Collecting Isobelle

by L. L. Muir

  Isobelle rubbed her face to hide her grin until she had it under control. She didn’t bother to hide her Scottish brogue, for she was fair to certain she had the words right.

  “Troppo breve,” she said. Too short.

  The man’s brows shot up, as did Signora Crescento’s. But while the short man appeared insulted, the old woman looked quite pleased. She pushed the first man out of her way, then shoved the next man forward. He frowned over his shoulder, clearly unappreciative of the old woman’s roughness.

  “E questo?” the old woman asked.

  “Troppo...fiero.” Too fierce. At least she thought that was what it meant. She’d simply glared at the girl to get the right word. For all she knew, it meant angry or frightening.

  To Isobelle’s surprise, the man nodded, put his hat on his head, then offered both her and Signora Crescento a slight bow before walking away with his head held high.

  Undaunted, the old woman pushed the next one forward. He was timid as a mouse, only glancing at Isobelle and briefly holding her gaze before looking at his feet. He’d been much braver without the audience, poor man.

  “Troppo grasso,” she said quietly, so as not to hurt the thin man’s feelings any more than was necessary.

  He grinned and walked away. A dozen paces later, he laughed quietly.

  The next one was a bit too bold. He leered at her, winked at her. She could hear his labored breathing that she feared had nothing to do with the incline of the lane. It was this man she would have in mind when she barred the door every night.

  “Troppo...” She had no Italian word for him. There was a limit to what she and Britta could devise with only a bit of mimicking. “No,” she finally said. “Just, no.”

  The man continued to leer, unwilling to be dismissed with no reason. Since she’d left Scotland and the protection of her brother and his high station in their clan, she’d come across many of his sort. If she shied away from him, he would pursue her.

  She stepped forward abruptly and did not stop until there was but a hand’s breadth between them. The man’s nostrils flared and he took in the details of her hair, her apron, her lips. He grinned to one side of his mouth.

  Though it turned her stomach to do so, she leaned toward him. Narrowing her eyes, she repeated, “No. Absolutely no.”

  His own eyes narrowed, then he huffed and walked away, pausing long enough to spit in her little yard before moving off. A new enemy? Certainly. But she would not want him on her side, or behind her, in any battle.

  Much to Isobelle’s surprise, Signora Crescento spouted a string of Italian that sounded very much like an apology. Isobelle shrugged and stepped over to her stoop before turning back to the rest. She spread her feet wide and folded her arms, waiting.

  The fourth man stepped forward before the old woman could push him. Isobelle laughed, then the others joined in. Though the man was no taller than the first three, Isobelle pronounced him, “Troppo alto.” Too tall. She’d had no alternative since her arsenal had run out of Italian words. For a moment, the man frowned, then he burst out laughing. She did the same, relieved he hadn’t been insulted.

  The signora stepped next to the fifth man and simply pointed to him.

  “Troppo...” Isobelle shrugged.

  “Troppo brutto!” Britta shouted from her window.

  While the others looked for the interloper, Isobelle studied the man in question. She was fair to certain brutto meant ugly. The man was blessed with a beak of a nose when combined with the dark circles below his eyes gave him the appearance of a scavenger bird.

  Signore Brutto simply shrugged and walked away with a wave, his shoulders bunched high like folded wings.

  That left the sixth and last man. His face was handsome enough, though a deep shade of red as he waited for Isobelle to announce why he was unfit to court her. But he raised his chin at the last and waited.

  Isobelle could not be cruel. She did not know this man, could not judge him as fit or unfit for marriage or anything else. But neither could she encourage him. She would not be marrying a Venetian or anyone. It was she who was unfit for him. And then she realized she knew another Italian word that would suit. She’d heard it and whispered it just that morning, inside her wee cottage.

  “Troppo...perfetto.” Too perfect. She shrugged and waited.

  Though the man remained as red as before, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. He bobbed, muttered something to himself, then he bobbed again. And in his excitement, he stepped forward, took Isobelle’s hand, and kissed the back of it. Then he carefully returned her hand to her side before backing away.

