Rose Red

by Speer, Flora

  Rose Red

  by

  Flora Speer

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2013, 1996, by Flora Speer

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

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  Prologue

  “They have gone,” said Niccolo Stregone in answer to the question just posed to him. “They have fled away and disappeared, no doubt with the aid of the ever-faithful Bartolomeo. You need not worry about them any longer.”

  “No?” Marco Guidi cast a dark and marveling look upon his associate, wondering how the man could be so unconcerned that three of their most important intended victims had escaped.

  Niccolo Stregone was unusually short, a wiry man with a long, pointed chin and lank black hair. Seeing him against the background of the ducal reception room, with its overturned furniture, slashed and torn draperies, bloody stains on floor and walls, with the last of the contorted bodies being dragged away by the men-at-arms, Marco Guidi decided that Stregone looked perfectly at home in the midst of the hellish scene. The red glare of the fires outside the palace, which shone through the long windows and flickered over Stregone’ s angular, swarthy features, only added to the infernal effect. Marco Guidi almost expected to see horns sprouting from Stregone’s forehead.

  In a time when most people were known by their baptismal names, and those who had reason to do so boasted freely of their family names, this man preferred to be known by the name he had given to himself. Stregone. Wizard. Marco Guidi thought evil dwarf might be a more accurate appellation. No one knew the true name of Stregone’s family, or the name of the place where he had been born. Still, for all the mystery surrounding Stregone, not to mention the distaste he aroused in the hearts of honest folk, he had proven to be both useful and thorough in fulfilling the most dangerous or delicate assignments. It was astonishing that he had failed in an important aspect of this particular plan.

  “Why didn’t you kill them, too?” Marco Guidi demanded, annoyed and secretly fearful because his expressed wishes had not been carried out to the final detail.

  “I have been occupied with far more important concerns than mere women and children. As you well know, it is largely thanks to me that this particular eagle will not fly again,” Stregone said.

  With deliberate care he wiped the bloody blade of his dagger on a tattered shred of green velvet curtain. The velvet was embroidered in golden thread with a design of eagles with outspread wings. Stregone made certain that at least one pair of golden wings was tarnished with red, then took an extra moment to be sure the ornate hilt of his dagger was clean. Satisfied, he sheathed the weapon. Finally, he looked around, his thin lips twisting in distaste.

  “This room is a mess. You will want new draperies at the windows and new furniture.”

  “It would appear that you and the men you led were more vigorous than I anticipated. Or was it that you met more opposition than you expected?”

  Marco Guidi turned his attention from the ruined reception room to what was happening in the piazza. Outside the tall windows the night was loud with the cries of those who had opposed the deposition of the Farisi family and the ascent of the Guidi. The noise would soon be silenced by resignation, for what had happened in the ducal palace on this autumn evening was an event common enough in the city-states of Italy during the mid-fifteenth century. A little money distributed here, a touch of clever treachery there, an accomplished assassin who knew exactly when and how to strike – that was all it took to effect a change of rulers. In another hour, after his men had finished securing the city, Marco Guidi would be proclaimed the new duke of Monteferro.

  Unfortunately, the new duke owed Niccolo Stregone a debt for this day’s work. Marco Guidi hated Stregone, but the little man, demon that he was, knew too many secrets and had too many powerful contacts to be eliminated as easily as the late duke. Truly, Girolamo Farisi had been a political innocent to trust a creature like Stregone. Or to trust Marco Guidi.

  “You have accomplished all that you said you would do.” Marco Guidi could not bring himself actually to touch Stregone or to clasp his hand in thanks, but he did summon up a false smile. “However, I am not sure that what we have done here will be enough.”

  “Indeed?” said Stregone. “Why not, when we have been so successful? Your position is secure. I have seen to it.”

  “True enough,” said Marco Guidi. He uttered a dissatisfied sigh that appeared to contradict his own words and then went on to explain. “Being Duke of Monteferro is all very well, but as you are aware, I have a large family to care for. Some of my relatives are remarkably greedy.”

