David Blixt - The Master of Verona

"Not at all, Domina." Pietro tried to sit upright, only to be restrained by a gentle hand.

"You must rest. I should not be speaking with you at all. But I find that the time goes by more quickly in conversation. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Donna."

"You are recently arrived from Paris, no? Do you mind if we converse in French? I get to practice less often than I would like."

" 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."

That riposte went ignored. "The room is quite warm, in spite of your chilling presence. I assume that it is Morsicato's advice?"

"Indeed, we must try to burn from these men the fever of their devotion to a false idol. We can only hope that they will regain their senses."

Cangrande glanced around the chamber. "Is that Antonio?"

"You noticed?" The lady's voice carried a mild surprise. "Indeed. He, too, turned pincushion for your cause. He was foolish enough to try to remove the pin himself. I cannot imagine why. Perhaps he heard a folk legend that inspired him."

"No doubt," said the Scaliger crisply.

Pietro couldn't believe his ears. The Capitano was losing his temper.

Katerina gazed down at Pietro. "There is a tale of a knight who was wounded thrice by his enemies and left overnight to die of bleeding and exposure."

"Perhaps Pietro has already heard the tale," interrupted Cangrande.

His sister ignored him. "As it goes, the knight removed the shaft of a crossbow and dressed his other wounds in the pelt of a wolf that had tried to dine on him. The next day he found the camp of the two attackers and gave them wounds identical to those he had borne, then left them together to fend for themselves." Finally, her eyes rose level with the Capitano's. "They did die, did they not, Francesco?"

"They did, Donna, but not from their wounds. They died because there was a frost that night and no friendly wolf came along to give them his warm fur."

Katerina held her brother's eyes without flinching. "Then it seems then that you are fortunate in your friends. They are always there to rescue you."

"I need no rescuing, Donna, when I am not in your presence."

"Then I shall relieve you of that need by removing myself." Rising from her stool, the chatelaine handed him the damp cloth. Pietro noted that they were careful not to let their hands touch. "Signor Alaghieri, if you will excuse me."

At the door she turned. "Please do not leave quite yet. I have news." With those words, she departed.

There was an almost imperceptible sagging in the great man, a release of air held tightly in his lungs. He returned his gaze to Pietro. "Are you well?"

"Yes, lord."

"Good." He gave no explanation of the interchange with his sister.

As the lady had herself noted, Pietro was adept at diplomacy. "Do you have word of the army?"

"Which? Ours or the Paduan?"

"Both."