The King's Agent Page 14

  “If you will wait here, the mistress of the house will be with you shortly.” The guard held them with a hand, tipping a curt bow and making for the door and his post once more.

  The aperture thumped to a close behind him; a shattering of glass burst in the hall, followed closely by a small cry and a spate of laughter.

  “Is this how you found this place before?” Battista leaned toward her, putting the proprietary hand of a husband on the small of her back.

  “Never this bad,” she responded with a barely perceptible shake of her head, her face implacable should any look upon it. “Perhaps they behaved themselves when the marquess paid a visit.”

  “Then we have only each other for protection.” His hushed caveat took in Frado as well, though it was only a matter of time before the servant was separated from the masters.

  Of a sudden the music began, a spirited gagliarda that sent up a rousing cheer. More revelers spilled out into the hallway—overly jeweled women, overly laced men—streaming from one room into another, the location of the musicians, no doubt.

  Only one woman noticed them, and she threw up her hands and eyes heavenward, approaching them at a rush.

  “Per favore, miei cari.” The woman’s round cheeks dimpled as she smiled at them, her voice high and breathy like a child’s, though powder clogged thickly in the lines of her face. “I truly am so very sorry, my dears. They told me you were here, and I completely forgot.”

  She giggled at them, and from behind her laughter rang out as if in answer.

  “Have no fear, Baroness di Prato.” Battista quickly took up her hand and bowed over it. “Yours is a beauty worth waiting for.”

  The woman looked to swoon, but there seemed little that was genuine in the act. She returned his playful glance with a hard edge. “Please, call me Ringarda, all my guests do. And you are so very welcome here, Gaetano, is it, and Livia? It is our pleasure to open our home to ... my ... cousins?”

  “Well, your cousin’s cousin, actually,” Aurelia corrected with a graceful courtesy, hearing the question for the snare it might be. “I am so very sorry to impose upon your hospitality. But we were delayed in our journey with no chance to make for the inn.”

  “My skittish wife had no desire to spend the night out in the wild.” Battista laughed with a hard, belittling edge.

  “A cousin’s cousin would make us still cousins,” the woman twittered. “Why, I think I can see a resemblance between us.”

  “Certamente,” Battista assured her as Frado busied himself with picking up and setting down the bags once more. The short, round woman could not look any more different from Aurelia had she tried.

  A great hue and cry rose up behind them and they turned to spy a man, a woman on each arm, fall from a doorway, sprawling indecorously into the corridor, rolling together with the women as if the spill were all part of the dance.

  Ringarda laughed as loud as the merrymakers, offering no comment on the degrading display she found amusing but clearly not anomalous, and set off for the staircase to the right, its mullioned banister curving up to the floor above. “We can offer you a room and some food, have no fear. Though whether you’ll be out of the wild ... it remains to be seen. You have come on a night when my husband entertains, as he so often does. There is no hope for it, or for anyone who comes here.”

  The three guests followed, Aurelia almost tripping on the first step, no chance to reply, no chance to run from the warning their hostess offered in jest, one so similar to that prognosticated by Dante. If astonishment and trepidation could stop time, the world would freeze in that moment.

  “Giuseppe!” the baroness cried out, and within seconds a sloppily dressed majordomo appeared behind them.

  “Sì, madonna?”

  “We will put the conte and contessa in the blue room for the night.” She gave her instructions over her shoulder, leaning toward Battista, who had taken her arm. “It is just down the hall from my own room.”

  Battista smiled, as he ought, but said nothing.

  “Help their man with the bags and then take him to the kitchen,” Ringarda ordered curtly.

  Without further word, Giuseppe took one of the satchels from Frado’s hand and stepped quickly around and beyond the group of nobles.

  Frado scissored his short legs to keep up, a narrow-eyed glance backward. “To the kitchen,” he said pointedly, and Battista acknowledged the message with no more than a blink of his eyes.

