The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Twenty-One

  CHRISTMAS IN VERONA in the year 1328 was a time of extraordinary joy. Peace with Padua, the knighting and marriage of the Heir, money flowing freely from the palace coffers, the prospect of a quick and tidy war against Treviso and the fulfillment of the promise of Cangrande's early days – all of this combined to make the Veronese people feel brighter about the future than ever before.

  If there was any unease, it didn't stem from the attack on the Nogarola lad, which was brushed aside as bandits. How foolish of him, to be out alone. Really he'd brought it on himself. Prince Rupert's disappearance was linked to the disappointed Count Berthold's failure to sway Cangrande from waging war.

  No, the unrest in Verona was caused by the clergy. Not the Bishop himself, but several of the lesser abbots and friars, all of whom had heard Verona's Heir declare there was no such thing as Heaven, and no such thing as Hell. In the two weeks since the reading there had been many sermons and loud proclamations, some of them quite impassioned, complete with thumping fists and flying spittle. Hell was real, and it was vital that men understood what awaited them if they did not embrace the example set by their Savior.

  “Did not God reach down and punish the young lord at once, by injuring his closest companion, his own flesh and blood, his cousin? Such is the punishment due blasphemers, whoremongers, and unchivalric knights!”

  This came from the Abbot of San Zeno. Yet another Scaligeri bastard, technically he was Cangrande's half-brother, though nearly twenty years the Scaliger's senior. Their mutual sire, Lord Alberto della Scala, had foisted this troublesome by-blow off on the monks of San Zeno at an early age. It seemed to be something of a habit with the Scaliger paterfamilias – he'd done the same with Gregorio Pathino, to terrible effect.

  Unlike Pathino, Abbot Giuseppe was not mad. Yet he was cut from similar cloth, being rabidly devout and painfully close-minded. Had the Abbot known Cesco was to be found nightly in the arms of a Muslim whore, his dark statements would have been even more direct. For after the attack on Detto, Cesco spent more and more time in the solace of a woman with whom he could speak in a tongue no one else shared.

  To quell any doubts about Verona's prince, the Church was in great prominence that holiday season, with Cangrande attending Mass each day. Excuses were spoken everywhere – the prince was young, had been raised by a poet, and was resentful of the Church for excommunicating both his father and foster-father.

  Certainly during the Christmas Eve and Day services at the Duomo, Cesco showed no hint of heresy. Instead he was considerate of his little wife, bringing smiles to every face as he guided her up for communion. When he ostentatiously entered the confessional, there was even a smattering of applause. That he lingered within the wooden walls for nearly an hour was laughingly remarked upon, and many wished they had been a fly within those walls to hear the great number of sins he sought to expiate. At last he emerged, followed by a sweating and disconcerted Bishop.

  The city was alternately concerned and charmed. On Christmas Day there was another petty fistfight in the road outside his house, which, far from becoming an avoided spot, drew onlookers hourly to see what mad quarrel he would invent next. At the same time, a story spread about the gift he had given his little wife – a pair of puppies named for her sisters, and a doll bearing her own name. “This way, you will always have sisters about you, and you can be sure Maddelena is well-cared for.” The city's women wept just as much as she did.

  There was an added benefit for Cesco, as the puppies chased the cat Felix all over the house, keeping the creature too occupied to cross Cesco's path. Old Icarus was unimpressed with the puppies, but Cesco offered no sympathy. “Your own fault! If you hadn't been befriending cats, you'd not have been usurped.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  WHILE THE COMMON PEOPLE were discussing Hell and the Heir, the court was more interested in the latest addition to its ranks. An emissary of the English king could hardly be hidden - even if he didn't own a voice like a clapper. Aiello the Scot was astonishingly loquacious, and had just enough Italian to keep the conversation flowing during the Christmas feast, talking the ears off his unfortunate interlocutors.

  As more and more men began listening to the Scotsman, Cangrande started to frown. When Castelbarco even waved the musicians off, that he could hear better, the Scaliger called out, “Guglielmo! What says our guest that you are so fascinated?”

