The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  Behind him Cangrande was particularly flamboyant in his praise of the two Carraras. "That was a feat without equal, attempting to stop an army in full retreat."

  Il Grande inclined his head. "It was quite a feat to put fear into the hearts of over ten thousand men."

  "Still, you two deserved to win, purely for heart!"

  Marsilio snarled. "That won't stop that little shit from collecting my ransom, will it?"

  Cangrande gazed back at him, amused. "You'd rather Pietro had killed you?"

  "Is that his name?"

  "Pietro Alaghieri of Florence, recently arrived from Paris, via Pisa and Lucca."

  "To our detriment," observed Il Grande. "Dante's son?"

  "Yes."

  "Ah. Genius must run in the family. As I told my nephew, a brave lad."

  Marsilio opened his mouth, but his uncle stepped on his foot. Instead of the intended insult, the youth found himself saying, "Your army isn't here, is it?"

  "Sadly, no. By this time, my army is probably just exiting the gates of Verona."

  "So you won by luck."

  "I suppose so!" replied the Scaliger brightly.

  "Not by brilliant generalship," pressed the Paduan.

  "Never underestimate the power of luck," said Il Grande.

  Cangrande smiled at the young Carrara. "Of course, when you know the extent of my trickery, you will be furious."

  "What's that?" But he was already talking to the Capitano's back. Someone had run up to Cangrande carrying a large breastplate decorated with azure. Etched in acid were two stars in opposition, one high and left, one low and right. He whispered softly in the Capitano's ear. Cangrande examined the armour, chuckled once, then looked at Il Grande. "You know to whom this belongs."

  "I do."

  "A shame he's fled my hospitality."

  "His loss, I'm sure."

  "You're too kind." Cangrande handed the armour back to the soldier and issued instructions. "Take three men and return to where you found this, then trace the most direct path to Padua from there. If you haven't found him in an hour, turn back. Don't go past Camisano. Go." The man bowed and went, leaving Cangrande wearing an expression of delight on his lips. The Count of San Bonifacio's life was going to be more difficult for his flight, not less.

  Leaving the Carrarese in the hands of some knights with explicit instructions to take them into the city and see to their comfort, the Scaliger made his way to where Antonio Nogarola had fallen. Nogarola was awake, screaming bloody murder at the men who insisted he return to the city.

  "I'm fine, damn you!" he cried, staunching the flow of blood from his shoulder with a dead man's tabard. He kicked at one of his servants who had come to the battlefield to tend the wounded. "Go help someone else, I don't need you! I'll be in when I'm good and ready!"

  "You always were a baby when you were sick." Cangrande stooped over Nogarola's shoulder and lifted the bloody cloth away from the wound. "It's not good. Can you move the arm?"

  Nogarola grunted. "Some."

  Cangrande replaced the cloth around the crossbow bolt. "I'll handle the mopping up. You go back and have that looked at." After a friendly pat on the older man's good arm, he was off.

  With anyone else, Nogarola would have protested vehemently. Instead he meekly stood upright and followed his servants into the city.

  Not far off Pietro discovered his friends. Antony was sitting upright with his head in his hands, while Mariotto was semiprone on his back, using his elbows to prop himself up.

  "Christ," cried Mariotto when he saw Pietro's leg.

  "It's not so bad," said Pietro.

  "He wins," said Antony with an envious look.

  Pietro's leg collapsed beneath him when he dismounted, but he managed not to cry out. He knelt awkwardly beside Antony and Mariotto. He held up the helmet with the crossbow bolt sticking out both ends. "Look at this!"

  Antony had to laugh. "What are you, a target?"

  They let him tell his story. He tried not to embellish it, but still they found it hard to believe he'd lived through the charge. When he was done they related their own adventures, each interupting the other frequently.

  "So the same one who took a shot at your head let one fly at Mari here — "

  "There was no crossbow aimed at me," interrupted Mariotto. "You're just a clumsy oaf in the saddle and can't own up to it!"

  "Oh, there was a crossbow, all right!" shot back Antony. "What there wasn't was some mysterious spear-wielding horseman!"

  "How did I get this?" asked Mariotto, sitting up and pointing to his wound. He winced at once and settled back on his elbows.

