Francesca (14 page)

“Ahh,” Carlo said with a small grin at the duke’s head huntsman. “And you have taken it upon yourself to be her knight, old man.”

“I have,” Bernardo answered good-naturedly. “And I am not so old that I cannot take you in a fair fight, my fine young friend. You are barely past being a stripling.”

Alonza came from the taproom, and seeing the two men and hearing the last of the conversation, she said, “Get out of my kitchen, the two of you. It is time for bed. Cara and I have much to do before we may find our rest.” She shooed them out, flapping her apron at them, but noting the game she called to Carlo, “My thanks for such fine bounty. But Cara is to be left in peace, or you will have to go.”

“You would value a serving wench above your old friend?” Carlo teased her.

“I have many old friends,” Alonza said. “But it is not easy to get and keep a good serving wench in the heart of this forest,
dolce mio
. Now get out!”

Both men departed, laughing.

“Harmless, all of them, but some a bit more daring, like Carlo,” Alonza told Francesca. “He won’t give up attempting to seduce you. If he becomes too troublesome, just tell me and I will straighten it out.”

“He’s handsome,” Francesca replied, “and used to having his way with women, I have not a doubt. But I am yet a virgin, and will save myself for marriage, as I should.”

She is such a sweet innocent, Alonza thought to herself. Still, something compels me to protect her.

Francesca then went about cleaning up for the night in the kitchen, the hall, and the taproom, while Alonza prepared the dough for tomorrow morning’s baking. She covered each of her big bowls with a warm, damp cloth, leaving it to rise and for Francesca to knead and bake come the morrow. Francesca swept the hall and then the taproom. She hummed as she worked, thinking that several months ago she would have never considered such menial work. But this was how ordinary folk survived, and for now at least she was ordinary folk. In the spring she would attempt to regain her own world. A world where Francesca Pietro d’Angelo had soft, delicate hands and beautiful clothing and jewels. A world where she would begin to reconsider carefully any suitor who came calling.

She knew now she had made a great mistake in fleeing Duke Titus’s
castello
. What had possessed her to want to be like Bianca? Her sister had not sought a great love. It had simply come to her, and, wise enough to recognize what she had, Bianca did not let that love escape her. In doing so, however, Bianca had given up her family. Francesca didn’t think she could be that brave.

Rafaello Cesare was a kind man. He probably would have made her an excellent husband. Just because he chose her out of convenience was no reason for her to run away. Most honorable unions began that way, and often, as in her own parents’ case, love or genuine affection eventually came. He had offered her marriage and a
duchessa
’s crown. What had been the matter with her that she could not have simply accepted him?

I am a fool, Francesca decided as she finished her sweeping. She had disappointed her family, but, worse, she had disappointed and possibly offended Lorenzo di Medici, who had made it very plain that her duty in Terreno Boscoso was to win the duke’s hand and bring glory to Florence. Hopefully Duke Titus would cover up any embarrassment for his own sake, and she could sneak back to Florence, quietly hiding behind the excuse that she was not chosen.

“You appear to have deep and serious thoughts,” a voice said from the darkness of the taproom. It was the deep, rough voice of the huntsman Carlo.

“Because I serve does not mean I cannot consider something other than cooking and cleaning,” Francesca answered him.

“You were not born to serve,” he replied.

“Who knows what we are born to do?” she responded.

“You are a philosopher,” Carlo said.

“Today I am a woman who has worked hard from before dawn until now,” Francesca told him.
“Buona notte, signore
.
”

“Dream of me, Cara,” he teased her, “for I shall surely dream of you.”

“I hope I dream of nothing, for I just want sleep,” she responded. She could still not see him in the darkness, but she sensed he was smiling. Turning, she reentered the kitchen and climbed up the back stairs to her little bedchamber. Alonza had gotten into the habit of lighting Francesca’s bedside taper when she came up each night, for these days she was always ahead of the younger woman. It flickered madly as the girl entered the room, closing and locking the door quickly behind her.

Her evening habit had become routine. She relieved herself, bathed, scrubbed her teeth with a small piece of willow, and disrobed but for her chemise. Then, brushing the garments she had worn that day, she set them aside for the morrow. She said her prayers by the side of her bed and climbed into it and blew out her taper. Some nights she slept quickly, for the quiet at the inn, even with guests in residence, was amazing. Some nights the cold wind kept her awake for a time as it blew frostily through her shutters.

