Tributary

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  It was long after supper and the big room, full of long tables and benches, was vacant, except for the two of us, standing alongside the dying embers of a fire in the massive hearth. I took his hand and pulled him to the nearest table and bench, seating him with his back to the table. “Now lean back,” I said, easing his broad shoulders to the edge, so that his head hovered over the basin. I lifted the pitcher and poured it over his scalp, dousing it thoroughly, then lifted the bar of soap, lathered it in my hands and began rubbing his hair, working the suds through.

  “Saints in heaven, woman,” he moaned, “what are you doing to me?”

  “Washing your hair,” I said, as innocently as I could. But I was grinning. I used my best spa skillage, not only giving him a thorough shampoo, but also massaging his head, moving my thumbs in tiny circles, easing away tension, stress. At least I hoped that was what I was doing.

  His fingers ran down my arms, looking up at me. “I want you to wash my hair this way, every night of our lives.”

  I grinned, rinsing his hair out now, intentionally letting a little splash in his eyes. His hands sprang away to rub them. “We shall see, won’t we?” I said.

  I lightly towel-dried his hair, then moved him to a chair, right by the fire. Once he was situated there, I combed it out, and set to work. I had a distinct look in my mind—lots of layers. Short on top. A little longer at the nape of the neck—just long enough to play with. Slightly longer sideburns. To play up his impish green eyes.

  But I was working with some whacky kind of scissors. They were broad and flat, with a very stiff coil at the end and a wicked edge. The end result was…less than perfect.

  So I cut. And cut. And cut.

  “Is there to be nothing left?” he asked, as the embers burned low in the hearth.

  “Mayhap,” I said, finally smiling at what I was seeing. I ran my fingers through it, helping it dry, and he quieted. Then I tilted his chin up toward me and smiled. “Very nice, Luca. Very, very nice.”

  He ran his fingers through it. “The men will never let me hear the last of it,” he moaned, lifting a silver platter to try and get a bit of reflection, as if he was very much having second thoughts.

  “Until you tell them your woman thinks it most handsome,” I said.

  That made him still, then smile. He wrapped a hand around my waist and drew me close. “So is my lady finished with me?” he asked, looking up.

  “Oh, I think not,” I said, giving him a quick kiss. “We have yet to finish your sideburns.”

  “What? You mean to shave me?”

  “Do you not trust me?” I pretended to pout.

  “Nay, nay,” he said, sounding not at all convinced. Before he could say more, I moved to the basin, poured more water in it, grabbed the soap and razor, and came back to him. “Shall I put another log on?” he said nervously. “So that you might better see?”

  I pulled up a stool, close to him, and straddled it, caressing his face. “I see very well, Luca. Trust me.”

  He turned his face toward me and covered my hand with his. “Evangelia Betarrini, by now, you must certainly know that there is not another woman I trust more in the world.”

  “With anything?”

  “Anything,” he said.

  And that lone word made me smile more broadly than I had all day.

  That…and his killer new haircut that made him look all kinds of hot.

  Alessandra watched through slitted eyes as Lord Rodolfo Greco returned in the earliest hours of morning, and saw Lady Betarrini sleeping on the settee. He reached for a blanket and covered her with it. His every move spoke of respect and care, surprising Alessandra.

  He straightened and quickly looked over to Alessandra, as if he’d felt her gaze.

  She dropped her eyelashes and assumed the heavy, rhythmic breathing of sleep, hoping he’d leave then, as was proper. But instead, she heard him stride over to the empty chair beside her bed and sit down. “You need not pretend you slumber,” he said quietly.

  Alessandra debated continuing her ruse, potentially convincing him in time, but she felt like she could feel every hour of the four days she’d had her eyes shut. She was ready to be awake, moving, despite the murderous headache she suffered. She let her eyes flutter open.

  “Ahh, yes, there you are,” he said, triumph in his brown eyes.

  “Isn’t there a maidservant you could send in to watch over me, while the lady sleeps?” Alessandra asked. “Your presence in my makeshift bedchamber is hardly proper.”

