The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series) (25 page)

The grinning animal dared take a shaky step toward him. Guid'Antonio raised a hand: “Stop.” Amazingly, the dog obeyed. Guid'Antonio stifled a smile.

“Tell him to sit,” Cesare said.

Guid'Antonio did, and again the animal obeyed. Amazing. Guid'Antonio stared hard at Cesare. “This explains the bits of leftover roast you squirreled away the other evening. Not to mention Elisabetta's missing charity blanket.”

Cesare met his eyes straight on. “It certainly does.”

“And you were out yesterday morning in the rain.”

“Walking him,” Amerigo said. “I saw them together.”

“And covered for them, too,” Guid'Antonio said.

Domenica poured pine nuts into a mortar bowl and ground them with the pestle, her expression grim. “I warned Cesare the lady Elisabetta Vespucci would skin him like a rabbit meant for the pot, should she find out. Worse, she would have him tossed in the Stinche.”

Cesare lifted his chin. “I believe she would be overruled.” His eyes sought Guid'Antonio.

“No one's being tossed in the Stinche,” Guid'Antonio said.

“Except, of course, our kinsman, Piero Vespucci,” Amerigo kicked in.

“Amerigo, must you always—” Guid'Antonio stopped and drew a deep breath. “So you think your mother doesn't know about—” He indicated the
cane corso Italiano. “This?”

“Actually, my mother does know,” Amerigo said. “Somehow, she, ummm, gained the impression he has your permission to stay. Nor is she happy about it, either.”

“His fur makes her sneeze,” Cesare said.

The rare smile breezed along Guid'Antonio's lips. “Welcome, you,” he said to the dog. “No! Stay away from me. Cesare, you're the one feeding him. Why is he making calf eyes at me?”

“You fed him in Mercato Nuovo,” Amerigo said.

“I spit some spoilt cheese on the ground.”

“Yes.”

Cesare turned up both palms in a gesture of helplessness. “He loves you unconditionally.”

A dog
. “Get him out of here,” Guid'Antonio said. “Dogs don't belong in the kitchen with the—” He glanced at the table. “The pesto.”

“Amen,” Domenica said. “Olimpia! You've spilled the olive oil again! My God, girl!”

“You'd be wise to burn the blanket,” Guid'Antonio told Cesare. “No need in providing Elisabetta fuel for her anger.”

“I'm grieved my mother is such a bone of contention,” Amerigo said. Glancing at the dog, he grinned. “No pun intended.”

“Never fear, there wasn't one,” Guid'Antonio said.

The dog straggled after Cesare, glancing back over his hefty shoulder at Guid'Antonio, his dog-smile open and adoring. “Amerigo,” Guid'Antonio said, “let's get going. Do we have food for our trip?”

Amerigo drew himself up in his boots and brown leather pants. “I wrapped cold roast pork in greased paper and packed my saddlebags hours ago. Before Cesare informed me we weren't leaving for Morba at the crack of dawn today, as planned. Although he didn't say why you changed our time of departure.”

“I was with Maria,” Guid'Antonio said. Thank God he had gone back to see her this morning, after leaving her gate without venturing inside the house last night.

Olimpia grinned and Domenica glanced up from the mortar bowl. “Ah,
que bella Maria
,” she said.

“That explains your smile,” Amerigo said. “And this delay.”

“How's her mother?” Domenica asked.

Alessandra del Vigna was as dead now as if she had already drawn her last breath. In fact, she might already have done. “The lady is grave,” Guid'Antonio said.

But nothing, not even the memory of Maria's mother in pain upon her daybed, could spoil his joy at having spent a few hours with Maria earlier today. Hours he had stolen when, upon jerking awake at dawn, he had felt the emptiness in his soul and realized how hungry he was to see his family. Ridiculous, unconscionable: he had been in Florence almost five days and spent no time to speak of with them, damn the extenuating circumstances.

Dressing quickly, he had retraced his steps of the previous night and gone to Santa Croce to fetch her and the boy. Strolling together from the Del Vigna courtyard, his little family had struck out across the piazza, stepping lightly into the sun-gilded square, where this morning there was no sign of a ghostly Giuliano de' Medici celebrating his snow-bound tournament. Maria lifted her face to the sun, soaking up its warm, healing rays. She was as much a prisoner in the twilight sadness of her mother's house as Guid'Antonio's kinsman, Piero Vespucci, was in the dark night of the Stinche.

