by C. De Melo
Cecilia looked to her father, who nodded with obvious reluctance. Her hand had been so tightly cupped around her sister’s mouth that rosy imprints of fingers were splayed across Sabina’s cheek.
“Well?” Tommaso prompted. “Go on and speak your mind.”
“How dare you come in here and inspect us as though we were farm animals that you wish to breed. How dare you comment on my appearance when you’re practically old enough to be my father and—” Sabina was about to make a rude comment about his lack of good looks, but it would be untrue. Tommaso’s face was lined, yes, but also strong and distinguished—almost handsome.
Tommaso eyed her expectantly. “And?”
Don Antonio stood aside, silently wishing for the earth to swallow him whole while Cecilia nervously bit her lip.
“You should know that I’m not the type who merely sits at home praying over rosary beads and doing needlework,” Sabina warned. “I don’t plan on changing my ways, either.”
“Sabina!” Don Antonio cried.
Tommaso never broke eye contact with Sabina as he placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder to restrain him. “I’m devout but not overly zealous, so I don’t expect you to pray any more than you already do. Also, I don’t need any more tapestries on the walls of my palazzo.”
Sabina crossed her arms. “I dislike being told what to do.”
Mortified, Don Antonio covered his face with his hands.
“That makes two of us,” Tommaso admitted quietly as he patted the old man’s back in a gesture of comfort. “Anything else, Signorina?”
“That’s all I have to say…for now.”
The relief in the air was almost palpable.
“It seems as though you and I have much in common, Sabina,” Tommaso said. Turning to Don Antonio, he inquired cheerfully, “Well, when do we eat? I’m absolutely famished.”
The three of them stared at him in surprise.
“What can we do about Sabina?” Tommaso asked in response to the curious stares. “Shall we thrash her within inches of her life? It won’t change how she thinks or feels, will it? Besides, I like her spirit. I think she’ll make a fine wife.”
The old man’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You still wish to marry my daughter?”
“Of course I do.” Taking a step closer to Sabina, Tommaso whispered, “Hopefully, you’ll grow to like me someday.”
Don Antonio and Cecilia looked immensely relieved as they sat down at the table. Sabina was silent throughout the meal as Tommaso regaled them with tales of his travels. At one point he noticed a book on a stool, carefully bound in red velvet.
Reaching for it, he inquired, “What’s this?”
Sabina stood. “Please, Signore, I insist that you give me the book.”
Realization dawned on him when he noticed the pages were written by a neat, female hand. “This is your writing.”
She was tempted to snatch the book out of his hands, but her father shot her a warning look. “Yes, it is.”
“I would love to know what sort of things my future bride writes about.” Sabina remained stoically silent. Not wanting to torment the girl further, he relinquished the book. “You have pretty penmanship.”
“Thank you,” she replied, clasping the book to her chest.
The evening soon came to an end and Don Antonio insisted that his guest spend the night. “After all,” he reasoned, “you’ll be my son-in-law soon, and I hope you will think of this as your home in Lucca.”
“I appreciate the offer, Don Antonio, but I have urgent business early in the morning.” Tommaso bent over Sabina’s hand, and said in a low voice meant only for her ears, “Goodnight, Tempesta.”
Sabina received a thorough tongue-lashing from her father, then helped her sister clean up. Cecilia swept the floor while Sabina scrubbed the plates, lost in thought. She was relieved that Tommaso was not the ogre she had imagined—after all, she could do worse.
Three days later, a messenger from Florence arrived at the villa with a posy and a small wooden box.
Cecilia went to the kitchen door and called out to her younger sister who was picking rosemary in the garden. “Something has arrived for you! Come inside!”
Sabina took the box from her sister’s hands once she entered the kitchen. “What’s this?”
“Open it and find out.”
Sabina opened the box and pulled out a string of pearls. Perfectly round orbs gleamed in the sunlight pouring in from the window.
“Oh, my!” Cecilia exclaimed. “There’s a note and flowers, too.” She shuffled inside and picked up a piece of vellum from the scarred wooden table. “Here, let me read it to you.”
