you will do more than keep the secret of their
whereabouts. Read the page I gave you.”
Andrea lowered his eyes to the parchment and
began to read. A minute or two later, he clenched his jaw and he
could tell by the warmth in his cheeks that his face was flushing
with anger.
“Stregone,” he said through gritted
teeth.
“What do you know of Niccolo Stregone?”
Bartolomeo asked.
“He is an evil person, who has caused the
deaths of many who are far better men than he.”
“I agree with you. While Madonna Eleonora is
convinced that the late Duke of Aullia was responsible for the
assassination of her husband, I believe Stregone, acting on behalf
of the Guidi family, was behind the deed. I also think Stregone
created a situation at the court of Monteferro before the
assassination occurred that led Madonna Eleonora to look toward
Aullia to discover the instigator of murder.”
Andrea sat very still, absorbing what
Bartolomeo had just said, accepting some of it, rejecting part. And
aware all the time of Bartolomeo’s searching gaze on him.
“Is something wrong?” Bartolomeo asked when
Andrea kept silent too long.
“Why are you telling me this?” Andrea put the
parchment page down on the desk.
“Perhaps to see what your reaction will
be.”
“ Then I
trust my reaction pleases you.” Deliberately, Andrea drawled the
words as he sat back in his chair, trying to appear relaxed. He was
sure there was more to Bartolomeo’s revelations than mere interest
in his reaction to them. When Bartolomeo slid a goblet of wine
across the desk to him, Andrea raised it to his lips and pretended
to swallow, but he did not drink. He wanted to keep his wits clear.
Beyond the natural effects of wine, he had known men – and women,
too – who would think nothing of putting certain herbs into the
drinks they offered. He did not class Bartolomeo in that devious
group, but it usually paid a man to be careful. He was still alive
because he had been careful at the right time. While
Vanni...
“Tell me about your brother,” Bartolomeo
said. “When did he die?”
“In the autumn. He was with a dear friend of
ours, a man we trusted.”
“Do you think this friend caused your
brother’s death?”
“Never. More likely, he died defending my
brother.” Andrea looked straight into Bartolomeo’s eyes. “You will
understand that I prefer not to talk about this.”
“I beg your pardon. I assure you, I do not
ask these painful questions without forethought.”
“Then why are you asking them?”
“For several reasons. I have learned to know
you fairly well during your stay with us. I judge you to be an
honest man, though, clearly, you have your own secrets. It is no
crime; most men prefer to keep parts of their lives to themselves.”
Bartolomeo paused to take another sip of wine, then said, “Allow me
to ask just one more question. Have you experience in leading men
into battle?”
“ I am
no condottiere,” Andrea said.
“I did not think you were. But you are a
daring and courageous man. Your survival under terrible conditions
proves as much. If, in addition to courage and daring, you have the
necessary military experience, then I may have an offer to make to
you.”
“You?” asked Andrea. “Or the duchess
Eleonora?”
“Since such matters are best discussed
between men, I am acting on her behalf. I am also, I do confess,
acting before she might have done. However, when you spoke of your
brother’s death, the moment seemed propitious, for it occurred to
me that you might be able to combine repayment of Madonna
Eleonora’s hospitality with your search for your brother’s killer.
If, of course, you are interested in what I propose.”
“Suppose you tell me what this offer is,”
Andrea said bluntly. “Then I will tell you whether I am interested
in it.”
“ The
duchess Eleonora has long hoped for an opportunity to restore the
Farisi family to Monteferro,” Bartolomeo said. “She has the funds
to hire a
whereabouts. Read the page I gave you.”
Andrea lowered his eyes to the parchment and
began to read. A minute or two later, he clenched his jaw and he
could tell by the warmth in his cheeks that his face was flushing
with anger.
“Stregone,” he said through gritted
teeth.
“What do you know of Niccolo Stregone?”
Bartolomeo asked.
“He is an evil person, who has caused the
deaths of many who are far better men than he.”
“I agree with you. While Madonna Eleonora is
convinced that the late Duke of Aullia was responsible for the
assassination of her husband, I believe Stregone, acting on behalf
of the Guidi family, was behind the deed. I also think Stregone
created a situation at the court of Monteferro before the
assassination occurred that led Madonna Eleonora to look toward
Aullia to discover the instigator of murder.”
Andrea sat very still, absorbing what
Bartolomeo had just said, accepting some of it, rejecting part. And
aware all the time of Bartolomeo’s searching gaze on him.
“Is something wrong?” Bartolomeo asked when
Andrea kept silent too long.
“Why are you telling me this?” Andrea put the
parchment page down on the desk.
“Perhaps to see what your reaction will
be.”
“ Then I
trust my reaction pleases you.” Deliberately, Andrea drawled the
words as he sat back in his chair, trying to appear relaxed. He was
sure there was more to Bartolomeo’s revelations than mere interest
in his reaction to them. When Bartolomeo slid a goblet of wine
across the desk to him, Andrea raised it to his lips and pretended
to swallow, but he did not drink. He wanted to keep his wits clear.
Beyond the natural effects of wine, he had known men – and women,
too – who would think nothing of putting certain herbs into the
drinks they offered. He did not class Bartolomeo in that devious
group, but it usually paid a man to be careful. He was still alive
because he had been careful at the right time. While
Vanni...
“Tell me about your brother,” Bartolomeo
said. “When did he die?”
“In the autumn. He was with a dear friend of
ours, a man we trusted.”
“Do you think this friend caused your
brother’s death?”
“Never. More likely, he died defending my
brother.” Andrea looked straight into Bartolomeo’s eyes. “You will
understand that I prefer not to talk about this.”
“I beg your pardon. I assure you, I do not
ask these painful questions without forethought.”
“Then why are you asking them?”
“For several reasons. I have learned to know
you fairly well during your stay with us. I judge you to be an
honest man, though, clearly, you have your own secrets. It is no
crime; most men prefer to keep parts of their lives to themselves.”
Bartolomeo paused to take another sip of wine, then said, “Allow me
to ask just one more question. Have you experience in leading men
into battle?”
“ I am
no condottiere,” Andrea said.
“I did not think you were. But you are a
daring and courageous man. Your survival under terrible conditions
proves as much. If, in addition to courage and daring, you have the
necessary military experience, then I may have an offer to make to
you.”
“You?” asked Andrea. “Or the duchess
Eleonora?”
“Since such matters are best discussed
between men, I am acting on her behalf. I am also, I do confess,
acting before she might have done. However, when you spoke of your
brother’s death, the moment seemed propitious, for it occurred to
me that you might be able to combine repayment of Madonna
Eleonora’s hospitality with your search for your brother’s killer.
If, of course, you are interested in what I propose.”
“Suppose you tell me what this offer is,”
Andrea said bluntly. “Then I will tell you whether I am interested
in it.”
“ The
duchess Eleonora has long hoped for an opportunity to restore the
Farisi family to Monteferro,” Bartolomeo said. “She has the funds
to hire a
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