The Duke spent almost all his time at his son’s bedside, neither eating nor sleeping except when his daughter Beatrice made him take rest and refreshment. One day he sent his servants out to find the Manoush to see if the blind harpist would come and play under his son’s window.
Aurelio came and played, the saddest and most plangent airs ever heard in Remora, and the people outside all wept. But Raffaella took up no collection.
For Luciano and Georgia it was a tense time. They had the threat of the Duke hanging over them and they were worried about Falco too. Georgia was able to reassure Luciano that he was doing well in the other world but neither of them had thought that his body would endure so long in Talia.
Gaetano arrived back in Remora three days after his brother had been found unconscious and went straight to the hospital to visit him. It was only after a harrowing few hours that he left for the Ram. He found Luciano and Georgia and Cesare in the stable yard. At first they said nothing, just embraced.
‘I didn’t think he would do it so soon,’ whispered Gaetano. ‘To be honest, although he said goodbye, I didn’t really think he’d do it at all. Were you all with him? Was it easy?’
‘Not me,’ said Cesare. ‘I’m not a Stravagante. But I’m really sorry.’
‘We were there,’ said Luciano. ‘Georgia took care of everything at the other end.’
‘He’s in good hands,’ she said.
‘The best,’ said Luciano. ‘He is with my own parents.’
Gaetano started, then hugged Luciano. ‘Then we are brothers,’ he said.
Luciano took a deep breath. ‘How is the Duchessa?’ he asked.
‘Wonderful!’ said Gaetano. ‘She really is an amazing person. She will be here in a few days.’
And Georgia wondered whose heart was beating faster – hers or Luciano’s.
Chapter 19
The Dirt Goes Down
It was late evening when the state carriage of Bellezza rumbled through the Gate of the Sun. A sizeable crowd of Remorans, mainly from the Ram, waited to greet it, waving the standards of their Twelfth, the black and white banners of the city and a few Bellezzan flags adorned with masks. Gaetano stood at the gate, with his older brothers and his uncle, representing the di Chimici family. Duke Niccolò could not be persuaded to leave the hospital, even for such an important visitor.
Heralds played a fanfare of welcome and in the background could be heard the faint throb of drums as other Twelfths kept up their perpetual practice for the parade before the race. Rodolfo alighted from the carriage and handed Arianna down so that she could accept the formal greeting of Pope Lenient VI.
The crowd sighed. She was as beautiful as her reports; though it was a pity they could not see her face properly, masked as it was in accordance with the custom of her city. But she was tall and graceful, with a riot of chestnut curls caught up only loosely on top of her head and she wore black and white satin in honour of the city colours of Remora – a touch which its citizens appreciated.
The young Duchessa curtsied to the Pope and kissed his ring, showing a proper respect for the church, of which the Remorans also approved. But the Pope drew her to her feet quickly and presented her to his three nephews. The crowd applauded the handsome young Giglian nobles bending over the Duchessa’s hand in turn. But they couldn’t help noticing that she spent the longest time talking to the youngest brother, who was nothing much to look at.
Luciano noticed that too as he stood among the supporters of the Ram. He hadn’t seen Arianna for nearly a month and he didn’t know when he would be able to be alone with her. She was being led off to the Papal palace in Twins territory, a place he was steering well clear of at the moment. And she was still talking to Gaetano. Luciano felt horrible. He really liked Gaetano – but not as much as he liked Arianna.
The stooped black figure behind Arianna turned at that moment and looked straight at Luciano. Rodolfo the Stravagante had sensed not only one of his brotherhood but his favoured apprentice. The nod and smile he gave Luciano were fleeting but enough to lift his spirits. Rodolfo was here and everything was going to be all right.
‘They look well, don’t they?’ said a low voice in his ear and he turned to see a familiar face, even though it was lightly covered by a veil.
‘Silvia!’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Nor do they,’ she said, smiling. ‘Do you think they’ll be pleased?’
