The bay moved gracefully across the open yard. Francesca smiled and gave the guards at the gates a jaunty wave as she pa.s.sed beneath the portcullis. Once out on the drawbridge the horse moved into a trot, finally cantering onto the road. Francesca rode him out of sight of the castello and its men-at-arms before turning the animal's head into and onto a forest path. She slowed the horse, then rode among the trees for a time. Now and again she would come to a meadow and give the horse its head.

She saw no human, no dwelling. She heard animals-rabbits, foxes, squirrels-in the brush. After several hours she stopped to rest her mount by a stream where it might water itself. Birds called to one another. She ate some bread, cheese, and an apple. Sometimes the birdsong would cease and the crisp air was silent. It was a quiet she had never before experienced in her life. She mounted and rode on until the shadows began to fill the forest. Finding a cairn of fallen stones, she decided to shelter there for the night. She let the bay loose to browse while she ate a supper of bread, eggs, and cheese.

She had sipped the water from the pouch over the course of the day. She heard a brook tumbling over rocks nearby. She had to remember to fill the pouch in the morning. Pouring almost all of the remaining water into a naturally formed stone basin, she led her horse to drink, then tied the beast for the night within her little enclosure. As the dark settled itself around her Francesca regretted that she had no fire and pulled her cloak around herself tightly. A half-moon rose over the forest, and just as she was finally dozing off she heard it.

Hoowlll. Hoowlll.

Could it be wolves? She drew the cloak tighter. The bay nickered nervously.

Hoowlll. Hoowlll.

Instinct told Francesca that they were safer where they were right now. The wolves hadn't necessarily scented them, but they surely would if the horse moved through the forest with her upon its back. She sat straight and listened. But she heard no more howling. The wolves had apparently gone in a different direction, praise G.o.d. But she could not sleep again, dozing slightly now and again until the dawn finally lit up the forest, its red and gold rays bringing both warmth and relief.

Francesca slowly got to her feet. She was both stiff and cold. She stretched and moved her aching limbs until the circulation finally began to come back into them. She filled the water pouch at the nearby brook, drank, and then watered her horse. She took the remainder of the cheese and the bread, which was now quite stale, and ate. She would save the last egg and the apple for her evening meal. On the morrow she would leave the forest for the road again. Of course, she would have to find the road, but certainly if she just went back the way she came she would come to it.

She had let the horse off to graze again and now she went to get him. Reaching for his bridle, she was about to mount when a large bird flew out of the trees, startling the beast. The bay reared, whinnying, and, losing her grip, Francesca fell upon her back. For a moment she lay stunned, and then before she might rise the horse took off running. Stumbling to her feet she tried to chase it, but it was gone before she knew it, and so was the path she had been following.

For the first time in her life Francesca Pietro d'Angelo felt fear. She was alone in the forest. With the bay had gone her water, her remaining food, and her cloak, which she had laid across the pommel of her saddle. Even worse, there were wolves prowling the woods. She was going to have to find some way out, or at least an indoor place of safety, before it got dark again. She attempted to seek out the path again, but after an hour or more realized she had lost it. There was no other choice but to keep walking until she came upon shelter or another person who could get her to safety.

Chapter 6.

Francesca walked all day. Her feet became swollen and hurt in her riding boots. And now it seemed as if the forest was even bereft of animals and birds. She was very relieved to see a doe eyeing her at one point from the brush. The shadows began to lengthen within the forest and she was fearful now of having to spend another night in the woodlands. She was thirsty and her head was aching.

Then suddenly Francesca noticed that the trees were thinning. She summoned what strength she had left and hurried along, finally coming out into a large clearing. And there, to her surprise, she saw a good-sized building, a sign hanging above its door indicating it was an inn. An inn in the midst of the woods? How could any traveler possibly find it? Was it even inhabited? The answer to her question came to the inn's open door and, stepping outside and seeing Francesca, called to her.

"Come here, girl! You look lost." The woman who spoke seemed ageless. She was short but stocky, yet not plump. Her hair was the gray of a storm cloud and it matched her eyes. "I am Signora Alonza, proprietor of this inn."