“I can read just fine,” Sabina said, taking the note from her sister’s hand.
“ ‘My dearest Sabina…Your beauty and spirit have enchanted me, and I look forward to our next encounter. Until then, enjoy the humble token I have sent you. Your servant, Tommaso.’ ”
“He’s incredibly generous and kind,” Cecilia pointed out. “You’re a fortunate girl.”
Sabina put the necklace on with her sister’s help, then placed the flowers in a ceramic pitcher filled with water.
“Sabina? Are you home?”
Cecilia frowned as she peered out the window. “It’s that good-for-nothing Marco! You should send him away. Signore Tommaso won’t appreciate men visiting you now that you’re officially betrothed.”
Marco’s tall, stocky frame filled the doorway. “I heard you’re getting married to Tommaso Caravelli,” he said sourly. “Is it true?”
Cecilia took it upon herself to reply. “Yes, it’s true. My father has arranged for Sabina to marry—and about time, too!”
Sabina intercepted. “Come with me, Marco.”
Cecilia moved to block her path. “Papa and Signore Tommaso wouldn’t approve of you wandering off alone with Marco now that you’re spoken for.”
“I will handle things the way I see fit,” Sabina retorted as she exited the house with Marco in tow. When they were out of earshot, she added, “My father is forcing me to marry him.”
“What about us?” Marco asked, his brown eyes lacking their usual twinkle. “How will we continue to see each other if you’re married and living in Florence?”
Sabina looked over her shoulder to make sure Cecilia was not following them. “Let’s walk far from the house.”
They followed the stream that snaked behind the olive grove and led into a wooded glen. Hidden beneath a thick canopy of trees, Marco gripped Sabina’s shoulders and pulled her against him.
“You’re hurting me, Marco.”
Easing his grip, he noticed the expensive pearls around her neck for the first time. “Are those from him?”
“Yes.”
“My God, what is your father thinking? He’s too old for you.”
She felt a strange urge to defend Tommaso, but refrained. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Marry me, instead.”
“What?”
“Marry me.”
In all the time they had known each other, and throughout the many embraces they had shared, Marco had never mentioned the word ‘marriage.’
When they were children, Marco ran with a pack of older boys who enjoyed making mischief and wreaking havoc on younger, weaker children. He was the imp, the bully who had teased her incessantly—sometimes even cruelly. The moment she blossomed into a young woman, his demeanor toward her changed from aggressive to possessive. At first, she resisted his amorous advances, but he was persistent. To make matters worse, her mother died unexpectedly. With her father overcome by illness and grief, and Cecilia caring for a husband and child, she had no one to turn to for comfort. Marco came to the rescue, filling the sudden, agonizing void in her life with his constant company and piquant humor. In exchange for this emotional salve, she had finally given in to his physical demands.
Although Marco was attractive, their relationship was far from the romantic ones described by troubadours.
�
��I can’t marry you,” Sabina stated firmly.
Taking hold of her chin, he bent his head and plundered her mouth. Unable to resist the familiar comfort of his body, she wound her arms around his neck and played with the dark curls at the nape.
“Are you ready to give this up,” he asked against her lips, his big hands trailing down the length of her spine.
“I’ll learn to live without it, and so shall you.”
The house was far enough away to allow Marco to ease Sabina onto the soft grass and lift her skirts. His lovemaking was urgent, and he took his lustful pleasure as selfishly as a common stallion. She bore his considerable weight and hard thrusts placidly, knowing it was the last time they would ever be together in a carnal sense.
Satiated, Marco placed his head on her bosom afterward. Trailing a blade of grass along her collar bone, he said, “Don’t marry him.”
She stifled a yawn. “I can’t disobey my father.”
He raised himself on his elbow and stared at her in disbelief. “Since when are you the good, obedient daughter? The role of martyr doesn’t suit you at all.”
“Hush or I’ll find a potion that will turn you into a toad.”
