Brethren:
Raised By Wolves
Volume One
By
W.A. Hoffman
Smashwords Edition
Published December 2012
Alien Perspective, LLC
Copyright 2006 W.A.Hoffman
Raised By Wolves series
Brethren
Matelots
Treasure
Wolves
All four novels are available in trade paperback editions.
For additional information please see
W.A. Hoffman’s Smashwords page and
AlienPerspective.com
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The author reserves all rights to this work granted by United States copyright law and applicable international copyright law. No part of this book may be altered or excerpted without the express permission of the author, except for brief excerpts used solely for the purposes of publicity or review.
This book is a work of fiction written for the purposes of entertainment. Though some personages mentioned herein were actual people, their personification in this story is purely of the author’s fabrication and not meant to reflect upon the original individuals. Readers interested in separating relative truth from fiction in regard to the historical people, events, or social structures portrayed in this novel are invited to read the resource material listed in the bibliography and make their own determinations.
Dedication
This book and its brothers have been labors of love and faith, made possible by the following people. I dearly wish to thank:
My husband, John, for being my matelot through thick and thin, artistic despair and ecstasy, and for richer or poorer. Thank you for loving me. I could not do it without you.
Barb, my editor and bestest writing buddy ever, for her unflagging optimism and encouragement, loving critiques, and eagle eye. Thank you for helping me look good.
My mother, for teaching me how to dream and always reach for what I want. My brother, for being my biggest fan. My sister, for her love and support. My father, for teaching me to think and judge for myself. I am very grateful I was not raised by, or with, wolves or sheep.
My alpha and beta readers for their faith and enthusiasm: for reading every revision I threw at them and still continuing to give me feedback. And all the people who have read my work, either this piece or others, and offered their support and encouragement. Thank you all.
And, of course, to the Gods. Without You, nothing. I give special thanks to Venus, invincible Goddess of Love and Beauty. Every book a temple, for You did not make me a stone mason.
One
Wherein I Take My Leave
of Florence and Love
“Ulysses, are you prepared?” Alonso asked as he joined me.
“How do I appear?” I asked, turning from the wall mirror with a flourish. “Do I look the part of an English barbarian fool who some beleaguered and cultured denizen of Florence has attempted to dress?” I knew well that I did, and that it was less an act and more a truth than I often wish to own.
Alonso chuckled. “Perfectly. I could not envision a better representation of such a thing than you embody now. Your attire is expensive, though a trifle plain.”
I shrugged. I have never been one to cater to the fashion of the day. I suppose it has much to do with being raised during the Interregnum. Though I am not a Protestant, my constant exposure to stolid black and brown during my youth left me ever ill-prepared for the colorful and ostentatious attire worn by all other men of means in Christendom. Though the cut of my clothing was as it should be for a wealthy denizen of Florence, I had chosen not to have my garments embellished with all the bows and feathers Alonso wore.
He was, as always, far more resplendent than I; though this would be true even if he stood there naked. His mahogany mane was naturally wavy, and curled quite obediently in the humid air. The feathers in his hat did not even droop, but sat at just the correct jaunty angle. I felt like some poor, pale, and bony relation from the distant north. It was worse when we shared a bed.
He crossed his arms and put two fingers to his lips as he perused me. He gestured with them as he spoke. “That blue silk does truly match your eyes.”
I looked down at my silk jerkin and breeches. They were a vibrant azure. I had been quite taken with the color when our tailor showed me the fabric. And though I knew my eyes were blue, and had occasionally seen them clearly in particularly fine mirrors, I still found it difficult to believe they were the shade of my attire.
“And the servants have done wonders with your hair,” Alonso continued. “I did not think that straw you carry about on your head could be made to curl.”
I had not either, and I was well pleased with the result. I fingered my curling tresses and snorted. “Caterina has expressed an interest in my locks precisely because they are the color of straw and not dark. Or as she said, they glow like spun gold in candlelight. Of course, she was a bit drunk at the time.” I shrugged. “All my wigs are dark. I am thankful I have not been tempted to cut my hair of late. If I had, Gregorio would not have had so much to work upon. Still, you should applaud me for suffering hours of his ministrations in the name of tonight’s business.”
Alonso smiled and awarded me a polite clap. “You suffer so for the cause. I am sure Caterina will be truly dazzled by your golden locks. That is, if she is not blinded by that sword. Good God, Uly, could you find a gaudier weapon? It is irony at its finest. It is so appallingly encrusted with jewels and filigree as to appear unusable.”
I drew the sword and handed it to him. He tested the weight of the blade.
“This is actually a fine weapon,” he remarked. “Well balanced indeed. It is a damn shame it is so pretty.”
I rolled my eyes. The hilt of his sword was well worked in gold, with rubies set in the pommel. It matched the buckles on his shoes and the pendant nestled in the ornate lace of his collar. He was calling the kettle black indeed.
