An Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady by Jackie Walton
At one point, Chiara grabbed Rafaelle’s arm and hauled him backwards. He reached for his knife, but an odiferous stream of water spewed from a doorway before he could pull it. She smiled a bit when she looked at him, feeling the tension in his body under her restraining arm.
A smile crooked his mouth, and he bent over her shoulder. “A bit jumpy, you think?”
After a few more minutes, they rounded a corner and entered the Piazza Pia of the Cathedral. Andrea Malatesta built both the castle and the fortress in 1385. Chiara always found their Romanesque architectural style appealing. People hung banners and put flowers in front of the houses. He looked at and at her. She shrugged.
From the cathedral, she knew exactly where she was going. Two blocks away, she turned left to a real fortress. The only opening on the street was a heavy gate. A guard challenged her as soon as they knocked.
After some discussion, the reluctant guard called to a comrade who went into the house itself. After a few minutes, the second guard emerged. “Come.”
He ushered them up the grand staircase that would have done justice to any lordly house in England. Marble statues adorned the main floor and the landings. A magnificent depiction of some long-forgotten battle covered the entire wall where the staircase changed direction. A walkway rimmed the second floor above the courtyard.
The guard knocked at a door, then pushed it open as commanded. “Signora.” One woman in the brightly-colored group of chattering, stitching females looked up. The lady, seated in the tapestry-draped room, had an embroidery hoop on a stand in front of her. She had graying hair and a plump body, but the rich, emerald brocade and fashionable cut of her gown said she was not an ordinary wife.
“Yes, Guido, now who is it that claims…” She glanced down at her work and then up again. At first her glance was merely curious. Then her brow furrowed, and she put down her needle as Chiara and Rafaelle approached. Pushing back the stand, the woman’s expression went from puzzlement to recognition.
“Chiara, my little yellow bird! What has happened to you? Why are you here? What in the name of all that is holy have you done to your hair?”
Chiara found herself engulfed in green brocade and then in the rainbow fabrics of the other ladies.
When she finally surfaced, Chiara smiled wryly at Rafaelle and looked up at her friend. “Tia Graziella, I have much to tell and much to do.” She leaned close. “I need your help to reach Padre Barnabà.”
Graziella Chiaramonte’s jaw dropped, if only for a moment. “I think I need to get Sergio.” To her ladies, she said, “Remain here.”
“But you must be famished, mia ragazza. Come.” She rang a bell. To the servant who answered, she called for her husband and ordered food and wine. Then she ushered her guests to a small, windowless chamber with a table and chairs. A servant hurried to light candles then vanished. The white-washed walls with a single painting on each one looked stark compared to the heavy decoration in the rest of the house.
Graziella eyed Rafaelle and launched into a rapid-fire series of innocuous questions.
“Tia, Tia, gently. My very handsome brother is fine and no he has not found a wife, yet. Tio Geoffrey and Tia Ada are doing well and thank you for the condolences on mother. She just didn’t want to live after Papa was killed. I miss her, too.”
A servant appeared with still-warm bread, cheese, and wine. The bread was flattish and drizzled with oil, with grated cheese, herbs, and olive slices on top of it. Rafaelle and Chiara both fell to it hungrily. The farm-wife’s breakfast was sparse and a long time ago.
“Sweet Jesus,” Rafaelle breathed after the first bite. The women looked up at him. “This is ambrosia.”
No translation needed, Graziella clapped her hands with the delight of an Italian mother seeing the younger generation appreciate good food and lots of it.
“It’s called focaccia.”
“If this is just their bread, I’m going to have to fire my French chef and hire an Italian one.”
At Chiara’s urging, Graziella launched into a detailed description of marriages, babies, weather, business, servants, and family.
Rafaelle sated his hunger and sat back, watching the two catch up on their lives.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.
“What’s going on? She knows better than to interrupt a meeting.”
“I don’t know, signore.”
