by David Blixt
Despite her stuttered breathing, Giulietta gasped. One thing she knew was to never speak to a Montecchio. They weren't to be trusted. Her father said so, and her father was always right. Hadn't Andriolo just said as much? “You can't!”
“They're very fine horses. The best. And shouldn't your father have the best? Just don't tell him they came from Montecchio's stables, jewel, and he'll never be the worse.”
Giulietta nodded solemnly. She did not like secrets, but prided herself on her ability to keep them. It was right that her father had the best horses. And didn't this mean that Montecchio was losing them? Wasn't that a good thing?
“Now go inside and get warm. A nap will set you right.” With a chuck under her chin, Andriolo walked away.
Standing alone in the yard, Giulietta looked up at the wall where the groom had glanced. It was a depiction of King David and Bathsheba. She was looking away, to where her husband Uriah was being killed in battle. Uriah looked just like her father. But David was dark and handsome, almost beautiful. Dressed in fine clothes, he was regal and noble and clearly loved Bathsheba. And he was very very sorry when, on the next wall of the mural cycle, he was punished by God for sending Uriah to his death just to marry Bathsheba.
Giulietta's father would sometimes stop to stare at the images of Bathsheba that ringed the yard. Mama would, too, with a frown or a scowl. But Father would gaze on the image of the dark-haired woman with a sad smile, until he caught himself and shook it off.
Looking at the painted woman, Giulietta understood that this was the kind of woman men liked. Dark hair, dark eyes, pretty. Grabbing her own hair, she pulled strands of it before her eyes. Blonde. Not even an interesting blonde, like Thibault's. It was like straw. And none of it was the same! Some parts were lighter, some dark.
Grabbing a handful of snow, she started scrubbing at her hair, trying to make it less dirty. It glistened, and seemed to be a little darker now, not lighter. But darker was better, wasn't it?
Then she realized that the snow she had picked up had been stained with Thibault's blood. Blood that was now in her hair. She started screaming, and kept on until the nurse arrived to discover what all the fuss was about.
♦ ◊ ♦
IN THE DOMUS NOVA, Cangrande was busy reading over state documents when Castelbarco entered. “You're late.”
“My apologies, my lord Scaliger. I was detained.”
“Business?”
Castelbarco shook his head. “The Scotsman. I've just escaped two hours of his self-important cant.”
“The man does talk,” agreed Cangrande, fully cognizant of the irony.
Castelbarco picked up papers, then sighed and lowered them. “Though I sometimes enjoy his company, I cannot bring myself to like the Scotsman.”
“O, I like him well enough. It's just that I trust him not at all.” Cangrande laughed. “These foreigners! Last year, Germans. Today, Spanish, English, and Scottish. All we need is for an embassy from the great Cham to arrive. Which reminds me – I'm due to sup with the Spanish Don this evening, at his request. I wonder what he wants.”
“The price of being an ascending star,” said Castelbarco. “Everyone wishes to tack themselves to your light.”
Cangrande grinned. “So long as the star is not actually a comet, flaming across the sky only to vanish.”
As it turned out, what the Spaniard wanted was so prosaic that Cangrande found himself both moved and charmed.
The first part of the evening meal was spent in discussion of Spanish bladecraft. Pedro waxed eloquent on the history and virtues of Spanish forges. It was surprisingly pleasant talk. More than a decade younger, the Spanish Don had an easy haughtiness that might have been off-putting were he not so naturally assured. He wore authority almost as well as the Scaliger. Someday Don Pedro would be a most affable King of Aragon. Provided he lived so long.
“It's astonishing how easily I comprehend you,” said Pedro at one point. “The open vowels of the Vicentines trip me up, and I've noted that Paduans don't roll their 'r's. I cannot comprehend anything said by a native of Bergamo.”
“Nor can anyone,” confided Cangrande.
“Yet I find the Veronese dialect mellifluous to my ear. Why is that?”
