‘She’s nice,’ said Sky, and meant it.
‘Yeah, she’s a real diamond,’ said the Warrior.
‘Nice car, too,’ ventured Sky.
‘You want a go?’ he asked. ‘Have you got your licence yet?’
‘Only the provisional,’ said Sky. ‘I’m only just seventeen.’
‘Course,’ said the Warrior. ‘It’s different in America. Kids can drive as soon as they’re fifteen in some states. But I tell you what. Have a spin round the grounds of the home after we’ve seen your granny – OK?’
Sky wasn’t quite sure how he’d been talked into this visit. The Warrior had asked if he’d go with him to see his old mum in a home in Surrey and Sky had the strangest feeling that the singer wanted someone with him to act as a buffer. He had explained that the old lady sometimes got a bit confused.
She seemed bright as a button when Sky first caught sight of her, her eyes darting back and forth between them.
‘Hello, Mum,’ said the Warrior, bending over to kiss her. They had stopped on the way to buy flowers and he now presented her with a huge bouquet of hothouse roses.
‘There now, Mrs Peck – isn’t that lovely?’ said the care assistant before taking them away.
‘Say hello to your granny, Sky,’ said the Warrior.
Sky didn’t feel he could kiss a perfect stranger. He held out his hand to her. A puzzled look crossed the old woman’s face.
‘Is it Kevin’s boy?’ she asked her son.
‘No, Mum,’ said the Warrior. ‘This is my son, Sky. You haven’t met him before. Nor had I till today. He lives with his mum.’
‘Another one?’ said Sky’s grandmother. She didn’t seem very pleased to meet him. ‘He looks like you, Colin. And your dad – poor bugger.’
Sky didn’t know if she meant him or his grandfather. But he was amused to discover that the millionaire Rainbow Warrior was really Colin Peck, with an old mum who stood no nonsense from him. He felt a bit sorry for him, really. What with his feisty mother, and Loretta taking him in hand, it seemed as if the glamorous rock star was a bit henpecked.
‘What you laughing at?’ said Mrs Peck. ‘Let’s have a proper look at you. Mum’s white, I see.’
Sky nodded. He wasn’t going to discuss Rosalind with this woman.
‘Well, you’ve got the looks. I suppose you want to be a singer too?’
‘No,’ said Sky. ‘I want to be an artist. I don’t even like his kind of music.’
Then he realised he was being unnecessarily rude. They were both staring at him. He suddenly had a very strong feeling that he was young and had all his choices ahead of him. This old woman, who was biologically his grandmother, looked as if she didn’t have much of her life left. And the Rainbow Warrior wasn’t a bad man; he’d just led a very different life from Sky.
‘There – don’t they look lovely?’ said the care assistant brightly, bringing back the roses arranged in a glass vase. ‘Would you like me to make you all a nice cup of tea?’
Chapter 21
The di Chimici Weddings
The young Stravaganti sat on the steps of the loggia, watching the preparations for the tournament. The loggia itself was filling up with food stalls for all those not fortunate enough to have been invited to the banquet. Luciano bought them all thick slices of frittata between pieces of coarse bread and a jug of cold ale to share. Nicholas sat slightly apart, his back against one of the statue plinths and his hood pulled up to shade his face.
The di Chimici party came out of the Palazzo Ducale. A special stage had been built for them to sit on and watch the games. All four di Chimici bridegrooms escorted their brides, and there was also the Duke, Princess Beatrice, the Duchessa of Bellezza and her father the Regent, and the Pope himself, who stood and gave his blessing to the crowd before the games began. Prince Fabrizio announced his bride to the spectators as Queen of the Tournament. As future wife of the di Chimici heir, Princess Caterina of Volana merited that honour. And the crowd were delighted to see the pretty young woman blushing as the prince placed the wreath of olive leaves on her golden hair.
The tournament began with a great procession of bullock wagons carrying models of all the cities that were under di Chimici rule – Remora, Moresco, Fortezza, Volana, Bellona – finishing with a perfect model of Giglia itself, complete in every detail (apart from the marked absence of the new Nucci palace) and dominated by the miniature of the great cathedral. By then the edges of the square were full of spectators.
