The Master of Verona

"Action?" Mari's eyes gleamed with excitement. "After two years surrounded by conniving priests and backstabbing courtiers, I could use a good fight."

"Come inside," said the general, "and I'll tell you all about it! Perhaps your father can spare a few men for you to lead."

"Of course," said Lord Montecchio. "Come inside, everyone! My servants have malmsey prepared."

Mariotto slipped his hand into Gianozza's as the crowd of knights and soldiers streamed into the hall.

Quite forgotten in the dispersing throng, Antonia walked across the courtyard towards the guesthouse. She would change into fresh garments before returning to the hall.

At the steps to the guesthouse she turned. Capulletto remained alone in the mouth of the castle gate. Reaching for his horse's saddle, he removed a long silver dagger. He studied it for a long time before slipping it into his belt. With a deep breath to steel himself, he strode into the hall after his lost love and the man that had once been his friend. It brought tears to her eyes.

"Well, that was awkward," said Ferdinando, appearing suddenly. He'd obviously returned to find her.

She turned away, wiping a tear brusquely away. "I'll be in soon. You can taunt me then."

Antonia was surprised to find a gentle hand on her arm. "Lady, you don't think much of me, I know. But I would be the lowest man to taunt a friend in distress."

She turned to look up at him, wiping her eye. "By what right do you call yourself my friend?"

He shrugged. "I make no claim. Not to sound dramatic, but in a few days I'm riding into a fight. I just wanted things to be, ah, clear. Right. Between us." Uneasily, he took her hand. "I would like to be your friend, Antonia Alaghieri."

He was an awkward-looking fellow, short with a long neck and sloping shoulders. But handsome wasn't the world. Let Gianozza have her Mari. There were better things. Like a mind. Like a friend.

"You are my friend, Signore Backbiter."

He laughed and sighed at once, his smile mirroring her own.

Thirty-One

Vicenza

21 May 1317

Pietro's small company of soldiers rode up to the gates of Vicenza. In the midday heat, the guards who policed the gates watched them come. This tiny condottiere wasn't girded for battle; most of the approaching soldiers gazed at the sights of a new city.

One of them rode up to discuss entry. He wore no armour and in the hot day his shirt under the red leather doublet was open. At his side stalked a sleek and panting greyhound. The fellow introduced himself to the guards, who formally asked the party's destination. "France, eh? Be sure to bring your own wine."

"Hell, I'm bringing my own cook." The guards chuckled and Pietro asked, "Are the Nogarolese in residence?"

"Yes, ser. Lord Bailardino and his family."

"Who's the giant?" asked another of the garrison. His eyes were fixed on the massive form astride an uneasy mule. The big man was slapping his knees at some remark from his neighbour, almost falling from the mule's back. He was clearly drunk.

Pietro scowled. "A Spanish notary who asked for protection on the journey. He's caused me a great deal of trouble." Last night he'd slipped into bed with a woman who'd also begged Pietro's protection for the trip. Not that she'd minded, but her husband wouldn't have been amused.

"He's a right monster," muttered a guard.

A gust of wind took the hat off the Spaniard's head. Reaching for it he fell out of his saddle again. His hair and beard were black as the night sky and his skin was deeply tanned.

Pietro shrugged. "He speaks seven languages, he tells me."

As the guards admitted Ser Alaghieri's band, they laughed at the swaying Spaniard. He didn't seem to notice that he was entering a city, so intent he was on his wineskin. His fellow travelers ignored him. For them it had clearly been a long ride. As they passed through San Pietro, the Spaniard called out to women passing by, his flow of vulgar language both wretched and constant, punctuated only with belches and nose-blowing. The way his mule staggered, it was clear the Spaniard had been debauching his steed as well as himself.

Fazio trotted up to Pietro. "Let's be rid of him, eh, master? We've gotten him here safely. Let's just dump him and be done."

Pietro nodded. "Good idea. Persig — Per — Hey, notary! Yes, you! You're here. Understand. No, look at me! This is Vicenza. Vi-cen-za! You're here!" The notary gazed blankly at him from under the brim of his frayed straw hat. "Do you understand? You can go now?"

"But, señor, I can — mmm, heh, 'scuse please — I can serve. You need a fine notary, no?"

"No," said Pietro firmly. He'd been afraid of this. "We don't need a scribe."

"Truly?"

"Truly, no."

The Spaniard shrugged elaborately. "If you say, señor. Farewell."

"Adios." Pietro watched drunken mule stumble off, its rider in search of another patsy to support his drinking.