  "How should I know? Maybe you got caught on a thistle, oh delicate flower!" They made rude gestures at each other, then Antony continued. "You're right about one thing, though. I fell. I didn't leap to save you. If I'd had my way, that bolt would have split your head like a melon!" He raised his voice on the last word, then rolled his eyes backward and groaned, head ringing. Pietro and Mariotto were overcome by a fit of giggling. Antony shot them a sour look that made them laugh all the harder.

  The pain across his chest stifling his breath, Mariotto looked down. "Do you think I'll have a scar?"

  "Probably," observed Pietro.

  "Good," said Mariotto happily.

  The Scaliger approached the trio with Jupiter. Beneath the bloodied muzzle, the hound still panted from the long day's chase. Seeing wounds that were not particularly grave, the Capitano smiled. "And what happened here?"

  Antonio looked up, the corners of his mouth twisting, and Mariotto tried to sit up. Both spoke at the same time.

  "I saved his life-"

  "— and now he's-"

  "— the ingrate, he says-"

  "— there was this crossbow-"

  "— a spearman-"

  Cangrande spoke gravely. "I'm sure I'll hear all about it. Will you live?" Both nodded. "Good. Now you can start thinking of something to say to your fathers. Unless you had their permission to join my army?"

  Antony stared at him wide-eyed. Mariotto looked as if he had swallowed a toad. Pietro felt a roiling weight in his stomach. The Capitano looked at them all, then gestured to Pietro. "Are you going back to the city to have your leg looked at?"

  Pietro hadn't thought about it, but decided it was a good idea. "Yes, lord."

  The Scaliger looked slightly discomfited. "I need someone to deliver a message for me, and I need to know it will be done both expeditiously and with a modicum of tact. Are you up for it?" Pietro started to reply, but the Scaliger held up a hand. "Don't be hasty. This errand will be more dangerous than anything you have tried today." Cangrande took a deep breath. "I need you to find Donna Katerina Nogarola and tell her I will see her shortly. Until then, if she pleases, she will see to the wounded."

  It sounded simple enough. Yet Pietro noticed Mariotto's surprised look.

  Cangrande continued. "She was last seen in the palazzo where we armed, but by now she might be along the walls of San Pietro, or even here in the field. If she's here, no doubt she'll find me herself," he finished in almost a mutter.

  Using his good leg, Pietro clambered awkwardly into the saddle of his fourth borrowed horse. "I'll do it, lord." Who is this woman, that she makes Cangrande so uncomfortable?

  Cangrande bobbed his head in thanks and moved off, the matter immediately forgotten as he focused the next task in the battle's aftermath.

  Pietro faced Mariotto. "Who is she?" Antony drew close to hear.

  Still lying prone on the earth, Mariotto looked up with an idiot grin. "Bailardino's wife, Donna Katerina. If you wait a moment, we'll go with you. You might want some strong friends at your back. She can be — outspoken."

  "Outspoken? How?"

  Mariotto struggled to his feet. "She's notorious for arguing with the Capitano in public, and winning more often than not. That's why he doesn't want to face her — she's going to flog him sideways for not talking to her before the battle."

  Pietro recalled the snippets
of conversation he'd overheard on the steps of the palazzo — something about a woman donning men's attire. Antonio was incredulous. "She argues with him? In public? Who is she?"

  Mariotto's light blue eyes twinkled as he settled into a saddle. "His sister."

  The first stars were appearing in the sky as the proudly wounded trio reentered the city of Vicenza amid thunderous cheering. Hundreds of citizens swarmed around them like wasps, then buzzed past them out through the gates. Gazing at them, Pietro was astonished. He turned to Antony, who was looking on in slack-jawed amazement.

  "So that's how he did it," muttered Mariotto in awe.

  The citizens streaming past him bore improvised helms and arms, some looking quite ridiculous with old pots and pans on their noggins and fishing rods or long walking sticks strung with catgut in their hands. The women, children, and elderly of the proud city of Vicenza, the 'archers', were thrilled with their role in the battle. They had routed the Paduan invaders and could tell this story for generations to come. Now they ran out to assist in rounding up the prisoners, dragging hounds to aid in chasing down the fugitives. Hungry for revenge, the citizens hooted and hollered along with their animals, promising to show far less respect to the captured soldiers than Cangrande had.

