Rafaelle stepped out. His whole demeanor changed. He adjusted his vest and his coat with the air of a man used to having people wait on him. His very bearing said that this interruption of his journey was an intolerable imposition, even from a fellow conqueror. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in French. He reached the line of soldiers. “I have important business in Milan with M. Jean-Michel Agar, Comte de Mosburg and Minister of Finance. It would behoove you not to make me late. M. Agar will not be pleased with you if you make me late.”
“Who are you?” the officer demanded. Chiara didn’t think it was possible but Rafaelle straightened his already considerable height. At least they hadn’t summarily shot him. He walked through the line of men. Chiara couldn’t see Paolo.
“My name? I am M. Honoré St. Lazar, chief officer in charge of financial compliance for the Grand Duchess Elisa Bonaparte, Grand Duchess of Tuscany. Who the devil are you?”
“Who I am is not important.”
“I must say it is. When I make my report to your superiors, I wish to get your name accurately.”
In the officer’s tone, Chiara could hear that he was not taking the bluff. Something else was needed. She stuck her head out the carriage. “Honoré, my love,” she said in Italian-accented French, “please hurry. I’m getting bored without you.”
Titters rose from the soldiers. “Who is that?” the officer demanded.
Rafaelle glanced back languidly, “Only my cher amie and her maid. They and my Italian servant travel with me.”
The officer ordered a soldier near Rafaelle to check out the carriage. “I’m taking you into custody. I have information that your ‘servant,’” he looked to the thief for confirmation, “is an Englishman.”
“Englishman? That’s absurd.”
“He was heard speaking English.”
Rafaelle huffed. “English, no. He speaks French badly, though.” Rafaelle peered at the thief, whose face sported some new bruises, and affected sudden recognition. “You!” He took out a handkerchief and swept an imaginary dust mote off his shoulder. “Perhaps that is what this thief,” scorn dripped from his lips, “who tried to rob us heard.”
“Nonetheless, I’m taking you into custody.”
A young soldier pulled open the carriage door.
“You can apologize to M….”
Chiara stabbed the soldier in the chest. His look of surprise and the red flower blooming on his chest had Francesca squealing.
The sound galvanized the men. Paolo pulled his pistol, rushed the soldiers and took dead aim at the one in front of him. Chiara shot through the window, but knew she’d missed the moment she pulled the trigger. The officer screamed unintelligible orders as Chiara reloaded the pistol. Her hands shook but she willed them to obedience. Glancing out the window, she saw Rafaelle engage a soldier whose rifle lay on the ground. A flash at the end of Rafaelle’s cane told her there was steel there. She’d forgotten about that. That steel became the last thing the soldier saw.
Chiara finished loading the pistol and got out of the carriage. On the right, a rifle fired and Antonio scrambled down with surprising agility for a man his age.
Rafaelle took on the officer, going in on the man’s off side. The leading rein for the thief’s horse forgotten, the informant leaned over to untie it.
Chiara, her skirts and the pistol in her hands, rushed up. “Stop!” The man just grinned at her and saluted with his bandaged hand. Loose, he kneed his horse around. “Stop!” Chiara yelled again. He ignored her.
The horse, unhappy about the noise and lack of control, pranced for a moment. The thief grabbed its mane and kicked its sides just as Chiara raised the pistol and shot the man in the back. The man’s body stayed there; the horse went on its way.
In a heartbeat it was over. Gunpowder and horse stung her nostrils. It should be dead still, Chiara thought. Instead, Francesca’s screams echoed off the rocks. Finally the words pierced the fog in Chiara’s brain. “Paolo, Paolo, my God, Paolo.”
Skirting around the horses’ heads, Chiara saw Rafaelle, unharmed. “You all right?” he snapped, grabbing her arm.
“Yes, yes,” she gasped and wrenched away. She found Paolo on his knees, clutching his shoulder. His head bowed, he rasped what sounded like a string of obscenities. “…scassacazzo.”
