Francesca (26 page)

“Aye, you did,” the duke said. “You might have sent to me again telling me of this threat, but you did not. I would have protected you. What if I had not sent this decoy wedding party along the High Road to trap this man? What if they had been a real group of travelers? The men in the group would have been killed and the women violated. You must accept a certain responsibility for this, innkeeper.”

“No harm was actually done,” the man whined.

“Find his cache,” the duke told Captain Arnaldo. “And confiscate it.”

“No, my lord!” The innkeeper’s eye went to the fireplace in his taproom.

Seeing it the duke said, “Check the fireplace wall for loose stones. His cache will be there. Let us see what he had hidden away.”

Captain Arnaldo quickly found the innkeeper’s hiding place, and drew forth three small chamois bags. They held a variety of coins including gold, silver, and copper.

“Take them,” the duke said.

“My lord, ’tis all I have!” the innkeeper cried. “It has taken me years to save these coins! How will I survive in my old age?”

“You are young enough yet to save more. I do not want what I take from you this day. I shall send it to the convent that shelters Bruno’s child, so that when the boy is grown he will have a small inheritance. He did not ask to be born under such circumstances as he was. Whether he becomes a priest or a soldier he will have your coins to give him a start.

“I will not burn down your inn around your ears, nor will I slay you, innkeeper. I will leave you with your livelihood and with your life,” the duke said. “I am generous. Another man might not be. You should be grateful. If the Frenchman whose daughter was so brutalized knew of your association with Bruno, he would have slain you without a qualm. But should you ever be disloyal to me again you will suffer long and painfully.” Rafaello looked sharply at the now-shaking man. “Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes, my lord! Yes!” the innkeeper said. His face was drained of almost all color in his fear.

The duke turned away from the man and strode from the inn. He would see that a sharp eye was kept on the innkeeper, for the man’s inn was the only one between the castle and the French border. And then a smile touched his lips as he swung himself into the saddle. A chuckle escaped him.

“What is it, my lord?” Captain Arnaldo asked him.

“I have had an idea how to keep our innkeeper friend honest and on the straight-and-narrow path,” the duke told his companion. “The man has no competition. I shall commission another inn to be built along the High Road. Then I shall hire some of Alonza’s family to manage it.” He chuckled again.

“Who is Alonza?” Captain Arnaldo asked his master.

“She is the woman my father hired to run the little winter inn he built in the forest so his huntsmen might have a place to shelter in the cold months,” the duke said.

The captain nodded. The old duke had a kind heart, he thought.

Returning to the castle they found Francesca waiting for them in the courtyard.

“Has he been injured in any way?” she demanded of the captain. “Remember, you promised to keep him safe for me.”

“There is not a scratch on me, my love,” the duke assured his wife. “It was all rather anticlimactic, with virtually no fighting once I had killed Bruno. Then we hung the rest of them, leaving their bodies for the crows and as a warning to any who might consider taking up where Bruno left off.”

Francesca suddenly shrieked and pointed at him. “There is blood on your doublet!” she cried. “You have been injured!” She turned on Captain Arnaldo. “You swore to keep him from harm!”

“Madam, the blood is Bruno’s, not the duke’s,” the soldier assured her. “Your husband cleverly used his horse to knock the bandit to the ground, then quickly jumped down and cut his throat. Considering the thickness of the man’s neck it was masterfully done, my lady, but it is difficult to avoid blood after a kill,” Captain Arnaldo explained.

“The doublet is ruined,” Francesca said to no one in particular. Relief was pouring through her at the knowledge Rafaello was safe and had not been hurt.

The duke felt a rush of warmth fill him. She loved him! Oh, she had not admitted to it in so many words. But would she have been so concerned if she didn’t love him? Putting an arm about her waist, he suggested, “Let us go into the hall and tell my father of our success in clearing the High Road of the bandits.” Then, turning to Captain Arnaldo, he said, “See that all the men return safely and that they have an extra measure of wine tonight for their trouble.”

