Page 18
A s we reentered the dining room, the long table held empty chairs where the children had sat, and the adults wore varying expressions of reprieve or boredom or satisfaction.
Marcellus, I noted, looked like a killer granted a reprieve from hanging—Cesario, with his incessant questions, had a way of making grown men fear him.
Friar Camillo viewed Barnadine with some alarm, for Barnadine sat, face buried in his goblet, covered with splashes of the red wine he’d spilled.
Cal escorted me back to my chair by Nonna Ursula, then moved to stand at the head of the table. “The wedding will take place on the first day of winter. No later. Whatever relative and friend wishes to attend and cannot make arrangements in that amount of time need never wait upon us again.”
Zoinds, Cal. Way to put it plainly.
He nodded his head to me, a confirmation that he’d done as I asked, and done as he wished.
“It shall be done.” Mamma sounded so calm, there might never have been a discussion.
I seated myself. He seated himself. The first course arrived, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
Simple platters of cheeses, salamis, and fruits were passed from hand to hand, and ample baskets of breads and bowls of first-press olive oil followed.
We used forks to spear whatever foods we desired.
All except Nonna Ursula, who scowled and proclaimed, “That silly new gadget will never last when fingers do the job so well.” She proceeded to use her hands to load her plate.
When she passed me the platter, she advised, “Eat up! The rest of the meal will be wretched. If your reputation be true, and the famed Montague meals be as delicious as I’ve heard, I look forward to the moment when you take over the palace kitchens.
I’m too old, Cal’s too busy, and my granddaughter too inexperienced. ”
Sadly, she was correct. After the first course, one cold and mediocre dish followed another. I watched as the food was returned, barely touched, to the kitchen, and wondered who profited from the sale of the foods. As future wife of the podestà, I knew I’d find out soon enough.
Yet for all that, we were a merry table of good company. Cal got his wish; the families and attendants grew to know each other in conversation and temperament.
Nonna Ursula pulled her shawl up on her shoulders. “I feel a chill.”
As did I, and when I turned to look at her, I knew why. Elder hovered in the air between us, seemingly seated on an invisible chair. I gasped and pulled away.
“What? Did someone walk on your grave?” Papà joked; the ancients believed that when a shiver ran up your spine, someone had placed a footstep on your eventual resting place.
“Not my grave,” I said crisply.
“My mother is a font of information,” Elder informed me. “She may be the meanest old lady in the world, but she’s never wrong and she never forgets a detail.”
I glanced toward him and nodded, hoping that without me saying anything, he’d understand that I knew what he wanted me to do.
“Are you nodding at me, girl?” Nonna Ursula shouted. “I didn’t say anything.”
I examined her and that wrinkled, alert face. I leaned close and murmured, “You’re not blind.”
“I’m blind . . . almost completely.” She closed one eye as if to see me better. “And you are too observant.”
I guessed, “Your hearing is—”
“Not good. But I see more and hear more than anyone realizes.” She relaxed, choosing to trust me. “Don’t tell, hm?”
My mouth twitched in a smile. “Not a soul.”
“The old faker,” Elder marveled.
“She’s not a faker,” I chided. “She’s using her disabilities to her advantage.”
“Are you talking to yourself?” Nonna Ursula asked.
I took a chance. “No, I’m talking to the ghost of your son.”
Nonna Ursula leaned back and laughed heartily. “Now that is an idea to shake out the villains.” Her expression changed, became contemplation.
Elder watched Barnadine help himself to another full glass of wine.
“Barnadine’s parents came to Verona from Sicily, fleeing the vendettas that had taken three of their sons.
The family crafted in leather, wonderful pieces of art and clothing.
I recognized their talent and the possibilities, and welcomed them to the city.
I suggested to Old Barnadine that he could serve me by providing protection against attack, and within days, he arrived with a shirt of leather, light, supple, to be worn in secret beneath my formal clothing.
” In satisfaction, he said, “More than once, it foiled an assassin’s blade, and I gained a reputation for invincibility. ”
I glanced at him. He smiled a smug smile.
“I raised the family to prominence, gave them well-deserved honors, took Barnadine to train in my forces, and when he proved himself, took him as my bodyguard. His family ranks among my most loyal subjects, bound to the house of Leonardi and to Verona in joy and gratitude.”
I understood entirely. For us, the Montagues, who owned vineyards in the countryside, Verona and its walls had provided safety in times of war and rampage, and because our wines were the best in the world, when our vineyards were threatened, the podestà marched out in defense and kept them safe.
Verona’s red-stoned streets, the golden buildings, the bustling markets, formed the bones of our very beings.
I leaned toward Nonna Ursula and spoke in her ear. “I’m surprised Barnadine joined us for dinner.” Cal could invite whomever he wished, of course, but one expected more decorum of the guests than Barnadine presented.
She did hear me, for she sighed. “I always insist he have a place at the table. He was my son’s most faithful bodyguard, a good man who failed in his duty, and to this day blames himself.”
Elder observed, “Every time I see Barnadine, he looks more worn, more ragged, more guilty.”
I asked Nonna Ursula, “Why does Barnadine look so worn, so ragged, so guilty?”
She well understood the need for discretion, for she answered harshly, but in low tones. “He drinks too much.”
I challenged her. “A simple explanation with much of substance behind it, I trow.”
“Barnadine is the tragedy birthed of calamity.” Nonna Ursula spoke with pity.
“He’s not the man he was. Even before the revolt, he foiled one assassination attempt on my son after another.
In the battles with the Acquasasso for control of Verona, Barnadine fought next to Escalus in battle after battle, each more perilous than before.
He guarded Escalus fiercely, throwing himself into the fray ahead of him.
Then . . . then when the combats were won and victory was ours, when all danger was past, a vile craven drugged them both and murdered him who held our safety in his hands.
Barnadine blames himself.” She nodded toward Cal.
“Others blame him, too. My grandson is young and judgmental, without the tempering that time gives a man—or a woman. For at some point, have we all not failed in our duties?”
To my surprise, she had tears in her eyes. “In what way have you failed, Nonna Ursula? I’ve heard naught but good about your faithful support of your son, your grandson, and your loving care for your granddaughter.”
“I—”
Urgently Elder spoke in my ear. “He’s coming.”
“Someone’s coming,” I said to Nonna Ursula. “Someone of importance.”
She looked toward the door, straining to see. “Who?”
Table of Contents
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- Page 18 (Reading here)
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