David Blixt - The Master of Verona

"No, lord."

"Good. I hope you don't mind, I've chosen your horse for you." While the Capitano's horse was a huge ebony beast, Pietro's was a rust-brown palfrey, a short-legged, long-bodied horse that had a gentle amble for a gait. It was a fine-looking young thing, obviously just broken to the saddle. Pietro ran a hand over its neck. The muscles under the dark coat rippled.

The choice of horse was solicitous. Palfreys weren't as fast as other horses, but the smooth ride they afforded made them suitable mounts for the wounded or aged, who also might have difficulty mounting a taller horse.

The Capitano had laid two extra cloaks across the necks of both horses. The cloaks covered broadsword sheaths strapped tightly to both saddles. A good one-handed sword was in place on Pietro's, but Cangrande's sheath stood empty.

Not for long. From his hip Cangrande drew the hereditary sword of the della Scala clan. It wasn't a particularly fancy or attractive weapon. It bore no jewels or ornate carvings, and the wooden grip was only long enough for one hand. Bound with thin iron wire, the grip ran between a gilt pommel and a guard decorated with a small metal triangle. A deep groove ran down in the center of either side of the double-edged blade, measuring about twice the length of the Scaliger's forearm. It shone as he lifted it from its scabbard and fitted it in the sheath on the saddle.

Pietro lifted the cloak on his own mount and discovered in addition to a sword a long, thick dagger. "Should we have shields? Helmets?"

"No, but put this on." Cangrande handed Pietro a quilted black gambeson. "Real armour would slow us down as well as give us away. We want to look like unfortunate travelers." As Pietro laced the gambeson in place, Cangrande produced two huge sagum cloaks, scarves, and a pair of wide-brimmed hats to keep them dry. "Now please don't be offended, Pietro, but I'm tying a lead from my horse to yours. The last thing we need is to lose each other in this tempest, and where we're going calling out would be — unadvisable." Curious and excited, Pietro said it was fine with him. "May I also suggest, in deference to your injury, that you ride like an Arab. Or half an Arab. Put your left foot in the stirrup, but tuck your right knee around the saddlehorn. Here, allow me to get you situated. Hup! Good, now cover your injury with the cloaks. Excellent. Hopefully that will stay dry. Does it hurt?"

It did, but Pietro couldn't bring himself to say so. Cangrande had just finished helping Pietro to mount when they heard a voice from the door. "You both look quite menacing. Perhaps you should try your hands at highway robbery while you're out." In her arms she carried wineskins and a bundle of what smelled like meat. More than anything else this so far, the fact that she brought it herself impressed upon Pietro the secrecy of this mission.

Handing the food to her brother, Katerina said, "No fasting tonight, if you please, Francesco. You need strength."

"We'll see," was the reply. "Certainly Pietro may eat."

She shook her head. "You're too obstinate to be related to me. Here." From the folds of her skirts she lifted a long, thin metal object the width of her hand. "Don't forget an offering."

Cangrande opened the object at two hinged corners. Pietro leaned forward and saw a gilded triptych with a saint on both outside panels, flanking the Virgin and child in the centerpiece.

Cangrande squinted at the religious icon. "San Giovanni I can make out. But who is the other?"

"Zeno, of course." It took Pietro a moment to remember that San Zeno was the patron saint of Verona.

Cangrande was turning the icon over. "When did you have this made?"

"Years ago, for just this occasion."

"It's a nice touch." Cangrande placed the icon in a leather satchel hanging from his saddle. He mounted.

Katerina laid a hand on the horse's neck. "Be civil. Reassure."

Cangrande leaned down from the saddle and placed a kiss upon her forehead. She stepped back and pulled wide the stable door. The noise from the rain was deafening. Cangrande pulled his cloak tighter about him and kicked his heels. Unperturbed by rain, Cangrande's ebon horse set out into the shuddering night.

Pietro wanted to wish the lady farewell, but the lead from the Capitano's horse was tightening, so he kicked his one stirruped foot. His horse responded at once. Passing Katerina, Pietro smiled from under his hat. Her returning smile made his heart pound so hard that he barely noticed the rain pelting his hat as he was engulfed in darkness.

They exited Vicenza through a series of narrow eastbound gates. The Scaliger produced a ring of keys at each. Pietro couldn't be sure in the rain, but he thought these gates were unguarded. Probably because they were too small for an army or even an armoured horse. Pietro had to lie flat on his mount's neck as Cangrande led the horses through on foot. Passing under each wall there was a brief, blessed slackening of rain, and Pietro heard Cangrande humming cheefully.

Once they were out of the city they turned. Pietro imagined they were heading south, but there was no way to tell. He kept his eyes on the treacherous road beneath him. The water had turned the dirt to mud and the mud to a sloshy river that sucked at the palfrey's hooves. Around them the trees bent low under the wind.

Suddenly they stopped. Pietro thought he saw Cangrande dismount again and dash forward. Danger? This close to Vicenza? Pietro's hand slipped under the cloak and gripped the hilt of his sword. His heart hammered until he saw the Scaliger return, a lighter shadow in the shadowed night. He passed his own mount and stopped beside Pietro, who leaned down to hear what Cangrande was saying. "We're at Quartesolo. Had to make sure the bridges aren't washed out. The river's leaping up. Brace yourself." Pietro thought he saw a flash of a grin.

Remounting, Cangrande started them across the first bridge. The lead tightened and Pietro followed. His horse's shoes had just contacted the stone of the bridge when a huge wave came crashing up over Pietro, drenching him sideways. It was followed by another, and another. Pietro hugged his palfrey, leaning down to keep from being washed from his saddle.

Then they were over the first bridge and onto the second. Pietro wondered how many bridges connected the suburb of Quartesolo across the swelling river. The sagum cloak was well waterproofed, but nevertheless Pietro was soaked to the skin. His left boot was soggy in the stirrup. Only his aching right leg, under two layers of cloak and his father's breeches, was dry.

The thunder cracked mightily overhead as they left Quartesolo behind. They turned off the main road onto some kind of well-used dirt path. The smell of damp earth and raw wind was thick in his nose. Lesser branches flipped end over end through the air, the twigs pelting him. It was as if the mortal world was being scoured raw.

Lightning began to strike, the dry vapor pent up in the clouds above the rain catching fire and exploding down towards the earth, ripping the fabric of night. The accompanying sound made horses uneasy, but less so than Pietro. The flashes of illumination made the riders visible for miles.

Pietro felt his hat pelted by something harder than rain. Holding out a hand, he felt the sting of hail in his palm. A bad omen, a poor night to be traveling.

He lost all sense of time. With its crashing rain, wind, and now hail, the night seemed endless. Sometimes Cangrande stopped to check the road ahead. Pietro was grateful for these breaks, not just for the chance to stretch his muscles but because they managed brief snatches of conversation, the thunderous downpour eliminating any chance of being overheard.

It was at one of these stops, when Cangrande came to tell him the road ahead was particularly sodden and they would be turning off to a side track, that Pietro finally asked the important question. "Lord, where exactly are we going?"