Tributary (River of Time 3.2 Novella) (3 page)

She gasped and scrambled to rise.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I cried, putting out my hands like I was trying to calm a frightened horse.
Don’t let her move around if she wakes
, Mom said, as she parted.
Sorry, Mom. Blew that one
—

“Aspetta! Piano, piano
…” Rodolfo urged, coming to her other side.
Wait. Easy, easy…

But Alessandra was having none of it. She sat up, glancing down in confusion at the luxurious, soft night gown we’d put her in, then pulling the covers to her chest. Her long brown hair edged over her shoulder, making her look soft and rumpled and sweet, in spite of the fear and anger that rumbled under her lowered brow. “Where am I?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“
Siamo amici.”
We are friends
, I said, reaching out my hands in a manner that said,
it’s okay
. “You are safe. You were injured. On a hunt. There was a misunderstanding. But you are all right. Your father was here. You’ll soon be home with him.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes shifting back and forth, as if trying to remember. “The boar,” she said, catching the tail of a memory. “I was hunting…”

“And then the boar led you straight into a clearing, where we were,” Rodolfo said, helping her piece it together. He hovered at the foot of her straw tick, keeping a respectful distance. “M’lady, I owe you an apology. You had the spear—I blocked you—”

“And was unseated,” she mumbled. Her eyes met his. “I don’t remember anything beyond that moment.”

“No. You’ve hovered on the edge of death these past two—almost three—days.”

She studied him and then looked at the far wall, as if a window to her missing memories might open there. “Three days,” she whispered, clenching the blanket in her fist all the harder. She looked to me with urgency. “My father came?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding in encouragement. She was plainly scared and disoriented. “He’ll be back soon for you. We convinced him to leave you here. My mother—she’s fairly adept in the healing arts. And you’ve been gravely ill.”

“It was no easy task,” Rodolfo added with a tender, caring smile. “Your father was reluctant to leave you behind.”

Alessandra studied his face and then let a little smile soften her own. “I am a woman grown. But he is a bit over-protective, really. I lost two brothers in the battle,” she explained. “He only has me left.”

Rodolfo froze and visibly paled. I held my breath, as did Luca, beside me. Alessandra looked from one of us to the other, reading the tension immediately. Silence hung in the air. “You never said where I was,” she said, suspicion dawning in her eyes. “Nor who you are.”

“M’lady, you—” Rodolfo said.

“I am no high-born lady of the court,” she said in agitation. “I am Signorina Alessandra Donatelli. Now, pray tell, who are you and where am I?
Exactly.
”

“Signorina Donatelli,” Rodolfo began again. I admired his steady, calm tone in the face of what was to come. “You’ll remember your hunt plainly led you across the border. You are in the care of Castello Forelli.”

She stared at him, hard. She struggled to swallow, as if her mouth was dry. “And you are…Lord Forelli?”

“I am Lord Rodolfo Greco,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Lord…
Greco
,” she repeated numbly.

His dark eyes searched hers. “Yes.”

“I lost my brothers,
as well as my intended
, the night Castello Paratore was taken,” she mumbled, her brow lowering in pain. “Because you turned your back on Firenze. Because you wanted the castle for yourself!”

“There are two sides in any battle, Alessandra,” I said, my voice trembling a bit at the memory. “As I remember, Lord Greco was in chains, nearly hanged, alongside our priest and many of our people. Lord Paratore was a monster—”

“M’lady,” Rodolfo said, giving his head a little shake, shutting me down. He turned back to Alessandra. “I am sorry for your losses. Clearly my presence upsets you, Signorina. And Evangelia’s mother wished for you to remain calm. ‘Tis best for your healing. I will return come morning.” He rose, and stiffly walked to the door, quietly closing it behind him.

Luca and I shared a quick glance.

“There are many things you do not know, Signorina,” Luca said.

“Clearly,” Alessandra said, in a measured, drawn-out way. “But I do know that that man,” she said, pointing out the door Rodolfo just exited through, “and all of you, the
Sienese
, destroyed much of my life, my future.” Her hand was trembling.

“We all lost in that battle. I lost friends myself. Men I considered brothers,” he said. “Rodolfo lost everything in Firenze. All he’d worked very hard to gain.”

