In the autumn of 1327, Florence, in the heart of Tuscany, is a small town of wool merchants, bankers and artisans rising to prominence in international trade and politics, supplanting the ancient noble families living in the town and in the countryside. The feudal life is dying, and Francesco Guidi, count of Romena, will not go quietly. Francesco’s constant battle for control of what is rightfully his is compounded by insecurity, failure, an unhappy past and a girl named Serafina, whose own past is linked to his by a series of events he has never been aware of until he arrives in Florence and begins the struggle of his life.
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Part I – The Journey
Chapter 1
FRANCESCO’S THOUGHTS WERE most lucid just before dawn. Something in the comforting purple darkness forced his demons back into the shadows, leaving him at peace.
On this particular morning, however, one demon still lay in wait.
The waning moon loosed arrows of light through chinks in the bed curtains. Strange, how things both familiar and beloved took on frightening aspects in the dark. Francesco knew by heart the furnishings and lay of the bedchamber beyond the curtains, but it was like viewing his world through the opaque fiber of a death shroud. If his plans were foiled today, these images would be among his last. He would indeed peer at the world through a shroud -- albeit with dull, lifeless eyes.
He turned in bed, brushing his lips against Gismonda’s brow. She didn’t stir, thankfully. Francesco shifted again and tried to rise, groaning in pain. He was unused to the luxury of a featherbed, having become accustomed to the hard earth of the Tuscan mountains. Gesu! Nights spent in full harness and in the saddle gave him less discomfort. Like an old man plagued with swollen joints, Francesco eased out from under the pile of soft coverlets and blankets, picked apart his clothes from those belonging to Gismonda and dressed, then went down to the stables.
Five soldiers staggered to attention as Francesco rounded the herb garden and baking house, then entered the stable yard. They yawned and muttered greetings as Francesco made straight for a brazier. Mulled wine steeped and meat pies sizzled over the fire. Fumbling for the mug extended towards him by one of the captains, Francesco gulped down a mouthful, the wine’s sudden heat on his tongue scalding, shocking Francesco to consciousness. Swearing, he flung the liquid in a wide arc, both men and dogs scattering out of its path. As if nothing was amiss, Francesco brushed past the grumbling men and leaned on the gate, studying the Tuscan landscape.
If indeed Heaven existed, it would be here. The horizon was arrayed with softly rolling hills and the sharp outline of the Tuscan Apennines. Laid out before him like one of Maestro Giotto’s paintings was a myriad of greens, from the richest and darkest forest to the dull olive of orchards and farms, the gold and russet of turning leaves and summer grass dying. His nostrils were filled with the tang of morning dew and earth, a good sharpness of fragrant, familiar air. His face was warmed as the sun melted the darkness burned away mists from the Arno. Here was paradise. Francesco studied every aspect as if committing it to memory, though he’d known this countryside since infancy. The uncertainty of life made him look at everything as if for the last time . . .
“This is one hell of a fine morning to pick a fight.”
Francesco turned at the sound of Edmund Clifford’s voice. The Englishman had sidled up from a morning’s ride and now dismounted, throwing the reins to a groom.
“I didn’t start it,” Francesco replied, adding, “But I wouldn’t mind ending it today, no matter what.” He wheeled suddenly, grinning. “What was it you used to say in London?”
Edmund scratched the stubble of russet beard on his chin and idly watched the horizon, as if searching for an answer. Finally, he puffed out a sigh from freckled cheeks. “That you’re a fool for ever wanting what you can’t have – and wanting what will kill you trying to achieve.”
“And that would be today?”
Francesco glanced sideways at his friend and saw the smile form of strong, even, white teeth and dimples, a smile that spoke volumes, especially where it concerned, as Francesco noted, women, and war.
“No matter what. Isn’t it time Lady Fortune smiled on you?”
“Mustn’t try to spin the wheel of fortune too hard.” Francesco sighed, scratching his head. “Well, shall we get started? The army waits at Poppi. We should be away from here soon - before Gismonda’s husband returns. That’s not a quarrel I want, not today.”
