Introduction

Star-Cross'd - Book Three. Italy, 1326. While the brilliant and wily Cesco is schooled in his new duties at the hand of a hard master, Pietro Alaghieri travels to Avignon, current seat of the Papacy, to fight his excommunication and plead for Cesco's legitimacy. He doesn't know an old foe has been waiting to ruin Pietro's life and seize control of Verona for himself. Back in Verona, separated from everyone he trusts, Cesco must confront his ambitious cousin, a mysterious young killer, and the Holy Roman Emperor himself. A harrowing series of adventures reveal a secret long hidden, one that threatens Cesco's only chance for true happiness. Inspired by Shakespeare, Dante, and Petrarch, full of Renaissance intrigue and passion, this third novel in Blixt's acclaimed Star-Cross'd series reflects the heights of drama, exploring the capricious whims of lady Fortune, who has her favorites - and her fools.

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Excerpt

FIVE

Tessa Capulletto sat focusing on the yarn in her fingers, endeavoring to ignore her rising gorge. She couldn’t decide if her illness was due to this latest child growing inside her, or her company.

She was at the Scaliger palace, seated on a comfortable chair with a back to ease her condition. The other women sat on cushioned boxes, backs erect, enjoying a breeze that fluttered the drapes of the grand loggia.

Their husbands were all below in the hall, no doubt drinking – wherever the Scaliger was, wine was never out of reach. She wondered if he was quite recovered from his wound. It was information she would have to wheedle out of her husband. Antonio Capulletto did not naturally confide in his wife, considering her a necessary evil, and a child.

I am no child. I have a child of my own. I am a woman now.

As proof, she was here, invited for the first time to join the other wives, though the next youngest was almost twice her age. This was a strange gathering. Apart from servants, there were only six women present. Too few to fill the long arcade of the covered palace balcony. But their hostess had cleverly dealt with that by having screens erected, partitioning off their little corner of the loggia to create an intimate space.

Tessa felt under-dressed, despite her embroidered and brocaded panel dress being among the most expensive in the room. It was not the clothes but how she wore them. She was still short, and her breasts hadn’t filled out properly, not even after giving birth. Angelica said it was because she wasn’t using them, but Tessa could think of nothing worse than letting the little leech bite down on her with those teeth just coming in. Let Angelica coddle and nurse the brat – it would help make up for the loss of her own child. And soon Tessa would have another hungry mouth to pass off to the nurse. A boy, all the wisewomen said. She prayed they were wrong.

As if in answer her stomach roiled, and she distracted herself by considering the other women. The one she knew best was seated closest. Tessa could not help liking Kate Bonaventura, in spite of her rather unwomanly conversation. Red-haired, full-chested and full-hipped, the Paduan-born lady was known for being slightly mad – a reputation earned more in her past than in her present. Kate and her husband Petruchio were the guests of honour each year at the feast her husband threw for San Bonaventura’s feast. Last year the event had been memorable for several reasons. Retiring from her first attempt at playing hostess, Tessa had given birth to her daughter. At the same moment, the bastard Cesco had interrupted the feast by stealing a horse, and then the Scaliger’s sister had re-entered society after her stroke.

She was here, too. Katerina della Scala. The rancor between the two siblings was famous, and they behaved more like husband and wife than brother and sister. At Christmas, Cangrande had refused his sister entry to his palace. But arriving today in the company of her husband and elder son she could not be turned off, so Cangrande had exiled her to the society of women.

Sitting with her gloved hands folded, Donna Katerina was the sole woman without occupation. Though recovered from her stroke, her left hand was sheathed to cover an old wound, a dreadful burn. Katerina had taken to wearing gloves to put others at ease. It meant, however, that she lacked the fine touch for weaving. Another form of exile. In a less formidable woman it might have been pitiable.

Seated beside her was Donna Elena, wife of Lord Castelbarco. Tessa had met her only once before, but she was a pleasant elderly woman of fifty or so, hardly younger than her husband. No threat there.

On Elena’s far side was Giovanna da Svevia, the Scaliger’s wife and today’s hostess. Much older than her spouse, she was somewhere between Katerina and Elena in age. Rumours hinted that, like her husband, Giovanna despised her sister-in-law. But so far they were exceedingly polite to each other, even sweet. Surprising, as Giovanna was the great-granddaughter of Frederick II, last of the Hohenstaufen Emperors and famous for fits of temper. Tessa had come expecting to see a better show than this.