  He waved every ten steps or so until he was out of sight.

  Isobelle turned back to Signora Crescento, expecting her to be cross, but the old woman surprised her.

  “No Italiano, eh?” she said. “Troppo, breve, fiero, grasso, alto, brutto, e perfetto.” With each word, she touched a finger, then held up those seven fingers when she was finished. “Sette parole Italiane. Sette più domani.” Then in English, “Seven words Italian. Seven more tomorrow.”

  While Isobelle stood in shock at the crafty woman’s sudden ability to speak English, the old woman looked up at Britta. A frown turned her pleasant features into a deeply furrowed field and she shook her finger at the lass and chastised her with such a battering of Italian, Isobelle would never be able to understand it all if she had a proper teacher and a dozen years to learn the words.

  Poor Britta stepped back from the window and still the woman ranted.

  Isobelle considered ducking inside her cottage while Signora Crescento’s attention was elsewhere, but before she reached for the handle behind her, the woman’s attention dropped away from the window. A smile tugged at her wrinkly cheek and she winked at Isobelle before turning down the lane toward her own house.

  Britta appeared at the window again, and she and Isobelle exchanged worried looks, just before they broke into laughter.

  The child held up seven fingers, as the old woman had, and enunciated slowly. “Seven…more…tomorrow.”

  Seven more words? Or seven more men?

  CHAPTER SIX

  If Isobelle was any judge, Ossian was a wee nervous when he returned to the cottage that night. He wasn’t shaking, but his eyes couldn’t seem to land on anything for long. While he waited for supper to cook itself through, the table seemed to interest him for a bit. Then something outside the window. He headed for the door and claimed he wished to take a gander at the garden spot, but he took his fine time returning. Isobelle finally gave up and went outside herself, to see if the man had wandered off in his distracted state. But he stood to the side of the house, his toes on the edge of the prepared plot of dirt, staring at the stone of the cottage wall.

  “What do ye see there, Ossian? A hole that needs a patch? Perhaps ye should take a good look around at the place before ye go searching for a fancy berth on a ship, aye?”

  “I’ve already looked, Izzy.”

  The air was too heavy in her chest. It would move neither out, nor in. Finally, she forced herself to take a deep breath to help clean out the old air.

  “Oh? Ye’ve looked?” She kept her tone light. “No luck, I suppose?”

  Ossian pulled his attention from the wall and finally looked at her. “I thought I’d found some luck. A ship headed to England, even. A merchant who deals in long bows made from English Oak. He was right pleased to have me...or so he was this morn. Then he sent a man to find me, to tell me he’d been mistaken, that there was no room.”

  Isobelle’s spirits took wing. Ossian wouldn’t be leaving so soon after all. Usually, when he couldn’t look her in the eye, it was because he was trying to find the courage to tell her he was leaving her alone for a while. And sometimes, the whiles were months long. Neither of them would admit it, but each time he left, there was a chance they’d never see each other again, what with one bit of trouble and another. And most of it caused by her hair and the men who felt the need to touch it. But they couldn’t
very well pay a man to protect her—it would take all Ossian’s wages to do so. And if Ossian did the protecting, there would be no wages earned. She was simply far too much trouble for one man to handle. Even plaited, her hair found a way to escape. But if she could see fit to cut her hair, so she could keep it covered always, she might be fine enough on her own.

  She just couldn’t seem to do it.

  “I’m sorry ye were disappointed, cousin.” She would not say she was sorry he was staying with her.

  “Oh, aye. I was.” He took a deep breath, then another. “But then I happened upon another man who offered me a position on an island in the Laguna Viva, on one of the octagonal islands, where they gather to defend against the Turkish ships. A pretty price, he was willing to pay me, seasoned warrior that I am. I thought I might finally be able to hire a guard or two to see ye safe, that ye’d need not marry if ye didna care to.”

