by David Blixt
Today he donned a thick suede farsetto, dyed an expensive black. The doublet's sleeves were slashed, displaying the ruffles of his burgundy tunic beneath. His hose were charcoal grey, and his boots so black they shone. His belt was jeweled, matching the ruby in his hat, both gifts from distant admirers. He enjoyed looking fine, and now in his twenties he was man enough to carry off the best clothes.
Yet another wedding gift awaited him in his study. They were still arriving, and from the most surprising places. Philip VI, the new King of France, had sent a remarkable scabbard, lined with fox-fur and studded with emeralds. The ruler of the Byzantine Empire, Andronicus II Palaeologus, had sent a flight of hawks. John III, Duke of Brabant, had sent a full suit of jousting armour in the latest style. King Magnus II of Sweden had sent a jeweled bow strung with a golden cord – utterly impractical, but charming nonetheless.
Today's gift came from Poland. As his servants unpacked it, Mastino gasped. It was a magnificent saddle lined in bear-hide, with arciones of solid silver. Admiring it, he hated himself for wondering what the Polish king had sent to Cesco. Surely it could be nothing so fine.
There was a knock below, and moments later Mastino's steward arrived to announce his sister Verde. Fut. He had put her off twice already, contriving to be out. Unable to duck this interview any longer, he assented to seeing her.
Verde swept into the room in her headlong manner, eyes hungry. With her curling dark hair beneath the gauzy caul covering her head, with her bright and flawless smile, with her hazel eyes twinkling mirth and malice, she was a beautiful woman in repose. The trouble was that, like so many members of their family, she was seldom still.
As now, when she paced the room, looking at the saddle from all angles. “I had no idea you were so well regarded.”
Having studied stillness, Mastino now modeled it for his sibling. “And a good morning to you.”
“Is it still morning? I wonder that you are still indoors, the hour is so late. Your crest should be a dormouse.” Verde ran a finger along one of the silver arciones. “Who is it from?”
“The King of Poland.”
Unimpressed, Verde crossed to the window and stared out, her breath fogging the glass. “He has a funny name, doesn't he? What is he called?”
Mastino chuckled. “Władysław the Elbow-high.”
Tracing a two-headed eagle on the steamed glass, Verde's scornful laughter came from the back of her throat. “Why, in heaven's name? Is he that short?”
“I have no notion,” answered Mastino tersely. He did not enjoy visits from his sister, was much happier when she was exiled to her husband's lands. Sadly, her husband was incapable of holding his lands without Scaligeri aid. Which meant they had come to Verona for the whole winter.
Verde threw herself into the seat he had not offered. “I hear our cousin is practicing swords today. You do not mean to join him?”
“Your power to grasp the obvious remains undimmed.”
“Mm. I thought you made a point of competing in all contests.”
“Not ones held by the Heir.”
“Not ones you can't win, you mean.”
Mastino stiffened. “I don't mind losing. I mind looking small.”
“He does make you look that, doesn't he?”
“Not at the wedding.”
“No, though age will rectify that. But he made a mockery of you at the knighting, and he's all anyone can talk about since. He has a talent for fame that eludes you.”
“Fame is a double-edged sword.”
“At least it's a sword, not a club, blunt and useless.”
Mastino grinned without feeling. “Depends upon the club. What do you want?”
“I? Nothing much. Fame, a little power. Most of all I want respect. I am tired of these jabs at my husband. As if I had a choice in marrying him. But as I am shackled, I mean to see him prosper.”
“Or, failing that, at least see him not the butt of a dozen jokes.”
“Yes,” she said, wiggling her toes in her shoes. “That would be a decent start. I had rather hoped you would have eclipsed our uncle's bastard by now.”
“So that I could honour your husband by bringing him into my company?” Mastino's smile held more feeling now. “It may happen. Fortune is a fickle bitch.”
Verde pulled a face. “Vulgar as ever. Are you really content to put your future into the hands of Fate?”
“Why not? Fate has been kinder to me than you. I, at least, have a satisfactory marriage.”
