The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Little Maddelena returned, and the feast progressed. As ever, there was laughter and merry-making, with Manuel's musicians underscoring the arrival of each course. The Master of Revels was training his replacement, a tall skinny jester called Noam, a Hebrew like himself. There were three other young musicians, French, whom Manuel had employed for the duration of the festival. Their names were Simon, Hugh, and Jacques, and they played remarkably well together, though they stopped often to eat the free food. Owning a remarkable voice, Cangrande's natural son Berto joined them for the singing, and the eating. Now they were performing an amusingly dark tune that professed, however bad life was, it always had something worse to offer. “So you think you've hit bottom? So you think you've hit bottom? O no. There's a bottom below…”

  Everyone was grateful for the music. These public feasts always had an awkwardness to them by the name of Antony Capulletto. When the nobles gathered as themselves, he was genial and loud, often joining Petruchio and Nico da Lozzo as the life of the party. But when wives were present, his time was spent mooning at Montecchio's wife and trying too hard to be witty, cunning, honourable, clever, and everything a man should be for her benefit.

  Of late, things were even more awkward, with his fifteen-year-old wife heavily pregnant with their fourth child. Two boys had expired in their cribs, smiting Capulletto's spirit each time. Only his daughter had thrived. He spent a good deal of time telling stories of his three-year-old girl, whom he had named Giulietta in homage to Caesar's daughter, Julia, the perfect woman. It had also been Antony's pet name for Gianozza – and thus a constant insult to his own wife.

  Of course, the usual centers of attention were the Capitano and his heir, who bantered quite pointedly. But when they disengaged, people were free to enjoy themselves. The meal was sumptuous as ever, with the Scaligeri cook, Giorgio Gioco, proving as inventive as the musicians. Talk of war with Treviso was mixed with news from other lands and more banal conversation – the signs of a hard winter, concerns over the upkeep of roads, a proposal for a new granary on the west side of the city.

  “You should give it to Signor Benedick,” said Cesco. “He lacks employment.”

  “I do not,” said Benedick at once.

  “That's true,” said Prince Rupert. “He's a professional imbiber. He's drunk nightly.”

  “With drinking the health of the Capitano and his Heir!” cried Benedick.

  The tables broke out in applause and all the goblets were raised. Maddelena lifted her cup to imitate the others, but Cesco put a hand over the top of it. “Not with water. It's bad luck to salute with water.”

  “Be careful of saluting even with wine,” warned Petruchio from the next table.

  “Oh?” asked Cesco.

  The bearded lord waved a hand at his wife. “My Kate and I had a salutary warning once, from a constable-turned-innkeeper in Brindisi. What was his name, my love?”

  “Maurizio,” replied Kate, amused.

  “Yes! Maurizio. We were up drinking a sweet lemony concoction of his in the wee hours, and were about to make a salute when he stopped us. 'You must make eye-contact with your beloved when you salute,' he told us. 'Otherwise it's seven years bad sex!' ”

  The hall erupted in laughter. “Father!” chided Hortensio, while his twin groaned and his sisters hid their faces.

  “A most dreadful curse!” cried Nico da Lozzo.

  “Far worse than breaking a mirror,” agreed Castelbarco.

  “At last, a curse I need not fear!” roared Cesco, wiping a tear from his eye.

  Petruchio was red-faced and slapping his knee. Beside him, his red-headed Kate smiled thinly. “It is the one superstition my husband takes deathly seriously.”

  “Black cats be damned,” agreed Petruchio loudly. “I never cover my mouth when I sneeze – let demons try to enter my body! I leave doors open all over the house. But if someone lifts a cup, Kate's eyes had best be on mine, or I'll refuse to drink.”

  “And he hates refusing to drink,” said Kate, pouring him a fresh cup. He did the same for her, and together they lifted their goblets and tossed them back, their eyes locked just inches from each other's face. The hoots from the watchers increased when Petruchio threw his cup aside and grabbed his wife to kiss her full on the mouth. She kissed him back, and soon men's eyes sought for other places on which to land.

  Nico da Lozzo groaned. “If they end up in coitus, we'd best have water ready to douse them.”

