Chapter 21
“Doth thou speak truth?” Cal swung an imaginary club, which, by the way, quieted the developing violence and brought forth wary, narrow-eyed stares.
I showed all my teeth. “It’s time to give them something rambunctious to do—and we’ll do it outside, so that’ll cool the tempers!”
He leaned away. “Scary smile.”
The man knew how to turn a compliment.
The pignatta tradition had been brought from faraway Cathay by, it was said, Marco Polo himself, where the clay vessel was shaped like a cow or an ox, filled with grain, and used as a prayer and blessing for a rich harvest. Recognizing a good thing, all along the Italian peninsula and, I was told, beyond, we had adopted and adapted the ritual, changing the shapes of the pots, adding bags of candies and nuts, small toys, drums, and noisemakers, which, when released, would be sifted from the grains.
Another fanfare from the musicians, and led by Tommaso, our four hefty footmen brought forth two large unglazed pots decorated with ribbons and roughly painted (by me, Emilia, and Cesario) with scenes of ripe grapes, waving wheat, red apples, purple plums, golden apricots.
In other words, scenes that represented fertility.
When attempting to bring about a détente, I depended on the traditional.
The footmen paraded around the great hall, displaying the pots, while maids handed out cloaks and blankets, gloves and hats, and promised that in the atrium, the braziers were hot and the big firepit blazed.
Before we went out, Friar Laurence blessed the clay vessels.
This time the guests knew what to expect. While the footmen strung the pots up on the pulleys, each guest lined up Montague/Capulet, Capulet/Montague and awaited their chance to break the pignatta.
Yes, the pots were widely separated for safety. We didn’t need any “accidental” strikes on a Montague or Capulet.
As before, Cal and I led off. Blindfolded, we swung a long wooden club at the pots, or where the pots would be if the footmen didn’t use the pulleys to make them leap and dance. We each got three tries, and on my third try, I made contact.
“Ha!” I threw off the blindfold and saw the crack on the upper curve of the clay.
A few grains dribbled out, but essentially it held together.
At this point, I turned to announce, “We’ve loaded the pots with symbols of fertility … and one glorious prize per pot is to be awarded to the one who breaks the clay wide open!”
The people who had lingered in the warmth of the great hall hurried out to join the lines.
Prince Escalus viewed me as if I was the glorious prize.
We handed our clubs to Papà and Mamma and retired to the sidelines.
“What are these winnings?” Cal asked out of the corner of his mouth.
He claimed he enjoyed my teasing, and besides, people lingered close, trying to overhear our conversations, so I said, “Wait and see.”
When thin, fragile Nonna Montague tottered out, smothered in cloaks and beaming with excitement, I gave Tommaso the secret signal, and the footmen held the cracked pot still long enough for her to get in a surprisingly strong strike and shatter the pot.
Wheat, rice, millet, buckwheat and farro spread across the floor, and in the middle was a cloth bag of gleaming gold velvet, tied with a gold rope.
Tommaso picked it up and handed it to Nonna Montague, who tugged the rope apart and pulled from the bag a trinzale, a sheer hairnet to be worn at the back of the head, made of sparkling silver lace.
The gasps from the onlookers made me glad I had paid the outrageous amount the creator had charged me, and even more glad that Nonna Montague had hit the pot squarely, for the woman glowed with the pleasure of having a new ornament that would so complement her gray hair.
The excitement over the second pot increased exponentially, and within a short time and without a signal from me, Lysander’s cousin, Rugir of the house of Marcketti, the strongest fistfighter in Verona, broke the second pot.
As before, a bag rested among the grains, although this time it was sewn of plain linen and tied with a string.
He lifted it, and as he did, he inhaled deeply.
Looking around with a grin that transformed his brutish face, he said, “Spices!” After opening it, he pulled out a series of smaller bags.
“Pepper. Nutmeg. Grains of paradise. I hold a fortune in my hands!”
He was a younger son, he had nothing, and his face lit up like one of Lysander’s lanterns. After holding the bags to his nose for a long moment, he took them to his mother, who was worn down by the years of living with his father, and placed them in her hands.