“Be careful, Sabina,” he warned, his face serious. “You’ll end up burned at the stake someday if you continue to make such jests.”
Despite Marco’s blatant disregard for the divine admonition against the sin of fornication, he came from an extremely devout and superstitious family.
“Who said I was jesting?” she challenged with a twinkle in her eye.
Marco frowned at her in disapproval. He knew the love potions Sabina created for the village girls weren’t real—or at least he hoped they weren’t. “You try my patience at times.”
“Then I’ve succeeded in my task.”
To break the tension, he tickled her roughly. “Vixen!”
“Stop that, Marco Alfani!”
Lowering his head, he kissed her heartily on the mouth. “Marry me.”
“I cannot,” she replied, wriggling out of his grasp and smoothing the creases from her skirt.
“Let me speak to your father and ask for your hand in marriage.”
“No!”
Marco’s expression was one of puzzlement verging on anger. “Do you want to marry him?”
“Do you realize that you’ve never told me you loved me? What difference does it make if I marry you or Tommaso? Neither of you love me. I’m only a pawn to be used in a game played by men.”
“Please, let me ask your father for your hand.”
“Why? Is my marriage to another man an assault on your pride?”
Marco appeared wounded. “I do love you, Sabina.”
***
Marco arrived at Don Antonio’s villa later that day. Cecilia and Sabina were both in the kitchen preparing supper while Paolo played at their feet.
“Don Antonio, may I have a word with you, please?” he said from the doorway as he fidgeted nervously with his hands. Despite the August heat, he had worn his best wool tunic in an attempt to look presentable and there was a sheen of perspiration on his brow.
Don Antonio eyed the uninvited guest suspiciously. He never cared much for the young man who eyed his daughter like a stud seeking to rut, but said, “Come in, Marco. What can I do for you?”
Marco cleared his throat. “As you know, sir, I’m a simple man but I come from a decent family.”
“Yes, your father is a good man and I’ve known him for many years.”
Encouraged by this, Marco continued, “I don’t have much now because I’m still young, but I’m a hard worker. I would like to ask—”
“—for my daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“Yes, I want to marry Sabina.”
“She is already spoken for.”
“But, Don Antonio—”
“I’m sorry, Marco. The answer is no.”
Although his pride was deeply wounded, Marco inclined his head respectfully and gave Sabina a wistful glance before taking his leave.
Don Antonio sat down at the table and allowed his daughters to set a plate of steaming stewed tripe before him. “Have you been allowing Marco to court you?” he asked, staring pointedly at Sabina.
Sabina poured wine into his cup and re-corked the bottle. “You know how Marco has always been fond of me.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“We are not courting.”
Cecilia snorted. Don Antonio glanced at his eldest daughter before fixing his gaze on Sabina. “Well, whatever is going on between you two must end. Now. You’re going to be married soon, and I will not have you sullying yourself or our family name, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’m serious, Sabina.”
Placing a loaf of bread on the table, she said, “I know, Papa.”
“Don’t worry, Father,” Cecilia said. “Sabina is not so foolish as to throw away her entire future.”
“I hope you’re correct,” he said. “I’m entrusting her into your care.”
Cecilia’s eyebrows shot upward. “Into my care?”
“Yes. From now until the wedding day, don’t let your sister out of your sight.”
Chapter 3
Florence, Tuscany
August 28, 1477
Was there ever a city more glorious than Florence? It was no wonder the royal courts of Europe recognized it as the epicenter of art, culture, and classical expression. Tommaso had sent a carriage to fetch his bride and her family a few days before the wedding. When the vehicle passed through the massive city gates, Don Antonio pointed out the Medici crest—a gold shield with several red balls. Since the Medici commissioned many public artworks and paid for structural repairs, the family’s coat of arms was ostentatiously displayed throughout the city. This cunning strategy served as a visual testament to any foreigner entering Florence that Medici authority was both unchallenged and absolute.