  The couple broke apart, allowing the meal to continue. Seeking a more cerebral vein, Cangrande said, “Pietro, have you chosen what canto you mean to read from this month?”

  Pietro started. He had almost forgotten his promise at the wedding to hold a public reading of his father's work. “I hadn't thought of it, my lord. I shall do so. Perhaps Cesco can help me choose,” he added, looking at the young knight.

  Cesco surprised him by offering several excellent suggestions, and they debated the merits of this canto or that until their voices were drowned by laughter from the end of the table. Verde was barking at something her husband Rizzardo had said.

  Annoyed, Cangrande called loudly across to her. “Verde, has Rizzardo said something witty?”

  “He did, uncle,” answered Verde proudly. “He said that taking Treviso would not be so difficult, as any chess player may take a castle.”

  Cangrande laughed louder than the jest warranted. “Write it down! It's likely to be both the first and last time Rizzardo will indulge in wit. Unless – yes! Manuel! Do you have the patience for a second apprentice? For I swear, I think Rizzardo will make an excellent fool.”

  Both Rizzardo and Verde coloured, focusing on their plates as the other guests laughed at the expense of Cangrande's kinsman.

  The feast over, parties left their tables to cluster and converse, or else stagger home with bellies full of food and heads full of wine. Maddelena had been sent off to bed an hour gone, freeing Cesco to pluck up Hugh's rebec and join the musicians, stirring the affair into something more raucous by singing lyrics from Le Fabliaux. The room was alternately scandalized and uproarious as they listened to the story, in which God, making the Earth, creates three orders of men – knights, clergy, and peasantry. As He departs, He is waylaid by the entertainers and the whores, who beg Him to bestow some provision for them. God, in His infinite wisdom, commends the entertainers to the care of the knights, while He tells the clergy to take care of the whores.

  In keeping with the Lord’s decree,

  the clergy supports harlotry,

  holding these women in esteem

  and making sure they get the cream

  of all of Mother Church’s riches.

  Contrariwise, my fable teaches,

  if you have understood it well,

  as for the knights, they’ll go to Hell.

  They look with scorn on the performers,

  who must live poorer than a dormouse

  and go about without a pair

  of shoes, while whores get furs to wear

  and well-lined cloaks and fine attire.

  The entertainers for their hire

  get little enough of their lords.

  For all their fine and noble words,

  they give them only worn-out garments

  and toss them, as they would to varmints,

  of their fine dinners, scraps and messes,

  while harlots often change their dresses,

  sleep with their priests, and what they’re fed

  is counted in the overhead.

  The priests do this for their souls’ sake,

  whereas the stingy knights forsake

  the entertainers, and are damned

  for violating God’s command.

  The members of the clergy, insultingly complimented, steadfastly ignored the song, while the knights threw food and cajoled the grinning singers, who were delighted to have the chance, under the blanket of the prince's protection, to say what they truly thought of the nobility.

  Under the cover
of the dirty ditty, Bail's son Valentino moved across the room to chat with the Don's son, Proteus. This left nothing but air between Detto and his father. But when Bail made a passing comment to someone across Detto, the young knight stood and joined Cesco with the musicians.

  Pietro slipped into Cesco's vacated seat. “You heard what he's named his horse?”

  Cangrande inclined his head. “Abastor? I'm not familiar with that one. Does it mean 'sire-slayer' or some such?”

  Pietro was grim. “Abastor was one of Pluto's four steeds, and was said to run faster than the stars. The very name in Greek means both 'deprived of the light of day' and 'away from the stars'.”

  Cangrande chuckled darkly. “A poetic act of defiance. Good.”

  “Good?”

  “It means he's fighting back in a better way than brawling.”

  “They're not mutually exclusive,” warned Pietro.

  A touch of two fingers on the Scaliger's shoulder gained his attention. Tullio d'Isola murmured in the Capitano's ear. With a nod, he leaned towards Pietro. “Follow in a moment. Bring Bail. No fuss. It may be nothing.” Cangrande departed through the small door at his back.

  Pietro moved down the table to where Bail sat, watching his eldest singing ribald tunes. “He won't even look at me.”

  “He's probably embarrassed. It's harder to be forgiven than forgiving.”

