by David Blixt
“Is that why my head aches so? Someone, pass me some wine!” Drinking, he offered the skin to Cangrande, who refused it. “Signor Benedick thinks it best that Detto is not here, as he would think we abuse the poor goose.”
“Better the goose than the poor Paduans.”
Mastino returned from the far end of the avenue, looking pleased with himself. “Whoever takes it, it will be thanks to me. I felt something snap as I held the neck.”
“Shall you ride again?” asked Cesco brightly.
“No, cos. You take my leavings. Come, Alberto, Guglielmo.” With his brother and young Castelbarco flanking him, Mastino departed.
Cangrande gathered his reins. “I'll be off as well. Thank you, Francesco, for inspiring me. I think I'll pass the word to Giorgio that I've a mind for a fine goose for supper.”
“You'll eat what I kill?”
“So long as it isn't crow.” Departing, Cangrande crossed paths with the Montecchi family, just leaving their home to venture out into the street a block over. Young Romeo rode beside his father, bright-eyed and eager. Unlike most lads his age, Romeo rode a full-sized steed. The Montecchi were practically descended from centaurs.
In answer to his son's pleading, Mariotto said, “No, Romeo. That goose will toss you into the air and swallow you whole.”
“Will you ride, father?”
“Of course he won't,” said a deep basso voice. Antony Capulletto checked his mount. “Montecchio couldn't risk his pretty face being nipped off.”
Montecchio bristled at being insulted in the presence of his son. “Romeo, hold on!” Lifting the lad from his own horse, Mari swung the boy around behind him in the saddle. Forcing his way to the front of the line, he kicked his heels hard.
His mount burst forward with a rush of speed typical of Montecchi stock. Cheering, Romeo grabbed his father's belt at the sides, not wanting to inhibit his father's hands. In one swift move, Mariotto reached up, grasped the gander's neck, and pulled, twisting as he did so. The honking ceased as the goose's head was pulled clean off the neck, misting the winter air behind the horse with a spray of blood.
Cheers arose, though there were also jibes from those who had been waiting their turn. Antony scowled. “Typical Montecchio. Jumps in and shows off, taking what's other men's by right.” With that, Capulletto cantered away, allowing Thibault to emerge from his hiding place in the crowd.
Returning with his triumphant father, Romeo said to Cesco, “Did you see?”
“I saw, little Romulus. It was you anchoring your father to the saddle that enabled the feat.” Romeo enjoyed the praise, even if it wasn't true. “Lord Montecchio, the purse is yours. But I believe the sword should go to your saddle-mate.”
Romeo looked to his father. “May I?”
Ruffling his son's hair, Mariotto's teeth flashed. “His mother won't like it. But it's about time he started practicing with steel.”
Cesco made a show of presenting the Spanish sword to young Romeo, who drew it from its scabbard to the applause of those watching. “Wait until Benvolio sees this!”
Mariotto was looking about. “Where's the Capuan oaf? He needs to eat his words. I can offer him the goose, if he provides the gall to sauce it.”
“He left,” said Ziliberto shortly.
“Of course he did. For such a large man, he's awful small-spirited. Come, Romeo. Let's go tell your mother of our triumph.”
As father and son cantered off, Benedick looked to Cesco. “What was Philemon's joke about geese?”
“ 'What can a goose do that a duck cannot and a lawyer should?' The answer is, stick its bill up its butt. Yes, Montecchio and Capulletto should try to remove their bills from their backsides before those bills come due. Come, a new goose, a new prize – a pair of hand axes. And it's your turn to ride, Ahenobarbus.”
Benedick da Padua swallowed a gulp of air, shook his head to clear it of last night's wine, and trotted into position. He took a long lead, easing his mount into a headlong run. His fingers were bare, his stirrups shortened, his head held high.
The new goose was drawing closer, honking and writhing with frantic energy. Standing in the stirrups, Benedick reached out, willing his left hand to close at just the right moment—
He was momentarily distracted by a muffled figure above him, in the northern window. A flash of silver—
He closed his fist, and the instant he grasped the long neck he felt his victory. His grip was firm, he had control of the animal and was pulling the goose along with him.