In the hall the old duke was delighted to see his son had safely returned, and even more pleased to learn the task of clearing the bandits had been easier than anticipated. When Rafaello suggested building another inn along the High Road, Duke Titus concurred. “An excellent idea, my son. Yes! A bit of competition will be good for that villain who now runs the only inn along the road.”

“You must write to the Comte du Barry and tell him his daughter’s honor has been avenged,” Francesca said. “He should know that you personally killed the bandit chief. It will not return his daughter to him or make her child legitimate, but the Frenchman must know that Terreno Boscoso did not take this matter lightly. Shall we pay him an indemnity?”

“No,” her husband said. “Aceline du Barry was returned to her father’s house as she had come. It was the comte who was too tight with a coin to provide his daughter with a proper escort. She arrived safely. It was to be expected she would return safely. We had no knowledge of the bandits early last autumn when she left us.”

Francesca nodded. “I understand,” she said.

“To pay the Comte du Barry an indemnity would suggest that we were aware of the danger on the High Road and allowed Aceline to go anyway. We did not know. If we had we would have sent her home another way and provided her with a stronger escort,” the duke explained to his wife. “When the comte returns from Florence I will tell him what transpired. A letter might not reach him for I doubt he will remain there. He will want to return to France as quickly as possible.”

Again Francesca nodded. “Nothing can change what has happened, but at least your actions in punishing those who so cruelly harmed the comte’s daughter may ease his pain.”

Chapter 13

R
aoul, Comte du Barry, returned from Florence alone. He thanked the young
duchessa
for her kindness in suggesting the convent of Santa Maria del Fiori as a shelter for his mad daughter and her bastard child. The nuns, he said, had been very kind, and he had left his daughter’s dower portion in gold for her care with them. He looked relieved of the burden of Aceline, but sad as well.

Francesca recalled that Aceline had said her father had little interest in her. He would see her well married because her late mother would have wanted it; but he found his current wife more intriguing than his only daughter. But more interesting to Francesca was all the news the Frenchman brought of what was going on in the world outside of Terreno Boscoso.

A great deal had happened since Francesca had left Florence, and her mother’s few letters had said little other than that the wool merchants were having difficulties, as England was now weaving its own cloth. Orianna had also mentioned that Milan was now manufacturing silk in competition with Florence, although she said the weave of their own silk was tighter, which made the material softer. But Milan’s silk was less expensive. Orianna wrote nothing of politics.

Before Francesca had returned from her grandfather’s house in Venice and prior to her journey to Terreno Boscoso, a rival family to the di Medici, the Pazzi, encouraged by the pope, had attempted to assassinate the di Medici brothers in Florence’s cathedral. Lorenzo’s younger brother, Giuliano di Medici, had been killed. Lorenzo was wounded but fought off his attackers. The archbishop and several priests were involved. The Pazzi had been certain the Florentine population would rise in support of them. Instead the citizens of the republic turned against them as the great bell, the
vacca
, was tolled in the Palazzo della Signoria. The di Medici family was popular with the people of the city. They identified with them. The Pazzi, however, were descendants of an ancient noble family, and they never forgot it. Florence sided with Lorenzo di Medici.

The archbishop and all those considered part of the conspiracy or sympathetic to it were caught and hanged from the windows of the Palazzo della Signoria. There was very little mercy shown to them. Some were sentenced to prison. Lorenzo’s own sister was married to a Pazzi, but her husband had had no part in the conspiracy and was merely confined to his villa for a brief time. All evidence of the Pazzi family was removed from Florentine history. They were totally disgraced. The pope’s involvement in the plot was made public.

The utter defeat of the Pazzi family roused total fury in their Roman enemies. Florentine bankers and merchants in Rome were arrested, but then released, for the pope had been reminded of his kinsman, Cardinal Riario, who lived in Florence. But it did not stop the Holy Father from taking all the di Medici assets, both property and gold, that he could find in Rome. Then the pope forgave the enormous debt owed by the Vatican to the di Medicis.

