Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Feeling his gaze, Katerina smiled at him – a lop-sided expression, proving that she was indeed not fully recovered from the stroke. “It is important, I think, to have a witness who knows the principals involved. Also, you have been Cesco’s primary guardian and know him best. She wants to meet him.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked Bailardino. “It’s natural for a mother.”

  “In a natural mother, you mean,” remarked Cangrande dryly. “The lady in question, like your own wife, is anything but.”

  Katerina ignored them both, focusing on Pietro. “I want to know if Ser Alaghieri thinks it wise.”

  Pietro’s first instinct was an unconditional ‘no.’ After all the plots and schemes of this family, who knew what machinations were behind this? Yet he made himself withhold judgment. “I’ll need to see her first.”

  Katerina placed her cane on the floor, meaning to rise. “I’ll send for her.”

  “No. I’ll go myself.” Before she could argue, Cangrande had vanished through the double doors.

  Bailardino was baffled. “Why not send a servant?”

  “Because this is a family affair.” Katerina sat with her eyes closed, reminding Pietro of Cesco an hour before. Clearly she was not as well as she let show, nor had she been as ill as she’d let on two weeks before. A family of onions, layers and layers. And all so similar.

  A memory came bubbling up, something a very young Cesco had said. Returned from University and introduced to the toddler, Pietro’s limp was evident. Noting it, Cesco had said, “You’re hurt. Don’t show it. No one will help.”

  They waited for ten minutes in silence. There was nothing to say. Katerina reached out her good hand to rest upon her husband’s. Bailardino looked at it, but did not remove it. Pietro felt like pacing, but his leg was throbbing. He sat by the open windows, smelling the freshness of the night air. An electricity in the wind foretold rain.

  Hearing footsteps in the corridor, they all watched the door keenly as Cangrande ushered a woman into the room.

  She was shorter than Pietro remembered, and the pearls were gone from her dark hair, now salted. But pale her face was the soft-skinned oval he remembered. Her eyes were entirely unlike her son’s in shape, yet they retained his liveliness.

  Her expression now was guarded as Cangrande closed the doors firmly behind them. “Donna Maria, allow me to name my brother-in-law, Lord Bailardino Nogarola, Podestà of Vicenza. His wife, my sister, needs no introduction. And perhaps you will remember Ser Pietro Alaghieri, Knight of the Mastiff, son of the poet Dante and until recently Cesco’s guardian.”

  Pietro felt a mixture of warmth and envy coming from her. “I remember him.” Her words carried a lilt that Pietro had forgotten, an accent he had heard nowhere before or since.

  Pietro and Bailardino both bowed, and Bailardino baldly asked, “Donna Maria what?”

  Pietro could have kissed him. There were times Bailardino’s lack of social grace was an asset.

  “Donna Maria will do for the moment,” answered the Scaliger. “Now my lady, you have questions for us all. I imagine Ser Alaghieri will bear the brunt of your inquiry, but first you must be wondering about our blunders of the past few weeks.”

  “Yes. How did things take such a turn?”

  “I admit, mistakes were made. A rumour of my death set in motion the wheels we’d hoped we’d never need. You know the old plan – when the boy turned fifteen he would have been brought forth and declared my heir. Events forced our hands, but the end result is the same.”

  “Another heir tried to take your city,” protested Donna Maria.

  Cangrande guided her to a seat not far from his sister. “Having seen what occurred, we can take steps to ensure it never happens again.”

  Katerina smoothed the folds of her skirts. “As I said before, my dear, consider the past two weeks a practice run in the tiltyards.”

  “Just so,” concurred Cangrande. “All the plans were executed neatly. In the end, your son would have taken power. Fortuitously, it was not required of him just yet. But tonight I tasted his mettle and there is no doubt in my mind he will make a fine ruler for our fair city.”

  Donna Maria’s silence lasted an uncomfortable interval. Neither Cangrande nor Katerina made any attempt to further allay her fears. Pietro himself had no idea what to say. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her how close the boy had come to death. What he wanted to do was lay all Cangrande’s crimes at her feet. But he couldn’t be sure that, spoken, they would alter anything. So he kept his mouth closed.

