by David Blixt
What to do? Pathino had crossed here to hide his tracks, leaving Detto and Fazio behind to delay his pursuers. Pietro released Detto, rammed his sword into the sandy earth, and used his fingers to lift Detto's chin. "Hey there, little man. Which way did your brother go?" The child looked at him without comprehension. "Cesco. Which way?"
"Da' wey." Bailardetto pointed downstream.
Pathino wants me to turn back, so I won't. But what do I do with Detto? If the boy had been older he would have set him in Canis' saddle and sent the horse back. As it was... "Detto, I need you to be brave. Brave, like your father. We've got to go help Cesco. Is that all right?"
The child looked up at Pietro with huge watery eyes. How much did he understand? Then Detto nodded. "Help Cesco," he parroted.
Retracing his steps to the trees, Pietro led Canis back towards the water and retrieved his sword. Then, with the boy in his arms he somehow managed to mount. Placing Detto on the front of the saddle, Pietro started off across the river. Mercurio dove in after, paddling to pick up the trail on the other side.
They passed Fazio's body. Pietro tried to shield the child's eyes from the sight of the dead groom. Fazio, I'll make Pathino pay, I swear it.
The Count of San Bonifacio lay under guard on the bloody field. Dying, he wondered how long it would take. He was lightheaded and his vision swam in and out of focus.
Then, blinking, he saw Cangrande. The Pup. They had never met, these two. Never passed a conversation in private. But there was a look to the family that the Count knew too well. Now he was coming closer, accompanied by a woman garbed as a man. She, too, had the family look. His sister, no doubt. Vinciguerra pulled himself as upright as his wounds allowed. Settling his back against a tree stump, he steeled himself.
"My dear Count." Cangrande's tone was neither cold nor angry but warm, almost affectionate.
"Puppy."
Dismissing the guards, Cangrande knelt to examine the Count's bandaging. He clucked his tongue. "This is bad. We have to get it clean. It doesn't hurt too much?"
"It's numb, now." The Count wondered what this solicitude was for. He was dead already, and dead men are immune to charm.
"I imagine you bandaged it yourself? It's not a bad job, but perhaps a doctor should see it."
"Don't bother."
"I'll try to find one, nevertheless. As my guest, now, you are to be treated as the lost brother you have always been." Vinciguerra blinked while Cangrande looked around. "Damn. Morsicato was just here. You know, Count, he treated a wound almost exactly like this three years ago. If not for him, my friend Pietro Alaghieri would have lost his leg, if not his very life." He looked down at the leg again. "This does seem a little worse than Pietro's. I wonder where Morsicato got himself to."
"You sent him on an errand," supplied Katerina.
Cangrande frowned in puzzlement. "Did I? Oh yes, he's looking after some knights in the city. Well, there are other doctors. We'll get you to one, Count, never you fear. You'll be up and making trouble for us again in no time." Cangrande patted Vinciguerra's shoulder as one might pet a troublesome child injured by his own folly. The Scaliger stood and turned, clearly planning to move on. His sister looked as if she had swallowed something distasteful, but said nothing as Cangrande made to go.
"Wait!" said the Count sharply. "What about the boy?"
"What boy? Pietro? He recovered from that injury. A touch of a limp, but today he was able to don armour and lead his men in a glorious battle inside the city. Not often a man gets to see such valour in action. Pietro was the very picture of knighthood — as he should be, since I invested him. Now, if you'll excuse me, Count, I am a trifle busy."
The blood-loss was affecting him again. "No — not Alaghieri. The boy — her boy — your son — Francesco." He took a breath. "Send some men back to the palace, O mighty Scaliger. You'll find your little prize has vanished from under your nose."
Cangrande looked amused. "You mean Pathino? My dear Count, do you really think us as foolish as that? Didn't you hear me? I said Pietro was here. He was the one that foiled Pathino's attempt two years ago, and his memory is excellent. He recognized your agent and informed my sister at once. Your man has had a score of eyes on him all night. Really, Count — such a fellow as Pathino to carry out your bold plan?"
