The Master of Verona

"But — but it's romantic, it's — "

"It's tripe! And Paolo knows it! He weeps even as she speaks because he understands, you see? He knows why they're made to suffer. But Francesca convinces herself that it's anyone's fault but hers — even God's. Francesca is one of the worst people my father comes across in Hell. Technically, she's even guilty of incest! She's everything that's bad in women, from Eve all the way down to today! That you idolize her is worse than scandalous. It's impious!"

Gianozza walked suddenly to the window, where the smoke rising from Vicenza was now visible. She was silent for a long time. A very long time.

Antonia began to feel guilty. She got to her feet and sighed. "Gianozza, I'm sorry. I'm worried about my brother. Here I am fretting about Ferdinando and I didn't even know Pietro was here, I thought he was safe at university, and now he's out there again… I probably spoke too harshly. I'm sure I did."

"No. You're right. I'm a fool."

"What?"

Turning to face her, Gianozza had a wild look. "I'm a fool. I just saw the romance of it. I should have married Antony. I mean, he's not so bad. But I thought that — it was the poem that Mari read to me that night. He read to me from L'Inferno, and I heard their story and I thought it was a sign, a sign we were meant to be together. But now I see that if it was a sign, it was a sign that I would go to Hell! And Mari, poor Mari! He will, too. For my sin! It's my fault that Mariotto will be killed! He'll die dueling Antony, and he'll go to Hell, and it will be my

fault!"

Antonia realized there and then that Gianozza didn't love poetry — she loved love. Poetry was just the vehicle. The girl had to be set straight. There was poetic love and there was real life. "Gianozza, I didn't mean — "

"No! You're right! It will all be my fault! If I'd only given Antony what he wanted!" Gianozza turned back to stare vacantly out the window.

She's living a French romance, thought Antonia with amazement. But she didn't know what else to say, and now that Gianozza had stopped crying Antonia had another duty. Opening a small box that contained her writing things, she took out a sheet of paper, her inkwell, and a hardy quill.

Gianozza turned from the window, clutching herself tight. "What are you doing?"

"Father needs to know," said Antonia, writing swiftly. "Do you think you could find a servant willing to ride to Verona?"

"Yes." Gianozza walked over to a wardrobe and pulled out a riding gown and coat.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't stay here and do nothing. I'm going to see your letter is delivered, then I'm going to find Antony and stop this feud nonsense, however I can!"

Mercurio hadn't slackened his pace. So far they had mainly stayed on the road, veering off only twice. Both those times the trail had led to a clump of trees, and Pietro imagined that Pathino had heard some noise on the road that had frightened him into taking cover. Each time he'd returned to the road a few yards ahead of where he'd left it and continued on his way.

If Pietro remembered rightly, this road led past Mariotto's lands at Montecchio, past Montebello and Soave, and directly towards San Bonifacio. So when Mercurio turned off a third time, Pietro thought it was another dodge. He was surprised, therefore, when the hound failed to return to the road. Determined as ever, Mercurio headed south among bushes and trees.

Perversely, Pietro wished he hadn't fought so hard in the battle. Pathino could be lying in wait behind one of these trees. Pietro's sword arm was weary, his right leg weak. He slowed Canis' pace, which earned a withering look from the eager dog, pressing the hunt before him. But Pietro didn't want to risk falling to a hasty ambush. The closest aid was a half-hour behind. If Pietro let himself be killed, Cesco, Detto, and Fazio would disappear like breath into the wind.

Pietro's most valuable sense in this environment was his hearing, and he strained to listen for the slight hints of breathing or metal clanging or a horse shifting. He heard water running — a brook or a stream. Birdsong, and all around him an angry wind rustling the leaves.

And something else. It came from somewhere ahead of him. Pietro's instinct was to kick his spurs and race forward, but he forced himself to dismount and advance slowly. The hound crept along close to his side. Poking through the brush with his sword, he saw a riverbank. And the source of the noise.

A toddler sat on the bank, whimpering in fright. Pietro dismounted and hurried forward, looking about warily. At the sight of Pietro, the toddler shied away, protecting his right arm. The hound sniffed at Detto, then walked directly to the water's edge and strained to cross.