Cangrande flashed his famous smile. “I could say because it is a heavenly tongue. But the truth is, our local speech has a great deal in common with Spanish. It is why I once impersonated a Spanish notary – ah, you've heard the tale? I chose that role because it is easiest for me to mimic Spanish speech.”
“But why is that? Was Verona founded by Spaniards?”
“Hardly!” laughed Cangrande. “I did ask one of the monks over at the Library. He directed me to a most learned amateur scholar, a layman not admitted to one of the guilds, called Rapelli. He showed me research that dates Verona back to pre-Roman times, when this land was populated with Etruscans. His theory is that the Veronese dialect remains true to its pre-Roman forebears.”
“Fascinating. But what has that to do with Spain?”
“Now we're in the realm of pure conjecture, and entirely my own,” admitted Cangrande. “Since the Etruscan tongue influenced the Roman language before being superseded, I think it clung to its roots here in Verona. And while Verona was not actually part of Rome until the fall of the Republic, troops from around Verona were certainly part of the legions who invaded Spain under Cato and the others. I just wonder whose duty it was to teach Latin to the conquered Spanish?” He shrugged. “I have asked the official scholars, but they know less than the amateur.”
“As often happens,” said Pedro wisely. “Because the amateur is self-taught, and is therefore untainted by the body of work that has shaped the thinking of the scholars. His view is unfettered, his thoughts from outside the confinement of accepted notions.” Pedro laughed. “I imagine your friend Rapelli is not beloved by the scholars.”
“They were entirely unimpressed when I inducted him into their guild, it is true. But they seem more accepting now that they know I'm interested in his work. With my interest, gold follows. And being an outsider is not always a hindrance. I notice you are hardly a pariah here. Your lady friend is quite the favourite of the court. She's certainly enhancing Signor Benedick's reputation. He's never been so well-liked – though now I understand a little of why Cesco keeps him close.”
Pedro pursed his lips. “He is amusing, to be sure. Quick-witted, and I hear valourous. But the lady is on her own for the first time in her life. Her mother is dead, you see, and with no living relative in Italy she passes into her uncle's care. I don't want her taken with someone unsuitable, not while she's my responsibility. It's up to her uncle to choose a husband for her.” He saw Cangrande smile. “I've amused you.”
“No no. You remind me of someone, is all. Another Pedro – Ser Alaghieri. He sees his duty in the world so much more clearly than the rest of us.”
“I have been delighted to make his acquaintance. He is my father's most treasured correspondent. Though they've never met, the king is always entreating my brother and I to look to Ser Alaghieri as an example of decency and honour!”
“Your father does not exaggerate. Pietro is the best of us.” The Scaliger's eyes took on a far-away look. “Hm. I should do something about that. Perhaps…” He chuckled in amusement. “Oh yes! So very perfect. But back to you, my young prince. You came to Italy for a wife. Having failed the lady of Bellamonte, do you mean to take the lady Beatrice for yourself?”
Pedro sipped his wine. “I daresay it's what old Leonato, her uncle, hoped for her – or rather, he hoped she'd marry my brother. His birth is nearer her state than mine. But as he's still serving as a squire, I offered to be her escort. Besides, it offered a chance to pay my respects to the Greyhound on the eve of his greatest victory.”
Cangrande appreciated how delicately the Spanish prince had phrased the matter of Beatrice's birth. Pedro had not said 'my bastard brother' or even 'half-brother.' Yet Don Pedro's brother Juan had been born on the wrong side of the sh
eets, as the saying went. The brothers had been raised as equals, a tribute to the King of Aragon's fairness. But the fact remained that, legally, Don Juan stood to inherit nothing of his father's power or lands.
Without ever impugning Beatrice's honour, Pedro had conveyed the important information. The Prince of Aragon couldn't wed the illegitimate offspring of a minor Italian house, no matter how attractive and clever.
“Well,” said Cangrande, “Benedick is a climber. His association with my heir seems to be one of self-interest. So perhaps once he finds out the lady is more of your brother's level, he might abandon the flirtation.”
