by David Blixt
“I don't know why you think I need convincing,” said Antonia tartly. “It was my idea, if I recall.”
Pietro ducked his head. “Sorry. I get defensive. What about you? How is your little charge?”
Antonia answered his smile with one of her own. “Mostly, it's been charming. Though Maddelena thinks it's her fault Cesco left. She misses him dreadfully.”
Pietro sighed. “Another poor soul caught in his wake.”
“Yes,” agreed Antonia simply.
“Still, it must be nice being in a house with a child again.”
Antonia's smile widened. “It is. And she's quite bright – which is good, as I don't know how not to live with brilliance.”
Pietro laughed at that. “Are you reconsidering the Order? Do you want a child of your own?”
Antonia's smile vanished. “No! No, no children for me.” She visibly forced herself to relax. “What about you? It's past time you were married. I want some legitimate nieces and nephews.”
Pietro groaned. “Well, if it helps, Antony says my namesake is doing well.” Antony had accepted a bastard of Poco's into his country household as a servant. It sat ill with them both, that the first grandson of Dante should be raised to be a servant, and Pietro continued to toy with the notion of taking the boy into his own house. But unless he planned on naming the child his heir, it would be awkward. Perhaps in a few years.
Antonia returned to the important topic. “How is Cesco?”
Pietro's face hardened. “He remains – how to say it? Insolently carefree. He was delighted to hear that Ziliberto has found some geese. They're having a pull tomorrow.”
Antonia's nose wrinkled in disgust. “A goose pull!”
Pietro opened his hands. “Better a goose than a man.”
“But isn't it dangerous? They're vicious!”
“You would be too, in their place.” Then Pietro relented. “Yes, it's dangerous. But no moreso than half the things he's done in his life. At least in this there are rules.”
“It's a revolting practice.”
“Again, better an animal than a man.”
“Better an animal who has no choice, no voice, than a man who volunteers and could turn away if he chose?”
Pietro reddened. “I meant, better Cesco faces an animal than a man. Men are rarely what they seem. The goose will be true to its nature.”
“And will Cesco be true to his? I remember him at eight bawling over a lame horse.”
“Horses are different,” said Pietro firmly. “You should have seen Detto weeping over Vegliantino.”
“How is torturing a goose for sport better than beating a horse?”
“It just is,” Pietro answered lamely. Her look could have frozen his bones and made them shatter. “It's a common sport! Better that than another brawl. Though even odds we'll have one of those before the day is out. Which is why I'm glad Poco's got the publishing venture churning. We need to draw out his better angels. Give him something to focus on rather than such sports as geese and brawls.”
“And whores,” said Antonia.
“And whores,” agreed Pietro, blushing a little. Even after years in the convent, his sister retained her characteristic bluntness.
“Well, our last attempt was a disaster. Fra Lorenzo has been openly worrying for Cesco's soul.”
“He's not alone,” said Pietro, who misliked Fra Lorenzo's concern.
“What about Lia? You saw her?”
“I did.” Pietro swallowed, and related as much of the interview as his promise allowed. As he spoke, he recalled Lia's concern for Antonia. 'How is Suor Beatrice? Is she quite recovered?' Pietro mentioned the question, and saw Antonia whiten as she said, “I had a summer cold, is all. It was kind of her to ask.” It was clearly a lie. But then, Pietro was lying, too. He did not mention Lia's pregnancy.
After an hour of talk, Pietro said farewell. His aching thighs and shoulders begged for his bed. He was not as used to riding as once he had been.
Antonia watched him leave, then walked up the stairs to read the next chapter of Luke to Maddelena before bed.
♦ ◊ ♦
CESCO WAS AT that moment also heading for a bed, though not his own. Arriving at the whorehouse, he had first ordered food and spent a pleasant hour eating, drinking, and making merry. At last he beckoned to Madonna Troppo and said he should like to go crusading again. “I feel I did not do the West justice in battering down her gates. Besides, I get to practice my Arabic.”
