The Master of Verona

Twenty-Nine

Ravenna

15 May 1317

The May sun above reflected off the waters of the Rubico River. Pietro reached into his saddlebag and lifted out a hunk of cheese, made locally. Today was an idyll. The weather was glorious, the ride unhurried. Returning from a lecture in nearby Rimini, he pondered the topic: the need for good judges in this lawless world. "There's a real need," the professor had pronounced in the open-air theater, "for justice in the world today. And if the world needs knights to enforce laws, doesn't it also need judges and advocates to decide what those laws are, what they mean? Judges are more important than knights because, in the end, it's the judges who have to decide what justice is."

Riding along on Canis, Pietro now wondered, Isn't the man who enforces the justice as important as the man who decides what justice is?

Pietro was coming to love the Law. Before going to university he could never have imagined loving a concept. Oh, he knew his father loved poetry. But now he understood. What poetry was to Dante, law was to his son.

It was a passion two years in the making. After the brief stay in Venice, where Ignazzio and Theodoro had picked up the scarecrow's trail, Pietro had gone to Bologna. It was supposed to be a pretense, Pietro feigning studious pursuits while waiting for news of their quarry. But weeks had turned into months, and for Pietro the end was lost in the means.

Growing up in Florence, Pietro had been trained in the basics of learning: grammar, logic, music, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, rhetoric. But a hundred miles north of Florence, young men were striving daily to know more. Eschewing the common precepts of learning, they came to La Cittia Grossa, where the learning was as impure as the sausage invented here. Mortadella — bones, gristle and hooves, the deadest part of the pig, turned into a delicious meal. So the faculty explored the darker sides of life to find the unsavory but longed-for truths.

Bologna was second only to Paris as a repository for written knowledge. But unlike Paris, where the students ran around creating unchecked chaos, students at the Studium of Bologna made the rules and hired the faculty. Many of the students were already practicing doctors and lawyers. The motto here was Bononia Docet — Bologna Teaches.

Pietro had been greeted as a kind of celebrity — he was, after all, the son of the great Dante, famous not only for his poems but his essays and lectures, many of them having taken place right there in Bologna. Through Cangrande's subtle influence Pietro had started by taking classes in law, but soon he couldn't resist dabbling in other topics. He'd found himself thrust headlong into new ideas, scandalous thoughts having to do with the body as the root of truth, or Truth. The new art of opening up the dead for knowledge of anatomy and alchemy was as horrifying as it was enlightening. The latest argument in the new field of theology was that sex was the path to God. It was one the students had embraced.

Then, just after Calvatone, Pietro had received a coded letter from Cangrande. It was quite common for letters to be coded, having to pass through so many hands. Typical of the Scaliger, this letter didn't mention the stain on his honour. Instead, he had been entirely solicitous of Pietro's situation:

It seems the hunt is going to last longer than we expected. I want you to stay where you are. As you reside between Padua and Florence now, you are in a perfect position to hear things of interest to me. Especially since it is generally thought we quarreled. On top of which, I have directed Ignazzio and a few other of my spies to write any news they have to you. Calvatone is further proof that someone close to me is acting against my interests. As long as that person is at liberty, I cannot have sensitive information coming here to the palace. I am relying on you to coordinate any information that comes to me. I will make arrangements for those to be brought to me by a hand I trust.

In the light of this change in your assignment, I have a suggestion to make. A rented room is impermanent, it suggests mobility. I want your name to be linked to Bologna — or rather, unlinked from Verona. To further this, I have arranged with your father's friend Guido Novello of Polenta for you to be appointed keeper of the Benefice of Ravenna. It is a secular post for the Church, and your only duty will be to collect tithes and settle minor disagreements. It also comes with a casa. You will move in at once, and hire a couple of local servants. You will be close enough to Bologna to continue your studies, and it will be more secure if you have visitors.

The job also requires you to train a few men-at-arms. Make certain you do. Contact Manuel's cousin in Venice if you require more funds.

Cg.

For more than a year now Pietro had made Ravenna his home, leaving for weeks at a time to study in Bologna, then returning to collect tithes and arbitrate disputes between the laity and the Church. It was good training, he thought, for the career that now lay spread before him. Though he was wary of being a lawyer. That was considered worse than being even an actor.

Wading his horse through the water by Pietro's side, his groom Fazio wiped his brow. "Hot enough."

