“Oh!” popped out of her on an indrawn breath. “Oh my!” She reached for his hand to stop him
“No, no, no,” he laughed. “This is half the fun. Relax, you’ll see. Really.” He continued teasing and probing until he found the tiny nub that held the key to her woman’s pleasure. Stroking it gently, he heard “Oh!” and felt her body tense. He knew it was time.
Rolling over, he wedged his legs between hers and braced his hands on either side of her head. “I’m told there’ll be a little pinch the first time, but it’s quickly over.” Each hand reached down to urge her legs up and over to his back. He positioned himself, feeling her soft gate against his most sensitive flesh. Not quite sure whether to do this slow and draw it out or quickly and have it done, he opted for the latter.
He plunged into her, prepared for her reaction to the breaking of her maidenhead.
There was none.
He seated himself to the hilt in her, and there was no pain. No pain because there was no maidenhead. No maidenhead because…
“God damn you!” He withdrew partway. “God” his teeth clenched and he could barely get the words out. “Damn” he thrust in again because his body demanded it. “You” he withdrew. “And” he thrust. “God” out. “Damn” in. “Me” out. “Too.” This time his body exploded, and he collapsed on top of her as he rode his climax.
She lay unmoving beneath him now as she had at his first words. Her arms lay slopped at her sides. Under the walnut dye, her face was pale, only her wide, anguished eyes gave any color.
Why should she be unhappy? She’d tricked him into marriage, as if he were a green boy.
As soon as he caught his breath, he heaved himself off the bed, avoiding touching her. Finding his clothes and his shoes, he dressed quickly, hanging his yellow waistcoat over his shoulder with one finger. He stalked to the door and paused. “Like all the rest of the FitzHenry’s, I have a whore for a wife.” He went out and closed the door very softly.
He headed for the stable, then thought better of it and made for the kitchen. The little maid was alone, cleaning the last of the dinnerware. He demanded, “Vino.” She pointed and after a quick search, he found a full jug of wine and picked it up. The little maid opened her mouth as if to protest, took one look at him, and closed it.
There’s one smart woman in this damned household, he thought.
Darkness pervaded the barn but enough moonlight came through the windows and chinks in the wall to show him a pile of clean straw. I’ve had worse beds, he thought, deliberately rejecting thoughts of the bed he’d just left. He threw himself on the make-shift mattress and popped the cork on the jug, hoping there was enough wine to get himself seriously drunk. He doubted there was enough wine in Italy to make him forget this day.
A slug of wine helped him contemplate the great injustice done him. I don’t want to wind up like my father with a different mistress for every day of the week, he thought. Maybe someone permanent, tucked away discretely, would be the best idea. He’d leave the new Lady FitzHenry alone, disavow any bastards she whelped, and let the line of the cursed FitzHenry’s die out. That would probably be best. Suddenly, he felt tired of fighting his legacy.
He lifted the jug and gave it a shake to judge the wine level. Half-full he guessed. Not nearly enough to make a dent in his hard head. However, that might be just a well. A full-on drunk might help him forget, but tomorrow could well be a busy day and starting it off with a head wouldn’t make it any easier. He re-corked the jug and set it aside.
The barn door opened. Quietly, he reached for his boot knife. It was a woman. His heart clenched before he realized it wasn’t Chiara. Bruna. Damn, he thought, another whore. Well, at least she’s an honest whore. He shoved the knife back.
Bruna sashayed toward him. “Now why is a handsome, newly married, man here alone in the cold barn?” She glanced at the jug. “I can help you finish the wine, and we can have an enjoyable evening together.” She knelt in the straw next to him and brushed her hand across his chest. He just watched her. Smiling, she took his silence for encouragement, and her fingers drifted lower.
His hand whipped out and grabbed her head, forcing her mouth down to his. She licked and bit, and her hand grabbed his groin. Rafaelle whipped her over onto her back. Forcing her hands down to the straw next to her head, he reared back to look at her.
“So the Signore like it rough, eh?” She licked her lips. “Good, because I like it rough, too.”