  Bailardino finally broke the tension. “That’s all fine and good. But I imagine that, now she’s come, she’ll want to see him.”

  “I should like that,” said Donna Maria cautiously.

  “And we should like nothing more than to fulfill your desire,” replied Cangrande. “But I confess, I think it might be unwise. Katerina?”

  Katerina frowned kindly, her brow furrowed. “I am conflicted. As a mother, I cannot imagine not knowing my child. The temptation to meet would be too strong for words. Yet I don’t know what it would do to the boy.”

  Bailardino was incredulous. “You think he doesn’t want to meet his mother?”

  “I’m sure he does. But I’m not certain that, meeting her, he would behave himself.”

  Cangrande folded his arms and leaned against a pillar. “Explain.”

  “He knows now the history of his first few years – that his mother gave him into our care, and that we, after spectacularly failing to protect him, passed him off to Ser Alaghieri and pretended he was dead. What he may wonder is why his mother did not join him there.” Katerina’s eyes were soft, considering. “Of course Cangrande couldn’t visit, or else word might have reached the very people who wanted the boy dead. But Donna Maria – no one was watching you. He might be tempted to blame you for any feeling of abandonment he harbours.”

  Donna Maria looked furious. “I was told not to go to him. By you.”

  Katerina didn’t bother with excuses. “Will that matter? All he will know is that his mother abandoned him to the care of strangers.”

  The lilt of Donna Maria’s accent belied the steel in her tone. “I desire a meeting with my son.”

  “And you shall have it,” said Cangrande suddenly. “It would be inhuman to deny you. Yet misgivings still gnaw at me. I’m not sure my sister is correct, but it sounds plausible. My own mother had nothing to do with me as a boy. I was raised by my sister, and I admit that somewhere in my soul there is an irritating grain of resentment.” He smiled winningly at Katerina, who ignored him. “On the other hand, even if he bears you no ill will, there are questions he will inevitably ask. Awkward questions about your self, your line, and your husband. Questions none of us want answered. It would undo the arrangement we made so many years ago.”

  Donna Maria sat with the expression of a basilisk, her gaze divided between brother and sister. It was almost a look of hatred. Bailardino wore the same puzzled expression Pietro could feel on his own face. Both heard the thinly veiled threat beneath the fair words, but neither had an inkling as to the nature of that threat.

  “Perhaps, brother, we may compromise. They may meet, but under some pretense.”

  “Pretense?” asked Cesco’s mother.

  “For your sake and his, we will not reveal your true identity. You’ve arrived here as one of my ladies. Tomorrow you will be introduced to him as such. Ser Alaghieri will bring the boy to visit me in my suite here in the palace. I shall contrive to be away for some little time. He shall meet you instead.”

  Donna Maria considered. “We’ll be alone, will we?”

  “I think Ser Alaghieri might remain, or perhaps another of the boy’s guardian angels. But neither my brother nor I will be there. Is that satisfactory?”

  “It will have to be, won’t it?”

  “Done and done.” Cangrande yawned and stretched. “It’s late, and after all the excitement I’m done in. Pietro, stay as long as you wish. I’m sure Don
na Maria would like to hear tales of her son.” On the verge of exiting, he called over his shoulder, “Oh, Pietro? Please don’t pester Donna Maria. She’s already had a more wearing few weeks than either of us.” With that, he was gone.

  Noting Pietro’s expression, Katerina smiled. “I’m afraid his enigmatic nature sometimes makes him difficult to obey. He means you are not to question our guest. They have an arrangement, with various mutual conditions. Bail? I am ready for bed. Pietro, you’ll see Donna Maria back to our suite here in the palace?”

  “I will, Donna.”

  “Then goodnight. Or shall I say good morning?” She allowed her husband to guide her out and close the doors behind them.

  Pietro saw that Donna Maria was trembling. There was a moistness in her eyes. He averted his gaze, examining the sky outside until the lady had composed herself. At last she said, “You’ve been raising my son.”

