Chapter 20
Yep. You heard me.
You know the basics. Blindfold a guest, spin them in a circle, push them toward the large sketches, which my dear friend and former art teacher, Gentile da Fabriano, had done for me, and let them blunder forward and pin the fig leaf in the approximate location that should be covered.
My version of the game included a few extra flourishes.
For instance, the men pinned the fig leaf on Eve, and the women pinned the fig leaf on Adam, and the grumbling Montagues and Capulets were told by Prince Escalus to line up alternately—Montague, Capulet, Montague, Capulet—so it was male Capulet and female Montague heading for the wall and vice versa.
Cal and I led off.
Cal, of course, immediately pinned the fig leaf in the exact right spot to cover Eve.
The musicians played a triumphant note.
I groped the painting, which caused a great deal of jocular commentary—I didn’t mind, as that was my intention—before finally sticking the pin … somewhere. When I pulled off the blindfold, I discovered I’d pierced Adam’s nipple.
The musicians played a clear note that went sour.
Somehow, that made the situation funnier.
Everyone commiserated with Cal, who, without a glimmer of a smile, said, “It will be my delight and privilege to teach mia cara Rosaline to assist me with the proper placement of my fig leaf.”
For one moment, no one knew how to respond. Was the dutiful, somber, stodgy prince making a jest?
When Cal’s bodyguards roared with laughter and slapped him on the back, everyone roared with laughter, and only Mamma and I heard Papà’s low growl.
Yes, he approved of and indeed desired my match to the prince, but he did not like to imagine any premature action on Cal’s part.
Or perhaps any action at all. He had, after all, named me after his chaste former girlfriend.
As the laughter calmed, Friar Laurence appeared with two small cups of a liquor distilled by the Franciscan monks of his order.
Called aqua vitae, water of life, it was normally reserved for the ill, but upon my appeal, he had procured five of the precious bottles and would serve it to each person after they pinned the fig leaf on the sketch.
The merriment in the room took an auditory and visual rise.
Papà and Mamma were next, and to the joy of everyone at the party, the famous lovers placed the fig leaves in exactly the right spots.
The musicians played a grand fanfare.
Everyone applauded and nodded, as if they expected nothing less from Romeo and Juliet. Personally, I suspect they cheated, and thereafter I myself securely tied the blindfolds.
Guests lined up for their chance at the fig pinning, and what had started out as a game of Montague versus Capulet swiftly became men against women, and the more eloquent women easily won the game of bawdy humor, most of that consisting of a commentary on the small size of the pin and its inaccurate placement.
We may have started some wars between husbands and wives, but I willingly sacrificed their happiness for the sake of a ceasefire between the Households.
When the lines had thinned, the aqua vitae finished, Nonno Montague and Lady Capulet played against each other, and neither of them even came close to the paintings.
Yet when they were done, Lady Capulet allowed Nonno to kiss both her cheeks and lead her back to the head table, and I murmured to Papà, “For that, I count the entire party a success.”
He turned on me in a huff. “Rosie, must you celebrate prematurely?”
“Sorry, Papà,” I muttered. For he was right. We still had many obstacles to surmount.
The servers brought in the next course and placed the platters along both tables: baby artichokes with tortellini stuffed with peas, marinated olives and Mamma’s famous giardiniera, plates of oysters, and pies gilded with gold and filled with minced venison, eggs, cheeses, saffron, black pepper, sugar, basil, thyme, parsley, nettles, and garlic.
For the entertainment, quails, pigeons, and capons, carved by the palace trinciante (meat carver), who was such an artist that guests gathered to watch him layer the slices onto the platters.
For the centerpiece, I’d ordered Verona food artists to create gelatins formed in the crests of Montague and Capulet and, above them all, the Leonardi lion.
Magnificent, you say?
Yes.
Subtle, you say?
No. But a firm reminder that in Verona, the prince directed their fates, and we should all submit to him.
I did think at this point a reminder would be received with better humor, what with the fine wines and the liquor, and the troubadour singing a love ballad, and the leftover laughter created by the salacious game. I had everything firmly in hand. …
As Papà would have pointed out, I deserved a slap down after challenging the Fates. Yes, you guessed it—Great-uncle Magno arrived, dragging behind him a baggage train of scholars, flatterers, and—oh, the shock and horror!—foreigners.
That I had not expected. Two days ago Magno had been on the brink of death. Today he was on his feet, thinner but still broad-shouldered, and looking almost like a twin of Nonno Montague, yet lesser and warped in a way that made me view him uneasily.