Arched over her, he stared. She smelled of old sex and stale perfume. His stomach began to roil. She flung a leg over his back, and he forced it back down. A corner of his brain told him she was open to him with her skirt frothed around her waist and her legs splayed, but his stomach threatened to puke right there.
Jackknifing off her, he headed for the barn door, desperate for some fresh air.
“Hey, Signore, come back here. We’re just getting started!”
As he slammed the door closed, he heard, “Bastardo!” He kept walking.
When he was halfway across the courtyard, he heard a horse stop at the house gate and someone knocked loudly. The gate keeper opened it, and one of Luciano’s sons sent to watch for the ship rode into the yard. Spying Rafaelle, the young man headed straight for him, spewing rapid-fire Italian. Others heard the commotion, among them Luciano, who ran out of the house, “Basta, basta, Nico. Be quiet.”
The young man took a deep breath. “I sighted the ship off Capo di Vado and signaled just as the Signore told me to. They signaled back.”
“Bene, bene,” Luciano looked to Rafaelle who nodded his comprehension. He glanced around. “Everyone go back to bed. You, too Bruna. Try going to sleep before the small hours of the morning for once this week.”
Chiara lay on her own pillow looking at the ceiling through dry, red eyes when a soft knock sounded on the door. “Come in.” She struggled to sit up.
Rafaelle stood in the doorway. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he said, “The Swiftsure’s been sighted. Tomorrow night we act.” With that, he closed the door.
Chapter 16
“Chiara, my child, what’s wrong?” Pius VII sat in an old, none-too-comfortable chair in a sunny corner of his chamber. He barely looked up from the poetry book he read. The room, small and stark, once functioned as the bishop’s secretary’s chamber. Somehow, it suited the Pontiff. After all, the only things he said he missed were his family, friends and his books. Catarina smuggled in books and paper from time to time, and smuggled them out—the French never actually looked at the volumes on the shelf, only their numbers.
Catarina, quite openly, however, kept the room full of potted plants and cut flowers. Watering them fell to Chiara this morning.
“Nothing, Your Holiness.” Catarina and Luciano noticed something this morning, she suspected, but they said nothing when they all left for work. Chiara felt profoundly grateful.
Padre Barnabà put down his book and cocked his head to look at her. “Little bird,” he chided, “even among the heathen English, it is not considered acceptable to lie to a priest.”
Chiara spared a small thought of gratitude at his discretion if not his humor. One never knew whose ears lingered in the hallways.
“Nothing, really.”
“Chiara.”
Looking over at him, she saw the quiet concern. Suddenly the dam burst. The watering can sloshed as she ran over, dropped to her knees next to him and put her head in his lap. The whole story bubbled out of her as he stroked her hair and murmured comfort.
A thieves’ moon sat low in the sky, as slender as the light it gave. Luciano insisted on accompanying them despite reasoning, pleas, and threats. The sounds of a crowd, a noisy, angry crowd, reached them as they approached the Cathedral area. Fr. Mezi and Fr. Marini kept their word to stage a distraction. If the shouts and the masked townspeople still drifting towards the Piazza Duomo held any indication, the demonstration would be formidable.
The three of them carried as much weaponry as un
obtrusively possible. All had knives. Rafaelle carried his cane and Chiara’s garrote wound around her wrist. They both had their bundles they’d taken from the ship.
Luciano led them to a house a block away from the Palace and knocked softly. Chiara pulled her shawl a little closer around her shoulders. The door opened, and they entered without another sound.
Rafaelle and Chiara gave their bundles to the house’s aged owner. They would be on the horses, waiting for them. Chiara also took off her skirt to reveal her pants. The old man reared back with surprise, then nodded his head, and pursed his lips in acknowledgement. He led them down a concealed staircase, his candle showing rough-hewn rock, dirt walls, and the occasional red eyes of a rat.
“I don’t like cramped, dark places,” Luciano grumbled. Chiara couldn’t catch their guide’s reply except for its smirking tone. She had to agree with Luciano, though.