Yet if there was to be a drama, the likeliest source was from the woman seated across from her. Closest in age to Tessa, she was the person Tessa most wished to ignore. Actually, she wished the puttanna would drop dead at her feet so Tessa could grind her heel into that creamy face. Slender, with hair like raven-feathers and eyes like sapphires, Gianozza Montecchio fit her expensive French clothes perfectly. Just the right hint of cleavage – of course motherhood had endowed her with perfect tits! – and bare shoulders, all wrapped and warped into an hourglass of brocade and jewels that screamed, “Look at me! I’m perfect!”

Tessa had never met Donna Montecchio before today, but she’d seen that face often enough. It was painted on the walls of her house, adorning frescos whose religious pretext couldn’t hide their true meaning. This bitch Gianozza had been betrothed to Tessa’s husband, just as Tessa herself had been betrothed to someone else. But unlike Tessa, the baldracca had deliberately broken her bond and married her betrothed’s best friend instead. Leaving Antony Capulletto in need of a wife.

Tessa had hated Donna Montecchio long before they met, on two counts. First, because Antony made no effort to disguise the fact that Gianozza was his one true love. He still referred to her by that stupid pet name, calling her “my Giulia.” Some kind of reference to the women of Caesar’s family, and their ability to make men happy. Ridiculous, and obviously false. Who had ever been made happy by this harpy? Not that this plain truth had stopped her husband from naming their daughter – Tessa’s child, born of her loins! – after her. Giulietta. The Little Giulia.

Tessa’s second cause for hate was that if only the bagascia had married where she had promised, then Tessa would still be a maiden looking forward to her wedding night with Theobaldo Capulletto – her beloved Thibault. Now her nephew by marriage. Though she vaguely understood these two causes were contradictory, to her they were both perfectly valid reasons to hate.

Thus before they even met, Tessa saw Gianozza Montecchio as her personal tormentor. But Tessa was astonished to find a woman so plainly stupid! All this fuss over her? Pretty, yes, it was undeniable. But that breathless little pant she emitted every few minutes, as if always on the brink of tears! And the soulful look she had perfected, like a sad dog pleading for a treat. Tessa’s opinion of her husband plummeted even further.

Upon arrival today, Donna Montecchio had tried to embrace Tessa like a sister, which had only caused Tessa to stiffen and protest her delicate condition. They’d exchanged the formal kiss of greeting, and Tessa could smell the orange blossoms in her hair and on puttanna’s breath. For the rest of her long life, Tessa hated oranges.

The sporca madonna wasn’t busy with a needle or a hand-loom. No, she’d been invited to read aloud to them. Love poetry, of course. It was all Tessa could do to block out the vaporish voice.

Tessa, Giovanna, Katerina, Elena, Kate, and Gianozza. Six women. Yet there were seven seats. Who was missing? Tessa filled her mind with women absent. Verde della Scala, Cangrande’s niece. Nico da Lozzo’s wife, whose name Tessa couldn’t recall. A homely girl, much taller than her husband. Who else?

When the doors to the loggia opened and a woman in a dun-coloured habit entered, Tessa recognized her at once. The girl who was becoming a nun, Ser Alaghieri’s sister—

“Antonia!” Gianozza flew from her cushioned box to throw her arms around the newcomer. But her fashionable skirts were not made for such a move, and her loss of balance made her embrace less a hug and more a desperate clutching. Tessa deliberately let the laugh escape her lips, even as she pretended to smother it. Stupid strega.

But Gianozza was laughing too, giggling in a fashion more suited to the maiden she had once been rather than the matron she now was. “Forgive me, darling, I’m just so happy to see you! O but Antonia, you look dreadful! What’s the matter, love? Are you ill?”

“I do have a – a cold,” replied Suor Beatrice, who the bitch insisted on calling Antonia.

She’s lying, thought Tessa. She’s been crying. Can’t the flighty donnaccia see it?

Apparently not. “I’m so glad you’re here,” said the Montecchio bitch in what she mistook for a confidential whisper. “You must shield me!” She then turned around to beam at the rest of them. “You all remember Suor Beatrice?”

“How could we forget her?” Their hostess rose to politely kiss Suor Beatrice on either cheek. “As her very interesting name indicates, she is the bringer of blessings.”

There was something very cool in that embrace, and Tessa wondered what lay between them other than age. Suor Beatrice said, “Forgive me, lady, for coming so late. I had to see Fra Lorenzo on my way.”

“Holy business must of course come first,” said Donna Giovanna. “You know everyone here, of course?”

Suor Beatrice said she did, and worked her way around the arc of seats, dully greeting them each in turn. Though she did not know the novice well, Tessa thought that she behaved quite unlike her usual brisk self.

