The Master of Verona (68 page)

Pietro continued to ride in silence, thinking. In a couple weeks he'd be back in Verona with his friends and family. And Cangrande would show the world how he valued his errant knight. Ser Pietro Alaghieri, knight of Verona, dispenser of justice. He would then become a lawyer, maybe someday even a judge. And before that, one more battle, one more chance to blacken Carrara's eye. More than that, it was a chance to expose the Count's partner. Capture the Count of San Bonifacio and force him to give up the name of his spy in the Scaliger's court. It was all about to happen.

The waiting was over.

Closer to Verona, on the land southeast of the Lago da Garda, there was a beautifully built mansion some two centuries old, surrounded by the best arable land. This respectably sized estate held no castle, but the mansion was as fine as anything to be found. Until the turn of the century it had been inhabited by that staunchly Guelph family, the Capelletti. After that line had died out, the lands had been under the stewardship of the lords of Verona. Every few years a new tenant would come and lease the lands until he was evicted by a new court favorite. Cangrande and his brothers had been sure not to let any one man grow too attached to the land.

That changed two years ago, when the mansion suddenly became a beehive of activity. A new family was in residence. Or rather, a new old family. The Capulletti.

Now it was a week before the attack on Vicenza, and rumours were flying. None of them mentioned Padua, but all of them revolved around the massing of troops for some new offensive Cangrande was planning. Hearing the rumours, Luigi Capulletto stalked through the halls of his father's mansion in a foul temper. Slamming doors and careless of those in his path, he pushed his way into Ludovico's bedroom, which doubled as an office. Each day found the old man less able to walk on his gouty leg, and the summer heat wasn't helping.

Seeing his heir hurtling towards him, the elder Capulletto grunted. "What are you so hot about?"

With an effort of pure will Luigi stilled himself, though his fingers itched to wrap themselves around the fat man's waddled throat. "Uguccione della Faggiuola is gathering a force of men. Something's happening and you know what, don't you?"

"I may," said the old man.

"And you're sending Antony to go to war with Uguccione!"

"Yes," rumbled Ludovico.

"No!" Luigi slammed his fist against the wall. "No, Father, no! As much as you may want him to be, Antony isn't your heir! I am! Remember me, your wife's first son? Just because Antony makes you laugh doesn't mean he can run your affairs. Hell,
you
can't run your affairs! Maybe Cangrande would be interested in why we really left Capua. If that story got about, you'd sure feel the pinch, wouldn't you?"

Ludovico had started sputtering long before Luigi reached the peak of his tirade. As the son continued to shout curses and epithets, the old man leapt out of bed and hopped two steps forward on his good foot. Luigi saw the blow coming but for once didn't feel like taking it. He grasped the swinging arm and threw his father backward to land in a heap on the floor. Half disbelieving what he'd done, Luigi stood shaking.

Ludovico lifted himself onto the bed, there being nothing wrong with his arms. "Young fool! You think you'll get my money after that?"

"Hang the money! This isn't about money! Why, Father? Why Antony?"

"He makes me laugh." Old Capulletto coughed up a ball of phlegm that he spit into a canister two feet away. "
That's
all you give me."

"I gave you a grandson!"

"Yes, I am aware," sneered Capulletto. "He looks like his mother. At least he'll be pretty, he'll make the Guarini girl happy."

"That's all we are to you, isn't it? Cogs in the machine! Me, my son, Antony and that stupid business with the Carrara girl — all of it grist for your mill, fodder for your ambition. Well, you're there, Papa! You've made it! Land, money, respect! Isn't that enough? What comes after?"

Ludo snapped his fingers at Luigi. "
That's
why Antony. He never has to ask what comes after — he knows! He sees the possibilities, the openings, the way to greater heights. Example: if you'd put your wife forward a little more, you could have had that new water forge the Scaliger's building. But instead Rienzi gets it, all for the price of his wife's virtue. The Great Hound. Heh. That man certainly deserves his name." The old man dissolved into laughter that quickly turned to coughing.

Luigi didn't even wait for the spasm to subside. "You want me to sell my wife to the Scaliger?"

Through watery eyes Ludo sneered at his son. "Small enough sacrifice for such a reward."

Luigi's jaw locked shut. He felt like tearing apart the ancient heap that was his father with his bare hands. Instead he said, "I demand you send me to Uguccione to represent the family."

"You
demand
, eh? Very well. I shall send you — to serve under your brother. No, don't gainsay me! It's this or you don't go! You shall serve your brother. After all, he's a knight. What are you? A country squire, little more. You'll serve him and like it."

It was insulting, it was humiliating. But Luigi had what he wanted — an opportunity to prove himself. He turned on his heel and walked straight-backed out into the hall.

Antony was leaning against a wood-paneled wall outside. "Jesus, Luigi, I told you—"

"Go to the devil!" Then Luigi remembered his best weapon. "How is young Menelaus lately? Heard from Paris?"

Face ashen, Antony gave his brother the fig and stormed off. Pleased, Luigi went to find his son.

Theobaldo was napping. Letting the anger flow out of him, Luigi stood beside his son's crib and stroked his thin icy hair. His son, wholly his. Two years old, and still Luigi was loath to let even the nurses near the boy. He would have kept his wife away from the child too if he could. The bitch. Another one of his father's great schemes. But at least she had given him his son. Theobaldo. It was a family name — the old family, their true family, before his father had leapt at borrowed nobility
. Look how well that turned out, Papa. You bought your way into a feud!

That problem, at least, looked to be dying out. Old Montecchio had been more than gracious to Luigi's father, and the bride-thief was in France for who knew how long. Particularly pleasing, Antony had gotten a well-deserved kick in the pants, and the fat old man had used his son's humiliation for everything he could get. Rights and lands that would pass to Luigi's son someday. They couldn't change
that
.