Too much goose! The head did not come off, but instead came crashing down on him whole. The long beak snapped at him as the struggling goose landed on his head.
He was suddenly yanked backwards, hard, and the fowl was pulled from Benedick's grip even as he himself was pulled from the saddle, landing on his back, the wind battered from him. The trussed goose hit the street at the same moment, frantically snapping at Benedick's extended fingers.
Rolling away from the flopping bird, the Paduan scrambled to his feet and tried to understand what had gone wrong. The rope on the northern building had come free just as he had gripped the bird. Benedick had held the living goose for the two yards it took for the left-hand end of the rope to go taut again, tearing the goose from his grip. The unexpected force of the tug had taken Benedick clear from his seat.
Seeing him on his feet, the assembled riders at both ends gave him the appropriate cheers and jeers. He made a show of laughing, though waving made him notice how much his hands were bleeding.
While a new rope was found and the furious bird returned to its place, Cesco, Salvatore, and the others clustered around Benedick. “Could someone collect my horse?”
Several Rakehells rushed to obey. Lifting the cord, Cesco examined the end and said coolly, “Someone cut this.”
“Why do that?” asked Benedick.
“To cause an accident,” said Cesco carelessly. “You didn't by chance see who it was in the window?”
“No,” said Benedick.
“I guess Detto is not the only one with an objection to today's sport.”
“Maybe they were objecting to something else,” said young Petruchio. “Like Paduans. Or red-heads.”
Benedick frowned. “Wait? You're saying someone wanted to hurt me?”
Cesco laughed darkly. “Signor Benedick, I thought the events of the last few days would have taught you. If someone isn't trying to commit murder, it wouldn't be Verona.”
♦ ◊ ♦
IN THE GREAT public chamber of the Domus Nova, Cangrande stood beside his throne of office. A servant brought him wine, which he did not offer to the man kneeling before him. “Who are you, and why should I listen to a word you say?”
“My name, lord, is Jon Aiello,” said the man in halting but passable Italian. “And as for my credentials…” He produced a packet of sealed papers, which Castelbarco carried to the Scaliger.
Examining the seal, Cangrande's eyebrows lifted. “This is—”
“—the royal seal of the king of England, yes,” said Aiello with a complacent smirk.
Unused to being interrupted by anyone outside his family, Cangrande's mouth turned down. As he broke the seal, he said, “Castelbarco says you are a countryman of ours?”
“Yes. My father, Giovanni, was part of the expedition your noble father sent to aid the Scottish warlord Uilliam Uallas – that is, William Wallace.”
Castelbarco and Cangrande exchanged a glance. It was a piece of Veronese history that was not well known. A compagnia di ventura of Veronese soldiers had been hired to aid the Scottish rebellion. Thankful for the help, Wallace had sent Cangrande's father a token of his gratitude in the form of a golden medallion encrusted with pearls. That medallion had then been passed to one of Alberto's many mistresses, and thence on to her son Gregorio Pathino, who had tried several times to murder Cangrande's heir and stake his own claim to the leadership of Verona.
Few knew the details of that story, which had concluded the previous year, w
hen Ser Alaghieri had executed Pathino at the Papal court in Avignon. Hearing this piece of Scottish-Veronese history, Cangrande was warily interested. “I see. Your father stayed, I take it?”
“As many did, my lord. He took a Scottish wife after the battle and spent the remainder of his life fighting for Wallace. He survived Falkirk, but caught the flux after the siege of Perth in 1303.” Aiello seemed unmoved by his sire's demise.
“How old were you?”
“Four, my lord.”
“So you followed in his footsteps, selling your sword?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Aiello proudly.
“And how does a Scots-born mercenary come to me bearing the seal of the King of England?”
“It is a long story, my lord,” said Aiello, for the first time showing unease.
“Summarize it, then. Briefly.”
It was not brief. Three times Cangrande had to chivvy the man along in his tale, for, once started, it was impossible to hurry Aiello the Scot to the point. But the gist was that he had fought his first large battle when he was seventeen, which had been a crushing defeat of the English king Edward II at a place called Bannockburn. After that, he'd continued to fight for the Scots in both his native land and in Ireland.