  Far narrower than the one below, the first-floor corridor branched off in two directions. The baroness led them to the right and to the third door on the right, one left open by the already-retreated set of servants.

  Battista beckoned Aurelia in, then turned at the threshold and offered a bow, holding their hostess at the door with a gallant maneuver.

  “Why don’t you two freshen up a bit and join us.” Ringarda included them both with her words, but not with her glance; that, she reserved for Battista alone.

  “What a lovely thought, Baroness, but I think we will rest a bit.” He reached out and took her hand once more, this time closing it warmly in both of his. “Could you send someone to fetch us at mealtime?”

  Ringarda batted her eyes at him. “If you wish, Gaetano.”

  “I do,” he purred, and quickly shut the door behind her, as if he kept the wolves at bay.

  Aurelia stood in the middle of the large room; she looked small amidst the large furniture—the canopied bed, the double-doored garderobe, and the latticed privacy screen hiding one corner from view. Upholstery of burgundy, ceiling frescoes of naked cherubs edged in gold, and thick velvet cushions everywhere, it was a most masculine, intensely sensual chamber.

  Across the expanse they stared at each other; all that was real and frightening and awkward in their situation rose up between them, until Battista could bear it no longer.

  With one raised eyebrow, he looked at her askance. “Gaetano? Is that how you see me, as a Gaetano?”

  Aurelia laughed heartily, hand to her stomach, releasing the noose of tension pulling her straight, and with the tinkling sound the curse upon them cracked. “It was my favorite dog’s name.”

  “Oh, now, you go too far!” Battista squawked with a laugh as he crossed the room and pushed back the heavy embroidered curtain.

  They were on the east side of the building; the view took in a lovely path-strewn garden touched with the purples and yellows of spring. Peering left, he found the building stretched far back, away from the front entrance, as if it receded into the mountain itself. “We have come to the right place, Aurelia, forgive me if I ever doubted you.”

  She blinked at him, bottom lip dropping before she caught it. “Her words and Dante’s, sì? ”

  He turned back with a nod, thoughts rushing to the undeniable, haphazard reference.

  “What do we do now, Battista?”

  In her voice he heard unfamiliar doubt.

  “We rest,” he said, gesturing for her to take the bed, dropping himself onto the leather settee along the opposite wall, and stretching out his legs. “I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

  She did as he suggested, all too eagerly, removing her riding boots and lying back with a soft sigh of relief. It wasn’t long before her breathing settled and lengthened. In the quiet of her sleeping form, his mind whirled, not only of his quest but also of the woman with whom he shared it.

  He was attracted to her, of course; she was far too beautiful a woman and he would forever be a connoisseur of beautiful women. But there was something else, something both troubling and intoxicating about her, an uncanny feeling he could not reckon or name, though he chewed hard upon it as the shadows lengthened and enshrouded the room. The time had come for them to face the creatures of the house.

  Without waking her, he changed into his own dinner clothes, cursing Ascanio for the dandy he was, for the dandy he forced Battista to be. The finely wrought black velvet doublet boasted puffed upper sleeves and slashed lower, where the bright red silk s
hirt peeped through. The silk trunk hose hugged his thighs and the striped stockings matched the small bows on his pointed shoes. He had never worn such a fanciful costume and he growled at having to do so now. His one reprieve, the long skirt of the doublet, though open in the center, concealed—for the most part—the uncomfortable and boastful codpiece.

  He would have to leave his satchel of tools, his dagger-sheathed belt, and his leather cuff behind, blatantly incongruous with this outfit, but their lack made him feel defenseless. If he and Aurelia could get through the meal unscathed, they could make their excuses with the early morning departure and return to their rooms. It was the immediate goal and he would focus on it alone.

  With another heavenward glance, one offered up for strength, he stepped to the bed, gently nudging Aurelia on the shoulder until she woke.

  “Ah, yes, Gaetano has arrived, I see,” she snickered, peering up at him.

