“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.
His green eyes came to rest on Alessandra. He did not look away, as was proper. He stared at her as if he could read her thoughts.
She closed her eyes and turned over, her back to him. She might have to remain here for a bit longer, but that did not mean she had to allow them into her head or heart. No matter how kind they were.
No. She was a Fiorentini. And God had allowed her through gates that no other Fiorentini had passed through, since they’d briefly taken the castle in war. What could she discover, while she was here, that might aid her people? Could she discover something that would be worthy of a reward, from the Grandi, rescuing her and her father from another winter of starvation and struggle?
The thought made her smile a little. Papa would be furious with her, likely beat her for hunting where he had forbidden her to go. For crossing the border. For getting into this mess. If she could not only find her way out, but discover critical information as well…Mayhap it would turn out for the best, after all.
Lady Adri had been true to her word. After breaking her fast, Alessandra had enjoyed the deepest, warmest, longest bath of her life, then a maid had combed out her hair and tucked it into an elegant bun at her neck, wrapping the heavy coils in a net that was hooked to a tapestry-covered band in her hair.
Then she helped her into a luxurious, soft gown in an olive color, trimmed with a gold ribbon. Never had Alessandra been in anything as fine. In spite of herself, she stared at her image in the speckled mirror. Dark rings still haunted her eyes, testimony to her trauma, but never had she felt more beautiful. It was as if she were again a small child, pretending to be a lady of the castello. Except now she was actually in the castello.
Lady Gabriella and Lady Evangelia entered then, ooing and ahhing over her transformation.
“Oh, Giacinta,” Lady Gabriella cooed, walking around Alessandra, “you’ve done your customary magic. Look at her! We bring home an unconscious huntress, and in four days’ time, she’s become a lady.”
Alessandra knew she was blushing furiously. Never had anyone made much of her outer beauty. Even Valente, her husband-to-be. But she’d also never donned such finery…
“Bellisima,” Evangelia said, smiling into her eyes. Alessandra was struck again by how much the girl looked like her mother. Who did Lady Gabriella take after? Mayhap her father. Because she looked like the most beautiful of the Tuscan people, whereas Evangelia was clearly foreign, standing out with her fair hair and blue eyes. Viking blood? Or had she heard they were once of Normandy?
“Ready for a turn around the courtyard?” Lady Gabriella asked. “I assume you’d like a bit of fresh air, and an escape from this old library.”
“It’d be welcome, yes, m’lady.”
“Good, then follow me.”
Lady Evangelia offered her arm and Alessandra took it. They went through the door and into a hallway, where a knight stood guard—probably left in Sir Luca’s stead—then toward a turret and spiral staircase leading upward. But Gabriella led to the right, out a larger, armored door. Once through, the lady of the castello took her other arm. It only took a quick glance to see that the knight, tall and brooding, followed them.
Alessandra squinted into the bright morning sun, hearing the men before seeing them. The ladies politely paused with her, letting her set the pace. There were shouts, laughter, commands, the sound of metal upon metal. As they edged past the main building in the center of the castle walls—a meeting hall of some sort, with the kitchens in back, judging from the smoke and smell rising from a chimney—they came upon them. The knights of Castello Forelli. Most wore loose shirts, open at the neck. A few had taken them off and sparred only in their leggings, belted at the waist, and boots. They panted from their sparring efforts, sweat dripping down the faces and chests.
Alessandra hurriedly looked to the ground. Never had she seen so much raw, masculine power in one place. And she was walking along with the She-Wolves of Siena. Again and again, she wondered if she’d stumbled into a nightmare. And yet each time, she admitted to herself that there was no omnipresent sense of fear among them. Only care. Camaraderie.
As they walked, she could sense they were gathering more and more attention. “M’lady, might I assist you?” called one to Gabriella. “Yes! Mayhap our visitor is an uncommon burden upon you!”
Alessandra dared to look their way, blushing furiously, and saw that indeed, a good half of the group had abandoned their drills and stared in their direction in open admiration.
