Pietro turned quickly back to Katerina, who was listening to the poetry with her eyes closed. She owned the Scaligeri love of language. Miraculously, Cesco had fallen asleep. Pietro decided he could depart for a little while without offence. "If you'll excuse me," he whispered to Katerina.
Her eyes opened. "I will, if you promise to return after the race and keep me company."
He promised willingly, then passed the sleeping bundle off to the nurse. As Pietro stood, his greyhound rose to follow. "Mercurio, stay." The dog obeyed, curling up beneath Cesco's dangling feet.
Pietro crutched through the crowd. Gianozza watched him approach and curtsied when he drew near. "Cavaliere." The ladies around her giggled.
"Ladies." Pietro nodded to them, then addressed Gianozza. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare. My mind was elsewhere."
Some of the girls nearby tittered and made sly comments. Realizing how they were looking at him, Pietro blushed. Taking his arm, Gianozza moved him closer to the open window. "Is there no woman in your life, Ser Alaghieri?"
"Not — not that I could marry, no."
The girl cocked her head and said a little breathlessly, "Does that mean you love someone whom you cannot marry?"
Pietro could have cut out his treacherous tongue. "No, lady, that's not what I meant. Simply, I know few women of marriageable age."
"Mmm. It's a shame I don't have a little sister at home." She turned towards the dark night outside. Torches were burning atop a building off to the left, the grand domicile of Cangrande's cousin Federigo. A party was going on there as well, the guests no doubt enjoying their excellent view of the finishing line. A similar torch burned at Pietro's elbow, perched just on the exterior of the Scaliger palace to mark the finish line.
Gianozza gestured at the snow. "Do you think it is too cold for them?"
"Not at all, lady. In the race this afternoon I was surprised at how quickly I forgot the cold." He told her of the fur-lined cloak that was now trampled into the mud of the river.
"Perhaps a duck will make a nest of it?" she suggested.
"Cold comfort, lady. It was a very nice cloak."
"I'm sure it still is."
"I'm sorry. It's foolish, but I was brought up to — well, to be frugal."
"As was I. I expect that being married to Ser Capulletto will be a shocking change for a girl used to thrice-mended gowns. But your donation of the cloak was a fine Christian act. At this very moment you are being praised by the duck family for your generosity." She laughed, then leaned close. "Are you sad not be racing with them?"
The girl was certainly forthright! That wasn't something you got from looking at her. "Yes, I'm afraid I am a little jealous of Antony and Mari."
"You're honest," she noted with approval. "Signore Capulletto said you were very brave at Vicenza. You and Cavaliere Montecchio. Tell me — was he in some way displeased with me? He left shortly after I entered the hall downstairs. Is it anything that I did?"
Pietro did not want to answer. He certainly didn't want to tell her Mari's opinion of her match. "He had a great deal on his mind. Just before you arrived, his father had recounted the tale of his mother's death."
Gianozza's brow knit in concern. "May I ask you to tell me the story?"
"It is not my story to tell. You should ask him yourself." He asked a personal question of his own. "Are you and your uncle close?"
"Great-uncle," she corrected at once. "He's the lord of the family but I rarely saw him until I came of age."
Until you became useful. Peasants could marry for love, but not the nobility. To them, marriage was a contract between families, an effort to produce children and further familial designs. Love was for extramarital affairs. Even the Church, which had proclaimed marriage a sacrament only sixty years before, winked at this custom. Courtly love, the love that yearns, pines, and burns — this was reserved for the world outside of marriage. Isn't that backward?
For a long time now Pietro had felt his hackles rise whenever the subject was broached. Perhaps it was because of his mother, and the sad look on her face whenever she read her husband's works. Their families had arranged Dante's marriage to Gemma Donati, but the poet's heart belonged to another — Beatrice, the Bringer of Blessings. Dante had dedicated his life's work to her, all the while sharing his days and his bed with a woman who was merely his wife. Perhaps peasants had the better bargain.
Still, Gianozza was in no danger of being marginalized. Antony had clearly set his cap on winning her heart. Even if she could not return his love, she would always be adored.
The girl was gazing at the snow that rose and fell in short gusts of wind blowing outside. "My family comes from a small hamlet to the southeast of Padua — Bovolento. My father was Signore Jacopino della Bella. I doubt you've heard of him. He died last year."
"Of what?"
"The gout." She said this last sadly, her eyes welling with tears.
"I'm so sorry," said Pietro, hoping to forestall any crying. "So you're not properly a Carrara?"
The girl sniffed, blinked. "My mother is Il Grande's niece."
"Oh."
The conversation ground to a halt. Pietro didn't know what to make of the girl. Something about her made him incredibly uncomfortable. As if he was supposed to do something, but he had no idea what.
The wind outside picked up, throwing snowflakes into their eyes like tiny daggers of ice. To escape it they turned inward towards the festive throng. Music played. Deeming the hour right, Manuel, Cangrande's fool, had produced his lute and pipe. He managed to play both at once, a lively tune that men and women clapped along with. Among them, capering on his thick legs, was ruddy-faced Ludovico Capulletto. The middle-aged man hopped to and fro in opposition to the notes. Lord Montecchio was laughing in spite of himself, and many others leapt up to join the sportive Capuan.
"I'm afraid he's got it too," said Gianozza.
"What's that?"
Nodding at Capulletto, she said, "You see how he's favoring his right foot? Each step is painful. That's the beginning of the gout. No wonder he's trying to marry all his family off so young."
"Who else is there for him to betrothe? Antony is his only unmarried son."
"There is a grandson."
"Really? I didn't know he had a grandson."
"Well, there's no reason you should," said Gianozza. "He hasn't been born yet."
"You mean Luigi's baby?" Pietro's voice was louder than he'd intended. "He's engaged his unborn grandson? To whom?"
"A daughter of the Guarini family. She's about one now, I think. So they'll be of an age."
"That's ludicrous!"
"It's — unusual. As I understand it, part of the reason Signore Capulletto chose Verona was his strong ties to the Guarini. They've been partners in many business deals. Not," she added hastily, "that he's in trade any longer. He employs others to run those parts of his affairs these days." The girl's hands balled up into little fists. "Oh, I'm making a terrible fool of myself!"
Pietro ignored the distressed damsel in her tone. "How do they know the child will even be a boy?"
"All the midwives have said so. It's low, they tell the mother. That means it will be a boy. They've even named it."
"What name?"
"Theobaldo, I believe."
Pietro tried to imagine being betrothed from the womb. "Poor Theobaldo."
"Well, the alliance keeps his family on strong terms with theirs. It's better than the alternative."
"Which is?"
"Breaking Ser Capulletto's engagement to me and betrothing him to the Guarini child instead."
The image of Antony carrying his infant bride towards the altar made Pietro laugh aloud, and he turned back towards the biting snow from the window to hide his face as he pictured Antony slipping a wedding band on the baby's tiny little finger.