  “Agreed,” he said easily, but only settled back in the chair and placed a casual boot on the opposite leg. “Be at ease—you’ve nothing to fear from me. I’ve been charged by Lord Forelli and our priest to see to your safety—until your father returns to fetch you. Lord Marcello pledged it, upon his life, that you would be well, and well you shall be. Think of me as your personal guard. Your protector.”

  “Or jailer,” she bit out. Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t quite true.

  A tiny smile crossed his handsome face. “You wound me, Signorina. ‘Tisn’t quite like that…”

  She slowly sat up, her head throbbing, but she tried to hide it. “Why tarry? Let us rise and ride. You may escort me home. My father will be nothing short of pleasantly surprised.”

  “Alas, Lady Betarrini, Evangelia’s mother, would hear of no such thing. She’ll allow you to slowly resume your previous activities on the morrow, bit by bit. She says that those who have hit their head must move forward with utmost care. And if we neared the border, let alone crossed it—there’d be misery to pay from the Fiorentini. With or without one of their own in tow. Particularly, with me towing her.”

  Alessandra frowned. “I would tell them of your succor.”

  Rodolfo raised one brow in surprise. “Which would be most kind. Unfortunately, the Fiorentini might twist even good will into something more beneficial for them.” He shrugged. “Even now, your father has surely gone to the Grandi in Firenze. He shall return with a contingent of knights to ensure you are as well and whole as Lord Marcello pledged. And if you are not, you must know that the Fiorentini shall demand justice. In fact, they’ll almost hope you are not, so they can be justified in extracting it.”

  She remained quiet, thinking through his words. She didn’t want to believe it. But she’d learned enough to know that the ways of war and politics were more complex than she’d believed as a child.

  “Something tells me that a woman who hunts with as much determination and focus as you might try something ill-conceived.” He lowered his head, all trace of ease gone from his face, and in its place, only a man determined to see through his task as charged. “And signorina, you shall not be leaving this castle until my lord places your hand in your father’s.”

  She looked toward the ceiling. She really hadn’t decided what her next steps might be. But if Lady Betarrini went on sleeping, she might be able to rise, escape…

  Alessandra felt a heavy weariness slide over her again, claiming her as it did again and again, her lids begging to close, even after all those hours of sleep. But as she let them fall, the throb behind them kept her from settling into slumber.

  “Lord Greco,” she said, but stopped when she saw he’d risen and was already pouring another tincture bottle into a goblet.

  “The pain is plain in your eyes,” he said knowingly, a look of compassion in his own. “And Lady Betarrini is quite adept at fashioning medicines.” He lifted the cup to her. “This will bring you ease.”

  Alessandra paused, sniffing the swirling liquid, wondering if it was anything more than medicine. But Evangelia had been right—as was Lord Greco. Their master had sworn upon his life that Alessandra would be well in their keep. So why poison her now? Quickly, she drank it down, puzzling over the flowery taste.

  But in minutes, she slept, blissfully freed of the pounding ache in her skull.

  ***

  The rising sun was lifting the sky from periwinkle to pink through the window when the eld
er Lady Bettarini stirred and sat up, tossing her long braid over her shoulder and rubbing her face. She looked from Rodolfo to the sleeping girl. “How does she fare?”

  “She awakened for a time last night. She seemed more alert.”

  “Might you stay, m’lord, and keep watch over her while I see to my morning toilette? I can send a maid…”

  “A good plan, m’lady,” he said, rising, gesturing to the door. “Until she arrives, I’ll remain right here.”

  She gave him a gentle smile. “Thank you, Rodolfo.” She edged over to Alessandra, laid a gentle hand on her brow, then felt for her pulse at the wrist. She smiled at him again. “I shall return shortly,” she whispered.

  He took the chair and gazed out the window, watching as the sky warmed in color, turning now to peach, until he felt Alessandra’s eyes upon him.

  He glanced down at her, slowly, carefully. She did not blink. He thought she might be only a couple of years younger than he, an age most women were married and with children, unless they had no beau…He refused to back down from her stare, steadily meeting her probing eyes.