“Best you pay attention to what your captain has to say,” Lady Gabriella called, “Or you’re liable to end up in the stables with unpleasant tasks before you.”
“Knights at attention!” a man called, irritation lacing his tone.
It was Sir Luca, up on a small platform, and to his right was what had to be Lord Marcello Forelli. They had yet to formally meet. He stared at Alessandra, between his wife and sister-in-law, while Luca stared solely at the men. “Allow your attentions to wander like that again,” Luca shouted, “And you all shall be plowing the Widow Giannini’s fallow ground through the night!”
He hopped down and weaved among the fifteen pairs, as they quickly returned to their two rows. They stood, three feet apart, swords held in both hands, point toward the ground. And now, chastened, they all stared solely at their opponent, awaiting their captain’s command. Thirty knights. Clearly, Castello Forelli was still on guard, despite the truce. Or had Lord Forelli brought in more, in light of her arrival?
“This will be an excellent exercise, gentlemen,” Sir Luca yelled, humor returning to his tone. “Three of Toscana’s beauties wander our court as I speak,” he paused to give them a flirtatious nod, looking mostly at Evangelia, “but where are your eyes? Solely upon your opponent! Do not let them drift to anyone but the man before you, or there shall be repercussions! Concentrate, men, concentrate. Ready yourselves. Attack.”
Lord Forelli remained on the platform, hands on hips, as the men set to striking and parrying, laughing when, here and there, they managed to swat their opponent with the flat of their blade. Alessandra’s brothers had sparred with sticks, but had never done so with swords. Mayhap that was why these men yet lived while her own brothers did not return home. Beppe, a year younger than she. Ilario, but a boy of fifteen…She missed them. Oh, how she still missed them. But it had eased from the hourly, to the daily sort of missing. Mayhap, in time, it’d become weekly. Life has a way of healing the wound, her mother once said, even if you’d choose to keep it raw and seeping.
The sisters on either side of her paused to watch as Lord Greco stepped up on the platform and circled Lord Forelli, sword drawn. Lord Marcello smiled, nodding in acceptance of his challenge, and rolled up his sleeves, just as Lord Greco did, several steps away. On Marcello’s arm, just inside and above his elbow, Alessandra spied a triangular tattoo, a most uncommon marking. He unsheathed his sword and tipped his head forward, signaling that he was ready for the sparring to begin.
Lady Gabriella pulled them to a stop, directly behind the platform, continuing to watch. Alessandra glanced over her shoulder. Behind them was the guard who tracked their every move, and beyond him, the towering front gate of the castello, firmly closed. Above, on the wall, were additional knights, keeping watch on their companions below, as well as the road and forest outside the castello.
Alessandra’s attention returned to the noblemen before them.
Greco did not pause, immediately turning and bringing his sword down in a harrowingly fast arc, toward Marcello. But Marcello was ready, blocking the strike and letting it slide down the length of his sword, even as he turned. As soon as his weapon was unencumbered, he whipped it around, narrowly missing Greco’s ches
t. Alessandra gasped. “Do they intend to kill each other?”
“Nay,” Lady Gabriella said. “Somehow, they emerge from these exercises with little more than bruises and scratches.”
Greco blocked his lord’s next strike above him, and rammed his left fist into Lord Marcello’s belly. The man bent over in pain and then a second later, barreled into Greco, pushing him off the platform. They fell onto the dirt before the women, Marcello on top. He rose, panting, his fists full of Greco’s shirt. “Pushing it a bit today, aren’t you?” he asked. “Could it be our pretty audience?” His eyes flicked up to the women.
With a growl, Rodolfo managed to unseat him, and they rolled over and over in the dirt. When they neared the platform, each surged toward their weapons again. And this time, Luca stood there. He began to attack Marcello and then turned on Rodolfo, mayhap giving both men training in taking on more than one opponent. He was much more lithe and elegant than the larger men, bending low to avoid swinging swords, turning in the air like a dancer.
