Chiara – Revenge and Triumph (2 page)

Often, we played games. His favorite was chess, and he tried to teach it to Roberto whose impetuousness prompted him to select moves for instant gain rather than a winning strategy. I sometimes ended up whispering good countermove into his ear, much to the seeming displeasure of my father, although I always had the suspicion that he was secretly proud of my prowess. After my brother left us on his quest, my father and I battled each other over the chess board many an evening, and he often graciously conceded defeat.

In fact, my father indulged me in all my wishes, particularly after our grandmother had parted from us. Still a spindly girl, I enjoyed the role of lady of the castle suddenly thrust on my shoulders, playing hostess to my father’s frequent visitors and guests. I also started keeping his accounts, and he let me read the books in his library, at least the ones written in Latin or the vernacular, including ‘La Comedia’ by the illustrious Florentine poet, Dante Alighieri. Cara Selva, I hope we will have leisure to read it together when you are old enough.

For my eleventh birthday, he gave me a spirited, white riding mare and showed no alarm when I began accompanying Roberto on his sorties around Volterraio. Once we made a daylong excursion to Capo della Vita and Capo Castello, the most northern tip of Elba. How I loved to roam through the hills, being buffeted by the warm sirocco or cooled by the stiff maestrale, breathe the overpowering smell of lavender, the silky taste of aloe and, of course, the sweetness of honeysuckle, mint and rosemary; or joke with the peasants tending the vineyards or their flocks, or watch the fisherman reap the bounty of the sea. During the summer we would often go to a small protected cove north of the castle, where Roberto taught me how to swim, although at first I was terribly embarrassed to be seen without wearing anything. He simply laughed and said that I looked like a beanstalk. A few times Roberto took me along on his climbing expeditions on the rocks of Volterraio, obviously without my father’s knowledge.

My father even allowed me to join Roberto practicing archery. I preferred the longbow to the crossbow, which I found too cumbersome and slow to load. I was impatient already then. I could shoot three arrows in quick succession with at least two hitting the bull’s eye at twenty paces.

I know of no girl who enjoyed as much freedom as I did and, my precious daughter, I will give you the same freedom.

2

Castello Nisporto, May 1347

It happened in the spring of 1347, a spring, balmy and more beautiful than any I could recall. The blossoms in the fruit trees were so thick that the trees looked like white or pink clouds, humming with bees, and I wondered how the branches could support such splendor. Everywhere heavy fragrances lingered in the air.

For the third time within one year I had to be the hostess to Massimo Sanguanero, a distant relation of my father on his mother’s side and the head of a merchant house from Siena and Pisa who was running two sea-going vessels in the western Mediterranean. I could not figure out this sudden interest. I distinctly recall my grandmother once hinting that her marriage to my grandfather had been arranged in an attempt to heal the bad blood that had reigned between our two families, da Narni and Sanguanero, for over two generations.

Being near Signor Sanguanero made me feel uneasy. I could not help my gaze being drawn to the black leather patch covering the left eye he claimed to have lost in a skirmish with Saracen pirates in the straits between Elba and the Tuscan coast — he looked like a pirate himself — and he always winked with his good eye when he noticed my stare. But I utterly disliked his pompous son who engaged me in conversation, revealing his crass ignorance at every turn. I doubt he had ever read a book. Nor had I forgotten, although I was only six at that time, how he had goaded my brother with claims that our beautiful little castle was no more than a big farmhouse and that our paltry possessions were on the wrong side of the mountains — the part that did not have any iron ore mines.

After their departure early afternoon for Porto Ferraio where they would board their merchantman to sail to Porto Pisano, my father was uncharacteristically taciturn. He seemed most somber, as I had never seen him before. We hardly exchanged a word over dinner, and he rebuffed all my attempts to question him.

