The Master of Verona

"Another Helen!" observed Antony loudly.

"Shut up." Pietro was busy trying to remember everything his father had ever told him about the Scaligeri line. The images from Giotto's frescos in the Scaliger palace rose before his mind's eye. Bartolomeo had been the first son of old Alberto della Scala. There followed the middle brother, cunning Alboino, who had died three years before. And finally a boy baptized Francesco della Scala, known from age three as Cangrande. But had anyone ever mentioned girl-children in the family?

"Mari!" Pietro was already addressing his friend in the familiar. His father would have been appalled.

"Ho!"

"She — his sister — she's married to Bailardino Nogarola, correct?"

"Yes!" shouted Mariotto.

"How now? How now?" called Antony from Pietro's other side. His tone was an exact replica of the Scaliger's.

"Would you stop that?" growled Mariotto.

"Stop what?" asked Antony with innocence.

Mariotto sighed in mock exasperation, then addressed Pietro. "The Capitano's sister. She's Bailardino's wife."

Antony was confused. "You already said that!"

Pietro broke in. "But Bailardino raised Cangrande, didn't he? Is she much older?"

Mariotto's wound had him sitting stiffly upright. "She certainly doesn't look it!"

Pietro decided that was about all the information he would get. They were now surrounded by citizens with another chore in mind — the salvation of their homes. The denizens of San Pietro were madly fighting the fires that had been set to their buildings. Water could not arrive soon enough from the wells, and precious time was lost arguing whose house should be saved first. The three young riders skirted the crowds as best they could.

Forty minutes after the cessation of hostilities, they arrived back at the Plaza Municipale. Pietro alighted beside several pages, easily distinguished from the general crowd by their dirty yellow tunics. Faces lined with grime and soot, they had been busy during this day of siege, running messages through smoke-filled streets. One dashed forward now to take charge of their mounts.

"Thank you," said Pietro through gritted teeth as he put weight on his wounded leg. His mind was rapidly being consumed with the idea of a bed. But first he had to find this lady and give her the Capitano's message. He held the boy's gaze. "Is Donna Nogarola within?" He spoke loudly, for here too the noise of the populace was near deafening. "I have a message from the Capitano!"

From the shadows behind a rose-marble pillar a woman appeared. Tall and graceful, she wore a deep-blue gown of heavy brocade. The floral pattern in the material was fine and delicate, but the gown lacked the hanging panels down the back that style dictated. Its length, too, was shorter than was common, only just brushing the stone steps rather than trailing after her. Her stride was confident and long, and Pietro decided from her manner that the alterations to her dress were for function rather than fashion. At her neck and wrists were none of the hanging ornaments Pietro had often seen adorning the ladies of the countless courts his father had visited. Her hands, he noticed as she waved away the page, were ringless beyond the heavy gold band on her third finger.

Her head was covered in a breezy, translucent veil that was pulled well back from her face with a band of the same brocade as her dress. Under it, her hair was tightly coiled at the back of her head. Thus her face was framed in blue, with only a cresent of chestnut above her brow. It was a face different from Cangrande's — her nose was smaller and her cheeks were more angular. Her flashing blue eyes, however, were eerily similar.

Hanging at her waist, affixed to her sparsely jeweled girdle, was a ring of many keys that clattered softly. If a woman's position in society was evinced by the number of keys she wore, this lady was someone of great distinction. But then, there was only one woman she could be.

Katerina della Scala in Nogarola halted a scant three feet from Pietro. By this time Antonio and Mariotto were standing at his side. All three bowed — or tried. Each for his own reason had difficulty executing the move. The effort made Pietro wince, as all his weight was on his right leg. Mariotto's legs worked fine, but his upper body was stiff, and Antony grimaced as he lowered his aching head and spread his arms wide.

Amused, the lady waved a hand. "No, please. There is no need to wound yourselves further." The chatelaine's cadence was a near-perfect echo of the Scaliger's. "If you wish to do me honour, give me the message you bear."

Embarrassed, Pietro could not help noting her appeal. Montecchio couldn't be blamed for not guessing the lady's age. She must have been at least in her teens at the time of her marriage twenty years ago, but she looked no older than her warrior brother. Absurdly Pietro found himself thinking, What beautiful wrists.