by David Blixt
“Enough to make a man go fetal.”
“Foetal, you mean, with tall foes all around.”
“Thank heaven you don't have foes, they'd all be taller than you.” Snapping his fingers, Cesco laughed. “But you do have a foe! I've brought the serpent into your orchard. Thibault the Cat, meet Romulus, who must be a wolf having been suckled by one. Wolf, cat, and dog – we are a menagerie!”
Mariotto was less amused. “Thibault Capulletto?”
Thibault bowed. “My lord.”
“His uncle threw him out,” confided Cesco in a mock whisper.
Mariotto visibly relaxed. “Typical of the man. Signor Theobaldo, you are welcome in this house.”
“Damn,” said Cesco. “I was hoping for something more exciting. But O, my Rakehells! We must feast the brave Spanish blade that has dared to join us in action! Come, Don Pedro - to the Four Swords!”
Twenty-Six
BY THURSDAY the renegade Englishman was well enough to present himself before Cangrande's inner circle. The essential Anziani of Verona were present – Castelbarco, Lozzo, Capulletto, and Alaghieri. So too was Mastino, taking a break from tiltyard practice to show an unaccustomed interest in foreign politics. Don Pedro was present as a witness, as were Benedick, Salvatore, Thibault, and Detto.
Aiello the Scot was present as well, in the role of accuser. All present knew the purported charges against the fugitive. Having learned of the enmity between Montecchio and Capulletto, Aiello had exploited it, spending the last weeks carousing with Lord Antony Capulletto. Finding the large, genial man so inclined, Aiello had hinted at possible lucrative contracts in Mortimer's England. Thus he had won Capulletto's devoted support. Not that Antony needed enticement. Opposing the Montecchi was his raison d'être.
Cangrande began by thanking Cesco for taking a break from his busy schedule of carousing and inciting violence to hear the case of the man whose liberty he had preserved. For his part, the Heir showed mild curiosity, nothing more.
At a signal, Mariotto escorted Benjamin forward. He had dressed his cousin's thin frame in fine weeds, far better than anything Benjamin had ever owned. The Englishman had apparently grown up in a castle basement, strumming on a lute and teaching himself sword tricks late at night. It was only recently that he had been elevated to his brother's messenger, and that only out of necessity.
Having heard the true details from the sick man's chapped lips, Mari knew what a farce this interview was sure to be. But for form's sake, the interview had to occur.
“State your name,” said Cangrande in bored French.
“Benjamin Montagu, my lord.”
“Brother of our friend William Montagu, chevalier of England.”
“An acknowledged brother, yes. But without standing.”
“What brings you to Verona?”
The pale blue eyes dropped a fraction, down and to the right, recalling the lie both his brother and Mariotto had coached him to say. “My health. Sir William told me of the restorative powers of the baths of Verona. I have been ailing, my lord, so my father sent me here to see if Italian waters could repair what English air has caused.”
That elicited a curled half-smile. “What is the nature of your ailment?”
Montagu flushed. “Premature aging.” He removed his hat, displaying a hairline in full retreat from the advance of his forehead. This, combined with the many deep crinkles around his eyes, did indeed make him look older than his years.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, my lord.” The effect of Benjamin's rueful smile was magical. It was formed as an artist might have painted it, big and youthful, filling the whole face with joy. It vanished as quickly as it had come. In repose, Benjamin was an oddity. In motion, and especially in happiness, he was undeniably attractive.
“I see,” mused Cangrande. “When did your hair begin to thin?”
Again Montagu flushed. “At seventeen, my lord.”
“We must have you talk to our physician. But that's for later. Your appearance may deceive. So may your words. We understand from this gentleman,” he waved at the Scot, “that you are here, not to ensure your own health, but to deprive us of ours.”
Even knowing it was coming, Benjamin coloured. “That is untrue, my lord!”
“Nothing you say is true, you pimply shit,” said Aiello in English. If his words were not understood by the other men present, his tone certainly was.