‘Surely it’s not safe?’ whispered Luciano. ‘There are di Chimici everywhere, as you see, and the Duke is in a dangerous mood.’
‘I heard about his boy,’ said Silvia. ‘Strange isn’t it how someone who can order the deaths of strangers along with a new pair of boots should be such a loving family man?’
‘He is my friend,’ said Luciano.
‘Duke Niccolò?’ she asked.
‘No, his youngest son, Falco,’ said Luciano. ‘I think Duke Niccolò would like to put me in with his next boot order.’
It had been hard for Georgia to leave Remora that night and face a new day in London, knowing that Luciano was going to be reunited with the famous Arianna. It would have been difficult enough if the old Lucien had lived and found himself a girlfriend among people Georgia knew. But this new Luciano, with his velvet clothes and his aristocratic friends, was living in a world that Georgia could only ever visit briefly, in a time that had vanished centuries ago. And now that the Duchessa had arrived, Georgia’s special time alone with him was coming to an end.
The last week in Remora had been very scary – so much so that at times she had thought of giving up her night journeys there. After all, she had done what she had intended to do. ‘Nicholas Duke’ was safe in her world, looked after by the Mulhollands, seeing doctors and planning his new future.
But in Remora Falco was dying. No one in the city doubted it. The Duke was beside himself with grief and spent every possible hour at his son’s bedside in the hospital. Still Georgia had returned every night, caught between the private drama of the di Chimici family and the public excitement that was building up towards the race.
Her two closest friends in Remora were involved in both these events. Cesare could not conceal his enthusiasm about the Stellata; he talked to Georgia about it when they went bareback riding every day, telling her about the secret pacts between jockeys of the different Twelfths, and about the many rituals and customs surrounding the great race.
Luciano was openly worried about what might happen to him and Georgia. Niccolò di Chimici had threatened both of them with serious consequences if Falco should die and that moment was getting nearer. The boy had not opened his eyes since he had been found with the empty poison bottle nearly a week ago. But the doctors of the city had been baffled. There had been none of the symptoms of a poisoning. And everyone was reluctant to think that someone so young should give up his own life. Suicide was as rare in Talia as murder was common.
Georgia and Luciano were not allowed to visit the hospital, though they had tried. The Duke kept fierce watch over his son. So instead they talked in Paolo’s kitchen, Georgia telling Luciano everything she knew about how the Talian was faring in London.
And he was blooming. Georgia was a regular visitor at the Mulhollands’ now, which no one found odd, since she had been the first to discover the boy. It was very difficult to remember to call him Nicholas, though. He, however, was adapting well to his new identity. The Mulhollands had bought him some clothes and he even used some old ones that Lucien had grown out of but not thrown away. It made Georgia jump the first time she saw him in the grey hooded sweatshirt that Lucien had worn the first time she set eyes on him.
She had introduced him to Alice, who was intrigued by her friendship with the younger boy.
‘I suppose you feel responsible, since you found him,’ said Alice.
‘You’re right there,’ said Georgia. ‘Responsible is exactly what I feel.’
Falco visited her house too and she even took him to the stables when she went
riding on Saturday, since it was one of the times when Maura drove her. Fortunately, Maura didn’t think there was anything wrong with the lost boy being friends with her daughter, now that the question of his fostering had been sorted out, and she also had hopes of the contact with horses being therapeutic for him.
‘Perhaps it will jog his memory about his accident?’ she suggested to Georgia.
Falco was ecstatic at being around horses again. This was something he could fully understand about his new life. Although he couldn’t ride, Jean showed him round the stables while Georgia was out on her lesson, introducing him to all the horses who weren’t in use. He was especially drawn to a black mare named Blackbird.
‘Do you think I could come here and ride her when I’ve had my operation, Mrs O’Grady?’ he asked Maura.
‘Well, not straightaway,’ said Maura. ‘You know you’ll have to be in plaster for six weeks. But when you’ve recovered, we’ll talk to your foster-parents about riding lessons.’
