Rose Red

by

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Copyright © 2013, 1996, by Flora Speer

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“They have gone,” said Niccolo Stregone in
answer to the question just posed to him. “They have fled away and
disappeared, no doubt with the aid of the ever-faithful Bartolomeo.
You need not worry about them any longer.”

“No?” Marco Guidi cast a dark and marveling
look upon his associate, wondering how the man could be so
unconcerned that three of their most important intended victims had
escaped.

Niccolo Stregone was unusually short, a wiry
man with a long, pointed chin and lank black hair. Seeing him
against the background of the ducal reception room, with its
overturned furniture, slashed and torn draperies, bloody stains on
floor and walls, with the last of the contorted bodies being
dragged away by the men-at-arms, Marco Guidi decided that Stregone
looked perfectly at home in the midst of the hellish scene. The red
glare of the fires outside the palace, which shone through the long
windows and flickered over Stregone’ s angular, swarthy features,
only added to the infernal effect. Marco Guidi almost expected to
see horns sprouting from Stregone’s forehead.

In a time
when most people were known by their baptismal names, and those who
had reason to do so boasted freely of their family names, this man
preferred to be known by the name he had given to himself.
Stregone.
Wizard.
Marco Guidi thought
evil
dwarf
might be a more
accurate appellation. No one knew the true name of Stregone’s
family, or the name of the place where he had been born. Still, for
all the mystery surrounding Stregone, not to mention the distaste
he aroused in the hearts of honest folk, he had proven to be both
useful and thorough in fulfilling the most dangerous or delicate
assignments. It was astonishing that he had failed in an important
aspect of this particular plan.

“Why didn’t you kill them, too?” Marco Guidi
demanded, annoyed and secretly fearful because his expressed wishes
had not been carried out to the final detail.

“I have been occupied with far more important
concerns than mere women and children. As you well know, it is
largely thanks to me that this particular eagle will not fly
again,” Stregone said.

With deliberate care he wiped the bloody
blade of his dagger on a tattered shred of green velvet curtain.
The velvet was embroidered in golden thread with a design of eagles
with outspread wings. Stregone made certain that at least one pair
of golden wings was tarnished with red, then took an extra moment
to be sure the ornate hilt of his dagger was clean. Satisfied, he
sheathed the weapon. Finally, he looked around, his thin lips
twisting in distaste.

“This room is a mess. You will want new
draperies at the windows and new furniture.”

“It would appear that you and the men you led
were more vigorous than I anticipated. Or was it that you met more
opposition than you expected?”

Marco
Guidi turned his attention from the ruined reception room to what
was happening in the piazza. Outside the tall windows the night was
loud with the cries of those who had opposed the deposition of the
Farisi family and the ascent of the Guidi. The noise would soon be
silenced by resignation, for what had happened in the ducal palace
on this autumn evening was an event common enough in the
city-states of Italy during the mid-fifteenth century. A little
money distributed here, a touch of clever treachery there, an
accomplished assassin who knew exactly when and how to strike –
that was all it took to effect a change of rulers. In another hour,
after his men had finished securing the city, Marco Guidi would be
proclaimed the new duke of Monteferro.

Unfortunately, the new duke owed Niccolo
Stregone a debt for this day’s work. Marco Guidi hated Stregone,
but the little man, demon that he was, knew too many secrets and
had too many powerful contacts to be eliminated as easily as the
late duke. Truly, Girolamo Farisi had been a political innocent to
trust a creature like Stregone. Or to trust Marco Guidi.

“You have accomplished all that you said you
would do.” Marco Guidi could not bring himself actually to touch
Stregone or to clasp his hand in thanks, but he did summon up a
false smile. “However, I am not sure that what we have done here
will be enough.”

“Indeed?” said Stregone. “Why not, when we
have been so successful? Your position is secure. I have seen to
it.”

“True enough,” said Marco Guidi. He uttered a
dissatisfied sigh that appeared to contradict his own words and
then went on to explain. “Being Duke of Monteferro is all very
well, but as you are aware, I have a large family to care for. Some
of my relatives are remarkably greedy.”

“Greedy, my lord?” Stregone never smiled. He
drew back his lips instead, in an unpleasant grimace. His small,
oddly delicate fingers stroked the gold-and-enamel hilt of his
dagger, lingering on the green stone set at the top. “I know a
permanent cure for greed.”

“No, that will not do. Not for blood
relatives.” Marco Guidi shut his lips on the comment that Stregone
should have known as much. For an instant he allowed his dislike of
Stregone to show, before he quickly covered his uneasy emotions
with another oily smile. “Eventually, to pacify certain of my
relatives, I am going to require greater resources than even
wealthy Monteferro has to offer. Not immediately, you understand,
but in time. To that end I have conceived a plan that I am certain
you will appreciate, for it will provide you with remarkable
opportunities to exercise your talents. And to become wealthy, if
you wish.”

Stregone
said nothing to this speech. He simply watched with unwavering
black eyes as Marco Guidi moved to the windows to look
northeastward, as if it were possible to see through the darkness,
across the wide plain that stretched from the walls of Monteferro
to the boundary of the next city-state. A wise man never turned his
back toward Niccolo Stregone, and Marco Guidi did not do so now.
With a skill born of long acquaintance with Stregone, he appeared
to be leading the little man toward the window to show him the
possibilities that lay in the broad vista beyond the palace – and
in the future.