She dropped to her knees next to him and ripped the shirt away from the bleeding hole in his arm near the shoulder. Antonio hovered, cursing softly while Francesca wailed over her boy. Chiara looked at Antonio. “Shut her up.” He went over and slapped Francesca smartly across the face. Quiet returned to the pass.
Chiara stood and lifted her skirt, then tore the bottom flounce off her petticoat. She glanced up to see Rafaelle checking the soldiers. One groaned, “Aidez moi,” and Rafaelle insured that those were his last words.
Chiara pressed the wadded material to Paolo’s upper arm. “I have to stop this bleeding,” she muttered. “Francesca, I need the edge off your chemise.”
“But, but…” Francesca lifted her skirt slightly to show a chemise without a bottom flounce. Antonio dropped to the ground next to her and lifted her skirt. Francesca squeaked but he growled, “Silence.” And she stopped. He pulled his knife and cut a hand’s breath length of material from around the bottom.
As he handed the fabric to Chiara, Rafaelle strode up to them. “How’re you doing?” he asked Paolo.
Paolo gave him a strained grin, “Why, I’m ready to…ah!” Chiara tightened the bandage around his arm. “Whew! Go dancing.”
Rafaelle placed a gentle hand on Paolo’s good shoulder and looked at Chiara. “He’s lost a fair bit of blood,” she said. “He was so close to the rifle that the bullet went in and out. I’m going to have to check the hole, though to make sure there’s no fabric from his shirt in it. Then I’ll need more bandages and soup and water.”
Rafaelle looked around. “Well, they’re not here.” He looked at Antonio, “How far back was the last farm house?” He mangled the Italian, but the message was clear.
Antonio scratched his chin, “Several miles, signore.”
“Then we may as well go forward.” He looked around the rocky hills surrounding them, then at Antonio. “We need to hide the bodies. Chiara, can you and Francesca get Paolo into the carriage?”
“I’m not quite helpless,” Paolo growled and tried to rise.
“Wait one minute. We’ll give you a hand.” She put his good arm over her shoulder and Francesca grabbed him around the waist. Together, they baby-stepped him into the carriage. By the time he sat, sweat streamed down his face. “Sit there,” she directed Francesca, “and put his head on your lap.” Then she went out to find Rafaelle.
He and Antonio walked back through a cleft in the rocks. Three bodies were left on the road. “He has to go back,” she told the two men quietly. “The bullet hole is very close to the bone. Even if I get him bandaged up, he needs rest and care.”
“Can’t he rest at Francesca’s relatives?” Rafaelle wiped some blood off his hands.
Antonio spoke up. “If they trace your activities to them, the presence of a bullet-wounded man would be fatal for everyone.”
Rafaelle nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “If you take him back, we’ll have to find some other transportation.”
Antonio nodded. “Catch the horses and take them with us. You can use them to trade for a wagon or to pull one.”
Rafaelle looked at him and both eyebrows went up. “Very good, my friend, very good.”
“I’ll catch the horses,” Chiara volunteered. “Are we going to need all of them?”
Rafaelle stuck out his chin in thought. “Four, I think.” Antonio nodded. “Strip the rest of their tack and send them on their way. Someone will find them.”
Chiara checked on Paolo after she tied each horse to the carriage. He leaned against Francesca’s pillowy shoulder, but seemed to be as comfortable as possible.
With the scene of the massacre set back nearly to normal, they sta
rted on their way. Rafaelle rode one of the horses and led another. Antonio slowed the pace of the team, but every hole in the road had Paolo swearing and Chiara checking his shoulder for renewed bleeding.
Finally, Rafaelle drew alongside the carriage. “There’s a farm house up ahead. We’ll have to chance it.”
“No,” Chiara said. “Let’s try one that looks a little more prosperous.”
The third farmhouse, they agreed, looked wealthy enough to have a carriage but not so rich as to question Rafaelle’s credentials. She looked at him anxiously. “Can you make yourself understood?”