Tessa’s feelings about Suor Beatrice were mostly positive. She’d been one of a very few women who had come throughout the winter to see how Tessa was faring after the awful events of November. But she was also sister to one of her husband’s dearest friends, and linked to the boy Cesco. That wild little imp, nearly Tessa’s own age, had not only almost cost the life of her daughter, but also wounded Thibault’s pride. Tessa’s dislike for the Greyhound’s bastard went deep.

Katerina della Scala rose to kiss Antonia warmly. “A pleasure, as always. I hope you have news of your brother to share.”

“Nothing, I’m afraid – unless you mean Jacopo.”

Katerina smiled. “No, your younger brother is below with the men. I imagine they are raising cups to his imminent departure. I was referring to Ser Pietro.”

“I’m sure he’s well,” said Suor Beatrice, moving on to embrace Kate.

The red-haired woman kissed her smackingly. “Another youthful face! Thank heavens! We women under forty are now in the majority. Though you’ll be the envy of every one of us, young or old. A body unravaged by children. I can hardly recall what life was like before my little monsters. Don’t you dare sit beside me, I’ll die of jealousy.”

Suor Beatrice looked curiously stricken at this, but rallied and said something pleasant. Tessa hardly noticed it, for Gianozza was hovering over the nun’s shoulder as if to guide her away from Tessa.

Quickly Tessa rose, and there was nothing the Montecchio bitch could do but watch their embrace. As they parted, Sister Beatrice looked down at Tessa’s belly, eyes widening. Tessa said simply, “Yes, I’m increasing again.”

“So soon?”

Resuming her seat and her hand-loom, Tessa shrugged her tiny shoulders. “Our girl is healthy, and our nurse has laid absolute claim to her. My lord says he wants a boy, then the business will be over and done with.” Seeing the look of distaste on Antonia’s features, Tessa said, “I’m better able to be a wife now I am older. And as soon as this one is born, I will be able to do as I please.”

“When you get older, it’s the business that pleases,” said Kate with a secret smile.

Suor Beatrice shuddered. Their hostess found the comment in poor taste as well. “Donna Bonaventura, there are no men present to impress, and therefore no earthly need for your earthy wit.”

“Where are the men?” asked Suor Beatrice, glancing around in a much more mousey way than usual. “I would like to see Cesco.”

“The men are below, doubtless plotting the great feats for the tourney. While we wait, I have asked Donna Montecchio to entertain us with reading. Suor Beatrice, will you sit by me? I know you have no man to weave for – your pursuits are far more grand. But will you mind holding this?” Cangrande’s wife held out the massive ball of yarn that she was using on her own hand-loom.

Almost Donna Montecchio protested – obviously she wanted her friend at her side. But the vapid idiot resumed her seat opposite Tessa and took up her book. Blessedly, before she could resume reading, Cangrande’s sister spoke.

“Perhaps, now she is here, Suor Beatrice should read to us,” said Katerina. “I say nothing against your reading, Madonna Montecchio. But Suor Beatrice is the daughter of a poet, and the maker of books. It might be more suitable employment for her than holding yarn.”

Tessa blinked. Was that a rebuke? It seemed so, judging by the way Cangrande’s wife and sister were gazing at each other. There might be sparks yet.

However, before open hostility could break out, Suor Beatrice said, “I’m afraid my cold would make it difficult. I’m happy to hold the yarn and listen.”

Katerina tilted her head in acknowledgement. Meanwhile, the bitch was fluttering in her seat. “O, if only my Romeo were here. You all must hear him. Five years old and already he can recite a hundred cantos, word for word.”

Donna Elena was bemused. “Is that what you’re teaching him?”

“Yes! Only love poetry,” exclaimed Gianozza. “No offense, Antonia, but your father’s Commedia is far too violent for one so young. He’s a very sensitive soul.”

Instantly Tessa decided to have Thibault read L’Inferno aloud to Giulietta each night at bedtime.

The stupid witch flaunted the book in her perfect white fingers. “You know this one, of course!”

Suor Beatrice looked at the volume blankly for a moment. “Filippo.”

“Yes!” Gianozza turned and spoke to Tessa as if to a child. “Rustico di Filippo, a Florentine of two generations past. He is better known for his satiric verses, but this book contains his love poetry.” She looked to the hostess. “Shall I?”

“Please.”

Tessa turned her face down to stare at the yarn she was working, trying to block out the breathless whispering voice reciting verses that the faithless idiot probably didn’t even understand. What tripe!