Pietro felt the heavy glare of the cloudless sky. Beneath him, Canis finished pushing his way through the waters. The ankles of Pietro's boots were wet, but no higher. A slight breeze passed pleasantly by. "Let's stay here a moment, let the horses cool off."

Fazio obediently dismounted and led his horse back to the water's edge. Pietro did the same with Canis. Looking down the length of the divide, Pietro said, "Nearly fourteen hundred years ago the greatest soldier in history picnicked over here."

"Who do you mean?" asked Fazio.

Pietro laughed. "Caesar!"

"Oh, him," said Fazio dismissively. From a smallish boy he had grown into a wiry fourteen year-old. He rarely had much squiring to do. To Pietro's dismay, he'd taken to throwing dice in his spare hours.

"What, not impressed?"

"He's got nothing on Cangrande."

Pietro chuckled, shaking his head. But the act of crossing the Rubicon was a legal question that fascinated Pietro. It was almost this exact spot that Caesar left legality behind to claim his due. That act brought about an empire — the rule of one over the rule of many, the way God intended. But how can a man who puts himself above the law then claim to defend it?

On the far side of the river Mercurio darted out of some bushes and made for his master. In a moment both Pietro and Fazio were sprayed with water as the hound shook himself dry. Fazio shouted, "Dammit, Mercurio!"

The hound was already stalking a woodchuck in the bushes. Ravenna had agreed with Mercurio. The dog had grown into a fine-looking hunter, also becoming a father last winter with some neighbourhood bitch. Pietro had adopted the whole litter, though being mixed they wouldn't have the promise of Cangrande's purebreds.

Ravenna had agreed with Pietro, too. A fine coastal town close to both Polenta and Bologna, too near to Venice to be a great sea power, it was a quiet city. Sleepy. Pietro liked it. And he'd become a welcome member of the community. His duties didn't demand much time, consisting mostly of riding from farm to farm, knocking on doors, sharing a glass of wine, and taking the tribute due the Church. He'd been given command of twenty men in case of local strife or trouble collecting dues, but so far he'd never needed to call them up. But, based on Cangrande's hint, he'd kept them training even when he was away. As a result they were in better fighting shape than he was.

His readiness for battle was always near the forefront of his thoughts. He thought that Cangrande might call him up for the war in Cremona. The Scaliger and Passerino Bonaccolsi were currently besieging Brescia on the far side of the Lago di Garda. Verona itself was being guarded by Dante's former patron, Uguccione della Faggiuola. The Pisan lord, now exiled, was one of Pietro's many correspondents.

As was Donna Katerina. She kept Pietro informed on a variety of subjects, but her main topic was the boy. Just past his third birthday now, his volatile nature was keeping the entire palace staff on their toes. Each day she could see the wheels of his mind turning on some new project or plot or quest. Brilliant but dangerous was the general consensus. Katerina's pride shone in every inked word.

Smiling up into the warming sun, Pietro whistled Mercurio back. Remounting, he tapped Canis with a booted toe. It was a lovely day, and Pietro was in no hurry. In three or four hours he would arrive at his house on the outskirts of the city. He could spend the afternoon in the shade of his loggia reading scraps of parchment, looking down on his neighbour's vineyard. The local wine wasn't bad. Pietro could open a bottle when he got home, perhaps even read the new pages his father had sent him. Purgatorio was reaching a conclusion.

Yes, he knew he could do these things, but that he probably wouldn't. Instead he would heft his sword and spend the latter part of the day imitating a real soldier, working the muscles of his shoulders, arms, and hips. Fazio would happily partner him and waste no time in showing how fast he could move.

Pietro's eyes had taken in the mounted figure in the road before his mind had registered it. It took Fazio's saying, "There's someone in the road," to make Pietro straighten in his saddle.

"Stay close, and keep an eye behind us. But don't be obvious about it." Pietro's fear wasn't so much the man in the road as the possibility of a dozen men behind them. A man who took in taxes for the church was a ripe plum for highwaymen, and there were a lot of unemployed soldiers in the world who had to make a living somehow.

The figure was remarkably still, and remarkably odd. Tall, he was dressed in loose robes, and had what looked like a cloth helmet on his head. Then Pietro took in the man's skin colour and the shape of the sword at his side and kicked his horse into a faster trot. "Where the devil have you been!?" he demanded, a grin stretching his face.

"In hiding," said the Moor baldly. "You got my warning?"

"I did," said Pietro, sobering at once. "Ignazzio's dead?"