  “Why?” she whispered. “Why turn your back on all who had ever loved you, were behind you?”

  He considered her words, grudging in his admiration for her forthright, honest question. “Because not all were as you describe,” he said with a sigh. He cocked his head and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “I do not expect you to understand, Signorina Alessandra.”

  She waited, unmoving, as if she hoped he’d try to explain.

  “Do you remember when we were children? When Siena and Firenze were at peace?”

  She nodded.

  “My father and Lord Forelli’s father were friends. They traded, in the spring and autumn, both for their own households as well as the surrounding villages. We came here, every year, and in turn, the Forellis came to us six months past. We were two of a number of families who gathered as such, each with sons about our own age. Marcello and I…Luca…” he added, casting a smile over his shoulder, “we were friends too. And over time, it was almost as if we were brothers. Kin.”

  He let the word settle, knowing she’d remember her own use of it. She closed her eyes as if she felt it as a wave of pain, and turned to her back, staring up at the ceiling. “Go on,” she whispered.

  “We made a pact. A lifelong pact. To serve one another when any of us called. We swore it upon our lives. We swore it as an oath to God.”

  She remained silent and he wondered if he’d said too much. But the brotherhood was no longer a secret. Not since Firenze sent their fiercest knights to track down those they’d discovered and murdered them. Rodolfo’s teeth ground together, remembering.

  “You know as well as I that relations between the republics gradually soured, and escalated swiftly toward ongoing strife. Battle. And what once were boys became men of age, but on opposite sides of the line that had been drawn between us.”

  She let her head fall toward him again, folds of shiny brown hair beneath her face. She was truly beautiful, and at the thought of it, Rodolfo made himself look away, to the window. “It was naught but a boyhood pledge,” she said. “Your loyalty belonged with your fellow Fiorentini.”

  “Nay,” he said, staring back at her. “It was an oath of boys, witnessed by God, who foresaw that we’d grow to manhood, divided. To not honor my oath to them ultimately tore more deeply at me than turning my back on my Fiorentini friends. Make no mistake. I love my city. I loved my life among our people. But long ago, my life became inexorably entwined with those who love Siena.”

  He looked at her, feeling ragged, raw. “And then the Fiorentini…” He shook his head, rubbing his neck. “They committed such heinous acts…Trust me when I say you do not know what lengths some will go to in order to accomplish their goals.”

  “No more than the Sienese.”

  “On the contrary,” he said. “They went to far greater lengths than the Sienese. Stooped so low it appalled me. Not all of them. But certain men among the Grandi—”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  He sighed and sat back in his chair. “You are free to believe what you wish.”

  She paused. “Why tell me all of this?”

  He took a deep breath and leaned forward, elbows on knees, his hand cupping his cheek. “I know not. Only that…only that I wish for you to understand. To know that at least one Fiorentini understands why I did what I had to—”

  “But you accepted Castello Paratore, lands, as bounty from Lord Forelli,” she said.

  “I’d lost everything, signorina. I had little choice. If I was to begin my life anew, I had to have resources.”

  “Convenient, that,” she said, her tone hardening. “That your oath was to one of the Nine. Someone capable of rebuilding your holdings within a fortnight.”

  “My oath was not traded on future power. Only upon loyalty, whether we be prince or pauper.”

  “I’d wager that none of those boys of your brotherhood became paupers.”

  He hesitated. Was he to be blamed that he’d been born to a powerful merchant rather than a farmer too? “Nay, not all are rich, but none became paupers.”

  “Who are the others? Are there others, yet, who swear fealty to Firenze, but might turn at any moment?”

  He considered her. He could detect no evil intent, but this woman was still considered a potential enemy in Marcello’s keep. “That is not for me to tell.”

  He rose, already feeling as if he’d said too much. “I have only told you what I have so that you might understand what draws a man to make decisions as I have.”

  The maid arrived then, chirping her good morning, a basket of food hanging over her arm, a pitcher of water in her hands.