But despite her iron determination, eventually the words crept in. The general sentiment was that Love is impossible inside the bonds of marriage, for marriage stifles the spirit, denies free will.

Well, that’s certainly true. But if she believes it, why did she rush off to marry the first man that caught her fancy? Stupid fica!

The more I humble myself to love,

The more he shows me fierce power –

And the more my desire increases,

And the more night and day make me suffer.

O, how I suffer! What will I do,

If you don’t aid me, my lady?

If you deny me, beautiful, in my heart,

Life won’t be able to last, but will leave.

Everyone looks me in the face and wonders,

Seeing my changed expression:

For I hide my suffering with words—

The donnaccia’s faux-dulcet tones were interrupted by Donna Katerina. “Suor Beatrice, are you quite well?”

The Alaghieri girl’s shoulders were shaking, and the odd tear escaped her eyes to trail down her nose and fall onto the ball of yarn in her lap. Tessa had always thought of Suor Beatrice as pragmatic, level-headed. It was a disappointment to find the nun more like Gianozza than herself. The idea of being emotional about poetry!

Predictably, Gianozza dropped her precious book to the floor so she could rush over and lay hands upon Antonia’s shoulders. “Oh my dear! I am so sorry! Of course you are moved! As am I!” The hussy began crying as well. “He suffers so, in silence. It is true love!”

Tessa was delighted to see Kate roll her eyes. “Actually, I think he was remarking on his inability to be silent. It is a common fault,” she added pointedly.

Grinning, Tessa found herself saying, “Shall we have music instead? I have always thought that it was unladylike for a woman to read.”

Stung, Gianozza turned her too-beautiful face towards Tessa. The bitch even cried prettily – though Tessa noticed how quickly the tears went away as she began to speak. “Antonia reads. There is no woman more devoted to words than my Antonia.”

“That is only natural,” said Elena. “Suor Beatrice has lived with books all her life.”

Having had her discourtesy of using Antonia’s birth name pointed out, Gianozza obviously felt rebuked from all corners. She responded in character. “Even holy orders cannot overcome her true self! And Antonia Alaghieri is her father’s daughter.”

“Rubbish,” replied Katerina della Scala. “Suor Beatrice is herself. She needs no qualifier.”

“Really?” Giovanna da Svevia smiled warmly at her sister-in-law. “How else is she to be defined?”

“How else but through her actions, her very being.”

“A radical notion,” replied Cangrande’s wife. “What are we if not daughters, sisters, and mothers?”

“I don’t know about you, dear sister,” said Katerina smoothly. “But I am myself first.”

Giovanna clapped her hands lightly. “Admirable. But does that make you a good woman, I wonder? What is the first duty of a woman?”

This was a lesson that Tessa’s father had literally beaten into her. Almost mechanically she answered. “To love our husbands.”

“To be loved by them,” corrected Gianozza Montecchio.

“To partner them,” said Kate Bonaventura.

“To advance the causes of our men,” said Elena Castelbarco.

“Yes,” said their hostess, agreeing with this last statement. “Be they fathers, husbands, sons, what have you. We are here for their sakes, not our own.”

Katerina blinked rapidly. “I’m surprised to hear you say so. Do not we have souls? Do not we yearn, desire, have opinions?”

Giovanna da Svevia shook her head. “The bible says we come from Man. First Adam, then Eve. We are derivative, and sinful.”

“I hope so,” said Kate with a secret smile.

Ignoring this, Katerina pressed her sister-in-law. “Perhaps it is because I am indeed a woman and do not understand, but why would the Lord create a thing without a meaning? Why put Evil into the world to no purpose?”

“The purpose is to test us.”

“Not us,” corrected Elena Castelbarco. “Men.”

Katerina seemed to grow taller in her seat. “Is it fair, then, that we suffer judgment? Do not women go to Heaven, to Hell?”

“We do,” answered Giovanna, equally erect. “But we are judged for our relations to men, not for ourselves. Notice in Dante’s trip to Hell, sinful women are in the ranks of the adulterers, not among the heretics or the betrayers. We do not suffer the worst torments, because we are incapable of great things without the men we tie ourselves to. We are either anchors around our husbands’ necks, or else wings strapped to their feet. There is no higher cause than the advancement of our men.”

“I am stunned to hear you think so poorly of our sex,” answered Katerina. “Myself, I know a good number of women who deserve to suffer in those lowest rings. Women may betray more than simple fidelity. We are none of us so shallow that we cannot burn.”