There was a veiled admission of a falling out with the Scots king, Robert the Bruce, and a vainglorious account of his choice to join the rebellious forces of Roger Mortimer in France. Mortimer had once been Edward II's close friend (a phrase that had many meanings, though here it seemed to denote only companionship, not romance), but had then cuckolded his king, entering the bed of Queen Isabella. Isabella had traveled to her native France, taking the king's son with her as hostage. Mortimer, at Isabella's urging and with the French king's backing, had raised an army and invaded England.
Seeing a chance to regain favour with the Scottish court (or perhaps just to carve out a new place for himself), Aiello had joined the ranks of Mortimer's invading army and helped the traitorous knight depose his former friend and sovereign in favour of the young Edward III. In reality it was Mortimer, newly created Earl of March, and Isabella who today jointly ruled England in the name of Isabella's underage son. After a period of confinement, Edward II had been put to death in a manner most ignominious.
“Since then I have been in the employ of the king of England, doing special services. When it was time to send a warning to Verona, the Earl of March deemed me a natural choice.”
“Yes. Your dire warning.” At last they had reached the point. “You say a fellow called Montagu is on his way here to murder me.”
“Or procure your murder,” added Aiello, a most unbecoming grin lingering in his eyes. He enjoyed holding the attention of great men.
“Very well, very well,” said Cangrande testily. “Whatever the means, the aim is my death. Who is this Montagu? Is he-?”
“A relation to the knight who visited Verona three years past?” finished Aiello, interrupting again. “Yes. Benjamin Montagu is the half-brother of the man you met, but from the wrong side of the sheets. He was acknowledged as far as the old father could, and has even been seen at court.”
“Heavens,” said Cangrande, arching an eyebrow at Castelbarco. “A bastard at court. What has the world come to?”
“Exactly what I say, my lord,” opined Aiello, oblivious to sarcasm. “I chased this bastard through France, but he's wily. After I lost him near Lyons, I thought it best to come here and warn you.”
“Why?” asked Cangrande.
Aiello pulled himself erect. “I may never have set foot in Italy before now, but I have not forgotten my heritage. I am proud to call myself a Veronese-Scots.”
“No, I mean why is this Benjamin Montagu coming to kill me?”
Aiello shrugged. “I have no earthly notion.”
Cangrande stared, momentarily speechless. Then he screwed his eyes up tight. “You come here telling me that the half-brother of my friend, Ser William Montagu, is on his way to Verona with the express desire to end my life, and you do not know why?”
Aiello bowed. “Yes.”
Cangrande and Castelbarco shared another bemused glance. “Where is your proof?”
“If I had proof, my lord, I would have presented it.” Aiello took on a confiding air. “Truth, my lord Scaliger – I was given these orders by the king himself. He seems to suspect Montagu's loyalty and thinks that, just as your father once sent aid to the Scottish rebels, Montagu might try to win troops for a similar rebellion in England.”
“But that's absurd!” cried Cangrande, half-laughing. “Even if this is true – and I cannot imagine so noble a knight as William Montagu contriving to overthrow his king – again, even if this is true, how does my death get him troops?”
Aiello frowned for a moment, pursing his lips to one side of his face. “The king feels certain that, whatever friendship you have for him, you would not aid in the overthrow of an anointed monarch.”
“Unlike your friend the Earl of March,” observed Castelbarco, utterly unimpressed by this kind of betrayal.
That checked Aiello, but only for a moment. “It's known that Veronese bankers have invested a great deal in England, both before and after the recent unpleasantness. You would not risk their profits by supplying soldiers for more fighting.”
Cangrande was nodding. Here, at least, was some sense.
“But Sir William Montagu has hinted that he made friends here in Verona, and with a change in regime, those friends might be able to sway a new capitano to do what your lordship would not – supply troops to overthrow the throne.”
Cangrande sank back into his seat. “My head hurts. Thank you for this timely warning, Signor Aiello. Should he arrive, I shall interview the man closely, and then do what I must to ensure I get to the truth of this,” – he almost said nonsense – “business. For the meantime, you are as welcome as the Prodigal Son. Feel free to join our Christmas revels.”
