Page 95 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
“You know better,” Nonna Ursula said without heat.
Lady Pulissena sat back. “In all the long years since, I’ve never heard the slightest whisper of the villain’s name.”
With those white, clouded eyes, Nonna Ursula stared at Lady Pulissena, forcing her to say it all.
“I came here to tell you that. I want to come home. I want to spend my last days in Verona. I want to be with my friends . . . who are left. By my sum and substance, by the divine breath of sweet Jesus, I swear I did not, in any way, wish or work for the death of your son.”
I looked at Cal. I believed her. Did he?
He nodded. That answered his question without him ever having to ask.
Nonna Ursula nodded, too. “Even in loss, it seemed unlikely to be you.”
“Especially in loss. Let me be practical. If Escalus had lived, I would have humbly pleaded with him to allow me to remain in Verona, and he would have cursed more blasphemously, then deemed me toothless and granted my wish.”
“Now you actually are toothless,” Nonna Ursula snapped.
“I still have sharp claws,” Lady Pulissena snapped back.
A moment of perilous silence.
The two old ladies fell into cackles, and animosity slid away like snow in a spring rain. As they ate and drank, conversation opened, and soon became reminiscence. When they laughed about Nonna Ursula stripping off her clothes, wrapping herself in a sumptuous robe, and flashing her husband as he spoke to the cardinal, Cal loudly announced he was meeting with his men and hurriedly left, hands over his ears.
I stayed and listened, wildly amused at the two wicked women who conclusively proved the elders of Verona were not always as decorous as they proclaimed. When they both suddenly wavered, exhausted and yet unwilling to part, I arranged for a bed for Lady Pulissena in Nonna Ursula’s bedchamber and made it understood to Old Maria she should care for them both.
When I left the old ladies, they were both reclining, but still talking. I knew they would soon be asleep.
Tommaso waited at the door, and tried to follow me. “You must remain on guard,” I told him.
“I don’t like this, my lady. I’m here for you.”
“I’m young and strong, and I do swear I’ll remain alert.”
“You’ll go at once to find the prince?”
“I’ll seek him,” I promised. And I did, but Cal wasn’t in his office, and when I inquired of the footman, he escorted me to the large room where the guards lodged. Everyone was there: Marcellus, Holofernes, Dion, Barnadine, Biasio, others whose names I had not yet learned. Cal sat with them and led them in a discussion about the battles with the flagellants, asked for suggestions to improve on their tactics, praised his guards for their bravery, and thanked them for their dedication to Verona. The men spoke with him frankly, yet respectfully, and as I watched, I learned a few things about building brotherhood and seemingly effortless leadership.
Marcellus caught my eye and frowned—with some justification. Clearly, I was intruding on their warrior time, and before Cal could catch a glimpse of me, I backed out of sight.
I glanced into the large interior atrium. The afternoon sun and the lemon trees created dappled shadows on the pavers and tables, and pink petals of a climbing rose fluttered into the fountain and drifted along the surface of the water. For all the exotics Cal so treasured, the center of his house felt like home. For me, it would be a refuge when I needed a break from the duties of wife, princess, and mother to Cal’s longed-for hordes of children. I wanted to wander there now, but who knew what killer—man or plant—lurked in the shrubbery?
Then I saw him. Friar Camillo walking slowly along a path, hands clasped and head bent. He was unaware of me, and I’d encountered him without harm before. Friar Laurence trusted him. His presence could act as my guard. No one would batter me to death in the presence of a monk, especially not a strong young monk.
I did venture to the nearest bench and seated myself close enough to Cal’s guardroom to let out a full-lunged shriek if threatened. I needed quiet, the scents of good rich earth and growing things. In other words, I needed to think.
These crimes—against Elder, Nonna Ursula, me—had their roots in the past. I had assumed, as did most people, that the Acquasassos, after fomenting revolt and losing, had taken their revenge with Elder’s murder before fleeing to Venice. But meeting Lady Pulissena had changed my belief. The years of exile in that damp climate had washed the canker away from the crumpled old woman, and all she had left was an iron spine, a trembling appreciation for Verona . . . and a sense of kinship for Nonna Ursula. After a few moments of testy interchange, the atmosphere between them had changed from ancient enemies to longstanding friends. Lady Pulissena viewed Nonna Ursula’s sight and hearing loss with surprise and pity. Nonna Ursula had gripped Lady Pulissena’s warped hand a little too hard and elicited a yelp of pain.Then they both knew what had gone before wouldn’t matter when the earth soon enclosed them.
No one remembers what I remember . . . except you,Nonna Ursula had said to Lady Pulissena.
The ties of past experiences formed a unique bond, for their losses were no longer perceived in status, power, and fashion, but in lives taken by the passage of time.
As I contemplated the past, so tangled for those ladies, and the future, so unlike anything I’d imagined for myself, I reminded myself that unless I indeed discovered Elder’s assassin, I might not have a future, nor Cal, nor our yet-unconceived children.
I heard a step on the gravel and turned in swift alarm, pulling the dagger from my sleeve with a thin hiss.
Friar Camillo backed up and held his hands wide in a compassionate, unthreatening gesture. “No need for that. I swear on the sweet Virgin, I’ll not hurt you, valiant lady.”
Reluctantly I slid the knife back. “My apologies, brother. It’s a fraught time for us all.”
