"Should, could, would, dear sister. I will have it my own way."
"Not if I say otherwise."
"Even then."
Their gazes locked, neither giving ground.
He didn't know where Cangrande planned to journey, nor why Donna Katerina wanted to undertake the trip herself. All he knew was he wanted to be helpful to them both. Almost before he realized it he was saying, "I'll go with you, lord."
Both Scaligeri turned and Pietro felt a frisson of unease as their eyes examined him. Still, he pressed on. "I'm well enough, and I've been going mad lying still all the time. I want to do something."
Brother and sister exchanged a look. Cangrande spoke first. "I would be glad of the company. With that said, I don't want you to worsen your injury or fall ill from a drenching. I have a long ride ahead of me. We wouldn't be back before morning. If at all," he added ominously.
"I would be honoured to aid you in any way, my lord."
"You didn't answer my question, Pietro."
"Perhaps you should ask one, then." Stepping close, Katerina laid a light hand on Pietro's sleeve. Her proximity was enough to make Pietro forget the chill rain. He could smell a hint of spiced malmsey on her breath, mixed with that wonderful lavender. "What we want to know is if you're well enough. Are you?"
"Yes, lady."
"This errand will be a secret, though its outcome will not. These events must always remain beneath the rose, as it were."
"Or herkos odonton, as the Greeks say," added Cangrande. "Within the hedge of your teeth."
Katerina examined her brother with wry disdain. "Peacock. I find the image of Cupid buying some fool's silence for a rose somehow endearing."
"And appropriate, if I am to play Cupid. But Pietro is no fool."
"No, he is not. May we trust you with this secret, Pietro?"
A secret mission! It's dangerous — dangerous enough to have the Scaliger asking about Fate and the stars. Something's happening that he's worried about. Something that's kept him from attacking Padua. This is what he's been waiting for! He's wrong, I am a fool — I doubted him!
Cangrande mistook Pietro's silence for embarrassment. "Sister, you are unworthy. Trust cannot be promised. It either is, or isn't. Twice now Signore Alaghieri has acted to my benefit. That is proof enough."
"I stand chastised." The lady removed her hand from Pietro's sleeve. "In any case, it is not my secret, is it?"
If it was a thrust, Cangrande did not parry. Pietro was beginning to notice how often her taunts — if that was truly what they were — went ignored. Instead Cangrande said, "What was it you came up with, Pietro? A man may control his actions, but not his stars."
"Actually, it was you who — "
"Tonight we shall test how fixed fate is. We shall see if the ordained comes to pass." A steely look hardened the ocean-blue eyes. "If my fate is indeed written, then the stars will see that my actions are still worthy of the Greyhound."
It was the first time Pietro had ever heard that particular title pass the Capitano's lips. Of all the names the Scaliger owned, the Greyhound was perhaps his most revered. It was unsettling, therefore, to hear him utter it with such loathing.
Twelve
Pietro cracked the door to his father's room. Dante and Poco were both asleep. Pietro crept as best he could to a trunk in the corner, imagining the picture he made, a limping thief with a crutch. Opening the trunk was so noisy he gave up on secrecy and went for speed.
Sure enough, Poco sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for breeches." To prove his point he held up the trousers he'd found in the dim brazier light.
"Why?"
"I'm going riding." Telling Poco the truth was the best way to make him disbelieve it.
"Is this about your stupid leg?"
"Shut up."
"Did you ask father if you could wear his breeches?"
"No, Poco," said Pietro, using the name his brother hated. "But if you want to wake him, I'll wait."
Poco gave Pietro the fig and rolled over. Leaving the room bearing the breeches in hand, Pietro stopped off in a shadowed hall to struggle into the unfamiliar apparel. Looking down, he was pleased to see they hid his wound entirely. Boots back in place, he picked up his crutch and followed the directions Donna Katerina had given him. On the ground floor there was a panel covered by a tapestry of a pastoral scene. Opening the panel, Pietro discovered a staircase spiraling down. With a hand on the wall to steady himself, he hobbled down to the bottom. It smelled dank and musty here, and Pietro had to bat at his nose to keep from sneezing. Thankfully Cangrande had left a lighted candle behind him, so Pietro didn't have to navigate it in total darkness.
In three minutes he was at the tunnel's end facing a solid wall. He felt for the catch and after several tries found it, opening a sliding wooden panel. Immediately he smelled the wet straw of a stable. He slipped through the panel and closed it behind him.
The place was deserted except for Cangrande and two saddled horses. Both horses were remarkably dark-coloured. Hearing Pietro's step disturbing the straw, the Scaliger turned. "That was quick. Any trouble?"
"No, lord."
"Good. I hope you don't mind, I've chosen your horse for you." While the Capitano's horse was a huge ebony beast, Pietro's was a rust-brown palfrey, a short-legged, long-bodied horse that had a gentle amble for a gait. It was a fine-looking young thing, obviously just broken to the saddle. Pietro ran a hand over its neck. The muscles under the dark coat rippled.
The choice of horse was solicitous. Palfreys weren't as fast as other horses, but the smooth ride they afforded made them suitable mounts for the wounded or aged, who also might have difficulty mounting a taller horse.
The Capitano had laid two extra cloaks across the necks of both horses. The cloaks covered broadsword sheaths strapped tightly to both saddles. A good one-handed sword was in place on Pietro's, but Cangrande's sheath stood empty.
Not for long. From his hip Cangrande drew the hereditary sword of the della Scala clan. It wasn't a particularly fancy or attractive weapon. It bore no jewels or ornate carvings, and the wooden grip was only long enough for one hand. Bound with thin iron wire, the grip ran between a gilt pommel and a guard decorated with a small metal triangle. A deep groove ran down in the center of either side of the double-edged blade, measuring about twice the length of the Scaliger's forearm. It shone as he lifted it from its scabbard and fitted it in the sheath on the saddle.
Pietro lifted the cloak on his own mount and discovered in addition to a sword a long, thick dagger. "Should we have shields? Helmets?"
"No, but put this on." Cangrande handed Pietro a quilted black gambeson. "Real armour would slow us down as well as give us away. We want to look like unfortunate travelers." As Pietro laced the gambeson in place, Cangrande produced two huge sagum cloaks, scarves, and a pair of wide-brimmed hats to keep them dry. "Now please don't be offended, Pietro, but I'm tying a lead from my horse to yours. The last thing we need is to lose each other in this tempest, and where we're going calling out would be — unadvisable." Curious and excited, Pietro said it was fine with him. "May I also suggest, in deference to your injury, that you ride like an Arab. Or half an Arab. Put your left foot in the stirrup, but tuck your right knee around the saddlehorn. Here, allow me to get you situated. Hup! Good, now cover your injury with the cloaks. Excellent. Hopefully that will stay dry. Does it hurt?"
It did, but Pietro couldn't bring himself to say so. Cangrande had just finished helping Pietro to mount when they heard a voice from the door. "You both look quite menacing. Perhaps you should try your hands at highway robbery while you're out." In her arms she carried wineskins and a bundle of what smelled like meat. More than anything else this so far, the fact that she brought it herself impressed upon Pietro the secrecy of this mission.