  “Humph. Well, I'll not forgive the singing. He has a decent voice, but no sense of rhythm. Where did the puppy disappear to?”

  “I was to bring you after him. He says it may be nothing.”

  “It's clearly not nothing.” Bail threw back the contents of his goblet and said loudly, “God's bread, but I'm going to spew. Ser Pietro, you'll have to carry me!”

  “Cart you, perhaps! I'll never shift your bulk.” Bail threw a mock blow, then accepted Pietro's shoulder as he pretended to stagger from the hall.

  The moment they were out of sight, they straightened and followed a waiting servant to a side chamber. The first thing Pietro saw was a dark-wood octagonal table, almost the exact size of the baptismal font in the Duomo he had examined after the wedding.

  Pietro then saw who was standing beside it, being greeted by an effusive Cangrande. “Otto, you old cad, you bounder, you rogue! How are you?”

  “Well, my lord Capitano.” The leader of Cangrande's largest mercenary compagnia, Otto the Burgundian had served in all of the Paduan campaigns of recent years. He had also chosen Cesco over Mastino when Cangrande had been thought dead, a reminder of how personable the boy could be, when he cared to try.

  Otto greeted Pietro and Bail warmly, then sat in the indicated chair, a steaming mug of mulled wine warming his hands and face. Cangrande sprawled in the chair opposite, his arm leaning on the octagonal table. “You missed the wedding, but there are plenty of revels left.”

  The mercenary leader was impassive. “You don't pay me to revel, lord.”

  “Remind me, then, what do I pay you for?”

  “Fighting. And keeping you apprised of news.”

  Cangrande leaned back, pretending to brace himself for a flock of arrows. “Let fly.”

  “Gueccello Tempesta is on his way here from Treviso, under a flag of truce.”

  Bail's mouth twisted. “War hasn't even started yet!”

  “He's taking no chances.”

  Cangrande was amused. “I take it he comes with terms.”

  “Or else to defect?” asked Pietro hopefully.

  “Not to defect,” said Otto with assurance. “And I think his terms are for you to jump in the Adige. He's coming to hurl defiance in your teeth, but with the smooth polish of a diplomat.”

  “Which is not his wont,” observed Cangrande. “What's to prevent me throwing him in a cell beneath the Giurisconsulti and taking Treviso while he's absent?”

  Pietro didn't hide his exasperation. “A flag of truce!”

  “His companion,” said Otto shortly.

  Cangrande puzzled for a moment, as did Pietro and Bail. Who would stand with Treviso against Verona? “Dandolo?”

  Otto shook his head. “Ludwig. Or, to be specific, his right hand.”

  “Berthold? Ludwig sends Berthold to protect the man who has sworn to keep his city out of the empire? He offers protection to Tempesta, his enemy, to treat with me, his ally. Is he mad?”

  Otto was silent. An impassive man in life, he was only passionate in the field.

  Suddenly Cangrande's brow uncreased. Squinting as if in pain, he began swearing. A servant arrived with more wine for Otto, which Cangrande intercepted and kept.

  No one noted the second figure who had entered after the servant until he spoke. “Otto! I didn't know you were in these parts!”

  “Good to see you, my lord,” said Otto, rising to bow gravely.

  “Good to be seen,” answered Cesco brightly. “But you must call me Ser François now – it is François in Burgundy, yes? – and remove your hat.”

  Otto's mouth twitched. “If you want my hat, take it.”

  “Would that I could, but I'd be afraid of frosting your hair with snow when you departed. I cause too many grey hairs already.” Cesco's eyes darted between Cangrande and the Burgundian. “Dare I ask the news?”

  “What do you not dare?” growled Bailardino.

  Otto answered in an even tone. “Nothing of war. I am only a messenger.”

  “Nothing of war? How are your men to keep their skills sharp? I shall have to visit the camp and put them through their paces.”

  “You would be most welcome, Ser François,” said Otto. “If only to allow Yuri and Fabio time to recover from their respite in town. Fabio's arm cannot carry a shield for at least a month.”

  “Indeed, François,” interjected Cangrande, “your sport seems more dangerous than my wars.”

  “My sport has higher stakes.”