In Florence the di Medicis grit their teeth at this economic blow. But the pope was not finished with his revenge. He sent his nuncio with an order of excommunication against the di Medici family, Lorenzo in particular, and the entire elected Florentine government. They were to be turned over to papal justice; their homes were to be destroyed and their properties confiscated. Of course, none of this was enforceable, and the arrival of a Turkish force in southern Italy brought all the Italian states together again to fight the infidel who was their common enemy. A delegation of important Florentine citizens went to Rome, muttered an apology to the pope that no one could hear, and were forgiven in equally muted tones. The Turks withdrew with the death of their sultan, and peace came to Italy.

In Terreno Boscoso these things became known only when Raoul du Barry returned from Florence and told them. The duchy was so small that no one had ever paid a great deal of heed to it. It had been at peace for centuries with its more powerful neighbors. It had no army, and nothing anyone else would want unless they sought more territory. But before the Frenchman departed for his own home he mentioned that the di Medici banking system appeared to be failing.

“I am not surprised,” Francesca told her husband. “Lorenzo is not the man for business that his grandfather was.”

“It is fortunate we have never used their bank,” Duke Titus said. “We are too small for the di Medici to bother with, although I must one day remember to thank Lorenzo de Medici for sending you to us, my daughter.”

“If the di Medici banking system is failing,” Francesca said worriedly, “my father’s business will be involved. He has always kept his monies with them. I hope he will not lose by his loyalty to the di Medicis.”

But like many in Florence, Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo found it difficult to believe that the always-reliable di Medici bank was having difficulty. The di Medici banking system had always been there for Florence’s citizens. Unfortunately not having a brilliant business mind at its head had taken a toll. Its branch managers had been allowed too much latitude. The general manager of the di Medici banking enterprise had not been chosen wisely. He was a man who was afraid to speak frankly to his master and always delayed bad news, thereby making the problem worse than it would have been.

Too much money had been loaned out to England’s King Edward IV, causing the London branch to fail, as well as the one in Milan. The branches in Naples, Lyon, and Rome were all in jeopardy. There was too much incompetence on the part of those picked by Lorenzo to direct his family business. Lorenzo admitted to not understanding a great deal about his family’s financial empire. Hearing that, Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo withdrew his remaining monies from the di Medici bank and placed them with a smaller but more conservative bank owned by a Jewish goldsmith, Jacobo Kira.

The di Medici bank in Florence could not refuse to give the silk merchant his monies. As head of his guild Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo was an important man in his own small way. His actions affected only himself. He made no public display of his decision. The di Medicis had always been generous to his family, but he could not allow Lorenzo’s attitude to destroy their security. He still had two daughters to marry off.

As it was, the economic climate was no longer a particularly prosperous one for the silk trade. Even his wealthy clients were spending less and less. Removing his monies from the failing di Medici banking system had been his way of protecting his family as times grew harder. Orianna was instructed to make changes in the way she spent her household allowance. Fortunately he had previously purchased his son Georgio’s place in the church. His second son had been educated for the priesthood and only recently been ordained. At nineteen he was a secretary to a cardinal. It had been an expensive position to obtain, but the silk merchant was glad he had done it. His second son’s future was now secure, for which he was glad. With the silk trade becoming less lucrative there was room only for his eldest son, Marco, in his business. Some of this Orianna wrote to Francesca, but not all.

“My
madre
is afraid,” the young
duchessa
told her husband. “The world is changing around her and too quickly.”

“The world does not change here in Terreno Boscoso,” Rafaello answered his wife. “We remain the same no matter what happens around us.”

“That is comforting,” Francesca responded, “but I think perhaps now we cannot help but be affected as everyone else around us is. If Florence changes, then so does the rest of the world.”

He laughed at her. “You are so serious, my love,” he said. “You must not be.”

But Francesca worried. Her husband did not see things with a woman’s eye. He settled fairly and equitably the small disputes brought to him by his citizens. He hunted. He played chess with his father. His
duchessa
, however, saw that the harvest that summer was not as bounteous as in past years. She heard the rumors in the marketplace of the French incursions on their far border. So far, however, that had been nothing more than a patrol or two straying across the invisible line between the two countries. She mentioned it to Rafaello, but he did not appear concerned.

