The Master of Verona (40 page)

Slowly the lady rose and turned to face her tormentor. "I liked it,
husband
," she growled.

"It was a beastly thing,
wife
! I'll not have my bride parading around on a holy day in such a mockery of decency." He belched, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

"It was beautiful. And modest. And. I. Liked. It."

"And I say, my sweet dearest one — It. Wasn't. Fit. For. You. If you want to go out, we'll have to find you something worthy of you."

He'd taken a slight step to look over the rail after the gown and, like a well-trained soldier, she had countered his move. Now she faced him from her corner of the railing, a sly look crossing her face.

"Fine," she said. Her hands flew to the laces of her gown, ripping the seams apart where the laces were too caked with mud to be removed. Stockings and slippers flew down into the crowd, followed by the cream under-garment she had been wearing. A hand went up to her hair and removed the pins that held it in place. As she tossed the pins aside a cascade of red hair fell about her shoulders. To the amazement and overwhelming approval of those below, she stood brazenly naked, hands on hips like her husband, making no concession to cold or modesty, though her pale body showed the cold in the most obvious way. "Well? Is this better?"

The crowd was in a frenzy to get a better look at this mad young noblewoman. Yet she ignored them as thoroughly as she ignored the weather. Her focus was her mate. He had laid down a challenge. She had responded with one of her own. She seemed interested in, even eager for, his response.

The bearded man had stood bemused through her disrobing. Any second now he would throw his robe over her shoulders and hustle her out of sight — the only decent thing to do! Yet he was just standing there, looking her right in the face without moving a muscle. She stared back at him. When he did nothing her chin rose in triumph.

It was this that sparked her husband to action. Looking her up and down, he clapped his hands in approval. "An excellent solution, my love!" Leaping up onto the thin stone railing, he waved his hands for everyone's attention. "Let one and all bear witness!" His grin widened. "Bare witness. Ha! I have tried tailors up and down this land of ours, and I have found them all to be knaves! My wife has hit upon a home truth. From this day forward, no clothes are good enough to adorn her!"

His wife looked up at him in shock. For the first time she seemed embarrassed, folding her arms across her chest. Or perhaps she was finally feeling the cold.

He turned to the open doors. "Cousin Ferdinando, call forth my men! Grumio, call the horses! My bride and I will journey to the Scaliger's feast together — I mean, in the all-together!" A cheer from below, accompanied by offers of horses for the bride to straddle. Her husband pivoted on his precarious perch to face her. "Come, Kate. Let's to dinner!"

"Husband," she said levelly, "where you are going, I cannot follow." With a tremendous heave she pushed with both hands.

For a moment he was suspended above the street, his arms flapping wildly, his boots barely touching the stone railing. Then he toppled backward down two stories into the thronged masses below, roaring the whole way down.

Without waiting to see if he landed safely she turned and walked back into the house. A frantic-looking servant nervously closed the double doors behind her.

"You people are mad," said Carrara.

"What the hell was that about?" Pietro exclaimed, eyes wide.

Eyes streaming, Antony gasped for air, and any response Mari might have made was cut short by the arrival of Bonaventura. He had been caught by the crowd and was now being passed from hand to hand over everyone's heads. The man himself was crying with laughter. Upon passing the neck of Pietro's nag, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed at the pork. He missed, but immediately a dozen knives were back to cutting the poor shank of pig. People beseeched him to take some, and he did. "I'll give it all to my Kate — she hasn't eaten in some time! My servants are terrible cooks!" He grinned again as he was passed off to other hands, riding a human tide through the snow away from his own house.

Probably for the best
, thought Pietro.
If that lunatic has a brain in his head, he'll never go home again. Not to a shrew like that
.

Constable Villafranca found the Capitano in the Scaligeri palace halls late that afternoon. The Scaliger had been to the site of the crash, only the first of several deaths today. There had been two brawls ending in murder, and several men had been injured in a goose-pull with one particularly ferocious goose who did not fancy being the object of sport. A full eighteen people had been fished out of the
A
dige, having been toppled in as the losers in quarterstaff matches.

Cangrande kept himself apprised of all these events through his steward. The Constable found him giving orders to Tullio d'Isola for compensation for the dead and prizes for the living.

"Capitano," said Villafranca softly. They had known each other a very long time, these two men. The form of address indicated the level of the privacy the discussion required.

The Scaliger sent his Grand Butler off with instructions, then turned. "We only have a moment. If I disappear from the festivities for too long, someone will come looking."

Nodding sharply, Villafranca said, "She's dead."

If the Scaliger was surprised he didn't show it. "Not suicide, I take it?"

"A wound in her chest, and — I don't quite know why, but her head..."

"Was it removed?"

"No. It was back to front."

"Ah."
That
Cangrande reacted to. "So we'll never know who paid her."

"There was no money except what you gave her on or about the body. I looked. You're certain that prophecy was bought?"

"All her prophecies are bought. Only this one wasn't bought by me. What did you do about the body?"

"I paid some actors to move her. I gave them enough to ensure their silence, but someone is bound to notice."

Cangrande shrugged. "It'll only give her prophecy more credence if she disappears mysteriously. I'll post a reward for her murderer tomorrow."

"Do you have any idea—"

"No." The Scaliger gestured for Villafranca to walk with him. "Whoever he is, he's clever. Suborning an oracle. It's something I would do."

"You know that damn Moor's back."

"Are you changing the subject, or are they connected in your mind?"

"It's bad enough there's a Jew in the palace. But that Moor! They're heathen sorcerers, both of them…"

"I don't believe I've ever seen Manuel drink a child's blood. When he does, I'll hand him over to you. Until then, leave the heathens to me. Especially the Moor. Anything else?"

Villafranca almost turned to go, but a question weighed on his mind. "Would you have killed her?"