“Ah yes,” said Cangrande. “Our charming Scottish friend is your accuser, Monsieur Montagu. And he carries with him the seal of the king of England.”
Benjamin looked angry at that, but said nothing.
Castelbarco stepped forward. “We are told you have come here to end the life of our illustrious Capitano.”
Benjamin shook his head vigourously. “I swear by all that's holy that is not my purpose.”
Capulletto grunted derisively. “We all know how valuable a Montecchio oath is. Why should this bastard be any different? Bad blood.”
Mariotto purpled, but was restrained by Nico da Lozzo as Castelbarco continued the questioning. “Is it, then, to seek arms for an uprising against his majesty, your sovereign king?”
“Absolutely not,” said Benjamin stoically.
“Then why are you here? Do you truly wish us to believe you traveled all this way just for your health?”
“I – I hoped to take service with the Scaliger.” It was an acceptable lie, worked out beforehand. “There is no future for me in England.”
“Nor here,” murmured Aiello silkily, again in English.
Montagu managed to ignore the Scot. “I cannot inherit, and my brother does not have the funds to aid me to some profession.”
Cangrande chuckled. “Whereas I have both funds and a noted fondness for bastardy. What about the charges of horse-thieving and assault?”
“My lord, if there was an assault, I was the victim. I was walking up the road when six men on horseback waylaid me and drew their swords. I knocked one down and took his horse to throw myself at your mercy.”
“You made quite a scene, entering the city.”
“I regret it, lord. I truly do. But I was simply trying to preserve my life.”
“It's true, lord Capitano,” offered Don Pedro. “He never raised an arm against anyone. Whereas the Scot's men were quite zealous in attempting to remove his head from his shoulders.”
“In an attempt to protect my host, the Capitano,” insisted Aiello.
Cangrande waved the Scot to silence. “Well, Monsieur Montagu, here is what I shall do. I shall leave you at your liberty until I've written to your brother and your king to ascertain where in all this the truth lies. But I have a warning for you.” He pointed to Aiello. “And for you, Monsieur Aiello. Should any harm befall either of you, the other will be instantly put to death. I'll not have feuding in my city.” There were coughs and everyone glanced away from Mari and Antony.
Benjamin appeared accepting of the edict. Aiello bristled. “What if he dies by someone else's hand?”
Cangrande fixed Aiello with a hard gaze. “Best see he does not. For that hand ends two lives.”
“And if he succeeds in his task, and murders you?”
Cangrande rose to his full height, a threatening act of dignity. “Monsieur Aiello, your bravery is manifest. For I must tell you, there are no men and only two women who dare to use such a tone with me.”
Blanching, Aiello bowed. “Forgive me. I spoke in concern for your well-being.”
“I see. Well, since you are so concerned, you'll be relieved to learn both your lives are tied to mine. Should I perish from this earth, I'll quickly have you both to attend me in Purgatory. Fortunately for us all, I employ food tasters these days. Now, is that all?”
The meeting dispersed with a grumbling Aiello following a subdued Montagu and Montecchio from the chamber. Capulletto lingered to glower at Thibault, who waved saucily to him, provoking a gale of laughter from Cesco.
♦ ◊ ♦
&n
bsp; TEN MINUTES LATER, Benjamin Montagu was closeted with Cangrande in a much less formal atmosphere. Leaving the Domus Nova and crossing the main public square, he and Mariotto had doubled back through the palace stables, around to a secret stairwell that had remained locked for thirteen years. Only Cangrande's steward had the key, and it was so long unused that it had hopefully been forgotten.
Still not recovered from his arduous journey, climbing the stairs exhausted Benjamin more than he'd expected. Emerging into Cangrande's loggia, Benjamin saw the Scaliger's heir seated beside Cangrande, along with Ser Alaghieri and Castelbarco. Benjamin bowed deeply. “Thank you for seeing me, my lord.”
Cangrande noted his colour. “Are you still ill? Should this wait?”
“No, my lord. I'm fine.”