“Luca—” I intervened, trying to ease him away from his own rising agitation.

“Men you considered brothers,” Alessandra interrupted. “But not flesh and blood. Kin. Your husband-to-be.” Her last words sent ripples of pain through the room.

Luca paused a moment. “We could have left you out in the woods to perish,” he said, gesturing north. “But we did not, even after we knew you were Fiorentini. Consider what sort of people would act in such a manner, and decide for yourself if we are the animals you’ve made us out to be.
Buona sera
,” he said with a slight bow.

With that, he strode away, not even pausing to say goodnight to me. I’d never seen him so agitated. Probably because she was accusing one of the brotherhood. And nothing ticked off the guys around here more than messing with one of their boys.

Well, right. They didn’t like it if anyone messed with one of their girls either.

Alessandra and I shared a long look and then she closed her eyes, as if she had the mother of all headaches.

“You must rest,” I said softly.

She gave me the slightest of nods and pulled up her blanket. But her big, brown eyes popped open a second later and she studied me. “You are one of the Ladies Betarrini.”

“I am,” I said, pouring a cup of water and then offering it to her, realizing we hadn’t quite gotten around to introductions. “I’m Evangelia Betarrini. My sister is Lady Gabriella Betarrini Forelli. And that was Sir Luca Forelli, cousin to Lord Marcello and captain of his guard.”

Her expression betrayed her confusion, as if she were torn between contempt and awe and fear. Like she was meeting Darth Vader. Or Loki. Or Damon Salvatore. She slowly took the cup and rose on one elbow to drink it down, waving me away when I moved to help her. “You do not appear as fierce as they say you are.”

I laughed under my breath. “Not all is exactly as they say.”

“They say you can kill five men with one arrow.”

I frowned, her words making me feel slightly nauseated. Maybe I was catching Gabi’s stomach bug. “I’ve killed far too many men in battle,” I muttered. “But never more than one at a time.”

She paused, continuing to stare at me. “The memory of their deaths pains you?”

“Greatly,” I said without hesitation. “I haven’t as much as shot a rabbit in more than a year. I cannot seem to bear it.” I shook my head. “As soon as I lift my bow, it all comes back.” I looked up at her. “And I’d rather not remember.”

She frowned, hesitating. “The Sienese won the battle. Yet you do not rejoice in your triumph?”

I considered her words. “Let us say that my future’s path changed as abruptly as your own during the battle and afterward.”
We decided to stay here, and Gabs got married…and I left Castello Paratore, covered in my enemies’ blood. Oh, and yeah, then I was almost killed by the assassins
… Bile rose in my throat at the memory of it. Yes, I’d lost in that battle—my dreams, as well as the last vestiges of my childhood. But what if I’d lost Gabi or Mom and Dad? Luca? Or all of them? As Alessandra had lost brothers and a boyfriend?

She looked away, rubbing her forehead.

“I can give you a tincture, for that headache,” I said, rising to fetch a bottle Mom had left.

“Nay,” she said. “I will not accept potential poison from you.”

Her words stung, as well as her sudden coldness just when I thought she was beginning to warm. “You think we’ve nursed you for three days, washed you, taken care of your
necessities
, only to poison you? When we know your father will return in a few days and call upon Firenze forces to rise if you are not well?” I let out a little laugh. “Lord Marcello pledged his
life
that you would be safe here.”

Her brow furrowed, and a tinge of red climbed her cheeks, but she said nothing, only turning her back to me.

I sighed and considered downing Mom’s precious potion myself. Because my head felt as if it was in the middle of a vice clamp. I needed to give her a little leeway—a measure of God’s own peace, Father Tomas would say—but I was dead-tired too.

So, yeah. It was bound to be a rough few days.

Now that we knew she’d live, we’d all be counting the hours until Signore Donatelli came to collect his daughter.

I was still agitated that afternoon, still churning over my conversation with Alessandra, while Luca’d returned to his easy-going manner. I paced back and forth in the courtyard, hands on hips, while Luca reclined in a hay wagon, hands behind his head, watching me. “You seem upset. Shall I fetch you your bow and arrows, my love? Mayhap sticking a few arrows deep into a—”

“Nay!”

“What about some of Cook’s special pudding for a special treat?”

