The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “Good boy.” Patting Romeo's shoulder, Lorenzo intercepted the boy's mother. “I hope you'll forgive my presumption, Donna Montecchio. I asked Romeo to help me with my gardening.”

  Gianozza's annoyance melted. “Fra Lorenzo! I didn't know it was you. Of course you can take charge of him. I trust your judgment implicitly. In fact, if you like, I can send him to you each morning – he'll be here with me, and it will do him some good, I am sure, to spend time working among the brothers.”

  “I'd like that,” said Lorenzo. “But I am only here once a week. My own garden keeps me occupied. I can tell him what to do when I'm absent. Is that agreeable to you, son?”

  Eager to please, Romeo said it was and took his mother's hand to go. Over his shoulder he gave a broad wink to Lorenzo, who waved and smiled as if he was completely unconcerned.

  It was a lie.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO ARRIVED HOME to discover not only Detto and Antonia waiting for him, but a less-welcome houseguest. “When I promised my wife a cat,” he observed, eyeing Thibault from heel to head, “I did not mean I'd take in any stray that came calling.”

  Detto said, “He and his uncle quarreled.”

  Cesco sighed. “And as I pioneered the sport, this is the natural nexus of young men with father issues.”

  “He is not my father!” cried Thibault with real heat.

  “Less shouting, please, or you'll wake the lady of the house from her nap.” For some reason this statement tickled Cesco, and as he helped himself to some pine-nut brittle he giggled to himself. “O, how absurd! How wonderful! Of course, Thibault, you must stay. We'll fix you up with a bell, a saucer, and a ball of yarn…”

  Thibault turned to leave, but Antonia forestalled him. “His tongue is wicked, but he means what he says. Stay.”

  “Yes, please! Or, better, we'll set you up with Benedick and Salvatore and the other provisional Veronese. Where are they, by the bye?”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  BENEDICK AND SALVATORE were at that moment in the company of Don Pedro of Aragon. Benedick was again relating his earliest venture into war, the sneak attack on Vicenza twelve years earlier. Pedro was listening to the great feats of Cangrande, but Benedick was trying to relate his own daring – though in fact he'd fought very little that day. Barely a man, he'd been a mere foot soldier, scaling the walls with the Count of San Bonifacio and helping open the gates for the invading forces of Marsilio da Carrara. “The Count died from wounds he received that day. In fact, he was stabbed by Carrara, who thought the Count had betrayed them.”

  “It was another part of the trick played by the Scaliger,” Salvatore explained. “Ser Alaghieri had dressed in the Count's armour and fought against the invading Paduans. Thus Carrara believed the Count was a traitor.”

  “Cunning,” marveled Don Pedro. “And the Scaliger really did wear a disguise and wave the Paduans into the trap?”

  Benedick grinned ruefully. “Completely true! I remember seeing him, though of course I didn't know it at the time.”

  “Amazing,” said Don Pedro.

  “Typical,” said Salvatore with cool amusement on his cheerful face.

  Across the room, the lady Beatrice stirred from her book. “I'm surprised the Paduans lost. With Signor Benedick on their side, how could they have failed?”

  Sitting deliberately with his back to her, Benedick said over his shoulder, “If only you had been there, lady, the enemy would have withered to dust before your basilisk stare.”

  Beatrice rolled her eyes but made no reply, so Benedick resumed his narrative. He had begun telling how he came to the rescue of Marsilio da Carrara during the Dente uprising when a noise in the street caught Salvatore's attention. “Did you hear that? It sounds like a brawl.”

  Benedick stood at once. “We'd best go see if Cesco needs help.”

  “Yes, do,” said Beatrice. “So you can add saving Verona's Heir to your litany of heroic deeds.”

  Caught wrong-footed, Benedick said, “A happy thing that you are not a man, lady. You would be hard-pressed to find a sword as sharp as your tongue.” She opened her mouth and he held up a quick hand. “Save your rejoinders! I must go.”

  “I'll go with you,” said Don Pedro, calling for his sword as he followed the two Rakehells out.

  Beatrice remained behind, fuming. “Men! Always need the last word.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN HIS HOUSE on the via Pigna, Cesco's ears likewise perked up at the sound of shouts and racing horses. “How now, what goes?”