Summoned, Buthayna dutifully journeyed up the stairs to her private chamber with the prince of Verona on her arm. Alone, he was much more seductive this time, much more a common client.
Only when it was over did he begin asking about her. Who was she? Where was she born? How had she left her home? Buthayna attempted to avoid the questions, asking about his life instead. She made sure to ask after his cousin, but then proceeded to ply him with questions about his prowess in the saddle and with a sword. With most men, this succeeded. Men liked flattery.
Cesco simply stared at her. “It is impolite to answer questions with questions.”
“Forgive me,” said Buthayna. “But I am unimportant. My life is here now.”
“And I am here now,” he answered, stroking the line of her naked hip. “And thou art important to me.”
Buthayna knew she should not believe him. He was young, and making lover's talk. But she experienced a quickening of her pulse all the same. In Italian she said, “That is so very sweet. But if you are here now, is there not something you would prefer my mouth be doing?”
He laughed and agreed. “But I warn you – I find puzzles most alluring.”
He likes puzzles, she thought, pressing her lips against his flesh. Then I must remain one.
♦ ◊ ♦
“MY LORD CASTELBARCO, there is a fellow at the gate who says he needs to see the Scaliger.”
“The Scaliger is indisposed.” Upon arriving at his palace, Cangrande had sent for a woman he favoured and retired to his suite on the top-most floor with a barrel of wine. It was not an uncommon occurrence, and the meaning was understood without acknowledgement. “What kind of man is he?”
“He speaks fair French, and halting Italian,” reported the guard. “Says he's from the English court.”
England? That was odd. Then Castelbarco recalled a knight who had visited Verona a few years back, before the overthrow of the English king. Ser William Montagu, a relative of Montecchio's who had fought bravely in the tourney that year. Well, if he had come to be knighted, he was several weeks too late.
Still, the man came from the English court, with its boy king and his regents. Not insignificant. “Very well. Bring him to me.”
The moment the man was ushered in, Castelbarco experienced a frisson of unease. This was not Montagu. The foreigner's left eye was slightly squinted, more an affectation than a defect. His thin beard was even across his jaw, but didn't quite bridge the gap twixt chin and mouth. But what made Castelbarco dislike the fellow was his energy, his bearing. He resembled nothing so much as a horse about to buck.
“Well?” demanded Castelbarco in French. “This had best not be yet another complaint about the levies on bolts of English cloth.”
“No, my lord,” said the man in smooth French. “Forgive me. I regret intruding upon your time, but I come with a message from His Majesty King Edward, third of his name, for Cangrande della Scala, Prince of Verona, Imperial Vicar of the Trevisian Mark. But for the urgent nature of the message, I should hardly be here. I'd much prefer to join the revels I saw on my way in,” added the man with a chuckle.
This fellow liked talking almost as much as the Capitano. “And you are?”
“Ah! Forgive me. My name is Aiello of Edinburgh.” With that title aired, he switched suddenly from courtly French to a ruder Italian dialect. One from the Feltro. “I must confess, I offered to come on this mission as I've never seen my father's country, and I was, how you say, curious.”
“You said your mi
ssion was urgent?” asked Castelbarco leadingly, still in French.
“I did, because it is,” answered Aiello gravely. “I come with news of a plot against the life of the Scaliger.”
Twenty
THE CITY LEARNED of the Rakehells' return at dawn the next morning, in the rudest way. Even the earliest risers were awakened by the honking of geese. Some men swore, some called down curses, and some threw on clothes and rushed into the street to see what devilment these young hellions had thought of now.
They began with the largest gander the Master of the Hunt had procured, well fed, long-necked, and powerful. Its grey feathers were greased in pig-fat, its wings pinioned with tight cords. Feet and beak bound, it was taken to the longest straight stretch of road in the city, the ancient Roman causeway that ran from Genoa to Trieste, the recently christened the Corso Cangrande.