He straightened in the saddle. “Mademoiselle, I am an official of the French empire. I could ask for their virgin daughter and probably get her. I can get us a vehicle.” His smirk had her snickering as he trotted up to the house. Just to be on the safe side, Chiara followed him to translate, curtsying to all and sundry on the property, just like a proper servant.
The owner could have been more pleased to surrender his carriage to a requisition by a French government official, but the Frenchman’s munificence at offering two horses and a few gold coins—“We French are here as saviors, not thieves”—went a long way to sweetening the owner’s temper.
“He’s laughing all the way to his barn,” Rafaelle muttered as he hitched one of the remaining French horses to the vehicle. “To call this thing ‘antique’ probably underestimates its age by several centuries.” The vehicle wasn’t a closed carriage, but an open gig with a wide bench for the driver and a sadly stained and ripped seat for the passengers. In its day, it would have been a handsome vehicle. Now, it smelled.
Chiara laughed as she held the reins of the other horse. “We can buy a length of material in Voghera and get some lunch. Paolo’s arm should have stopped bleeding enough that I can probe in there.”
In town, they also purchased some strong spirits to put in Paolo and on his arm.
Chiara had known it would be difficult, but probing the bullet wound track while her childhood friend groaned in agony was possibly the hardest thing she’d ever done. It did, however, yield a scrap of fabric which matched the hole torn in his shirt. When she had him cleaned and bandaged, Rafaelle and Antonio loosed their hold on his arms and legs. She grabbed a towel and stumbled out of the isolated shack they’d laid him.
After a moment, Rafaelle followed her. One hand rested on her shoulder in sympathy and praise. The other pushed the bottle of liquor up to her mouth. “Drink this; you look like you need it.”
She grabbed the bottle, took a gulp, and came up sputtering and coughing. “Thanks, I needed that; at least I think I did.”
Rafaelle toyed with the bottle. “Do we have to send him back?”
She wiped her hands on the towel before she answered. “Yes, Antonio’s right. The family could bluff it through if there’s no evidence to the contrary. We need to make sure they all have plausible alibis. However, the presence of a wounded man could be like setting a sign saying ‘Wellington is here, now’ in front of Napoleon. At the very least, the French would have to investigate.”
“I don’t like splitting up. Both groups will be more vulnerable.”
“True, but it can’t be helped. Antonio will take good care of Paolo, and they should be at home well within three days. I didn’t know Antonio when I lived here, but he’s proven to be very competent.
“As for us, we hadn’t planned to have Paolo, or Antonio for that matter, in the first place.”
“True. Well, we’ll split the gear, and they can go back right away.”
“No, I think it would be better to go on to Voghera and have them head out to the road that goes down the coast. It’ll take them a little longer, but I don’t want them going back though Bologna. Someone, somewhere, might recognize them or the carriage.”
Rafaelle nodded. “Well, we should still split the gear here. That way, we don’t have to contact each other; we can be independent if we should happen to be stopped.”
With the equipment and supplies split, Chiara climbed into the carriage to say goodbye to Paolo. He felt feverish. She dampened some cloths to cool him down. “Paolo, you have to go home,” she repeated for the third time.
“This is just a nick. I’ll be in fine form by the time we get to Savona!”
“No, you won’t. You’ve been seriously wounded, and your body needs time to heal.”
“But why can’t I go onto Savona with you and return with Francesca and Antonio?”
“And spend three more days bouncing on the road?”
“I’ll be fine. Let’s just to on to Savona.”
“No, Paolo,” her patience and time were running out. “If you go on to Savona with us, you will be a liability and your very presence, even for a day, could arouse suspicion. That would present a very great danger to you and us and Francesca’s family. Are you willing to risk that?”
He snorted and slumped back into the corner of the seat, looking out the window with a sullen expression on his face.
“Paolo, I know you don’t want me to protect you, but I love you,” his face brightened, “like a brother.” He grimaced and wagged his head. “I have to do the best that I can to insure your safety, even if you don’t like it.”