Tonight she was kept awake by her thoughts of Carlo, the huntsman from the deepest part of the forest. There was something very mysterious about him, an air of danger that attracted her, and she was not certain it should. He got on well with the other huntsmen, yet she thought him perhaps more civilized despite that danger. She liked the way he respected Bernardo, and how he had spoken to her from the dark of the taproom. Not like she was some servant girl to be seduced, but as an equal. Still, even Francesca was wise enough to have heard there were many roads by which seduction traveled. If she thought any further she didn’t recall it when she awoke in the morning, for sleep had come suddenly and claimed her.

Carlo was not there the next day, nor for several days after, but then he returned, announcing to Alonza that he intended to spend the winter months at the inn. “I’m not of a mind to be solitary when the snows come this year.”

“Is that where you disappeared to?” the innkeeper asked him.

Carlo nodded in affirmation. “I’ve cleaned it up and made it tight for the winter. When I return in the spring it will just need a good airing.”

Francesca had lost track of the days. She was surprised when a friar appeared at the inn one afternoon. He was of indeterminate age, dressed in brown robes and sandals.

Alonza greeted him, delighted. “Brother Stefano! You have come just in time for Christmas.” She hugged him, and then brought Francesca forward. “This is my new serving girl, Cara. She has truly been a godsend to me.”

Francesca bobbed a little curtsy, and Brother Stefano smiled broadly, giving her a blessing. “I decided that you needed a wee bit of God this year, Alonza. How many are you caring for this winter?”

“Fourteen,” Alonza told him. “Six of the men went home to their families.”

“And you supply the family for the others,” Brother Stefano said. “You’re a good woman, Alonza. God bless you for it!”

“And Carlo has come for the winter this year,” the innkeeper said.

“Has he? I find that interesting. Do you know why?”

“Ask him yourself,” Alonza said. “’Tis not my tale to tell.”

“I will,” Brother Stefano replied.

The hall was livelier that evening with the addition of the friar. The men laughed, ate, and drank, but most important to Francesca, they kept their hands to themselves. She received not a single pinch. Alonza laughed when she said so. Her day ended as she swept the taproom and talked with Carlo in the darkness. He had made it a habit, and Francesca had to admit that she looked forward to their talk, even if he never revealed himself.

He was just a shadow in the concealing dimness, and it was their secret, for he rarely spoke to her before the others. She liked the idea of having this clandestine time with the handsome hunter. She would not admit it, but she found him and the air of mystery about him exciting. But should she? Still, being a serving wench lowers many barriers for me, Francesca thought. Cara might do what Francesca ought not. But should she? She suspected not, and yet this air of freedom was too intoxicating to ignore.

Chapter 7

B
rother Stefano said a Mass each morning he was with them. He heard confessions, but Francesca did not make one, smiling and refusing him when he asked.

“Next time, then,” the friar said calmly. “No one should be forced to God.”

“I have no great sins, I promise you. I am a maid, and mean to remain a maid until I wed a good man,” Francesca told him.

“I believe you, my child,” Brother Stefano responded, and he blessed her. He departed after the Feast of the Nativity. There had been little snow up until then. His small friary was three days’ walk from the inn, and he wanted to reach it before any storms came and prevented his passage. His timing was foreknowing. The first big storm began on the last day of December.

It had been a strange Christmas for Francesca. She was used to being surrounded by her family, exchanging lavish little gifts with her parents and siblings, feasting in her father’s
sala da pranzo
on hard-to-find fruits and hazelnuts, among other special foods.

Instead she gave Alonza a small potpourri she had made in the late autumn, and the innkeeper gave her a new chemise she had sewn for the girl. They feasted in the hall with the hunters, pushing the trestles together so that Alonza sat at one end and Francesca at the other end.

It was the last night of the year, with Alonza in her bed and the hunters in theirs, that Francesca slipped into the taproom to sit before the fire. There was no wind tonight, and she could see the snow falling silently outside. She was going to be sixteen in this new year that was coming. It seemed so old when you had neither mate nor child.

You could have been married,
the voice in her head said.

“You are pensive tonight,” he said from the darkness, but he sat next to her upon the settle by the fire. “What do you think?”

“Of nothing, of everything,” she replied, surprised, for she thought him abed.

“Here,” he spoke again, and he shoved something into her hand. “It is for you.”

“What is it?” she said, and looking down saw a beautifully carved pear wood comb in her hand.

“Hair as beautiful as yours needs a comb. I carved it for you, Cara,” he told her quietly. “I hope you will like it.”