He stepped out of the fray after several minutes, staring only at the men, studying them. He glanced over at the other knights, all still steadily at their task, more and more of them crying out in pain and anger, while some began to grudgingly call for mercy. Then, when Marcello and Rodolfo clashed, holding their swords in a cross above their heads, panting, Luca rolled up his own shirtsleeves, revealing defined muscles and…a triangular tattoo on his arm.
Alessandra considered that. Both men with the same tattoo, in the same place. She remembered then. It was the mark of the brotherhood. In Firenze, after the battle, she and her father had seen the mark on flags, being burned in the city piazzas. Had they all taken them as boys? Did Lord Greco have one too?
With a shout, Sir Luca came charging after the tall, dark-haired knight.
Lord Greco turned just in time to block Luca’s strike, and lifted a hand to catch Marcello’s wrist as he brought his own sword down. He dropped his weapon and tried to punch Marcello, but this time, Marcello blocked it. Luca brought the tip of his sword to the back of Rodolfo’s neck. “You’re dead, brother,” Luca panted, wiping the sweat from his upper lip.
Slowly, Rodolfo lifted his hands. “Mercy,” he said.
“Let’s go again,” Lord Forelli said, turning to take up his ready position, “except this time, with you both against me.”
“Come,” Lady Gabriella said, urging them forward again. “I really cannot stomach much of that. It’s too close to how it really is on the battlefield.”
Alessandra glanced over at her. The lady did appear a bit peaked. Surely she did not truly worry for her husband’s safety? He appeared to be one of the finest knights possible, with others in his command that were nearly as good. And wasn’t she one of the She-Wolves of Siena, capable of taking ten men on at a time?
“Alessandra, are you still feeling well?” Lady Evangelia said. “Or shall we walk you to your quarters?”
“Nay. Please. Let us resume our stroll. It feels good to be outside again.”
“‘Tis a most beautiful day,” Gabriella said. “I love it when spring begins to give way to summer.”
“As do I,” Alessandra allowed.
“Tell us, Alessandra,” Evangelia said, “Where did you get such a pretty name? It is uncommon, in Toscana, is it not?”
Behind them, more of the sparring men were calling mercy, one by one. The loser sat down on the ground, the victor above him. Apparently until Sir Luca called for another round. Only three sets of men remained fighting, the rest watching their lords on the front platform.
“My grandfather once read of a woman named Alessandra in a book.”
“Your grandfather is a learned man?” Gabriella asked. She caught herself, looking contrite. “Forgive me. It is rather uncommon…I thought…Do you not live on a farm?”
“Indeed. My grandfather was a merchant, but never quite successful at it, and eight of his ten sons are farmers. My papa knows how to read and write, but he says it is not a woman’s place to know such things.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Evangelia said sorrowfully. “There is much to discover in the pages of a good book.”
“I imagine so…” She paused, aware that she’d said too much. What was she doing, allowing these women into her head? Her heart? They were the enemy!
“Oh, we could teach you!” Evangelia said. “Might we, Gabi?”
“We hardly have time, before she departs. But we could begin, yes. Remind me, Lia. When the book merchant travels through next, or we get to Siena, I need to buy some books. We are in sore need of something new.”
Alessandra looked from one to the other, considering the wealth required to purchase books. “You both read?”
“We do,” Gabriella said.
She supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised by the revelation, but in her village, she’d never known another woman who knew how to read and write. Mayhap it was part of the privileges of the noble class, to school their daughters as well as their sons. Or simply part of the mystique of the Ladies Betarrini. The She-Wolves of Siena.
Although, so far, she’d seen nothing in them that smelled of female knighthood. Only genteel femininity. Not that they didn’t have the stature of warrior queens. They were certainly both tall enough. Evangelia was a good four inches taller than her, and Gabriella two inches beyond her sister. She felt like a mere girl between them.
“Alessandra is entirely too long a name among friends,” Gabriella said. “May we call you Ali? My friends call me Gabi, and we call my sister Lia.”
