Antonio lay pinned under his injured horse, his leg twisted in an impossible direction. He shielded his face with his hands but his attacker sliced through the boy’s fingers, then his throat. As the brigand bent to cut the saddlebags from the downed horse, one of Lugani’s mounted guards drew his sword and swung the blade at the thief. The blow separated the thief’s head cleanly from his body, spraying everything in its radius with bright red blood. I sat frozen on Margherita’s back as the outlaw’s face blanched, as if his disembodied brain were realizing the awful truth of what had happened. I saw Lugani move next, his cloak a slash of red beneath the low trees as he spun his horse to face the next attacker.
Clara started screaming, picking up where Antonio’s horse had left off. While I’d been watching the attack on the front of our party, a frighteningly large man in leather armor leaped from the sloping hill above the road and landed between my horse and Cane’s, brandishing a glinting knife. Before I could react, Cane drew his own dagger from his waist and drove the blade into the back of the outlaw’s burly neck. Our attacker folded slowly to the ground behind Margherita’s rear hooves, and Clara’s scream abruptly stopped, as if she’d choked on it. Cane motioned quickly to the rear guard, who pulled Clara’s horse backward over the body of the outlaw, prone on the path with Cane’s dagger still protruding from his neck. When the guard came back for me, our horses half ran, half slid down the narrow, curving trail. The guard led us to an outcropping of granite along the cliff wall with an opening large enough to permit a horse and rider to pass, and we entered a surprisingly large cave. The fighting continued on the path above us, muffled by the thick stone.
“Stay here,” the guard barked unnecessarily and disappeared. I looked around at my companions—the back end of Lugani’s party. There were two other women besides me and Clara, probably servants judging by their dress, two elderly gentlemen who I thought might be accountants, and two young office apprentices. The last was Messer Cane, who had dismounted and was trying to calm his horse by whispering into her ear. I dismounted too, sending my legs into a painful spasm, but after a minute, I managed to stand again.
I leaned against Margherita’s warm flank to steady myself. Clara stumbled as she slid down from her pony, and when I reached out to help, she folded against my chest, burying her face in my neck. I could feel her heart beating fast like a little bird’s. Finally our guard came back looking grimly satisfied. He had blood on his cheek, but it did not appear to be his own; I couldn’t see a wound on him anywhere.
“The fighting is finished. You may all mount once you are back out on the road.”
As we made our way up the hill again I could see two of our guards tying Antonio’s slender body onto a pack horse’s back. One of Antonio’s arms swung with that terrible absence of tone that cannot be imitated by the living.
Lugani’s voice was harsh, stripped of its usual finish. “Have respect for the youth—his mother would not want to see him treated like a sack of barley flour.” Lugani bent and with surprising gentleness closed Antonio’s eyes with one hand, then covered his body with a canvas tarpaulin. Lugani’s lips moved silently. I imagined it might be a prayer, but I could feel, with a shiver, that Lugani’s intent held more emotion than simple ritual would require. It was the first brush with Lugani’s heart I’d had; until now his head had dominated all our interactions. I shook myself out of the unexpected connection and watched him with new appreciation as he remounted his horse.
We passed two bodies by the side of the road as our party resumed its upward path—the outlaws unlucky enough to be in the vanguard of their own band. Their corpses had been stripped of weapons and anything else of value. Cane drew his horse up next to mine.
“How curious that the first journey that includes our new scribe is fraught with danger, though her own pilgrimage along the same road was strangely uneventful.”
“Messer Cane, I have no idea what you mean.”
“I take special care to send out notice of false routes and times of departure, to avoid potential difficulties. It would be a great shame if any acquaintances of yours should come to know our plans and cause further trouble.”
“I have no troublesome acquaintances, Ser.”
“I should hope not, but I will be watching you, Signora.” I supposed he saw something was slightly off with me, but couldn’t know what it was. But perhaps Cane was right—did I have troublesome acquaintances? Could I have made an enemy already after just a few innocent months in the fourteenth century? The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but every bird’s flight or rustle of wind in the trees made me catch my breath.
* * *
Gabriele arrived at the Ospedale when the sun was already high and found Suor Umiltà standing grimly outside the entrance. He addressed her cautiously, anticipating an outburst about his late arrival. “Is something amiss?”
“Other than the fact that we have lost a scribe and an assistant cook in one calamitous moment?” Umiltà inhaled hugely and seemed to grow larger before Gabriele’s eyes as her outrage spewed forth. “Our little Clara left with a face that looked as if she would welcome any threat to her virginity, should it come from that red-cloaked adder, and I have grave doubts that our lambs will be returned to us safely, if at all. Other than that, nothing is amiss, Messer Accorsi, nothing whatsoever.”
“Will he not return them to their rightful home after their work is complete?”
“I would not trust Lugani with a sack of grain, let alone a virgin and a grieving widow.”
“How long ago did they depart?”
“Too long ago to follow,” Umiltà said, looking at Gabriele with narrowed eyes. They stood in a moment of shared distress, listening to the bell tower pealing the midday hour. In his mind, Gabriele began to draw the thin outlines of a plan, like sinopia on fresh plaster.
“The rector will want to see you. He is pleased with your work and payment is forthcoming.” Umiltà had turned toward the fresco over the Ospedale entry and was gesturing broadly with one cloaked arm. “Your painting is exceptionally beautiful, Messer Accorsi. Have you found a patron for your next commission?”
“The fresco season in Siena is coming to an end, but there is panel work to be found during the colder months.”
Umiltà stared up at the wall over the doorway for an inordinately long time before she turned her gaze back to Gabriele. “The dark angel is quite different from the other three. She seems almost mortal, juxtaposed against the heavenly demeanor of her companions. And there is something curiously familiar about her face.” The dangerous direction of their interchange was conveniently rerouted by the arrival of a boisterous juggling troupe in parti-colored red and white, accompanied by two musicians playing a flute and small drum. By the time they had finished their performance, Umiltà had either lost her train of thought or deliberately chosen to abandon it.