The horses were forced to slow their pace within the crowded streets, thus allowing the occupants inside the carriage to marvel at the grand palazzos and public statues carved from dazzling white Carrara marble. The elegant piazzas teemed with Florentines, many flaunting expensive jewels and sumptuous clothing. The majority of people wore red, but not just any red; Florentine Red was currently the most fashionable color in Europe. Sabina mentally likened it to the color of blood—vibrant, yet deep, and extremely flattering to the complexion. Some wore Florentine Red in the form of plush velvet with a luxuriously thick pile while others sported brocade with decorative flowers and leaves fashioned from gold or silver thread.
“Red everywhere,” Paolo chirped.
“What a clever boy you are,” Cecilia cooed as she kissed the top of her son’s head.
“Florence is overflowing with wealth and it shows,” Don Antonio mused aloud, his gaze fixed on a well-heeled pair of gentlemen.
The city consisted of successful bankers, artists, sculptors, wool and silk merchants, carpenters—too many talented people to mention. The staggering net worth of some bourgeoisie families rivaled that of royal princes.
The carriage turned down an impossibly narrow street and finally came to a stop in front of a long stone wall with an iron-studded wooden door at its center. Above the door was Tommaso’s family crest, marking the residence as the Palazzo Caravelli. The carved stone shield portrayed a cylindrical tower with an eagle poised atop Guelph crenellations. Two servants appeared, helping them alight from the carriage. Sabina and her family followed them into a courtyard surrounded by low stone buildings and a tower that appeared to be at least five hundred years old. There was a cistern in the center of the courtyard and a bronze fountain fashioned like a mermaid.
“Welcome,” Tommaso said as he emerged from within the shadowy interior of the tower.
Greetings were exchanged, then Sabina eyes were drawn to the ceramic bas-relief sculpture of the Madonna and Christ child adorning the wall behind his head. The exquisitely carved figures, along with the boughs of
decorative leaves and fruits framing the charming scene, were painted in brilliant white, yellow ochre, and blue.
Following her gaze, Tommaso smiled. “Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely.”
“You have good taste. Luca della Robbia’s work is in high demand.” Taking her hands into his own, he said, “I trust that you’ll find your chamber comfortable. If there’s anything you or your family requires, please don’t hesitate to ask the servants.”
She was charmed by his courteous hospitality. “Thank you.”
Motioning to the servants, he instructed, “See that our guests are given some refreshment and show the ladies to their bedchambers.”
Turning to Don Antonio, he inquired, “Would you care to take some wine with me under the shade of my fruit trees before going to your room, or would you prefer to rest first?”
“I would be delighted to have some wine with you.”
“Very well,” Tommaso said as he put his arm around the old man in a friendly gesture. “Ladies, we shall see you at supper.”
The cool interior of the palazzo was a relief from the heat outside. Sabina, Cecilia, and Paolo ascended a long flight of stairs separating the servant’s ground floor from the piano nobile. Sabina took in the attractive surroundings, liking her new home instantly. She smiled in delight when she entered her new private quarters, which were spacious and well-lit. The wide bed boasted a canopy fashioned from the softest yellow silk. The servants had carefully strewn lavender and tansy onto the comfortable straw and down-filled mattress in order to give the bed a pleasant scent while simultaneously repelling bedbugs. There was an antechamber for bathing and a sitting room with a small writing desk.
The Rossi family enjoyed the best of what Florence had to offer, including the hospitality of their gracious host. Sabina, who had always taken an interest in the arts, immediately noticed that the paintings and sculptures of Florence possessed a different style than those of Lucca. Many of the themes were the same—Annunciation of Christ, Madonna Enthroned or the martyrdom of various saints, but in Florence the figures seemed to be alive. The Virgin Mary was often depicted as a pretty young woman flaunting current fashion rather than a stiff matronly figure in traditional dark blue cloak. Instead of static religious effigies, Florentine sculptors adopted the style of ancient Greece and Rome to create idealized gods. One could easily imagine these impressive figures stepping down from their marble pedestals at any moment to walk among the people.