"He is." The Moor turned his horse around to the direction Pietro had been traveling. "I have news, and orders. Come, we can talk as we ride."

"You'll come home with me," said Pietro, half question, half offer.

"No," rasped the Moor. "Best if we are not seen together." He looked at the page and saluted. "Hello, young master Fazio. You have grown." Fazio didn't know how to respond, so he gave a hesitant half-bow. "Your master and I must speak in private. Will you ride ahead and keep watch?"

Fazio looked to Pietro, who nodded. Resentfully Fazio trotted ahead trying to remain within earshot.

Pietro pulled his horse level with Theodoro's. "You said orders."

"Yes. I have spent the last several months in Padua."

"Isn't that dangerous? You're fairly memorable."

"As long as you play into men's expectations, you can become invisible. I was in the guise of a lion tamer's assistant." Pietro couldn't keep a laugh from escaping, and the Moor flashed him a brief smile. "Yes. There is an Egyptian who owed me a kindness. He is a rather famous animal-master. At my urging he brought his menagerie to Padua. I went with him, wearing a covering on my face and throat. The story was that I had been careless one night and gotten mauled by the lion."

Pietro's smile took on an admiring quality. "So everyone pitied you, and thought you were a fool."

"Yes. I often sat in the street, drinking to soothe the pain of my injuries. As it happened, the house I lounged in front of belonged to the Count of San Bonifacio."

Pietro's smile vanished. "He's the one who paid the scarecrow." That piece of news had come with the news of Ignazzio's death. The two seals on the scarecrow's payment had belonged to the Scaliger, and the Count of San Bonifacio.

"Yes. And he's working with whomever is plotting against the Capitano. I watched his house for weeks, noting everyone who entered. Last month he received a visit from an acquaintance of yours — Marsilio da Carrara."

Pietro's eyes narrowed. "That can't be good. Do you have any idea..?"

"I had already determined the best way to break into the Count's lodging, and I thought that this meeting was the moment for it. I listened to them from the covert of the Count's loggia. The Count proposed a plan to your friend, and the other man accepted. Warily, I might add. Carrara doesn't trust the Count."

Pietro huffed. "Makes me like the Count a little more. What's the plan?"

"They mean to take Vicenza."

"Oh-ho."

"Yes. The Count has the support of maybe fifty dissatisfied Vicentine citizens, and all the exiles. He's convinced the Paduans that they can't lose. Vinciguerra's plan was to bribe one of the city garrison to admit his men and the Paduan army. They'll storm the gates and have the city within an hour."

"You told Cangrande, of course."

"Yes. Under the pretence of being sent to buy a unicorn, I met the Scaliger and informed him of their plans."

"So he's going to bolster the guards in Vicenza, make sure no one can be bribed?"

"He could do that," replied the Moor, "but he'd rather let the attack go ahead."

Pietro recalled a conversation years ago in a lonely church. "Because they'll be breaking the truce."

"Yes. If he waits seven days, he'll have a just war to fight."

Pietro wasn't sure if it was truly a just war if you chose not to avoid it. "Seven days?"

"Cangrande has arranged for a young Vicentine guard to accept a generous amount of gold from the Count."

"Who?"

"A squire named Muzio. The young man seems to think our mutual master walks on water."

"What's Carrara's part of the plot?"

"Once Bonifacio has got the gates open with a smaller force, Carrara will lead the full Paduan force in and sack the city."

Pietro protested. "But his uncle — "

"His uncle will have nothing to do with it. He is to be kept entirely ignorant until the venture is complete."

Pietro thought about that for a moment, then posed the real question. "And what does the master of Verona want me to do?"

The Moor lowered his voice, forcing Pietro to slow his mount and lean closer. "On the day of the attack Uguccione della Faggiuola will hide a small armed force outside Vicenza. He'll be outnumbered, but that's the only way to keep the secret. Cangrande's troops have two years of constant warfare under their belts while the Paduans have been sitting on their laurels. But Verona's side needs an edge. You are to enter Vicenza a day or two before with a hand-picked group of soldiers. Those men can't know what is happening, and the group must raise no suspicion."

Pietro frowned thoughtfully. "I'll go to visit Donna Katerina. It's known that I'm friendly with her, just as everyone knows I'm out of favor with her brother. But why will I have soldiers with me?"

"The pope has requested an accounting of your time here in Ravenna. You'll be transporting money for the papal coffers at Avignon. Of course, you'll bring along a squadron of soldiers for protection."