  “Whatever it is,” said Detto, gazing down at the chessboard between them, “you'll be blamed for it.”

  Cesco reached for his boots. “Best earn the blame, then. Come on, kitty! Let's find you some yarn!”

  Cesco, Detto, and Thibault barreled down the stairs, still struggling into their tall leather boots. Antonia appeared above them. “Cesco? You're not—”

  “It's not me!” shouted Cesco over his shoulder.

  Below, Maddelena was having her midday dinner when she saw her husband rush past the door. “Francesco? What's happening?”

  Grabbing a sword from a rack beside the stair, Cesco threw its baldric over his shoulder. “I'll let you know, little princess, when I find out.” With that he bolted forth without even a cloak.

  In the street, city guardsmen were running after horsemen just turning a corner. Senseless of the cold, Cesco sprinted towards the sound with a whoop of pleasure. “A hunt! A hunt!”

  Detto and Thibault were a step behind, having each grasped a cloak as well as a sword. Two blocks on they were joined by Benedick, Salvatore, and the Spanish prince and his men. The Paduans looked at Cesco in shock. “It isn't you? Then what's going on?”

  “No idea!” cried Cesco brightly. “Welcome to Verona, my lord of Aragon! You wanted a Palio. Ahí está! On! On!”

  The chase turned down the via Cappello, a long straight stretch that allowed them to see the whole course. Far ahead a thin figure on horseback was being pursued by five men with drawn swords, scattering merchants and buyers in all directions.

  “There's the hare! Avanti!” Unencumbered by armour, the sextet quickly outstripped the city guardsmen and Pedro's men, though they were unable to close the gap with the racing horses. Seeing the distant fugitive turn right, Cesco did the same, the others in his wake. Running parallel with the hunters and the hare, they scanned the gaps between the buildings to their left as they raced across slick marble paving stones.

  Detto called out, “He'll have to turn at the Porta San Fermo!”

  “Which way?” asked Benedick.

  “This way, unless his horse can swim!” shouted Thibault, delighted.

  “Save your breath!” advised Salvatore.

  The fugitive was trapped by the city's old Roman walls – the gates that allowed passage were barred by soldiers, who leveled their halberds. Twisting away at the last moment, the thin figure turned his horse's head northward to continue his flight. A path that had him galloping directly towards the sextet.

  With a chuckle, Cesco first began to slow, then twisted around to run away from the horsemen. Confused, the others stopped, leaping backwards to avoid being trampled as the first rider pelted past, followed by his five pursuers.

  Running full tilt back the way he had come, Cesco kept looking over his shoulder. As the rider came level with him he lunged, grasping the saddle and jumping into the air. It was a trick the Rakehells had seen before, but Pedro's jaw dropped as he watched Cesco swing himself up and around the horse's rump to land straddling the beast, facing backwards. Cesco waved back at them as he was carried away.

  The rider felt the bump at his back and turned to find a smiling young man perched behind him. “Buongiorno, signore. Wither are you bound?”

  Not understanding Italian, the young man hesitated, then gasped in French, “Help me! I'm trying to reach the Greyhound!”

  Twisting sideways, Cesco switched tongues. “You're luckier than you know. Turn right here. Whoops, ne
vermind!” The way back was blocked by yet more guardsmen. “Allow me, please.” Reaching around the man, Cesco grasped the reins and turned the horse's head again southwards, back towards the Porta San Fermo, into the oncoming hunters with swords drawn.

  “What are you doing?!?” demanded the man, but in English, a tongue Cesco was just learning.

  “Trust, trust.” Reaching up, Cesco pushed the man's head low. “Duck!” Angling the horse to the left side of the street, Cesco released the reins and drew his sword, an awkward gesture as it was trapped between their two bodies. But he whipped it free in time to block the blows of the two riders aiming for the fugitive's lowered head. He could not parry the stroke that slashed along the horse's right flank, instead lifting his legs. The fugitive's own leg was not so fortunate, but his wound was superficial.

  The horse's was not. Staggering, the beast collapsed just at the mouth of the Porta San Fermo, where guards with halberds were poised to skewer anyone trying to get past. Cesco leapt clear, landing in a mound of frozen snow.