Magno had lost his friend Lord Bortolo to the poisoning, but his sycophants continued to faithfully dog his heels.
I recognized the handsome young professor, Sir Christofolo of Cittadella, and Niklaus of Denmark, the warrior who drew attention with his height, broad shoulders, and Viking fierceness, as well as that wolf pelt he wore around his shoulders.
New to the group was a blond youth with rounded rosy cheeks, who, when he met Mamma and me, introduced himself as Tobias of Valpolicella.
To his credit, Magno went first to the head table and paid court to his elder brother, my grandfather Nonno Montague, who greeted him with affection and a barely perceptible wariness.
Next, Magno paid court to Nonna Ursula, kissing her wrinkled, veined hand and asking, “Do you foresee any more deaths? For I lost a dear friend and came too close myself to feel at ease.”
Without exception, guests pressed close to hear the answer, for after the discovery of the lion, Nonna Ursula had caused speculation and gained respect. After the poisonings, Nonna Ursula became an oracle to be flattered and feared.
Nonna Ursula pulled him closer, examined him with her cloudy eyes, and proclaimed in her raspy, dramatic prophetess voice, “I foresee … a magnificent celebration tonight, unmarred by battles and rich in foods and drinks. I see another celebration tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, until the day of the wedding dawns and”—her voice returned to normal—“Prince Escalus marries his beloved Lady Rosaline and they begin their long, fertile, and happy life together.”
Magno blinked at her as if she was speaking a language he’d never heard.
“I’m a fraud, Magno. I tell people what they want to hear.” She looked around at the disbelieving crowd and reiterated, “I make it all up.”
Magno applauded, and although he was no spring chicken himself, he used that indulgent voice people employed with the elderly. “You invent brilliantly, then, and have convinced us all!”
Magno’s sycophants applauded—not Niklaus of Denmark, who stood with arms crossed—and toasted Nonna Ursula’s sense of humor, which I could see irritated her no end. After going to her, I leaned close in time to hear her grumble to herself, “I tell the truth, and no one believes me?”
I kissed her wrinkled cheek. “They like to think their princess is a mighty prophetess.”
“Instead of a faker?” she snapped. I grinned at her until she smirked back and deadpanned, “Mighty are my powers of divination.”
“I know, Nonna. I bow before you.”
She gave me an affectionate slap on the cheek, but still she smirked.
Nonna Montague gestured me over. “I see your sister Katherina and her friend Princess Isabella are supportive of young Lysander of the Marcketti.”
I straightened and looked across the great hall and spotted the girls fluttering around him like bright butterflies around a drooping flower. As they smiled and flirted, Lysander appeared to revive under their attentions.
I was glad, and I didn’t think too deeply beyond that.
I inquired if the needs of the head table were being met, received kisses and admiration for my so far successful strategies to unite the Montague and Capulet households, and even a grudging “Well done, Rosaline,” from Lady Capulet.
I praised Evella for her exceptional oversight of their requirements, which consisted not merely of food and drink but also of escorting them on a great number of trips to the nearby pissoirs I’d arranged for their private use.
In return, Nonna Ursula and Lady Pulissena told me Evella had won over Old Maria with tact and deference and had made their lives at the palace easier.
And Nonna Ursula said, “Young Evella reports to me all the rumors she hears among the servants and on the streets, so I feel again as if I have eyes and ears in all the happenings of the day. Your placement of that child in our household is genius, dear principessa, and I’ll let you know at once if she uncovers anything relating to our poisoner or of any other matter that requires your attention. ”
Dumbfounded, I stared at Nonna Ursula. I’d placed Evella into the palace as a spy for me.
Instead the wise bambina had made herself essential to the ladies she served, and my knowledge would be filtered through them.
Before I could decide if I was annoyed by her acumen or impressed by her canniness, I heard the scrape of blades being drawn.
With a sigh, I said, “The sounds of comradery between the Households are once again growing contentious. Time to launch the next round of diversion!”
“This is your genius, Rosie!” Nonno Montague said.
“Genius runs in the family,” I shot back.
The head table cackled in unison.
As I left the dais, Nonna Ursula leaned far back in her chair and whispered to Lady Pulissena (or rather shouted), “I may be a fraud, yet I know that as a sign of God’s blessing, it’s going to snow on the wedding.”
“Blessed be your prophecy, for snow would bring a relief to the cold,” Lady Pulissena replied.
Indeed, snow would bring a white veil of relief to the city and the countryside, and that would be a blessing, indeed.
Prince Escalus arrived at my side and leaned close to my ear. “What next, my princess of peace?”
“What else? Pignattas!”