Clearly this plan had been worked out well ahead of time. "And Cangrande wants me to do this? What about the fiction that we're quarrelling?"

"You're there by accident, and defending his sister's city. It will only enhance your reputation. But do you have your own men? The plan hinges on them."

"I have twenty-three men in the militia. Is that enough?"

"Make it thirty."

"Well, my neighbour has a son who's been itching to carry a sword. But what am I supposed to do when the attack starts?"

"For Cangrande to have his legal pretext for war, the gates of Vicenza must be breached. The Paduans must get inside the walls. That's when Uguccione will attack."

"If I'm letting them in," asked Pietro, "what's to stop them from slaughtering me where I stand?"

"Ah, that's the clever part." The Moor related his reason for smiling.

Pietro couldn't resist returning the grin even as sweat started to run down his back. "Where will Cangrande be?"

"He needs to be seen far away, otherwise the Paduans won't attack. He's leaving this to Uguccione."

Though it worried him, Pietro saw the wisdom of this. "When should I leave?"

The rest of the planning followed. Pietro's band would depart two days hence, giving their destination as France. Long before they passed Padua, Pietro would loudly declare his intention to visit his friends, Lord and Signora Nogarola. The party would shift its track and head for Vicenza. As long as they were within the walls by sunset on the twenty-first, all would be well.

"You may see a familiar face in Vicenza," added the Moor. "Another of Verona's exiles is returning. The Capitano has recalled Montecchio."

"Really? Well, it makes sense. Mari's sister is getting married, and I know Mari was asking permission to attend."

"He's done well in Avignon. He kept the Scaliger from being excommunicated through charm alone. But even charm runs out. Cangrande needs a man with more influence, probably with a title. He means to ask Bailardino."

"I don't think Bailardino would want to go," said Pietro. "Rumour is he's enjoying fatherhood too much." Besides, he didn't add, Donna Katerina is pregnant again.

The Moor kept Pietro's thoughts on topic by asking, "Are you and Mariotto friends?"

Pietro sighed. "Yes, I think we are. We write, at least. His first letters pleaded for my forgiveness. I don't know… I gave it, but without my blessing. And pretty soon everything was back to normal."

"And his feelings towards Capulletto?"

"Hmm! Two years, and every letter he writes still laments that Antony refuses to answer his letters. I can recite you the form his letter will take. A greeting, a vow of friendship, a curse on Antony's stubbornness, then a page or two praising Gianozza to the stars. Then there will be a little court news that he thinks will interest me. Like some young Italian fellow he's met in Avignon who shows promise as a poet. The boy's father is a tyrant, but the boy writes in secret. Petrarca, the family is called. His family knows mine — Mari would be better off writing to my sister. She knows far more about poetry than I ever will." Pietro gave the Moor an amused glance. "Have you heard? Antonia has made the unlikeliest of friends — Mari's wife, Gianozza. Both share a love of poetry, and it's brought them together. So I get yet another letter talking about the bitch — excuse me, about Gianozza. My sister, Mari, and Antony."

"Capulletto writes of her?"

"Of her and little else! His letters follow the same form as Mari's — praise, oath of loyalty, a rant against Mariotto, and page after page about Gianozza. He saw her in the street, he heard about her from someone, do I think she regrets her action. I hope Mari's return will end this one way or another." A sparrow crossed the road in front of them, and the dog ran ahead to bark at it. Pietro said, "What about the Scaligeri seal? Have you discovered who…?"

"No. I have been focused on the Count."

"Oh." Pietro watched the bird torment the hound by swooping low, then up out of reach. "I haven't either. Cangrande wrote and said there were only two men who had access to the seal, as far as he knew. He was one. His butler was the other. He sent the butler away, gave him to Uguccione to serve. But I don't think he really believes it was him."

"No. If he did, the butler would be dead." The Moor frowned a little. "I have traced the medallion, though."

"What?"

"The scarecrow's medallion, the one that was stolen back from Ignazzio the night he was murdered. That trinket, or one very like it, was sent nearly twenty years ago by a Scotsman called Wallace to an Italian as a token of thanks. The Italian had sent this Wallace arms and a few knights to help train his men."

"And the Italian was..?"

"Alberto della Scala. Cangrande's father."

Pietro's head reared back as if he'd been struck in the face. "What? But…what the hell does that…?"

"I don't know what it means. Cangrande claims he has never seen the medallion in his lifetime. But the object obviously has a great deal of meaning for its owner. While we were tracing him, he was hunting for us, waiting for a chance to steal it back."