“The borderlands are porous,” he told her. “The French and the Savoyards stray across the boundaries. They mean no harm.”

Francesca was surprised by his words as she realized how sheltered in his little duchy her handsome husband was. No one had ever attacked or coveted Terreno Boscoso, but Francesca knew that larger powers did not encroach upon the territories of smaller ones by accident. If Francesca had learned one lesson from her mother it was to be aware of anything that would affect her life. Unlike her charming husband and his dear father, she was suspicious of French activity.

Old Duke Titus realized her concern and sought to allay it. “Over the years the French and Savoyards have encroached on our lands, but they never remain. There is nothing here for them.”

“There is land,” Francesca replied. “King Louis recently inherited Anjou. He has secured it, and appropriated not only Anjou, but Le Maine and Provence as well,” she explained to the elderly man. “His wife is a Savoyard. Adding Terreno Boscoso to his possessions would give the French an easy passage into the Italian states. If the French invade us from the north and west, the Milanese would feel threatened and would come up from the south to protect themselves. Caught in the middle between these two powers, Terreno Boscoso could be destroyed.”

“We must trust in God and the fact that we have never threatened our neighbors,” Duke Titus said. He turned to his son. “What think you of this, my son?”

“I agree with my father,” Rafaello replied, to Francesca’s frustration.

“Autumn is here,” her father-in-law said, “and winter will be upon us before you know it. No one goes to war in winter.”

Francesca had to take their word on this matter, but she was still concerned. Growing up in Florence she had learned the lessons of history and political maneuvering well. But her father-in-law was correct when he said most wars did not begin in winter.

As the days grew shorter and the winds blew from the north, the young
duchessa
recalled her adventures of the previous year in the forest. She assumed Alonza was now at the woodland inn, and that the huntsmen were beginning to slowly come to their winter shelter once again. Francesca wondered if the innkeeper had found a suitable serving wench to help her this season. She was almost tempted to suggest they visit the inn, but knew that would but raise suspicions in her husband’s mind about Carlo. Still, she could not help but wonder about the huntsman who had so briefly been her almost-lover.

The winter holidays came, and they had been wed for six months. Francesca was concerned because there was yet no sign of a child on her part. Rafaello’s childhood friend, Valiant, had visited the castle briefly. Louisa had given him one child and was already expecting another. Even poor Aceline du Barry had quickened swiftly after her assault. Her mother had borne seven healthy children, a rarity in their world. Yet Francesca seemed unable to conceive. She felt guilty, because she knew one of her assets as a bride had been the fertility shown by her mother. What if she were barren? It was unthinkable! She confided her fears to Terza.

“You are barely wed,” her faithful maidservant said. “Besides, it took old Duke Titus almost ten years to produce his only child. It is always the woman who is blamed, but what if the man’s seed is not fertile?” Terza asked practically.

Terza’s words, however, did little to reassure Francesca. Her duty was to produce an heir for Terreno Boscoso. Her seeming inability to conceive was very disturbing.

The winter deepened and was extremely hard. The north winds blew steadily. It seemed to snow every day until everything was white. The mountains beyond the castle, the tower roofs, the town. The courtyard was being constantly shoveled so that the stables could be reached and the animals fed. When two chickens froze in the night, the birds were brought into the kitchens, penned there for their own safety.

Everyone seemed to be suffering from the weather, sniffling and sneezing. Keeping warm was difficult, and then Duke Titus began to cough. At first he seemed no worse off than everyone else in the castle, but his cough would not go away. Indeed it grew worse, deepening and sounding thick. Francesca dosed him as best she could. She fed him hot soup and rubbed his chest with a mixture of goose fat and peppermint. She kept him dressed warmly, and when he was strong enough to sit in the hall she saw that he was wrapped in a fur coverlet.