Verde rose, and for a moment Mastino hoped she would depart. Instead she crossed to study a silver globe that had been a gift from the Venetian Dandolo, years before. She set it turning. “I think it's preferable to craft one's own fate. Perhaps I should woo your rival. Take him to my bed, bind him to me.”
Mastino grunted. “He does have a taste for family.”
Still looking down, Verde stopped the spinning globe with a single finger. “Why haven't you spread that story?”
“I have my reasons.”
“It appears to be weakness.”
“That's the difference between us. You care about appearances.”
Her eyes sweeping his fine attire from heel to head, Verde offered an ironic smile. “And you don't?”
“Not in things that matter. I care about results. I know when to use a weapon, and when to keep it sheathed.” His voice dropped so that none but she could hear. “I promise you – the bastard will never rule Verona. I have the means. But until the time comes, I would be a fool to use it.”
Verde studied him, his firm gaze, his stillness and the coiled energy beneath, waiting for the right moment to burst forth. “Perhaps I have misjudged,” she allowed.
“No 'perhaps' about it.”
They heard a step and a voice in the hall without. Taddea was dressed and descending to begin her day. Verde took a slow breath. “Then you'd best create the time. I will not wait forever. If I must force greatness upon you, I will, if only to benefit myself.”
At the inquiring knock, Verde called out to her sister-in-law, her smile free and uncalculating. They embraced and, with Mastino's permission, began making plans for the day. They left him standing alone beside the silver saddle that lacked only a mount to carry Mastino into glory.
But he knew where glory was to be found this day. Cursing, he went off to find some companions before braving the tilt yards.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE SWORDS WERE BATED, the pourpoints well padded. The tabards were ornate and garish, with devices of humour – a hare, a sheep, a duck, animals not noted for valour but for cowardice.
It fit the mood of the event, full of boasts and hilarity. In the coming days would be more serious clashes of arms – jousts and duels of honour. Today was proposed as a practice bout, to recall for those out of martial habit the skills required, and perhaps gain a few new ones.
The company cheered as each pair of duelists came together to clash. No shields, no bucklers, just flashing steel aiming for a touch, a disarm, a flourish. Barrels of stout German ale stood open to all, for that was the stipulation: each contestant must hold their goblet in their off hand, and the winner was judged by how little he had let spill at the end of three passes. He then had to drink off the remains and return to the queue to fight again. Thus the victors would each grow more drunk, evening the odds as the day wore on.
The tilt yards were packed, with three bouts happening at any given moment. Boys and idle men perched along the fence, gnawing food and taking wagers, hoping for some new madness to occur under their eyes.
Benedick wore a goose tabard. Presented by Cesco with a mocking bow, the amused Paduan had donned it with pride. Cesco himself wore a curious device, newly stitched – a pair of falling stars and a winged puppy chasing them through the sky.
“I like mine better,” said Benedick, cinching his belt over the long cloth that reached past his knees.
“I like his better too,” said Salvatore, who was wearing a cluster of swarming bees.
“Shall we institute a rule?” asked young Petruchio. “The victor may strip the vanquished of his colours?” He was picking disdainfully at the golden threaded flea on his chest.
“Typical Bonaventura, changing rules halfway through the day!” Cesco had already quaffed two cups. “Who are you betting on for the next bout?”
The latest contestants in the center section were Cesco's half-brother Barto and a massive mercenary called Yuri Castorani. He was a member of a compagnia di ventura under the command of the famous Otto the Burgundian. Come May, Otto's would be among the lead companies deployed by Cangrande against Treviso, with Yuri on his right hand.
Without a war to fight, the mercenaries who made up over half of Verona's forces were reveling it as bravely as the best, and had eagerly come out to join this display of prowess that was open to all comers.
“I shall never bet against a Scaligero,” said Petruchio loyally, then cast his eyes over Yuri's massive frame. “So I'm not betting at all.”
“Wisely, wisely,” nodded Cesco.
Indeed, Barto did not win the bout. All watched as Yuri cheerfully downed the contents of his cup, which had hardly spilled a drop.
Barto came over, panting. Like his near-brother Berto, and like Cesco, he was lean with strong nose, large eyes, and thick lips. But he had a pair of dimples in his cheeks that could only have come from his mother, and hair that bordered on black.