  “Sì, and it is time for his wife, Livia, to arrive as well.” Battista refused to be baited; he held out a hand to help her from the bed. “I have put your gown behind the screen with your shoes and jewelry as well.”

  Battista fumed at her crooked grin, glaring at her as she made her way to the corner of the room.

  “Have you always been so exceedingly ... cheerful?” he asked a tad unkindly.

  But she laughed, a cluck of surprise. “No, actually, I haven’t,” she answered from behind the screen. “But I am liking the change, truth be told.”

  Her playfulness rebuked any slight; his lips twitched with the contagion of it. Battista listened as she rustled around with the voluminous material.

  “Have you ever thought to be a lady’s maid?” she asked, giving him a turn to laugh.

  “No, though I can think of some benefits to the position.”

  “Well, prepare yourself,” she called. “Here comes your chance.”

  She stepped out from the screen then, and his breath caught. He coughed away his reaction, not wanting her to hear of it, not wanting her to know how the vision she offered affected him.

  Aurelia shrugged her now-silk-covered shoulders. “Would you tie my laces, Battista?”

  She showed him her back, revealing the golden ties falling along her skirt, the empty eyelets she could not reach, and the gossamer linen below. The tight bodice of the jewel-encrusted emerald gown displayed the curves of her narrow waist and full hips. A thin line of jewels trimmed the high-necked, transparent chemise and the square neckline of the bodice sat low upon her full, rounded breasts.

  He thought of all the traps he had escaped from, all the guards he had outrun; surely he could meet this challenge as well. As if he had done so for years, he laced her gown, pulling it to just the right fit.

  “The poor are lucky, I think,” Aurelia remarked.

  “Indeed?” He finished his work and stepped back, appraising the finished product, allowing a glimmer of his pleasure to show on his face. With almost every wisp of her hair hidden beneath the matching emerald snood with its heavy lace veil, her face was barely discernible, but he would know those green eyes no matter how camouflaged. He only hoped no one else would.

  “They need no one to help them don their simple dress.” Battista nodded his agreement just as the knock and the call of “dinner” came from the other side of the door.

  He held out his hand to her and she took it.

  “Stay close to me,” he whispered as they stepped out into the hall behind the servant leading them to the dining room. “Looking that beautiful, here, you are in far more danger than you have ever been.”

  Among the forty or so people sitting at the mammoth table, there were any number of dukes and knights, barons and counts. And amidst these nobles there sat even a so-called prince. There was no greater evidence of the changing face of Italian hierarchy than at this table; these egotistic Italians revered their labels, but in these bombastic days they most often denoted rank, not reputation. Aurelia cared not one whit what they called themselves, as long as they did not call her Aurelia.

  More than a few of the faces looked familiar, and she did her best to avoid them without appearing rude. More than one man vied for her attention, and her every move asserted that she belonged to Battista, or “Gaetano” as it were, taking his arm whenever possible, allowing his hand to rest upon her in the most intimate of postures. She would prefer that she not like the feel of it as much.

  Battista did his part admirably, chiming in to denounce the despots ruling their lands cruelly, belittling whatever religious leader’s name the others tossed up for ridicule.

  Aurelia had never taken part in a tournament, not a joust nor a duel, though she imagined this was what it felt like, this sparring and jockeying. She ate little, laughed much, and lied a great deal. Through it all, not a single person she knew—and she did indeed know a few—recognized her for who she was. She had long acknowledged the truth: People saw only what they wanted, rarely seeing others for who they really were.

  The long banquet table was awash with engraved pewter plates and sparkling Venetian crystal; the meal continued for hours and offered the land’s greatest delights ... salted trout from the coast, pheasant roasted to perfection, sweet rice simmered in almond milk.

  Try though they might, Aurelia and Battista could not detach themselves from the ever more inebriated and ebullient party until the small orchestra performed a second round of musical entertainments and a few ponderous yet lascivious attendants offered readings of some vulgar poetry, intended, no doubt, to encourage sexual stimulation.