Giovanna’s lips were thin. “Nor so deep that we might escape it.”

Tension was thick in the air. Cangrande’s wife and sister were locked in stares, strained smiles etched into their features. Elena was deliberately continuing her yarnwork, Kate was grinning and waiting for the first blow to be thrown. That stupid little bint was looking confused, the debate far above her ability to understand.

There was a slight sniffle from Suor Beatrice. “I am sorry to have caused a debate. I am fine, only – I did not sleep, and I am a little unwell.”

“Poor dear!” sighed Gianozza feelingly. “You should drink something.”

“A little food and wine would do us all well.” Their hostess signaled and low tables were produced, laden with breads and fruits and finely-presented roast fowls. The women were apparently to eat here on the loggia as well. Again, unusual. The Scaliger eschewed the separation of the sexes at table, preferring a more celebratory air – though certainly he did not temper his conversation to suit female ears. Tessa wondered how deep the siblings’ hatred went, that all the women were to be excluded to keep Cangrande from his sister.

Whatever the answer, his wife was complicit in his exercise in exclusion. Which meant it fitted in to her own agenda. Even Tessa knew that when Giovanna spoke of working for the advancement of the man in her life, she was not referring to her husband. Her focus was her great-nephew, Paride, younger even than the Scaliger’s bastard.

Tessa was fascinated by the politics of the nobility, moreso since she had married into it. There was even a rumour, spread no doubt by her husband, that the Scaliger’s heir was to marry her little Giulietta. Which meant that Tessa might be grandmother to some future prince of Verona. A heady thought.

The introduction of food did not dim the discussion of the role of women. “How far is a woman allowed to go to uphold the men in her life?” asked Donna Katerina. “May she break customs? Laws? Commandments? There are women who, after the loss of their husbands, have dressed in armour and led soldiers in the field to protect her son’s lands. Is that a sin?”

“I hear the voice of experience,” said Giovanna. “Haven’t you yourself adopted male dress?”

“Old stories are often exaggerated.”

“That is not a denial.”

One result of her stroke was that Katerina’s smile was crooked. “Neither is it a confession. I have no desire to be burned at the stake for flouting God’s design. All I will say is that I have ever worked to advance the interests of the men in my life. Again I ask, is that sinful?”

“It is, if you desire to behave so. I believe a woman may act from necessity, but not for personal glory. That was Eve’s fault.”

Donna Katerina made a face. “Why is it that when we speak of women, we invariably return to one of two examples? Eve and the Madonna.”

“Exactly,” agreed the red-headed Kate beside her. “A woman who acted, however wrongly, and a woman around whom things happened.”

“Blasphemy,” muttered Elena Castelbarco.

Giovanna da Svevia shifted her gaze. “Suor Beatrice, your father called Eve praesumptuosissima, did he not? The most presumptuous.”

It was the stupid whore that answered. “Dante even insisted the bible was mistaken, that it was Adam who spoke first, not Eve. He felt that such a defining act must have been performed first by a man. And I agree!”

Oh stop talking, porca puttana! It doesn’t matter how much literature you memorize if you don’t understand it!

“Eve was among the first that Christ lifted from Hell at the harrowing,” said Kate. “Meaning he thought her worthy of redemption – free from sin.”

Elena shook her head. “There is only one woman without sin. The Madonna was created by the immaculate conception – a birth without sin. Only a sinless woman was fit to receive the Holy Spirit. Eve sinned, and was forgiven. The difference is enormous.”

“I wonder,” said Donna Katerina. “Is Eve damned for biting the apple? Or for convincing Adam to do so? If she alone had eaten of the tree, would she be as reviled as she is? Or was it that she caused her husband’s fall from grace that blackened her so thoroughly? If that is so, she is as defined by her husband as the rest of us.”

“Of course she is defined from him,” said the idiot. “She was born from his rib.”

“If we are defined by our husbands,” demanded Kate, “what does that say for our Suor Beatrice? She has forsaken men. Is she thus useless?”

Elena was utterly scandalized. “Suor Beatrice has undertaken to serve the greatest husband of all. She is a bride to Christ, and works to advance His interests through the holy Church.”

Kate turned. “Suor Beatrice, whose side do you take? Eve’s, or the Madonna’s?”

Suor Beatrice looked more ill than ever. “I take no side. We are all at the – the mercy of men. So they will always define us. But Eve defined Adam as well. And Christ could not have existed without Maria.” She seemed to be struggling with something, a thought she couldn’t quite articulate. “It is better to sacrifice your all for a man you love than to watch him fail. Love is the key. God is love. Christ died for his love of us. We must not sacrifice our selves for anything less. But if we love… if we love, how can we not sacrifice?”

