Rose Red

by Speer, Flora

  Moreover, Andrea had made a solemn, silent vow that he would discover what had happened to his lost companions. With each day that passed, with every bit of new strength he could feel in his rapidly recovering body, he grew more eager for action. All he required was a few days of clear weather, and a suitable excuse for going.

  “I cannot stay in this sitting room, at this table, a moment longer!” Rosalinda, too, was growing restless from forced inactivity. Ignoring Bianca’s scowl, Rosalinda looked up from her slate to gaze through the window with longing.

  “You cannot ride when the snow is so deep,” Bianca protested. “Please, Rosalinda, pay attention to your lesson. If Mother comes in and discovers you are not working, she will be annoyed.”

  “The sun is shining and here comes Andrea from his sword practice,” Rosalinda said. “Let us at least walk along the terrace, or to the stable and back. The path is well broken by now, with the men tramping out there every day. I can’t think Mother would object to that.”

  “Well, perhaps, just for a short time.” Bianca sent a thoughtful look toward the tall, muscular figure now making its way to the terrace steps. Even wearing a worn and patched green doublet that Bartolomeo had contributed as suitable only for sword practice, Andrea in restored health was a sight to catch the eye of any woman.

  “I’ll get our cloaks.” Rosalinda was gone from the room before Bianca could change her mind.

  Bianca put down her quill and stoppered the ink bottle. By the time she stood at the terrace door, Rosalinda was back with their outer garments.

  “I told Valeria where we would be. Mother is closeted with Bartolomeo in his office.” Rosalinda pulled open the door just as Andrea arrived on the terrace. “Come with us, Andrea. We are going to take a bit of exercise.”

  “Oh!” Bianca cried out when she slipped on the ice underlying the latest fall of snow. Andrea caught her, steadying her, and she grabbed at his arm. “Andrea, I can’t walk alone. I will have to hold on to you.”

  “Pah!” laughed Rosalinda. “Where’s your courage, Bianca? Take advantage of the ice and slide on it, as I do.” On those words, she gave herself a push with one foot and went skidding across the terrace, stopping only when she reached one of the large urns at the top of the steps and flung her arms around it.

  “I am sure I could never do anything so dangerous,” Bianca said. “Rosalinda, you will break your neck.”

  “Not I!” Rosalinda took a few running steps before launching herself into another slide, this time back across the terrace toward the house. She stopped just short of the sitting room door. Bending, she scooped up a handful of snow. *’Bianca, Andrea, arm yourselves!”

  “That is a declaration of war!” Andrea’s eyes were sparkling. “Madonna Bianca, I must ask you to release my arm so I can defend myself. Will you fight on my side or with your sister?”

  “Fight? I – I’m not sure.” Bianca took her hand from Andrea’s arm and stood unsteadily on the slippery terrace. With a loud whoop, Rosalinda let a loose handful of snow fly toward her sister. It glanced off Bianca’s cheek, the gentle impact shattering both the makeshift missile and Bianca’s primness.

  “You can’t do that to me and escape retribution!” Bianca yelled. In an instant, her own scoop of snow was in her hand and she threw it at Rosalinda.

  For the next few minutes, a barrage of snowballs went back and forth between the sisters, with Andrea caught in the middle, fighting two opponents. Before long all three combatants were covered with snow. Then Andrea lost his footing on a patch of ice. His arms flailing wildly, he fell backward into a snowdrift. At once the laughing girls joined forces to bombard him with chunks of white.

  “I surrender!” He was laughing so hard that he could not get up. “But I fear I am sorely wounded. Gentle victors, help me to stand.”

  Rosalinda took one of his hands and Bianca the other. Together they exerted all their strength to lift Andrea. At exactly the right moment, he gave a jerk on each arm and the girls went flying face first into the snow bank, Rosalinda on one side of him and Bianca on the other. Dragging themselves free of the snow bank, the three of them sprawled on the terrace, howling with laughter. Even Bianca was wiping tears from her cheeks, leaning her back against the urn plinth, for once unafraid and unconcerned about decorum.