  Otto was not unaware of the daggers in the counter-talk, but did not mind placing his body between the sharpened edges. “Speaking of sport, my young lord, our last hunt has become legendary. Morando Bevilaqua still talks of how your arrow jostled his on the way towards the hart. He says you owe him a chance to regain his honour at the hunt.”

  “He wants to take my honour? What am I, a maid?”

  “A lord with the wiles of a virtuous maid in an armed camp.”

  “In your camp, that's a wily maid indeed. Well, tell Bevilaqua I shall come, and he can attempt to take my maidenhead.”

  Even the impassive Otto could not restrain himself from laughing aloud, while Cangrande drank deeply and Bail scowled.

  “Pardon, Nuncle.” Crossing past Pietro to the octagonal table, Cesco helped himself to a goblet of wine and poured himself languidly into another chair, exactly matching the Scaliger's pose. “I take it Otto's news is dire. Has he had a better offer? If not, can I make one?”

  “You cannot afford me,” said Otto.

  Cangrande offered a grimacing smile. “Otto knows to whom his loyalty is owed. No, it's Tempesta. He's on his way here with a flag of truce, in the company of your cyclopean friend.”

  Cesco frowned. “Tharwat? Is that where he's gone?”

  Pietro blanched, but Cangrande clarified at once. “Berthold. Though you're right, we seem to be collecting one-eyed acquaintances. Is it a statement on the myopia of our enemies? Their lack of vision?”

  “I thought Tharwat's latest affliction was more an ironic expression of Divine Will. He's been peering into the future so long, he was bound to lose an eye. Our own Tiresias, or at least half of one. 'Blind who now has eyes, beggar who now is rich, he will grope his way toward a foreign soil, a stick tapping before him step by step.' But not even Sophocles tortured the ears of his hearers with such a voice!”

  Chuckling, Cangrande shook his head. “I'm a terrible person. Or you are. You see what this means?”

  “That Ludwig is trying to out-maneuver you?” said Cesco in a bored voice. “Yes, it's obvious. Tap tap tap. Tempesta comes here under safe-conduct with the Emperor, whom you can
not defy, and declares his independence. Berthold allows you two to wrangle with each other, then steps in with the stunning hammer. He forces Tempesta to submit, not to you but direct to Ludwig. You're granted Treviso not through feat of arms but by Ludwig's good will. You'll have your title, but in a manner that robs you of the victory. I had no idea the Pax Verona bothered him so much.”

  “Gratifying, I suppose,” admitted Cangrande. “He sees me as important enough to keep down.”

  “He needs Verona,” said Cesco. “But he does not trust you. I'd say not to take it personally, but it's personal. You're far too skilled at wielding power for him to feel easy giving you any more. Which, I imagine, is why Rupert ingratiates himself with me. I am wooed from all corners. Except this one.”

  “That's the trick of wooing,” said Cangrande. “Make the wooed come to you, and then there is no question of consent.”

  “I know that trick. And Ludwig does as well, that much I know. He will make any power unpalatable to you, but leave it there for future generations that are more pliable.”

  “Shall I just step aside now?” asked Cangrande in grand fashion, rising and offering his seat. “Or do you want it all baked into a proper cake first?”

  “You must be drunk,” replied Cesco dismissively. “Why would I want your duties? I'm the irresponsible one, remember? Let me enjoy the last of my minority. When I'm a man, I'll shoulder a man's burdens. Besides, when have I ever been called pliable?”

  Cangrande studied his heir. “Six months of idleness, and then what?”

  Cesco quaffed the last of his wine. “Then Treviso.”

  “And after that?”

  “What, should I angle to lose an eye as well? There's been too much scrying and spying, crying and plying. Indulge your enemies. But if it makes you less uneasy, Pater, when Tempesta comes I will remove myself. Otto, I accept your invitation. My Rakehells – how I like that name! – will sojourn at your camp.”

  Cangrande frowned. “Taking Rupert with you? What if I desire you both to remain here and blunt Berthold?”

  Slapping his hands on his thighs, Cesco leapt up. “Federigo! Padua! The very ground under our feet! Must I do everything?” He stalked from the office without a glance for either Pietro or Bailardino, both of whom were frowning, if for different reasons.