The King's Agent Page 6

  —La Vita Nuova

  The growl came at them through the thick forest on either side, though from which side neither could tell. Battista and Frado pulled in the slack on their reins as the horses whinnied and shied at the bellow of the unseen bear.

  “He is waking up from a long winter’s nap, naught more.” Battista calmed Frado with his words, leaning forward, caressing the silk of his pitch-black stallion’s mane, soothing the beast’s head-jerking protestations with each stroke.

  But Frado was not as easily mollified; his protruding gaze scoured the woods surrounding them, shadowed though the sun shone upon it, shafts of light pinched between thick-trunked trees. The woods, too, came to life after the cold-weather dreariness; maple and oak were fuzzy with bright green and maroon sprouts and curled fern tips sprung up from beneath the bed of fallen, dried pine needles. The forest of Casentino, just north of Florence, had always been rife with bears, and Frado had always done his best to steer clear of it.

  “Are you sure we must tread this path?” His voice trembled with his unease, but whether he spoke of their travel on this particular day or the quest itself Battista could not fathom. He chose to deal with the question only in the present.

  “I was convinced of this nobleman’s involvement before Pompeo’s report, but upon hearing of it, no one could deny the assertion. Not even you, my doubting friend. He is widely known as an art connoisseur. It makes perfect sense,” Battista cajoled, but Frado would have none of it.

  He made a vague unhappy noise deep in his throat, a wordless objection, his gaze refusing to meet Battista’s as it continued to search for brown fur among spring green. “If you are successful, if you acquire the triptych without getting yourself killed, word of its disappearance will spread far and fast.” Frado said nothing Battista had not already thought of. “Such attention we do not need.”

  Battista mulled Frado’s warning, offered for at least the tenth time since their destination had been determined a few days ago. It echoed the warning in King François’s letter, dire predictions of threats not only to their lives if it were known what they were after but to many others as well, especially if more war ensued.

  An artifact to cause war; one powerful enough to end it.

  The words—the sensation they caused—plagued him, an apprehension swaddling him with a cloak of fretfulness, and though he pushed at both contemplation and consternation, each returned with agonizing repetition.

  He shook it off yet again, but with a parting of certain return, and flashed a jaunty smirk upon his companion.

  “The sun is high, the air is warm and sweet, and we are on an adventure, amico mio.” Battista pulled on the reins and his horse trotted closer to Frado’s. “Let us make the best of it, sì?”

  Digging his heels into the glossy flanks of his horse, Battista lurched forward, breaking from a trot to a gallop, a desire to launch the escapade or perhaps to outrun the pursuing thought.

  Frado rolled round eyes heavenward, annoyance at his friend’s exuberance clear on his already-stubble-shadowed face, but slapped his reins, urging his steed to join Battista as he galloped off.

  Not another bear call greeted them, nor that of any human, as the pair kept to the woods and fields, avoiding any towns or villages along the trail northward. Late afternoon of the second day arrived with a light drizzle, and as they crested a small rise the magnificent palazzo rose up on the next hill, greeting them with its splendor.

  Neither spoke, neither moved, far too assailed by the sight before them to do either. In all of his travels, Battista had never visited the Palazzo of Mantua, had never seen for himself the architectural beauty of the cluster of buildings comprising the compound, its cornerstone laid two hundred years ago in the fourteenth century.

  The grouping of structures spread across the horizon, abutting the supporting village gathered at its feet to the west, the lace edge of the magnificent gown. Battista surveyed the cream and terra-cotta stone edifices rising into the violet crepuscular sky with respectful regard for artistic beauty. A mixture of military stronghold and noble palace, the spiky turrets sat atop the Gothic arched loggias, fusing the strong with the delicate. Battista beamed at its splendor.

  Revelation quickly forgotten, his heart skipped a beat, catching up quick, thudding arrhythmically against the walls of his chest, for only the palace’s impenetrability rivaled its beauty, and yet he must penetrate it. Battista sucked in his breath, willing the burst of oxygen to still the unsteady beating.

