"But — your device, the banner — "
"It's the same dog my father used. The Scaligeri hound was created for Mastino. And I am, after all, Cane Grande." He flashed a brief, heartless version of his famous smile. "But I am not Il Veltro. I do not use the title. I have no right to it. When I ride into battle, it is to fight for my city and my honour. I will fight for God, if He asks." His voice became hard. "But I will not be the tool of Fate."
Thunder rumbled overhead. In a quiet voice Pietro said, "Why are — you hardly know me."
Cangrande's true grin returned. "Can't you tell? I want you to stay. I'm a good judge of character, Pietro, and you seem like a handy man to have around. So I'm seducing you — first, I give you political confidences, then personal ones." He sipped some wine. "Your father has expressed a desire to settle in one place. Have you thought about what you're going to do once he does?"
Pietro took in a breath. Honesty deserved honesty. "I have no idea. I was meant for the Church, but now that I'm the heir I have to find another career. I don't know what."
Cangrande's lips turned up at the corners. "I'm sure we can come up with something. In the meantime you can do something for me."
"Anything, lord."
"I want you to convince your father I'm not what he thinks I am."
Pietro shook his head. "He'll have you walking on water in the next volume."
"I'd rather turn water into wine, if it comes to that." After an awkward moment, he continued quietly. "Pietro, I know what I am. A man with gifts, yes, but no better than most, and quite a bit worse than the best I have known. How can a man live life as a myth? I tell you this — if I thought that I was truly the chosen champion of the heavens, I would fight it." His voice possessed a feverish quality. "Just to see her fail, I would fight it with all my might."
Her? Though Pietro had an idea whom Cangrande meant, he chose not to comment. Instead he was about to remark that they had hardly touched the wine when he heard a horse let out a short grunt. Their mounts were tied yards from the church. In the time they had been waiting, he'd not heard them once. This horse seemed closer, just outside the door.
The Scaliger's hand edged closer to his sword — he'd heard it too. He gestured to Pietro to stay still, then stood, sword low by his side.
Someone appeared in the weak illumination of the doorframe. Covered in a hooded cloak, the figure was a full head shorter than Pietro, hunched over a bundle carried gingerly and close. There was something in the way the figure moved that reminded Pietro, inexplicably, of a Pietà.
"Donna Maria," said the Capitano, standing and leaving his sword behind. "You did not have to come yourself."
"Then we're both surprised. I certainly didn't expect you to come." The voice under the folds of the cloak carrried a strange lilt to it. Nor could Pietro place the dialect. There were hints of Paduan, but something more polished beneath. Italian did not seem to be her first tongue, though she was perfectly used to it.
Crossing to her side, Cangrande lifted one of the spare cloaks from off its peg as he passed. Seeing Pietro, the lady held up a forestalling hand. "You are not alone."
"I thought a witness might be useful. If ever you should need him, his name is Pietro Alaghieri." Pietro stood awkwardly and bowed. "You may trust him."
"I should tell you I am expected elsewhere."
Cangrande bowed. "Then we will not keep you."
Reluctantly she allowed herself to be guided past Pietro to the altar, far from door and rain. The Capitano lifted the drenched cloak off of her and, tossing it aside, covered her in the folds of the dry one. By the weak candlelight Pietro glimpsed dark hair coiled tightly against the lady's head. Woven into the braids were many pearls. She didn't glance up, but Pietro didn't sense fear in her. Something else was behind her furtiveness. Her head was bent over the thing she bore in her arms. She carried it like-
Like a baby.
She was carrying a child. Now that he listened, Pietro could hear it murmuring. A baby? What was going on?
Cangrande and the woman rested themselves close to the altar, a decent space separating them. They spoke softly for only a few minutes, the Scaliger doing most of the talking. Once or twice he put a question to the woman and she answered. All the time she looked at the child in her arms.
Pietro was unable to hear their hushed words, nor was he meant to. Trying not to look like he was eavesdropping, Pietro continued to fidget, running his hands over the bench under him. His fingers encountered a thing protruding from the wood. Absently he began prying at whatever it was. The wood was old and after a few seconds the object came away in his hand. Examining it by feel alone, it felt like a disc, large, round, and flat.
Surreptitiously he lifted it to the light, keeping it low by his side. On one side there was an impression of a laurel wreath with the word PAX over it. Turning it over in his fingers he saw a helmet with wings, but it took some scraping with his nails to uncover the word at the top.
MERCVRIO.
Lightning struck a mile away, illuminating the church with bizarre shadows behind their heads. As the accompanying thunder rolled overhead, the baby began to cry. The lady made a shushing noise as she removed the satchel holding it from around her neck. She seemed to be favoring one arm, as if sore. Hugging the child to her breast, she crooned some soft words meant for the infant alone. Kissing the bundled babe, she passed it over to Cangrande's waiting embrace.
The Scaliger had to raise his voice to be heard over the still-rolling thunder. "Has he received baptism?"
"He has."
"And christening?"
"He has. His name is — "
"I know what his name was. He will have to go through it again."
"Fine." Standing, the lady produced a sealed letter. "All you need is here."
The Capitano tucked the letter away inside his doublet. Abruptly the lady turned and strode the length of the chapel, passing Pietro. She lifted her soaked hooded cloak from where it lay, dropping the thick dry one the Scaliger had given her.
From the altar Cangrande said, "What will you do?"
As she turned her head Pietro thought he could just make out the colour of her eyes as the candlelight flickered across them. They were a shade so dark as to almost be black. "I? I shall disappear. But I will be watching."
"If you ever need-"
She almost laughed as she cut across him. "I shall not come to you."
"He will be well guarded. Always, Maria. You have my word."
The lady's hand swept over her face in a violent motion. Pietro realized she was scrubbing away tears. He looked away from her, busied himself by tucking the coin into his purse. She did not deserve to be stared at in her grief.
There was a swirling of the layers of her skirts, then she was gone.
Pietro stared into the darkness. This can't be it. Tell me this wasn't our secret mission. Recalling a piece of conversation he'd heard between Cangrande and Katerina, he leapt to the obvious conclusion. A by-blow! A bastard! The battle, his wounds, Mari and Antony's daring, Nogarola's lost arm, so many dead — all for this? This daring and dangerous midnight invasion of Padua through a storm that could still murder them on the return, not to take the city, but to collect the Scaliger's illegitimate son! All this talk of just cause, of Fate, bad luck, the stars, his grand plans, all sacrificed on this altar of pride or — what? Blood? The need for a son, even one from the wrong side of the sheets? Pietro was aghast. How could he?
Unable to hide his incredulity, Pietro said, "This is why you didn't invade Padua."
Back near the altar, Cangrande stood beneath the large stone cross, the wriggling bundle in his arms. "Shhh." Looking down into the face hidden in the folds of the bundle, his visage was shadowed from the light. "Yes."