Later that evening he asked me to join him in prayer. As I was kneeling beside him in front of the altar in his bedroom, a feeling of foreboding gripped my heart, like an icy hand. Why would he ask the Madonna to give me strength and submit myself willingly to the destiny God had ordained for me? These last two years had been the happiest of my life. I enjoyed the freedom and responsibility of being the lady of the castle. I loved riding with my father, visiting our neighbors, inspecting our lands and listening to the discussions with our tenants. There was so much to learn. I saw a bright future and had no doubts that within the not-too-distant future my father would give me in marriage to one of the eligible sons of Jacobo da Campo, the family of wealthy landholders south of Marciana. I had my eyes on Alfonso, the youngest and the most handsome of the six brothers.

After the prayers, my father took both my hands into his. "Chiara," he spoke solemnly, "you will soon be seventeen and the time has come to think of your future. I have neglected it far too long, because I could not bear the thought of losing you, now that we can no longer hope that your brother will ever return. So today I have placed my seal on the act of betrothal between you and Niccolo Sanguanero. The marriage will be celebrated in July."

A gasp must have escaped my mouth, because my father looked at me sternly.

"Niccolo is a fine young man," he continued, "and you will join a highly respected and successful Sienese merchant family with a long line of famous ancestors, with houses in both Siena and Pisa. You will not want for anything ever, and I hope you will bear him several sons to continue his blood line, since mine has been severed."

I finally found my voice. "Please, father, not Niccolo. Let me be married to a son of da Campo. Then I can remain here with you."

"How could that be? The wife always goes to the house of the husband."

"One of the younger da Campo sons might be willing to live here. Oh father, please."

"A marriage to Casa da Campo would lower your status. I could not allow that."

"But it would not if he became the master of Castello Nisporto after your death." I did not dare to add that I cared little about status.

"The contract has been signed. I cannot go back on my word."

"But why Niccolo? I cannot stand him. He is stupid, and I am afraid of his father. And I thought that you did not like them either."

"I may have made a disparaging remark once or twice about how they like to boast, but that is a minor point. I am an old man, Chiara. I have seen the passing of more springs than most men, and it is my solemn duty to make sure that your future is secure before I hope to join the soul of your mother — a time, God willing, that must be close now."

I continued pleading with him until he chided me severely — the first and only time I can recall — and sent me to my bedchamber to reflect on the proper behavior of a dutiful daughter. He even blamed himself for not having taken another wife who would have provided me with a role model and prepared me for my duties in marriage.

The future suddenly loomed dark and bleak. I could not picture myself as the wife of Niccolo, a man for whom I had no respect, in fact, a man I despised and despised more with every passing moment. Bear his sons? Being touched by him sent a shudder down my spine. That marriage, it must not be. I must try to convince my father of his wrong. There were still almost three months until July. I was certain that my father, whom I had always adored, would not wish his only daughter to be unhappy for the rest of her life. With that I dried my tears and hope returned.

But my father stood firm. He said that it was important for the two families to be united. All my pleading and tears were to no avail. Gone were the days when we would happily ride out together. No parties of chess anymore in the evenings. We hardly spoke to each other. I knew that he was unhappy too and I began to resent the heavy-handed way he had disposed of my future without the slightest regard for my wishes, as if I were a piece of property. This was not the father I knew, the father who since my brother’s departure had always discussed things with me. What had happened? Why did Casa Sanguanero suddenly show an interest in our family after having shown their disdain for so long? I could hardly be the reason. I saw myself as plain, too tall for a girl and rather flat-chested. No, it must be something else, but what? The thing that readily came to my mind was their barely disguised greed to usurp our possessions in the absence of a male heir, and would a foothold on our island with its own small but adequate harbor not be of great advantage for their seafaring ventures? Had my father not hinted that he suspected them of opportunistic piracy? And what about those old feuds between our two families?

As April turned into May, I was getting more and more despondent. I only knew one thing: that I would never be Niccolo’s wife, no matter what, that I would rather kill myself and suffer eternal purgatory for going against God’s commandments. That punishment seemed unreal and remote compared to the known, undeniable dread of matrimony to Niccolo.