  Looking at the improvised bows and helms, Pietro released an appreciative breath. An old woman stopped to ask if they were hurt. "Va bene," he replied. She kissed his foot and ran off to help in the chase.

  "Is that your girlfriend?" asked Mariotto, shouting to be heard.

  "Another Helen!" observed Antony loudly.

  "Shut up." Pietro was busy trying to remember everything his father had ever told him about the Scaligeri line. The images from Giotto's frescos in the Scaliger palace rose before his mind's eye. Bartolomeo had been the first son of old Alberto della Scala. There followed the middle brother, cunning Alboino, who had died three years before. And finally a boy baptized Francesco della Scala, known from age three as Cangrande. But had anyone ever mentioned girl-children in the family?

  "Mari!" Pietro was already addressing his friend in the familiar. His father would have been appalled.

  "Ho!"

  "She — his sister — she's married to Bailardino Nogarola, correct?"

  "Yes!" shouted Mariotto.

  "How now? How now?" called Antony from Pietro's other side. His tone was an exact replica of the Scaliger's.

  "Would you stop that?" growled Mariotto.

  "Stop what?" asked Antony with innocence.

  Mariotto sighed in mock exasperation, then addressed Pietro. "The Capitano's sister. She's Bailardino's wife."

  Antony was confused. "You already said that!"

  Pietro broke in. "But Bailardino raised Cangrande, didn't he? Is she much older?"

  Mariotto's wound had him sitting stiffly upright. "She certainly doesn't look it!"

  Pietro decided that was about all the information he would get. They were now surrounded by citizens with another chore in mind — the salvation of their homes. The denizens of San Pietro were madly fighting the fires that had been set to their buildings. Water could not arrive soon enough from the wells, and precious time was lost arguing whose house should be saved first. The three young riders skirted the crowds as best they could.

  Forty minutes after the cessation of hostilities, they arrived back at the Plaza Municipale. Pietro alighted beside several pages, easily distinguished from the general crowd by their dirty yellow tunics. Faces lined with grime and soot, they had been busy during this day of siege, running messages through smoke-filled streets. One dashed forward now to take charge of their mounts.

  "Thank you," said Pietro through gritted teeth as he put weight on his wounded leg. His mind was rapidly being consumed with the idea of a bed. But first he had to find this lady and give her the Capitano's message. He held the boy's gaze. "Is Donna Nogarola within?" He spoke loudly, for here too the noise of the populace was near deafening. "I have a message from the Capitano!"

  From the shadows behind a rose-marble pillar a woman appeared. Tall and graceful, she wore a deep-blue gown of heavy brocade. The floral pattern in the material was fine and delicate, but the gown lacked the hanging panels down the back that style dictated. Its length, too, was shorter than was common, only just brushing the stone steps rather than trailing after her. Her stride was confident and long, and Pietro decided from her manner that the alterations to her dress were for function rather than fashion. At her neck and wrists were none of the hanging ornaments Pietro had often seen adorning the ladies of the countless courts his father had visited. Her hands, he noticed as she waved away the page, were ringless beyond the heavy gold band on her third finger.

  Her head was covered in a breezy, translucent veil that was pulled well back from her face with a band of the same brocade as her dress. Under it, her hair was tightly coiled at the back of her head. Thus her face was framed in blue, with only a cresent of chestnut above her brow. It was a face different from Cangrande's — her nose was smaller and her cheeks were more angular. Her flashing blue eyes, however, were eerily similar.

  Hanging at her waist, affixed to her sparsely jeweled girdle, was a ring of many keys that clattered softly. If a woman's position in society was evinced by the number of keys she wore, this lady was someone of great distinction. But then, there was only one woman she could be.

  Katerina della Scala in Nogarola halted a scant three feet from Pietro. By this time Antonio and Mariotto were standing at his side. All three bowed — or tried. Each for his own reason had difficulty executing the move. The effort made Pietro wince, as all his weight was on his right leg. Mariotto's legs worked fine, but his upper body was stiff, and Antony grimaced as he lowered his aching head and spread his arms wide.