“Then have a seat.” Where before he had been frosty and disinterested, Cangrande was now solicitous. “I've had sunstroke and blistered feet both, so I know what you're feeling. Take your time. First, how is your brother?”
“Well in health, my lord.”
“And in mind?”
“He is desperately concerned for the throne.”
“So there is truth in what Aiello says? Your knightly brother seeks funds to raise a force to seize the English throne?”
“Not to seize it,” said Benjamin doggedly. “To free it.”
Cangrande exchanged looks with the others. “Free it? I do not understand.”
When Benjamin failed to frame a suitable response, Mariotto spoke up. “What he means, my lord, is that the English king, who is within a year or so of Prince Cesco here, does not rule. He is a puppet on the throne for his mother and her lover, Sir Roger Mortimer, the Earl of March. Is that not so?”
Benjamin nodded, pleased he had not been forced to speak so plainly. “Sir Montagu is loyal to the throne, but his loyalty does not extend to Sir Roger. It was not the king but Sir Roger who put the royal seal on that document the Scotsman gave you. Mortimer has claimed several estates for himself, and is on the way to becoming the richest man in England. He clearly wishes to build his power base before the king is old enough to demand his autonomy.”
Castelbarco was bemused. “The queen allows this?”
“The queen is the one keeping her son in check. Or so it seems to my brother. They certainly have some power over him that restrains the king from moving against them. He is watched, his companions are limited, his freedom cribbed.”
“I feel for him,” said Cesco idly.
“So does this message come from your brother, or the king?” asked Castelbarco shrewdly.
“The king,” replied Benjamin, himself a little awed.
“What does he want?”
“Money.”
“Not soldiers?” asked Castelbarco.
“That would be counterproductive, my lord.”
“Why?”
Cangrande supplied the answer himself. “Because the English king cannot bring Italian soldiers to fight his mother's French ones on English soil. But surely,” he added, “an 'advisor' or two would be welcome?”
“Very much so,” agreed Benjamin. “It would be more than kind.”
“In addition to the money,” said Cesco pointedly. “Not in lieu of it.”
“He's the king of England!” protested Castelbarco. “He must have all the funds he needs.”
“As Lord Protector of the realm, Mortimer controls the purse,” Benjamin explained. “Mortimer's creatures manage the Treasury and make excuses any time the king tries to access his funds for anything other than his personal use. Even his bodyguards are Mortimer's men.”
“I think I admire this Mortimer,” said Cesco.
“You'd admire him less if he were Italian.” Cangrande crossed to put a hand on Benjamin's shoulder. “Thank you for this message. I understand why this request cannot be made publicly. So we will continue this charade about your health – which is perfectly valid! Mariotto, take him to the baths today, and see that he goes every day until he is bursting with vitality. Meanwhile, I shall consider.”
Mariotto led a grateful Benjamin out via the secret passage. Cangrande saw it locked behind them, then turned to Castelbarco, Pietro, and Cesco. “Well?”
Pietro had remained silent throughout the interview. Now he said, “Whom do we believe?”
“I want to believe Montagu,” said Cangrande. “But Aiello has documentation and authority on his side. And I find it hard to believe a king has so little power.”
“A young king,” observed Pietro. “Who has never experienced his power, and may not know how to wield it.”
“And who is in awe of his mother,” added Cangrande with a smile. “One sympathizes, if not respects.”
Cesco cocked his head. “Truly? I thought you found mothers over-rated.”
“How would I know, never having had one?” retorted Cangrande.
“Ah! That explains how I was denied a maternal figure. I was meant to follow your footsteps in all things.”
“Right down to the suckling by a she-wolf.”
Cesco grabbed his crotch. “She can suckle this.”
A vulgar provocation. Both Castelbarco and Pietro blanched. But Cangrande remained calm. “I hear there's suddenly no shortage of suckling in your life, so perhaps we could return to the topic at hand. Do we send the money?”
“To whom?” retorted Cesco. “Ser Montagu? This circumscribed English king who lacks the will to break his bonds?”
