The Master of Verona

"À votre plaisir," replied Pietro, eager to aid her. He shifted again, trying to remove himself from the dampest part of the daybed while not dislodging the flannel. He found a more comfortable position-reclining rather than lying on the pillows-from here he could meet her eyes and remain at rest.

"You are uneasy," she observed in French, leaning slightly forward. "Is it the wound?"

The scent of her — lavender, he thought — filled Pietro's senses like a balm. "Non, madame." It was true. In that moment, the wound was the farthest thing from Pietro's thoughts. For the rest of his life he would smell lavender and think of her, leaning over him, her gown's neckline opening… He hastened to change the topic. "Who else is here?"

She half turned to glance over her shoulder. "My brother-in-law. He, too, had to have a bolt removed from his body-but he was attempting to do the surgery himself. He had the notion that I would be angry with him for some reason. Can you imagine that? A grown man, a knight, avoiding me?" Somehow French seemed to suit her mood, carrying both amusement and scorn.

"It is beyond all comprehension."

"Quite. When my girl found him, he refused to come. I had to send several of my pages to fetch him here. As soon as Morsicato was finished with your wound he began on Lord Nogarola's. There is some doubt as to the condition of his shoulder, but evidently he will live to face my wrath. Do you fear my wrath, Monseuir Alaghieri?"

"I should fear doing anything to displease you, madame."

The soft mirthful ripple was more breath than voice. "Diplomacy is a lost art, monsieur. You ought to lend it your skills. It would no doubt undergo a renaissance."

"Oui, Madame Nogarola."

"Pietro," she said, switching back to their native tongue, "I have been informed that you have, beyond all reason, risked yourself to save my brother's life. And that you rode into a band of armed men alone and unaided, thus winning the engagement for our city. When we are in company, you may refer to me as donna, domina, or madame. In private, my name is Katerina."

Pietro looked into the eyes of this woman twice his age, knowing she could never be his. He also knew it didn't matter.

"Yes, Donna."

The conversation continued in fits and starts, pausing as Donna Nogarola checked her brother-in-law or sent servants for fresh linens and water. After each brief interval, she returned to Pietro's bedside to ask more questions. He tried to describe her brother's actions, but she seemed more interested in Pietro. He found himself being asked about his life — growing up in Florence; the exile of his father; the brilliant, ambitious little sister; the youthful deaths of two little brothers followed by the death of his older brother Giovanni, which catapulted Pietro to the role of heir. He talked of the journey two years before to join Dante in Paris, after being separated from his father for ten years. He described their return to Italy in the wake of the Emperor Heinrich, and their eventual settling in Lucca.

When he reached their arrival in Verona the night before, the lady leaned back, her eyes narrowed. "So you had never met my brother before today?"

"Yesterday," he corrected as if it made a difference.

"Ah. Yet you rode, unhesitating, to his rescue?"

Pietro shook his head. "He didn't require rescue, Donna. We probably only got in his way."

She waved his protestation away. "Nonsense. He would be dead this minute, and the city entirely in the grip of the Paduans, if not for you three. You must be very skilled."

Pietro grunted. "At being a pinchushion."

"No self-pity," said the lady firmly. "Francesco is blessed to have such inspired knights to remove his neck from the noose he made for himself."

"None of us are knights, Donna."

"Not yet, at any rate. That, at least, is something he can rectify."

"Yes, I can," came a deep voice from the doorway. "And will."

Pietro sat up, but the lady did not even incline her head. "You took your time."

"I stopped to pick you flowers, Donna, but there was a frost when I entered your hall and they all withered away." The Scaliger approached as he spoke. Hooking a bench with his foot and dragging it to rest beside Pietro's daybed, he seated himself opposite his sister's perch. "How fares my guardian angel?"

"I'm fine, my lord."

"He will live," supplied Donna Katerina. "No doubt he will follow you again someday, so you can attempt once more to cure him of that failing."

"I do what I can. No doubt Pietro will throw himself in the path of a hail of arrows next time and complete my chastisement." Cangrande's posture bespoke a tension that he had not evidenced even in battle. "It is fascinating to see you so — motherly, Donna. Perhaps the lady wishes to rectify a past error?"

"I tender my mercies on those I find deserving of them. And I am like Pietro. I loyally follow orders."