CHAPTER NINE
“In the kitchen!” Emilia held her side and gasped. “The friars were cooking the feast—”
A fire in our beloved city was everyone’s worst nightmare.
Iron did not burn, nor stone, but dry wood supported and topped most of the houses and shops that stood shoulder to shoulder on the narrow streets.
Fire killed. Fire destroyed. Fire spared no one.
All we had to battle it was water and the citizens’ willing hands.
I asked the dreaded question. “Can the orphanage be saved?”
“Prince Escalus is there,” Emilia said. It wasn’t an answer, but it showed a solid faith in our podestà. “He wouldn’t let us… He sent us to summon help.”
“I’ll go at once.” Papà placed the cask on its cradle and said to Tommaso, “Gather our people, buckets, rags, mops. Anything that will put out a fire.”
Tommaso was moving before Papà finished speaking.
Our men had gathered at the first sign of trouble.
Some vanished into the basement where our disaster supplies were kept.
Some formed a chain to bring the supplies up the creaking steps.
Some hurried to bring carts to the street.
Some, led by Papà, hurried toward the orphanage to immediately lend themselves to the effort of extinguishing the fire.
“Injuries?” I mentally planned my medical kit.
“Nobody’s dead,” Cesario said.
“Not yet,” Emilia added with a grim fatalism that sat ill on her young face.
Susanna was on her feet, her complexion pale with the knowledge that her husband would fight on the front line with the prince. “We’ll trust God to care for our people.”
Emilia spared her a compassionate glance before saying, “Rosie, Friar Laurence commands you come in all haste to help him, and bring medicines that might be needed.”
“The babies…” Emilia was still having trouble putting words together. “We took the orphan babies. From the nursery.”
I realized she and Cesario had run into a burning building. Repeatedly. I glanced at Mamma, whose beautiful eyes widened in horror, and at Nurse, who stood frozen by the knowledge the children she had so lovingly tended had bravely put themselves at risk.
What could we expect? We Montagues had suckled on honor’s tit. Saving babies from flames was the ultimate “right and proper deed,” and they had done it.
“The holy sisters…they cried out to be careful…but we carried the babies…like our own babies…and they realized we knew…how.” Cesario closed his eyes as if overwhelmed by the events.
Emilia slammed her fist into his shoulder. “Breathe, kid!” They fought every day, but she showed a solid concern for her little brother, and revived him the best way she knew how—with a sharp command and a loving tone.
Cesario opened his eyes and, after a moment of wavering, smacked her back, but he showed his appreciation with a lack of real impact.
Nurse tore hunks of bread from the loaves stacked on the sideboard and shoved them into their trembling hands. “Eat!”
The kids devoured the bread and visibly grew steadier.
Mamma came from shock to life. “Verona needs to be fed.” Food was her solution to almost every problem, and not surprisingly she was always right.
But those of us in Casa Montague, who had been smelling the spit-turned chickens, the buttery pea pie, the extra-crispy pancetta to be served on ricotta gnocchi rich with mushroom and spinach and dribbled with our best olive oil, the garlic and onions roasted with rosemary sprigs, the fried chickpea and walnut fritters, the shiny purple eggplants stuffed with minced lamb and rice, the venison sausage and the breads and cheeses…
Deep breath.
Yes, dear reader, it wasn’t merely me who had a moment of greedy dismay, and the silence that fell was profound as the Montagues and the staff struggled with our thwarted love of feasts, wines and conviviality.
The silence was also brief.
Nurse said, “A blessing for us on this blessed day to serve the needy children, the holy brothers and sisters, and our brave citizens.”
“Well spoken, Nurse,” Mamma said.
We sprang into action.
Stoically Susanna took our boy-twins into her keeping, for we all knew a woman with child should not take the risk of attending a crisis, and the babes’ wet nurse remained with them.
Nurse organized our family and household staff, and while I prepared my medicine bag, they wrapped up our meal and our wines, blankets and an assortment of warm clothing.
We stepped onto the streets to find the men and carts had already gone to the orphanage, and even before we neared the Piazza dei Signori, we smelled smoke and heard shouting.
My gut wrenched as reality tightened its noose.
“The babies. The orphans.” Mamma’s whisper sounded loud in the street.