“An uncharitable suspicion, my lord. So thank you for saying it, because it was my thought as well.” Laughing, Cangrande poured himself more wine. Don Pedro took a breath. “I have a problem—”
Cangrande quaffed his drink. “I know an excellent physician.”
“Ha! No no, no. I am in a moral quandary, and find myself in need of advice.”
“I'll be of any help I can.”
Don Pedro clasped his hands before him. “I've taken an oath. A foolish oath, to be sure. But an oath nonetheless.”
When Pedro paused, Cangrande urged him on. “What? What? I'm at the edge of my seat. Must you kill your father and marry your mother? What?”
“Ha. No. You mentioned the lady of Bellamonte. You've heard the whole matter by now – the caskets, the choice. But there is one part no one knows. There were conditions to those men wishing to undertake the trial.”
“Never to reveal which casket you chose. I know.”
“There's more. If I failed, I should leave her and never trouble her again.”
“If she has wed, that dilemma is solved. Is there more?”
“Yes. I vowed never to woo a woman to be my wife.”
The Scaliger whistled. “Quite an hazard of the die! All or nothing.”
“Just so. Though I did not walk away with nothing.” Reaching into the pouch at his belt, Pedro removed a small wooden ornament on a stick. It was the head of a jester, complete with coloured motley and little bells. The face itself was grotesque, at once mocking and mournful, pithy and pitying. “This was in the casket of silver, which bore the legend 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' I thought myself deserving of all life has to offer. Including the woman. But when I opened the casket, this was what was inside.” He rattled the fool's head. “And this.”
Receiving a piece of paper, Cangrande opened it and read:
The fire seven times tried this:
Seven times tried that judgment is,
That did never choose amiss.
Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss:
There be fools alive, I wis,
Silver'd o'er; and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,
I will ever be your head:
So be gone: you are sped.
Cangrande's eyes were alight. “Had I known about this, I would not have let Cesco wed in November, but sought this woman out and made him take his trials! O, to have met the father!”
Pedro's smile was thin. “Yes, a good jest. I simply wish it was not at my expense. But I got what I deserved.” Again he shook the rattling jester's head. “What I wish to know is if I am forever bound by my oath. Can I never marry? Or does the paper release me? It says take what wife I will to bed.”
“Ah, but not whose wife you should take. No, forgive me. I'll attempt a serious answer. In truth, it lies with you to decide.”
“Decide?”
“Decide if you wish to take the oath as literal, or as intended. This is the argument Pietro has been having with Bellario, the uncle of your failed bride. Do you adhere to the spirit of the oath, and never marry in your whole life? Or can you reconcile your nature to a more lawyerly reading of the text, where you cleave to the words, and yet undermine the meaning? It depends on the man you wish to be.”
Pedro considered. “The man I wish to be would keep the oath in its entirety. But the man I am required to be by rank and duties insists I find a chink in this armour. I must have heirs, to carry on after me. That is my duty. So I must keep my word, and yet still marry.”
“I knew I liked you,” said Cangrande approvingly. “And know that the lady's uncle would certainly agree. He is most literal-minded. Well then, allow an Italian to be your interpreter of this Italian oath. I think the number here is seven. Seven tries, seven judgments. I think seven years is your answer. That's without knowing the mind of the author,” he added.
“I cannot marry for seven years?” asked Pedro, aghast.
“No, you cannot woo a woman to be your wife for seven years. There's always an arranged marriage. I can attest to their efficacy – though perhaps you should try an age gap less chasmous than Cesco's. Or mine! Also, it seems to me that if a woman wooed you, you could marry her. You cannot ask directly. But you may drop hints. Coy suggestions. Play the maid. Let yourself be pursued.” Seeing the growing consternation on the Spaniard's face, Cangrande laughed to show he was jesting. “Well then, you've had my advice. Seven years. Now come! The wine stands beside you and the night is still young. Let us see if we can out-do my heir in mischief for once!”