‘No Bellezza, you see,’ Luciano whispered to Georgia. And he knew that Arianna, sitting in splendour across the piazza, was thinking the same. ‘You’ll never see a model of the City of Masks carried on a cart to glorify the Duke in Giglia.’
Not unless Arianna accepts his proposal, thought Georgia, but she carefully kept that thought to herself.
When the last wagon had rumbled past the Palazzo Ducale, two men came and set up a quintain at the south-east end of the L-shaped piazza. It was a stuffed dummy of a man with a shield in one hand and a weighted whip in the other. Riders ran at it with a lowered lance and once they had struck the shield had to jink out of the way to avoid the whip as it swung round. The first two or three were easily knocked off their horses.
Nicholas was on his feet booing with the rest of the crowd. ‘I was very good at this,’ he told Sky. ‘Oh, if only I had a horse and a lance!’
Fabrizio, Carlo and Alfonso had left the wooden stage now and entered the lists. They were wearing only light armour and no helmets. Gaetano scanned the tops of the surrounding buildings carefully for archers but the only bows he could see were di Chimici men, archers from the Duke’s private army. He was almost as frustrated as Nicholas that he couldn’t tilt at the quintain but Francesca held him tightly by the hand.
The flower of Giglian youth was at the tournament – not just di Chimici and Nucci but every family that had any claim to ancient lineage in the city. The Aldieri, the Bartolomei, the Donzelli, the Gabrieli, the Leoni, the Pasquali, the Ronsivalli and the Salvini were all represented, and each family was in allegiance with either the perfumier-bankers whose weddings were being celebrated or the wool merchants and sheep farmers who were their enemies.
The young men were lining up to try at the quintain while in other parts of the square jugglers and acrobats and musicians entertained the crowd while they waited for the main joust. And not just nobles; every boy and youth, no matter what their estate, was in the square, greedily absorbing the sights and sounds. Sandro and Fratello were on the edge of the crowd, watching.
Prince Fabrizio won the quintain and was rewarded by Caterina who bestowed his prize of a silver chain round his neck. He whispered in her ear as she put it over his head and the crowd roared their approval.
For the main joust, the combatants all put on metal helmets. Sky couldn’t believe that he was going to see real riders and horses charge at one another with metal-tipped lances. But for the others, who had seen the excesses of the Reman Stellata, it was not so surprising. The clash of lance on shield and sword on sword rang round the square and no quarter was given, even though this was supposed to be a wedding celebration.
The jousting lasted for hours until only Camillo Nucci and Carlo di Chimici were left in the lists. By then many young men were nursing broken limbs or bleeding from sword slashes. Fabrizio and Alfonso had both retired with minor wounds because their brides-to-be insisted on their remaining in one piece for the next day.
‘Surely someone will get killed?’ said Sky.
‘Not usually,’ said Nicholas.
Camillo and Carlo thundered towards each other along the short run the piazza permitted. Their lances both made contact and both riders were unhorsed. The loose horses charged on, stopped only by the fearless grooms who caught their harness. The two young men leapt to their feet, swords drawn. Camillo had dropped his shield but was thrown another by his brother Filippo.
The combatants circled each other like gladiators while the crowd bayed for bloo
d. This was the pinnacle of the day’s entertainment for most of them. Georgia found herself cheering ‘Carlo! Prince Carlo!’ and then stopped, wondering why. The only di Chimici she liked were Gaetano who wasn’t fighting and the translated Falco who was standing beside her dressed as a friar and yelling for his brother to win, in a most unecclesiastical way.
‘What do you reckon?’ Sky whispered to Luciano.
‘They’re pretty evenly matched as to size and skill, I’d say,’ Luciano replied. ‘But it’s not like fencing. Look at the weight of those swords!’
The two armoured men stood and exchanged blows. There was not much space between the metal plates to inflict a wound, but that wasn’t what the endgame of a tournament was all about. It was enough for one to disarm the other or force him to the ground. They were both nimble and good at swordcraft but the weapons were heavy and it was not a subtle contest.
