Francesca (4 page)

“And the saddle maker to make the saddles and bridles for my horses,” Francesca replied. “I’ll want a third bridle trimmed with silver bells too.”

“Oh, I wish I could go with you!” Lucianna said. “I wonder if he is handsome. Are his eyes blue or brown or green? Is his mouth made for kissing?”

“Lucianna!”
Orianna was shocked, but Francesca giggled. “Who has ever suggested to you that men’s mouths were made or not made for kissing?”

“Oh,
Madre
,
do not fear. I only overheard the serving women talking,” Lucianna reassured her mother.

Orianna was far from reassured, however. God only knew what else those sluts in the kitchens had said. Well, as soon as Francesca was off for Terreno Boscoso, the family would depart for their villa in Tuscany, where her children were less likely to hear such sophisticated chatter. Lucianna would spend her days running barefoot with her village friends in the fields as she did each summer, Giulia fast behind her. At twelve and ten these two youngest daughters of hers were closer than the eldest two had been.

It was just a matter of getting Francesca on her way. Just a few more weeks, Orianna thought, and she sighed with relief. And with luck, Francesca would find her happiness with this young duke and be married into Terreno Boscoso. She certainly already had all the mannerisms of a
duchessa
.

Chapter 2

T
he day for her departure came at last. Her beautiful new wardrobe, along with her jewelry, was carefully packed into six wooden trunks lined in cedar. The trunks were made of sturdy oak and bound with iron. There were two separate trunks for Francesca’s bedding. One held fine linen sheets and a feather bed. The other a down comforter covered in silk, and several plump pillows. There was a trunk that held the garments she would wear as she traveled to Terreno Boscoso. There was a small trunk containing items of embellishment, such as gloves, adornments for her hair, her silk stockings, and shoes, several pairs of which had been made for her.

There was a trunk containing the possessions of her maid, Terza, who had been given a fine new wardrobe, indicating that Francesca’s family was one of importance and means and valued her. Terza was a pleasant plain-faced woman in her twenties. She had light brown hair and brown eyes. She had been raised within the Pietro d’Angelo household, the daughter of the cook. She had been trained by Orianna’s own personal maid, Fabia, who recommended her to her mistress.

Terza was well-spoken, mannerly, and devout without being annoying. She had been assigned Francesca’s care upon her return from Venice and was content to follow her. Francesca actually enjoyed her company, for Terza was far more adventurous than her quiet demeanor indicated to others, as her mistress discovered one day when she caught her gambling with several menservants from whom she gleefully took her winnings.

When one of the men proved a bad loser and accused her of cheating, Terza whipped out a small dagger that had been hidden in the pocket of her skirts. Then she asked him if he had anything more than his stupidity and poor judgment to back up his accusation. If he did not, she would accept his apology. If he did not apologize, she threatened to geld him with her knife. The serving man began to bluster, and Terza moved closer to him, humming a naughty street song. Another servant gave his companion a warning push. The apology was reluctantly forthcoming. Terza gathered up her winnings and sauntered off, whistling. Francesca was very impressed, and told her serving woman so. From that moment they became friends.

There were to be fifty Pietro d’Angelo men-at-arms escorting Francesca, and Lorenzo di Medici had hired twenty-five more who wore his badge of household service.

It was a huge honor, but old Duke Titus would have no doubts as to the importance Francesca Pietro d’Angelo held to Florence. There were the two grooms who would take care of Francesca’s two horses, as well as the animals ridden by the two nuns, the priest, and the sturdy chestnut mare that served as Terza’s mount. They would also see to the two greyhounds gifted to Francesca by Lorenzo di Medici. She named the dark gray one Tuono, which meant “thunder,” and the paler gray Nebbia, meaning “fog.” A Pietro d’Angelo cook who would accompany them and prepare their meals had his own wagon with all his equipment and supplies. He also carried a small bathing tub for Francesca.

Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo looked at the great train assembled before his house. While not a parsimonious man, he nonetheless added up in his head the great expense that this venture was costing him. Pray God that Francesca liked the Duke of Terreno Boscoso’s son. Pray God the duke’s son be taken by Francesca’s beauty and choose her as his bride. If not, they would all be the laughingstock of Florence, and he named a fool.

Yet a man could not send his daughter off as the possible bride to such a distinguished family in a niggardly fashion. Lorenzo di Medici’s kindness had proved to have a very high price. And if Francesca failed to gain the prize, the di Medici family would not be pleased at all.

Orianna had bid her daughter a tearful farewell. “I still think we should have had the wedding gown made,” she fretted.

“The seamstress has my measurements. Make the gown if it pleases you, and if I decide to allow this duke’s heir to have the honor of wedding me, I will send for it,” Francesca said in placating tones. “If not, we will save it for another bridegroom.”

“Madre di Dios!”
Orianna half sobbed with her anxiety. “How can you speak so casually about this? It could well be your last chance at a good marriage.”

Oddly Francesca felt a small surge of guilt at her mother’s distress. She put a hand upon her parent’s arm, comforting her. “
Madre
, do not fear. I am aware of what is involved. I promise to do nothing too awful to discourage this young man.”

“You will do nothing to discourage him,” Orianna said, rallying.

Francesca laughed. “I will try,” she promised.

Her siblings surrounded her. “If you win the prince’s hand, we shall never see you again,” her sisters noted sanguinely.

“Why not?” Francesca asked.

“It’s so far away. You’ll disappear from our lives, as the eldest of us did,” Lucianna remarked.

Orianna said nothing to this veiled reference to her eldest daughter, Bianca.

Giulia began to sob. “I’ll miss you,” she said.

“In another few years it will be your turn to wed,” Francesca told her.

“
Madre
says Luci and I will go far away too. None of us will ever be together again.” And Giulia cried harder.

“That is usually the way of it for girls of good family,” Orianna pointed out.

“I must go,” Francesca said. Her sisters’ words had unsettled her. What if she didn’t come back from Terreno Boscoso? She quickly kissed her mother and her two younger sisters and, turning, departed the palazzo.

Outside Giovanni and his sons awaited her. Her brothers bid her a fond farewell, reminding her of her duty to both her family and to Florence. Then they returned inside the palazzo, leaving Francesca with her father. He took her by her shoulders and looked into her face. “You know what is expected of you, Francesca. This is no longer a game. I want you to be happy, but should you return to us it will be difficult to find a husband for a girl who has been refused by a duke’s son. Remember that you’ve turned down every respectable offer in Florence.”

For a moment Francesca was frightened by the seriousness of his tone and by his blunt words. Was it actually possible a husband could not be found for her when she came home? No! She was Francesca Pietro d’Angelo. She was wealthy and beautiful. There was always a man available for such a girl. Still, she considered her father’s speech to her as his duty. “I will hope to find this duke’s son pleasing,” she said.

“You had best hope he finds you pleasing,” Giovanni said sharply. Then he kissed her cheek and helped her mount the beautiful white gelding. “God bless you, my daughter. May our own Santa Anna travel with you.”

Settled securely in her saddle, Francesca pulled her beautiful golden-brown leather gloves onto her hands. “Thank you,
Padre
,” she replied, smiling down at him.

Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo raised his hand to signal the captain of his household’s men-at-arms to proceed. He stood watching as his second daughter and her personal attendants, surrounded by well-armed men-at-arms, slowly rode across the piazza through the small park that led out into the public streets. The baggage train had already gone on ahead of them. Old Father Bonamico stood on the steps of the church and blessed them as they passed by Santa Anna. When they were gone the silk merchant climbed into his waiting litter and went to his warehouses, for there was a new shipment of silk arriving today. It had come directly from Cathay.

Francesca looked beautiful in her rich brown riding outfit. She knew it, and held herself proudly as they rode through the streets and out the gates onto the road leading to Milano. The normally rude streets, so bustling and busy, opened for her, allowing them easy access. She heard whispers and saw fingers pointing now and again in her direction.

