Rose Red (37 page)

“Here, Bianca.” With a groan, Francesco
wrenched the dagger from his side and held it up for Bianca to
take.

“
Francesco!” Eleonora rushed into the clearing and dropped
to her knees beside the fallen
condottiere.
“Don’t you dare to die! We need
you alive.”

“I will do my best to obey your wishes,
madonna,” Francesco responded in a decidedly weak voice.

As Eleonora pressed her hand to his wounded
side to stop the flow of blood, Bianca seized the dagger from
Francesco’s lax fingers. Holding it with the point aimed at
Stregone, she moved toward him in so resolute a manner that no man
among those in the glade attempted to prevent her.

“My father trusted you,” Bianca told Stregone
through set teeth. “I heard him say so. And you betrayed him.”

As if in a dream, Rosalinda watched her
sister approach Stregone. She was scarcely aware of her own
trembling or of Andrea’s arm around her, supporting her. She barely
noticed the other men crowding into the clearing, witnesses all to
the scene playing out before them. She did see Vanni rush to
Bianca’s side with his sword drawn and his own dagger in his left
hand. However, Vanni did not attack with his weapons. Instead, he
began to taunt Stregone.

“You had help in your betrayal of Girolamo
Farisi, didn’t you, Stregone?” Vanni said. “You couldn’t manage it
alone, so you were forced to enlist my father in your scheme.”

“No!” Stregone’s teeth were bared again in
the wicked grimace that passed for a smile with him. “It was my
scheme, my intrigue. All of it, mine alone! Federigo Sotani was too
honest to wish for the removal of a man he regarded as a friendly
rival. Marco Guidi was not so scrupulous when I approached him with
the scheme. He was happy to take the credit, and the glory, but the
overthrow of Girolamo Farisi, the planning, the execution, the
actual blow that brought him down, all were my doing. Federigo
Sotani had nothing to do with Farisi’s death.”

Eleonora was still kneeling beside Francesco.
Upon hearing Stregone’s bold confession of guilt, she made a sound
that was part cry of horror, part shout of rage. Leaving Francesco
in the care of a man-at-arms, Eleonora rose to advance on Stregone
like an avenging angel.

“I call heaven and earth and all here present
to witness your confession,” Eleonora declared in a deadly voice.
“Niccolo Stregone, you are condemned out of your own mouth.”

Bianca was sobbing, with tears pouring across
her face, but still she clutched the dagger Stregone had used to
strike down her father. She struggled to speak clearly, so everyone
could hear her.

“After murder, you resorted to looting,” she
said to Stregone, “and to still more looting before you murdered
Federigo Sotani.

“Vanni, I believe that is the treasure he
stole from your father, that you were searching for when I first
met you,” Bianca went on, pointing to the bundles on the ground as
she spoke to Vanni. “I think some of it must have come from
Monteferro, too. Stregone told us he has been accumulating it for
years and hiding it in the cave behind the waterfall.”

“Give up, Stregone,” Andrea shouted. “You
have confessed. Now answer for your crimes like a man.”

“I know of no reason why I should answer to
men of lesser wit than mine,” Stregone responded. “I will never
surrender, and you will not take me. I always leave myself an
escape route.”

So swiftly that no one could guess what he
was going to do or try to stop him, Stregone snatched his dagger
back from Bianca and sheathed it. He leapt to the rope, which was
still attached by one end to the second heavy bundle of treasure he
had let down from the ledge. By its other end the rope remained
secured inside the cave. As agile as a monkey, Stregone began to
climb up the tautly stretched rope toward the cave.

“There’s no purpose in trying to escape that
way,” Vanni called after him.

Stregone’s only response was a scornful
laugh, as if he would defy human reason.

“I’ll cut the rope,” Andrea said. “If it
loosens suddenly, he may fall off. Then we can pull him out of the
water.” He rushed to the bundle, to slash at the rope with his
sword. He severed it from the bundle with one stroke and the lower
end of the rope swung free.

“Too late,” Vanni said. He squinted, looking
upward against the bright sunshine. “He doesn’t need the rope any
longer. He has reached the ledge behind the waterfall.”