“It will serve me well, and I do not mind drawing attention to it,” I said of the sword. “Or losing it, as I will surely do this night. If your plan comes to pass, and I am actually perceived as a lovestruck barbarian swain, then it is fitting that I should be such a fool as to have spent all of my money on a gaudy and unusable sword. Though after three years here, much of it so obviously in the company of our fair patroness, I am sure I am well enough known that the ruse you have concocted should be nigh impossible for any but the naïve to swallow. So, if my reputation precedes me, as it often does, at least with this weapon they will not think I have come to duel this night.”
He returned the sword with a bow and a smile. “Forgive me, my fair Ulysses, for assuming you had not put much thought into the matter.”
I snorted. “Si, it is a rare thing indeed, my thinking.” Though he thought all philosophy the purview of fools and sophists, Alonso was ever chiding me and calling me a simpleton for the lack of thought I give much of my life. I prefer to live in the day at hand, and leap into opportunities as they present themselves. Alonso is more the careful sort, ever mindful of consequences.
I returned the blade to its equally ornate scabbard and stepped in to kiss him. As always, when we were not in our rooms, his dark eyes darted about to see if anyone had observed my demonstration of affection. As if anyone in Teresina’s house did not know we were lovers.
With an annoyed sigh, I went to the parlor’s sidebar and poured us wine. He joined me; hi
s arm stole around my waist.
“I worry when you do that,” he whispered.
I stifled another sigh and said gently, “Alonso, I am not naïve, or blind. I know you are anxious of it. I am sorry I troubled you.” The last was a trifle more acerbic than I intended.
“Consider it flattery,” I added quickly in a milder tone. “Occasionally I am not content to merely gaze upon your beauty.”
He rolled his eyes and awarded me a kiss to savor.
“I am sorry; I simply do not understand how you can be so free about it,” he whispered when at last our lips parted.
“Why not? I have nothing to lose. And do you truly feel everything you do here will be reported to Madrid? You are working for a courtesan. I should think that would carry more familial reprisal than taking a man into your bed.”
He dissembled like a boy with a hand in the sweets tin. “I do not see us as working for her.”
“Si, she merely provides us with a house for some philanthropic purpose of her own.” I clinked my glass to his and drank. I grinned. “Something of a wayfarer’s shelter for the rogue sons of noblemen.”
“What is this about rogues?” Teresina asked in Latin as she swept across the room. Her Castilian was not excellent, but proficient enough for her to hear or comprehend what she wished or needed. This had proven an embarrassment on occasion, as Alonso and I usually spoke Castilian with one another so as not to be understood.
She was resplendent in a gown of patterned silk, with enough jewels in her intricately-piled chestnut hair and around her long white throat to ransom a prince, which I suppose in some way they may have. She was far more beautiful than her accoutrements, though. Venus had truly smiled upon Teresina.
She gave me a warm kiss and then had another for Alonso. I watched them together with desire. In an unusual turn of events, her only business at the ball was to escort us, so perhaps she could be enticed to welcome us into her boudoir this night. It had been months since the three of us cavorted together. It had been weeks since I had been alone with her, though I did not oft expect it. Her time was taken with men who brought her baubles, land, and power. I was thankful she took the services I rendered her as coin enough to spare me her attention on occasion. I did not begrudge her this. It was the way of her livelihood.
She took Alonso’s right hand and my left, and stepped back to the length of our arms to regard us critically. She smiled approval and then raised an eyebrow.
“Uly, that sword is… truly… ornate. For you,” she added quickly after glancing at Alonso’s.
I chuckled and went to sprawl across an overstuffed brocade chair. “The tragedy is it is actually a fine blade. I asked the smith why he designed it so, and he told me he had made it unadorned, but then some rake had asked for one with this type of working and he had not had another blade ready. So he did this, much to his chagrin. The miracle is that he was still able to balance it. Then the damned rake did not return to purchase it, despite having given a retainer for its completion. Our thought was that the fool lost his life dueling with another ostentatious piece of work that was not really a sword underneath. So I found it perfect for my purposes, and he was relieved to be rid of it. Who am I to refuse a gift from the Gods?”
“Ahhh,” Alonso moaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose as he always did when annoyed. I had taken to imagining him tightening some little lock there to keep the anger in. “Ulysses, do not blaspheme.”
Teresina threw her head back and laughed.
“Alonso,” I chided. “We have discussed this many times. I do not believe in the Gods of the Romans. Like many a cynical Roman and Greek, I merely ascribe their names to the whimsy of fate and providence.”
“Most would assign the name of God to His work,” Alonso replied with a stern demeanor. He truly did worry about such things.
“However trivial…” I sighed. “I would not imagine He spares much time for me. He has kings and popes to advise, does He not?”
“Uly, I fear you will suffer eternal damnation,” Alonso said.
“And you with me. Unless, of course, you Papists are correct, and you can truly be shriven of all your sins on your death bed. I cannot see how any God that created leprosy would be so magnanimous.”