At the gate the sentry examined their travel papers. She heard the man say to the captain of her guard, “Don’t blame ’em for sending her away to find a husband. No man in Florence will have such a shrew.” Her cheeks grew hot but she didn’t deign to give the soldier a glance as they passed him. She was, after all, Francesca Pietro d’Angelo, and the opinion of a low soldier didn’t count.

Because it was late spring coming into summer they rode each day from dawn until dusk. The baggage train was gone each morning before they finished their simple meal of bread, cheese, hard-cooked eggs, and fruit. As the light began to wane at day’s end they would reach the halt designated for the night. Within an hour the baggage carts would arrive, the cook fires would be lit, and Francesca’s silk pavilion would be raised on its sturdy wooden platform for the women. A smaller tent would be set up for the priest. Camp beds, tables, and chairs would be unloaded and placed within the pavilion. Father Silvio would take his evening meal with the women. The cook would bring in a hot delicious meal. The goblets would be filled with wine.

Most days of the late spring as it moved into early summer were warm and pleasant, but some days they were forced to ride in the rain. Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo did not want his daughter stopping at any public inns. Most were flea-ridden, and not all of the travelers they housed were apt to be respectable or honest. The silk merchant wanted his daughter’s journey to be as pleasant as it could be given the distance they would travel. He wanted Francesca happy when she reached Terreno Boscoso.

The Duke of Milano had at the personal request of Lorenzo di Medici given Francesca’s party leave to travel through his domain. He sent a scout to observe her train’s passing and was impressed by what he was told afterwards. He already knew the reason for her travels. Perhaps if old Duke Titus’s son did not choose her, he should consider this girl for one of his own relations.

They had departed at the end of the month of May. They passed through several small holdings after leaving the Duchy of Milano but faced no border guards. The landscape around them began to change from farmland into rolling hills and forestland. Then suddenly there were larger and much larger hills in the distance. Francesca realized these were mountains, although she had never seen any before; she had asked the priest and he had and told her so. She asked why some of the larger mountains were white on top, and the priest explained it was snow. Francesca had seen snow once or twice in her lifetime, although most Florentine winters were just wet and chilly.

As June slid into July the captain of her men-at-arms told her they were now on the road that would take them directly to Duke Titus’s great
castello
. Shortly they came to territorial markings indicating they were in Duke Titus’s duchy. A few leagues farther on they were met by an official crossing. Its keeper said that they were expected, and he had been watching for the train from Florence for several days now.

“You traveled slowly, or did you meet with some misfortune along your route?” the border keeper asked.

“It’s our large baggage train. It’s about an hour behind us,” the captain of the men-at-arms said in reply.

“But your lady hasn’t been chosen from among the three yet,” the border keeper noted slyly.

“Do you think that Florence would send an applicant unprepared and arriving like a pauper?” the captain returned proudly. “Half the men-at-arms with me come from the house of the di Medici. Our candidate is both well respected and of a good and honorable family. She was chosen by Lorenzo the Magnificent himself.”

“I am suitably awed,” the border keeper said, grinning. He opened the crossing gate for them and waved them through. “I’ll send your baggage train on as soon as it arrives.”

“My thanks,” the captain responded politely. “How far are we from the duke’s
castello
?”

“The rest of today and a half day tomorrow should bring you safely to it,” the border keeper said.

They traveled onward until almost sunset. The baggage train arrived, and the encampment was set up for the evening. When the dinner had been brought and the blessing said Father Silvio told them what the captain had learned from the border keeper.

“You must surely be glad to finally reach your destination,
madonna
.
I will be glad when we do, I am not loath to admit. He tore a piece from the loaf of bread and mopped up the rich gravy from the rabbit stew that had been served. “And you will finally meet the duke’s young heir. He cannot fail to be taken by you. It is hoped you will not frighten him away.” He smiled mischievously at her as the two nuns, usually silent, and Terza laughed at his words. The priest was well aware he was baiting Francesca.