Edmund Clifford nodded and silently waved at the soldiers starting to muster. There was much work ahead of them that day. Francesco took a meat pie from the campfire and walking through the gate to the orchard, sat under a plum tree to break fast. Beyond the nut trees and fruit trees, beyond the gently rolling hills etched with vineyards, Francesco could see the rooftops and spire of the castle of Raggiolo and its abbey, San Proculo il Soldato. From here to Raggiolo was a short distance, yet he was in loath to make the journey.
------------------------------
Part I – The Journey
Chapter 1
FRANCESCO’S THOUGHTS WERE most lucid just before dawn. Something in the comforting purple darkness forced his demons back into the shadows, leaving him at peace.
On this particular morning, however, one demon still lay in wait.
The waning moon loosed arrows of light through chinks in the bed curtains. Strange, how things both familiar and beloved took on frightening aspects in the dark. Francesco knew by heart the furnishings and lay of the bedchamber beyond the curtains, but it was like viewing his world through the opaque fiber of a death shroud. If his plans were foiled today, these images would be among his last. He would indeed peer at the world through a shroud -- albeit with dull, lifeless eyes.
He turned in bed, brushing his lips against Gismonda’s brow. She didn’t stir, thankfully. Francesco shifted again and tried to rise, groaning in pain. He was unused to the luxury of a featherbed, having become accustomed to the hard earth of the Tuscan mountains. Gesu! Nights spent in full harness and in the saddle gave him less discomfort. Like an old man plagued with swollen joints, Francesco eased out from under the pile of soft coverlets and blankets, picked apart his clothes from those belonging to Gismonda and dressed, then went down to the stables.
Five soldiers staggered to attention as Francesco rounded the herb garden and baking house, then entered the stable yard. They yawned and muttered greetings as Francesco made straight for a brazier. Mulled wine steeped and meat pies sizzled over the fire. Fumbling for the mug extended towards him by one of the captains, Francesco gulped down a mouthful, the wine’s sudden heat on his tongue scalding, shocking Francesco to consciousness. Swearing, he flung the liquid in a wide arc, both men and dogs scattering out of its path. As if nothing was amiss, Francesco brushed past the grumbling men and leaned on the gate, studying the Tuscan landscape.
If indeed Heaven existed, it would be here. The horizon was arrayed with softly rolling hills and the sharp outline of the Tuscan Apennines. Laid out before him like one of Maestro Giotto’s paintings was a myriad of greens, from the richest and darkest forest to the dull olive of orchards and farms, the gold and russet of turning leaves and summer grass dying. His nostrils were filled with the tang of morning dew and earth, a good sharpness of fragrant, familiar air. His face was warmed as the sun melted the darkness burned away mists from the Arno. Here was paradise. Francesco studied every aspect as if committing it to memory, though he’d known this countryside since infancy. The uncertainty of life made him look at everything as if for the last time . . .
“This is one hell of a fine morning to pick a fight.”
Francesco turned at the sound of Edmund Clifford’s voice. The Englishman had sidled up from a morning’s ride and now dismounted, throwing the reins to a groom.
“I didn’t start it,” Francesco replied, adding, “But I wouldn’t mind ending it today, no matter what.” He wheeled suddenly, grinning. “What was it you used to say in London?”
Edmund scratched the stubble of russet beard on his chin and idly watched the horizon, as if searching for an answer. Finally, he puffed out a sigh from freckled cheeks. “That you’re a fool for ever wanting what you can’t have – and wanting what will kill you trying to achieve.”
“And that would be today?”
Francesco glanced sideways at his friend and saw the smile form of strong, even, white teeth and dimples, a smile that spoke volumes, especially where it concerned, as Francesco noted, women, and war.
“No matter what. Isn’t it time Lady Fortune smiled on you?”
“Mustn’t try to spin the wheel of fortune too hard.” Francesco sighed, scratching his head. “Well, shall we get started? The army waits at Poppi. We should be away from here soon - before Gismonda’s husband returns. That’s not a quarrel I want, not today.”
Edmund Clifford nodded and silently waved at the soldiers starting to muster. There was much work ahead of them that day. Francesco took a meat pie from the campfire and walking through the gate to the orchard, sat under a plum tree to break fast. Beyond the nut trees and fruit trees, beyond the gently rolling hills etched with vineyards, Francesco could see the rooftops and spire of the castle of Raggiolo and its abbey, San Proculo il Soldato. From here to Raggiolo was a short distance, yet he was in loath to make the journey.
