'Why do you say such things?' William asked.
'You know why,' she said. She turned her back to him and pulled her knees up to her chest. 'You are the same as all the others. You only want one thing.'
'You know that is not true,' William said, placing his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.
William had met Portia two years ago, a few weeks before the Genoese ambassadors came. She was fifteen then, the daughter of a leather worker in a nearby village. Word of her beauty had spread throughout the region, and more than one prosperous merchant had already approached her father with talk of marriage. The boys of the village followed her in an adoring crowd, but Portia would have nothing to do with them. Later, she had confessed to William that the boys had terrified her. Her wet-nurse — a bitter widow who had lost her husband and child to the plague before taking in Portia — had told her horror stories about what men would do if they ever got their hands on a woman, and Portia had believed her.
William had wooed her for weeks before Portia had even spoken to him. Even then, communication was slow at first, constrained by Portia's shyness and William's halting, broken Italian. Eventually, Portia had grown appreciative of his constant attention. With William around, she no longer had to worry about the groups of boys who whistled and leered at her when she went about town, at least not after he single-handedly chased off a gang of would-be lovers, slapping their backsides with his sword and threatening in English to cut out their tongues and stuff them up their arses. Portia had begun to look on William as a friend, and then as something more.
Portia's father did not approve of William. He did not want his daughter married to a soldier. So they met in secret, spending long afternoons walking the countryside and magical nights here in this barn behind a farmhouse just off the main road. It was the only place in the countryside they could find that was safe, private and reasonably warm, even if it did smell of chickens and cow manure.
'What do you want me to say?' William asked her.
'You know what I want.'
William swallowed hard. 'Will you marry me?'
Portia turned, a smile lighting up her face, and threw herself upon William. 'Yes,' she whispered between kisses. 'Yes, yes.'
The stable door creaked open and they both froze. 'My father!' Portia whispered. 'He'll kill us!' She rolled off William and began to lace up her dress.
William crawled to the edge of the hayloft and peeked down. It was not Portia's father. A man dressed in black stood in the shadowy light, a sword hanging from his waist. He was small with dark features. He looked up, and his eyes met William's. William caught a flash of steel and a second later a dagger embedded itself in the wood of the loft just in front of William's face. He scrambled back.
'Stay here!' he told Portia. He grabbed his sword and swung over the edge of the loft, dropping to the stable floor below. He rolled as he landed and sprang to his feet just in time to parry a sword thrust aimed at his heart. His attacker lunged again, his movements quick and graceful, and William skipped away backwards, stepping behind one of the wooden posts that held up the loft. 'Who are you?' he asked.
'I am Carlos, and I am the last man you will ever meet,' the man said in Italian with a heavy Spanish accent.
The man lunged past the post, forcing William back. He pressed the attack, and William gave ground as he struggled to parry the Spaniard's lightning moves. William had received endless hours of sword lessons from Longo, but he was no match for this man. Carlos swung high, and as William ducked, Carlos's knees came up to catch him in the chin. William stumbled backwards and his back slammed into the wall of the barn. He parried a blow from Carlos, and their swords locked, bringing them close together. Carlos head-butted William, stunning him, and then slashed across his sword arm. William dropped his sword. There was nowhere for him to retreat.
Carlos lunged, and his sword dug into the wall as William twisted out of the way. Then the Spaniard stumbled back cursing as something made of glass shattered against his head with a flash of light. William swung out, catching his adversary in the chin and dropping him. He looked up and could make out Portia standing in the loft. She had thrown the lamp at Carlos, but the burning oil had sprayed across the floor, and the trampled straw had caught flame. Chickens in their coops began to squawk and the cows snorted and rolled their eyes. The fire was spreading quickly, filling the barn with smoke. Flames began to run up the wall of the barn towards the loft.
'Jump!' William called to Portia. She leapt from the loft, and he caught her, falling as he did so. They scrambled to their feet and ran out leaving the prone form of Carlos behind.
William put his arm around Portia and pulled her close to him as they stood in the cold night, watching as the flames engulfed the building. Behind him, William heard the thunder of hooves and turned. It was Longo and Tristo. They reined in, and Longo leapt from the saddle. 'Are you all right?' he asked. 'Both of you?'
William nodded. 'There was a man, Carlos. He tried to kill me,' William said. He pointed to the barn. 'He's in there.' Just then, the roof of the burning structure gave way and collapsed, sending a shower of sparks into the sky. 'Do you know why?'
'Paolo,' Longo explained. 'I fear we have not seen the end of this.' A long wail of pain reached Longo where he stood at the low wall that surrounded his villa, waiting for the birth of his child. Julia's birth pains had started the previous night, shortly after Longo had returned with Tristo and William. After hours of waiting, Longo had finally fled his quarters to the wall, where the cold rain was preferable to Julia's terrible screaming.
The news of Paolo's betrayal had upset her, and she had entered labour early. Longo was worried for her, but even more for the child she carried. Ever since his childhood, he had been tormented by dreams of the scar-faced Turk who had murdered his family, but now when he dreamt, he often dreamt of a son. He knew that his child might well be a girl, but in his dreams the child was always a boy. Longo would teach him to read or to ride, or they would fish or walk the vineyards together. The boy would have a good life, the life that Longo had not had.
A particularly loud, anguished cry from Julia drew Longo from his thoughts. And then there was silence, broken almost immediately by the loud bawling of an infant. A moment later, Tristo's wife Maria and the midwife emerged from the villa. The midwife was covered in blood; she cradled a wailing infant in her arms. There were tears in her eyes.
'What has happened? Is it a boy?' Longo asked.
The midwife nodded, and showed Longo the bundle she held. It was a boy, with fine blond hair and Longo's blue eyes. The child cried in the cold, and Longo took him and held him close.
'Julia asked that he be called Carlo, after her brother,' Maria said.
Longo nodded. 'How is Julia?'
The midwife turned away, choking back tears. Maria placed her hand on Longo's shoulder. 'I am sorry. She died giving birth.'
Longo held his child closer as he turned away and looked out over the rows of pruned vines. He had not loved Julia, but he had grown fond of her, and he felt for his newborn child, who would never know his mother. Carlo was only a babe, and already his life was marked by loss.
'We are in mourning,' Longo said. 'Cover all the mirrors and close up the shutters of the house. I will ride to town to inform her father.' Longo rode into the Grimaldi palazzo and was shown immediately to Grimaldi's private quarters. Grimaldi sat at a small table, drinking coffee. He rose when Longo entered. 'If you have come about Paolo,' Grimaldi began, 'then I must again apologize for my son.'
'It is not that,' Longo told him. 'Julia has given birth.'