“I am well, thank you, Monna Trovato.” Her voice was so quiet that I had to strain to hear what she was saying.
“Congratulations. It must be a miraculous thing, to be creating a life inside you.”
“I thank God for this gift, but I fear for what is coming. May God grant me and our child safe passage.” I saw her dart a glance at Gabriele. Next to me I felt a ripple go through him, but his face was unchanged. Instinctively, I tried to read him further, knowing the tragedy that might be at the source of his reaction. He turned to look at me sharply. Maybe I was imagining it, but it felt like he was warning me not to try that on him again.
“I will pray for you both.” Had I really just said that?
“Your prayers are most welcome, thank you,” Rinaldo answered, pulling Bianca closer to him. I got the feeling he would have put her in his pocket, if pockets had existed in the 1340s.
I’ve always been a sucker for a good parade, and today’s was the best I’d ever seen. Gabriele was buoyant beside me with the power of the holiday, and for the first time I felt I could understand what it meant to believe that the Virgin Mary had ascended to heaven in the company of angels, and now watched her beloved city from above. I’m getting to be a little medieval, I thought. The thought made me inordinately happy.
We were surrounded by musicians playing as we walked; the thready high sound of wooden flutes intertwined with brassy sounds from a horn. Above the music the cathedral bells began to ring, calling us to pay our respects to the Virgin. It felt like a small pilgrimage.
In the Piazza del Duomo, we all congregated under a Civetta banner. Ysabella took my wrist firmly.
“Come have a cup of wine,” she commanded, and pulled me to a sea of barrels arrayed in front of the cathedral steps, each one manned by someone dispensing drinks to the celebrants. Full cup in hand, I watched while Siena’s principal magistrates entered the cathedral. Next came the representatives of Siena’s territories in the contado, and then the casati families, all bearing candles in tribute. Decorated silk banners fluttered above us, and I could see the glint of thousands of candles through the open door of the Duomo.
“The Virgin must see how much we love her.” Ysabella, who generally radiated maturity beyond her years, looked suddenly young, her face full of pure delight. It was all so beautiful I almost forgot that I didn’t belong here. That thought led to a more troubling one: What if I could not go back to my own time simply because I did not genuinely wish to, and only the purest longing would bring me back? What if losing Ben had loosened my grip on my own reality, allowing me to slip untethered into another century, with insufficient motivation to carry me home again? If I were stranded here forever, it might be my own fault.
As we were waiting in the line to enter the cathedral, a wave of uneasiness swept over me. Near the Duomo’s entrance I saw a tall figure in an elaborate red hat trimmed in fur with a matching cloak. It was a hot outfit for August, but that wasn’t what had caught my eye. The man, with his dark hair and aquiline nose, reminded me of the scholar who’d made so much trouble for me back in my old time. Ysabella caught me looking, and followed my gaze.
“That is Ser Signoretti,” she said proudly, “one of Siena’s most esteemed gentlemen, and a great patron of the arts. He has hired our own Gabriele to paint a fresco in his private chapel—the man clearly has impeccable taste.” She smiled and I tried to smile back. So Gabriele worked for Signoretti, or at least the Signoretti household. I looked around to locate Gabriele, but he was several people behind us in line, arm in arm with his uncle. I turned back to Ysabella.
“Do you know him?”
Ysabella smiled indulgently at me, the sort of smile kind people reserve for ignorant visitors. “Ser Signoretti? We all know of him. Ser Signoretti’s patronage is a great boon to Siena.”
“Do you know of any connection between the Signoretti family and the Medicis from Florence?”
Ysabella’s smile faded. “Ser Signoretti consorting with the Medicis? You may not have realized, living in Lucca, what animosity exists between Siena and Florence. And especially now—the news is already in the streets of the Medici criminal who killed one of our own night watch.” I nodded apologetically, letting her blame my Luccan ignorance for the mistake. But I knew something she didn’t. I upended my cup into my mouth without tasting what I was drinking.
*
Giovanni was not released from his cell for the festival but had to watch the throngs of other prisoners emerging from the prison gates into the Campo. Perpetrators suspected of homicide, he’d been told by a guard, were not released on feast days. The room’s window and high vantage point on the Campo, a privilege Giovanni had paid for dearly, was now proving to be a source of agony. The jailers did however allow him a visit from Iacopo. The narrow room smelled of sweat and fear. Iacopo sat this time without being asked.
“My case will be tried in three days; there is little time to plan.
“Have you been given any details?”
“Only that the witness will give testimony at the trial. Have you found Accorsi yet?”
“There are many Accorsis in the city. . . .” Iacopo winced, expecting his father to lash out in fury at his failure, but instead Giovanni was silent. “Mother is on her way. I told her your release was unlikely.”
“Immacolata has all the failings of her sex and none of the virtues. Her presence will not provide any comfort. Get me a lawyer from Bologna for the trial. The best of the procuratores are trained at the university there, and renowned for their defense arguments. Go there yourself, find the man with the best reputation, give him fifty florins with the promise of more if he should aid in my acquittal, and bring him back with you.”