Watching Maria, Guid'Antonio saw a woman in her middle twenties, with thick dark lashes brushing her cheeks and black tendrils of hair escaping the cowl meant to cover her head and neck from the roving eyes of the public. Love thickened his throat, and he was grateful to God he had delayed his journey to Morba until later in the day.

In no hurry, they walked amongst vendors and dodged boys playing ball, Guid'Antonio's spirits so elevated, he hardly noticed the ramshackle appearance of the poor wooden houses and shops encircling Piazza Santa Croce. From two
venditrici
, women peddling their wares outside the guild-endorsed shops, he purchased a packet of sewing needles and a lace cap for Maria. Giovanni's gift was a marionette dangling from a web of strings.

“See, Giovanni.” Laughing, Guid'Antonio made the wooden spider's legs clack and dance in the street.

The boy stared, amazed: not at the toy, but at his father. “Mama,” Giovanni said. “He does so know how to laugh!”

Heat stung Guid'Antonio's cheeks; his smile faded.

“Giovanni! Of course he does.” Embarrassed, Maria placed her hands on Giovanni's shoulders; leaning down, she kissed the boy's cheek. “Why don't you try working the puppet?”

To Guid'Antonio, his wife sounded nervous and exhausted, too tired to tolerate much more conflict and weight. He touched her arm. “It's all right, Maria.”

“No. But one day—” She let the sentence drift.
One day, my mother—my constant presence won't be required at my mother's house.

Giovanni squinted up at Guid'Antonio. “May I play with the spider puppet?”

“Of course. It's yours. Try not to get it tangled.”

But Giovanni was already concentrating on the puppet and the relationship of the strings to his childish fingers. His parents took the opportunity to sit together on the stone bench encircling the fountain, where the morning sun poured down on them, and the water in the fountain gurgled and glistened, spur ting from the mouth of a reclining stone lion. “Guid'Antonio, such a thing for 'Vanni to say.”

“Well. If it's the truth.”

“But it isn't.” She placed her hand high on his thigh, and he felt a spasm of desire shoot through his groin, here in crowded Piazza Santa Croce with russet buildings thrusting skyward all around them, and Santa Croce Church watching from the piazza's far end.

A band of adolescent boys strolled past. One grabbed his crotch. “
Que bella Signora
, best you should try this long ripe fruit!”

Stone-faced, Guid'Antonio eased his dagger from its sheath. The brazen boys hurried on, but they were not so threatened that they desisted from flashing wicked grins over their shoulders at Maria.

“Bold,” she fussed. “Traveling in packs, wearing one another's colors with knives at their hips. Blessed Mother, if ever I hear of Giovanni strutting about like that.”

“You won't,” he assured her. “Hear of it, I mean.”

A little frown creased her brow; she caught his smile, and grinned. “You're teasing me.”

“Yes.”

With a show of delicacy, Maria removed her hand from his leg. “
Cara
, over here,” she called to Giovanni. “Don't wander into the alley.”

Dutifully, the boy moved away from the shadowy backstreet, toward his parents. At that same moment, bell towers and churches all over Florence pealed the hour, high and bright, shivering through the air. It was almost noon.

Guid'Antonio said, “Amerigo and I are setting out for Morba today.”

“Morba? Isn't that where the girl disappeared? That's a lengthy journey.”

“We meant to leave at dawn.” He made a light shrug. “Instead, I brought you and Giovanni here. Actually, Morba town's not our destination. I mean to go only as far as the place where Camilla Rossi vanished. Anyway, now we'll have to stop in San Gimignano for the night and take the road again early tomorrow morning.”

Maria shaded her eyes with her hand, blocking the sun. “Why are you involved with her in the first place?”

Of course—Maria didn't know about his investigation of the missing girl and the weeping painting. She didn't know someone appeared to be using Camilla Rossi da Vinci's disappearance to stir up a world of trouble in Florence. “I'm concerned about what happened to her,” he said.

Fine lines appeared around Maria's dark eyes. “But Turks would have left no trace.”

He blinked. “You believe Turks took her, Maria?”

“On my soul, yes.” She crossed herself. “Everyone knows they did.” Tears rimmed her eyes, and her voice had the reedy sound born of certainty and fear.

What could he say to this? He did not mean to mock Maria or demean her beliefs. What he must do was learn from her expression of dread.

He squeezed her arm gently. The fabric of her full-length summer cloak felt hot beneath his fingers. “I believe we're safe from Mehmed the Conqueror. Presently, at least.”

“You do? Good!” She looked at him inquiringly, wanting to believe. Then frowning. “But why do you have to go? Surely, the police have already been.”