Alessandra stared up at her. “I suppose so,” she said. She’d never been called anything but by her given name. But the nickname felt somehow warm, light to her, like she’d shed a heavy load.
“Or Sandra,” Evangelia said.
“I-I think I prefer Ali,” she said carefully, not wishing to offend her hostess.
“Good,” Gabi said, squeezing her arm. “I like it. So tell us, Ali. How old are you?”
“Twenty,” she said. It was odd, strolling arm in arm with them, having this girlish chat. Almost dreamlike.
“Ahh!” Gabi said. “I shall be too, in a year. Lia is almost seventeen.”
“And your husband?” Alessandra dared.
“He’s twenty-two. Lord Greco is twenty-three, and Sir Luca is of your own twenty years.”
Alessandra considered that. Lord Greco was only three years older than she. It seemed impossible that anyone near her own age had been so pivotal in the great battle. But he had. More than a year ago now… She shook off her reverie, aware that she was thinking about him, sparring with Lord Marcello, his power and prowess clear in every move, even if he had lost. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, even if she despised everything he stood for. Now she understood why women used to speak of Lord Rodolfo Greco as the most desirable bachelor in Firenze, and why their voices became shrill when they spoke of him now, as if he had broken all of their hearts.
His words from last night came back to her. The way his eyes pleaded with her to understand. She felt the pull to empathize with him. But was a man divided any sort of a man at all? Her father had always been so stalwart, so sure in his loyalties. He’d become mean and surly, dull in the eyes, but that was due to their losses, their struggles. Never could she remember him hesitating, or changing his mind. He was single-minded, and had taught her to seek others who were similarly single-minded. Life is far more simple when one knows his mind, he said.
And wasn’t Rodolfo’s tortured speech testimony to that truth? It was as if he’d been torn in two, within, and continued to roil in the guilt and frustrations of his decision to come to Lord Forelli’s aid.
Outside the kitchens, when the stench of rotting bone and sinew met their noses, Lady Gabriella pulled them to a stop, visibly paling again.
“Gabi?” her sister asked, dropping Alessandra’s arm and turning toward her. “Are you all right?”
Gabriella bolted a
way from them then and vomited near the wall, one hand braced against it. Evangelia went to her, as did the knight, while Alessandra froze, unsure of what to do.
“Nay, it’s all right,” Gabriella said, waving the knight away with an embarrassed look. He backed off to a respectful distance.
“This is the third day in a row you’ve been sick,” Evangelia said lowly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Mayhap you need to rest in your room. Get past this.”
“Nay, nay,” she said, pushing back her shoulders, and taking a deep breath. “I am fine. ‘Tis only in the mornings.”
“When is your baby due, m’lady?” Alessandra whispered.
Both women slowly dragged their eyes up to meet hers.
Alessandra frowned. Oh no. They’d not yet come to it. She’d seen her own mother pregnant eight times, four of those pregnancies leading to her brothers, the others lost at various stages. She’d learned to recognize the signs. But mayhap these ladies, with all their learned ways, had not. “Forgive me,” she began rapidly. “Mayhap I misunderstood—”
“M’lady,” said the knight, daring to near them again. “Might I fetch your maid? Your mother? Are you in need?”
“Nay,” Gabi said, lifting a hand to him, leaving another on her belly. “Please. We are well. I simply ate something that did not agree with me this morning. Mayhap it was Cook’s porridge?”
He smiled, plainly relieved. “Better not allow her to hear such words, so near the kitchen’s door,” he warned, with a nod.
“Agreed. Come,” she said, turning to Alessandra and Evangelia. “Let us resume our stroll.” They resumed their easy pace, and the knight fell back behind them.
“It is not possible,” she whispered.
“It’s not?” Evangelia asked, pacing ahead, turning to walk backward. Anger made her eyes stormy. “Really, Gabi? Do you not share a bed with your husband?”
Why was Evangelia acting so oddly? Was this not welcome news? Were not babies always welcome? Heaven knew death stole so many of them away…’Twas best to have as many as one could.
Tributary (River of Time 3.2 Novella) Page 4