  Castelbarco stood. “My lord, he is telling us the tale of the Veronese soldiers who fought for Scotland against the English king Edward I.”

  “Indeed? It is a tale I know only the bones of. Perhaps we should all hear.”

  Visibly pleased, the Scotsman stood to face the main table. “I know only what I heard from my father, as I was then but a wayward gleam in his eye. In 1296, it was clear that a rebellion was brewing. Edward Longshanks of England had forced the Scots king to abdicate, and was claiming possession of Scotland as his right. He held many Scottish lords as prisoners and demanded the rest bend a knee to him. That's when a bowman called Wallace began agitating for open war with England.”

  As the man spoke, Pietro stiffened. He had not yet spoken to the man, and was suddenly eager to draw him aside. It was not the actual words that had him leaning forward. It was the formation of them. There was a lilt to his accent, one he had only heard once before. Pietro glanced at Cesco, who was likewise interested. A glance not lost on the Scaliger.

  Aiello was still talking. “My father was among a band of mercenaries hired to join the Scottish forces for the coming war.”

  At the far end of the room, Antony Capulletto was incredulous. “How on earth did a Scotsman end up hiring a Veronese condottierro? And where did he get the money?”

  “When you want to hire the best,” replied Petruchio Bonaventura, to wry masculine cheers.

  “Tutti matti,” murmured his wife, to appreciative feminine laughter.

  Giovanna della Scala held up a hand. “I can illuminate this part of the tale. When the revolt began, Wallace sent a letter to Lübeck, asking for assistance from the Empire. My uncle was at the time in Lübeck—”

  “My sweet, there are some here who may not know who your uncle was.” Cangrande turned to address the crowd. “My wife's father was Conradin, grandson of Emperor Frederick II. Conradin's sister Margaret was married to Albert the Degenerate. Their son was also called Frederick – Frederick the Bitten. Why was that, dear?”

  “Because, in a fit of anger over her husband's philanderings, she decided to jettison the cad by running off. But when taking leave of her little son, she was stricken by the pangs of parting. Determined that the boy should feel similar pain, she bit him on the cheek.”

  Cesco lifted a cup to her. “A dear happiness, then, that your own union has not been blessed.”

  Everyone who heard him looked away, save Paride, who gasped, and the fifty-nine year old Giovanna, who pretended she did not hear.

  Scowling, Cangrande pressed on. “Upon Conradin's death, Frederick the Bitten took up his throne, and became protector of my spouse until God saw fit to deliver her to me. You will all recall that her sister was the grandmother of our beloved Paride here.” Cangrande reached across to ruffle Paride's hair. “Frederick died just five years past. Otherwise he would have been a great aid in my dealings with Ludwig. Anyway, this Frederick the Bitten, King of Sicily, Jerusalem, and Duke of Antioch is the man my wife calls uncle.”

  It wasn't often that Cangrande made such long-winded boasts of his ties to the Holy Roman Empire. He had conveniently glossed over the fact that Giovanna was herself illegitimate, born after her father's death. Pietro suspected that such grandiosity would become more common in the days and weeks to come. Cangrande was laying the ground to step onto a wider stage. As soon as Treviso was his, there would be no stopping him.

  Cangrande gestured for his wife to continue, and she smiled. “Thank you, husband. As I was saying, Uncle Frederick was in Lübeck, negotiating for the return of some land from King Adolf. H
e was unsuccessful, and angry. Under threat of being deposed, Adolf needed his alliance with England more than ever. To spite Adolf, Uncle Frederick funded a band of brave Italian and German soldiers to fight on the side of the Scots. As he was already friendly with the Lord of Verona, naturally asked for willing men.”

  Cangrande picked up the tale. “I take it, Signor Aiello, that your father was one of these intrepid hired swords.”

  Having waited with fidgety patience, Aiello was eager to again hold the reins of the tale. “He was, my lord. They arrived in the summer of 1297, and were present at the Battle of Stirling Bridge.” He looked around, expecting the name to mean something. “Stirling Bridge? The huge rout of the English army? Despite being vastly outnumbered? A victory so complete that Wallace was able to have a baldric made from the English commander's skin?”

