudenza released the handful of hair wound between her fingers and looked around for the source of the scream.
Felicia, who looked as if she was about to spit into Prudenza’s face, swallowed, and stopped struggling.
Nanino, came running from the direction of the stables, eyes wide with shock, terror etched on his face. As he fled past her, Prudenza winced at the reek of onions that always stuck to him like sap to a tree, the reek more noticeable because of his panic.
“Come quickly!” Nanino shouted. “There’s been an accident.” He rushed to the table, grabbed a large carving knife, and fled as fast as his small legs could carry him. The guests ran after him.
“Get off me, you vulgar cow!” Felicia shoved Prudenza away.
“Putana! Don’t think this is over, you whore,” Prudenza warned through clenched teeth. She rose, and then ran after the others with Felicia trailing close behind.
When Prudenza reached the road, the sight almost made her heart stop. A young woman knelt at the foot of a tree, clutching a baby to her chest. Blood stained her face, her hands, and her clothes. She rocked back and forth, her wails the only sound amid a gathering crowd of stunned bystanders.
In the middle of the road, a distressed horse lay on its side. White bone protruded from its right foreleg, which lay bent at an impossible angle. Beside the poor creature, a man lay dead. Grey substance, mixed with blood, oozed from a gash at the top of his forehead.
In the center of the road lay an old woman. Prudenza’s legs quivered as she stepped closer for a better look. It was Cosma! The old hag still breathed and her eyes were open. Grunts, which made no sense, escaped from her lopsided lips. The left side of her face drooped horribly. Judging by her appearance, the healer had suffered some kind of paralysis.
Prudenza turned her attention back to the woman and baby. Her heart constricted and her legs nearly gave way beneath her. Was that her firstborn baby the woman clutched so desperately to her chest? Had Cosma kept the child? Could that hysterical woman be the nursemaid? She struggled to keep her panic at bay.
Carlo knelt beside Cosma. He glanced at Enrico and the butcher. “She lives. Take her to my home as quickly as you can.”
“No,” Prudenza called out as several of the men began to lift Cosma. The thought of that wretched sack of bones convalescing in her home infuriated her. Cosma’s presence posed a risk. A small slip of the tongue would reveal her secret and tear her safe world apart.
“Obey me.” Carlo nodded to Enrico then stared at Prudenza with reproach.
In response to his dour expression, Prudenza flinched and retreated.
Felicia knelt beside the grief-stricken woman, who cradled the dead infant in her arms. Felicia put her arm round the poor soul’s shoulders and murmured consoling words. The woman appeared not to notice, still rocking and lamenting.
Prudenza followed Carlo as he approached the grief-stricken woman. “Come, let me help you,” she heard him say with utmost gentleness. “We can care for the baby in the house.” He helped raise the woman to her feet. Together with Felicia, they supported her between them and led her away.
Prudenza stood in the middle of the road, stunned. She watched two of the guests carry away the dead man. Nanino knelt on the ground by the horse. Tears glistened in his eyes as he patted the neck of the demented creature whose chest still heaved with torment. He ra
ised the large knife and with one sudden swipe, slit the beast’s throat. A gush of blood and air escaped from its gullet. The horse twitched for a few seconds and then mercifully lay still.
Prudenza moaned in distress. A day that should have been one of celebration had turned into one of devastation. Could it be because of the beggar woman’s curse? No, the real blame belonged to the person who told the old beggar woman in the first place, and she believed that person was Cosma, the root of all her troubles. She should never have trusted her.
Prudenza knew she must act quickly. She gathered her wits, imposed an iron control on herself, and ran home to tend to her unwelcome and unwanted guests.
34
It had been little more than a day since the tragedy and Cosma still lay in bed. Her time passed between the blessed relief of sleep and the torture of wakefulness. Unable to speak or move, she lay completely vulnerable, unable to tell the maidservants, who tended her which herbs to use. How ironic. She, the healer who had healed hundreds, had no one to come to her aid. Ah well, what did it matter? Death lingered only breaths away.
They had carried her here, to this tiny room behind the kitchens of Prudenza’s villa. She lay on a straw-filled mattress on a pallet beneath a tiny window too high up on the wall for her to see outside. On the opposite wall, Vincenza occupied a similar pallet. Cosma’s heart broke at the thought of poor, desolate Vincenza. The death of her baby and father had plunged her into a catatonic state interrupted only by regular bouts of copious tears. When she cried, Cosma could not even whisper words of consolation or put a caring arm around her shoulders. She could not even turn her head to look in her direction because of her infirmity. How had it all come to this? Trapped within a lifeless body, her mind still sharp with life! Only death could release her now, and she prayed desperately for it.
Orphan of the Olive Tree - Historical Romance Saga Page 12