“Here it is,” the guide said softly. He handed the candle to Luciano and climbed the wooden ladder. Pushing against the trap door only revealed a spaghetti’s worth of weak light.
“There’s a heavy barrel nailed to the door,” Luciano whispered.
Rafaelle nodded, gave his cane to Luciano, and tapped the old man’s arm. “Thank you. Allow me.”
The old man backed off and winked at Chiara. “Oh, to be young and virile again.” She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she watched Rafaelle heave the door up and lower it gently to the floor of the potting shed before he ascended.
“Many thinks old friend,” Luciano said as he grasped the old man’s arm. “Now go back.”
Their guide nodded and withdrew another candle from his vest pocket. Lighting it, he stood it in a small hole in the floor. “God go with you. The horses will be ready.” He turned and left.
Chiara climbed the ladder next. Rafaelle proffered a hand to her, but she ignored it and clambered out unaided. Luciano followed. He and Rafaelle silently replaced the trap door.
Rafaelle motioned for silence and cracked the shed door. He examined the scene for several breaths before he signaled them to follow him out. He held the cane, knife extended, like a sword. She and Luciano drew their knives. Even with the shed tucked into a back corner of the garden, Chiara could feel an unnatural stillness within the walls in contrast to the tumult outside.
“Keep to the shadows,” Rafaelle whispered and led the way. When paths crossed, he stopped and checked. Outside the gates, French officers could be heard yelling orders to the rioters and to their troops.
Chiara knew the Palace’s garden door lay around the next corner. Luciano tapped Rafaelle’s sleeve and handed him a large brass key. In the dim light, she could see Rafaelle’s eyebrow rise. Then he smiled unhumorously. Such a small omission could have sent them right back down the tunnel.
The key turned soundlessly, and again, Chiara silently thanked Luciano’s foresight.
Torches flared in the wall sconces around the ground floor entrance. The pile of discarded furniture near the stairs might have been a large animal’s den, but that kind of animal didn’t concern them. Smooth rock walls reflected every sound, every foot step. The ground floor of the Palace was dark and empty. Too empty, she thought. Rafaelle obviously thought so too because he halted then, a couple of paces inside.
Too quiet. The tumult outside the great door on the other wall couldn’t touch the stillness inside the wide front entry. A large bar dropped in the brackets guaranteed that tonight. The three doors on the two building walls were closed. No one bothered to close the entrance to the service areas. Usually.
“Rafaelle,” she hissed. He turned and looked at her. It came as a small shock to her to realize that this was the first time he’d looked at her since he’d announced the Swiftsure’s arrival. In the dim light, his eyes had the hard sheen of ebony, and about as much warmth. “We need to check these doors.”
He hesitated and then nodded. The torchlight illuminated an empty room behind the first. The second held Bruna. Shocked surprise showed on her face. “Damn you, Bruna,” Luciano whispered as he stepped towards her. “What are you doing here?”
Bruna recovered her nerve and shrugged prettily, but didn’t answer immediately. “I was near the gate when the riot started. The guards let me slip in here for protection.” She looked at each of them. “You’re here for the Pope. Come on, you have to hurry.” When they hesitated, she spoke louder, “Come on, hurry.”
At her outburst, the next door flew open. A flood of French soldiers crashed through, rifles ready. Luciano’s knife blossomed from the belly of the nearest soldier. All three rushed the soldiers, making the rifles useless at such close range. Soldier after soldier came through the door. The growing pile of bodies soon made it hard to maneuver.
Blood painted Chiara’s clothes red. Most of it wasn’t hers. The last wave of soldiers had bayonets in their guns and used them to drive the invaders back. One soldier slipped under her guard and sliced her arm. She willed away the pain. To give in was to die. He, however, paid for his small strike with his life. Chiara saw that only a few soldiers remained.