  From the sitting room door Eleonora watched them, with Bartolomeo close behind her. Eleonora’s gaze went from the rosy-cheeked Rosalinda, who was laughing uproariously, to the paler Bianca, trying to catch her breath between giggles, to Andrea, brushing snow off his knees before he gallantly offered a hand to help Bianca.

  “Take care, Andrea, that your hands and feet do not freeze again,” Eleonora said mildly, before leaving the doorway with Bartolomeo following in her wake.

  * * * * *

  That evening, after the ladies had retired for the night, Andrea went to Bartolomeo’s office.

  “I would like my daggers back now,” he said, being careful to keep any hint of threat or impatience out of his voice.

  “They are put away, under lock.” Bartolomeo looked up from the manuscript on which he was working.

  “I will wait while you get them.”

  Bartolomeo looked at him for a while longer, then took up a ring of keys and went to a heavy wooden chest that stood in one corner of the room. There he paused.

  “You do not really need a dagger while you are here,” Bartolomeo said.

  “You wear one,” Andrea said in the same quiet tone of voice. “Like any man, I feel undressed without my knife. Those daggers are among my few belongings.”

  Another long look passed between the two men until Bartolomeo nodded and opened the lid of the chest. Drawing out the daggers, he handed them to Andrea.

  “I notice they are almost identical. Why do you have two of them?” Bartolomeo asked.

  “This one is mine.” Andrea slid the knife with the red enamel-and-gold hilt into his belt. He kept the other knife in his hand, looking down at its blue enamel-and-gold hilt. “This belonged to my brother.”

  “How did you come by it?”

  “I found it,” Andrea answered shortly. Bartolomeo said nothing to break the silence that followed the abrupt words. Finally, taking a deep breath, Andrea explained. “My brother would never have given it up without a struggle. Finding it covered with blood, in a place where I knew he had recently been because I was following him and trying to catch up with him, I took it as evidence that he must be dead. I have kept it, as I know he would want me to do, until I can plunge it into the heart of his murderer.”

  “Then you are bent on revenge.”

  “Wouldn’t you be, too, under the same circumstances?”

  “You have not told me what those circumstances are.” Bartolomeo paused, as if considering a serious decision, then asked, “Will you take a glass of wine with me? My throat grows dry after an hour or so of writing.”

  “What are you writing?” At a wave of the older man’s hand, Andrea pulled the second chair in the room up to the desk.

  “A history of the dukes of Monteferro.” Bartolomeo handed a parchment page across the desk to Andrea. “You may read it if you like.”

  “The Farisi dukes of Monteferro,” Andrea amended Bartolomeo’s remark. His eyes on the other man, Andrea took the page but did not look at it at once. Bartolomeo nodded his comprehension of the meaning behind Andrea’s alteration of his statement.

  “I have seen you looking at the portrait in the sitting room.” Bartolomeo sat back in his chair, a goblet of wine in his hand. “The painting is a fine likeness. You have recognized my old friend, Girolamo Farisi.”

  “If I did not recognize his face, I should have known him by the eagle that accompanies him in that picture. All of Italy remembers the Farisi eagle, and how that symbol once represented an honest ruler. Having recognized the late duke, it was but a small step further for me to identify the ladies of Villa Serenita. You need have no fear for them on my account, Bartolomeo. After everything the duches
s Eleonora and her daughters have done for me, I would give up my life before I allowed any harm to come to them. I will never tell anyone where they are hiding.”

  “It is my hope, and also the hope of Madonna Eleonora, that you will do more than keep the secret of their whereabouts. Read the page I gave you.”

  Andrea lowered his eyes to the parchment and began to read. A minute or two later, he clenched his jaw and he could tell by the warmth in his cheeks that his face was flushing with anger.

  “Stregone,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “What do you know of Niccolo Stregone?” Bartolomeo asked.

  “He is an evil person, who has caused the deaths of many who are far better men than he.”