  Isobelle said nothing, hoping the strange tone in his voice meant he’d reconsidered that proposition as well.

  “But as soon as we’d parted ways, another man came to me and told the same tale, that the captain had decided not to trust a Scot. Can ye believe it? Not to trust a Scot?”

  “Oh, Ossian.” She shook her head. “What could they be thinking? Yer obviously more able than most. But why not trust a Scot?”

  There was a familiar niggling in the back of her mind, wondering if someone’s distrust of anyone Scottish had something to do with her. But the only trouble she’d caused since arriving in Venice was to anger a bunch of nuns. And if they were cloistered, how could they have aught to do with seamen? Or men of war?

  The only unkindness she’d done since then was to send six men away—only one of whom might have been disgruntled enough to cause trouble for her. But if he had set his sights on her, why would he not wish for Ossian to leave the city?

  Her cousin shook his head. “All I can imagine,” he said, “is that some other Scotsman has ruined our reputation in one way or ‘tother.”

  Isobelle nodded. That made as much sense as anything else. But as much as she wanted her cousin close, she would not have him insulted. Ossian was a braw, brave man who commanded respect. He was fair and honorable. And considering his talent with most weapons, his loyalty was a boon beyond price.

  She felt righteous indignation filling her gullet and wished she could champion her cousin’s cause in some way. It was the least she could do, after the man had put his life aside to help save hers. And he’d risked that same life for her a dozen times over since they’d left their beloved Scotland.

  “What can I do, Ossian? Who are these cowards who would imagine ye to be untrustworthy? Surely there is someone who would give ye the chance to prove yerself. That is all ye need, mavournin’. One chance to earn their fine opinion.”

  Ossian smiled at her then, and she felt as if she’d finally done something to make the man happy. Had she never told him before how proud she was to call him cousin? Or husband? Whichever the moment required?

  “Auch, but I’m pleased to hear ye say such a thing, Izzy. For ‘tis true I was beginning to think ye a selfish woman to want me with ye forever more.”

  Isobelle gave him a shove and he nearly stepped on her precious garden of dirt.

  “Yer a fine man, Ossian,” she said. “Even if ye are daft as a pike. Did I not tell ye? Signora Crescento has already been draggin’ every male in Venice past me door for inspection. I’ll have yer arse replaced in but a day or two.” She didn’t plan to tell him she’d rejected every one of them, or that she would continue to reject all suitors.

  Ossian walked around her and headed for the door and his supper. “Glad I am to hear it, Izzy. For I did find a man who wishes to give me that chance to prove me worth. In fact, he has such faith in me, he’s already paid me a reward for signing on. I dinna think he’ll be reconsidering like the others. And since we leave tonight, with the tide, he won’t have much of a chance to do so, aye?”

  She took a handful of his shirt and jerked her cousin backward. He moved quickly, but was unable to stop himself from landing on that arse she was just referring to.

  “Yer a daft, daft man, Ossian Ross. Just because I said it, doesna mean I meant it.”

  “Weel,” he said with a shrug. “As long as I’m already down here, I may as well tell ye the rest of it. Save ye the need to knock me doon again.”

  Isobelle closed her eyes for a moment, putting off the inevitable. But what could possibly be worse news than Ossian leaving her at the mercy of Venetians while he danced about on a ship waiting for attacks that rarely came?

  He rested his arms on his knees and waited.

  “Out with it then, cousin,” she spat.

  He gave a nod. “The ship is leaving for the New World of Columbus, Isobelle. I dinna ken when I’ll be back, aye?”

  She let the news sweep through her, taking her breath and leaving its mark on her heart. The day she’d been dreading had arrived, the day Ossian would leave her for good. She’d overheard enough on their latest voyage to know that hundreds of men and entire ships failed to return from the New World, which meant danger—which meant her fearless cousin wouldn’t be able to resist it. She only wondered how long he’d been hoping for just such an opportunity. If he hadn’t been bound to her, he likely would have left Scotland for such an adventure.