Berto had the hair, but not the dimples. He also owned a tremendous singing voice, when cajoled into using it. He now slapped his winded brother on the arm. “That was terrible.”
“He's got an arm like a battering ram,” said Barto in awe. “Did you see? When I parried his first blow, I hit myself in the head.”
“Trust me, we saw,” said Salvatore, master of the sly hit – at least verbally. No one had yet seen his swordsmanship.
Next was Petruchio's twin, facing another mercenary from Otto's company, Fabio Scolari. Lighter and faster than Yuri, with a long tail of black hair knotted at the nape of his neck, Fabio quickly scored a victory in a flurry of moves too fast for the eye. The contents of Hortensio's cup ended up all over his pourpoint. Fabio downed his own drink, then rapped a wooden post with his knuckles as Yuri had done.
Yuri tugged Fabio's knotted hair as he passed. “You shouldn't show them all your tricks at once. Save some for later.”
Fabio smoothed his sleek ebon hair back into place. “Next time I'll steal a bolt from your quiver and fart at them. They'll spill their cups as they gag.”
Yuri groaned. “Once! I did it once!”
“Five times, by my count. I know your farts too well,” added Fabio. “You're more dangerous to the men behind you than in front of you. Tell me that's not how he won, my lord?” he said to Barto.
Barto was no one's lord, but forms of address were hard to navigate when dealing with the Scaliger's natural offspring. “I could only smell my own urine as I pissed myself,” answered Barto, dimples flaring.
“Piss on Yuri instead,” suggested Fabio. “He's big like a wall, and just as useful in the field. It's how I stay alive, I dodge behind him for cover.”
“Is that how, Fart-Catcher?” snorted Yuri. “I thought you used your bird bones to fly away while the rest of us earthbound idiots stay and fight like men.”
“Like bears, farting and snuffling after fermented apples.”
Everyone was beside themselves with laughter. Soon the pair agreed to a bout against each other. Since they kept their cups in hand, it was a wild fight, alternately hilarious and awe-inspiring. Both were skilled, in utterly different ways. Fabio danced and soared like an eagle, his shock of black hair trailing him like pinfeathers. Yuri hardly moved, allowing the blows to come to him and beating them back with the contemptuous ease of an annoyed bear, waiting for the moment to use his own speed.
Without taking his eyes from the contest, Cesco sidled over to Detto. “The eagle and the bear. Remind you of anyone?”
Despite his sullen mood, Detto's mouth twitched. He and Cesco were like this, Cesco moving light and free like the eagle, Detto grounded and strong like the bear. “The bear will win.”
The bear did win, but only when the level in the cups were measured after the passes proved inconclusive. Fabio had spilled more than Yuri, and the victor downed his cup and knocked twice on the wooden post once again.
“Why do you do that?” asked Benedick.
“What?” replied Yuri.
“Knock after you drink.”
Yuri let out a gust of raw mirth. “It's the rule in Otto's camp. Ci non bussa, non gussa!”
This having been uttered in the coarse Veronese dialect, it took Benedick a second longer than the natives to start laughing. Then his mind caught up and he had to clutch his sides as he joined everyone within earshot in draining their cups and knocking. A tradition was born – or rather a superstition. If you don't knock, you don't fuck.
Under their guffawing they missed the entrance of several men in fine clothes, armed and handsome for the day. Hearing a murmur from the fence, Cesco turned to behold his cousin Mastino approaching, accompanied by a company of knights and jousters including his brother Alberto and Castelbarco's son.
“Cousins! Ser Castelbarco! What a lovely surprise! Have you heard our knocking and come running?”
Not privy to the joke, Mastino understood he was already being made the butt. “We've come to knock heads and send you running. We mean to show you how to handle a sword.”
“If you mean to knock us with your heads, you have mistaken us for quintains. They are for your lances, not us. Unsheathe your lances at us, as we will indeed run.”
“As all puppies do before mastiffs,” said Mastino, examining Cesco's curious tabard.