"So it's more important than we thought."

"Evidently so."

They rode along together for a while, each with his own thoughts. Mercurio padded along nearby, and Fazio rode ahead, happy to do his job now that the two men weren't sharing secrets. Suddenly Pietro said, "What did the Egyptian lion tamer owe you?"

"I made a star chart for his son. It allowed the family to make certain provisions for the future."

Pietro nodded, looking the Moor over from head to foot. "Ignazzio wasn't the astrologer. It was you."

"He was born with a certain skill at the pendulum, and came to me as an apprentice."

"And also a walking target."

"That, too, was part of his duties."

That's cold, thought Pietro with discomfort. Clever, but cold. "Is there a way I can reach you?"

"The menagerie is leaving Padua, and I shall rejoin it on the road."

"Let me guess — they're heading for Vicenza next."

"Yes."

"Are you still Theodoro, or…?"

"They call me the Arūs. But my true name is Tharwat al-Dhaamin."

"I can't even say it. But I'll remember."

"Do. And be alert in Vicenza. The stars tell of a coming change in the boy's life."

"What kind of change?"

"I am unsure, but it is drastic. All the charts agree. During his fourth year the boy comes under a new influence that will help to shape him. You are involved."

"Me? How?"

"Again, I cannot say. The stars show danger for you during this change."

Pietro looked accusingly at the Moor. "You've made a chart for me."

The Moor shook his head. "No. I have been to Florence to study the chart your father commissioned when you were born. It has the value of more precise omens."

Pietro blinked. "My father had a chart made?"

"He did. It shows what I suspected all along — you are important in the Greyhound's life."

"If he even is the Greyhound. Did you ever-?"

"I made several more charts, taking into account your idea of two falling stars, crossing in the sky. Some were wonderful, some horrifying, but until events unfold there is no way tell which is the true chart." The Moor reined in his steed. "I will part from you here. If things go awry, or if you ever need me, send a message to the cobbler in the town of Alhambra, in the Spanish province of Grenada. It will eventually reach me."

Pietro was aware of the honour being done him, the trust reposed in him, and bowed his head to acknowledge it. Though is it for me, or because he's seen my chart? They saluted, and the Moor rode off. Theodoro of Cadiz, the Arüs, Tharwat al-Dhaamin. How could a man live with so many names? But then, reflected Pietro, Cangrande had just as many. Francesco della Scala, the Scaliger, the Capitano.

But not the Greyhound.

That's what this is really about. The Count wants the boy, and his agents have failed. The only way he can think of now is to take the whole city.

But what does he want with Cangrande's heir? What value is he? Ransom? Revenge? What is the goal?

Fazio fell back to ride beside his master. "What was all that? Are we going somewhere? Is there news?"

Pietro continued to ride in silence, thinking. In a couple weeks he'd be back in Verona with his friends and family. And Cangrande would show the world how he valued his errant knight. Ser Pietro Alaghieri, knight of Verona, dispenser of justice. He would then become a lawyer, maybe someday even a judge. And before that, one more battle, one more chance to blacken Carrara's eye. More than that, it was a chance to expose the Count's partner. Capture the Count of San Bonifacio and force him to give up the name of his spy in the Scaliger's court. It was all about to happen.

The waiting was over.

Capulletto Estate

Closer to Verona, on the land southeast of the Lago da Garda, there was a beautifully built mansion some two centuries old, surrounded by the best arable land. This respectably sized estate held no castle, but the mansion was as fine as anything to be found. Until the turn of the century it had been inhabited by that staunchly Guelph family, the Capelletti. After that line had died out, the lands had been under the stewardship of the lords of Verona. Every few years a new tenant would come and lease the lands until he was evicted by a new court favorite. Cangrande and his brothers had been sure not to let any one man grow too attached to the land.

That changed two years ago, when the mansion suddenly became a beehive of activity. A new family was in residence. Or rather, a new old family. The Capulletti.

Now it was a week before the attack on Vicenza, and rumours were flying. None of them mentioned Padua, but all of them revolved around the massing of troops for some new offensive Cangrande was planning. Hearing the rumours, Luigi Capulletto stalked through the halls of his father's mansion in a foul temper. Slamming doors and careless of those in his path, he pushed his way into Ludovico's bedroom, which doubled as an office. Each day found the old man less able to walk on his gouty leg, and the summer heat wasn't helping.