“Please, my lord,” said Aiello, bowing even as he spoke, “I would like to be present when you interrogate Montagu's bastard.”
An unseemly request. “I'll consider it. You may go.”
Bowing again, Aiello sauntered out the door. Castelbarco turned to Cangrande. “I cannot make heads or tails of the thing. Can you?”
Already stalking towards another exit, Cangrande threw up his hands. “Who can ever know with these Englishmen? They're mad! They make Italian politics look quaint. And s'truth, I can do without foreign intrigue. I have enough troubles on my hands here at home.”
As he gathered up the English papers, Castelbarco wondered if his lord meant the trouble with the Paduans, Treviso, the Emperor, or with his heir.
♦ ◊ ♦
LITTLE MADDELENA WAS playing Fox and Geese with Suor Beatrice when she heard her husband and his friends enter below. “They're home!”
“Early,” answered Antonia, frowning at the board. Maddelena was playing the red fox piece, while Antonia had thirteen white pegs representing geese. Four of them were already lost, having been 'eaten' by the fox jumping over them. The object was for the geese to capture the fox by surrounding it so it could neither move nor jump, while the fox tried to 'eat' all the geese until capture was impossible. She shifted a piece, trying to set up the fox to jump it, and waited for Maddelena to move.
But Maddelena was looking towards the door as they heard Cesco's voice on the stairs saying, “…must say, as plots go, this one was fairly lame. Meant more to humiliate than kill.”
Antonia's head came up, and Maddelena's little brows knit. Passing the door, Cesco waved as his red-headed friend continued up the stairs, groaning.
Maddelena leapt up. “What happened to Signor Benedick?”
“Nipped by a goose. Like you're about to be. Look at the board – the good sister is trying to trap you.”
Confused, Maddelena looked down and puzzled until she saw the trap. She pointed at Antonia. “Suora! You're trying to win!”
“Shouldn't she?” asked Cesco, lingering.
; Maddelena looked at Suor Beatrice with appreciation. “I thought she was letting me win. Dahna always does.”
“Where's the fun in that?” said Cesco as he continued past with Salvatore and Benedick.
Antonia stood. “I'll be right back, Maddelena. Don't move the pieces. I know where they all are.” Maddelena pulled a face that made Antonia want to laugh.
She passed up the stairs and saw the door to Cesco's chamber was open. “May I come in?”
“If you must,” said Cesco, who was changing his shirt and doublet into something finer.
“I hope the goose won,” she said briskly.
“Oh, it did,” groaned Benedick.
Antonia still did not quite know what to make of Signor Benedick, who had so quickly joined the ranks of Cesco's intimate friends. He seemed a witty fellow, but also a man in perpetual need of coin. Salvatore was more understandable. He was calm, but of an age with the others. Whereas Benedick had ten years on them all.
Sitting at the edge of his bed, Cesco gazed at Antonia warily. “All moved in, then?”
“Yes. I don't own much.”
“Of course not. Given all to the Lord. Well, welcome. May you have more success curbing my wife's baser instincts than you had with mine.” He stood. “Speaking of base impulses, I think I'm in the mood to lay in a feathered bed. Salvatore? Care to accompany me? I don't think Benedick is interested. He's had enough goosing for one day. And Auntie Imperia is saving her appetite for the Christmas goose, which of course is more savoury as it belongs to God. Whereas the goose I mean to set honking is surely bound for Hell. Do I shock you?”
“Cesco,” said Antonia, “you could only shock me if you took the cross.”
He laughed brightly, eyes shining. “It's tempting, just to say I've shocked you. But I think I have enough crosses to bear. Come, Salvatore. Barto and the others are below.”
“Wait for me, dammit.” Benedick struggled to his feet and followed, leaving Antonia alone in Cesco's room. She noted Cesco had left behind the pouch in which he normally carried the little wafers Tharwat and Morsicato supplied him with, and she felt hope. He wasn't taking them. Perhaps the attack on Detto had shocked him to his senses. If so, was it wrong to thank God?