  The horsemen at the far end of the street wheeled about. The guardsmen were coming near, too, points angled at the thin rider's chest. Cesco gave them a wry frown. “Leave him be!”

  One Veronese soldier snarled, “Back away if you know what's good for you, boy! Our duty is to guard this gate!”

  “Oh?” retorted Cesco, one eye on the approaching horsemen. “Who are you, to be so zealous over the this ancient stone portal, the builders? Forgive me Signor Valerius, Signor Caecilius, Signor Servilius, Signor Cornelius! I failed to recognize you! You've risen from your tombs to protect your creation against the intrusion of a dazed man?” Cesco placed his body in front of the fugitive, just staggering free from the saddle of the fallen horse, his leg covered in blood. Looking down the street at the hunters, Cesco grinned.

  Intent on their prey, the riders took no note of the quintet running in the narrow street, and so were utterly surprised when Detto swung his sword out from under his cloak. Even at nearly fourteen he was strong, with thick arms like his father's. He used the flat of his blade to whack one rider in the chest, knocking him backwards in his saddle. Thibault's blade hissed the air and sliced the saddle's girth, sending the man flailing to the ground.

  Pedro's target was not a man but the sword held in a stabbing position. Only a fool stabbed on horseback – far too easy for the blade to be ripped from your grip. Sliding his sword inside the man's attack, Pedro let his blade ride up the length of the attacker's sword until it struck the crossguard, knocking the sword clean from the man's hand.

  Benedick's method was simpler. Using the pommel of his sword, he punched a passing horse in the ear, sending horse and rider careening into the man next to him, just then fending off a blow from Salvatore, who leapt clear as the two horses crashed into the wall at his back.

  That left Cesco facing just one oncoming assailant who held his sword high, ready for a crushing blow. As the horse thundered past, Cesco's sword hissed up in a defensive parry that met only air.

  Cesco was not the target. The desperate fugitive threw himself sideways behind a stone staircase leading to the top of the gate. Reining in short of the threatening halberds, the hunter hauled his mount about to try again.

  Cesco rushed forward, swinging his sword back and forth across the horse's line of sight. The hunter beat Cesco's blade aside and windmilled it around to come down on Cesco's bare head.

  Deflecting it with a hanging parry, Cesco let the attack slide past, then jabbed his pommel. The man doubled over, winded, and Cesco reached out to haul him to the ground. Pommel descended once more to render the man insensible.

  Down the street the other hunters had surrendered to the thicket of halberds awaiting them on both ends of the street. The four Rakehells and the Spanish Don were approaching, smiles all over their faces.

  “Thank you. I cannot—” The cause of all the trouble tried to take a step, but collapsed in a heap, face skidding across the large marble paving stone.

  City guards swarmed, but Cesco waved them away from the limp fugitive. “Save your fetters of brass, brave souls, or you'll be in it when his hair returns.” An ironic reference to the Biblical Samson. This fellow's hairline was in a losing war against his forehead.

  “He's under arrest,” said the lead guardsman gruffly.

  Cesco pulled a face. “For what, starving?”

  “For racing through the streets and disobeying a lawful order to halt.”

  “I'll go with you, and gladly.” Cesco strode up and tapped the device on the guard's tabard. “See this ladder? That's mine. Those colours? Mine too.”

  “Fut,” said another guard. “It's the Heir.”

  “Indeed,” said Cesco. “And were I not, I'd still be a knight. And were I not, that fellow there is a knight, and the son of Lord Nogarola. And were he not, those two men over there are Paduans. Not much of a threat, I know, but still, that one has red hair. That little one, he's not a man at all, he's a cat, with a nasty urge to scratch. And that man there? A prince of Aragon. And yet were we none of those things, were we the nameless, stationless plebs you took us for,” said Cesco, building to a finish, “we would still be men enough to remove him from your hands as easily as we could remove the breath from your lungs and the blood from your livers!”

  “Forgive us, Ser Francesco,” said a third guard, stepping forward. “We were simply defending our gate.”

  With a dismissive grunt, Cesco turned to the captured men. “Who are you? Who is he? What had he done?”