  “Greedy, my lord?” Stregone never smiled. He drew back his lips instead, in an unpleasant grimace. His small, oddly delicate fingers stroked the gold-and-enamel hilt of his dagger, lingering on the green stone set at the top. “I know a permanent cure for greed.”

  “No, that will not do. Not for blood relatives.” Marco Guidi shut his lips on the comment that Stregone should have known as much. For an instant he allowed his dislike of Stregone to show, before he quickly covered his uneasy emotions with another oily smile. “Eventually, to pacify certain of my relatives, I am going to require greater resources than even wealthy Monteferro has to offer. Not immediately, you understand, but in time. To that end I have conceived a plan that I am certain you will appreciate, for it will provide you with remarkable opportunities to exercise your talents. And to become wealthy, if you wish.”

  Stregone said nothing to this speech. He simply watched with unwavering black eyes as Marco Guidi moved to the windows to look northeastward, as if it were possible to see through the darkness, across the wide plain that stretched from the walls of Monteferro to the boundary of the next city-state. A wise man never turned his back toward Niccolo Stregone, and Marco Guidi did not do so now. With a skill born of long acquaintance with Stregone, he appeared to be leading the little man toward the window to show him the possibilities that lay in the broad vista beyond the palace – and in the future.

  “Suppose,” said Marco Guidi, using his smoothest, most persuasive voice, “that you were to fear for your life if you remain in Monteferro and, thus fearing, you were to flee the city to seek sanctuary at another court. At this very wealthy, nearby court, you would no doubt be welcomed for your well-known devotion to the late Duke of Monteferro, as well as for your diplomatic abilities and your wisdom as a councilor, qualities which that same late, much lamented duke frequently praised.” He paused, eyebrows raised in a silent question, watching his companion’s reaction.

  “I am listening.” Stregone’s dark eyes were unfathomable. “Do go on.”

  “There may be some suspicion of you at first, but no matter. Given nothing to feed upon, all suspicions pass in time, and acceptance will banish wariness. We can afford to be patient until you establish yourself. It will take years before we are ready to strike. When the time is right, you will be in a perfect position to act. As you acted here, today, after years of patience.”

  “What am I to do for pleasure while I am waiting?” asked Stregone.

  “You will earn a great deal of money, from me as well as from your new employer, who is famous for his generosity. Buy whatever pleasures you like. Just be discreet, as you have always been. And hide the bodies afterward.”

  “This idea of y
ours holds a certain appeal,” said Stregone, “especially considering how disliked I am in Monteferro. It might be advantageous for me to absent myself from the city as quickly as possible.”

  “I was certain you would recognize the virtue in my plan,” Marco Guidi said. “As usual, we are in perfect agreement.”

  “If I am to flee in desperate haste, fearing for my life,” said Stregone, waving one hand in an airy gesture that mocked the words he spoke, “then I had best be off without further delay.”

  “As you wish. Once you have established yourself, you will be contacted by my agents. You will know them by the gold ducats and florins they deliver to you. It will be wiser not to use coins minted here in Monteferro, to avoid even the hint of a connection between us.”

  “I understand. Well, then, arrivederci.`’ Stregone disappeared from the reception room as if by magic, though Marco Guidi knew it was not by magic at all, but only the effect of the quick, unexpected way in which the little man habitually moved.

  “You are mistaken, Stregone,” Marco Guidi murmured after his accomplice had gone, “sadly mistaken, if you think because she has no male family members left to avenge her, Eleonora Farisi is finished. You should have killed her, and her children, while you had the chance. We may both live to regret that you did not, for I am certain if ever she discovers the right weapon for her purpose, la duchessa Eleonora will bring down retribution upon us without mercy for the deeds we have committed this day.”