The door burst open and a medium-statured bull of a man strode through it—a very angry bull of a man. “Wife! What’s going on here that…” His voice trailed off as he stared at the young woman who stood up in front of him. He glanced at his happily smiling wife and then back at the newcomers. Silently, Rafaelle rose. Sergio frowned at the man and then focused on Chiara.
His wife prompted, “Its Chiara!”
Sergio Chiaramonte stared a moment more, “Mother of God, it is!” With surprising quickness for a man his size, he gathered her up in a massive hug, muttering endearments in between kisses.
From behind them, an amused voice said, “Smothering her is a fine welcome, Papa.” The man had the look of the elder, but he was a young, vigorous bull instead of an old one.
“Paolo!” Chiara cried and rushed into his arms. Paolo lifted her up, swinging her around and proceeded to give her a most unbrotherly kiss on the mouth.
“The little warbler comes home at last. Perhaps this time we should build a cage for you.”
“Paolo!” his mother gasped. “Your manners!” Paolo subsided but kept his arm over Chiara’s shoulder.
She saw Rafaelle’s eyes narrow and slipped out from under the embrace. She caught Graziella’s eye and gave a small nod towards the door. With the servant dismissed and the door locked, Chiara asked softly, “Is this room absolutely secure?”
Sergio Chiaramonte nodded, and his expression changed from joy to dead seriousness. “Much as I am delighted to see you, I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“No,” Chiara’s expression was rueful, “it isn’t. May I present Rafael FitzHenry, Earl of Thornbury. He also works for Uncle Geoffrey.” All the Chiaramontes nodded. “We’ve been assigned to mount a rescue effort for His Holiness.”
Sergio gestured to the table and everyone sat. He leaned back, his lips pursed. “We’ve thought of it, but it would be suicide for the family.”
Rafaelle listened to Chiara’s soft translation. “I agree,” she said. “That’s why we are here. We believe we have the bones of a plan that will accomplish our goals and keep you unconnected. Ideally, we hope to get from you some contacts with the staff in the Episcopal Palace there in Savona.”
Sergio tapped the table thoughtfully. “The same objection holds.”
Rafaelle replied, “The plan includes causing a disturbance in the area and having our contacts left bound in their home during the operation. It will look as though they were coerced.” Chiara’s jaw dropped. “Italian’s not that much different from French,” he shrugged. “I can get the gist of what is said.”
She added, “We don’t want any repercussions if it can possibly be helped, but I’m sure you realize how much of a blow it would be to Napoleon to have the Pope in England and able to speak out freely.”
Their hosts all sat silently for several long minutes, each obviously weighing the immediate risks against the wider benefits.
Graziella cleared her throat. “Francesca’s brother’s family works at the Palace.” Sergio nodded.
Paolo went to the door and called down the hall. “She’ll be here.” He hesitated. “I probably should have said the little bird was here. Francesca would have flown herself.”
Rafaelle glanced thoughtfully at the door. “Signor Chiaramonte, with respect, can you trust all your household staff?”
Chiara frowned, and Sergio sat back. “I presume the question was not a deliberate insult to my household.”
“Not at all. However, the minute I open my mouth outside this room, I will be recognized as a foreigner, if not an Englishman. Someone whose loy
“Ah, an excellent point. Sometimes I think my servants know more about what’s going on with this family than I do.”
“Even if we leave tomorrow morning, there is still the chance of being overheard, or even someone being suspicious of your reception of two relatively ordinary individuals.”
“Tomorrow,” Graziella said, “is the feast of St. John the Baptist, the patron saint of the cathedral.”
“That’s the reason for the decorations we saw,” Chiara murmured.
“Today and tomorrow, everyone is coming into town. For even a small group to leave would be suspicious. People will be leaving town the day after tomorrow, though.”
Paolo spoke up. “Plus a carriage would look strange leaving tomorrow.”
“A carriage?” Sergio asked.
“Francesca has to go with them. Can you picture her on horseback or on foot to Savona?”
“Humph.”
“The four of us would be much more comfortable in a carriage.”
“Four?” his mother asked.
“Yes, I intend to escort them. I suspect they’ll need some extra hands.”