"Of course. It leaves us grasping at air."

"You're not worried?"

Cangrande yawned. "Frantic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see and be seen." He strode off with his customary disregard. It took some getting used to, but Massimiliano da Villafranca had known his lord since birth. A wolf in sheep's skin, a falcon among the doves, an emperor waiting to unleash himself on the world. The Constable was certain of it, and hoped he'd live to see it.

"Excuse me, Massimiliano." The Constable turned to find the Scaliger's wife approaching him, flanked by two grooms, with a maid scuttling along in attendance. He bowed as she addressed him. "Did I hear you say the oracle had been murdered?" The Constable hesitated, then confirmed the report. "By whom?"

"We have no idea, my lady. Your husband feels she was used to send him a message."

"Again, I ask by whom?"

"If we knew that, lady, we would be closer to finding her killer. Probably Paduan, or even a threat from Venice."

Giovanna da Svevia's brow furrowed. "Find out."

For a moment the Constable was reminded that she was descended from Frederick II. "He's in no danger, lady."

Turning to leave, she said, "Obviously you didn't listen to the oracle."

The snow outside the palace had begun falling in earnest, and Pietro was glad to step into the warm feasting hall. The beginning of the month-long deprivation had not dampened the spirits of the men within. There were dozens of men in cheerful conversation, a few in a corner singing. Apparently the women were dining elsewhere. Pietro was surprised, but grateful. He had no wish for the Scaliger's sister to see him at this moment — he hadn't embraced his role as butt that thoroughly.

Being Lent, there were no decorations, but the dozen torches reflecting off mirrors threw a festive light around that not even the most pious bishop could object to, dancing and shimmering along the painted plaster walls.

Carrara strode into the hall as if he owned it, the Triumvirs close behind. At the far end of the hall Cangrande spied the four young men entering and, standing, raised his goblet. Taking the cue, the assembled S
ignoria
raised their cups to the winner and the loser of the first Palio. They also drank to the duo that had tied for runner-up.

Pietro left his friends to join his father and brother at a low trestle across from the Scaliger's seat. The moment he sat, Mercurio leapt up and licked his face, the Roman coin at his collar slapping against Pietro's chin. "Hey, boy! I'm fine, I'm fine!"

"He's almost as glad to see you still walking about as I am," someone said cheerfully. Pietro pushed the dog away and turned to see Ser Dottore Morsicato. "Always a good testimonial to one's skills, having a patient live." He greeted Pietro's father, then told Pietro to find him later. "I want to see how it's healing. And you can tell me all about the Palio, you young fool. No sooner do I fix them up then they're off risking their necks again…" The doctor's forked beard bristled as he walked away.

Pietro resumed his place beside his father, Mercurio curling up at his feet. Dante was in the midst of a conversation with Bishop Francis, but paused to reintroduce his son. Pietro was congratulated on surviving the race, then was left standing next to the handsome young monk he'd noticed that morning. The two began chatting amiably. The monk was called Lorenzo and he worked in the Bishop's herb garden when he was between the hours of office.

Suddenly Dante turned with gleaming eyes upon Lorenzo. "Sebartés!"

The young brother lost all his colour. "P–pardon , my lord?"

"Your accent!" said the poet. "You're from the Sebartés region, are you not?"

"My — my mother was born thereabouts, I believe. I have never been." Brother Lorenzo looked like a cornered rabbit. "My lord Bishop, the Scaliger is waiting."

With an indulgent smile Bishop Francis allowed the young monk to lead him away, nodding to Dante as he left.

"Curious fellow," observed Dante. "There's deep water in Brother Lorenzo."

Pietro looked at his father. "Where is Sebartés?"

"In lower France, north of Spain, about two hundred miles from Avignon."

Pietro chuckled. "Maybe he's afraid they'll make him pope."

Instead of laughing, Dante said, "You didn't tell me you intended to ride in the race."

Pietro's throat closed. "I didn't know myself."

"Well. I'm pleased you're unhurt," said the poet, sipping at his wine.

"Thank you," said Pietro, discarding any intention of describing the race. "What has your day been like?"

As Dante launched into an account of his hours with the Scaliger, the servants rushed to bring forth the first course — stuffed anchovies and sardines and another strange-looking fish. After a lengthy prayer in which the Scaliger bid everyone pray to the Virgin for the souls lost this day, they began to eat.

In the second place of honour, Giacomo da Carrara masticated the odd-looking fish carefully. Looking past his nephew, he addressed the Scaliger. "These are delicious. How does one prepare them?"

Cangrande's head snapped around. "Where's Cardarelli? Damn, probably in the kitchens." He thought, then snapped his fingers. "I know. We have a gourmand in our midst." Cangrande craned his neck until he spied Morsicato. "Giuseppe! O, Doctor? Take your head out of your urinized cups and answer something for us!" Seated far down with the Scaliger's personal physician, Morsicato looked up. "Il Grande wants to know about the preparation of fish!"

Morsicato's great barrel of a chest swelled. "I asked Cardarelli that myself. You put the fish in hot water after making them
rovesciata
— which means removing the bones and head without piercing the belly skin, spreading the skin with a stuffing, and closing the fish so that the flesh is on the outside. You begin by grinding marjoram, saffron, rosemary, sage, and the flesh of a few fish. Fill the anchovies or sardines with this stuffing so that the skin is next to the stuffing and the outside in. Then fry them up."

Across from Pietro, Bailardino Nogarola was smacking his lips. "Never in my wildest culinary dreams would I imagine opening a fish from the back. What's the benefit of that?"

Morsicato's left hand stroked his forked beard sagely. "Well, certain fatty fish — and this inside-out technique is used only for suckling pig and fatty fish — will render some of its fat when exposed to direct heat. The results are excellent from the standpoint of flavour."