From far above them Stregone laughed again,
mocking Andrea’s effort to stop his escape. Reaching for a sturdy
tree root, Stregone left the ledge and began to climb along the
rock face beside the waterfall, pulling himself upward with the
sureness of long familiarity, toward the top of the cliff and
freedom.

“Let’s send some of the men-at-arms around
the side of the hill and up to the top by the easier slope, to
capture him there,” Andrea suggested.

“It would be a waste of time,” Vanni
objected. “It will take too long. By the time they get to the top
of the waterfall, Stregone will be gone.”

“He must not escape!” Eleonora raised both
her fists to the sky and shook them as if she would shake down
Stregone from his high perch.

“He has already escaped,” Bianca said, moving
to stand next to her mother.

“Let all the saints in heaven render justice
on this murderer of honest men,” Eleonora shouted. “In the name of
Girolamo Farisi, of Federigo Sotani, and of all the others whom he
has killed, dear heaven, do not let this wicked creature escape to
destroy still more lives!”

From the high rocks above there came a
derisive laugh in response to Eleonora’s pleas. With a shout of
triumph, Stregone reached the top of the cliff and climbed over it.
He stood there, a dark shape against the bright sky, legs apart,
his fists planted on his hips. His scornful laughter at his
opponents rang on the wind. Watching him, Eleonora groaned and sank
to her knees, her hands clasped, her head bowed.

“I do not ask for vengeance’s sake,” Eleonora
cried, “only for justice. For evil to be punished. Please!
Please!”

An inhuman scream silenced everyone in the
clearing. Slowly Eleonora came to her feet again, Bianca and
Rosalinda flanking her, the eyes of all three fixed upon the sight
of Niccolo Stregone capering along the rocks. It was not a dance of
victory over his enemies, but a desperate attempt at escape.

To one side of Stregone, the wall of rock
continued upward for another hundred feet or so. From that higher
elevation, an eagle had just swooped down upon him.

“The eagles have a nest up there,” Vanni
explained to those in the clearing, who drew closer together to
stare at the drama. “When I was climbing around on those rocks, I
took great care not to get too near to it. I stayed on the opposite
side of the stream. An eagle will fight to the death to protect its
nest and its young.”

The eagle
attacked Stregone again, its wings flaring backward, its beak open
and its sharp claws extended. Stregone fought it with his dagger,
the only weapon he carried. The screams of eagle and man mingled in
a terrible howl. Under the bird’s fierce onslaught, Stregone was
driven to the very edge of the cliff. With another shriek, the
eagle thrust its beak forward, pecking at the man’s eyes. Stregone
flung out an arm to protect himself, stumbled back a step, and fell
off the cliff.

He landed beside the bundles of stolen
treasure and lay there, unmoving. In the clearing absolute silence
reigned, while in the sky an eagle screamed. Looking up, Rosalinda
saw the bird, its wings spread, soaring high on the wind, wild and
free. Eleonora saw it, too.

“Farewell, my dear protector,” Eleonora
whispered. “Your last duty to your daughters, and to me, is
done.”

Lorenzo was among the men-at-arms, and he
went to Stregone to turn him over, face up. Into Stregone’s chest
his own dagger was plunged to the foil length of the blade, with
his hand still grasping the ornate hilt.

“There’s heavenly justice for you,” Lorenzo
said. “He has been slain in the same way and by the same knife he
used to kill so many better men. He must have fallen on it when he
landed.”

As if it had been waiting for this final sign
that Niccolo Stregone was indeed dead, the eagle dipped lower over
the clearing, made a graceful turn, and flew out of sight. Watching
it, Eleonora smiled.

“What shall we do with him?” Lorenzo asked,
indicating Stregone’s body.

“Take him to the next village northward along
the old road,” Rosalinda answered when her mother hesitated. “He
told Bianca and me that he was born there. Let him be buried there,
well away from our lands.”

“Send two men-at-arms with him.” Eleonora had
recovered from her momentary lack of words.

“At once, madonna.” Lorenzo began to give
orders to the men.

“Andrea, you are to go with them,” Eleonora
continued.

“I would prefer to return to Villa Serenita
with the rest of you,” Andrea responded, his eyes fixed upon
Rosalinda.

“Do not argue with me,” Eleonora warned him.
“I have good reason for what I do. You are to tell the story to the
village priest and let him decide on the disposition of Stregone’s
body. Then you are to bring the priest back to Villa Serenita with
you, and as promptly as possible. If you make haste, you ought to
rejoin us about midday tomorrow.

