“Yes, exactly. Those two—plus the dead one—tore out the throat of a toll collector. Ravished two young girls in wolf form.”
“The dead one? The dog?”
“That’s no dog.”
“Looks like a dog to me,” Lorenzo said. “But I haven’t seen many wolves in Italy.”
“It changes its shape, you understand. You can’t tell by looking at it.”
“So there are wolf men inside the walls?” Lorenzo asked. “Are there more of them?”
Lorenzo looked at the two condemned men, who had turned their heads at the conversation. They fixed the young Florentine merchant with hollow stares, but neither spoke.
“Henri Montguillon ordered two known witches burned at the stake,” the toll collector said. “No doubt one of them was responsible for this sorcery. One
loup-garou
remains, but not to worry. We’ll find him. His pack is captured, his mistress dead. There’s nowhere to go.”
The last of the wagon train had passed beneath the raised portcullis and was tromping on the paved streets of the Cité on the other side. Anxious to be away from the awful sight of the condemned men in their gibbets, Lorenzo urged his horse forward to catch up.
Henri Montguillon again. Why would the prior be involved in this bit of superstition? The Dominicans generally focused on bigger crimes of heresy, and Paris suffered persistent rumors about secret Jews, Cathars, even Templars—if remnants of those wicked knights still existed after all these years. Lorenzo imagined a credulous sergeant at arms or night watchman reporting a—what was it called?—a
loup-garou
to the bishop or to one of the learned doctors at the college. Then, when ignored by right-thinking men, he might appeal to Montguillon in desperation. And then what? What evidence would make Montguillon pursue the matter?
Lorenzo caught up with his brother at the head of the train. Two roads came together and their men were trying to muscle through a group of pilgrims on their way to the cathedral, while drovers leading sheep tried to fight through in the opposite direction.
Marco was waiting for him with a scowl. “Problems?”
“Not for us, no.” He explained what he’d seen and heard.
“
Loup-garou
?”
“A bunch of superstitious nonsense.”
“I agree, it sounds like nothing.” A half smile on the older brother’s face. “Perhaps it means Montguillon will be too busy to see to your penances. But you’ll present yourself to the inquisitor tomorrow all the same.”
“Yes, I know,” Lorenzo said. “You’ve reminded me of that twice a day for the last fortnight.”
Chapter Three
A servant let out a squeak when he answered the insistent banging to see the brothers from Florence standing in the undercroft before Giuseppe’s front door. His eyes widened at the carts and their muleteers coming down the narrow lane, where houses sat shoulder to shoulder. The corbelled upper stories leaned so far over the street that a man on one side could throw open his shutters and shake hands with a man on the opposite side.
After so long on the open road, the tunnel-like alley had made the horses skittish, and Lorenzo and Marco had dismounted. Lorenzo held their reins and let his brother step forward. This early business with Giuseppe might be ugly.
“Don’t stand there gaping,” Marco told the servant in a rude tone. “Send for the stable boy. And two men to unload these carts. Where are your stables anyway?”
“We don’t have stables,” the man said. “I rented them from the monastery, and—”
“And who the devil are you?”
“Luc Fournier, my lord.”
He was a short, nervous man, no older than thirty but already completely bald, except for a little tuft at the back and a fringe above his ears. He’d appeared on the undercroft without a hat.
“Well, Fournier, I want your master. Where’s Giuseppe? Summon him at once.”
“I don’t. I mean . . . ”
“Hurry up, man. Do you want a flogging?”
Lorenzo cleared his throat. “Gentle, Brother. Be easy on the man. We’re unexpected.”
“That is to say,” Fournier said, addressing Lorenzo in an anxious tone, like a whipped dog. “My master is not in the city.”
“Where is he then?” Lorenzo asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since All Hallows Day. More than two months. He left for Troyes to buy a shipment of hard Castilian soap. Never returned.”
“And you didn’t go looking for him?” Marco said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“But I did go looking. I sent word, then I went myself. Nobody saw him after he left Troyes. He traveled with eight men. Another merchant and several guards. They all disappeared.”
“So our man is missing,” Marco said, his voice both angry and wondering. “Probably dead at the hand of bandits. Why haven’t we heard of this in Florence?”