“Suppose,” said Marco Guidi, using his
smoothest, most persuasive voice, “that you were to fear for your
life if you remain in Monteferro and, thus fearing, you were to
flee the city to seek sanctuary at another court. At this very
wealthy, nearby court, you would no doubt be welcomed for your
well-known devotion to the late Duke of Monteferro, as well as for
your diplomatic abilities and your wisdom as a councilor, qualities
which that same late, much lamented duke frequently praised.” He
paused, eyebrows raised in a silent question, watching his
companion’s reaction.

“I am listening.” Stregone’s dark eyes were
unfathomable. “Do go on.”

“There may be some suspicion of you at first,
but no matter. Given nothing to feed upon, all suspicions pass in
time, and acceptance will banish wariness. We can afford to be
patient until you establish yourself. It will take years before we
are ready to strike. When the time is right, you will be in a
perfect position to act. As you acted here, today, after years of
patience.”

“What am I to do for pleasure while I am
waiting?” asked Stregone.

“You will earn a great deal of money, from me
as well as from your new employer, who is famous for his
generosity. Buy whatever pleasures you like. Just be discreet, as
you have always been. And hide the bodies afterward.”

“This idea of yours holds a certain appeal,”
said Stregone, “especially considering how disliked I am in
Monteferro. It might be advantageous for me to absent myself from
the city as quickly as possible.”

“I was certain you would recognize the virtue
in my plan,” Marco Guidi said. “As usual, we are in perfect
agreement.”

“If I am to flee in desperate haste, fearing
for my life,” said Stregone, waving one hand in an airy gesture
that mocked the words he spoke, “then I had best be off without
further delay.”

“As you wish. Once you have established
yourself, you will be contacted by my agents. You will know them by
the gold ducats and florins they deliver to you. It will be wiser
not to use coins minted here in Monteferro, to avoid even the hint
of a connection between us.”

“
I
understand. Well, then,
arrivederci
.`’ Stregone disappeared from the reception room
as if by magic, though Marco Guidi knew it was not by magic at all,
but only the effect of the quick, unexpected way in which the
little man habitually moved.

“
You are
mistaken, Stregone,” Marco Guidi murmured after his accomplice had
gone, “sadly mistaken, if you think because she has no male family
members left to avenge her, Eleonora Farisi is finished. You should
have killed her, and her children, while you had the chance. We may
both live to regret that you did not, for I am certain if ever she
discovers the right weapon for her purpose, la
duchessa
Eleonora will
bring down retribution upon us without mercy for the deeds we have
committed this day.”

”
I have two daughters, one a flower as
pure and white as the new-fallen snow and the other a rose as red
and sweet as the fires of passion.”

Eleonora, Duchess of Monteferro.

“Rosalinda, where have you been? If you are
late to the table this evening, Mother will be greatly annoyed with
you. Luca has come with news.”

Rosalinda had slowed her horse to a walk when
she saw her sister waiting for her, and now Bianca caught at the
animal’s bridle, bringing the horse to a halt at the stableyard
entrance.

The late afternoon sun glistened on
Rosalinda’s dark hair, setting errant curls aflame with reddish
light. Before going out to ride, she had pulled the thick mass into
a single long braid that hung down her back in the Milanese fashion
but, as usually happened, her hair would no more be confined than
would the girl’s bright spirit.

“Mother is always annoyed with me,” Rosalinda
scoffed. “And Luca never reveals his most interesting news to us.
Only Mother, and sometimes Valeria and Bartolomeo, hear what he has
to tell. They all keep secrets from us as if we were still small
children.” She swung a shapely leg over her horse’s back and jumped
to the ground as effortlessly as any man, landing in a graceful
swirl of brown wool skirt.

“Must you ride astride?” Bianca asked. “It is
most unbecoming for a lady to allow her legs to be seen in
public.”

“Public?” Rosalinda gave a short bark of
laughter, the sound making Bianca grimace with disapproval. “We
live so well hidden here at Villa Serenita that no one from outside
our lands ever sees me, and the men-at-arms are used to me and
think nothing of the way I choose to ride. I never go into the
village, Bianca,” she added, seeing her sister’s concerned
expression. “Please don’t be afraid for me.” She put an arm around
Bianca, hugging her.

“How can I help but be frightened? I know, as
you do not, what will happen to all of us if our enemies should
discover that we are still alive.” A worried look crossed Bianca’s
delicate features. Her soft blue eyes were shadowed by memory. Even
the gold of her hair appeared momentarily dimmed. “You are too
young to remember what life was like while Father was still alive,
or to know just how much we lost on that awful day. I cannot ever
forget, no matter how hard I try.

“
When I
close my eyes, I can relive those dreadful scenes as if they were
happening again.” Bianca moaned softly and buried her face in
Rosalinda’s shoulder. She went on, speaking in disjointed sentences
as if she could only see the past in bits and pieces, “The shouts –
terrified people running to and fro – men in armor storming through
the ducal palace. The blood – dear God in heaven, all the blood!
And Father lying so still. Then Bartolomeo picking me up and
carrying me away from Father’s reception chamber. Valeria weeping
while she tried to pack a few clothes for us. Bartolomeo shouting
at her to hurry. Mother frightened. I never saw her anything but
happy before Father was killed. I think she has been frightened
ever since that day. I know I have been afraid.”