Kate was nodding. “Exactly! What I said before, a partnership. A woman’s power comes from the man in her life – the lord bestows the keys upon his wife, creating her as chatelaine. Yet the man cannot exist without the woman. Setting aside the basic act of birth, what great man did not have a woman to guide him?”

“Excellent points, both,” said Donna Katerina. “Tessa, you’ve been silent so far. Do you have a contribution?”

Tessa felt herself flush. Katerina was talking down to her, when in reality they were the ones being childish. She told them so. “This is inappropriate.”

Katerina raised her eyebrows as Giovanna said, “What is, dear?”

Tessa’s mouth turned down, creating a mulish expression. “All of this – talk. This is a debate fit only for men. It is unwomanly. Forgive me, but I am sure that Suor Beatrice does not endure such – such prideful talk in the convent.”

Katerina’s smile was infuriating. “Perhaps we should return to reading. It was less contentious.”

“So long as we have a man come in to read to us,” added Kate, clearly baiting Tessa further. But Tessa steeled herself and turned away to address their hostess. That shows them! “Lady, please let me thank you again for the summer bonnet you sent my daughter. It is adorable.”

Giovanna looked amused, but the contentious conversation was clearly behind them. “And how is little Giulietta?”

Precocious, demanding, willful. Aloud she said, “Well, thank you. She doesn’t cry as much as I expected, which is pleasant. And she is walking.”

“Already?” Genuine surprise showed on every face.

“Yes, too early, it seems. She keeps walking into doors and walls. She hasn’t learned yet not to—”

She was interrupted by a shout outside. It was quickly followed by another, then the unmistakable crack of a blow. As one, the ladies rose and rushed opened the curtains to look down into the Piazza della Signoria.

In the center of the public square a massive elderly black man was wielding a curved sword, threatening a dozen men who advanced on him with clubs and staves. Suor Beatrice muttered a foreign-sounding name, and squinting she could tell that it was indeed the Moor who had invaded her home last fall, the day Susanna had died. The astrologer, a dabbler in heathen magics and dark arts. She feared for the men he was attacking.

Fortunately, they had him at bay. He hadn’t yet unsheathed his great curved sword, nor was he doing more with the scabbarded weapon than to fend off jabs and thrusts from the men surrounding him. After a moment even Tessa could tell he was not the aggressor in this fight, more the pity.

“Damned Moor!” cried the leader of the mob, swinging an arm-length hunk of timber.

“For Bursa!” cried another, and together with three others rushed at the Moor. Other men followed until there was a such crush of bodies that Tessa was certain that the Moor would not survive.

“Why don’t they do something?” demanded Suor Beatrice, pointing to the soldiers dressed in Scaligeri livery. Though they recognized the Moor, the palace guards were just standing and watching. Good for them. Let the heathen sorcerer die!

The doors beneath them opened and men came spilling out of the palace – Cangrande, his arm still in a sling. Katerina’s bear-like husband, Bailardino Nogarola. Kate’s long-haired wild-man, Petruchio Bonaventura. Elena’s husband, Lord Castelbarco. And, unwillingly side-by-side, Tessa’s husband and his nemesis, Lord Montecchio.

From above, she identified them mostly by hair and build. Not that she would recognize Lord Montecchio – she only knew him from the fresco vilifying him on the wall of their house, and the painting was obviously an injustice. Everyone said he was handsome, but Antony was quite careful that his wife never had congress with the “bride-thief,” lest she too might fall for his charms. But she knew he had hair as dark as his wife’s, whereas Antony’s was an ugly blonde, the colour of sand. But her Antony was quite the bigger of the two, strong and muscular, whereas Montecchio was lean, though by no means weak. The difference between a destrier and a courser.

At their backs came the squires and lesser knights. Mastino and his brother Alberto. The handsome German, Fuchs. Jacopo Alaghieri, brother of Suor Beatrice. Cangrande’s second cousin, young Paride…

And there was the Greyhound’s heir, little Cesco. She’d heard of his magnificent head of curls, but they’d been shorn away before she had ever laid eyes on him. What little hair he was allowed was chestnut coloured.

At his side was Bailardetto, Katerina’s elder son. Like his friend he had chosen to be called by a diminutive – Detto. The black-haired Detto was Bailardino’s son, Bonaventura’s squire, and Cesco’s close friend. That last meant that Tessa didn’t care for him, either.