A rope was suspended between opposite windows, drawn taut overhead. Hoisted feet-first in the air, the struggling gander was suspended by its legs so that it hung in the exact center of the street. At the last moment, the cord binding its beak was whipped away and it immediately began to protest its treatment in the loudest way.
Already the contestants were arriving, their horses gathered on the eastern end of the canyon of buildings so the rising sun would not be in their eyes. The vital question under debate was to glove or not to glove. Gloves would protect the fingers from the bite of the goose, but make gripping it all the more difficult.
“No metal gauntlets!” Cesco insisted, seeing two knights fitting them in place. “Unfair advantage. Leather, or skin. This is about skill.”
“Skill,” said Benedick dryly.
Cesco offered the Paduan a cutting glance before returning his attention to the mass of riders and lifting an object into the air. “The victor takes the prize.”
Gasps, admiring whistles and coos. The reward was not only a bag of silver, but also a fine sword – not one from the Scaliger's ruined forge, but a Spanish-made long sword with an ornate hilt and guard. Men eyed it hungrily as he flashed it about in the air. “Very well. Shall I go first?”
Applauded, Cesco got Abastor into position. Ziliberto del Angelo, Cangrande's Master of the Hunt, dropped the flag, and Verona's Heir started forward. He began in a slow trot, but after a few paces kicked the ebon steed under him into a run. He did not lean low, but kept himself straight-backed and slightly forward, his left hand mastering the reins as he flexed his right.
The goose struggled furiously, trying to free its wings. A clever bird, it nipped again and again at its bindings, succeeding only in injuring itself. If it heard the clatter of hoof-falls coming close, it did not yet know what the noise signified.
“I know how you feel, friend! Bound, cribbed, confined, contained, and angry! Let's see whose anger is bigger, yours or mine!” Hurtling closer, Cesco stood in his stirrups. His outstretched ungloved hand caught at the goose's curled neck. His fingers closed, trying to hang on as his horse carried him past. But the powerful neck of the greased goose pulled free and Cesco came away with only a slimy hand and an earful of jeers and jibes.
They drew lots for the honour of the next attempt. “Ser Hortensio,” said Ziliberto, “your turn.”
“You know,” observed Cesco, returning to lounge in his saddle as Hortensio took his place behind the starting line, “in Roman times, the goose was revered.”
Gazing at the struggling fowl down the road, Benedick said idly, “You don't say.”
“I do say. When Gauls invaded the city, the dogs were all napping, and it was the geese that raised the alarum. Thus dogs were considered foul and un-Roman, whereas geese were honoured.”
“A shame for this goose, then,” said Yuri, “that he was born so late.”
Cesco grinned. “That is indeed a crime, to be born out of one's own time. I often wonder what age would suit me better.”
“What's better than the present?” queried Benedick.
Cesco shrugged. “I don't know. Sometimes I think on Roman plumbing with longing.”
Hortensio missed the bird entirely. The third contestant was Salvatore, whose fingers couldn't find purchase. Young Petruchio fared little better than his twin, losing his grip as soon as he touched the bird. Yuri got nipped by the angry gander who was beginning to understand the sport.
Cesco welcomed Yuri back by using the prize sword to mockingly knight him. “Were it in my power, I would make you a true Veronese knight.”
“Because all of Verona's true knights have chafed palms,” added Benedick.
Amid the blows aimed at Benedick's head, Cesco said, “I only meant you'd have to be crazy to pull the goose. And as they say of the Veronese…” He turned to Benedick, expectant.
“Tutti matti,” recited the Paduan dutifully.
More and more men arrived, knights and soldiers eager for a chance to win the sword. Slightly thinner in width than was common, it had a deep fuller, making it lighter and faster than a common blade. Passed around from hand to waiting hand, it was both admired and derided.
“It's almost weightless!” marveled Cesco's half-brother Barto.
“It'll break on the first shield it meets,” scowled Yuri, rubbing at his bleeding finger.
“A good edge,” said Fabio, eyes narrowed in discernment.