His stolid stance and glare were nicely juxtaposed by the cascade of Teresina’s laughter. I gave him my best smile, which many call boyish. He did not return it.
“Oh, Alonso,” Teresina said. “He only says such things to rile you.”
“That is true. While I do believe such things, I only speak of them to rile you. If you were not so amusing when angry, I would not bother.” I laughed.
He relented with a languid roll of his eyes. “I do not wish to speak on the matter again, or hear it spoken of.” This was not the first time our discussion of this topic, jesting or otherwise, had ended with that pronouncement. And I would respect his wishes on the matter, until the next time I felt compelled to needle him.
Two of Teresina’s girls joined us, and we were now fully assembled. Alonso and I would ride, and they would take the carriage. It was unlikely that if everything went as planned we would be leaving with the ladies. I gave the livery boy a coin, and Hercules, my black Moorish stallion, a kind word and a treat. Alonso mounted his grey gelding without comment. I was not sure if he was still angry with me, or whether he was annoyed that I was doting upon my horse again.
We rode ahead. Even though the streets of Florence have been paved for centuries and are not prone to dust, I despise riding behind a carriage. I do not like having my pace constrained by the decisions of the driver and exigencies of the road. I wished I had time to take Hercules on a pleasant run through the countryside to soothe our spirits.
As we crossed the Ponte Vecchio, the setting September sun bathed the Arno red beneath us. The bloody river flowing into the coming night beckoned to my soul, and I steered aside and stopped to allow Teresina’s baroccio to pass.
“Is something amiss?” the footman asked as they went by.
“No, no, it is just…” I sighed. Were they blind? The scene before us was spectacular. I could not look away and ride on without savoring it for a moment. “Go along, I will be with you shortly,” I called above the clatter of hooves on brick.
Alonso was beside me a moment later. “Why do you do this?”
“Watch sunsets?” I queried without turning.
“Worry me.”
“My dear Alonso, I was engaging in this night’s activities for years before I was graced with knowledge of your existence. Why do you fret so?”
“There is much at stake.”
I chuckled. “All the more reason to watch the sunset then, is there not?”
He sighed and settled into his saddle. “What are your thoughts?”
“Amusing things you do not wish to discuss. I am gripped by this scene of unfathomable beauty before us, and I find myself wondering whether it is a thing without meaning that would occur with or without my observance of it. Or whether it is a thing the ancients would have deemed a portent sent by the Gods, or God. What does a blood-red river flowing into the west mean to one such as me? There are the obvious associations, to be sure. However, I do not believe that the gods and goddesses potentially involved in the delivery of omens would be so simple, much less direct, in their message. Gods are supposed to be mysterious and fickle entities.”
He sighed heavily.
I echoed it. “And I am not saying this to rile you. You asked my thoughts.”
He turned his handsome countenance skyward. I knew many a sculptor in Florence would find God’s blessing in being able to recreate the planes of his face in that pose of heavenly supplication. I knew, because occasionally I suffered from delusions of having an artistic bent and wished to portray Alonso in marble or on canvas myself. At the moment I was less interested in him, though, and wished to embarrass myself with paints in an attempt to capture the sunset before us for posterity. I turned back to the river. The sun had sunk farther,
and the Arno was no longer red. The spell was broken. I urged Hercules forward, and he eagerly complied. Alonso quickly came alongside.
The sunset image continued to burn in my mind.
“You came as I did to a city renowned for its art,” I teased, “and yet you seem to care not for beauty when God visits it upon you.” Alonso had not come to Florence for its art, though I had.
“I do not possess your artistic soul,” he said quietly. The words were almost lost in the clatter of hooves as we trotted to catch Teresina’s carriage. I heard them, though, and recognized them for what they were, which was as much of an apology as I would receive. “I do not understand you,” he added with vigor and volume.
“No, and I am pleased. If you did, you would cast me off, as you do all things you grow bored with.”
My words apparently gave him pause, as he reined his horse in. We had closed on the baroccio, and as the vehicle pulled away again I saw the footman reward us with the exasperated look servants always adopt when their masters are behaving oddly. I grinned and waved at him before I turned to rejoin Alonso, who sat staunchly in the middle of the road. He was soon to be run over by the next carriage. I motioned for him to move aside, and we cleared the way. Once we were somewhat safe, I glanced about to see what else might have caught his attention; but there was nothing. His gaze remained steadfast on my person. I gave him a quizzical look.
“You drive me to abstraction,” he muttered.
“I am even more pleased.” I grinned. “As you are often so anchored in the firmament.”
“Uly, please be serious.”
Teresina’s baroccio was pulling into the palace gates well ahead of us; but I waited and regarded Alonso in somewhat patient silence. He was watching the other guests pass us by. When he did not speak, I asked pleasantly, “Alonso, what am I to be serious about?”
Brethren Page 1