"One does one's best with the tools at hand," replied the Count, his mind racing. Clearly they hadn't discovered who Pathino really was…
"True enough," said Cangrande brightly. "I am fortunate, then, in my tools. Pietro apprehended Pathino as he tried to abscond with my sister's charge."
"So you don't claim him as yours?"
Cangrande let ring a full-throated, roaring laugh. "You know, Count, you're the only one to ask! The only one! No one else has dared. Perhaps I'll even tell you, someday. Then again, a man who entrusts such as task to someone like Pathino cannot be worth confiding in. Really, Count — Pathino? What a pathetic plan it must have been. Where on earth was he going to go?"
Vinciguerra actually opened his mouth to reply before catching himself. "You don't have him, do you?" He saw Katerina stiffen and knew he was right. "O very good! Very nicely done! I almost told all. My lord Scaliger, I take my hat off to you!" Vinciguerra gave a mock salute.
An instant later his dry chuckling turned to a scream of agony as the lady ground her heel into his wounded leg, not so numb after all. "Your tool took not only your prize, but also my only son. I want them back, Count, and I warn you, there is nothing I will not dare to regain them." Her voice was everything her brother's hadn't been, yet beneath it all was that same eerie calm. The lady did not make idle threats.
The foot lifted, the weight disappeared, and the Count gasped for breath. "Dear madam, your threats are of little value. My life's blood is slipping with each breath I take. It will take a day, perhaps more, but soon I will be finished. It is only a matter now of how I expire. What do I care if I die in a comfortable palace or in your dungeon, with thumbscrews loosing more of that same blood?" He transferred his eyes to his nemesis. "Your heir is gone forever, my lord Scaliger."
"Even if that is so, it does you no good, in your present state." Cangrande's words were not a threat, merely a statement of fact.
"For myself, that is true," agreed Bonifacio. "Soon the eternal night shall pass over me and I will have no cares. But I hear you believe in prophecies. Then listen to this one — your line shall never be free of my hate."
Cangrande knelt down. "Vinciguerra, friend, loyal son of Verona, do you want to appear before God with this sin on your hands? The death of this child alone is enough to blacken your soul before the Almighty."
The Count shrugged. "My sins be on my head and there an end. Come what may, I am reconciled. Perhaps I will end up among the eternally violent. You may join me there."
Cangrande rested on his haunches for several moments more, then lifted his head to the darkening sky. The clouds had not yet entirely obscured the sun, but soon they would make an artificial night. "If the boy dies, Count, your soul will twist in the land of the treacherous. The pit of Antenora, where those souls who have betrayed their country and their cause lie frozen forever." He gestured for the guards who bore a litter between them.
Feeling faint, the Count was determined to have the last word. "My cause has never wavered, my little lord of the ladder. I have longed only for a Verona free of you and your ilk. You'll ruin the homeland of my fathers. Better the city should fall altogether."
The guards transferred Vinciguerra's bulk from the ground to the litter. Before they carried him into the city, Katerina leaned over to speak in the Count's ear. "Tell me where they are, or I shall make certain you live to enjoy all the pain your wound can give."
"You are welcome to take what vengeance you can, dear lady, I've already had mine. Pathino has gone to ground where you cannot find him, and your son with him. Your son too, my lord!"
Cangrande was in the process of mounting a fresh horse. He looked to the guards. "See he's well treat
ed, and given something to make him sleep. He needs rest."
As he was carried off, the Count tried to look over his shoulder, but dizziness made the corners of his vision turn black. Lying back on the stretcher, he could see only the darkening sky above him. Then suddenly he passed under a huge stone lintel. He was entering Vicenza for the last time. Smoke drifted past his face and he closed his eyes, trying to remember every word of the exchange. It was all the victory likely to be given him.
At that moment Antonia was pleading with Gianozza, begging her to see reason. A broken army on the loose, no men left in the castle to escort her — this was no time to go riding through the woods. "Mariotto and Antony are surrounded by soldiers and have many more important concerns than some foolish duel. If you were to venture out, you'd probably wander all night without finding either one! And what could you do if you did? You might make matters worse. Come, write a letter to Antony if you must. But stay here!"