  “We are in time,” he said, as if to distract Frado from the flash of fear exposed for an instant across his features, forcing the muscles in his face to relax.

  Though they advanced from the west, ignoring the main approach from the south, skirting the large thoroughfare leading up to the palazzo, they could see the entrance from the edge of the forest, watched as the opulently outfitted horses and gaily festooned conveyances delivered the guests invited to the evening’s gala. It was this very event—the celebration of the marquess’s birth—that had brought the pair to this door in a rush, knowing a well-attended occasion such as this would provide the perfect camouflage for their roguery.

  With a cluck of his tongue, Battista urged his horse forward into a slow canter, Frado quick to follow.

  They circled the palazzo, lost and invisible amidst the comings and goings of the palace and the festivities taking place in the village in honor of the lord. Taking turns, their backs to the palace, one spoke gaily of nothing, while the other surveyed the field, noting every egress and every guard. When each assured the other with a silent signal, one of many created over their years together, they left the grounds as casually as they had approached, making once more for the seclusion of the forest.

  Within the curtain of the trees, they dismounted and studied the palazzo yet again.

  “You will not be able to exit as you enter,” Frado said with little inflection; only someone who had known him as long as Battista would recognize the thin pitch of skepticism in his tone. “Especially not carrying a triptych of paintings, rolled or not.”

  “This we knew.” Battista pointed to the columned loggia on the mezzanine level of the western wall. “It is just as the plans showed us. From there I will descend, three from the right.”

  Their intelligence had assured them Battista would find the paintings in the marquess’s trophy room. And though the location seemed far too obvious, it had come to them from a number of reliable sources. What their sources could not tell them was if the paintings hung on the wall or were otherwise kept, but all conveyed the sure sense that their placement in the room would be obvious. The trophy room was on the eastern side of the palace, inconveniently so, for escape from that side, with its main entrance and thickly populated portion of the village, would be impossible.

  Frado’s gaze followed the digit to the third opening in the long row of arches. “Then from there I will wait.”

  Battista clapped him on his shoulder, leaving the hand resting for a moment. There was no more to say, no more to do, but for Battista to change his clothes and to wait ... wait for full dark to descend and the party to become fully engaged.

  “You should eat, Frado.” He laughed the suggestion, tying his horse loosely to a budding birch.

  Frado tossed up his hands, shrugged, and began to gather small twigs for kindling. He could always eat. Not so Battista.

  “Two hours, no more, Frado.” Battista pierced him with his dark stare. “Upon your honor.”

  Since their acquaintance began, these two had run roughshod over the Italian countryside. Since then, the agreement between them had stood, though never had it been tested. Long ago they had made the pact, should one or the other not return in the appointed time, the man left behind would flee, taking the other’s disappearance as a sign of capture, taking themselves to safety.

  Frado’s thin upper lip curled with blatant disagreement. “Upon my word, Battista.”

  He made the vow without pleasure, but he w
ould keep it nonetheless.

  Battista smiled with bitter sweetness, accepting the affection offered through Frado’s discontentment.

  “How do I look?”

  He preened then, twirling round so Frado might enjoy the full impact of the purple silk doublet embroidered with green leaves, black trunk hose, and a gold-trimmed hip-length cloak. A bright peacock feather adorned the ribbed cap worn on the side of his head, and his flat black leather shoes were slashed lengthwise at the toes, allowing the green of his stockings to show through.

  “Ascanio would be very proud.” Frado smiled, but it soon faded away, lost in the darkness surrounding them and the meager light of the small fire between.

  He stood then, crossed to Battista, and without word or preamble wrapped his pudgy arms around his friend, round head resting upon Battista’s chest.

  Battista stumbled back a step with the force of his friend’s embrace, hands shocked into the air with the surprise of it. With a sniff of a laugh and a shake of his head, he returned the hug, kissing the top of Frado’s bald pate.

  “Get off me, you silly man,” Battista chided without genuine rebuke.