“The funds,” corrected Cangrande, “not the will.”
Cesco pulled a face. “A strong will would find a way without funds.”
“Then perhaps he needs someone to show him how to defy his circumstance.”
“Someone skilled in such defiance?”
“Naturally.”
“Naturally,” echoed Cesco. “And a sea voyage might be good for one's health.”
“Perfectly true.”
“And calm the waters here at home at the same time.”
“They do need calming,” agreed Cangrande.
“And perhaps return in a few years, time having healed all wounds.”
“Old saws are not untrue for being old.”
“Neither does age make them truer. But I think it an excellent plan. When do you leave?”
Oblique hints dashed from his lips, Cangrande did not give up. “I do need to send someone to ascertain the truth in this.”
“Then send someone who gives a damn.” Rising, Cesco crossed to the door and exited. He had not asked leave to depart, but Cangrande was not about to start a battle over protocol. Especially one he would not win.
The Scaliger glanced at Pietro. “So much for that hope.”
It pained Pietro to side with the Scaliger over Cesco, but he had to admit a voyage abroad was not the worst idea. It would allow the talk of demonic possession to fade, for the people to laugh at the memory of their young prince more than fear his approach. And it would remove him from the threats of poison or worse – the death of Petruchio, the near-fatal stabbing of Detto.
Perhaps it was just England that did not appeal to the young man. Could they entice him elsewhere? Send him away for as long as it took for his rage to cool, for his heart to heal. For Cesco to return to himself.
It did not occur to him – or perhaps he blocked the thought from his mind – that this might be the self Cesco was determined to become.
♦ ◊ ♦
“THEY WANT ME to leave,” said Cesco.
Buthayna pulled inwards a little. “Who wants that?”
He lay beside her, staring at the ceiling. “The Scaliger. Nuncle. The old folks.”
“Where do they want you to go?”
Cesco's laugh was sour. “England.”
“What's in England?”
“Nothing. There's nothing for me anywhere.”
“Not even here?”
He rolled onto his side, placing his nose almost against hers so all she could see were his eyes. “Here there is everything.” He kissed her, and she kissed him back. B
ut the fear did not leave her.
After a time he rolled onto his back. “Tell me about your home.”
Buthayna had heard this request from many a man over the past two years. Always, she had spun a tale of a mystic and glorious land, full of exotic delights. These invariably pleased her clients.
This was different. Her beloved was asking. Instead of lying, she asked him, “Why?”
“Another friend suggested I travel East. I was trying to think of reasons to accept. I would need a guide. And you have been such a marvelous map of delights…” His fingers began to explore.
She brushed his hand aside. “You are not leaving.”
“Am I not?”
“It would make life too easy for those who hate you.”
“Perhaps I no longer care about making their lives difficult,” he said. “So tell me.”
Buthayna rolled away from him. “There is not much to tell. It is a village, not a city. The market is miles away, shared with three other villages. The men fish and grow dates. The women weave. It is a simple place.”
“Sounds heavenly.”
“You would be bored the moment you arrived.”
He stroked her back. “Would I? Simplicity appeals to me. It's a dream I have – a simple life.”
“But you could not live it.”
“You're very cross today.” Shrugging, Buthayna rose from the bed. He laughed at her. “You are cross.”
“I do not like being tempted with empty promises.”
“What empty promises?”
She began to dress. “Of being taken away. I am not so young that I have not heard such lies before.”
Now he was angry. “Was I lying? I thought I was making a suggestion.”
Fully robed, she faced him. “Would you marry me? No, you cannot – you are wed.”
“For now,” said Cesco.
“For ever,” she replied. “You are the Heir to Verona. You will need the girl's father and her brothers. I have nothing to offer you—”
Cesco reached out a hand. “That's not true.”
Buthayna pulled away. “You do not even pay for it. For you, there is no price.”
“Clearly there is,” growled Cesco, giving up and retrieving his own clothes. He dressed and departed in silence.