The men paused for only a heartbeat upon the threshold of the square, taking in the action before them. They shouted orders, but the guards played deaf – though, in fairness, the enclosed piazza was now filled with noise.

Typically, the Greyhound’s bastard didn’t wait for anyone else to act but ran forward and kicked the nearest brawler in the knees. The man fell forward and Cesco stepped onto his back and launched himself flying at a descending club.

“Cesco!” For the first time today, Suor Beatrice seemed wholly present. Tessa had to admit the boy had courage – close to her age and hardly bigger than she, yet he threw himself into the thick of the scrum. Mid-leap, he grasped the arm holding the club at both elbow and wrist. What happened next Tessa was later able to reconstruct with Thibault, leafing through his collection of fightbooks. Using his right forearm, Cesco pushed down on the brawler’s elbow while his left hand pushed up on the wrist holding the club. The bent elbow brought the club up to meet the man’s nose, which shattered in a spray of blood. Twisting around like a spinning top, Cesco came away with the club, which he immediately applied to another man’s knee.

The heathen Moor called out something. Though the words were foreign, the intent was clear. Leave me. But Cangrande’s bastard just laughed and continued to lay about him with his stolen club.

Tessa felt a pressure at her side and noted that Katerina della Scala was beside her. She might have expected the woman to shout out as Suor Beatrice had. But Katerina merely watched as Cesco used his club in a series of sweeping arcs that reached up and over his head to ward off any blows, ending in low blows at knees and hips.

Tessa felt a new source of jealousy, again for her beloved Thibult’s sake. Though Thibault was of an age to become someone’s squire, her husband refused to let him train. Whereas the Scaliger was flouting convention and training his own boy. Everyone had heard tales of the hard, grueling fall and winter the boy had endured, ending in the Scaliger’s wound.

But now the effects of the training could be seen. The young bastard was a whirlwind of motion, striking down men twice his size and three times his age. One man lifted a stave and sent a pair of strikes at the boy’s shoulder and knee. Cangrande’s heir dodged the stave’s tip by leaning out of the way, then caught the blow to his knee with the back of his club. Slight as he was, he somehow muscled the butt end of the stave up and around to strike another brawler on the ear. The man holding the stave now had his back to Cesco, but couldn’t turn because of the crush. The boy pitched the club at the back of the man’s head. The brawler crumpled.

Grasping the stave, Cesco started jabbing, pushing, and swinging it until he cleared a little room behind him, taking up a stance at the Moor’s back. He shouted something in a heathen tongue. This time the bruised and bloodied Moor said nothing, but together the two began to wheel, each one stepping to his right. The image that presented itself to Tessa’s mind was of the innards of one of her father’s windmills – three separate sets of circles in constant motion. The first set of circles was the Moor’s blade, still in its scabbard, making the shape of an 8 in the air before him. The second was the stave in Cesco’s hands, describing two halves of the same arc. The third was made by the pair of them walking in step, warding off the attackers as they edged towards the noblemen on the periphery of the square.

The Scaliger’s bastard was calling out taunts and jeers, and Tessa almost laughed when he paid for his temerity as one brawler struck him on the ear. Suor Beatrice cried out, and so did young Detto, until now restrained by his father’s grip. With a howl Detto broke free and hurled himself into the fray. Only eleven years old, he was far more solid than Cesco, and in his fury he needed no weapons to knock adults aside in his desperation to reach his friend’s side.

Young Paride started forward to aid Detto. “Paride!” shouted Donna Giovanna, his great-aunt. He stopped and twisted around to look up at her, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare risk your life for that creature! Stand off!” Amusingly, Paride obeyed, hastening to stand with his back to the palace wall.

Detto’s fury kept him from fighting rationally, and he was elbowed in the face. That brought a cry from the boy’s mother and father both. His son having been struck, Lord Nogarola bodily lifted the three men who separated him from Detto off their feet, pitching them into their fellows. Petruchio was by his side, feeling as quite strongly about men beating his squire.

Suddenly all the nobles were wading into the mob, dispatching them with ridiculous ease. For the first time Tessa witnessed her own husband in a fight, and she was struck by how fearsome he looked, and how brave. This was something he was not too coarse for, not too boorish nor too bold. Here in the thick of fighting, he looked manly and even handsome. He was even enjoying himself! There was a smile on his face as he looked up and waved—

Not to Tessa. Antony’s wave was for Gianozza Montecchio, who stood biting her knuckle and emitting squeals of fear and excitement.

Seeing the wave, Lord Montecchio threw one hapless citizen directly into Antony’s back, toppling him. Tessa laughed aloud at the comical face her husband made as he went down.