  None of them chose to answer. It was Benedick who pulled back the cowl from one head. “Cesco, am I right? Isn't this one of the Scot's men?”

  Stepping close, Cesco squinted. “Indeed. And that answers the question of our fugitive's identity.”

  “It does?” queried Detto.

  Cesco lifted the dazed man's chin. “What's your name?”

  “Quoi?” replied the figure.

  “Comment appelez-vous?”

  “Je m'appelle Ben.”

  “Benjamin Montagu, non?”

  “Oui.”

  “Montagu?” echoed Detto.

  Continuing in French, Cesco asked, “Any relation to Ser William?”

  The man nodded. “His brother. But…” The voice trailed off, not from fatigue but embarrassment.

  “Un bâtard,” supplied Cesco. “Luckily for you, I have a soft spot for bastards. So does the Capitano, who is the biggest bastard of them all. Why were these men chasing you?”

  Montagu pointed. “They tried to kill me! On the road. I knocked one down and took his horse, then rode to beg protection.”

  “And you have it.” Helping Montagu to rise, Cesco addressed the guards. “You're quite fortunate. Had you thrown this man in a cell, you would have been imprisoning a relation of Lord Montecchio. I suggest we take him to the Casa Montecchio instead. Mariotto can look after him, and take responsibility for his behavior. Besides,” added Cesco, gesturing at Benjamin, “he is hardly a threat. Signor Salvatore, Signor Benedick, will you take him up?”

  “My lord,” said the most sensible guardsman, “please allow one of us to accompany you. What you say is likely true, but we would be in dereliction of our duty—”

  Cesco cut across him. “By all means, come! As for the rest,” he waved a hand at the Scot's men, “lock them up for attempted murder.”

  “His?” asked the first guard, pointing at Montagu.

  “Mine! Now, shall we be gone? Allons-y!”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE DOORS TO the Casa Montecchio were made of a light-coloured wood, studded with iron spikes and the Montecchi crest, an ornate horse's head that stared westwards. There was a commotion within as men armed themselves before pulling wide the gate. In answer to their demands, Cesco identified himself and called for the master of the house.

  Mari was just emerging, sword in hand. “Is the city under attack?”

  “No, only the Montecchi,” replied Cesco. “One, at least. Lord Mariotto Mon
tecchio, allow me to introduce Benjamin Montagu, natural brother of your cousin Ser William Montagu.”

  “Third cousin, I think,” said Mari, brows knitted as Benedick and Detto helped Montagu forward. Studying his face, Mari saw echoes of William's knightly features, right down to the small round ears. In flowing, courtly French he said, “Are you well, cousin? You look half done-in.”

  “I have walked from France, my lord,” said Benjamin, his voice as thin as his frame.

  “And he has been tasked this last hour in an attempt to deprive him of his life,” added Cesco in Italian. “By the same people who claim he has come to murder the Capitano.”

  Hearing the word capitano, Benjamin said, “I have to see le capitan.”

  “Not today you don't,” replied Mariotto with a frown. “Tonight you sleep, after you eat something. Then we'll see about arranging an audience.” He nodded for his men to take Montagu into the house. Looking to Cesco, Mari said, “Thank you for bringing him to me. Does this make any sense to you?”

  “Not yet,” replied Cesco.

  “Very exciting, this,” mused Don Pedro. “Nothing so lively happens in Aragon.”

  “Perhaps we can loan you some. Verona has more than its share.” Cesco turned back to Montecchio. “The fellow seems harmless enough. But if the Scot's story is true…”

  “I could be welcoming an assassin. I'll keep a guard on him until he has more strength and can tell us his side.” Mari offered an ironic smile. “Now I regret not venturing forth at the hullabaloo. I thought it was merely another of your madcap adventures.”

  “So it was,” laughed Cesco. “Just not one of my making.”

  At the window above appeared an eager face under a crop of dark hair. “Father? What's wrong?”

  Before Mariotto could answer, Cesco stepped back from the house and waved. “Hi ho, Romeo! Twice in a day. One might think it was destiny.”

  “Fateful,” replied Romeo. “Full of fate.”

  “So full of fate is usually fatal,” said Cesco.

  Romeo shot back, “Fat with fatuous fatalities.”