  “I am ever so fatigued, my husband.” Aurelia leaned over the lap of a pudgy prince and complained loudly to Battista on the other side as the third such recital came to a close.

  Jumping to his feet, Battista pried the snaking arms of the prince from around Aurelia’s shoulder.

  “Grazie mille! ” Battista fairly yelled at his host at the end of the table, and still his words were barely audible above the clangorous revelry in the dining room and spreading out into other parts of the palace.

  The pointy-faced baron raised one long, thin hand, a barely bothered-with dismissal, far too preoccupied with the two women beside him to care who came and who went. Both leaned forward, their breasts revealed beyond the curved tips of their nipples; one woman stroked his almost-hairless pate as if he were an obedient dog.

  Aurelia silently thanked the women for their perfect diversion and, latching onto Battista’s arm, set off for the door.

  “You cannot leave now.” Ringarda pulled them back, throwing her arms around Battista’s waist as if she lassoed a pig. “The real festivities have yet to begin.”

  With a forced laugh, he detached himself from the lewd groping, hands inching intrepidly down his hips. “The delights of your home are indeed tempting, cara mia, but we must away very early in the morning.”

  Ringarda thrust herself between them, one arm circling each, stroking their backs with the same feathery, inviting touch. “Nonsense. What better way to spend the next few hours than in the company of admiring friends.”

  Aurelia tried to step away, but the woman’s flabby arm was surprisingly strong. Instead, Aurelia stepped closer, thrusting her body against Battista’s, hands caressing his chest, running upward until they gathered about his neck.

  “We have not been married long,” she explained with a low voice, licking her full lips, looking up at Battista as if he were the next course. “I’m sure you understand, signora.”

  Battista’s surprised gaze clamped down upon the now-moist mouth so close to his, arms rising to encircle Aurelia’s waist with an instinctive response.

  With a salacious though crestfallen grimace, Ringarda released the hold she had on them. “I can see he will have no one but you, my dear. I will delay you no longer then.” She stepped away only to spin back. “But call, should you desire more company ... either of you.”

  “You shall be the first to hear of it,” Battista assured her with a crooked smile and a crack in his low voice
.

  Aurelia led him away, keeping one step in front of him, unable to look him in the eye after her lewd portrayal. She mimicked what she had seen so many other female courtiers do, and she must have done it well, if the astounded look on Battista’s face presented any evidence.

  Stepping into their room, she heaved a sigh of relief at the sound of the metal rasping slide of the bolt as Battista threw it into place.

  “I long to bathe,” she said without turning, pleased to hear Battista bark an uncomfortable laugh.

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Aurelia crossed to the window and threw open the sash, closing her eyes in gratitude as a crisp breeze washed over her, as if it cleansed her of a clinging filth. Battista grabbed the pile of his discarded clothing, his well-worn leather breeches and jerkin, and jumped behind the screen.

  “You should change as well,” he called out.

  “I will be most happy to,” Aurelia replied.

  The notion stood between them then, unspoken but understood. . . neither knew for sure where next they would go, only that they would be better served to go in comfortable, sturdier clothing.

  Their changing completed, an awkward silence came to sit with them, accented by the dissonance of the debauchery rising up from below; as the night progressed, the clatter changed without remittance. Unmistakable were the moans of passion; frightening were the groans of pain punctuated by cries of pleasure.

  “I hope you know ... what I did ... how I acted ...” Aurelia stumbled on her embarrassment, unable to forget her actions as the haunted night stretched out. “I do not—”

  “Your performance was masterful,” he told her quickly, “have no fear.”

  Aurelia exhaled audibly, tossing aside her worry, turning to the only notion worthy of attention.

  “How do we know where to go?” She reached into her satchel, scurried her hand beneath the folded and packed gown, and pulled out a well-worn copy of the Commedia.

  “We don’t,” Battista answered. “We can only hope to find a clue.”

  He pointed at the book in her hands, reached into the satchel now back in position where it belonged on his back, and retrieved his own copy of Dante’s epic poem.