“Nay!” I repeated, tossing out my hand in dismissal.

“A walk, along the ramparts?”

“Nay, Luca…” I put my hand to my head and paused, looking up at the sky, then over at him.

He rolled to his side, his shoulder-length hair flopping half over his face, chewing a piece of straw. I stared at him, considering sketching him there, my own lounging, gorgeous, medieval knight. But even that wasn’t what I needed. I pursed my lips and tapped them with one finger, still looking him over.

“Why stare at me with such intent?” he asked, his brows lowering. He cocked one brow and grinned. “Could it be that you wish to join me, here, in the hay wagon?”

“Your hair,” I said, ignoring his flirty suggestion. “It’s gotten long, of late.”

“The barber hasn’t been through in some time.” He reached into his mouth, probing with a finger. “I have a tooth that’s giving me fits too—”

I sucked in my breath, suddenly knowing what would make me feel better, and smiled. “He’ll come through, soon enough. But before he does…Luca, may I cut your hair?”

He stared at me a moment. “You wish to cut my hair.”

“Oh, yes! May I? It would ease my agitation to…to
do
something. Something constructive.”

He considered it a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t see why not. You are adept with the shears?”

“As adept with the shears as I am with the pen and ink.”

“Then, by all means, let’s get on with it,” he said, making a gesture in the air, completely relaxed.

“Draw closer.” He obediently sat up, on the edge of the wagon, letting his boots swing over the side. I stepped closer, reached up and ran my fingers through his hair, just long enough now on either side to tie back—not that he ever did—and slightly wavy. He closed his eyes and smiled, as if my touch made him want to go to sleep. Then he opened his green eyes and looked at me. “What say you? How shall you shear this sheep?”

“I shall shear you short,” I said. I lifted sections of his hair. “Here, and here, and here. All around. Might you live with it as such?”

He pursed his lips and wrapped his hands around my waist. “’Tis uncommon, as you describe. Would you not prefer I grow it a little longer and wear it banded at the nape of my neck, like Marcello?”

“Nay,” I said quickly. That look was for my brother-in-law. And my sister too. Not for us.

“Truly?” he frowned.

“Truly.”

“Well, then, fetch the shears, woman, and do what you wish with me. For God knows,” he said, leaning closer to me, his lips almost on mine, “I am yours to do with as you wish.”

I smiled, stood on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss—which elicited a hoot of approval from the guards on the wall above us—and then left for the stables, where I knew there was at least one pair of scissors. I also picked up a basin, a pitcher and a knife—as sharp as a razor—then a towel, soap and an ivory comb from my room. I waved at Luca to follow me into the Great Hall.

It was long after supper and the big room, full of long tables and benches, was vacant, except for the two of us, standing alongside the dying embers of a fire in the massive hearth. I took his hand and pulled him to the nearest table and bench, seating him with his back to the table. “Now lean back,” I said, easing his broad shoulders to the edge, so that his head hovered over the basin. I lifted the pitcher and poured it over his scalp, dousing it thoroughly, then lifted the bar of soap, lathered it in my hands and began rubbing his hair, working the suds through.

“Saints in heaven, woman,” he moaned, “what are you doing to me?”

“Washing your hair,” I said, as innocently as I could. But I was grinning. I used my best spa skillage, not only giving him a thorough shampoo, but also massaging his head, moving my thumbs in tiny circles, easing away tension, stress. At least I hoped that was what I was doing.

His fingers ran down my arms, looking up at me. “I want you to wash my hair this way, every night of our lives.”

I grinned, rinsing his hair out now, intentionally letting a little splash in his eyes. His hands sprang away to rub them. “We shall see, won’t we?” I said.

I lightly towel-dried his hair, then moved him to a chair, right by the fire. Once he was situated there, I combed it out, and set to work. I had a distinct look in my mind—lots of layers. Short on top. A little longer at the nape of the neck—just long enough to play with. Slightly longer sideburns. To play up his impish green eyes.

But I was working with some whacky kind of scissors. They were broad and flat, with a very stiff coil at the end and a wicked edge. The end result was…less than perfect.

So I cut. And cut. And cut.

“Is there to be nothing left?” he asked, as the embers burned low in the hearth.