Yes, they had, in the slender shape of Palla Palmieri. The place Camilla Rossi da Vinci had vanished was an extended ride from Florence. He and Amerigo would have to find beds in San Gimi, and then ride a bit farther west, toward Volterra town. Palla Palmieri had inspected the scene the day after news of Camilla's disappearance had reached Florence and found—nothing.

But Guid'Antonio wanted to see for himself. To smell the atmosphere and touch with his fingers the place where Camilla Rossi da Vinci had ended her journey with Tesoro, with her nurse, and with her slave boy. He wanted to fill his lungs with the same air, feel the worn ruts in the road, and wander in the surrounding forest. To discover if he could feel what had happened that particular Saturday. Perhaps there on the road to Bagno a Morba, home of Lucrezia de' Medici's healing sulfur springs, he would find his own cure. Fool. He smiled to himself.

He said, “I only want to see if I might uncover additional information concerning what might have become of the girl. With Fortune's blessing, I'll be back late tomorrow evening. Meanwhile, do you need anything? More medicine for your mother?”

Maria shook her head, still frowning, regarding Guid'Antonio thoughtfully. “She's calmer now, thanks to Luca Landucci's potions. The wolfsbane helps her most.”

If only Luca's talents extended to discovering how the
Virgin Mary of Santa Maria Impruneta
was being made to weep! Late last night, Cesare had brought Guid'Antonio a sealed note from Luca, who had written he had a brilliant idea: what if someone were using a pig's bladder filled with water to squirt the painting's face at opportune moments? Luca, having tried this at home and discovered it worked, hinted he might slip into Ognissanti and—

Christ on the Cross! Guid'Antonio had paled at the thought of the druggist sneaking into Ognissanti and aiming an animal organ at the
Virgin Mary of Santa Maria Impruneta
. What if Luca were caught? Abbot Ughi would have him drawn and quartered. Luca had suggested chemicals, too. A powder of some kind that became liquid under the proper conditions. In that way, the tears could be controlled. But what powder? What liquid? And what conditions? Luca was working on it.

In his hastily written reply, Guid'Antonio had told the man he should not go to Ognissanti and experiment under any conditions. It was too dangerous. Also, Luca might damage the revered old painting. God's pants, to see Gostanzo win the
palio
next month, this was how far Luca Landucci would go to appease Guid'Antonio Vespucci?

Yes.

“I'm glad your mother is resting,” he said before rising from the circular stone bench. “Giovanni, come along.”

Now, with his wife and son safely home in Santa Croce, and Amerigo walking with him to the Vespucci stable, Guid'Antonio felt awash in light and hope. How could the gently stirring breeze and the summer sun warming his shoulders through the fabric of his plain brown tunic and linen undershirt be anything other than a benediction?

Shadows fell in bands across the sunlit road as they traveled south on Flora and Bucephalus. Florence was not far behind them when the road widened and flame-shaped cypress trees gave way to rolling hills carpeted with scarlet poppies, brilliant yellow
genestra
, and sweet-scented wildflowers, ravaged by bees. On and on they rode, saddles pleasantly creaking, past simple churches and stone farmhouses.

Sighting the crumbling castles and fortified villages dotting the countryside, Amerigo shuddered. “Imagine what it was like living back in the gloomy old days. Utter cold. Bleak. No books to read. Not that many people could read then. Or if they once could, they had forgotten how. Can you imagine not holding a book in your hands?”

Guid'Antonio glanced at him. “In the great scheme of things, it wasn't that long ago.”

It was the Dark Ages, as people sometimes called it, a time in the dark past when violence ripped the Tuscan countryside apart as if it were soft flesh. A time when safety and power depended upon individual strength, and families sought refuge from axe-wielding enemies in lofty towers and walled strongholds, raining rocks and boiling pitch down on their heads. The skin of Guid'Antonio's scalp prickled. He saw Bernardo Bandini's axe slice down on Giuliano's head and saw Lorenzo race toward the sacristy with Angelo Poliziano at his back. Francesco Nori, manager of the Florence branch of the Medici Bank, had died at the altar that day. Instead of running, Francesco had stepped in front of Lorenzo and been stabbed in the heart.

Guid'Antonio scrubbed his hand over his face. Not the Dark Ages, but a mere two years ago. These, the rich and the celebrated, living in the fullness of light and the new, blossoming genius of the day, scrambling to keep power and place, not to mention their lives: because, in fact, the fundamental trick remained simply to
stay alive.