Francesca was both touched and amazed, but then, distressed, she said, “Alas, I have no gift for you, Carlo. It does not seem fair that you give me a New Year’s gift, and I have not one for you.”

“Give me a kiss,” he said. But there was no suggestive tone to his voice.

“I think, perhaps, I should not accept your gift,” Francesca told him. “Bernardo has warned me that you are a seducer. Is this the first step in your plan of seduction?”

He laughed softly. “I suspect that you are worth far more than a poor man’s gift of a pear wood comb, Cara. And the value of your kiss far exceeds the worth of the comb.”

“Oh, my,” she replied. “How flattering you are, Carlo. And dangerous too, I fear.”

Then, leaning over, she kissed him upon his bearded cheek. “I hope that you will accept my little kiss in return,
signore
.”

“I do!” he replied. Indeed she had taken him quite by surprise. Daringly he put a light arm about her shoulders, and she did not flinch away. “Shall we sit and enjoy this peace as the New Year begins?” he asked her.

She said nothing in reply, but relaxed against him. A new year, Francesca thought. So much had happened since the last New Year had been celebrated. Two years ago she had been in Venice, living with her grandfather, and they had watched the fireworks display brought from China that had been sponsored by the doge for the enjoyment of the populace. And last year she had been back in Florence with her family, celebrating together with wine and cakes and sugar-coated almonds.

Her mother had worried that Francesca’s behavior would end up costing her a good husband. Her father had assured Orianna that their daughter’s dowry and her beauty would overcome any and all alleged faults. Her brothers had teased their parents by saying they agreed with Francesca. The suitors coming to pay her court were not worthy of her at all. Lucianna bragged that she would make the finest marriage of all, and little Giulia fell asleep before the bells tolled the midnight hour.

Francesca’s eyes grew misty. She missed her family. She missed Venice. She was even willing to admit to missing Florence. As this new year was about to dawn, she was not home with those she loved. She was not Francesca Pietro d’Angelo, the privileged second daughter of the head of the silk merchants’ guild, living in an elegant and civilized city. She was Cara, a girl with red hands who served a coterie of rough huntsmen in the midst of a winter forest.

She trembled but barely, and then hot tears began to roll down her pale cheeks.

She had callously thrown away the life she was meant to have as the young
duchessa
of Terreno Boscoso. She had scorned the good man who would be her husband. Could she really return to Florence and her family in the spring? What was the matter with her that she had allowed her pride to overwhelm her good sense? What did it matter now why Rafaello Cesare had chosen her?

Carlo had felt the tiny tremor that had gone through her. “What is the matter?” he asked gently. He caught her face between his thumb and his forefinger and tilted it up, surprised to see that she was crying. Without thinking he bent his head and placed a tender kiss upon her mouth.

She didn’t scold him or even push him away. His kiss was comforting and gentle. Eyes closed, she held her lips up to him for more. He complied, at first careful not to alarm her, but his desire was quickly aroused. Carlo’s arms wrapped about Francesca. She did not resist. His kisses deepened. Her lips parted slightly for him. His hand slipped first past the neckline of her blouse, and then between the opening of her chemise. His fingers slid deeper, deeper until his hand was cupping a small but very full breast within his palm.

She murmured a faint protest.

“Don’t forbid me this sweetness,” he begged against her swollen lips as he began to stroke the silken skin.

Francesca sighed. I shouldn’t let him, but it feels so good, she thought, as she sensed her nipple pucker as if it had been touched by frost. She couldn’t speak. She didn’t want to forbid him, nor did she want him to cease.

Skilled in the art of passion, Carlo immediately recognized that Francesca was enjoying his touches. He also noted that she wasn’t crying anymore. He stroked the breast slowly, slowly, squeezing it slightly, rubbing his rough thumb over the nipple again. “Does this please you,
amore mia
?” he whispered in her ear.

She was silent a moment, but then she said softly, “Yes.” She sighed deeply. “Still, I cannot permit you to go further with your seduction because of my melancholy, Carlo. I am a virgin, and must save my virtue for the man I will one day wed.”

Reluctantly he withdrew his hand from her warm flesh. “Will you die a maid if no one suitable comes along? I suspect you are a maid who will not accept just any husband, Cara. What do you seek in a husband?”

“A man who will love me, who chooses me because I am the only one who can fill his heart. I have a sister who ran away for that kind of love. I have a friend who merely looked upon a certain man and knew he was the one with whom she wished to spend her life. I suppose I am foolish to want this kind of love, but I do.”