"Oh, thank the blessed Mother I have found you," Francesca said. "I spent the night in the forest and I heard wolves all about me. Can you help me?"

"I might. I can, if you will help me," the innkeeper said bluntly.

"I have no silver with me, but if I can get home you will be greatly rewarded," Francesca said to the woman.

"I do not need gold or silver, child," Alonza answered her. "The serving wench I hired has run off. I need help in the inn. My busy season is just now beginning and will last until late spring. I need a strong young girl like you to help me cook, clean, and serve my patrons. I cannot do it alone. Help me until spring and I will have my nephew take you to the main road and put a few coppers in your pocket, and you will be cozy and warm for the next few months," the innkeeper offered. "What is your name?"

Francesca paused. She must now reveal her ident.i.ty. "I am called Cara," she told Alonza. "But I cannot remain with you. I must get home."

"Listen to me, girl, it is obvious to me from the look of you that you have not been out in the world much. You're some lady's maid, to be sure, and because you have a look of honesty about you I will wager you have fled your employer because her husband is behaving disrespectfully towards you. If your employer seeks after you and finds you, you will get a good beating and be forced to accept your master's advances. Remain here and I will keep you safe. By spring you will be able to find your way home in safety."

"But I know nothing of cooking, cleaning, and serving," Francesca said.

"You look like you can learn, however, and I am in difficulty. This inn is not one that is open to pa.s.sing travelers. This inn is here for the duke's hunters. They eat and shelter with me once the winter sets in. Some will just eat, for they have other places to sleep, but about ten of them live here."

"Perhaps one of these hunters would be willing to take me to the main road," Francesca said hopefully.

Alonza laughed heartily. "Child, they would eat you up and enjoy every morsel of your sweet self. You would be unlikely to see that road, but you would see some good upstanding c.o.c.ks eager to plant themselves in you."

Francesca blushed a deep crimson at the innkeeper's candid speech.

"Oh, ho!" Alonza said softly. "Cara, child, are you a virgin? Tell me the truth now, for I must know if you need to be protected from my ruffians."

"Yes," Francesca whispered.

The older woman nodded. "I will keep you from harm," she said. "Now come into the inn and have a hot meal. You will watch me tonight as I serve, and learn. Are we agreed, then?"

She really had no choice at this point, but she would ask the hunters when she learned more about them. Certainly they were not as rough as Alonza said. She is just trying to frighten me so I will stay for now, she thought. "Yes," she answered. "I will remain with you."

"Hola, Alonza, you beautiful old wench!" Two rough-looking bearded men came out of the forest. They were dressed in leather pants, shirts that at one time were probably white, and sleeveless wool vests, and carried bows over their shoulders with quivers of arrows on their backs. They had rather fierce-looking knives in sheaths tucked into their belts. "Is our dinner almost ready for us? And who is this little flower?" Both men leered at Francesca, who shrank back behind the innkeeper.

"I have just hired her, as Serafina ran away, the bad wench. Now, you will keep your hands to yourself or there will be no supper for either of you. I don't want you scaring this one off. Surely you can see she's a good girl."

The two huntsmen laughed uproariously. "She won't be for long if she works for you, old woman," one said.

Alonza pushed Francesca into the inn and immediately took her into the kitchens. "Sit down at the table," she said. "I'll feed those two first so they'll not bother us. Then I'll feed you. There will be more of my lads coming in soon enough."

Francesca sat down. She realized how very fortunate she was not to have died in the forest. But she had to find her way to the main road. She wasn't a serving girl. She was Francesca Pietro d'Angelo, daughter of a prestigious citizen of Florence. She knew she was intelligent enough to carry plates and mugs, but as for cleaning and cooking? She didn't have the faintest idea how she would accomplish that. Her elegant little hands would be ruined. How Aceline du Barry would laugh to see her now. She put her head down on the table, and was suddenly asleep.