  “Charming,” drawled Nico da Lozzo.

  “Like Hercules with the lion,” said Petruchio.

  “Only this lion belonged to England,” joked his son.

  Pietro did not join in the jesting. His mind felt like it was on fire. All the talk of Scotland, and the medallion, the link to Pathino. We even knew she had been heading for England when she disappeared. Yet we never even considered Cesco's mother might be Scottish. For this fact was suddenly clear to him.

  Times like these made Pietro believe in the stars, in divine guidance from above. After years and years of waiting and wondering, of searching and simmering, all their questions were answered from several sources at once – the house, the name, and now the nationality. It had to be enough.

  Arching an eyebrow at his favourite knight, Cangrande said, “Ser Alaghieri is entranced. Please, Signor Aiello, go on.”

  The dark-haired mercenary happily obeyed. “After that, Wallace led a raid into England itself. But he couldn't pay for the Italians to go with him, so they instead joined the guards on the Scottish border. Some liked Scotland so well that, when the campaigning season closed, they decided to remain. My father was one – he took a girl from Langholm to wife. Which meant, of course, he was present the next year for the Scots' defeat at Falkirk.”

  “What happened to this Wallace then?”

  “He escaped the battle, and went to France, then to Rome.”

  “Passing through Verona on his way,” added Cangrande laconically. “I remember meeting him. I was about eight. He seemed tall to me. Very broad-chested.”

  “He was a longbowman,” agreed Aiello. “He'd have to be.”

  “Not that tall,” said Castelbarco, squinting as though he could see back into time.

  “What did he come here for?” asked Antony Capulletto.

  “Money. Soldiers. Money and soldiers.”

  “Did he get them?”

  “No,” said Cangrande. “By then Adolf had been deposed. With no further need to stir up trouble against the king's English allies, Frederick the Bitten declined to send either gold or more men. Though it seems Scotland gained several brave Veronese for all time,” he added for Aiello's benefit. “We are grateful you've chosen to visit us, and I hope you will stay through the coming holy days.”

  Aiello preened. “My lord della Scala, it would be my deepest pleasure and honour.”

  Cangrande gave a wave to Manuel, who in turn signaled his apprentice Noam, who began to play. The other musicians followed suit. As the guests returned their attention to their plates and their neighbours, Cangrande faced Cesco and Pietro. “I assume by your expressions that you have made the logical deduction.”

  “Yes,” said Cesco brightly. “I'm the son of William Wallace.”

  Cangrande barked out a laugh. “Only if he could impregnate from beyond the grave! He died nearly a decade before you were born.”

  “You're not Cangrande's son?” asked Maddelena, frowning.

  Cesco turned towards his wife and rubbed a thumb across her crinkled brow. “It seems you've married a Scotsman,” he said to her. “My mother was Scottish.”

  Maddelena looked around. “Oh. Where is she?”

  “In Heaven,” replied Cesco. “Somebody told me she died.”

  Maddelena grasped his hand. “I'm sorry. You must miss her so much.”

  Startled, Cesco patted her awkwardly. “It is difficult to miss someone you never knew.” He gazed at Cangrande. “Still, it is a revelation.”

  “That you have Scots blood in your veins?” asked the Scaliger. “Why? Is it better than other blood? Wilder, perhaps. And more voluble,” he added drily, glancing at Aiello.

  “I must learn all I can about my new country.”

  “Perhaps you should visit.”

  “And leave my wedded wife at home to pine? Surely not.”

  Cangrande shrugged. “It was only an idea.”

  Cesco wagged a finger. “You'll not be rid of me so easily.” He stood and slipped from the high table down to where Aiello the Scot was still hammering anyone who would listen with his combination of French and Italian. “Master Aiello, I wonder if you could help me.”

  Jumping to his feet, the Scotsman performed a flourishing bow. “My lord prince! If I can be of service, I will.”

  “Someone once threw words at me. I wonder if you know them. The first is – forgive me, I may mangle it – siabrae.”

  The Scotsman seemed taken aback. “Siabrae! Hunh. Yes, it's a Scots word. Rather like a mermaid, but a daemon.”