“Naturally! Puppies are hardly grown. Yet if they survive to enter their adult years, they have the advantage of youth over age – though not beauty! I am sure I own nothing so fine as that doublet. Or that belt! Jesu, what it must have cost. We must protect them from soiling, or else Barto might piss on them. Come, tabards for my beloved cousins!”
Fresh tabards were brought. Mastino first thought to be insulted by the image of a camel stitched across his until he heard his brother Alberto laughing at the one he'd drawn – an upside-down duck, tail in the air, head under water. Alberto donned his with pleasure, and Mastino saw that theirs were no more insulting than any worn today. In fact, he had done rather well. Young Castelbarco had been given a frolicking kitten playing with a ball of string.
The judges of the bouts were impartial, and sober, and the day progressed without menace or more-than-normal raillery. Mastino took his bouts seriously, and not even downing three victorious cups could loosen his determination to keep winning. Cesco was more light-hearted, playing the fool and losing as often as he won. But they never faced each other, and never attempted to.
There was one fellow who consistently angled to spar with Cesco, a narrow teen of about his own height. Atop his tabard of a rat without a tail he wore a cowl and a high collar that muffled his mouth. As it was a chill day, it would not have been conspicuously suspicious, had he not been so determined to face Verona's Heir.
Recognizing him, Cesco started to laugh. “The cat! The cat! The cat has come a-calling! Oh, please, for the love of all that's good in this bad, bad world, Ser Castelbarco, give him your tabard! He mustn't wear the rat, but the pussy!”
Flushing, Thibault Capulletto threw back his cowl. His ice-blond hair caught the sun, causing several people to exclaim in delight. His was a face not often seen in public, and never in the lists, being steered towards a cloistered life by his uncle, Lord Capulletto. Which made no sense, as Capulletto's own children kept dying, save that pretty and hilarious wee girl, Giulietta. Without a male to carry on his name, no one understood what Lord Capulletto was thinking, sending this fearsome blond nephew to study at books when he clearly longed to study at swords. Had Capulletto hated his brother that much?
Thibault strode into the e
mpty right-hand square, just vacated by Salvatore and an older Florentine (Salvatore had won, being as adroit and patient in swords as he was in words). “Fight me, if you dare!” cried Thibault.
Cesco laughed. “What would you want with me, pussy-cat? You don't want to face me, fresh from a fight and arm-weary. If you won, you'd never be able to boast about it.”
It was true, and Thibault knew it. “Fine. Him, then.” He was pointing at Detto, who shrugged and stepped into the list. His tabard bore a beetle.
Hands on hips, Cesco threw back his head. “O, you know not what you do, Master Thibault! Vicentines eat cats!”
Tossing a wry scowl Cesco's way, Detto nearly missed the sound of Thibault's sword hissing the air. He stepped back, protesting. “I haven't even got my cup yet!”
“Eagerness is admirable in mouse-hunting,” Cesco called. “But I don't think you've ever been on that kind of hunt. You probably haven't learned to knock.”
Thibault's cheeks flushed again. He and Detto were of an age, and though Detto was taller and thicker, Thibault did not lack for strength. The first blow was deceptively light, as it was only a feint for a second that caused liquid to slop over the edge of Detto's cup from the shock of the parry.
To everyone's surprise but his, Thibault was an excellent swordsman. His form was perfection, as if he had practiced all his life, because he had. Cesco himself declared, “This cat has a claw! Who knew?”
Thibault won the first touch, and lost the second only because Detto had more experience of the actual mechanics of sword-fighting against a real living body, rather than a shadow or a little girl. The third touch was inconclusive, as both he and Detto managed points after some very tricky engagements. Thibault had made an underhanded move straight from the Holkam Bible that, had the blades been sharp, would have pierced Detto's hip clear through. As it was there would be a nasty bruise. Men applauded, Cesco among them – there had long been debate over what the book's drawing had meant, and Thibault had clearly figured it out.
Alas for him, Detto had at the same moment brought his sword down in a clout that again, had the swords not been bated, would have cleaved his skull. Instead it rocked Thibault, but he managed to keep his cup level, as Detto had not. With more liquid in his vessel, Thibault was adjudged the winner. He drank, knocked, and came strolling over, deliberately not rubbing his sore head under his helm. “What was that about eating cats?”