  Chapter 1

  ”I have two daughters, one a flower as pure and white as the new-fallen snow and the other a rose as red and sweet as the fires of passion.”

  Eleonora, Duchess of Monteferro.

  “Rosalinda, where have you been? If you are late to the table this evening, Mother will be greatly annoyed with you. Luca has come with news.”

  Rosalinda had slowed her horse to a walk when she saw her sister waiting for her, and now Bianca caught at the animal’s bridle, bringing the horse to a halt at the stableyard entrance.

  The late afternoon sun glistened on Rosalinda’s dark hair, setting errant curls aflame with reddish light. Before going out to ride, she had pulled the thick mass into a single long braid that hung down her back in the Milanese fashion but, as usually happened, her hair would no more be confined than would the girl’s bright spirit.

  “Mother is always annoyed with me,” Rosalinda scoffed. “And Luca never reveals his most interesting news to us. Only Mother, and sometimes Valeria and Bartolomeo, hear what he has to tell. They all keep secrets from us as if we were still small children.” She swung a shapely leg over her horse’s back and jumped to the ground as effortlessly as any man, landing in a graceful swirl of brown wool skirt.

  “Must you ride astride?” Bianca asked. “It is most unbecoming for a lady to allow her legs to be seen in public.”

  “Public?” Rosalinda gave a short bark of laughter, the sound making Bianca grimace with disapproval. “We live so well hidden here at Villa Serenita that no one from outside our lands ever sees me, and the men-at-arms are used to me and think nothing of the way I choose to ride. I never go into the village, Bianca,” she added, seeing her sister’s concerned expression. “Please don’t be afraid for me.” She put an arm around Bianca, hugging her.

  “How can I help but be frightened? I know, as you do not, what will happen to all of us if our enemies should discover that we are still alive.” A worried look crossed Bianca’s delicate features. Her soft blue eyes were shadowed by memory. Even the gold of her hair appeared momentarily dimmed. “You are too young to remember what life was like while Father was still alive, or to know just how much we lost on that awful day. I cannot ever forget, no matter how hard I try.

  “When I close my eyes, I can relive those dreadful scenes as if they were happening again.” Bianca moaned softly and buried her face in Rosalinda’s shoulder. She went on, speaking in disjointed sentences as if she could only see the past in bits and pieces, “The shouts – terrified people running to and fro – men in armor storming through the ducal palace. The blood – dear God in heaven, all the blood! And Father lying so still. Then Bartolomeo picking me up and carrying me away from Father’s reception chamber. Valeria weeping while she tried to pack a few clothes for us. Bartolomeo shouting at her to hurry. Mother frightened. I never saw her anything but happy before Father was killed. I think she has been frightened ever since that day. I know I have been afraid.”

  Rosalinda hugged Bianca more tightly, hoping thus to reassure her that the terror of her early childhood was long ago and far away. Physically, the sisters were not at all alike. With her soft blond beauty and gentle manner, Bianca, at age twenty-one, resembled their mother. Two years younger than Bianca, Rosalinda was very like their father in appearance, having inherited his dark, lustrous curls and his flashing gray eyes. Bartolomeo, who had been their father’s best friend, claimed that Rosalinda was also similar to him in character, brave and daring like Girolamo Farisi, the late Duke of Monteferro.

  Rosalinda believed the comparison was inaccurate. She could not deny her impetuous nature, least of all to herself, but the closest she could come to bravery was to ride her horse into the mountains whenever she had the chance, in defiance of her mother’s wishes that she should always stay close to the villa.

  “Despite what you and Mother think, I do pay heed to what she says when she admonishes me.”

  Rosalinda looked over her sister’s shoulder to the mountains she loved to roam. The first frosts had come and gone, their icy touch changing the leaves of the trees and the thick undergrowth that grew upon the lower elevations to soft shades of red and gold, or to rusty browns. Where shadows fell upon them, the bare gray rocks of the soaring mountaintops turned a misty shade of purple. Some of the nearer peaks displayed a faint white hint of early snow. Above the mountains and the protected valley where the villa stood, the northern Italian sky stretched deep blue and clear, with only a few fluffy clouds. But the wind was chill. For warmth Rosalinda was wearing a short jacket cut like a man’s doublet over her brown wool dress.