‘That’s for my brother,’ hissed Carlo, lunging at Camillo’s neck.
‘And this for mine,’ retorted Camillo, deflecting the blow with his shield and aiming one of his own.
After twenty minutes, Camillo had wearied his opponent into submission and Carlo sank to his knees. The joust-master stopped it there, seeing that Camillo would have pulled off Carlo’s helmet and inflicted a final blow. So the prize was awarded to a Nucci, which left half the crowd howling for revenge and the others crowing with delight.
To her distaste, Princess Caterina had to bestow a handsome silver and bronze war helmet on her family’s enemy. The di Chimici applauded politely, their smiles painted on. As he came down the steps Camillo very lightly pinched his nose, provoking more cheers and catcalls. The exhausted Carlo was sitting on the steps of the loggia, his helmet off and drinking a cup of ale. As Camillo passed him he saw a ragged boy and his dog that he had often spotted hanging round outside their family’s palace.
The boy and dog were hurrying across the piazza to where the next event was going to take place. Their route took them past Carlo, but the dog suddenly swerved and barked at the prince. It was over in an instant, with the prince cursing at the dog and the boy dragging him away on his piece of string, but at that moment, Camillo Nucci remembered where he had seen the mongrel before. And he knew which of the di Chimici had killed his brother.
But then it was time for the fencing and half a dozen pairs of young men were suddenly ferociously thrusting and parrying all over the square.
‘Come on!’ said Luciano to Sky. ‘Let’s have a go!’
A groom gave them a couple of bated weapons and they fought together for the first time. For Sky it was the most exhilarating moment of his journeys to Giglia so far. The sun was shining on their weapons, they were young, alive and well-matched and he was just another well-dressed Giglian noble taking part in the city’s great day of rejoicing. But the sixteenth-century rapier was so much heavier than the fencing foils that Sky was used to that Luciano was soon able to beat his weapon out of his hand. As Sky went back to sit with the others, Georgia grabbed him by the arm.
‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ she railed at him. ‘Imagine if you’d won the whole thing and had to collect a prize from the princess. I suppose you think Giglia’s so full of black brothers with dreads that the Duke wouldn’t have realised you’re the one who’s supposed to be a friar!’
But she wasn’t listening for an answer. Luciano was now fighting with Filippo Nucci and she was in agony that he might get hurt. Several of the fencers had lost the buttons off the end of their rapiers and there were cries as sharp blades met flesh. But Filippo pressed Luciano hard and soon disarmed him, catching Luciano’s weapon on the elaborate cross-guards of his own rapier.
Luciano came back to join them, out of breath. They watched as a revived Prince Carlo saved the honour of his family by defeating Filippo Nucci in the final encounter. His soon-to-be sister-in-law smiled much more happily as she gave him his prize of a silver drinking cup. Nicholas applauded loudly. Georgia shuddered; all these encounters with sharp weapons brought home to her the fears everyone had expressed for the next day’s wedding ceremonies.
‘I’m glad Alice isn’t here,’ she whispered to Sky.
‘Me too,’ he said. He realised that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on what the Stravaganti had to do the following day if he had to keep one eye on his girlfriend. He had distractions enough at home without having them in Talia too. Deliberately he thrust the thought of his father to the back of his mind and concentrated on what was going on across the square.
The di Chimici were leaving the wooden stage and going back into the palazzo. Swarms of servants were finishing laying the tables for the banquet on the platform in the north-west corner of the piazza. Others brought out bowls of warm water scented with rose petals or lemon peel so that the arriving guests could wash their hands. The platform had been constructed to encompass the fountain with its central statue of Neptune and its basin spiked with cologne so that there was a continuing fragrance and the sound of purling water throughout the meal.
The canopy was now in place, made of turquoise cloth threaded with silver and hung with swags of greenery and hothouse roses and lilies. Escutcheons with the di Chimici crest hung on every supporting pole. Guests were divided into male and female, young and old, so that the brides were all at one table with Beatrice and Arianna while the grooms sat at another with the two Nucci sons and various other nobles. Theirs was the most tense gathering at the feast.
