The King's Agent (40 page)

Even as he said the words, his mind chewed upon their time together. He had known her a lifetime but knew her not at all. Thrust together more than a month ago, they had found pleasure and succor in each other’s arms for more than a fortnight. And yet the air of mystery still hung about her, one he could not unravel, no matter how hard he tried.

“I hope the woman I have become is a better one,” Aurelia said with as much of a question.

He smiled, and with it he revealed all. “Better. More. You are more alive than you were.”

Aurelia’s smile stretched across her face, she closed her eyes again, tossed back her head, and threw open her arms, as if she embraced the world. “Alive. I am so very alive.”

Battista shook his head kindly at her silliness, how very beautifully it became her.

“You will have much explaining to do when your guardian sees those freckles.”

Pallor of face lent a woman nobility and prestige, the fairer of her sex charming men, while tanned skin betrayed those of low birth who labored out of doors.

The shadow of what awaited Aurelia crossed her face; his stomach lurched at the thought of it. It quivered his intestines, as did the prospect of a dishonorable death.

Aurelia shook her head at her future. “Pale skin is but a badge we are forced to wear, one proclaiming us to be controlled, kept safely locked away in our cages.”

He reached out and captured her horse’s bridle, pulling her closer, their horses rubbing flanks as they traipsed along.

“You are a spirit that can never be contained.” His gaze caressed her face, his vision touching what his lips longed for. “You are free here.” He touched her then, unable not to, cupping the back of her head in one large palm, caressing her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You could be free forever, if you choose. I would always protect you. I know—”

“Don’t,” she begged him even as she leaned into his touch, closing her eyes as she nuzzled her head into his hand.

“Look!” Michelangelo called from behind them, a finger outstretched. “The turn to Poggibonsi. It is just ahead.”

Battista took back his hand, but with a look assuring her it was only for the moment, and sniffed a laugh. “We have been on the road but for a few hours and already he wants to stop for the day.”

Aurelia grinned. “We will make an early start. We will give him no choice. Even at this pace we will see the gates of Florence by tomorrow’s end,
sì
.”

“We had better,” Battista grumbled, lighter, though, for her encouragement. He turned his horse onto the craggy stone road, leaning forward as the path steepened.

“This is a very important road, Aurelia. Did you know that?” Michelangelo asked, still playing the part of her guide with relish.

“I did not,” Aurelia replied with equal zeal.

“Some say it was first blazed in the ninth century. Sigeric the Serious, the Archbishop of Canterbury, most assuredly used it at the end of the tenth. Upon this road he traveled to and from Rome to be consecrated.” Michelangelo raised his eye to the tips of the tall trees lining the upward-inclined trail, evening’s breeze pitching them gently to and fro, the soughing of the leaves full and rich. “Since then thousands of pilgrims have passed upon it to make for the Holy City.”

“Our faith knows no boundaries,” Aurelia mused, casting a fey smile over her shoulder at the artist.

Battista had seen the same smile on her face that morning, as he came upon Aurelia and Michelangelo together in the kitchen. Something had grown between them, and though it bore no similarity to what Battista shared with her, he could not help but feel a nasty pinch of jealousy. He wanted her to stay with him, but she had brushed away the first and only mention of it. He had no wish to share what little time he did have with her, as selfish as he knew that to be.

They crested the long gradient, and a rolling landscape spread out before them, one rich with towering dark green cypress trees and thick with rows of grape- and olive vines. Atop the next hill, the next
poggi,
the village of Poggibonsi sat like a crown. Once a fortress owned by Bonizzo Segni, the remnants of the multitowered ramparts were still visible at the top, spaced teeth in a smiling mouth.

With a click of his tongue, Michelangelo bounced in his saddle as he urged his horse into a plopping canter and surged forward.

“I will lead now,” he called. “I know just which gate to use to bring us straight to the inn.”

Battista scoffed kindly and shook his head. “I have never seen him this ... this cheerful,” he told Aurelia, surprising himself with the use of the word in context with his moody friend. “This is your influence,
donna mia
. I have no doubt.”

Aurelia did nothing to deny it. “Sometimes it takes others to bring out our best.” She smiled at him shyly, but with an edge of potent sensuality, one that found him urging his horse on a bit faster, to the inn and the beds within it.