♦ ◊ ♦
THE REVELS WERE in full force when Cesco slipped out the rear door of the Four Swords. He'd spilled his purse on the table, so there was no more need for his presence. His bowels were in danger of loosening. Halfway home he threw up instead, the wine and fish disagreeing with other things in his system. The purge helped, but his thoughts remained fuzzy, his breathing labored. A common state for him these days. Fourteen, and a drunkard. Perhaps that's my career. Always good to start training young.
But it wasn't the wine. It was the wafers, those marvelous sticky chews Tharwat had given him to endure his hawking. The hawking was done, but the pain was worse. Pain not of the body, but of the soul.
Thinking of them, he reached into his pouch, only to realize he didn't need one. It seemed to be almost a constant now, the dizzying euphoria, the numbness to what others said or did. Numbness was welcome, as was euphoria. Whatever ill-effect it might bring, that was for tomorrow. Today was for today. What did it matter if he had momentary visions of infants with their throats cut, or Lia's face staring at him in horror? These were just waking nightmares, and nightmares were nothing new. He'd suffered terrible dreams all his life. Like all dreams, they began well. Then for no reason they twisted into something dark, ominous, and horrific.
Just like life, he thought. Just like love.
The irony was that his hawking had been the only time in his life he hadn't dreamed. Too tired for his mind to be idle, too exhausted for fantasies to plague him, he had slept deeply, bathing in Lethe's deep waters. Nuncle Pietro once remarked that parenting was the art of distraction. So was living. With enough distractions, one might forget one's self for a moment, a minute, even an hour.
Staggering alone into his home, he listened. No cries, no laughter, no wife, no nurse. He grunted as his servants pulled his boots from him and winced as one of them swung the lamp too close. He did not wait for slippers, but ascended to his chamber barefoot, his skin extra-sensitive to the chill tiles of the floor, the grainy stone of the steps.
Distracted as he was, he didn't realize until he was inside his chamber that it was occupied. Brother and sister. “O cacat. In loco parentis. What now?”
Antonia looked about. “Where are your companions?”
“Off warring and wooing,” replied Cesco, crossing to pour himself some wine. “Detto is visiting his brother, and Petruchio and Hortensio are busy striving to replace their father in the gambler's books. Your namesake has entranced Signor Benedick, who flirts with her under the guise of visiting Don Pedro, but that's a stalking horse. Or a Judas goat. One of those animal metaphors.”
“Is he a Judas for forsaking you?”
Cesco flashed a mirthless smile. “Casting me in the part of Christ seems unlikely.”
“Which makes you mine.”
Nuncle Pietro crossed to place a hand on his shoulder. “Cesco. We buried your mother today.”
“Did you? Was I there?”
Instead of saying anything, Pietro roughly grabbed the fourteen-year-old's face. Cesco pulled away but the knight fought him until he could check the boy's pupils by the light of the lamp. Releasing Cesco as if burnt, he turned back to his sister. “He's in the thick of it. Lotus-eating. Look at his eyes. We won't get any sense out of him—”
Once he started laughing, Cesco found it impossible to stop. “Lotus-eating! Lotus-eating?!”
“It's not funny,” said Antonia.
“Ah ha ha, if only I did eat the Lotus, Imperia! To sleep in apathy – it is a dream of mine. Hashish is a poor substitute.”
Pietro was careful to keep his voice neutral. “Lorenzo said you had taken an oath to abjure it.”
Amusement vanished. “Of course he did. You all gabble like geese over my secrets. I'm the only one secrets are kept from. Tell friar goose he should mind his own business, or he'll be pulled. I kept my side of the bargain. It was his God that broke faith.”
“That's not how it works,” said Antonia.
“Oh? Should we discuss what God has done to you?”
Antonia blanched. Nuncle Pietro didn't know what the threat was, but he clearly felt it, palpable in the room. Antonia didn't realize she was holding her breath until Cesco turned away to quaff his drink.
Pietro said, “You don't know what that terrible stuff is doing to you.”
“I know what it's not doing,” said Cesco, lifting the lid of a box and removing some pine-nut brittle to chew upon. “It's not lecturing me.”