  Disentangling himself from his friend’s arms, he mounted his horse, and, with a last glance at the dear face, set off.

  Battista sat tall in his saddle, one now caparisoned with a gold-tasseled blanket, as he approached the guards at the gate; he had played parts before, this one merely unfolded upon a grander stage.

  “Buonanotte,” he called out with not the slightest hint of hesitation, handing down the forged invitation to the closest guard.

  The helmeted soldier unfurled the small scroll, eyes squinting in the dim light of the three torches at his back, and studied Battista with an equally acute stare.

  “Benvenuto, signore,” the guard at last decreed with a bow, and his fellow soldiers followed with equally unenthusiastic murmurs of welcome.

  Battista ignored the lackluster greetings, as the minor nobleman he pretended to be undoubtedly would, and led his horse into the cobbled courtyard, one so vast another impressive palazzo could easily fit within its confines.

  The yellow and cream stone walls rose up around him on all four sides as the fountains in its center gurgled with water and wine, the liquid sparkling with a brilliant profusion of torchlight, a glow turning night into day, revealing the details of the wrought-iron-railed balconies and twirling Solomonic columns. He took himself to a fountain, accepting a large chalice of deep red liquid from the posted servant, and tossed it back for one long gulp of liquid courage.

  Battista had more than a little knowledge of the palazzo and its layout, having studied the plans for hours in the days preceding the trip, but he had no idea where the gala might take place and could but follow the horde of brilliantly attired guests, a helpless fish in a fast-running, overpopulated stream. He paid keen attention to his whereabouts, drawing a red line on the image of the palace’s layout etched indelibly into his mind as he made his way through arched entries and barrel-vaulted corridors.

  No smile touched his face, no greeting passed his lips; Battista walked with his shoulders slumped in an attempt to mitigate his height, refusing interaction with any of the other guests, to keep himself as unnoticed as possible. More than a few women—women of all ages—turned admiring glances his way, and more than a few men appraised him with a mixture of admiration and envy, but he ignored them all.

  He arrived in the massive ballroom, his teeth grinding together as he struggled to keep from gaping at the intense beauty of his surroundings. Clearly meant, by size and style, as a main chamber for entertainments, it served as well as a shrine to one of the Gonzaga family’s greatest loves ... horses.

  With almost-dimensional rendering, the regal beasts appeared set against the lush landscape background, six of them in all, as if they jutted out into the living space. Alternating with the majestic beasts, statues of classical deities stood in alcoves designed in the Corinthian order. Above each horse, the six ordeals of Hercules were painted in a manner to imitate bronze bas-reliefs. Above them, a sumptuous frieze of acanthus leaf volutes accentuated by the golden Gonzaga eagles in each corner.

  With justifiable veneration, Battista took himself off to the far back corner with almost leaping strides, taking himself out of the milling horde and their crush to see and be seen.

  In this dimly lit, almost forgotten place, he became a part of the scenery, blending in as inconspicuously as he might. If curious eyes assailed him, he ignored them; if any greetings came to him, he responded with almost-rude dismissal. He hovered on the fringes of the gathering, waiting.

  Long ago Battista had learned that in every situation an opportunity always presented itself; the stronger his belief, the more it became truth. Tonight would not be the occasion to change that conviction.

  But tonight, conviction seemed incapable enough to hurry events along. He busied himself, sipping watered wine and avoiding any interaction, but the tedium became annoying.

  Battista paced the room as time vanished, lost intangibly forever. He strode about with purpose, as if aiming for a destination rather than dispelling impatience.

  A bevy of bashful beauties approached from the left. Battista smiled thinly, holding up a finger in the other direction, as if hailing someone on the far side of the room, and took himself off—away from the crestfallen lovelies—losing himself in the miasma of the milling crowd.

  But his concern clung to him like the scent of a pinewood fire; to stay too long in a place he meant to pillage was folly. He could not divest himself of Frado’s image, sitting at the base of the western wall, bottle in hand as he played the part of an inebriated villager, watching the sliver of the moon shift in the sky and growing more fearful with every inch it moved.