As they loped up to the charming building of pale ochre stone, no one came out of the dark wood doors of the same polished and carved walnut as the shutters and window frames. Pots of lush, newly budding flowers overflowed from the flat roof with the promise of a splendid terrace just beyond, but it appeared deserted.

“How very strange,” Michelangelo said as he allowed Battista to help him from his horse. “The hospitality here is always exemplary. I have never
not
been greeted within an instant of my arrival.”

Frado tied the horses to the weather-hewn posts as Michelangelo, with Battista by his side and Aurelia just a step behind, entered the coolness of the common room.

The room was invitingly outfitted with round wooden tables and wide-based chairs. Wine bottles—those full of a variety of vintages and those covered with doused candles bumpy with dried drippings—circled round it, perched on the surrounding shelf and sharing the space with pots of redolent herbs and bunches of dried flowers. The smell of the morning’s bread and the sweetness of fruit clung to the air, and yet not a patron filled a seat, not a voice could be heard from beyond the other side of the two-sided fireplace.

“Stranger still,” Michelangelo hissed.

“There is something amiss here.” Battista reached behind him and drew a dagger from his sheath. He thrust out his other hand as a shield, stepping in front of Michelangelo and Aurelia protectively.

Booming footfalls thundered down the steps set back in the far right corner of the room. Battista swiveled on his heels, falling into a slight and ready crouch.

“Is that you, Conchetta?” The urgent call cracked with concern as a young man plunged down the stairs, pinwheeling to a stop at the sight of the four strangers.

Battista held up his free hand, tucking his dagger-wielding fist behind him. “Have no fear,
messere,
we are but travelers come for food and lodging.”

The man shook his head of shaggy golden hair. “I am very sorry, signore, but I am afraid we are closed today.” Though he spoke politely, his soft brown eyes rose up, back up the stairs to whatever concerned him on the upper floors.

“Jacopo?” Michelangelo stepped around Battista. “Where are your parents?”

The man, if he was indeed Jacopo, squinted at the newcomers, their faces shadowy with the light of the windows at their backs.

“It is me, Jacopo, Michelangelo.”

“Oh,
Dio mio,
Signore Buonarotti.” The gangly youth rushed forward, taking Michelangelo’s hand, the clinging odor of tension thick on his simple tunic and hose. “I am so sorry. I did not see you.”

“What is happening, dear boy?” Michelangelo reached up and placed a soothing hand on the bony shoulder. “Are your parents not here?”

“No, signore, they are traveling. My ... my wife and I have come in from the farm for a few days to watch over the inn. But ... but she is ...” Jacopo inched backward to the foot of the stairs, shoulders turning away. “Ornella labors, badly I fear. I have called for the midwife, but she does not come.”

Battista’s mouth went dry; so many women were lost in the throes of childbirth, he had heard of it all too often. “Where is this woman, the midwife?” he asked.

“On the next lane to the right. In the third house on the left.”

Battista turned to Frado, and without a word the pudgy man set off at a run.

Battista looked to Aurelia. “Do you know of such things?” he asked softly.

“Only a little,” she replied with a slight but fearful quaver. “You?”

“A little.” Battista shrugged. “We will do what we can,
sì?
”

“Yes, of course.” Aurelia stepped forward, holding out her hand to the frightened man. “Take us to your wife, Jacopo.”

The youth’s eyes grew wide with alarm as Battista came up behind her.

She grabbed onto the man’s forearm, insistent but gentle. “In times of great need, we must accept any and all assistance offered. We cannot be burdened by propriety when lives are at stake.”

Jacopo looked down at her and Battista watched, fascinated, as the worry lines between the young man’s eyes smoothed away. With a quick nod, Jacopo led them up the stairs that turned right and then right again, stepping out onto a short hallway with two rooms on each side and one at the end.

As soon as they reached the second floor, low moans thick with pain and anguish reached out to them with unrelenting torment. In the far corner room, dark with closed shutters, fetid with human sweat, the woman lay on her back on the bed, her huge belly protruding from a slight frame, the sheets atangle about legs clenching and flexing as the pain ebbed and flowed through her body. Thick red hair bulged in a snarl from the back of her head, half-drenched with sweat, and her thin hands fisted in the linens.