“Now, Vanni,” Eleonora went on, turning to
the other twin, “unhand my daughter and see to packing up that
ill-gotten treasure for transport to the villa. We will decide
later what is to be done with it.”

“Mother, some of those plundered goods belong
to our family,” Bianca said.

“Your mother is right, my dearest,” Vanni
told her. “It’s best if we are gone from this place as soon as
possible. We can examine what’s in those bundles and restore the
goods to the rightful owners later. For the moment, I believe your
sister would be glad of your attention.”

“How pale she is.” Bianca regarded Rosalinda,
who was standing very still, keeping her back turned and not
watching as the men-at-arms carried Niccolo Stregone’s body out of
the clearing to load it onto one of the horses. Andrea gripped
Rosalinda’s shoulder in passing. Then, under Eleonora’s sharp eye,
he hastened to follow her orders, striding off after the
men-at-arms whom Lorenzo had just designated to accompany
Stregone’s body.

“Rosalinda,” Bianca murmured. When she put
her arm around Rosalinda’s waist, her sister leaned heavily against
her. “What a terrible thing for you to see. Do you feel faint? Or
ill?”

“No, just sad and confused. This last
encounter with that dreadful man must have been far worse for you,”
Rosalinda said. With a shudder, she laid her head on her sister’s
shoulder. “How brave you were, Bianca. You would have died for
me.”

“I am glad it wasn’t necessary. Come along,
I’ll help you to your horse.” Bianca led Rosalinda out of the
clearing.

“
Now it
is time for you, Francesco.” Brushing aside the man-at-arms who had
been tending the
condottiere,
Eleonora bent toward him. She put out a hand as if
to touch his face, but halted in mid-motion. “Can you ride, or
shall I have the men carry you?”

“With so formidable a lady to sustain me, how
could I do aught but ride?” Francesco lurched to his feet, but then
he stumbled. “Perhaps just a bit of help to mount my horse. Then I
should be fine.”

“Giuseppe, help him,” Eleonora commanded.
“And stay close beside him. I don’t want him to fall from his horse
and break his neck before he can make his excuses to me.”

Bartolomeo appeared just as Bianca and
Rosalinda left the forest. It was he who lifted Rosalinda to her
horse, and he who rode beside her on the homeward journey.

“Thank heaven you are safe,” Bartolomeo said.
“When Andrea and the others arrived to warn us that Stregone was
coming here, we were all sorely worried about you. To cover as much
ground as possible as quickly as possible, our party split into two
groups. I led the men under my command toward that path into the
mountains that you are so fond of traveling.”

“Bianca and I were there earlier,” Rosalinda
said. “You probably just missed us.”

“Tell me what happened. Your mother has given
me only the barest explanation. I am glad to see she is greatly
concerned with Francesco’s well-being,” Bartolomeo said with a
smile.

As they rode along, Rosalinda recounted the
tale of the fatal meeting with Niccolo Stregone, noting with
considerable admiration the way in which Vanni had taunted Stregone
into making his confession of murder.

“Just as I told your mother, that young man
is remarkably clever,” Bartolomeo said with satisfaction at having
his judgment of Vanni confirmed. “She sent for a priest, did
she?”

“
I don’t
know why,” Rosalinda said. “Mother didn’t explain and I am too
tired to try to reason it out.”
And too upset by the way
Andrea left me so easily to care about anything but his going,
she added silently to
herself.

“You are unusually pale.” Bartolomeo looked
closely at her. As if he could read her thoughts and wanted to
comfort her, he added, “Andrea will surely return on the morrow,
and I do not think your mother will send either of those young men
away in anger again.”

Bartolomeo must have seen more in Rosalinda’s
set face and haunted eyes than he allowed her to know, for as soon
as he lifted her down from her horse, he gave her over to Valeria
with stern instructions for her care.

Under Valeria’s supervision, Rosalinda was
helped to her bedchamber, undressed by a sympathetic but unprying
maidservant, and supplied with a tub of hot, scented water. She was
so grateful for the opportunity to ease an assortment of bodily
aches and twinges that she almost burst into tears as she sank into
the tub.