  “I agree with you. While Madonna Eleonora is convinced that the late Duke of Aullia was responsible for the assassination of her husband, I believe Stregone, acting on behalf of the Guidi family, was behind the deed. I also think Stregone created a situation at the court of Monteferro before the assassination occurred that led Madonna Eleonora to look toward Aullia to discover the instigator of murder.”

  Andrea sat very still, absorbing what Bartolomeo had just said, accepting some of it, rejecting part. And aware all the time of Bartolomeo’s searching gaze on him.

  “Is something wrong?” Bartolomeo asked when Andrea kept silent too long.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Andrea put the parchment page down on the desk.

  “Perhaps to see what your reaction will be.”

  “Then I trust my reaction pleases you.” Deliberately, Andrea drawled the words as he sat back in his chair, trying to appear relaxed. He was sure there was more to Bartolomeo’s revelations than mere interest in his reaction to them. When Bartolomeo slid a goblet of wine across the desk to him, Andrea raised it to his lips and pretended to swallow, but he did not drink. He wanted to keep his wits clear. Beyond the natural effects of wine, he had known men – and women, too – who would think nothing of putting certain herbs into the drinks they offered. He did not class Bartolomeo in that devious group, but it usually paid a man to be careful. He was still alive because he had been careful at the right time. While Vanni...

  “Tell me about your brother,” Bartolomeo said. “When did he die?”

  “In the autumn. He was with a dear friend of ours, a man we trusted.”

  “Do you think this friend caused your brother’s death?”

  “Never. More likely, he died defending my brother.” Andrea looked straight into Bartolomeo’s eyes. “You will understand that I prefer not to talk about this.”

  “I beg your pardon. I assure you, I do not ask these painful questions without forethought.”

  “Then why are you asking them?”

  “For several reasons. I have learned to know you fairly well during your stay with us. I judge you to be an honest man, though, clearly, you have your own secrets. It is no crime; most men prefer to keep parts of their lives to themselves.” Bartolomeo paused to take another sip of wine, then said, “Allow me to ask just one more question. Have you experience in leading men into battle?”

  “I am no condottiere,” Andrea said.

  “I did not think you were. But you are a daring and courageous man. Your survival under terrible conditions proves as much. If, in addition to courage and daring, you have the necessary military experience, then I may have an offer to make to you.”

  “You?” asked Andrea. “Or the duchess Eleonora?”

  “Since such matters are best discussed between men, I am acting on her behalf. I am also, I do confess, acting before she might have done. However, when you spoke of your brother’s death, the moment seemed propitious, for it occurred to me that you might be able to combine repayment of Madonna Eleonora’s hospitality with your search for your brother’s killer. If, of course, you are interested in what I propose.”

  “Suppose you tell me what this offer is,” Andrea said bluntly. “Then I will tell you whether I am interested in it.”

  “The duchess Eleonora has long hoped for an opportunity to restore the Farisi family to Monteferro,” Bartolomeo said. “She has the funds to hire a mercenary army, but has never dared to trust a condottiere to lead such an army, fearing the condottiere would only use her money to put himself in power.”

  “That is often the way of things,” Andrea observed dryly.

  “Therefore, she has waited for an honest man to appear. The duchess Eleonora believes you may be that man. I agree with her.”

  “You want me to conquer Monteferro for you?” Andrea repeated.

  “And see to the disposition of the Guidi family,” Bartolomeo added. “All of them, every last child, every ancient grandmother, must go into permanent exile, with no hope of ever returning.”

  “To accomplish that particular feat, it will be necessary to prove the Guidi guilty of a terrible treachery,” Andrea said, “and, probably, to kill any male member of the family who is capable of bearing arms, or who will be capable in the future.”

  “It might be simpler to see that they are all left bankrupt,” Bartolomeo suggested.

  “Now, that is an interesting idea, and one far more to my liking than the thought of shedding the blood of an entire family.” Andrea smiled. “Tell me, Bartolomeo, what is the duchess Eleonora offering me in return for this great favor she expects of me?”