“Paolo, no, it’s too dangerous!”
“Mama, even if His Holiness weren’t my uncle, I would still go. It is necessary.”
“But, Paolo…”
Sergio interrupted, “Cara, the boy,” he looked at Paolo, “forgive me, the man, must do what must be done. If I thought it would be helpful, I would go myself. As it is, I will provide all I can—clothes, gold…” He shrugged. Graziella did not look happy. Sergio turned to Rafaelle. “We must discuss what you will need.”
The chamber door opened and a short, grey-haired woman entered. She was over half as wide as she was tall and wore a cook’s apron. “Signora?”
Paolo closed the door after her as Graziella waved towards Chiara. Francesca’s eyes opened wide and she hastened to add another hug to Chiara’s collection. Rapid-fire Italian followed.
“All in good time, Francesca, all in good time.” Chiara laughed, then her face softened and she drew the older woman to a chair. Kneeling before the cook, Chiara said, “Old friend, we need your help. My companion and I have been sent to rescue Padre Barnabà.”
“Thanks be to God, but…”
“Do your brother and sister-in-law still work at the Episcopal Palace?”
“Yes.”
“We need you to introduce us so that we can gain entrance to the Palace.”
Francesca shook her head sadly, “I don’t know that it is possible, ragazza.”
“That is our problem. All you have to do is introduce us.”
Sergio interrupted, “Are they loyal to my brother, Francesca?”
“Of course! I would stake my life on it.”
“It’s not your life being staked,” Paolo’s tone was dry. “It’s mine.”
“I will guarantee it with my own!”
Chiara patted her hand and stood. “We’ll be leaving day after tomorrow at dawn. Pack a small bundle. We’ll go by carriage, but we’ll be traveling light.”
“Oh, Giovanni will be so excited…”
“Tell no one!” Rafaelle said harshly. Chiara translated.
“But I must…”
“No one,” Chiara repeated. “Our success and our lives depend on it.”
Francesca looked at Sergio who repeated, “No one. We will make any necessary explanations, even to Giovanni.”
Francesca heaved her ample bosom. “D’accordo. And now I have much to do for tomorrow.” She struggled up and hugged Chiara. “We will talk later, my Chiaretta.”
After she left, there was a moment of silence. Rafaelle broke it. “Can we trust her?”
Sergio said slowly, “We can trust her and her brother. They are cousins and fiercely loyal to Barnabà. As for anyone else…,” he shrugged, “…trust cautiously.”
Paolo laughed. “Leave it to my papa to say two opposing things in the same breath.”
“Silence yourself, cretin.” He cuffed Paulo gently on the back of the head. “Be grateful you are my only son. It would delight me to consider you expendable.”
At Chiara’s translation of the banter, Rafaelle snickered. “My father used to say that to me.”
His face clouded, and Chiara knew he thought about his late elder brother and wondered about the “expendability” of a second son.
Sergio called for his house steward. “Alessandro, be seated.” The dour man hesitated and then complied. “You remember Lady Chiara, don’t you?”
A brilliant smile split Alessandro’s face as he looked at the guest. “Of course, it is a totally unanticipated pleasure. But your hair!” At the personal outburst, his face closed down again. He turned to Sergio. “Yes, signore.”
“Lady Chiara and Lord FitzHenry are here to…”
Rafaelle interrupted, “Tell him no more than is absolutely necessary!”
Sergio glared, “Alessandro has my complete confidence!”
Rafaelle nodded. “I understand. But the less he, or anyone, knows, the safer it will be for them and for us. It has nothing to do with confidence.”
Sergio pursed his lips and nodded. “On the morning after the festival, Paolo, Francesca, Lady Chiara, and Lord FitzHenry will be leaving. Until then, I want you to immediately find jobs elsewhere for anyone you deem even slightly less than completely loyal, anyone with a tendency to gossip—men and women mind you. Our guests will require an ordinary, but fast, carriage. See to sturdy peasant clothes for Paolo.” Paolo looked at Rafaelle’s roughly woven clothes and sighed mightily. His father ignored him. “They will need gold, food, weapons, and…?”