Isabella, the dowager Duchessa of Volana, presided over the table of older women, which included Francesca’s mother Princess Clarice of Bellona, Princess Carolina of Fortezza, and Graziella Nucci. At a very lavishly decorated table near the fountain sat the Pope in his grandest robes, with his brothers, the Duke of Volana and Prince of Bellona, and his cousin, Prince Jacopo of Fortezza. Rodolfo sat there too and Matteo Nucci and it was of course presided over by the Duke himself.
‘Aha, what have we here?’ said the Pope as the first course was brought in.
‘Capon in white sauce, your Holiness,’ said the servant, who had been instructed to serve him first. ‘And those are silvered pomegranate seeds.’
Bronze cauldrons filled with water kept cool the greenish wine from Santa Fina while the bottles of Bellezzan and Giglian red had warmed gently in the afternoon sun.
The young Stravaganti, none of whom were invited to the banquet, quelled their hunger with sugared pastries and watched the comings and goings across the square, like spectators at a theatre.
‘That will go on for hours,’ said Sandro knowledgeably, coming to join them on the steps of the loggia. Nicholas ruffled Fratello’s ears. Ever since Sulien had told him about the Stravaganti, Sandro had spent more and more time with them. They were aware that he knew their secret and that Brother Sulien trusted him.
‘I must leave long before the end,’ said Georgia regretfully. The next day was a school one and she couldn’t risk oversleeping. And, unlike the boys, she had a long flight before she could stravagate back.
‘I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,’ said Luciano, giving her one of his heart-stopping smiles.
‘Me too,’ said Sandro. ‘I’ll name you all the dishes. Enrico will know them all, even though he’s not grand enough to sit down with dukes and princes.’
‘Or clean enough,’ said Luciano. ‘They’d have had to fill the fountain with every perfume in Sulien’s pharmacy if he’d been invited.’
It bothered Luciano that Sandro was still working for the Eel, even though it was Sulien who had advised the boy not to break off his connections with the di Chimici. Luciano knew what Enrico was capable of, including murder, and he didn’t like the idea of the boy risking exposure as a sort of double agent.
Georgia left the square as the candles were being lit in the di Chimici silver candlesticks and the lanterns hanging from the canopy. Sky and Nicholas stayed just long enough to watch a great confection being carried in of spun sugar in the shape of a giant perfume bottle surrounded by lili
es. Then Sky had to drag Nicholas back to Saint-Mary-among-the-Vines.
Luciano sat on in the darkening square with Sandro, while the sated guests nibbled silvered almonds and figs and listened to the band of musicians who played on the balcony of the palazzo. When the music stopped, the speeches began, and Luciano realised he must have dozed off, because Sandro was shaking him awake.
‘The Duke’s making some big announcement,’ he said.
The two of them got up and strolled closer to the banqueting platform, which was now an island of light and flowers in the dark. Duke Niccolò, resplendent in a fur-trimmed scarlet velvet doublet, was standing holding a silver goblet full of red wine. His speech was slightly slurred and he swayed a little but he was still very much the master of the feast.
‘My brother, his Holiness the Pope, Lenient the Sixth, here to celebrate the union of eight of our closest family members in the cathedral tomorrow, has conferred upon me the honour of a new title.’
The Pope also rose, even more unsteadily than his brother, and took the new crown from a page who had borne it to the platform on a purple velvet cushion.
‘By the powers invested in me as Bishop of Remora and Pope of the Church of Talia,’ he said, ‘I here declare Duke Niccolò di Chimici, Duke of Giglia, to be the first Grand Duke of all Tuschia.’
He placed the Grand-Ducal crown, which looked rather like one of the kitchen’s finer confections, on his brother’s white head.
The new Grand Duke adjusted it as the applause rose from all the tables.
‘This crown I hope to pass on, with the title, to my heir Fabrizio and his descendants,’ said Niccolò. His eyes sought out one person among his guests. ‘And now, before we adjourn to the palazzo for dancing, I ask you to join me in one final toast, to our most welcome guest, the beautiful Duchessa of Bellezza!’