‘We’d love to have you,’ said Jean, though privately she couldn’t imagine that this damaged boy would ever be fit to ride again.
When Georgia got to Remora the morning after the Duchessa’s arrival, she found a stranger in the kitchen. A very elegant middle-aged woman, with a veil, was talking to Doctor Dethridge and it was clear that they were old friends. A gangly red-haired young man, apparently the woman’s servant, stood behind her chair.
‘Ah, my dere,’ said Dethridge. ‘Let me presente yow to Signora Bellini. Silvia, this is yonge George – one of us.’
The stranger offered Georgia a cool, beautifully manicured hand and a piercing scrutiny.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You are the new Stravagante. My ... Rodolfo said you were a girl.’
Georgia felt herself blushing. She had never felt so awkward in her coarse Talian stable-boy’s clothes as she did under this woman’s violet gaze.
‘Ah,’ said Silvia. ‘I see you are in disguise. Very wise in this city. I should perhaps adopt the same stratagem. Although in a manner of speaking I already have.’
Georgia’s mind was racing, trying to work out where this obviously important woman fitted into the pattern. Had she really said ‘my Rodolfo’? Who would have the right to such intimacy with the great man? And why did she need a disguise?
At that moment Luciano, Paolo and Cesare came back from the racetrack. It had started to rain and the going was slippery. Cesare was anxious about it because today was the all-important laying of the earth for the racetrack round the Campo.
‘It is just a shower,’ his father reassured him. ‘No doubt the track will be fine.’
‘I see you have met Silvia,’ Luciano said to Georgia, and she wondered again at his easy manner with the great people of Talia.
‘When are you going to see Arianna?’ asked Silvia, putting a question Georgia was interested in too.
‘I don’t know,’ said Luciano.
There came a knock at the door and both the young Stravaganti jumped, though it was hardly likely that the Duchessa of Bellezza would be visiting in the Twelfth of the Ram.
Paolo opened the door to a figure Georgia knew must be Rodolfo. In fact she recognised him as the stranger who had come to Lucien’s funeral. A slightly stooped thin man with silvered hair and a distinguished look, he stepped into the room and clasped Paolo warmly in his arms. Dethridge too was embraced and then Luciano. The visitor looked long and searchingly into his face.
‘It does my heart good to see you,’ Georgia heard him say quietly and saw Luciano looking at his master with open devotion.
What am I doing here? she thought, feeling small and insignificant.
But then the tall man turned to her and took her hand. She found herself held by dark and steady eyes which seemed able to fathom her deepest secrets.
‘You must be Georgia,’ he said courteously. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’
‘Five Stravaganti in one room,’ said a low voice. ‘We should all be honoured.’
Now it was Rodolfo’s turn to be disconcerted. To her astonishment, Georgia saw his calm demeanour completely ruffled, as the mysterious Silvia stepped forwards.
And then the two embraced. But it was not a Talian formality and suddenly Georgia knew who the woman was.
She saw that Luciano was smiling indulgently at the couple, who were still in each other’s arms.
‘I should be so angry with you,’ said Rodolfo quietly. ‘But how can I when it fills me with joy to find you here?’
‘I think you had better re-introduce me to the young woman,’ said Silvia.
‘Georgia,’ Rodolfo said, still holding the woman’s hand in his, ‘I should like you to meet my wife, Silvia Rossi, formerly Duchessa of Bellezza and the mother of the present Duchessa.’
*
In the Papal palace, Rinaldo di Chimici was having another uncomfortable audience with an uncle. This one was not as formidable as Duke Niccolò, but Ferdinando was the Pope and Prince of Remora too.
‘Marriage is a sacred institution,’ Ferdinando was saying, in his role as head of the Talian Church. ‘It is not to be unmade lightly.’
‘Indeed not, your Holiness,’ said Rinaldo. ‘But I must take some of the blame here. This marriage was perhaps made too lightly. It was I who arranged it.’