Seeing his heir hurtling towards him, the elder Capulletto grunted. "What are you so hot about?"

With an effort of pure will Luigi stilled himself, though his fingers itched to wrap themselves around the fat man's waddled throat. "Uguccione della Faggiuola is gathering a force of men. Something's happening and you know what, don't you?"

"I may," said the old man.

"And you're sending Antony to go to war with Uguccione!"

"Yes," rumbled Ludovico.

"No!" Luigi slammed his fist against the wall. "No, Father, no! As much as you may want him to be, Antony isn't your heir! I am! Remember me, your wife's first son? Just because Antony makes you laugh doesn't mean he can run your affairs. Hell, you can't run your affairs! Maybe Cangrande would be interested in why we really left Capua. If that story got about, you'd sure feel the pinch, wouldn't you?"

Ludovico had started sputtering long before Luigi reached the peak of his tirade. As the son continued to shout curses and epithets, the old man leapt out of bed and hopped two steps forward on his good foot. Luigi saw the blow coming but for once didn't feel like taking it. He grasped the swinging arm and threw his father backward to land in a heap on the floor. Half disbelieving what he'd done, Luigi stood shaking.

Ludovico lifted himself onto the bed, there being nothing wrong with his arms. "Young fool! You think you'll get my money after that?"

"Hang the money! This isn't about money! Why, Father? Why Antony?"

"He makes me laugh." Old Capulletto coughed up a ball of phlegm that he spit into a canister two feet away. "That's all you give me."

"I gave you a grandson!"

"Yes, I am aware," sneered Capulletto. "He looks like his mother. At least he'll be pretty, he'll make the Guarini girl happy."

"That's all we are to you, isn't it? Cogs in the machine! Me, my son, Antony and that stupid business with the Carrara girl — all of it grist for your mill, fodder for your ambition. Well, you're there, Papa! You've made it! Land, money, respect! Isn't that enough? What comes after?"

Ludo snapped his fingers at Luigi. "That's why Antony. He never has to ask what comes after — he knows! He sees the possibilities, the openings, the way to greater heights. Example: if you'd put your wife forward a little more, you could have had that new water forge the Scaliger's building. But instead Rienzi gets it, all for the price of his wife's virtue. The Great Hound. Heh. That man certainly deserves his name." The old man dissolved into laughter that quickly turned to coughing.

Luigi didn't even wait for the spasm to subside. "You want me to sell my wife to the Scaliger?"

Through watery eyes Ludo sneered at his son. "Small enough sacrifice for such a reward."

Luigi's jaw locked shut. He felt like tearing apart the ancient heap that was his father with his bare hands. Instead he said, "I demand you send me to Uguccione to represent the family."

"You demand, eh? Very well. I shall send you — to serve under your brother. No, don't gainsay me! It's this or you don't go! You shall serve your brother. After all, he's a knight. What are you? A country squire, little more. You'll serve him and like it."

It was insulting, it was humiliating. But Luigi had what he wanted — an opportunity to prove himself. He turned on his heel and walked straight-backed out into the hall.

Antony was leaning against a wood-paneled wall outside. "Jesus, Luigi, I told you-"

"Go to the devil!" Then Luigi remembered his best weapon. "How is young Menelaus lately? Heard from Paris?"

Face ashen, Antony gave his brother the fig and stormed off. Pleased, Luigi went to find his son.

Theobaldo was napping. Letting the anger flow out of him, Luigi stood beside his son's crib and stroked his thin icy hair. His son, wholly his. Two years old, and still Luigi was loath to let even the nurses near the boy. He would have kept his wife away from the child too if he could. The bitch. Another one of his father's great schemes. But at least she had given him his son. Theobaldo. It was a family name — the old family, their true family, before his father had leapt at borrowed nobility. Look how well that turned out, Papa. You bought your way into a feud!

That problem, at least, looked to be dying out. Old Montecchio had been more than gracious to Luigi's father, and the bride-thief was in France for who knew how long. Particularly pleasing, Antony had gotten a well-deserved kick in the pants, and the fat old man had used his son's humiliation for everything he could get. Rights and lands that would pass to Luigi's son someday. They couldn't change that.

The toddler snored lightly. Luigi chuckled, something he only did with his boy. Theobaldo, the name of Luigi's great uncle. An Italian name, though the boy's mother preferred the Dutch version — Thibault. Strange, yet Luigi liked it. Thibault.

"We'll show them all, won't we, Thibault, my son?"