  Rising, Pietro crossed to sit beside her. “Ask me what you want to know.”

  She looked into his face imploringly. “Anything. Anything at all.”

  Pietro discovered his natural reticence regarding Cesco’s secrets did not apply to this woman. He sat close to her and related everything he could think of. Early adventures, the loneliness, the keen appreciation of music and mechanics. Some tales were funny, like Cesco’s first curse word. Others were poignant, like the first time Cesco had questioned the nature of God. He told her of Cesco’s vulnerable side, his frailties, his strengths, his dreams, and his passions. A catalogue of the funny, the mundane, and the heart-breaking. A parent’s stories.

  At one point he described Cesco’s tendency to shiver uncontrollably whenever he thought about his own failings, his blunders. “He never does it anymore, but I’m certain he still has those moments in private. He relives each failure.”

  “His father was the same, once,” said Maria.

  “Really?” Somehow that did not fit his image of Cangrande. “It worried us when he was young, and doctor Morsicato kept alert for signs of disease or nerve damage. My father guessed the cause of Cesco’s shaking was emotional. He used to call Cesco a lute with the strings wound too tight.” Thinking of his father, Pietro paused.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  If there is anyone who should know, it’s this lady. A mother should be able to take pride in her son. “There’s one thing, a story no one’s heard. You know who my father was?”

  “Of course. I’ve read his Commedia.”

  “The whole of it?”

  She took that as an insult. “Yes.”

  Pietro gave her a wan smile. “Then you’ve also read your son’s work.”

  When he finished explaining, Donna Maria gazed at him skeptically. “When was this?”

  “My father died four years ago.”

  “Cesco was seven.”

  Pietro opened his hands. “I know, the thing’s impossible. Only it’s not. My father was grooming him. In Cesco, I think he finally had the son he’d always needed.”

  Maria placed a hand on Pietro’s knee. “Surely not.”

  “No, I only mean that everyone seems hell-bent on having Cesco as an heir. Father wanted the boy to take up poetry. Cesco listened politely and, as always, went his own way. It made my father furious. He’d kick Cesco out of his study. A week or two would pass, then they’d be in there, starting over again.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  “I have none of my father’s skill with words. I tried keeping a journal once. It just didn’t take. Besides, when the two of them were closeted together, I never had to worry about what the little monster was up to.”

  Maria raised an eyebrow. “Monster?”

  “Forgive me, that’s extreme. It’s just that he’s so capable! You should have heard him sing tonight. He can tear your soul from out your breast one minute, make you cry with laughter the next.”

  Maria’s expression held any number of conflicting emotions. “He sounds remarkable. Like his father.”

  His hand in hers, Pietro felt the wedding ring on her finger. He saw it was a mixture of gold and silver, with a curious knot repeated over and over across the tiny band. It was ludicrous not to ask. It even seemed that she was waiting for him to do so. “Lady—”

  “Yes, Ser Alaghieri?”

  “I don’t mean to pry, or to interfere, but I’ve always… I mean, I – I disagree with Donna Katerina. I think Cesco should know who his mother is. There are too many secrets.”

  “I understand. But this is one more that must be kept from him. For his sake, the sake of his future.”

  “Lady – the arrangement you have with Cangrande… does it affect Cesco’s well-being?”

  “It does.”

  Pietro paused to compose his words. “The Scaliger hinted at a threat. Is that why he went to fetch you himself, to threaten you?”

  It was Donna Maria’s turn to weigh her words. “To remind me of our agreement.”

  Pietro had to tell her. He couldn’t not. “Lady, that agreement was based upon a falsehood. The Scaliger’s sister was the one who sent the murderer to your house all those years ago, to make you fear for Cesco’s life.”

  Maria’s breath grew still. “You know this?”

  “I was told by the lady herself. It was part of how they convinced me to take him into my care. If I’d known how to reach you then, I would have.”

  Expecting rage, Pietro was astonished when she nodded. “I suspected as much. It didn’t make the threat less real. I suppose it’s occurred to you that she was lying?”