The Pope was perfectly aware of this and that his niece Francesca had been forced into it by Rinaldo, with the threat of Duke Niccolò’s displeasure hanging over her if she refused. But if the ploy had succeeded and Francesca had been elected Duchessa of Bellezza, she would have found a way to tolerate her old Bellezzan husband, so the Pope was reluctant to let her escape now that the plan had foundered. It was his duty after all to uphold the sanctity of marriage.
‘On what grounds does the young woman seek an annulment?’ he asked now.
Rinaldo hesitated. If their uncle was referring to Francesca as ‘the young woman’, there was not much hope in playing the family loyalty card.
‘She ... he ... I believe the marriage is unconsummated, your Holiness,’ said Rinaldo horribly aware that he was blushing.
‘After how long?’
‘Nearly a year, your Holiness. And she does not love him.’
‘Well, perhaps if she would let him in her bed, matters might improve,’ said the Pope. ‘A baby – that would give her a reason to stay with her husband.’
Rinaldo very much did not want to have to mention that Francesca had been coerced into marrying Councillor Albani. He felt it did not show him in a good light, although this was very unfair. If Francesca had become Duchessa, his own standing in the family would have been very much improved.
‘If he is capable, Holiness,’ he muttered now.
Ferdinando di Chimici was not a bad man. He was weak and self-indulgent but he didn’t really want to see one of his nieces yoked to a man she didn’t love, especially if there were to be no babies. Besides, he did not think that his brother the Duke would have any use for Albani now that the Bellezzan plot had failed. And it might be useful to have Francesca available for another dynastic union. Ferdinando would try to make sure she got a more appealing husband next time.
‘Oh very well,’ he said testily, gesturing for his clerk to write the necessary decree. He sank his signet ring with the symbols of the lily and the twins into the soft red wax and handed the document to Rinaldo. In that moment Francesca was a free woman.
*
In the Campo the rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh and clean. Bullock carts came in a stream, full of earth from the surrounding countryside, and teams of men spread it with rakes in a wide band encircling the Piazza. Other men were engaged in building wooden stages to house the most important spectators of the race, though the majority of Remorans would watch from inside the track.
The grandest stage was being erected in front of the Papal palace, but every house with a balcony overlooking the racetrack was already draped with banners in the colours of the Twelfth they supported. The whole Campo was ablaze with c
olour.
One person particularly enjoying the prospect of the race was Enrico. He was accepting bets on the outcome. The Twins and the Lady had the shortest odds of course, so members of their Twelfths did not stand to win much. Other Twelvers wanted to gamble on a win for their own horses and jockeys but sometimes had a small side bet on the two most likely Twelfths as well. Remorans were practical people.
But they did not like to be seen to be disloyal, so such bets had to be placed discreetly. Enrico became accustomed to wandering through all the Twelfths of the city. He carried a bag full of neckcloths of different colours so that he could change which one he wore according to which Twelfth of the city he was in. He regarded them merely as safe conducts, having no allegiance to any particular Twelfth.
He now spent his days in Remora, riding back up to Santa Fina every night to fly Merla. She was becoming accustomed to him and seemed not to mind letting him ride her while she flew. Enrico did not want to spend any more time than he had to up at the Casa di Chimici. What had happened to the boy up there had really unsettled him. He felt in a way as if he should have been able to stop it. Now he busied himself with his gambling venture to take his mind off the pale boy lying unconscious in the hospital. Of his patron and employer he saw nothing.
*
Arianna couldn’t sleep. She stood on the balcony outside her room in the Papal palace. The Campo was filled with moonlight and shadows. All around the edge, little knots of people clustered round horses. Every now and again they would organise themselves into a start and then the horses galloped round the circular track three times sunwise. There was much laughter in the Campo and yet mystery too in seeing it so thronged with people in the middle of the night.
She was watching an odd sight when Rodolfo silently joined her on the balcony. A big powerful grey horse, most unlikely to run in the real Stellata, was carrying two people, a man and a woman. They were strangely dressed though the moonlight bleached the colours out of their clothes.