“You are not foolish,” he told her quietly. “You are a maiden who holds to her ideals. I hold to my principles too, so I understand you. Now go to your lonely bed, Cara, for if you remain I fear we shall both be tempted despite our good intentions.” He stood, pulling her up behind him, and gave her a small push towards the taproom entrance. “Good night,
amore mia
.”

Francesca did not argue with him or even look back. He was correct, and she knew it. Her first taste of passion had been delicious. She was beginning to understand why people found forbidden fruit so tasty. Hurrying up the back staircase, she quickly found her bed. Soon enough Alonza would awaken her to begin her morning’s chores.

But when she awoke it was already daylight. Francesca jumped from her little bed, wincing at the icy floor beneath her feet. She quickly washed and pulled on her clothing, then went in search of Alonza.

But the innkeeper wasn’t in the kitchen. Francesca hurried back upstairs and crept into the old woman’s bedchamber. Alonza lay in her bed, and at first glance Francesca knew she was very sick. Her wrinkled brow was dotted in beads of sweat, and when the girl touched her, she found, as she had suspected she would, that Alonza was burning up with fever.
Madre di Dios!
What was she to do?

Alonza croaked from her bed. “Cara, you must take care of the inn’s business today without me. I have caught the winter flux.”

“You need to be taken care of,” Francesca said.

“No, no! First feed the men. Then return to me.” She waved the girl away with a limp hand.

Francesca debated a moment before nodding and hurrying out of Alonza’s bedchamber. The old woman was very sick, but she did not appear anywhere near to dying. Reaching the kitchens, she uncovered the bowls of dough, kneaded them, shaped them, and got them into the ovens. Their meal would be late today, but she suspected their guests were also sleeping late, for it was as quiet as a tomb. Outside the snow was still gently falling and all was silent. Pulling on her cloak, she made a quick trip to the henhouse and gathered up every egg she could find. The snow was already above her knees. She found Bernardo in the kitchen when she returned.

“Where is Alonza?” he inquired of her.

“Sick with the winter flux. I’ll get the meal ready for the men as quickly as I can before I return to nurse her,” Francesca told him.

He gave her a short nod. “What can I do to help?” he asked her.

She gathered up the bread trenchers, got a tray, and handed it to him. “Put the trenchers, the mugs, and spoons at each place,” she told him.

“Most of the lads are still sleeping,” Bernardo told her. “Managing this all by yourself won’t be easy, but we’ll all help out where we can. You just make certain that we are all fed, Cara.”

“They’ll want hot food, so when I tell you to fetch them please do,” she answered him. “Then they can sleep the rest of the day away until the dinner hour.”

He nodded and took the trenchers into the dining hall.

She paid no attention to him after that, boiling up eggs for the meal and taking the bread from the ovens. As it was New Year’s Day, she took a small ham from the larder, sliced it, and lay the slices upon a platter. A pot over the hearth cooked a grain cereal. When it was done she added bits of chopped apple and stirred honey into the pot, setting it in the coals to keep warm.

Bernardo came into the kitchen. “Shall I fill the cups with ale now?” he asked her.

Francesca nodded, adding, “Then fetch the men to the hall.”

As he went off to follow her instructions, she began bringing the food into the trestles. She added crocks of butter and cheese to each table. Bernardo had quickly filled the mugs and gone off to rouse his companions. They began to straggle into the hall, sleepy-eyed, but smelling her good meal they became more awake. Francesca came from the kitchen, managing to hold on to the pot of hot grain. She filled each trencher full as the benches at the trestles quickly filled. Bernardo had explained that Alonza was very sick and still abed. They had hardly expected the bounty they received from the serving wench, and were therefore both surprised and grateful. The food was consumed quickly and they thanked her.

“We’ll have to help today as Cara’s duties include nursing the old woman, and seeing that we are fed again will take all of her time,” Bernardo told his huntsmen. Then he turned to Francesca. “What will you need done?”

“We’ll need a path shoveled from the kitchen door to the barn and the henhouse. The animals in the barn will need feeding. Break the ice on their water. The two goats and the cow will need milking. The chickens need food too. They can hardly go out to scratch in their yard in all this snow. Scatter grain for them on the henhouse floor. I’ll need firewood brought into the hearths, and charcoal for the braziers in the sleeping chambers. And several buckets of water for the kitchen from the well. If it is frozen hit the ice with the bucket until it breaks. And the trestles must be cleared so I can wash the mugs, spoons, and dishes. I cannot think of anything else now,” Francesca concluded.