What started as a fleeting thought — flee the island, go to one of the famous cities, Siena, Florence, even Venice — slowly turned into a firm commitment. It surely must be possible for a young woman of good breeding, who could read and write, to find suitable employment there. What that employment could be, I had no idea. My planning was still hazy and embryonic and had not reached that stage yet.

However, to be fair to my father, I would make one last attempt to change his mind. But he only looked at me sadly and said that we all had to bear our burden. I could not see why I had to carry a burden when the future could be so bright and happy for both of us; why I could not stay and care for him when he became frail, although I found it difficult to imagine him frail and in need of care. I still saw him as a strong man, full of vigor and life.

So over the next three weeks I prepared my escape. My plan was to steal a small boat from the fishing village of Nisporto and row it to the mainland. I would only take few things along, a change of clothing, my mother’s jewels which by right belonged to me, and my favorite book of Latin poems with the beautiful illustrations on the margin of the pages. I vacillated long on that because it was my father’s and I knew he cherished it too, but I wanted something that provided a symbolic bond with him, that every time I would hold it in my hands I would be with him, in spirit at least.

On the evening of Friday, the last day of May, after our prayer in front of my mother’s picture, I asked my father to embrace me. His eyes lit up. I guessed he presumed that I had finally reconciled myself with my fate which in some way I had, but not the fate he had charted out for me. That night I put my plan into action.

Ignorant of the ways of the sea, I quickly discovered that I was jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Before I knew it, I found myself all alone adrift in a small boat, leagues and leagues from firm land, at the mercy of the wind and the waves, quickly running out of food and drink, and there was worse to come.

* * * 

Chiara’s first reaction was shock when she saw her reflection on the polished silver plate that served as her mirror. Deep brown curls with a reddish tint falling to her shoulders. Her long plaits, what she had considered her best asset, gone. For a short moment she thought it was her brother at the age of twelve or thirteen who was looking back at her. The face had the same chubbiness, the same high forehead, the same high cheekbones, the same dark almond-shaped eyes, only the eyelashes longer and the brows less pronounced, but still almost reaching each other. She disliked seeing her ears, usually cleverly hidden by her hair, stick out like her brother’s. Admittedly, her chin, though strong and with the same dimple, was smaller and her nose more delicate. But she could easily pass for a boy, particularly wearing her brother’s short tunic and his breeches, banded at the knees over a leather-soled hose. Her breasts, bound tightly, were not showing. For once she was glad that they were small.

She placed the brown woollen cloak loosely over her shoulders and tied it in front. It would hide her well in the dark. Then she folded the women’s garments she had selected, a coral-red cotton undergown, a pale-green woollen surcoat, opening to the hips at the side, the former tight fitting, the latter more ample, and a rich girdle, and put them into her canvas travel bag, hiding the little wooden box that contained her mother’s jewels underneath. Next, she stuffed the book down its side and finally placed a full water flask made from a pig’s bladder, and a cloth containing a small loaf of bread and a cut of cured dried meat on top. Finally, she slid her short knife with its intricately carved handle into its sheath attached to the broad leather belt that gathered her tunic just below the waist, dropped a few silver and copper coins into the pouch hanging from the belt, and then slung her bag over the left shoulder.

"I’m ready," she murmured.

She went to the window and scanned the garden below. A half-grown moon cast elongated, black shadows. Brutto and Catto, the two bloodhounds, came running, lifting their heads eagerly up to her. She had raised them from puppies. Whenever she was outside, they were at her side. Her knees suddenly felt like jelly, and she held on to the sill. Tears blurred her vision. Could she do this to her father? Never see him again? Would she be able to survive? What had looked so simple and straightforward — granted it entailed unknown hardships that she was willing to suffer — had become heartbreaking and forbidding. It would be so easy to call it off. Should she try once more to make her father change his mind? But it only lasted a moment. No, nothing would shift him.