  The last notion settled Battista’s mind; he would have to make his move, diversion or no. Grabbing a small tumbler of grappa from a passing tray, he tossed back the rough liquid, felt it burn a path down his gullet, and aimed for the door.

  The sudden blare of the heralds’ horns frightened him; one foot faltered, the other skidded. As each anxious gaze looked beyond him, Battista shook his head at the irony, the quirks of fate that forever brought him what he needed, but not necessarily in the form he imagined. With elegance and splendor, the marquess of Mantua made his entrance, his beautiful mistress on his arm, a gaggle of equally splendid followers trailing behind.

  In the distraction of the grand arrival—in the hubbub of the blaring trumpets, the marquess’s rousing greeting, and the applauding assemblage—Battista slipped from the room, invisible to anyone’s notice ... save one.

  The ease with which he passed through the corridors frightened him. Though quiet, the hallway was not completely devoid of inhabitants; Battista passed a swaggering group of young men, clearly drunk and looking for trouble ... a coupling of lovers, the rustling fabric and deep-throated moans revealing what the darkness of the alcove did not. But not a single guard did he spy, nor a suspicious servant did he stumble upon.

  He entered a long, window-walled corridor and took a quick moment to scan the sky; the moon was no longer visible in the east, where it had been rising when he entered the palazzo. He had little time left, half an hour perhaps, and he would lose his accomplice and Frado’s assistance in escape.

  Battista trod the fine line between a walk and a run, long legs gobbling the floor with determined strides. He made it to the northeast corner of the palace and the circular stairway tucked away within its spiral. He dared to run up them, safe in the seclusion of the dark stone walls.

  At the top, he turned left—corrected himself—turned right.

  The passageway was not as wide on this floor as the one below. Along each side, doors alternated positions with wall sconces, each fixture resembling a sword pointing at the floor with the flame flickering from the cupped pommel, each door closed and gilded with gold.

  Battista’s breath quickened as the moment of acquisition at last arrived. He counted the do
ors on his left, grateful he needed the third and not another of the many stretching down the long corridor before him.

  He came up short at the portal, imbalanced by the lack of padlock. A brief, scourging warning of entrapment crossed his thoughts and he erased it with logic, if a trifle convoluted. A man such as the marquess of Mantua would be secure with the efficiency of his guards; he would feel no need to lock away his treasures.

  Sheer folly. Battista smirked at the inferiority of the man supposedly superior by birth.

  He opened the door, entered the room, and closed it behind him with the silence and grace of a dancer. With his back to the portal, he surveyed the room, one lit by three sconces lined up along the far wall, a chamber unlike any he had imagined or expected.

  At first glance, the most singular item within these walls appeared to be the Persian carpet covering a gleaming dark wood floor, its maroon background the host for the thick green tree and the golden fruit hanging from its curled branches. The walls were bare save for the round, brass sconces.

  There were no trophies in the trophy room. Battista took two steps farther in, thrusting fisted hands onto hips in agitation.

  That’s when he saw it.

  The chest was made of wood, of that he was sure, but of such a dark cast he could not deduce its variety. This very darkness kept it almost hidden from view, immersed in the shadows beneath the three light fixtures hanging above, tossing their light foolishly upward to the beamed ceiling overhead. Battista gloated with a satisfaction about to be met.

  He rushed across the expanse of the room, steps silent upon the resplendent rug, and sunk to his knees before the mammoth trunk. The paintings he sought must still be in frames, he surmised from the vast breadth of the chest, and he cursed the time it would take to pry them from their casings.

  He set to work on the padlocks securing the three encompassing steel bands. The locks were not as intricately formed as he expected, but were merely basic shapes, a circle, a cloverleaf, and an inverted triangle, but the mechanisms proved far more difficult than their simplistic construction foretold. He worked his small pin in each hole, the clicking of metal upon metal drowned out by the clock ticking dangerously in his mind.