  “Indeed? Fascinating. And uirisg?”

  Aiello's brows leapt skywards. “A rare word indeed. Sometimes it means a form of sprite, or water spirit. It's used in the Highlands, for creatures of the streams. But most often it means goblin. Wherever have you heard those words?”

  “I forget,” said Cesco, shaking the question off. “One final translation, if you please. Mo chridh – what does that mean?”

  “Mo chridh? It means 'my heart'. A form of endearment.”

  Looking into the middle distance, Cesco said, “Thank you, Signor Aiello. From the bottom of my heart. Excuse me. Nature calls.” With that, he left the bustling chamber.

  Watching from the High Table, Cangrande slipped into the seat beside Pietro. “He has a new puzzle. Perhaps it will help to distract him.”

  Pietro stared for a long moment. “You could give him the rest of the pieces.”

  “And deprive him of his fun? You have the house now, and so you must have the name.” Cangrande answered Pietro's look of surprise with an arched eyebrow. “My darling sister told me you possess the cripple. May you have joy of him. I've had enough prophecies for ten lifetimes. As for Cesco, he wouldn't believe the truth even if I told him. He is in a contradictory phase of the moon. May the Christmas star offer him a new light to follow.”

  “Like you, I think he's had enough of the stars.”

  Cangrande clucked his tongue. “As I learned long ago, it's when they've had enough of us that we should worry.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CHRISTMAS DAY WAS not the end of the holiday season, but the start. For twelve more days the joy would be spread in songs, in the ringing of the city's many bells, in drinks and warm sweets, in gifts and alms, in smiles and embraces.

  “Saturnalia!” shouted Cesco. “Unbind Saturn's feet, let masters and servants change places, and set loose the Lord of Misrule. A most apt title, don't you think?”

  Cangrande kept his own Lord of Misrule busy within the public view for every daylight hour of the next few days. Yet each time, Cesco found a way to subvert the proceedings. At the feast of San Stephano, he read out the section of Acts recounting Stephano's testimony about Salvation, ending with the saint's own chastisement:

  You stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart and ears, you always resist the Holy Ghost: as your fathers did, so do you also. Which of the prophets have not your fathers persecuted? And they have slain them who foretold of the coming of the Just One; of whom you have been now the betrayers and murderers: Who have received the law by the disposition of angels, and have not kept it.

  Pietro heard a heartfelt rebuke in that section,
and had to smile when Cesco proclaimed, “Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of man standing on the right hand of God.” Cesco had ranged himself to stand upon Cangrande's right. Blasphemy in one sense, but one the assembled Veronese could tolerate. Unlike Stephano, no one pelted him with stones.

  At the feast of San Giovanni the Evangelist, Cesco had suborned Berto to join his voice to the choir, but in a key that undermined the musicality of the verses. Together with Cesco, they succeeded in turning the pious psalms into a drinking ditty. The trio of musicians Manuel was training joined in, to their master's dismay and the crowd's joy.

  On the day of the Holy Innocents, the Heir took his little wife to play with the children of city, devising a game of Tintinnio that ranged across the whole of the Piazza dei Signori and beyond. In that contest, he showed his wife the trick he'd employed as a boy, climbing high and leaping from plinth to plinth to frustrate the blindfolded seekers below. He ended with an admonishment. “Never willingly blind yourselves, children. Life is a game in which the rules are always broken.”

  On the day of San Tommaso, martyr of England, Cesco tried out a new tongue. Spending hours each day in talk with the visiting Scot, Cesco displayed his uncanny skill at languages by reading out a poem about the Englishman Becket. He read it again in French, that the message might not be lost. It was a warning of the power of tyrants – poignant, since Cangrande was seen as the perfect example of a good tyrant. He couched his words behind those of Aristotle: 'What it lies in our power to do, it lies in our power not to do.'

  “Exactly!” said Cangrande in hearty agreement. “It has been my experience that the advice we give, we most often need to heed.”

  “Has it?” asked Cesco brightly as he settled into his place at table. “And what advice do you have for me, that you should heed? Is it 'Do not grow old?' ”