“I was trying to resolve matters myself,” Fournier said. “In the Boccaccio way. I petitioned the king to investigate, sent letters to the bishop of Saint-Pierre-et-Saint-Paul. I thought—well, I
hoped
—there would be an explanation. When that turned up nothing, I sent word by courier. Didn’t you receive it?”
“When did this post go out?” Lorenzo asked.
“Five weeks this Tuesday.”
Lorenzo caught his brother’s eye and they shared frowns. Five weeks—the letter must have reached Florence after their departure from the city. Mother could have sent a rider after them, he supposed, but with the two already on the way and carrying valuable cargo, perhaps she’d figured they were far enough along to investigate matters for themselves.
“And this is the truth?” Lorenzo asked. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Fournier nodded vigorously. “I swear it.”
“Open the doors,” Marco said. “And for God’s sake, find someone to stable our animals. And quarters for our men.”
Fournier rushed off. Demetrius and the muleteers hauled goods to the storeroom in the cellar. Left alone, Lorenzo and Marco went from room to room. The house was a solid manor with timbered walls and blown-glass windows, thickened and distorting in the center, but numerous enough to let in good light, at least on the upper floors above the street. Fournier’s maid—that would make her a servant’s servant’s servant—ran ahead of them, opening doors at their command.
“What do you think?” Marco asked when they reached the library with its swept wooden floors.
Lorenzo lifted a silver candlestick, then ran his finger across the Flemish tapestry hanging from one wall above a cold, ash-filled hearth.
“I think Giuseppe has done well for himself as an agent of the Boccaccio,” he said.
“Perhaps too well.” Marco glanced at the book shelves, their precious contents visible behind a locked metal grille. “He has a small library here. Thirty-five, forty books. Must have paid a fortune to the copyist at the college.”
“It’s unlikely he would have run off without selling these goods first, don’t you think?” Lorenzo said. He bent and lifted the corner of the rug on the floor. There was dust underneath. “Giuseppe was a clean man. Three months looks about right from what I see.”
Marco looked thoughtful. “I suppose he’s dead. We’ll look into his books and make sure they balance. See if we can find his widow or children, if he has them. Offer them a modest pension.”
“I don’t think he remarried. His only daughter is in a convent in Lombardy.”
“Then we’ll make an offering at the Hôtel Dieu in his honor, and ask Rome for intercession on behalf of his soul. That should satisfy our duty.”
“You don’t think we should try to figure out what happened?” Lorenzo asked.
“I don’t see how that matters. We need to worry about the business. This Fournier is a nobody, obviously, but he hasn’t robbed the house, so far as I can see. That means he can be relied on. We’ll hire a new agent, and leave Demetrius and Fournier to keep an eye on him for the next year or two until we’re sure the new man can be trusted.”
Lorenzo found this business unpleasant. Giuseppe had served the family for nearly twenty years, since Marco and Lorenzo were young boys. He’d arrived in Paris during the roughest part of the war, with Lancastrian English armies savaging western France and Jeanne d’Arc laying siege to Orleans. He’d tended the family business through famine and plague.
Marco must have caught his frown. “You don’t like it?”
“A five-minute conversation, a hasty inspection of the house, and you want to declare him dead?”
“You’re far too sentimental.”
“I call it honorable,” Lorenzo said. “We’ll be here two weeks, at least. There are contracts to arrange, goods to sell. I have my . . . penance to serve.” The word tasted like dust in his mouth. “The inquisitor isn’t going to hand me a paternoster and tell me to say a prayer or two.”
“Let us hope not. That would hardly scrub away your pride.”
“Will you leave that alone?” Lorenzo said, irritated as much by his brother’s tone as the words themselves.
Marco seemed to have taken a liking to the library. He ordered the maid to send for someone to light the hearth, and told her to bring up wine and sweetmeats. When the fire was lit, Fournier was summoned for an update and then dismissed, and the brothers settled in great chairs with crystal goblets of wine in hand.
Marco returned to the subject of Giuseppe’s disappearance. “So you want to find out what happened?”
“It’s our duty.”
“How would you do that?”
“Is Angelo Redondi still in Paris?” Lorenzo asked.
“No. Not the Redondi family,” Marco said quickly.
“Maneuverings in the Signoria?”
