Nina Beaumont - Twice Upon Time

“Come to think of it, I was never eager,” he continued, ignoring his brother’s command. “I was simply too young and too weak to do other than what you expected, what you demanded of me.”

“Alessio,” Ugo shouted, already regretting that he had stood and put himself at an even greater disadvantage, “I order you to answer me.”

“I have reached that happy state, Ugo, when I need take only those orders I choose.” The corners of his mouth tilted marginally upward. “But I will tell you this. Madonna Bianca may have the face and body of a woman, but she is a spoiled, willful child.” His beautiful mouth curved in a derisive smile. “I wish you much joy of her.”

Yet as he spoke the words, Alessio felt the need flare in his belly and, with it, the rage that it was his brother who would taste the pleasures she offered. For a moment he wondered that the words did not turn into serpents in his mouth.

“Ah, do not fear, Alessio.” Ugo smiled, his fury forgotten as quickly as it had risen. “There is more than one way to tame a willful woman. I may be a cripple, but my male rod is a reliable instrument and my good hand can wield a whip well enough if need be. Or a dagger.”

Alessio felt a jolt deep inside him, as if two parts that had been separate had suddenly linked. Although he was aware that Ugo was still speaking, his voice had become an indistinct, faraway murmur. Although he was aware that he faced his brother in a dark-paneled room lined with ledgers and books, his eyes saw another chamber.

The image was blurred. He narrowed his eyes to better see it, but the image remained stubbornly misty, as if it were shrouded in layers and layers of white gauze. But it mattered not. He knew. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, he knew that on the other side of the mist were he and Bianca, wrapped around each other as only lovers can be.

As a fire burns its way through dry pine needles, the knowledge seared its way through him to lodge in his belly. Yes, he knew. He knew that they lay body to body and skin to skin. He knew that they lay soul to soul, essence to essence.

Something—barely perceptible at first—shifted inside him, opened. Like a pebble rolling down a mountainside suddenly turns into an avalanche, so this small movement sent him tumbling out of himself, tumbling head over heels until—

Needing to see, to understand, he raised his hand to tear the barrier away, but his band passed through it and it remained as diaphanous as before and just as unyielding. Then, without warning, color seeped into the white—a trickle first, a trickle that quickly became a flood until the curtain between him and the chamber was a bright crimson. A single, hideous scream turned the blood in his veins to ice.

“What was that noise?” As Alessio spoke, the image dimmed and disappeared so quickly, so completely that the only thing to remind him of it was the icy trail along the length of his spine.

“Noise? There was no noise.” Ugo’s brows drew together, unsure of what to make of his brother’s odd behavior. Within a single moment his gaze had turned as glassy as if he had taken a drug and he had flailed his arm as if warding off a demon.

“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Alessio fought off a desperate need to reach for the wine goblet and empty it to the dregs. “Ghost?” he said, amazed that he could speak at all. “There was no ghost. I don’t think a ghost would dare show itself in your well-ordered household, Ugo.”

Discreetly, he drew a deep, cleansing breath. But while the air filled his lungs, it turned his stomach, for it was as fetid with the coppery smell of blood as a slaughterhouse.

“I ask you to excuse me now.” He felt ridiculously relieved that his voice sounded normal. “I have much to do.”

As he spoke, his mind raced. Was he going mad? Where had the smell of blood come from? Was it connected to the wisp of a vision that he could not even have described? A vision that had suddenly turned the crimson color of blood?

His innate skepticism came to his aid and he thrust the questions aside as one thrusts aside an importunate beggar on the street. He was a logical, sane man, he assured himself. Such men did not have visions, nor did they smell blood where there was none. But he knew that he had to get free of this room.

Alessio was almost at the door when Ugo called out his name.

Because the heavy brass handle of the door was within reach now, he could steel himself to turn around. “What is it?” he snapped.

“Did Madonna Bianca like the gift I sent her?”

“She sends you her thanks.” The image of Bianca as she had stood, proud and tall, in the small courtyard had his muscles tensing.

“Did she try out the mare?”

“Yes, she is an excellent horsewoman.”

“Good. Excellent.” Ugo grinned. “I, too, ride well.” His lascivious laugh left no doubt as to his meaning. “Then we are well matched.”

Tension had gathered in a tight ball in the pit of Alessio’s stomach and he knew that if he did not leave this moment, he would launch himself at his brother and wipe that smile off his face with his fists.

“You will excuse me now, Ugo.” Alessio jerked open the heavy studded door and dragged in a lungful of the cool air of the vestibule. Thank God, he thought as he let his eyes fall closed for a brief moment. It did not carry the smell of blood.

“Alessio?”

Alessio spun around on his heel.

“I do not command you, but if I ask you as a brother who needs help to do me another favor, will you do it?” Ugo made clever use of the scar that bisected his right cheek, making his smile seem merely wry instead of twisted.

Alessio sighed, remembering how his brother had held his small hand as they had stood at their father’s graveside.

“Yes, Ugo.” His voice was resigned as he nodded. “I will do it.”

As Alessio bent his head to pass the low door of the cantina, Antonio Rossi raised his hand in greeting and gestured to the innkeeper to bring another cup.

Alessio tossed his cloak over the plank table and sat down on a bench across from his friend.

“Well, you look cheery today.” Antonio clicked his stoneware cup against Alessio’s. “Drink up. A few cups of wine and you will forget whatever it is that is marring your fair brow.” He trailed the tips of his fingers over Alessio’s forehead in a comically melodramatic gesture.

Alessio’s only answer was a black scowl. But Antonio did not take offense. Instead, he grinned and took a generous swallow of the mellow red wine made from the grapes that grew on the hills to the south of the city.

“Is she a virtuous virgin or someone’s wife?” He grinned again. “What’s her name? Maria? Lucrezia? Ginevra? Do not worry, my friend.” He chuckled. “If you put out the candle later—” he gestured toward the stairs that led to the upper floor with his eyes “—you can call her by any name you please.” Antonio gave him a friendly cuff on the shoulder. “In the dark, all cats are gray.”

“Why don’t you shut up and let me get drunk in peace.” Alessio emptied the cup and refilled it but did not drink again.

“Go ahead and get drunk, my friend.” With a smile, Antonio settled back to wait. “But not too drunk.”

He had seen Alessio brood often enough to know that he would not be hurried. When he was done, he would look up and laugh or curse at whatever had been plaguing him and that would be that. And then they would while away the night with wine and dice and a soft woman.

But tonight Alessio sat and stared, unmoving, into his wine cup as though there were something that had bewitched him within it. Minutes passed. A half hour. And still he sat, as motionless as if he had been turned to stone.