  Finally, she nodded and backed toward the front of the house. “Me supper’s getting cold.”

  He puffed out his chest. “And what of my supper?”

  “I suggest ye go find some foosty pesce and stuff yerself.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gaspar was at war.

  He was certain it was the devil with whom he warred, though anyone watching closely could easily misunderstand what drove him. They would see a beautiful woman and assume he was driven by his baser urges. But they would be wrong. He had simply devised an original strategy for fighting Satan. And since he was a man of few words, beholden to few, he set his plans in motion without the need to explain himself to others. He was God’s Dragon, a powerful, mythical thing driven by his need to serve God. There was no reason he could not do it all.

  Prove himself.

  Save the woman.

  And defeat Satan. All at the same time.

  His man, Icarus, knew some of his plans, out of necessity, but it was likely he had no notion as to his master’s reasons for them. The little man simply moved about Venice unnoticed, doing Gaspar’s bidding. If he wondered at his master’s motives, he would have his curiosity settled soon enough.

  As God’s Dragon, Gaspar had acquired enough wealth over his thirty-two years to rival the treasure of that legendary beast for which he was named. So it was not surprising when his preparations could be ready in a matter of days instead of months.

  The iron worker, Ferro, had been quick to do Gaspar’s bidding. He and his men had taken an elaborate rood screen commissioned for the new St. Mark’s church and with it, were able to fill Gaspar’s requirements immediately. The new church was still under construction and there was time enough for another screen to be fabricated. The second screen would still be an original, since the first would be changed to fit Gaspar’s requirements. Only the artwork would be similar. And few souls would ever lay eyes upon the first screen, let alone complain.

  Oh, there would be complaining, but not about the design. He imagined a fiery-haired Scotswoman would have plenty to complain about the moment she laid eyes upon the screen.

  As Gaspar finished his simple supper, the famous iron worker knocked upon the door of his stanza privata. Gaspar bid him enter, then gestured for the man to speak.

  Ferro’s eyes were drawn to the white scar and froze there. “It is finished, Signore Dragotti.”

  Gaspar nodded, but said nothing, for fear his excitement might reveal too much to the workman.

  “So,” the man said, as if searching for a topic that might engage Gaspar in conversation. He forced himself to look away from the scar, but his attention quickly
returned.

  God’s Dragon frowned. “You have been paid.”

  It was not a question.

  The man’s head bobbed. “Si, mio signore.”

  “Paid enough to forget the screen ever existed.”

  “Si, mio signore.”

  “I suggest, Signore Ferro, you do not allow the devil to tempt you to remember.”

  “Si! Si, mio signore!”

  Gaspar turned his attention back to the parchment before him. After a moment, Ferro began backing toward the door, though as far as the man knew, God’s Dragon had already forgotten he existed. And if he were waiting for praise, well… Gaspar was not foolish enough to examine the creation while standing beside a worker who might question its purpose.

  Icarus shuffled into the room and waited. Gaspar waved a hand for the man to take his tray away. He’d been too distracted with his plans to eat, and yet he was not hungry. Another victory over the temptations of the flesh, he thought, without any effort at all.

  “You remember your orders for tomorrow?” he asked the little man.

  “Si, mio signore. I will have the second boat ready. Just where you said.”

  “Fine, then. You may go.”

  In his usual exercise in self-control, he waited one hour, then another, before he allowed himself to go inspect the work. First, he chose to prove to the devil—if he were watching—that Gaspar Dragotti was no slave to desire. Second, he would not give the iron workers the satisfaction of seeing the window light up at the top of the tower the moment their boat was away. If he showed any pleasure in their fabrication, they would no doubt tell others of their custom work for The Patriarch’s Investigator. And the last thing he wanted was for someone to come to his private island unannounced, expecting to have a good look at the work in question.

  It would be best for everyone if the iron workers put this commission behind them and looked toward the next—a feat no artist could manage if they might find praise in a work already completed. Had he not seen the same in Michelangelo?