Breath hissed out between his clenched teeth. Both legs were present. He'd feared that Morsicato might have just given up and amputated. But no, his right leg was still attached, wrapped tightly in linen bandaging with a swaddled hot brick beneath it. No wonder he was drenched in sweat.
Across the dim room came the rustle of cloth traveling over a rush-strewn floor. A figure approached, tall and regal. In the low light of the brazier it was hard to see until she was just beside him. Donna Katerina. In the warmth of the room she had released her hair. Not sun-bleached like her brother's, hers was a magnificently rich chestnut colour. It fell to the top of her thighs, draping across her back and swaying with every movement. With that luscious hair as a frame, and her face lit from below by the warm glow of the coals, she was no longer severe. She was breathtakingly beautiful.
Pietro recalled the banter before the battle when his friends had mocked the idea of going to war for a woman. In this moment it wasn't impossible to imagine.
Realizing he was holding his breath he blew it out and inhaled quickly, swallowing a gust of brazier smoke that made him choke.
Donna Katerina settled onto a stool beside him. "Are you all right?"
"Thirsty — " he choked.
A cup appeared, and though the water was warm he gulped it down greedily. "Thank you, lady."
"Shhh. Lie back."
He obeyed, settling back onto the daybed, propped up by a pillow he had been biting down on an hour before. From a bucket she produced a cloth which she wrung out then placed gently on his forehead. It felt wonderfully cool. Suddenly he was aware of just how much he was sweating. Worse, he was acutely aware of his nakedness under the flannel. He lay there, willing himself not to move as she mopped the sweat from his face and neck. It was, in the darkness, a very intimate act.
When his father had been nine years old, the poet had met a woman like no other. Donna Beatrice Portinari had inspired Dante to devote himself to her, a devotion that long outlasted the lady's life. Though he'd married elsewhere, in his mind, in his soul, Dante Alaghieri had given himself to the image and idea of a woman who was above and beyond all women. Divine.
Father — I understand.
A stirring across the room caused the lady to pause. She replaced the cloth in the bucket and glided across the room, away from him. He took the opportunity to pull the flannel a little higher. The sweat was gathering at his back, making the daybed damp. He shifted again, this time rolling slightly to his left. He'd closed his eyes, so they took several moments to adjust to the light from the brazier when he opened them again. Strange shapes swam into and out of his vision. He'd had a fever as a child. This was very like fever, but far more relaxing.
Morsicato had spoken of this during the operation, trying to distract his patient. "The room will have to be kept warm to simulate the fever, and perhaps we can convince the body that a prolonged fever isn't necessary. Hopefully we'll purge the evil humours, and restore balance to the gasses that've been lost." Gasses? He'd lost blood, not passed gas. Nothing made sense…
"Signor Alaghieri?"
He hadn't heard her come back. "Yes, Domina?" He felt the thumping of his heart in his throat, the coarseness of the wolf fur across his legs.
"I thought you might still be awake." She resumed her seat, the keys jangling gently as they fell into the folds of her lap. "Do you know where you are?"
"Yes, Domina." His voice seemed very hoarse. He closed his eyes again.
"Good. Signore Montecchio has accompanied Signore Capecelatro on a walk through the city in an effort to keep him moving. Ser Morsicato has gone on to tend other patients, leaving you to aid me in fulfilling my brother's orders." Again Pietro heard the touch of disdain in her voice. The lady's hand resumed its chore, stopping only to refresh the damp cloth. "Signor, do you mind speaking?"
"Not at all, Domina." Pietro tried to sit upright, only to be restrained by a gentle hand.
"You must rest. I should not be speaking with you at all. But I find that the time goes by more quickly in conversation. Don't you agree?"
"Yes, Donna."
"You are recently arrived from Paris, no? Do you mind if we converse in French? I get to practice less often than I would like."
"À votre plaisir," replied Pietro, eager to aid her. He shifted again, trying to remove himself from the dampest part of the daybed while not dislodging the flannel. He found a more comfortable position-reclining rather than lying on the pillows-from here he could meet her eyes and remain at rest.
"You are uneasy," she observed in French, leaning slightly forward. "Is it the wound?"
The scent of her — lavender, he thought — filled Pietro's senses like a balm. "Non, madame." It was true. In that moment, the wound was the farthest thing from Pietro's thoughts. For the rest of his life he would smell lavender and think of her, leaning over him, her gown's neckline opening… He hastened to change the topic. "Who else is here?"
She half turned to glance over her shoulder. "My brother-in-law. He, too, had to have a bolt removed from his body-but he was attempting to do the surgery himself. He had the notion that I would be angry with him for some reason. Can you imagine that? A grown man, a knight, avoiding me?" Somehow French seemed to suit her mood, carrying both amusement and scorn.
"It is beyond all comprehension."
"Quite. When my girl found him, he refused to come. I had to send several of my pages to fetch him here. As soon as Morsicato was finished with your wound he began on Lord Nogarola's. There is some doubt as to the condition of his shoulder, but evidently he will live to face my wrath. Do you fear my wrath, Monseuir Alaghieri?"
"I should fear doing anything to displease you, madame."
The soft mirthful ripple was more breath than voice. "Diplomacy is a lost art, monsieur. You ought to lend it your skills. It would no doubt undergo a renaissance."
"Oui, Madame Nogarola."
"Pietro," she said, switching back to their native tongue, "I have been informed that you have, beyond all reason, risked yourself to save my brother's life. And that you rode into a band of armed men alone and unaided, thus winning the engagement for our city. When we are in company, you may refer to me as donna, domina, or madame. In private, my name is Katerina."
Pietro looked into the eyes of this woman twice his age, knowing she could never be his. He also knew it didn't matter.
"Yes, Donna."
The conversation continued in fits and starts, pausing as Donna Nogarola checked her brother-in-law or sent servants for fresh linens and water. After each brief interval, she returned to Pietro's bedside to ask more questions. He tried to describe her brother's actions, but she seemed more interested in Pietro. He found himself being asked about his life — growing up in Florence; the exile of his father; the brilliant, ambitious little sister; the youthful deaths of two little brothers followed by the death of his older brother Giovanni, which catapulted Pietro to the role of heir. He talked of the journey two years before to join Dante in Paris, after being separated from his father for ten years. He described their return to Italy in the wake of the Emperor Heinrich, and their eventual settling in Lucca.
When he reached their arrival in Verona the night before, the lady leaned back, her eyes narrowed. "So you had never met my brother before today?"
"Yesterday," he corrected as if it made a difference.