Gianni stared up at this vision of loveliness, unable to believe so bright a sight in the midst of the darkness his life had suddenly become. “What … where …”
“Lie still,” she advised, “but let me lift your head into my lap; I must bandage that ugly wound in your scalp.”
So that was why his head ached so abominably. Gianni let her lift his head (though it sent a lance of pain from temple to temple), then lower it against the softness of her skirt. With his head up, he could see Gar, blinking at the woman—Medallia, had she called herself? Gar had apparently already had the benefit of her nursing, for he wore one bandage across his chest and another wrapped about his brow, like a headband.
Then pain stabbed again, and Gianni squeezed his eyes shut. As the spasm passed, he could feel soft hands winding a bandage around his head, and savored the sensation of the gentle caress, so calming, so soothing … He shook off the mood; he must remain vigilant. Opening his eyes again, he asked, “How did you find us?”
“I was following the road,” Medallia explained, still working, “and I saw you lying in the ditch. I knew the soldiers had passed, so I feared they had robbed and beaten you.”
“Well, there was another band who robbed us first,” Gianni said, “but you’re right—this band beat us even worse.”
“How did you know there were soldiers ahead?” Gar asked, his tone so gentle that Gianni knew it must be false. What did he suspect?
“Soldiers are dangerous, for a woman alone,” Medallia replied. “When I heard them coming behind me, I drove off the road and waited till they had passed—waited long, you may be sure.”
“Wise,” Gianni said, but between the gentleness of her touch and the beauty of her eyes, he was beginning to feel that he would have praised anything she said. Would he have felt this way if he had not met her binding his wounds?
Gar certainly didn’t feel that way. All he said was, “Drove?” and looked about, then stared. Gianni frowned, turning his head very carefully, to see what Gar saw—but not carefully enough; pain stabbed again. He saw only what he had expected—a yellow Gypsy caravan, a high—wheeled wagon with a pair of donkeys to pull it, curve-roofed and with two windows on each side, a high chimney rising from the back with wires to hold it against swaying on bumpy roads. It was unusual for a Gypsy woman to travel alone, but surely the caravan wasn’t surprising. Why did Gar stare so? “Have you never seen a Gypsy’s home?” he asked.
“The Gypsies of my homeland have nothing of this sort,” Gar answered slowly.
Medallia looked up in surprise. Then she frowned in thought, but looked away just before Gar turned back to gaze at her. She tied Gianni’s bandage, saying, “You’re merchants, then?”
“We were,” Gianni said bitterly, “until we were robbed. Now we’re beggars—and my friend thought it wise to pretend to be madmen.”
“It almost worked,” Gar said, aggrieved.
“It worked quite well,” Medallia corrected. “You’re still alive.”
Gar looked at her in pleased surprise. “I thank you—again.”
Gianni assumed he must already have thanked her for his bandages. “It’s good of you, very good of you, to stop to help us. Few travelers would be so kind.”
“We who live on the open road become accustomed to the notion that we must help one another,” Medallia told him. “You’re welcome to what aid I can give—and you’re cold. I must find you clothing.”
“Oh, but we have our own.” Gianni turned to the mound of clothing—then stopped, staring in horror. “Ah,” Gar said, following his gaze. “Yes, when they came to beat us, they rode their horses everywhere, didn’t they?”
“Is there anything left?”
Medallia went over to rummage through the sprawl of torn garments. “Rags to wash windows with—nothing more.” Gianni felt empty. “I’ll bring clothes.”
Gianni started to protest, but Medallia had already turned away to go back to her caravan.
“A rare woman,” Gar said, following the swaying form with his eyes.
“Most rare indeed.” Gianni wondered what her figure was like, but her skirts were full, and she wore a shawl draped around her shoulders and down to her hips. He was sure she was beautiful in every way, though, for if she weren’t, how could she move so sensuously? Especially when she didn’t intend to. Gianni watched her climb up onto the driver’s seat, then heard a door open and shut, heard her footsteps inside …
“How could she know it wouldn’t be dangerous to revive us?”
Gianni jolted out of his reverie, staring at Gar, appalled. “You can’t mean to molest her!”
“Never,” Gar said, with all the resolution of profound morality and beyond. “But she couldn’t have known that.”
“No—that’s true.” A dark, slow anger began to course through Gianni, at any man who would take advantage of a ministering angel—but he knew enough of the world to believe such men existed, and suspected Gar knew it even better than he.
A door in the back of the caravan opened, and a set of steps fell down. Medallia descended, her arms full of clothing, and came back to the men. She knelt beside Gianni and held a shirt up. “Will this fit you?”
Gianni raised his arms—halfway. There he grimaced with the pain of a bruise, but started to force his arms higher.
“Don’t.” Her voice was gentle. “The bone may be bruised as well as the muscle. Here.” She settled the fabric over his head and pulled it down. He did have to force his arms through the sleeves, then ran a hand down the front of the shirt, amazed at its texture. At first he thought it to be silk, then realized it was only a very finely spun cotton—but how had she polished it to such a sheen?
It didn’t occur to him to wonder why she carried men’s clothing.
Medallia looked him up and down, then nodded. “Perhaps a little too large, but no one will notice. Try the trousers, while I take the rest to your friend.” She rose and moved away.
Tactful, Gianni thought—it could have been rather embarrassing to have her help him pull on his pants. He managed to bend stiff legs well enough to push them down the tubes of black cloth, then looked down, intrigued by the looseness of their fit. They felt so much more comfortable than his hose—but of course, they didn’t show off the legs that he had exercised so hard to perfect.
He looked up and saw that Medallia was having a bit more trouble with Gar. The shirt fitted very tightly indeed, making the man’s chest muscles appear even more huge than they were—and his upper arms strained the seams. The sleeves were far too short, but she disguised that by rolling them back a little, as though they had been shortened by intention, for hard work. The shirt didn’t meet the belt, but she solved that by winding a wide sash twice around his midriff (though Gianni wasn’t sure he liked the way her hands caressed the fabric over Gar’s belly muscles). The trousers were far too short, but she said, “We’ll have to find you some high horseman’s boots.”
She went back, then returned with the boots. “Those, at least, I have.” Gar pulled them on, and Medallia stood back, eyeing them critically, then nodding. “They will be high enough, yes. You’ll pass if the condotierri don’t look too closely, and it will do to bring you home—but until then, you’d do well to stay where no one can see you. I think you would do better to ride than to walk for a while, in any case. Will the two of you come into my caravan?”
Would he! The blood pounded in Gianni’s head at the mere thought, though he realized the invitation was quite impersonal. He reined in his rampant emotions and said, “You’re most kind indeed! Yes, by all means, we’ll be glad to ride with you!”