Out of the doorway, a familiar voice sounded. “Ah, Chiara, I wondered if the foreign signora Bruna spoke of could be you.” Almost lazily, Etienne Radet drew his sword. His angel’s face, crowned by light brown curls, held a beatific smile. “I shall delight in spreading your legs again. I always enjoy a good fight in bed. This time, though, I think I shall have to kill you afterwards instead of just leaving you curled in a ball.”
Luciano slit the throat of his opponent as Rafaelle rammed his sword cane into the back of another.
“I would call you a cur, Radet, but I have several dogs that I’m fond of and wouldn’t want to insult them.”
“Always the witty one, aren’t you, my dear?” Radet twirled his sword almost thoughtfully as he advanced on her with the grace of a deadly serpent.
“I suspect,” Rafaelle drawled, his attention on Radet now that all his opponents finally lay on the floor, “that the only ‘dear’ you have is that traitorous slut over there.” He jerked his head toward Bruna. She had sidled her way to the stairs during the fighting. She gasped at the revelation of her betrayal.
Radet watched the by-play, his smile mocking.
Luciano looked at her, anguish in his face “Is it true?” He shook his head, as if to deny even his question. He approached her and stood on the floor as she backed up the first stair.
“No! Of course not! I…I couldn’t do that!”
“Unless the price was right,” Radet sneered. “Unlike you, Chiara, eh? You don’t sell it, you don’t give it away, but I took it. And sweet it was. On second thought, I might get rid of that one and keep you for a while.”
Rafaelle froze.
“Bastard!” Bruna screamed. The word morphed into a gurgle as Luciano sliced his knife across her throat. She fell back on the steps, fountaining blood.
“Bitch,” Luciano growled, “and no daughter of mine.”
“Sergeant!” Radet bellowed. Shouted orders sounded high up the staircase.
Luciano grabbed a chair from the pile and threw it over Bruna’s body. “Help me,” he ordered Chiara. Radet smiled and turned towards Chiara. Sticking her knife into her waistband, she grabbed a chair.
Rafaelle roused from his palsy. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to hurt my wife ever again.” His tone dripped formal drawing-room boredom, but his eyes promised death. “It is obvious now that she suffered at the hands of one of the lower forms of humanity. It’s my right and privilege to protect and avenge her.” He drew his knife.
Seeing a greater threat, Radet faced his accuser. “Oh, ho, the lady has a knight in shining…uh homespun. How quaint.” His English was as perfect as his face.
Luciano tossed more chairs and small tables onto the stairs. With Radet’s attention on Rafaelle, Chiara threw hers on the growing pile and grabbed a cushion and another chair. She saw what Luciano was trying to do, but the stairs were too wide for a functional blockade with the materia
l at hand. Snatching another chair, she tossed it onto the pile. She heard footsteps at the top of the stairs.
Rafaelle and Radet circled around each other into the center of the room. Cane and sword whirled, waiting to strike. The sword struck first. The cane danced out of the way only to whip around into a downward strike on Radet’s sword-arm. Cloth tore, but nothing else.
“This is most displeasing, peasant.” He backed away. “I happened to be very partial to this coat. I’m afraid I shall have to make a very unpleasant end of you.
“It shouldn’t be too terribly hard. I’ve always found the English to be weak, ineffectual fops, quite unworthy of their inflated sense of consequence. Napoleon will happily set them right, and I shall be pleased to assist him.” Rafaelle said nothing, his face grim with concentration.
All but the heavy table at the bottom of the pile blocked the stairway. Luciano grabbed the nearest torch and threw it into the heap of wood. Chiara did likewise, knowing the barricade would soon be useless—the furniture didn’t extend across the stairway. She looked around at the now-empty room. Only people were left, the living and the dead. The dead.
Rafaelle used his knife to catch the next strike. The force of the blow sent his left hand downward. Radet grinned. He blew in his opponent’s face. “English peasant stink always offends me.” At a glance, Chiara could see they were too close. The sword of Rafaelle’s cane was useless. He reversed his grip and rammed the handle into Radet’s gut. It wasn’t a debilitating blow, but it allowed him to back out of the hopeless embrace.