The King's Agent by Donna Russo Morin Page B

his father alive he would cuff Battista sharply on the back of his head, and all too well deserved it would be, too. He could not confuse his success with who he was, but keep it only as what he had achieved. Battista flinched these thoughts away with painful aversion.
    A puzzled frown creased his face as he allowed his fingers to investigate his skin; the thick growth of hair upon his cheeks told yet another discouraging tale, one he had no desire to hear. At least two days had passed since his last memory, an abundance of time for mischief to run amok.
    Tossing back the bed sheet with an impatient hand, Battista surveyed his leg. The dull throb radiating from his calf reacquainted him with his wound, but upon inspection he found but a small wrapping. Peeling it away gently, he revealed more crude stitches than he dared to count, but no spreading redness, no oozing pus, to indicate infection. His leg and the binding reeked of earthy odors; he scrunched his nose at the malodorous mixture of sharp mint, dirt, and lavender. A physician had attended him; the chopped herbs speckling both his leg and the bandage testified to it.
    Battista replaced the dressing and swung his legs out of bed, steeling himself at the true test of his health.
    With a deferential hesitance, he planted his bare feet on the smooth, dark wood and eased his weight onto his legs. He stood unaided without overwhelming pain, but he could not step fully upon his left foot without the deep throb of discomfort, a soreness testifying to muscle trauma, not of raw, tearing flesh. Encouraged, Battista took a few steps. He could not walk without favoring the leg with a heavy limp.
    He grabbed at his satchel hanging on one of the tall carved posts of his bed. Rifling through it, tossing aside the items intrinsic to his trade, his frantic search was futile. No parchment lay within its confines.
    “Merda!” Battista flung the bag away, cursing at the parchment’s absence, for he held clearly the memory of their returning it to the satchel; he had put it back in there himself, along with Aurelia’s heavy veil that she had tossed off her head, as well as the half-full flask of brandy she had used to treat his wound. The parchment’s disappearance incited his fear to panic.
    Unconscious of his nakedness, he shuffled to the door as fast as he could and threw it open.
    From below, the sounds that were the chorus of his life rose up: male voices, raucous laughter, coins clattering upon tabletops, men chewing and slurping with little heed of good table manners.
    Many, if not all, of the men he considered family were below. He prayed Aurelia was among them and that she still had the parchment.
     
    She wished she could wash away her wide-eyed expression, the smile of childish delight, but it was a fruitless struggle. Aurelia had never walked alone—anywhere—she had never seen a city as magnificent as Florence, and her solitary experience of it produced an almost-unconscionable thrill.
    It had taken two days to convince Battista’s man to allow her the expedition. The man who called himself Frado had been so grateful to her for returning Battista to them—his relief no doubt a direct equal to his guilt for leaving him in the first place—his caution gave way to his gratitude.
    It had taken her all her efforts to find her way from Mantua to Florence, asking only other fellow travelers for direction, and only those with women among them, refusing to enter any village or town not gated as Florence, for fear of miscreants or discovery. Her own fearless audacity had surprised her, though she knew she had been born for more than her life had asked of her thus far.
    Frado had been so frantic with caring for Battista, bringing a physician, and fetching whatever medicinals the man required, he had nearly forgotten her. His attention finally swung her way, as he expressed his gratitude once more, with the assurance of Battista’s survival. No questions did Frado ask; no