Gianozza was busy ordering her horse saddled. Seeing her companion was implacable, Antonia threw her hands in the air. "Fine. Fine! If you must go, I'll go with you, even if it means risking my life in the most ridiculous cause I've ever heard of. But if I die, it will be entirely your fault!"
She'd hoped this rant would make Gianozza think twice. Instead the foolish creature rushed forward and embraced Antonia fervently. "Thank you, thank you! You're such a friend! Whatever would I do without you?"
Predictable. I can't make her see reason, and so I become a part of her Romance.
They took the dog Rolando with them, but no men-at-arms. There were none to be had. Antonia brought a kitchen knife for comfort, certain that if they met with any danger it would do her no good.
Back at the tree that had sheltered the wounded Count, Katerina gazed her brother, seated high in his saddle. "That was quite a beating."
Cangrande shrugged. "He's a soldier. You saw how your threats gave him strength. I was hoping he was weak enough that the ploy would work. It didn't. After that, I hoped he might try to twist the knife, and in so doing give us something to go on. Again, nothing. Try again in a bit, by all means — you are, after all, the expert in killing with small cuts. News of Alaghieri?" This was asked of a messenger, running towards them. The boy said no, but that the doctor sent word that the Moorish astrologer would live. Cangrande grunted, then turned back to his sister, who said, "What about your plea for his soul? That was real."
"It was. Coming or staying?"
"I will be of little use in the hunt. I will return to our friend Bonifacio and we will talk more freely. Perhaps I can employ tactics other than threats."
"Offer him sweetmeats," said Cangrande, kicking his heels. "It always worked on me."
Watching him ride off, she murmured, "Nothing worked on you."
Her own horse was close by. Mounting, she returned to a city still reeling from the battle. As she felt the first pindrops of water, she cursed. The rain would aid in the extinguishing of the fire, but it would make the hunt for the children all the more difficult.
Katerina was not alone in cursing the cloudburst. Pietro had followed Mercurio back and forth across the river three times now. Pathino had evidently doubled back on his trail in an effort to throw off pursuers. Now they had left the river only to be drenched by rain.
The hound pressed on, nose low to the ground, oblivious to the pelting drops. But the rain bothered little Detto, making him huddle against Pietro's chest. Letting the boy burrow beneath his cape, Pietro covered him as best he could. Detto just shivered and whimpered, too tired to cry anymore.
By now Pietro had lost all sense of direction, though he thought the west bank of the river was behind them. If that was true, they were headed back towards Castello Montecchio. Perhaps they would come across some of Montecchio's men and enlist them in the chase.
Mercurio slowed to a prowl. Pietro knew the sign. The dog's quarry was just ahead of him. That meant Cesco was nearby.
Sliding from the saddle, Pietro led the horse into a tight group of trees, hiding it from view. Tying Canis' reins to a branch, he lifted Detto silently down. Putting the child under the horse, he unfolded a blanket from his saddle and covered Detto with it. Wet and cold, the child whimpered some more. Pietro whispered, "Wait here," and hoped the boy understood. He wished he could order the dog to stay with the toddler, but Mercurio was a hunting dog, not a guard dog.
Besides, Pietro needed him. They had to flush out the game.
His leg was agony, so against his will he lifted his cane from the saddle. It was made of mahogany, pitted and scarred where he'd fended off some cutthroats in Venice two years before. Using it was better than slipping and being unable to stand again. The noise of the rain would cover the occasional breaking of twigs.
Sword drawn, he crept forward.
Antony and Luigi Capulletto reached the Castello San Bonifacio to find it still manned by the Scaliger's loyal troops. These soldiers had seen neither hide nor hair of any Paduan and knew nothing of the attack on Vicenza. Learning of the Capitano's kidnapped son, the captain of the guard formed a search party to cover the ground east of the castle.
Mission accomplished, the brothers left their men to spread out while they turned back towards Vicenza. Stopping at an inn along the way, Antony exchanged his helmet for a wide-brimmed hat, the better to keep the rain off his face. Buying three skins full of wine, they continued on.
The brothers encountered a small patrol of men belonging to old Montecchio. It was led by Benvenito, the fellow engaged to Mari's sister. Luigi wanted to join up with them, but Antony said no. So they simply exchanged news and went their separate ways.