  With a nod toward Alessandra, Rodolfo turned and strode out of the room, suddenly needing some fresh air.

  ***

  Lady Betarrini, startlingly tall and blond—like an older version of Lady Evangelia—came around the bed and knelt in her elegant gown at Alessandra’s feet. “Oh, my friend,” she said, taking her hand, “what joy it is to see your recovery. Truly, I’ve prayed day and night for little else.” She smiled and Alessandra tried to hide her surprise. The woman had every one of her teeth! She’d seldom seen a woman of her own mother’s age that looked as well as Lady Betarrini. Proof that the rich truly do have more than we.

  “Thank you,” Alessandra said, remembering her manners, and a little stunned at the lady’s overt friendliness. “You have been most kind in your ministrations. I may have perished if not for you.”

  She smiled again. “I hardly saw to you alone. Gabriella, Evangelia, Rodolfo, Luca…you might say we saw to you as one of our own.”

  Alessandra stiffened. She was not one of them. To even mention it was akin to calling her a traitor, even if the woman had clearly not meant it that way. “Lady Betarrini—”

  “Please, call me Adri.”

  Alessandra paused again. What sort of lady asked to use her Christian name, so soon upon meeting? With a girl half her age and not near her social status? Most strange. “Lady Adri, might I go home this day? I awakened in the night with a terrible headache, but this morning I am nothing but famished.”

  “I believe you,” she said. “But you must take it very slowly, and gradually experiment with movement. Your head suffered a terrible blow.” She lifted her long fingers to Alessandra’s face and hesitated. “May I?”

  Alessandra nodded and the woman moved her face toward the sun streaming through the window and lifted one lid and then the other, studying her eyes. “There is no trace of headache this morning?”

  “Nay.”

  She rose and bent Alessandra’s head forward, examining the wound on her scalp. “That’s not looking half-bad.”

  Alessandra puzzled over her odd wording. Did that mean half-good? “Are you a physician, m’lady?”

  “Me?” she said, a smile in her tone. “Nay. I simply like reading of the healing arts, and on occasion, I’m called upon to see
to those in need. Like you.”

  The lady’s hands moved down to hold one of her own, and she set two fingers against Alessandra’s wrist, closing her eyes...counting? Alessandra couldn’t tell.

  She ceased and looked into Alessandra’s eyes. “Today, a bath. Food, of course. Mayhap a walk about the courtyard on someone’s arm. But nothing else,” she said firmly.

  “And on the morrow? On the morrow I may return home?”

  “Nay,” Adri said. “Do you find us so abhorrent that you are eager to leave our keep?” she said with a wry grin. “Your father returns in two days. If God smiles, you shall be right as rain by then and we will happily send you off.”

  So the others spoke the truth. Or simply had agreed on the same story to keep her here. “What does this mean, ‘right as rain’?”

  Adri smiled, her eyes as blue as Evangelia’s. “An expression from our homeland. Is rain not always quintessentially right?”

  “For a farmer, yes,” Alessandra said. “Until there’s too much of it.”

  Adri’s smile widened. “My grandfather always said there was always too little or too much rain. But it’s always such a warm feeling to be inside by the fire, when the rain comes down, is it not?”

  “Your grandfather…he was a farmer?” She tried to get over the shock of it. Weren’t ladies and lords always born to other ladies and lords?

  “Indeed,” Adri said. “He grew potatoes. They do not have them here.” Her long fingers formed a ball. “They’re a root vegetable that grow into ovals, about the size of my fist, here. Baked, with some butter, some salt and other spices…” She closed her eyes and moaned, clearly wishing she had one right now. “Mmm, now I’m famished too. Mayhap I’ll go about and fetch us some food to break our fast.”

  “Would you like me to send a maid for it, m’lady?” asked a tall knight with short hair, as he entered. Alessandra struggled to remember which one he was, from the night she awakened in a fog. Sir Luca Forelli, she decided. The dreaded captain of the Forelli knights, looking decidedly less than dreadful.