  Amused, the lady waved a hand. "No, please. There is no need to wound yourselves further." The chatelaine's cadence was a near-perfect echo of the Scaliger's. "If you wish to do me honour, give me the message you bear."

  Embarrassed, Pietro could not help noting her appeal. Montecchio couldn't be blamed for not guessing the lady's age. She must have been at least in her teens at the time of her marriage twenty years ago, but she looked no older than her warrior brother. Absurdly Pietro found himself thinking, What beautiful wrists.

  "Donna," he said correctly, "the Capitano says he will see you shortly. He is busy clearing the field and seeing to the captives. He asks if you would undertake the succor of the wounded."

  It was subtle, her reaction. The face changed not a whit, but Pietro noticed the delicate hands at her sides relax. "He is well, then."

  Though it was not a question, Pietro saw fit to reply. "He is, Donna. The Paduan army is scattered and he is victorious."

  "Of course he is." Her tone carried a mild disapproval. She looked the trio over. Pietro's leg was bloody to the ankle, and the gash across Mariotto's chest seeped crimson to his waist. Mari was trying to cover it in the name of modesty. With a brisk gesture — so like him! — she beckoned several waiting attendants to her side. "He is unhurt, so he sends three wounded knights on his errands while he struts the field like the plumed peacock he is." She waved their protests to silence. "No, please. You have heard his orders. I am to succor the wounded. I would be more than glad to begin here and now." With the aid of the attendants the three youths were escorted within the Palazzo, Donna Nogarola leading their way. "As we progress, you could perhaps honour me with your names."

  The flustering of the three youths was suddenly complete. Literally falling over themselves apologizing for their lack of manners, they hastily introduced themselves. "Mariotto, how delightful to meet you again — though I suppose the circumstances are a trifle unfortunate. You should come visit us with your father. You know he dines here often. Capecelatro — I'm afraid — ah, from Capua. Do you know Signore Matraini? He represents my husband's interests there. Indeed, you must meet. Alaghieri — son of? Of course. I have read your father's work. Did you help with the research?"

  "Research, lady?"
Too late, Pietro realized she shared her brother's sense of humour.

  As the wounded young men were helped up a sweeping staircase, the chatelaine said, "I hope you all have the sense to stay here tonight. Even the immortal chevaliers of legend took time to let their wounds heal properly."

  At the top of the stairs they encountered a group of Paduan nobles under a light guard. Antony pointed. "Mari! Look!" Pietro and Mariotto traced the line of the Capuan's finger to a well-built young man with dark hair and crimson pourpoint.

  Mariotto shouted, "It's him!"

  "Who?" asked Pietro, knowing full well who it was but not understanding how Mariotto knew him.

  "He's the one who shot at Mari!" declared Antony loudly, voice echoing in the palace confines.

  "He shot Antonio Nogarola!" exclaimed Mariotto.

  "He shot me," said Pietro, an odd satisfaction flitting through him. "He's the one I captured. He's my prisoner."

  In response to the ruckus, the small group of Paduans stopped and the dark-haired young Carrara turned to look at his accusers. "Ah. Montecchio, is it? Good. I like to know the names of the men I kill."

  "You missed, turd!" shouted Antony.

  "Fut. I won't next time. And Alaghieri — that's a name I won't forget."

  "You can't," Montecchio sneered. "You're going to be sending him money for the rest of your life."

  "However short that may be," added Antony.

  "Don't pay him any mind," said Pietro dismissively. "He's a coward who uses a coward's weapon."

  The young Paduan broke free of the group he stood with to approach Pietro. No one stopped him, though several guards gripped the swords in their scabbards. Pietro swallowed his pain to stand upright so that when the dark-haired youth arrived, they were nose to nose.

  "A coward's weapon?" hissed the Paduan. "I'll tell you who's a coward — your blessed Capitano, who hides behind fake bows and old men and women instead of fighting like a man."

  "I didn't see him hiding," said Pietro hotly, blood coursing through his veins. "That's more your style — cowering behind a woman's weapon. You were going to run after you fired that bolt, weren't you?"