At the purely sentimental gesture, the watching females sighed and fell in love. One wealthy widow several years his senior observed with interest, and I realized that completely unknowing, Rugir had won himself a future.
“Well done,” Cal whispered in my ear.
“I wish I could claim credit for him. I had no idea he hid a streak of sentimentality within his bosom.”
“You set all this up and gave him the opportunity to reveal the soft place in his heart.” Lifting his voice, Cal said, “Everyone inside before we all freeze in place!”
I lifted my voice to join with his. “Warm spiced wine will heat our blood!”
“And dancing!” Mamma crowed in delight.
Following my orders, Evella had the tables completely cleared away, so at Mamma’s signal, the musicians began their frolicsome songs, and music drew the guests inside.
This time, everyone behaved. They laughed, they drank, they danced, and as always, no stately dances for Mamma!
She loved the ones that everyone could do, country dances like the chiaranzana, which kept everyone moving.
Cal proved adept at leaping into the air and tapping his heels, which is harder than it sounds, and made not only an impressive dance move for a man with a limp but also, Holofernes informed me, could be deadly in battle, as a surprise kick could knock an armor-laden opponent on his back to be gutted like a fish.
Ah, how a premarital celebration brought out the sentimental side of men!
Up on the dais, the Silvers had their own, slower version, which they performed to the delight of their onlookers, and Nonno Montague even gave Evella a turn about the dais.
I had never seen the child so pleased.
Great-uncle Magno danced, also, as did his sycophants, although I noted that none of them got far from him, as if they needed the sunshine of his being to shed warmth on them.
Niklaus of Denmark did not dance but stood on the sidelines and never took his intense blue gaze from Magno.
Spooky.
When I judged that people had danced enough to work up an appetite, I ordered the tables brought back and placed at seating height, and chairs, and another course of stews served in trenchers; cheese boards; olives of all colors that had been brined and marinated; and condiments, such as carrots roasted with cumin, coriander, cinnamon, and long pepper, mashed, and served cold to spread on the loaves of bread.
Protocol be damned, everyone flung themselves into the nearest chair and feasted. “It is awe-inspiring what enough wine, violent exercise, and food can do to break down ancient grudges,” I said to Cal, who had chosen his chair by its proximity to me.
“Yes, Rosie. Why didn’t you think of this years ago?” Katherina said behind me. “Think of the blood spatter on the walls we’ve had to whitewash!”
I turned to see that my sister stood on one side of Lysander, while Princess Isabella stood on the other. His color looked better, but his eyes, as he gazed at me, looked tired and sad.
“Are you not enjoying the party, Lysander?” To the delight of the partygoers, Cal had been spirited and almost merry, leaving his usual starchy persona behind. Yet now he spoke softly and watched Lysander with a somber gaze.
“An altogether entertaining and joyous celebration of your upcoming nuptials.” Lysander sounded like himself, a man of humor and intelligence. “And I’m the envy of all the youths, as I’ve been ably escorted by Princess Isabella and Lady Katherina. But I fear that I must leave.”
The girls groaned.
I blurted, “But if you leave now, you’ll miss the knife throwing!”
Beside me, Cal went very still.
Lysander viewed Cal, and a smile played around his lips. “As delightful as that sounds, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I’m newly risen from my bed and find myself much fatigued.”
“Lysander, you do too much!” Princess Isabella petted his arm.
Cal’s gaze moved between Lysander and his sister, and he never hesitated. “A palace sedan chair will take you hence.”
“I beg leave, my liege, to return to the Marcketti household. My uncle runs a secure home, and I sleep better in my bed there.” Lysander grinned. “Marcellus snores.”
“And Holofernes suffers from nightmares,” Cal added.
Lysander sobered. “Yes. As do I now.”
“Go then, but take care in the company you keep,” Cal commanded.
With a bow, Lysander, escorted by his entourage, went to take his leave of Mamma and Papà.
I watched him. Even as we relinquished our hold on each other, our hearts were still troubled. Would that I could help Lysander at least regain his health!
Cal had done what he could for Lysander, and now he had more important things on his mind, for he stood, placed his palms on the table in front of me, leaned close in to my face, and said, “Knife throwing?”