Lorenzo couldn’t keep track of the shifting alliances within the Florentine ruling body, comprised of the most powerful families in the city, and second in power and influence only to the Medici.
“Never you mind,” Marco said. “We won’t look to Redondi for help, that is all.”
“Very well,” Lorenzo said, surprised at his brother’s vehemence. He hesitated. “Lucrezia di Lucca is in the city.”
“Ah, I see your plan.”
“There is no plan,” Lorenzo said. “Lucrezia was always a friend to the family. Her husband traded in Troyes and throughout Champagne. His men may know something of what happened to Giuseppe. Or know who to ask.”
Marco shook his head. “Her husband—and it’s Lucrezia
d’Lisle
now, don’t you forget—is dead. He can’t do anything for us, as well you know.”
“I wasn’t talking about the duke, I was talking about his men. They answer to Lucrezia now.”
“And if you think she’ll now be vulnerable to your lustful gaze, better reconsider. Lucrezia is a highborn lady, a pearl of great price. She can certainly resist your charms, little brother.”
“In other words, you want her for yourself.”
“What pride,” Marco said. “What hubris. And what a man altogether given to delights of the flesh.” He drained his wine and reached to the flagon to refill his goblet. “The sooner you get your penance the better. No, that’s enough wine for you. Go check on our rooms, will you? Make sure they’re adequately apportioned.”
Bristling at his brother’s patronizing attitude, Lorenzo did as he was told. Upstairs, the rooms were hardly sumptuous, but the bedding was freshly washed and mostly free of lice and fleas, and the air smelled of lavender. He waited until his possessions were brought up, then retrieved a small ebony box with his plumes, ink, and fine paper.
He wrote the note in Italian, rather than Latin or French, and carefully considered the introduction before he began. Lady d’Lisle? Di Lucca? He settled on the latter, imagining Lucrezia’s eyebrow rising when she read the minor impropriety.
11 January, anno domini 1450
Signorina di Lucca,
By good fortune and the grace of God, my brother and I have arrived safely in Paris to investigate the unfortunate disappearance of our servant, Giuseppe Veronese. He vanished on the road to Troyes, perhaps a victim of cutthroats or English treachery. Or, God willing, he is still alive and suffering in the dungeon of some lord or bishop, victim of some misunderstanding.
Your assistance is requested to determine our man’s fate and attempt some resolution, should that prove possible. I shall appear on the morrow after terce to discuss the matter. Marco has other business to attend to, and shall not accompany me.
Your servant,
Lorenzo Boccaccio di Firenze
When finished, he folded over the paper, melted a plug of red wax in the brass wax spoon, poured it onto the paper, and pressed the signet of his ring, marking it with the snarling lion of the Boccaccio crest. He handed the letter to a servant with instructions to deliver it that evening.
Then, Marco’s insistence on temperance be damned, he ordered up more wine and sat to think by the small fire crackling in the quarters of his chambers.
Marco was an early riser. He would break his fast, send off letters—including one to let Henri Montguillon know that Lorenzo would soon appear at the monastery—then depart to settle the most urgent bills and contracts. Lorenzo would certainly be expected to appear in front of the Dominicans by midday, but if he rose early himself, he should have plenty of time.
Five and a half years had passed since the last time he set eyes on Lucrezia, the morning she departed from Lucca for her wedding in Paris. When he had heard about the betrothal, Lorenzo mounted his swiftest horse and galloped up the road to Lucca. By the time he arrived, she was already in a procession of luxurious carriages, led by a vanguard of twenty horsemen wearing gold and scarlet and carrying twelve-foot spears with triangular fanion flags snapping in the wind. Her family had hired celebrants: musicians, young boys with golden hair and wearing silk stockings who handed out honeyed pastries to the crowd, girls who cheered and tossed flower petals. It stretched for blocks, like a long, colorful snake, through the narrow, cobbled alleys, and beneath guild towers and stone churches, toward the fat city walls of Lucca. Toward the road to France.
Ignoring shouts from the spearmen, Lorenzo muscled his way into the procession, jumped down from his horse and rushed Lucrezia’s carriage. She let out a cry when he threw open the doors.
“Lorenzo Boccaccio! Have you gone mad?”