The toddler snored lightly. Luigi chuckled, something he only did with his boy. Theobaldo, the name of Luigi's great uncle. An Italian name, though the boy's mother preferred the Dutch version — Thibault. Strange, yet Luigi liked it. Thibault.

"We'll show them all, won't we, Thibault, my son?"

Under the early summer sun, Antonia Alaghieri let her bare feet brush the dewy grass. Moisture crept up between her toes. The log she sat on was slightly damp, but through her many layers of clothing she couldn't feel it. Only her bare hands and feet could sense the dawn condensation.

A rustling in the bushes off to the right startled her, but it was only a hare. "Look," she whispered, pointing.

Gianozza della Bella (
in
Montecchio) had lifted her skirts higher, showing a fine thin calf to the morning sun. Looking at the hare she said, "Better run, little one! Or else Rolando will catch you up!"

Rolando was an old stiff-legged mastiff held on a tight leash. Frustrated, he barked at the hare and it scampered away into the brush. Satisfied, the dog settled onto his haunches and allowed himself to be congratulated by the two young women.

As Antonia stroked the dog's muzzle she said, "So, precisely where is Aurelia today?"

"Being fitted for her wedding dress. Her seamstress is a phenomenon. Maybe when your time comes…"

"A shame your sister-in-law couldn't be here," said Antonia tartly. "It's a lovely day. And what pretty landscape."

"Oh, mainly they use this as grazing land. No, the real pretty land is over that way. It belongs to Ser Bonaventura, though his cousin—"

"Gianozza! Enough."

Gianozza threw her head back and laughed, a sound not unlike water trickling between tiny stones. Antonia imagined Gianozza staying up each night after her prayers and practicing it.

As she finished her laugh, Gianozza said, "I'm so glad you finally came."

"I'm not." But it was a lie. Antonia had resisted coming not because she didn't want to, but because she felt it her duty to stay with her father until his latest work was ready for publication.

Two years had established Antonia's dominion over all things to do with her famous father. When the poet was writing, she became an immutable force to any who desired to steal his time. After twice being firmly refused an audience, even the Scaliger had to respect the iron in the sixteen-year-old girl. No one was allowed to interfere with Dante's Muse.

In the field of publishing she was no less firm. She'd recreated in Verona the copying houses of Florence. When the great poet was satisfied with a canto, Antonia would take the complete work and disperse it among the scribes. No house had consecutive pages, so there was no fear of it leaking early, yet the moment
Purgatorio
was finished it would be available to the public. Demand was enormous.
L'Inferno
was already more popular than the legends of Arthur, better known than the Song of Roland. Dante was being compared to Homer and Ovid. Princes, blacksmiths, bishops, and tailors were reciting his verses. At the University of Paris, a new Chair had been added to lecture on the meaning of the great epic Commedia.

But Antonia was secretly frightened. Her father wasn't looking well. In her two years with him the poet had visibly withered. Doctors were useless. It had been Pietro who had diagnosed the true cause. In one of his letters he had observed it was not age or illness, but the act of creation itself. Their father was pouring his life force into the pages he produced. Dante's work was his life. It was a race to see which ended first, the poet or the poem.

Which made it worse when her father ordered her to take a holiday. "My dear Beatrice, you've been flogging yourself for weeks.
Purgatorio
is almost done, there is nothing more you can do to ease the publishing. Go visit friends, or even your mother. Take some time for yourself. I insist!"

Reluctantly, she had agreed. A twenty-mile journey outside Verona brought her to Castello Montecchio and her only female friend, Gianozza.

Those that knew them thought their friendship odd. Gianozza was seen as a tiny gadfly who would, given time, cause her husband as much misery as she had her betrothed. Antonia, on the other hand, was believed to be made of granite. The merchants hated the girl in plain clothes with the basilisk stare. How these two young women had become intimates baffled the court.

To know the answer, one had to hear them talk. They brought out qualities in each other otherwise hidden. Beneath their public façades were two girls who were fiercely independent, but in different ways, and who enjoyed poetry, but in different ways.

Of course, staying at Castello Montecchio meant being caught up in the midst of the wedding preparations. Mariotto's sister, Aurelia, was marrying a local knight called Benvenito Lenoti, famous for jousting. So the castle was a mixture of anxiousness and excitement. Aurelia sometimes came running into a room breathless with fear, and it was up to Gianozza to console her. With Antonia's arrival, there were now two girls for the bride to turn to.

To aid in distracting her, the two recited poetry. Most of the preceding week had been spent reading aloud and debating meaning. This morning, for a change, they were undertaking a hike. For protection they'd brought Rolando, a massive hound who had grown up in these hills. Gianozza had also brought a small satchel whose contents were secret. All she would say is, "I have a surprise."

Antonia was in no hurry. Here in this dell the rest of the world seemed quite distant. She was reminded of stories of Eden, or Avalon. Looking at the sun filtering through the canopy of leaves she said, "When you agreed to marry Mariotto did you know that you would be getting this wonderful home in the bargain?"

"No," sighed Gianozza happily. "He told me, of course. But I thought he was exaggerating. Everyone loves their home. It took me weeks after I arrived here to even leave the castle. I so wanted to please Monsignor Montecchio. For Mariotto's sake."

Antonia indicated the keys that hung at Gianozza's belt. "Clearly you've made an impression."

She'd done that and more, succeeding in winning over Mariotto's father in spite of himself. Aurelia, too, after a standoffish start, had come to like her sister-in-law, though more like a puppy than a person. Still, it went a long way towards Mariotto's redemption.

"Yes, now that Aurelia is leaving, father Gargano has made me lady of the house." Gianozza stood, brushing flower petals from her dress. "Come with me. There's something we need to see." She tugged Rolando's leash and started off.