They stepped forward just as another pain gripped her. The woman, who looked no more than a child to Battista, curled upward, head rising, eyes pinched, teeth grinding as the pain took hold.

Aurelia rushed forward, coming round the far side of the bed, laying one hand upon the woman’s arm, the other on the swelled stomach.

“Easy,
cara mia,
do not fight it. Allow it with strength.” It was a whisper and yet an assured mandate.

Ornella’s eyes flashed open, crystal blue eyes, almost white against her face blotched red with effort. They narrowed in fear at the strange faces hovering over her, and she yelped at the sight of the tall Battista in her bedchamber.

“Have no fear,
piccolina
.” Jacopo fell to his knees beside his wife’s bed. “You must let them help us. Conchetta does not come.”

The fear wrenched at the girl, as did the pain, and she growled into it.

“They are friends of Signore Buonarroti,” Jacopo insisted. “Friends of Maestro Michelangelo.”

The name worked its magic and the pallor of dread fled features still twisted in pain.

“How long has she toiled like this?” Battista whispered, as if to speak louder would disturb her.

Jacopo looked up at him. “Since early this morning, as I was making the bread.”

Battista caught the flicker of concern in Aurelia’s eye.

“Open the shutters, Jacopo,” Aurelia told him, doggedly jutting her chin at him. “Yes, do it. The clean air will do her mind good, and the mind must be a partner in this chore.”

Jacopo did as instructed, allowing Battista to take his place at the bedside, and they all breathed deeply as a waft of fresh twilight air swept through the room.

“Some cool water and some watered wine,” Battista added. “She will feel so much better for a drink and a wash.”

“I’ll get it!” The hoarse cry came from the hall, followed by a scurry of feet as Michelangelo set himself to the task gratefully.

Ornella flung back onto the pillow, panting as the pain subsided.

“A drink.” She smacked her parched lips at the thought of it, her voice sweet and melodic, if ragged with exhaustion.

Battista lowered to his knees near the bottom corner post of the bed, hands clasped on the edge as if in prayer.

“
Buonanotte,
signora,” he said softly, keeping his distance, cooing as if to a frightened animal. “My name is Battista, Battista della Palla. And this is the Lady Aurelia.”

Ornella’s pale eyes switched from one to the other.
“B ... buonanotte,”
she said finally.

“I know you suffer, my dear,” he coaxed. “But do you think you might allow Aurelia to look beneath you, to make sure there is no blood,” he rushed on at her uncertain look.

With cautious agreement, she nodded. Battista whirled away, before she could deny them, and listened to the shuffle of fabric as Aurelia lifted the sheets.

“That is well, Ornella, very well indeed.”

Battista heard the smile in Aurelia’s voice and turned back in time to see her lowering the sheets upon Ornella’s thin legs. She looked so fragile, and it frightened him, but he knew the strength of women, one indeterminate by any physical appraisal; theirs came of the spirit and far outshone that of most men. He had learned it from his mother and his sister, watched them recover and soldier on as both lost their husbands. He had seen it by Aurelia’s side, learned of her strength as she glimpsed and survived things he still could not reconcile.

Jacopo stepped to the threshold at Michelangelo’s call, returning with a small pitcher set in an empty basin and a simple sterling chalice slopping with pale pink liquid. Aurelia took them and set them on the table at the bedside, first giving the woman a few sips, then immersing a cloth in the water to ply it soothingly upon the young woman’s furrowed brow and gritty neck.

Ornella heaved a sigh as the coolness touched her skin, as the beverage dripped down her throat. Battista inched closer, watching as her face began to harden with another pain.

“We are going to look at your belly, Ornella.” With methodical slowness, he moved one hand closer to the edge of the sheet as he signalled to Aurelia, instructing her with a pointed glance.

“What?” Jacopo yelped. “You cann—”

“We need to.” Battista kept his smiling eyes upon Ornella. “It may tell us why you suffer so.”

The young girl looked to her husband standing impaled with fear at the end of her bed. With a hard swallow, jaw clenching, head lifting as the pain thrust its way upon her, she gave a curt nod.