The Master of Verona

"They're the ones who tried to kill Cesco!"

Morsicato watched Cangrande assimilate that information. "You're certain they're the men you saw?"

"Dead certain."

Morsicato expected the Scaliger to leap onto a horse and cry for all and sundry to follow him as he raced to the rescue of his son once again. Yet this one time the Capitano stood frozen. The doctor's voice was urgent. "Cangrande! Those men have Cesco! He's in danger! We must go!"

Eyes unfocused, Cangrande nodded. "Quietly, just us. No soldiers. Not a word to anyone."

In moments they had mounted their horses and were off.

Thirty-Nine

"This is taking a long time," observed Dante.

Cesco was playing with something. In the light from the covered lamp Pietro saw it was a coin. "Cesco, where did you get that?" Cesco clutched it to him and didn't answer. Pietro thought he knew what it was. "You can keep it. I'm sure Mercurio would want you to." Cesco didn't smile, but he relaxed and returned to fingering the old Roman coin.

They bounced hard and everyone had to hold onto the walls. "The road must be muddy," replied Katerina. "Why are they going so fast?"

"We are going at a good clip, aren't we?" Pietro was trying to keep his bruised and aching body from jostling overmuch.

"It's because the bad men are driving," said Cesco with a yawn.

Pietro looked at the boy. "What bad men?"

"Th' men who tried t' cut me last year. They tore my pillow," he added confidentially to Dante.

"Cesco, what do you mean?" asked Pietro.

The child looked out the window.

Katerina said, "Cesco! Pietro asked you a question. You didn't answer him."

"I said! Th' men on top're the ones who cut my bed."

Katerina's arms tightened protectively around Cesco's shoulders as she gazed at the others.

Dante said, "Is he imagining it?"

The child made a face and returned to his coin.

"How would they..?" began Pietro, only to see Katerina turn ashen. "What?"

"Giovanna!" she cried. "Giovanna is the Count's partner!"

It was like ice water flowing into his veins. "Cangrande's wife?"

Dante said, "No. You must be mistaken."

"I'm not. It all fits. She had the keys to let Pathino out of the loggia. When Pathino failed, she got tired of waiting and sent her own men."

"But why?" Pietro thought he knew, but it was too awful. Cangrande's wife trying to murder his only son?

"Obviously to protect her future heirs. Francesco is a fool." The child looked up. "Not you, Cesco. Though why you didn't tell us this before we got into the carriage, I can't say."

"I thought you knew." The three-year-old closed his eyes again. "Besides, Pietro's here." The child shrugged as if that were all that mattered.

They were moving much too fast to leap from the carriage, even if they weren't a wounded knight with a game leg, an old bent poet, a woman, and an exhausted child.

"Quite right," said Dante. "Pietro's here. He'll think of something."

Nico da Lozzo was not drunk. He wanted to be, but his orders kept him sober. "I don't believe this! Pathino's still out there! He can't have more than a couple hours' head start. We could catch him!"

Bonaventura was far less sober, but just as adamant. "I agree. Hurting children! I'd like to take him home and let my brood at him."

Nearby, Uguccione shook the water out of his long hair. "But instead of that, all our men are hunting for your idiot cousin."

Bonaventura belched. "He'll turn up. He always does."

"I delegated and put Montecchio in charge of finding him," said Nico. "He's had the luck today."

At that very moment a grizzled old soldier stepped forward. "My lords — you'd best come see this."

"You find Ferdinando?" demanded Bonaventura.

"Yes, lord. But there's something else."

A quality in the man's tone made several other men follow behind Nico, Bonaventura, and Uguccione. After a winding walk through the wood, they came to a body. Young Montecchio was kneeling beside it. The figure was draped in a cloak the mirror of Mariotto's own, but this cloak was stained with blood.

Nico bolted forward. "Oh God. Mari — is it..?"

Mariotto gingerly turned the shoulders of the dead man, tenderly shielding the face from the rain as he removed the gilded helmet. Everyone stood for a long time without speaking.

Another blue-cloaked figure came riding over in haste. Benvenito reined in close by and dropped lightly from his saddle. "Mariotto! Somebody said-"

Mariotto remained kneeling in the mud, looking down at the face that had always, but for one night, looked severe and reserved. Now the features were relaxed, peaceful. So should every man look, the assembled men thought, as he found himself at his Creator's knee.

"Ambushed, looks like," said Bonaventura, sobering swiftly.

Benvenito glanced up sharply. "By whom? A Paduan?"