"Antonia, your father felt such pity for them when he talked to them that he fainted."
Perhaps her father was correct when he said a little learning was a dangerous thing. "Gianozza, do you understand allegory? In the poem, my father isn't Dante the poet, he's a character. He represents every man. Of course he feels pity for them — what Christian soul wouldn't? But it's God, not man, who put them there, and God is infallible. The Lord knows Francesca's excuses are meaningless — the fault is hers. She's the one who committed the sin, and no matter what she says, she's the one who will suffer for it."
"But — but it's romantic, it's — "
"It's tripe! And Paolo knows it! He weeps even as she speaks because he understands, you see? He knows why they're made to suffer. But Francesca convinces herself that it's anyone's fault but hers — even God's. Francesca is one of the worst people my father comes across in Hell. Technically, she's even guilty of incest! She's everything that's bad in women, from Eve all the way down to today! That you idolize her is worse than scandalous. It's impious!"
Gianozza walked suddenly to the window, where the smoke rising from Vicenza was now visible. She was silent for a long time. A very long time.
Antonia began to feel guilty. She got to her feet and sighed. "Gianozza, I'm sorry. I'm worried about my brother. Here I am fretting about Ferdinando and I didn't even know Pietro was here, I thought he was safe at university, and now he's out there again… I probably spoke too harshly. I'm sure I did."
"No. You're right. I'm a fool."
"What?"
Turning to face her, Gianozza had a wild look. "I'm a fool. I just saw the romance of it. I should have married Antony. I mean, he's not so bad. But I thought that — it was the poem that Mari read to me that night. He read to me from L'Inferno, and I heard their story and I thought it was a sign, a sign we were meant to be together. But now I see that if it was a sign, it was a sign that I would go to Hell! And Mari, poor Mari! He will, too. For my sin! It's my fault that Mariotto will be killed! He'll die dueling Antony, and he'll go to Hell, and it will be my fault!"
Antonia realized there and then that Gianozza didn't love poetry — she loved love. Poetry was just the vehicle. The girl had to be set straight. There was poetic love and there was real life. "Gianozza, I didn't mean — "
"No! You're right! It will all be my fault! If I'd only given Antony what he wanted!" Gianozza turned back to stare vacantly out the window.
She's living a French romance, thought Antonia with amazement. But she didn't know what else to say, and now that Gianozza had stopped crying Antonia had another duty. Opening a small box that contained her writing things, she took out a sheet of paper, her inkwell, and a hardy quill.
Gianozza turned from the window, clutching herself tight. "What are you doing?"
"Father needs to know," said Antonia, writing swiftly. "Do you think you could find a servant willing to ride to Verona?"
"Yes." Gianozza walked over to a wardrobe and pulled out a riding gown and coat.
"What are you doing?"
"We can't stay here and do nothing. I'm going to see your letter is delivered, then I'm going to find Antony and stop this feud nonsense, however I can!"
Mercurio hadn't slackened his pace. So far they had mainly stayed on the road, veering off only twice. Both those times the trail had led to a clump of trees, and Pietro imagined that Pathino had heard some noise on the road that had frightened him into taking cover. Each time he'd returned to the road a few yards ahead of where he'd left it and continued on his way.
If Pietro remembered rightly, this road led past Mariotto's lands at Montecchio, past Montebello and Soave, and directly towards San Bonifacio. So when Mercurio turned off a third time, Pietro thought it was another dodge. He was surprised, therefore, when the hound failed to return to the road. Determined as ever, Mercurio headed south among bushes and trees.
Perversely, Pietro wished he hadn't fought so hard in the battle. Pathino could be lying in wait behind one of these trees. Pietro's sword arm was weary, his right leg weak. He slowed Canis' pace, which earned a withering look from the eager dog, pressing the hunt before him. But Pietro didn't want to risk falling to a hasty ambush. The closest aid was a half-hour behind. If Pietro let himself be killed, Cesco, Detto, and Fazio would disappear like breath into the wind.
Pietro's most valuable sense in this environment was his hearing, and he strained to listen for the slight hints of breathing or metal clanging or a horse shifting. He heard water running — a brook or a stream. Birdsong, and all around him an angry wind rustling the leaves.
And something else. It came from somewhere ahead of him. Pietro's instinct was to kick his spurs and race forward, but he forced himself to dismount and advance slowly. The hound crept along close to his side. Poking through the brush with his sword, he saw a riverbank. And the source of the noise.
A toddler sat on the bank, whimpering in fright. Pietro dismounted and hurried forward, looking about warily. At the sight of Pietro, the toddler shied away, protecting his right arm. The hound sniffed at Detto, then walked directly to the water's edge and strained to cross.
"Bailardetto," said Pietro, watching the opposite bank. The sky was darkening under storm clouds, and it was hard to see through the first rank of trees. He tried to keep his voice friendly. "Do you remember me? We met last night. I'm a friend of your mother."
Barely two years old, Detto was too scared to speak in any coherent way. But in the midst of his tears the boy called for his mama. Pietro knelt and reached out a hand. In response the child held up his good arm to be picked up.
"May I see it?" asked Pietro, indicating Detto's other arm. "It's all right," he said reassuringly when the boy shied, "I won't touch it." There was a livid bruise growing, and scraped skin all around the elbow. Pietro ruffled Detto's hair. "It hurts, but you'll be all right." In response the boy buried his face into Pietro's neck. Pietro put an arm around him and patted his back lightly. At once Detto's breathing relaxed and his mouth found his thumb. Keeping his sword arm free, Pietro hugged him even closer.
It was while he was holding the sniffling toddler that he saw Fazio. The teenager was facedown, half-floating in the shallows of the opposite bank. The water around him showed wisps of blood.
What to do? Pathino had crossed here to hide his tracks, leaving Detto and Fazio behind to delay his pursuers. Pietro released Detto, rammed his sword into the sandy earth, and used his fingers to lift Detto's chin. "Hey there, little man. Which way did your brother go?" The child looked at him without comprehension. "Cesco. Which way?"
"Da' wey." Bailardetto pointed downstream.
Pathino wants me to turn back, so I won't. But what do I do with Detto? If the boy had been older he would have set him in Canis' saddle and sent the horse back. As it was… "Detto, I need you to be brave. Brave, like your father. We've got to go help Cesco. Is that all right?"
The child looked up at Pietro with huge watery eyes. How much did he understand? Then Detto nodded. "Help Cesco," he parroted.
Retracing his steps to the trees, Pietro led Canis back towards the water and retrieved his sword. Then, with the boy in his arms he somehow managed to mount. Placing Detto on the front of the saddle, Pietro started off across the river. Mercurio dove in after, paddling to pick up the trail on the other side.
They passed Fazio's body. Pietro tried to shield the child's eyes from the sight of the dead groom. Fazio, I'll make Pathino pay, I swear it.
The Count of San Bonifacio lay under guard on the bloody field. Dying, he wondered how long it would take. He was lightheaded and his vision swam in and out of focus.