  “There will not be many more days like this one. Winter is coming. You of all people, Bianca, know how I hate to be confined by the ice and snow. Will you begrudge me a final taste of freedom while it is still possible?”

  “Of course not, my dearest,” Bianca responded, touching Rosalinda’s cheek in a loving gesture. “But please do take care. You ought to ride with a groom and a man-at-arms.”

  “The men-at-arms who are not standing guard are all busy helping with the last of the harvest. Bartolomeo cannot spare anyone to attend on my pleasure. Besides, I prefer to ride alone. I love it up there in the wild mountains. I feel free, as I never can be here at the villa. Alone, I can be quiet and watch the birds and the animals without frightening them away. Today I saw an eagle and a bear. Mother would have liked the eagle.”

  “An eagle is not likely to threaten you, but a bear?” Bianca cried, her eyes widening with a new fear. “Oh, Rosalinda, you should not have told me. Now I will be more worried about you each time you go out. Bears can be dangerous.”

  “Not that bear,” Rosalinda declared. “I am sure the bear I saw was afraid of me, because he stood up on his hind legs and ran off into the trees as soon as I rode around the curve in the path. I am late because I wasn’t sure of what I had seen and I spent time looking for him. It was a strange place for a bear to be at this time of year. He should have been down here in the valley, fishing in the streams or searching for honey to fill his belly before he goes to sleep for the winter.”

  “If a bear comes to the valley, I trust the men-at-arms will kill him,” Bianca said. “Then we shall have a bear rug to lay before the fire in Mother’s sitting room.”

  “If that were to happen,” Rosalinda responded, “I would feel sorry for the poor bear and never look at the rug we made of him. Meanwhile you, dear sister, would probably sit upon his unmoving back each evening and roast chestnuts in the fire.”

  �
��You are teasing me. But I am not quite the coward you think I am,” Bianca snapped. Putting on her best big-sister manner, she continued, “I am older and have seen more of the treacherous world than you. Therefore, I know when to be cautious. Bears are dangerous. Some men are even more so. Never forget that, Rosalinda.

  “Now, you have wasted enough time. Take care of your horse as quickly as you can,” Bianca instructed. “I will see to it that you have a pitcher of hot water in your room for washing. Try not to be late. I will tell Mother that you have come home safely and will be down in time for the evening meal.”

  A short time later, with her horse settled for the night, Rosalinda hastened through the garden toward the rear entrance of the villa. It was the quickest way from the stable to her room on the upper floor, and it was also her favorite way to enter the house. She loved the scented air in the garden. Each time she walked along the gravel paths, she wondered what her grandfather, who by all accounts had been a rough fighting man, would think of what his daughter had made from the area just beyond the rear terrace of his house in the mountains.

  Well concealed in an untraveled area where the higher reaches of mere foothills began to rise into the soaring heights of the Alps, Villa Serenita had been built by Rosalinda’s grandfather, Mariano Ricci, a famous and highly successful condottiere. Fully aware of the perils to which a mercenary commander like himself was exposed during the constant warfare and political intrigues taking place amongst Venice, Milan, Genoa, and the other city-states of Italy, Mariano had decided it would be wise to maintain a safe, carefully hidden retreat in case his way of earning a living should turn even more dangerous than usual. But throughout his long life, Mariano’s fortunes had never faltered. He had died in bed at the age of seventy, rich and full of honors, though somewhat concerned over the future of his only child, Eleonora, whom he had married off to his last employer, Girolamo Farisi, the Duke of Monteferro. Through his clever banker, Mariano was able to make secret arrangements to leave Villa Serenita to Eleonora.