As if they’d been given explicit permission, Emilia and Cesario sprinted down the street and, despite our calls, disappeared in the direction of the orphanage, located against Verona’s north wall.
We hurried faster, and when we arrived at the Piazza dei Signori, we found the goods of the Christmas market had been cleared away in what was obviously a mad flurry.
A grim, calm Friar Laurence had begun the organization involved in the care and feeding of all: the displaced children, the workers, the monks and nuns, while the crowd milled about, wanting to help, needing direction.
Cesario ran herd over eight toddlers who wandered, cried, laughed, stared wide-eyed at the chaos, and Imogene at once joined him.
Here we were out of the way of the fire, and here we would set up our stations to feed, as Mamma wished, the city.
One other thing we Montagues enjoyed besides eating was feeding others in need. Using the now empty booths, Nurse ordered the placement of foods while Mamma efficiently organized her staff…which I found interesting since at home she was so addlepated I had taken over the household at an early age.
Huh.
A station was set up for the famished orphans, who had looked forward to their feast and now gave cries of delight at a selection of fancy foods they’d never seen, imagined or tasted.
Even before the dishes had been placed, a line of grim and sooty citizens formed a separate line for a meal.
All had eating knives and spoons hooked to their belts, and many had wooden bowls.
For those who did not, Nurse set her rough set of knife-wielding city-friends to making trenchers out of bread loaves.
The trenchers served as plates and bowls for the meats, cheeses, grapes, stews.
I chose a booth off away from the bustle of food and drink, placed my herbs and ointments in an orderly fashion and dealt with a variety of injuries.
Multiple minor burns, of course, not that anyone who had been burned thought it was minor.
Speaking as someone who had suffered from many a cooking mishap, I sympathized completely; no wonder Beelzebub had chosen fire to punish the sinful.
One man limped toward me, sparking guffaws among his neighbors. He’d missed the handle of the full bucket swung toward him and he’d caught it with his man-parts.
I suggested he show Friar Laurence, whose stern hand and sharp eyes had brought order from chaos.
He agreed with a pained grin and cupped himself as he limped away in Friar Laurence’s direction.
Julia, our panettiera, had been whacked across the cheek with a wet broom used to douse the flames. “What I get for letting my man use a mop,” she groused.
I laughed, and she grinned awkwardly. “He doesn’t hit me, not on purpose,” she said. “Feels wormy about this, he does, but I’m going to have a black eye, and all the days of Christmas coming up, and I’ve made a new girdle!”
“You did a good deed, which makes you beautiful in his eyes.” I put a cool damp rag on her eye. “Where is your husband?”
She sighed as the pain eased. “Back at the orphanage, pouring water on the embers.”
I took a relieved breath. “The fire is out, then?”
“For the most part. The children will have to be housed elsewhere—”
I foresaw more blessings in our household.
“—And the kitchen and the sewing room next to it completely rebuilt. The building stinks and smoke has stained the ceilings. Praise God the chapel is undamaged and most of the sleeping areas escaped harm. A few weeks of work, a lot of laundry, and the children can move back, those that aren’t old enough to be placed with tradesmen as apprentices.
They’re unripened, but there’ll be no choice now.
I know we’ll be taking the fanciulla we were promised, although until she’s grown, she won’t be good for more than delivering bread.
” Julia turned her neck from side to side, as it made her head feel better.
“It looks as if we’re running out of loaves for trenchers.
After I eat, I’ll take her to the shop and we’ll bring all this morning’s bread. ”
“That’s so generous!” It was, for I knew the holiday would normally bring in a week’s worth of income.
“At least it wasn’t me who carried a tank of water to the top of the building to wet down the roof.”
“Who did that?”
“Bartholo the blacksmith.” She looked around, searching for him. “Have you seen him? Did he make it down?”
From behind in the line, Basso Forina called, “The roof collapsed under him. Broken leg. Four stout men are bringing him hence on a litter.” Bartholo was a massive man, as befitting a blacksmith.
I glanced up to see that Friar Laurence had heard. He nodded at me and hurried to meet the brave blacksmith. Any but the most basic of broken legs were beyond my skill, but I could assist, and for that I also needed aid.
One skinny, surly-looking, short-for-her-age half-feral girl-orphan watched me from afar.