He nodded, none too happy. She kissed his cheek and went out to give Antonio final instructions on Paolo’s care. Rafaelle gave the driver a handful of coins and then offered his hand. Antonio looked at the proffered hand for a moment. Quickly scrubbing his own on his pants leg, the driver clasped it in a firm shake. Chiara marveled briefly at the class-crossing expression of friendship and respect before she hugged the old man and kissed his grizzled cheek.
The vehicles started on their way with Rafaelle at the reins of the second one. Chiara sat next to him. At Voghera, they parted with only the briefest of nods by the drivers.
Francesca, alone in the back of the gig and bereft of an audience, sank into silence, punctuated by the occasional sniffle. Rafaelle kept his voice down so as not to incite her to join the conversation. “We’re back to our original company.” Chiara grunted and studied her folded hands. “He’s going to be all right. He’s strong, and Antonio will take good care of him.”
“I know, but I still worry. There’s been so much blood-shed and…death. I just couldn’t stand to add him to the list.” She lifted her hands from her lap and examined them. “There’s so much blood on them.”
He glanced sharply at her, concerned with the melancholy in her voice. “You’re not auditioning for Lady Macbeth, are you?” The sadness in her voice had him making light of it.
“Lady…no, no. I realize this is war and people die, but having their blood on my hands is still disconcerting. Do you ever get used to it?”
He sought the answer in the left horse’s mane, but it wasn’t there. “No, you don’t. All you can do is put it behind you.”
“I guess. I just hope that Paolo doesn’t have to pay that penalty for helping us.”
“He was helping himself, too, don’t forget.” Even to his ears, his voice sounded harsh. He took a quick breath. “He has as many reasons as we do, perhaps more, for wanting to see Napoleon fall. Then, too, I think he had something to prove to his father.” Chiara glanced at him quizzically. “I got the impression that’s Sergio’s leash on him was rather short. I imagine Paolo loves his father, but I also think that Sergio’s…temperament makes it difficult for Paolo to really call himself a man.”
Chiara frowned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. My memories of them are of a parent and a small child, so it felt normal to me.”
Rafaelle looked straight ahead, absently seeing the towers of Tortona in the distance. “And then there’s the fact that he very much wanted to marry you.”
He watched meditation turn to irritation in a heartbeat. “Yes, he did ask me to marry him! I turned him down!”
“He’s a good man and would make a good husband.”
“A lot of men are good men.” She hesitated, but he could see she had something
else to say. “Once upon a time there was talk about marriage between the two of us. It was our parents, but we knew what was going on.”
“And once upon a time you would have been happy to go through with it.”
She hesitated. “Yes. But now I’m older and wiser, and I’ve seen what a man can do to a woman who is helpless or doesn’t have any recourse.” He gaped at her. “You don’t hear a lot about rape or wife beating in Society.”
“No,” he drawled thoughtfully, “generally we think of ourselves as civilized gentlemen.”
The fire went out of her eyes and her voice was quiet. “Men don’t see or don’t want to see the women who are victims of your ‘civilized gentlemen.’ How many whores in the brothels or on the streets want to be there? How many maids and governesses have been sacked because their master or some such forced themselves on them?” It was at least part of the reason.
“Well when you put it that way, I can understand why you resist marriage.”
“Why do you keep harping on Paolo’s proposal? The mission will be completed. What’s it to you?”
His eyes never strayed from the road. “It matters because I was planning to ask you the same question he did.”
He risked a glance and saw her blinking in time with her mouth’s opening and closing.
Chapter 13
“I know, it’s…”
She thrust out her hand to stop him.
“You…”
Her open palm nearly bounced off his shoulder as she turned away. When he stopped trying to talk to her, she wrapped her arms around herself and huddled on the far edge of the bench.
He wanted to marry her! The thought rolled around her mind, but it seemed as strange an idea as a Russian word or Chinese calligraphy. She hadn’t thought of marriage with respect to herself in years. It seemed a closed subject, unattainable and therefore uncontemplated. But he resurrected that starry-eyed hope of every young girl.
For a moment, she hated him for that. It was dead and buried, and that process had been unutterably painful the first time. To have it happen again would rip her apart.