The angry citizens turned to find famous faces behind the fists pummeling them. Dismayed, fearing retribution at law, the crowd dispersed, running pell-mell for the four exits to the open-air piazza.

The whole of the fray had lasted only three minutes, perhaps less. Cangrande’s bastard was bleeding but still on his feet, Detto beside him holding a hand over his own eye and laughing. Sagging, the Moor grasped Castelbarco’s arm as he was led indoors. The guards, roused to their work at last, cleared the square and made their excuses to the Scaliger.

He alone had not participated in the fight. Perhaps it was due to his arm. Perhaps it was that he didn’t wish to tarnish his reputation by saving a heathen from a richly deserved beating. Or perhaps he just wanted to see how his heir handled himself.

Their hostess turned away from the balcony rail. “We should see to their injuries. And hear their tales, so as not to injure their pride.”

The women all turned to go, Gianozza breathlessly in the lead. But Tessa had absolutely no desire to take part in the coming scene. Gianozza would fuss over Lord Montecchio, while Tessa’s husband would play the fool to attract her attention. Tessa herself would be forgotten. Better to retrieve her weaving and wait to be summoned. He would be angry, but better that than subjecting herself to playing a role in the farce that certainly awaited below.

Stepping behind the screen to where they had been sitting, Tessa was surprised to hear someone returning to the loggia. Two someones, from their voices.

The first was Suor Beatrice, who was saying, “…should be seeing to Cesco.”

The second voice belonged to Donna Katerina. “He’s fine, and won’t thank us for fussing over him as we would a child. However hard this ‘hawking’ had been, it clearly showed its effect.”

“He was always skilled,” answered Suor Beatrice. “His hawking has made him weaker.”

“For the short-term. In time it will be his strength. But that is not the reason I wished to speak to you.”

Suor Beatrice sounded apprehensive. “Yes?”

“You may have heard that I’ve been trying to see our Cesco. But my brother has prevented me ever being alone with the boy. He suspects me of some treacherous design. In our ongoing war, Cesco is less a pawn than the Queen, to be guarded at all times. To possess Cesco is to be the victor, so we spare each other no quarter.”

“No quarter,” echoed Suor Beatrice. There was a brief silence. “Why do you want to see Cesco? What do you want to tell him?”

“I wish to give him a weapon. One that will strengthen his resolve, help him endure his trials. I offered once before, and he refused. But I would like to renew the offer. Will you tell him that? That I wish to arm him against his tormentor?”

Suor Beatrice was reticent. “It may lose something in the telling.”

“I will write you a letter, then, which you may pass to him the next time you see him. He does sneak off to visit you, no?”

“Does – how many… Is it common knowledge?”

“Certainly not,” said Katerina. “But my brother suspects, as do a few others. The boy has few bolt-holes in the city. You are an obvious source of comfort to him.”

“Obvious,” repeated Suor Beatrice dully.

“Are you well?” Katerina seemed genuinely concerned.

Suor Beatrice’s answer was brisk. “Perfectly. Write your letter and I will give it to him. This once. I do not intend to be a courier between you.”

“I understand, and I thank you. You shall have it by this evening. Now, shall we visit our triumphant boys and revel in their glory?”

Tessa remained still for a time after they had gone, absently closing the ends on the little loom in her hands. Then she emerged from behind the screen and drifted closer to the window, gazing out at the afternoon sky.

Interesting. Katerina wanted access to Cesco. Access Cangrande was loath to grant. A weapon? Tessa wished she could ask her husband about it, but he wouldn’t know. Or if he did, he wouldn’t tell her. She would have to discuss it with Thibault. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Who is Fortune's fool? Why?

Many people seem to hate the Lord of Verona. Why? Is excellence a crime?

What is the origin of the phrase "deadline"? How did it come to play in the novel?

Pietro is shocked by the Church's new list of indulgences. Why? As an historical document, is the list surprising?

Tharwat al-Dhaamin has been an outsider all his life. Is that his own doing, or through outside circumstance?

Did you notice the crossover with a classic novel of historical fiction? What was it? Did it work?

The author presents an idealized version of young love. Was it believable? Did it further the story?

How does the word "alienation" fit this novel?

How many Shakespeare characters make appearances in the novel? From which plays? Did you find them entertaining or distracting?

In what ways do the events in the book reveal evidence of the author's world view? How does he view religion? The Church? Art? Poetry? Governance? Love? Power? War?

Weblinks

»	Author David Blixt's web site

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