“No, Pietro. She’s not right for you.”
“Not right?” He could still feel the disbelief. “What does that mean? She’s well-mannered, beautiful, healthy, and her father has money! No other woman could be so ideal for me.”
“That’s not the point. We are here only long enough for me to persuade the Abbot, you know that. There is no time for you to court her. No, leave her alone, and we will find you a wife when we return home.”
“Home? I know all the women at home! Avice is the woman I want.”
“Yes? And how will you win her hand? You are prepared to stay in this country, are you? What would you do when I left?”
His father had been amused, his tone patronizing, but his conviction that Pietro was wrong made his son determined. Antonio had no right to prevent him choosing the woman he wanted; he was old enough to choose for himself.
“I’ll stay here with her if I want!”
“Without my money to keep you?”
“ Your money?”
Antonio had frozen at that, his confidence evaporating at the sharpness in his son’s tone. He took a deep breath and spoke placatingly. “Pietro, you must see that this is impossible. We must be gone within a few days. What if something goes wrong? You would still be in this country-at risk.”
“I am willing to take that risk: I want her.”
Their servant entered, pouring ale from a jug. Antonio had sipped and pulled a grimace. “This tastes like something the dogs have passed!”
His son shrugged. Antonio had always disliked ale, but refused to pay English prices for wine. It was exorbitant in this godforsaken land.
Pietro hated quarrelling with his father for there were bonds of loyalty between them that went further than the usual ties of blood. His mother had died when he was not yet two years old, struck down by a runaway wagon in a narrow alley in Florence. The boy had grown up without even a memory of his mother, and had depended on his father more than anyone. It had made their relationship unusually close.
But that very closeness was now suffocating him. He longed to escape from his father’s rule and create his own life, rather than always being an associate in Antonio’s schemes. And Avice was his concept of perfection.
It had been a sheer fluke that they had bumped into her this morning at the fair. Even his father could not then refuse to talk to her and her father, and Pietro had walked with her while their parents had followed.
It had been wonderful, just being with her. Even her kindness to the monk was an indication of her generosity of spirit. But afterward his father had not changed his mind. “Pietro, just think what you are risking! You know what almost happened in Bayonne. Your life could be in danger.”
“Father, I love her!”
“You only met her yesterday. Today you love her; tomorrow you may loathe her. She’s pretty, but she’s not worth dying for.”
Pietro didn’t have to accept his father’s commands any more; he was old enough to know his own mind. He cursed under his breath. His father had always ruled him: he never had any say in their fortunes. What Antonio demanded was what he expected; what Antonio demanded was what he got. The wishes of others were irrelevant. Pietro felt suddenly very alone. If Avice did not accept him, what would he do? He had made his position clear to his father-if she did not accept his wooing, he was not sure he could apologize to his father and beg forgiveness. Antonio was too proud to accept him back without an apology, but Pietro was not self-confident enough to be able to do that wholeheartedly.
There was a giggle from further along the road, and his head snapped to the sound. He recognized her even from that simple explosion of mirth.
At first he saw nothing. Where he stood was in shadow, and after glancing upward, he was blinded. In the road all seemed gloomy and dull, it bent and twisted away, sinuous as a snake, and seemed to grow ever more dingy as it wound its way further up the hill, erratically making its way north. It was from that direction that he heard her voice, and he wondered what could have made her so cheery. There were too many people in the street, and he could not see past them to Avice. Then at last he caught a glimpse of her between other, irrelevant figures, and he felt a quick pleasure. Seeing a man at her side, he stiffened with jealousy-until he recognized her father.
Arthur Pole nudged his daughter as the figure detached itself from the wall and stood as if wondering whether to approach or wait. “See what you’ve done now?” he murmured.
“Oh, Father! It’s hardly my fault. I haven’t led him on or anything.”
The merchant eyed his daughter with good-humored cynicism. “Oh? And I suppose you didn’t tell him where we were staying, is that right?”
“He would keep asking,” she said serenely.
“Avice Pole, I don’t know what will become of you.” Her father took a deep breath and cast a sidelong glance at her. “You know your mother is set on John and…”
“Father, I don’t want to argue about it,” she said firmly.
Arthur Pole blinked slowly in exasperation. In his house he knew that his servants called him the “scold’s saddle,” and he often felt he deserved it, for no matter how often he tried to impose his will on Marion, his wife, he usually tended to be pulled round to her point of view. She overrode his objections and forced him to agree with her. It was much easier and created a better atmosphere in his home if he surrendered.
When he looked at Avice now, he could see in her the woman he had married-and yet Avice was more than that. With her fine features and wide-set green eyes, she was more beautiful than even Marion had been. Her face was perfect, with high cheekbones, a healthy pale complexion dotted with small freckles, and marred only by the pugnacious set of her chin. As he glanced at her, he saw her eyes light with glee at the sight of the Venetian. There was little doubt that she had her heart firmly set on the boy.
“Master Pietro,” he called coldly. “What a coincidence you should be here.”
“Hello, Pietro,” Avice cooed, and her father shot her a glance. She was growing too fast, he thought. Her tone held just the right note of flattering pleasure and promise. Arthur determined to set her maid to watch her.
“Sir,” Pietro said, then bowed. “Miss Avice.”
She preened-she positively preened herself, Arthur saw. One bow and his daughter lost all control. He set his jaw. It was all too likely that this jackanapes Venetian was only after one thing, and Arthur Pole would protect his girl against a predatory foreigner. “Can we help you?”
The boy was dressed outrageously, in a manner which would have been ridiculous for an Englishman. At least that must count against him. The Venetians, with their fleet of ships and vast financial resources, could afford pretty much what they wanted, and now, with the money being generated in England, they could behave as they pleased, but the rich red velvet of the boy’s cloak, the fur lining of his hood, the hose of green and red, all pointed to an opulence which was outlandish, and more than a little embarrassing. Arthur felt sure his girl could not be attracted to such a vain boy for long.
He was wrong. The startling flamboyance of Pietro’s dress was the very core of his attractiveness to her. Avice eyed his costume with unconcealed delight.
“Sir, after meeting your daughter this morning I have not been able to forget her, and I came here to wait, hoping I might be able to catch a glimpse of her.”
“I don’t think-” Arthur began haughtily, but Avice cut him off as their door opened.
“What a pretty speech, but I hope you have not been chilled by the wind. Pietro, you must come inside and warm yourself by our fire. Would you join us in a drink? We have some very good wine from Guyenne. Father, if you could see to our guest’s needs, I shall join you shortly. First I must go and tidy myself.”