Chapter 40 #3
If the Duke of Urbino hadn’t singled out her brother and locked him in a cage, Antonio might have resisted the pope’s recruitment.
If she hadn’t been stolen away by the Luni family, her brother might still be alive.
If, if, if.
A soft, inner whisper brushed her mind: But then you would have never met Saturnino.
The sound of a trumpet blasted. Saturnino appeared at the opposite end of the piazza, dressed in full armor polished to a mirrorlike finish, gleaming in the soft afternoon light.
It was etched with an intricate design, an armored bear with his quiver of arrows and a crescent moon.
Above the armor, Saturnino wore a richly embroidered tabard bearing the Luni family’s crest. In his right hand he held a long lance, painted in the same hues as his tabard.
A sword was strapped to his side. His black horse, bred for war and tournaments, was similarly draped in the family colors.
The Duke of Urbino, now armed with his own lance, mounted his destrier.
Both riders circled the arena, the crowd cheering and bursting out in thunderous applause.
When Saturnino drew close to their side of the piazza, his gloved hands pulled back on the reins.
Carefully, he extended his lance in Ravenna’s direction, the tip hovering only a foot away from her.
Ravenna gaped at him as Fortuna nudged her side. “Give him a token,” she said from the corner of her mouth.
Saturnino’s attention landed, briefly, on the curled-up cat tucked in her lap.
His laughing eyes met hers as Ravenna fumbled at her gown, trying not to disturb Ombretta, and finally emerged with an embroidered handkerchief.
Saturnino had left the visor of his helmet open, and his dark green eyes glinted back at her, warm and sweet.
Ombretta purred and jumped off her lap, disappearing between the legs of the other guests sitting in her row. Ravenna stood, and to her surprise, a tremulous smile stretched her mouth. For a few moments, she let herself gaze at the knight before her, forgetting everything else.
It was only Ravenna and Saturnino.
She hadn’t said the words, they had felt too fragile, too heartbreaking. But as the sun dipped lower and lower to meet the horizon, as their time dwindled to a scant few hours, a pressure built in her chest, and she didn’t care about who might hear the deepest part of her heart.
“I love you, Saturnino dei Luni,” she called out, draping her handkerchief over the tip of his lance.
Saturnino blinked, and even though his mouth wasn’t visible, Ravenna knew he was smiling by the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. He straightened the lance, and her handkerchief slid down; he caught it with his free hand. Deftly, he tied it around his arm, and then he looked back at her.
He winked and set off, but instead of riding to the front of the pope’s canopy where he could pay his respects, he deliberately passed him. A rude, obvious slight. The crowd murmured, their faces shocked, mouths open in horror.
“What the hell is he doing?” Signora Luni exclaimed.
“He’s certainly distracting the pope,” Fortuna said dryly, looking toward the canopy where the pope’s outrage was clearly visible. “Along with everyone else.”
The trumpet blared again.
Saturnino went to his start position, his horse’s hooves pounding the ground, readying for the gallop.
The Duke of Urbino lowered his visor; Saturnino did the same.
Both riders spurred their horses, charging down the list, lances aimed at each other.
The sounds of the crowd clapping and roaring, the clanging of armor, reverberated through Ravenna.
“Time to go,” Marco said.
But Ravenna couldn’t take her eyes off Saturnino.
The two opponents were seconds from making contact.
Her pulse thrummed wildly in her throat.
Marco leaped to his feet, reached for Ravenna, and all but dragged her off the seat.
She raced down the steps, eager to view the match from whatever vantage point that she could.
The crowd gave a thunderous cheer, and Ravenna’s heart jumped.
Had Saturnino won already?
She was about to squeeze through the crowd, but Marco seized her, taking hold of her hand and pulling her behind the viewing stand. “Try not to be an idiot,” Marco muttered.
“Is it over?”
“I repeat, try not to be an idiot,” Marco said. “They had the first pass, there are two more to go. Now, keep up.”
They hurried to the pope’s tent, skirting around onlookers.
Ravenna grabbed a fistful of her dress, holding it high to better keep up with Marco’s long strides.
People mingled with friends, children played with wooden lances, and stray dogs barked merrily, hoping for a scrap of wild boar.
Red and white wine, local ales and beer, and mulled wine flowed abundantly.
It was surreal to walk past oblivious scenes of enjoyment when she was on her way to commit murder.
Her magic leaped within her in anticipation as they approached the lavishly decorated viewing box.
There were many people flanking the pope—allies, conspirators, guards—but there was one figure her attention fixed on.
A familiar cloaked form, hood up. He must have sensed her presence because he turned partway in her direction, half his face covered in shadow.
The courier.
Marco bounded up the steps, Ravenna at his heels.
The courier turned toward her, and as soon as she stood on the platform he intercepted her, moving swiftly.
She gasped at the sight of him. The lower half of his face was deathly pale, devoid of all color.
Their meetings had always been at night, and in the firelight his skin glowed with a healthy tan. But now …
Of course.
The sun would set in the next hour, and while the light was soft and golden, there was still plenty of it.
What she was witnessing was the effect of daylight on his skin.
The courier gave her the briefest glance, brown eyes red-rimmed and tired, and pressed a slim mallet into her hands.
Then he swept down the stairs, disappearing into the crowd, no doubt in search of shade.
Ravenna tucked the mallet into her wide sleeve, gripping the handle.
She turned back toward Marco, bracing herself for what came next.
She expected to find him yanking out his sword, violence written across his harsh features.
She expected to hear him shouting curses at the guards who dared approach him in attack.
She did not expect to find him standing next to the pope, staring back at her with a cruel smile on his face, devil’s fire in his dark eyes.
“Yours for the taking, as promised,” he said. “Ravenna Maffei.”