Rafaelle nodded. “You are more than generous.”
“Perhaps we can get this venture considered an indulgence and all buy our way out of hell,” Paolo laughed.
“Paolo, that is enough!”
“Ah, yes, Papa. Plus, our guests are English and don’t hold with indulgences from the Church.”
Alessandro stood up. “I shall see to rooms for our guests. Will there be anything else?”
Chiara looked up at him with soulful eyes. “A hot bath would be absolutely heavenly!”
Alessandro smiled. “At once, my lady. I shall return shortly.” He bowed and left.
Sergio examined his fingernails. “Paolo…”
“I know, I know, my mouth flaps like a thresher’s flail.”
“You are aware of the consequences.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’ll put a lock on it that will rival the lock on your gold chest.”
“See that you do.” He turned to Rafaelle and Chiara. “Is there anything else you need us to do; besides pray?”
“No,” Chiara said, “the rest will be up to us.”
“Tomorrow, there will be a parade and festivities in and around the Piazza Pia and the Duomo. You might enjoy it, even if it is, as you English say, Popish. There will be a great dinner that we must attend tomorrow evening. I regret that we cannot include you in our party.”
“No, it would not be wise,” Rafaelle agreed. “We will be fine here. However, if Chiara will consent to guide me, I would like to see some of your fair city today.” Chiara looked up at him through her newly darkened eyelashes. “…after that promised bath. Fresh water is very precious on board ship. Baths are...a luxury.” Chiara snickered.
“I would be more than happy,” Paolo offered, “to show you my city, the city that claims two popes to its credit.” Rafaelle’s eyes narrowed at the young man’s English. “I learned the language when my childhood playmate spoke to me as much in English as Italian.”
“Ah, that will not be necessary.” Rafaelle’s smile reminded Chiara of a wolverine baring its teeth in battle challenge. “I know that we took you away from important business. We won’t impose on you or your father any longer today. I’m sure your affairs are vastly more important than entertaining two uninvited guests.”
??
Alessandro waited for them outside the windowless chamber.
By unspoken agreement, they both needed to walk around. Rafaelle and Chiara circled back through the town to the Duomo.
“How’s your French?” he asked in her ear.
“Passable.”
“Use it to talk to me in public. I suspect Napoleon has any number of French-speaking agents here. He certainly has enough troops. Tell me about the town.” They strolled into the Duomo, dipping their hands in the holy water font and crossing themselves. Rafaelle looked down at his fingers and grimaced.
“Yes, well, Cesena dates back to the Romans. Like everywhere else in Italy, it’s had a number of masters, even an Englishman.” He looked down at her with an eyebrow raised. “Yes, John Hawkwood, the English condottiere, captured it for Robert, Cardinal of Geneva. They were not…delicate in the process.”
“I can imagine.”
“Anyway, the town was turned over to the Malatesta family in the, let me see, 1400’s. They did much of the major building that you see, the Piazza Pia, the Library, the Duomo, and fortress. Now, it’s a town very loyal to the papacy. Pius VII and his predecessor, Pius VI, both came from here.”
“Yes, I can see why the French would want to keep a fairly close watch on things here.” He examined a side altar. “One thing confused me, the Chiaramontes’ referred to the Pope, at least I presume it was the Pope, as Bar….Bar…”
“Barnabà. He was christened Barnabà, and that’s what the family still calls him within the family unit. He took the name Gregorio when he was elevated to Cardinal.”
“Sounded more Catholic, more pope material?”
“Heavens, no. He never wanted the papacy. He is the quietest, most unassuming, gentleman you would ever want to see.”
“Not an Alexander or a Julius?”
“The furthest thing possible,” she laughed, then lowered her voice. “That’s why Napoleon thought he could coerce him into agreeing to his state-run Church and his territorial acquisitions.”
“He was wrong, obviously.” He stopped to examine a statue of a naked man holding something floppy down by his leg. “Bloody hell!”