  “Great favor?” Bartolomeo repeated. With a dry chuckle, he said, “It is only thanks to the efforts of Madonna Eleonora’s household that you are still alive.”

  “If I accept this offer, I will be putting my life in danger once more,” Andrea countered Bartolomeo’s remarks with the negotiating skill he had been taught in what now seemed like another lifetime. “Any condottiere would expect some reward for winning a city.”

  “Two cities,” said Bartolomeo. “You will have to conquer Aullia, too, for the Guidi control it as well as Monteferro. Marco Guidi’s younger brother is the new ruler of Aullia.”

  “Is he, indeed? Well, in that case, my reward should be all the greater,” Andrea responded. “How, may I ask, do you imagine the accomplishment of this enormous task will help me in the discovery of my brother’s murderer? The conquest of two city-states can only present a distraction from my primary quest.”

  “A man as clever as you should have no difficulty at all in achieving everything he desires,” Bartolomeo said in a smooth tone that made his companion look sharply at him. “Once you hold both cities securely, the duchess Eleonora is prepared to offer you a position of responsibility in Aullia.”

  “Really?” Andrea’s smile made Bartolomeo frown. “Is that the best for which I can hope? Is there to be no daughter’s hand in marriage? It is the usual reward for a successful condottiere, especially when there is no son to inherit.”

  “Madonna Bianca is the legitimate heiress to Monteferro,” Bartolomeo said. “She will be expected to make a grand marriage of state.”

  “To consolidate her family’s power.” Andrea nodded and smiled again.

  “Naturally.” Bartolomeo was looking a bit annoyed by the course the discussion was taking. “Of course, Madonna Rosalinda, as the younger daughter, would have a bit more freedom in her choice of husband.”

  “Her choice of husband?”

  “The duchess Eleonora would want her younger child to marry well.”

  “To a man in a position of responsibility in Aullia?” Andrea suggested.

  “That is a possibility.” Bartolomeo spoke with diplomatic blandness, revealing nothing, yet hinting at much.

  “It had better be a certainty, or the duchess Eleonora will have to look elsewhere for someone to lead her army,” Andrea said.

  “We can discuss the matter with the duchess Eleonora,’’ Bartolomeo offered.

  “Tell me,” said Andrea, “if, after our little talk this evening, I decide to say no to this offer, will I leave Villa Serenita alive?”

  “If you refuse the offer,” said Bartolomeo smoothly, “there will be no need for you to leave the vi
lla at all.”

  “I thought so.” Andrea rose. “You may tell the duchess that I will consider the proposition most seriously. I will give her my answer on Christmas Day. In the meantime, she may want to consider with equal seriousness my requirement that the hand of Madonna Rosalinda be added to the reward she is offering. A good night’s rest to you, Bartolomeo.”

  Andrea was out of the room and well on his way to his own chamber before he released his breath in a low whistle. While he knew full well that it was the way marriage negotiations were usually conducted, he did not like the idea of bargaining over Rosalinda as if she were no more than a piece of property to be disposed of at her mother’s whim. Rosalinda was far more than that. Still, the offer just made to him presented an honorable way to win the woman he so desired.

  Furthermore, as the head of an army responsible only to him, he would have the means to discover what had happened to Vanni.

  * * * * *

  “Tell me truly, Bianca, when have you ever had so much fun?” Rosalinda wrapped her arms around her knees. She was sitting on Bianca’s bed, while Bianca sat before her mirror brushing her long, golden hair. “Dearest sister, I have never heard you laugh so hard before.”

  “It was pleasant.” Bianca put down her hairbrush and began to rub a rose-scented oil into fingers that were slightly chapped from her unaccustomed outdoor exercise.

  “Pleasant?” Rosalinda cried, laughing at her. “You had a wonderful time. You know you did. You really ought to leave your studies and your household chores more often and ride with me. Or take a long walk. Just get out of the house and enjoy yourself.”