The Master of Verona

"Donna," he said correctly, "the Capitano says he will see you shortly. He is busy clearing the field and seeing to the captives. He asks if you would undertake the succor of the wounded."

It was subtle, her reaction. The face changed not a whit, but Pietro noticed the delicate hands at her sides relax. "He is well, then."

Though it was not a question, Pietro saw fit to reply. "He is, Donna. The Paduan army is scattered and he is victorious."

"Of course he is." Her tone carried a mild disapproval. She looked the trio over. Pietro's leg was bloody to the ankle, and the gash across Mariotto's chest seeped crimson to his waist. Mari was trying to cover it in the name of modesty. With a brisk gesture — so like him! — she beckoned several waiting attendants to her side. "He is unhurt, so he sends three wounded knights on his errands while he struts the field like the plumed peacock he is." She waved their protests to silence. "No, please. You have heard his orders. I am to succor the wounded. I would be more than glad to begin here and now." With the aid of the attendants the three youths were escorted within the Palazzo, Donna Nogarola leading their way. "As we progress, you could perhaps honour me with your names."

The flustering of the three youths was suddenly complete. Literally falling over themselves apologizing for their lack of manners, they hastily introduced themselves. "Mariotto, how delightful to meet you again — though I suppose the circumstances are a trifle unfortunate. You should come visit us with your father. You know he dines here often. Capecelatro — I'm afraid — ah, from Capua. Do you know Signore Matraini? He represents my husband's interests there. Indeed, you must meet. Alaghieri — son of? Of course. I have read your father's work. Did you help with the research?"

"Research, lady?" Too late, Pietro realized she shared her brother's sense of humour.

As the wounded young men were helped up a sweeping staircase, the chatelaine said, "I hope you all have the sense to stay here tonight. Even the immortal chevaliers of legend took time to let their wounds heal properly."

At the top of the stairs they encountered a group of Paduan nobles under a light guard. Antony pointed. "Mari! Look!" Pietro and Mariotto traced the line of the Capuan's finger to a well-built young man with dark hair and crimson pourpoint.

Mariotto shouted, "It's him!"

"Who?" asked Pietro, knowing full well who it was but not understanding how Mariotto knew him.

"He's the one who shot at Mari!" declared Antony loudly, voice echoing in the palace confines.

"He shot Antonio Nogarola!" exclaimed Mariotto.

"He shot me," said Pietro, an odd satisfaction flitting through him. "He's the one I captured. He's my prisoner."

In response to the ruckus, the small group of Paduans stopped and the dark-haired young Carrara turned to look at his accusers. "Ah. Montecchio, is it? Good. I like to know the names of the men I kill."

"You missed, turd!" shouted Antony.

"Fut. I won't next time. And Alaghieri — that's a name I won't forget."

"You can't," Montecchio sneered. "You're going to be sending him money for the rest of your life."

"However short that may be," added Antony.

"Don't pay him any mind," said Pietro dismissively. "He's a coward who uses a coward's weapon."

The young Paduan broke free of the group he stood with to approach Pietro. No one stopped him, though several guards gripped the swords in their scabbards. Pietro swallowed his pain to stand upright so that when the dark-haired youth arrived, they were nose to nose.

"A coward's weapon?" hissed the Paduan. "I'll tell you who's a coward — your blessed Capitano, who hides behind fake bows and old men and women instead of fighting like a man."

"I didn't see him hiding," said Pietro hotly, blood coursing through his veins. "That's more your style — cowering behind a woman's weapon. You were going to run after you fired that bolt, weren't you?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Only because I took you down. More's the pity that you didn't go down fighting like a real knight."

The Paduan looked fierce. "My name is Marsilio da Carrara. You and me, Alaghieri. Whenever you like, wherever you like, however you like."

Pietro felt an irrational anger rise in him. Before he was aware, he was saying, "Sorry, not interested. I won't be one of your Paduan bardassi." Apparently Pietro had inherited his father's gift for insults. Marsilio flushed and lifted a fist. Pietro tensed.

Suddenly Marsilio screamed. Pietro was so startled he glanced at his own fist to be sure he hadn't actually hit him. It took him a moment to realize that the lady had put a restraining hand on Marsilio's arm — though why that should make him cry out, he couldn't tell. Then he saw the blood seeping from a gash in his arm, hidden until now.

"Oh, I'm sorry, young man," said Katerina della Scala in her most pleasant voice. "I didn't see your wound. That must hurt you. We'll have a doctor come around to look at it for you."