had twice tried to kill Lady Giulietta. To burn to death so many monks and then attack her in her own home proved the Republicans would stop at nothing. A street battle against the Castellani was planned for the following week…
The Nicoletti planned to arrive early.
Tycho was willing to bet the Castellani would try to arrive even earlier. It was the small talk of bad men in rough taverns everywhere. If that was the way you wanted to describe them.
And who
, he asked himself,
am I to judge?
Finishing his wine, he nodded to the tavern keeper and squeezed past the man’s daughter in the doorway. He took her scent, the brush of full breasts and her giggle with him. It was time to take his hunger home.
“You’re drunk,” said the woman who answered his door.
“If only it were that simple…”
The dark-haired Jewish girl who said Duke Marco sent her struggled as he pulled her close. She sounded so sure she wasn’t for the likes of him that he let her go again. “What’s your name?”
“Elizavet, sir. Same as yesterday.”
“I need you to hide me, Elizavet.”
“Who from, sir?”
“Myself – and the moon.”
Herding her in front of him into the small storeroom leading off the hall, he told her to wait while he shifted the back of the cupboard and slid it to one side to reveal night air, the ruined garden and the print works beyond.
“What’s through there? she asked.
“The truth.”
16
Elizavet had unlocked the little house to let him out after three days, as instructed, and neither of them had mentioned it in the weeks since. Although he’d noticed that Elizavet had taken to glancing at the ever-swelling moon. The girl was smart enough to make the connection. Mind you, she was smart all round. Which was more than he could say for the girl currently sharing his bed.
Rolling her over, Tycho said, “Kneel up.”
“Sir, first I need to…”
“The privy?”
Tonight’s girl blushed fetchingly. Given what he’d been doing a few minutes earlier it seemed an odd reaction. But, then, he wasn’t a sixteen-year-old Venetian of careful parents with known ambition.
“Through there,” he said. “I’ll join you.”
At that, she looked doubtful and blushed deeper. “My lord…”
“What?”
“I’m embarrassed.”
“You needn’t be. And I’m not
my lord
, the name’s Tycho and I’ve told you to use it.” The girl simpered, as if he somehowflattered her. So Tycho pulled a curtain aside to reveal two holes in a plank and pissed through the nearest.
This was easy since he was naked. She had to pull up her shift before joining him, and then sat there looking awkward.
Tycho sighed. “I’ll see you in a moment.”
An hour to go before dawn, which left him time enough to enjoy her again. He’d be glad when winter came and the nights grew long. Summer nights were too short and the days too long for his comfort.
“I’m sorry,” she said, kissing him on the lips.
“For what?”
“For being childish.”
“You’re not. But I’d like you to lose this.”
Perhaps it was a trade-off. He’d let her use the privy alone and this was his reward. Perhaps she was simply more confident. Wrestling the undergown up to her waist she began to pull it over her head and hesitated.
“I’ll put out the lamp.”
Her body was lush without being overblown. The Venetian ideal was full breasts, soft hips and a gently curving stomach. The girl came close enough to be guaranteed her share of admirers.
“Where’s your father?”
She froze.
“I simply wondered.”
“With my mother in Pisa. Trading salt for olive oil and buying cloth to trade with the Germans this autumn. They make the trip every year.”
Trading had a special place in Venetian life. The great merchant houses were noble, the smaller houses like her father’s hoped to be. Trading was the only way a man could become rich. Unless he was a Jew. Christians were banned from lending money by the law of usury.
“And he left you
The Nicoletti planned to arrive early.
Tycho was willing to bet the Castellani would try to arrive even earlier. It was the small talk of bad men in rough taverns everywhere. If that was the way you wanted to describe them.
And who
, he asked himself,
am I to judge?
Finishing his wine, he nodded to the tavern keeper and squeezed past the man’s daughter in the doorway. He took her scent, the brush of full breasts and her giggle with him. It was time to take his hunger home.
“You’re drunk,” said the woman who answered his door.
“If only it were that simple…”
The dark-haired Jewish girl who said Duke Marco sent her struggled as he pulled her close. She sounded so sure she wasn’t for the likes of him that he let her go again. “What’s your name?”
“Elizavet, sir. Same as yesterday.”
“I need you to hide me, Elizavet.”
“Who from, sir?”
“Myself – and the moon.”
Herding her in front of him into the small storeroom leading off the hall, he told her to wait while he shifted the back of the cupboard and slid it to one side to reveal night air, the ruined garden and the print works beyond.
“What’s through there? she asked.
“The truth.”
16
Elizavet had unlocked the little house to let him out after three days, as instructed, and neither of them had mentioned it in the weeks since. Although he’d noticed that Elizavet had taken to glancing at the ever-swelling moon. The girl was smart enough to make the connection. Mind you, she was smart all round. Which was more than he could say for the girl currently sharing his bed.
Rolling her over, Tycho said, “Kneel up.”
“Sir, first I need to…”
“The privy?”
Tonight’s girl blushed fetchingly. Given what he’d been doing a few minutes earlier it seemed an odd reaction. But, then, he wasn’t a sixteen-year-old Venetian of careful parents with known ambition.
“Through there,” he said. “I’ll join you.”
At that, she looked doubtful and blushed deeper. “My lord…”
“What?”
“I’m embarrassed.”
“You needn’t be. And I’m not
my lord
, the name’s Tycho and I’ve told you to use it.” The girl simpered, as if he somehowflattered her. So Tycho pulled a curtain aside to reveal two holes in a plank and pissed through the nearest.
This was easy since he was naked. She had to pull up her shift before joining him, and then sat there looking awkward.
Tycho sighed. “I’ll see you in a moment.”
An hour to go before dawn, which left him time enough to enjoy her again. He’d be glad when winter came and the nights grew long. Summer nights were too short and the days too long for his comfort.
“I’m sorry,” she said, kissing him on the lips.
“For what?”
“For being childish.”
“You’re not. But I’d like you to lose this.”
Perhaps it was a trade-off. He’d let her use the privy alone and this was his reward. Perhaps she was simply more confident. Wrestling the undergown up to her waist she began to pull it over her head and hesitated.
“I’ll put out the lamp.”
Her body was lush without being overblown. The Venetian ideal was full breasts, soft hips and a gently curving stomach. The girl came close enough to be guaranteed her share of admirers.
“Where’s your father?”
She froze.
“I simply wondered.”
“With my mother in Pisa. Trading salt for olive oil and buying cloth to trade with the Germans this autumn. They make the trip every year.”
Trading had a special place in Venetian life. The great merchant houses were noble, the smaller houses like her father’s hoped to be. Trading was the only way a man could become rich. Unless he was a Jew. Christians were banned from lending money by the law of usury.
“And he left you
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