  “She wasn’t. But lady, if you knew…?”

  “Ser Alaghieri – Pietro – I was not coerced into giving up my son. It was a choice I made to ensure he gained his birthright. It remains the most painful decision of my life. I have missed him more than I can say. No matter the circumstance, I will be happy even to see him tomorrow, and to know him a little through your stories.”

  “I can’t imagine a reason to deny him the pleasure knowing he has a mother who loves him.”

  “There is a reason for everything.” The way she said it, the matter was closed. “He’s had a better life than I could have hoped for him. For that, I thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

  Though Pietro had a thousand more questions, there was clearly nothing left to say. He rose and escorted her from the loggia.

  The moment Ser Alaghieri escorted the woman out of the room, Mastino stirred from his place of concealment at the far end of the loggia. Massaging life back into his limbs, he reflected that the pain was a price gladly paid for what he now owned – a lever to topple the beloved Cesco from favour.

  An hour before, red faced and raw from scrubbing the mud off his body, he’d been pacing the loggia end to end. Imagine! Two weeks ago he’d been the hero, cheered by the whole city. Tonight he had been literally dragged through the mud. By children, no less! The ignominy only added to his already towering hatred for the Capitano’s anointed heir.

  His pacing ended when he heard an animated exchange on the stair between his aunt and uncle. Thinking quickly, he’d concealed himself in a nook behind a tapestry, an old hiding place he hadn’t used since he was younger than Cesco. It was cramped, too small for an adult. Yet he’d forced himself to be still and listen.

  Emerging now, he considered what he had learned. Then he went to wake Fuchs.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Arriving back at the Nogarola house, Pietro found a stony-faced Tharwat waiting for him. “The drunkard is gone.”

  Pietro was too tired to be angry. “Escaped, or released?”

  “The latter. Lorenzo decided that the man’s work was done.”

  “It wasn’t his decision to make.”

  “He wasn’t able to identify his employer in any case. Should I pursue him?”

  There were far too many threads unraveling in Pietro’s mind to keep track of them all. “No. He won’t try again. He’ll just vanish.” Pietro paused. “I’m sorry. You were right. We should have just killed him
.”

  “No, your decision was sound. It is worth his continued existence to be certain the Scaliger was not behind the poisoning.”

  “Terrific. Now we only have to rule out the rest of the world.” Releasing a magnificent yawn, Pietro shook his head. “I’m going to bed. Have someone rouse me an hour after dawn. We have a big day ahead of us. Cesco has a meeting with his real mother in the morning.”

  Tharwat might have desired an explanation, but he wisely allowed Pietro to climb the stairs and fall fully-dressed into bed.

  But, try as he might, Pietro couldn’t staunch the flow of worries assaulting him.

  Thirty

  Verona

  Monday, 29 July

  1325

  After a pitiful handful of hours laying awake in darkness, Pietro stared listlessly out the window as the sky broke and rain began to fall. Not a sweet summer shower. A deluge. Pietro resisted the urge to see portents in the weather.

  The door opened and Cesco stuck his head in, looking maddeningly fresh-faced and bushy-tailed. “I hear we’re invited to the palace. What does the Capitano want today, to take me bear-baiting?”

  “The invitation’s not from Cangrande,” said Pietro, rolling out of bed and pulling on his tunic. “It’s from Donna Nogarola.”

  “La Donna? Then why risk a drenching? This is her house, isn’t it? Let her come to us.”

  He wasn’t fooling anyone. Cesco was eager to get into the palace for the first time. “How are you feeling?”

  “Ask me that again and I’ll vomit. Otherwise, fine.”

  “Then make yourself presentable. And try combing your hair.”

  They both dressed formally, covering their finery under heavy cloaks. At the main door they were met by Tharwat and Morsicato.

  “The boy shouldn’t be running around in this weather,” said the doctor.

  “I’ll dash between drops. Are you coming, doctor? No? Pity. I always wanted to see how much water that beard could hold. What about you, Nuncle?” The boy paused. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Should I still call you Nuncle? Or would you prefer Ser Alaghieri?”