Once he reached an open space, Pietro dismounted and knelt next to Mercurio, holding the scrap of Cesco's clothing up to the greyhound's nose. Within seconds the greyhound lifted his snout to the air, then dropped it to the ground. Remounting, Pietro followed the dog south. South and west. The direction surprised Pietro, who had expected to be led towards Padua. If they headed far enough in this direction they would reach Verona in a few hours. Could that be? Was Pathino taking the boys to Verona? Or was he just making a wide loop to avoid the two armies? That made more sense. So where was he going?
Pietro hoped he was traveling more swiftly than the ex-banker, encumbered as he was with the children and Fazio. But what if Pathino decided he needed to move faster?
"Come on, Mercurio! Fly! Let's see those winged feet!"
The sounds of battle are unmistakable, even from far off. Eight miles to the southwest of Vicenza, at the Montecchio estate, the distant clashing was clearly audible in the still summer air. Forewarned, the residents of the castle were forearmed, but that didn't stop them from worrying. Lord Montecchio, dressed in full armour, fretted over his son, while his daughter kept plaiting and unplaiting her sister-in-law's hair as they waited for news.
Antonia Alaghieri hadn't intended to stay on at Castello Montecchio once the young master had returned. She believed her presence would be awkward as the two lovers settled down to a true married life. But a few kind words from Gargano and Aurelia as well as the pleas from Gianozza convinced her to stay. If Mariotto was heading directly out to war, the girls needed a friend to help ease the waiting. So Antonia found herself in the tallest furnished tower of the castle watching the three Montecchi fret over the outcome of the ambush just a few miles away. She was fretting too, concerned for Ferdinando, her — friend.
Distraction was the key. The girls had already admired all the fine clothes and gifts Mariotto had brought back from France, unpacked from the baggage that had arrived this morning. They'd pored through the illustrated pages of the many books he'd purchased at the papal court. They had discussed the furniture and the wine and all the little trinkets. Now they were experimenting with braiding pearls and jeweled combs into Gianozza's hair as a template for Aurelia's wedding day.
"I smell smoke," said Gargano. The girls, whose sense of smell was better, had detected the acrid scent long before. "There," he added, pointing, "there's a haze on the horizon."
"I'm sure they're in no danger," said Antonia reassuringly. "The Paduans will break and run, and they'll all be fine."
Lord Montecchio shook his head. "I should have gone with them."
"Lord Faggiuola wanted you here," she reminded him. Gargano's responsibility was to lead the hunt for Paduan fugitives once the battle was finished. Yet he was impatient. Barely forty in years, he was as fit as any man his age, a tried warrior anxious to take up a sword in the Scaliger's defense.
They heard hoofbeats. All four moved to the window to see a horseman ride through the gates. But the angle from the tower was poor, and the cluster of men surrounding him made it impossible to see. Someone shouted, and all the castle's soldiers took up the cry.
"The devil take this," cried Montecchio. He crossed to where his cloak lay, and Aurelia moved quickly to fit it over his shoulders. It was an exact duplicate of the one Gianozza had draped over her husband's shoulders that morning, a heavy blue knit that didn't flap up while riding. Gargano placed his helmet on his head. It was new, a gift from his son, a fierce French mantle that resembled the one given Mariotto by the pope.
"I'll send word," he said, already racing down the steps.
Aurelia looked at the other two girls. "Do we follow?"
"I don't know," said Gianozza.
"Of course we follow," declared Antonia. She snuffed the candles, Aurelia picked up their cloaks, and Gianozza opened the door only to find the passage blocked by her father-in-law running back up. But now the cloak was spattered in blood and reeked of smoke.
Suddenly she was enveloped in a swooping embrace, quite unfatherly in nature. "Francesca!"
"Paolo!" Husband and wife murmured a few endearments to each other. To Aurelia, Mariotto said, "Benvenito is downstairs, gathering up more men. He's fine. Not a scratch." She hugged her brother and fled the room to find her betrothed.
Gianozza asked the question Antonia could not. "And Ser Bonaventura's cousin?"
"Ferdinando?" asked Mariotto. Not having been at court these last years he was surprised by the question. "Fine. Whole, hearty, and obnoxious as ever."
Antonia didn't sigh, didn't smile. She merely nodded. "What's happening?"
"We can't stay. Cangrande's bas- his, ah, natural son, Francesco, has been kidnapped, along with Bailardino's son. Pietro's out looking for them now."
Antonia started. "Pietro who?"
"Your brother! By the Virgin, I was shocked. I didn't even know he was in the area, much less hidden in the city. I thought he and the Scaliger weren't on speaking terms. Goes to show you can't — "
"Wait a moment," said Antonia sharply, her hand slicing the air before Mariotto's face. "Start from the beginning."
Mariotto related the course of the battle and the bizarre aftermath of kidnapping and treachery. "Pietro's out there now, on the trail. We're to spread out through the countryside and find them."
"Then go!" shouted Antonia, pushing on his chest. "Pietro may need you this second!"
"He can take care of himself," Mariotto assured her. "He held that street longer than anyone thought he could." He glanced at his wife. "There's one thing. Antony threatened me this morning, before the battle. He wants a duel. Today, or as soon as we're done carrying out the Capitano's orders."
Gianozza gasped. "You won't fight him, will you? It's against the law!"
Mari stroked her cheek. "Law or no, I can't let a challenge like that pass. It would stain my reputation. It's too bad, too. Today, fighting side-by-side — it was almost like old times." He ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed hair. "Francesca, I have to go." He kissed her, nodded to Antonia, scooped up his helmet, and ran.
At once Gianozza crumpled to the floor. Antonia rushed to her side, thinking, The poor thing never seems to have trouble producing tears. She wept now, ruining the bodice of her lovely new French dress as she whimpered and wailed, while Antonia talked her up to her knees and convinced her to pray. They prayed to the Virgin, and San Pietro, San Giuseppe, and San Zeno.
As they prayed they heard Gargano's auxiliary forces ride away. Gianozza started to go to the window but Antonia dragged her back down to the hard stone floor to finish their prayers.
By the time they finished, Gianozza's tears were dry. Hiccoughing, she asked her maidservant to bring a bowl of water to wash in. "I'm a baby. Antonia, please don't tell Paolo that I wept this way. It might embarrass him."
It embarrassed me. Anxiety mingled with annoyance made Antonia snappish. She couldn't help demanding, "Why do you call him that?"
"It's a pet name. I call him Paolo and he calls me — "
"Francesca, I know."
Gianozza heard the disdain. "What is it?"
"Nothing. Really."
"You don't approve of Francesca da Rimini?"
Antonia couldn't hold back her snort. "Hardly!"
"Why not?"
"Gianozza, if you've read my father's poem, then you know that Francesca and Paolo are in Hell!"
"Yes, but she has an excuse for that — it wasn't their fault, it was — "
"It was what? The poetry made them do it? The weather? The stars?"