The air was filled with ribald jests as more racers took turns at the goose. Some tried to grasp it with both hands, steering their mount with their knees. Some tried shortening their stirrups to gain height. Many came away with razored nips on their fingers and wrists, and the whole crowd erupted with laughter as Berto was lifted entirely out of his saddle by the powerful neck to which he desperately clung. He slipped to the earth and came limping away, too bruised to laugh.
“We should regrease the goose,” remarked Hortensio.
“If we do, no one will win,” answered Cesco. “Maestro del Angelo, you chose our foe well!” The Master of the Hunt inclined his head with a smile.
“It's lucky Detto isn't here,” observed Benedick. “His soft heart for animals might have prevented the whole enterprise.”
“Lucky, is it?” asked Cesco, his eyes narrowed.
Benedick flushed. “My mouth outpaced my brain. That was thoughtless.”
“It was. Though you're right, Detto would not approve.”
The Scaliger himself arrived, in the company of young Paride and several other knights, Alberto and Mastino among them. Begged to take a run at the goose, the Scaliger steadfastly declined. “I have an interview in a few minutes. Matters of state. Has my heir gone yet?”
“No,” answered Cesco, “but it's receding a bit at the temples.”
Cangrande pulled a face. “I've been plucking it out in case I'm to be greased and pulled as well.”
“I'd like to see the man that would try to grease and pull you.”
“No man, but women grease and pull me nightly.”
Cesco groaned. “Damn! I set that up for you, when I should have saved it for myself.”
“That's the trick,” replied Cangrande. “Never save any for yourself. Spend it all.”
“May I try it, cos?” asked Paride politely, pointing to the sword in Cesco's hand.
“Do, cos,” answered Cesco, passing it over. “So long as your aunt approves.”
Flushing, Paride took up the sword with relish and sent it into a series of arcing molinelli that had even Cesco's eyebrows raised. “The mild Paride is unexpectedly deft with a sword. Interview with whom?”
Cangrande kept his eyes on the windmilling sword. “What, taking interest in matters of state? That's inconsistent.”
“I am noted for my unreliability. With whom are you meeting?”
“An emissary from the English court. He's come to repossess the silver I pawned for your wedding clothes. I hope you weren't expecting a new suit for Christmas.”
“Damn. I had them burned the next day. I'll just have to come to Christ's Mass in the nude.”
“You'll frighten the few virgins Verona has l
eft. Better to come as the ass.”
“Better the ass than the goose,” said Cesco. “That's another man missed. Who's next? My lord Capitano?”
Cangrande shook his head. “I haven't the stomach. Besides, the goose is getting tired.”
It was true. The gander was now lolling limp between bouts, husbanding his resources.
Cesco twisted in his saddle to face Mastino. “It falls to you then, cousin. A tired opponent, trussed and eager to die – you must find it most appealing.”
“Interesting,” said Mastino. “I seem to recall that was actually your kind of prey.”
Cesco's smile widened, but he said nothing at all to the reference to Federigo della Scala, whom Cesco had helped to murder. Mastino believed that act, the murder of a kinsman, had called down a curse upon Verona's Heir. Cesco quite liked the security of Mastino's fear of earning a similar fate.
Something in his smile spurred Mastino. To the surprise of all, he kicked his horse into a gallop as he would have done on the tiltyard. Standing his stirrups on his racing mount, he stretched out his right hand. For a moment he had a good grip on the gander's throat, but the bird twisted away at the last possible second, and Mastino halted a dozen yards on, empty-handed.
“Too bad, poor mastiff,” called Cesco over the applause for a valiant attempt – he had certainly come closest. “The Romans had it right! Geese are cleverer than hounds!”
“Maybe we should change our crest,” said Cangrande.
“What, like Alaghieri? Shall we ask him if that's a goose feather in his new crest?”
“A griffin's, I'm sure,” said Cangrande. “Nothing but nobility for our Pietro. I must say, I approve of this far more than you goosing every foreigner in the city and gandering at all the ladies. Dare I hope Bailardetto's misfortune has sobered you?”