"Why the hell not join up with them?" demanded Luigi.
"Because we're going to be the ones to find the boy," said Antony. "And we're not sharing the glory with anyone."
"You mean we're not sharing it with Montecchio."
"With anyone," said Antony. "Look, if you want to go off on your own, do it. It'll make us both happier. I grant you leave."
Luigi bristled at the implication that his brother was his master. "Fine!" He spurred his horse hard up the dirt road, leaving Antony behind.
Antony was glad to be rid of Luigi — always watching, always ready to leap in with a jibe or cutting remark. It was partly Luigi's presence that had made Antony issue that idiot challenge to Mariotto, a move he was already regretting. It was true that a large part of him wanted Mari dead as a salve for his pride. But that wouldn't win Giulia's heart back. Giulia, his perfect woman.
Yet if he'd been able to be honest with himself, it was less about the girl than Mari. His best friend. Among all the drinking companions, panderers, and revelers he'd associated with for the past two years, nowhere had Antony found a friend to equal the one he'd lost in Mari. That betrayal had cut deep. He'd thought their friendship, forged in a day, would last forever. It hadn't. If there was a reason to kill, that was it.
This morning in the close fighting he'd twice been at risk, and the sword that saved him both times had been Mari's. Antony had repaid him in kind, protecting Mari's flank as he battled away at some Paduan spearmen. For a heartbeat the enmity fell away and things were as they had been.
But the challenge had been issued. He couldn't retrieve it, not without shaming himself in front of his friends and father. And that bastard Luigi. Giving his mount a vicious rake with his spurs, Antony pressed on.
Gargano Montecchio led a band of soldiers through the woods. They came across another party of his men, led by Benvenito.
"We saw the Capulletto brothers, they said that the road between here and San Bonifacio is now being watched."
Lord Montecchio nodded. "Then take four men and scour the other side of that hill. Look for Mariotto's party. He knows these parts. There are lots of places a fugitive can go to ground." His daughter's fiancée turned to go, but Gargano laid a hand on his arm. "Son? Watch your back. Having successfully negotiated the battle, it would be a tragedy to lose you before we welcome you to the fami
ly."
Benvenito saluted his prospective father-in-law, then called a few men to follow him. The men looked to their lord, who nodded. Reassured of the safety of his own family, Gargano Montecchio returned to searching for the heirs of Cangrande and Bailardino.
It was a nerve-racking quarter hour as Pietro followed Mercurio through the heavy brush. Each moment he expected the muted twang and thunk of a bolt being fired and sliding home between his ribs. Soaked to the skin, Pietro wanted to lie down and sleep for a year. His gauntlets were stiff around his sword and cane. His right leg had hardened into a rigid, brittle limb that hampered each step.
The dog skirted a patch of earth and Pietro saw it was an old game trap of some kind. No, too big for game. It was a pit loosely covered. He had to be doubly careful.
The trees around them were not of a kind. Some were tall and towering, providing a canopy. Some were barely twice Pietro's height, with thin needles that made him wince as they brushed his face. Often these were surrounded by shoulder-high bushes that worried Pietro more than anything, for they could hide a man with ease.
Mercurio pressed on. Ahead stood a series of large rocks embedded in the side of a hill. On the hilltop, above the largest rock, a tree stood tall and glistening in the rain. Passing it, Pietro noticed a twig broken and hanging by the barest thread of bark. Pathino had passed by here. How recently? The rain had turned any footprints to mud. But when he looked at the interior of the twig where it had been snapped, he saw that it was still dry inside. It couldn't have been long.
Mercurio seemed lost, and Pietro wondered if the hound was having difficulty holding onto the scent. Which brought another thought in its wake — if Cangrande used his hounds to trace Pietro, would they be able to follow that tortuous path by the river after a few hours of rain?
Now he was conflicted. He thought of poor Detto. If anything happened to Pietro, Detto might never be found. An insistent voice kept telling him to turn about, cut his losses, and take Detto to safety. He could lead Cangrande's men back here and trap the bastard.