Poor maiden, Alonza thought, looking down at her. Cara. She doubted that was the girl's name at all, but for whatever reason she did not choose to reveal her ident.i.ty, and Cara was as good a name as any. The innkeeper could see the girl's hands were as soft as b.u.t.ter, but she wasn't stupid. She would learn her duties quickly enough, and when spring came Alonza would keep her promise and have her brought to the main road so she might be on her way. She filled a bowl with a thick soup, b.u.t.tered a thick slice of bread, and woke her new servant. "Come and eat, dearie," she said. "I've work to do, but when you're through tell me. I have a cozy little room for you."

"Thank you," Francesca said, and she was grateful for the innkeeper's kindness. At least she was safe this night from the wild creatures in the forest. She wondered if the bay had made it safely back to the duke's stable and not fallen prey to the wolves. She hoped so.

Spooning up her soup, she found it delicious. She dipped some of the b.u.t.tered bread in it and thought it the best thing she had ever eaten. When she had finished she knew enough, having eaten many a time in her family's kitchen as a child too young for the table, to place her bowl and spoon in the big stone sink.

Alonza returned and, seeing her do it, smiled, pleased. This girl might be gently raised, for her delicate hands had attested to it, but she was not lazy. "Those two bears are eating and drinking to their hearts' content," she told Francesca. "Now, while I have a moment let me take you to where you will sleep. You are very fortunate, for the chamber has four walls and a door you may lock for your privacy. It is next to my own room." Carrying a candle to light their way, the innkeeper led her new servant up a narrow flight of stairs from the kitchen. There in a private corridor, walled off from the guest quarters, were two chambers. Alonza opened the door of the first one. It was small, but there was a narrow bed with a little chest at its foot, and a candle stand at its side that held a taper. Next to the candle stand was a single window with a small table under it. It is hardly what I am used to, Francesca thought, but it will have to do until I can leave. And it is certainly better than the forest.

Stepping inside, Alonza lit the taper from her own candle as the light was almost gone. "I'll get you a sheet for the bed," she said. "I expect you are used to such finery. There is a down comforter for you in the trunk and a more suitable array of garments for tomorrow. Sleep well, my child." She departed, returning with a sheet and a pitcher of water so Francesca might bathe. She set the pitcher on the table, which held a metal basin.

"Thank you," Francesca said to the innkeeper as she closed the door behind her.

She could hear more guests coming into the inn from her little refuge. Putting the rough sheet over the straw mattress, she opened the trunk to find a pillow and the coverlet. To her relief there were also two chemises, along with a skirt and two blouses. She wondered if they belonged to the departed Serafina, and considered that servants had very little of their own. She had never before thought of it. Stripping off her clothing, she quickly bathed in the basin and drew one of the chemises over her. It was clean and it was warm, but it was hardly the fine silk she was used to wearing.

She then shook her riding pants out the window to rid them of the dirt and dust they had acquired. She had seen Terza do that. She packed them at the bottom of the trunk, along with the rest of her garments. For the interim Francesca Pietro d'Angelo was gone, and in her place was Cara, a serving girl. Kneeling by her bedside she said her prayers, thanking G.o.d for her temporary deliverance. Then she climbed beneath the coverlet and fell into a deep sleep.

Alonza did not spare her, waking Francesca well before the dawn. "Get up, girl. We have bread to get in the ovens," she called, rapping at the girl's door.

"It's still dark," Francesca protested, pulling her coverlet closer.

"I have more than a dozen hungry men to feed," Alonza said. "The bread will not bake itself. Get up and come down to the kitchens."

Francesca struggled reluctantly out of bed. Did Terza and Roza arise this early? Surely not! But she relieved herself in the chamber pot, dumped it out the window, rinsed it with some water, and dumped that too before shoving it beneath her bed. Then she washed her face and hands and pulled on a dark red wool skirt and a white shirt. Yanking on her boots and stockings, she ran her fingers through her beautiful hair before wisely binding it with a sc.r.a.p of ribbon she found in the trunk. She shook the coverlet and set it to air in the window, as she had seen Terza do. Then leaving the room, she hurried down the back stairs to the kitchen.

"Ah, you're here," Alonza said. "Knead that dough on the board that I have just turned out."

Francesca looked at her, puzzled. "I don't know how," she said.

"Ahh, you've never served in a kitchen. Well, no matter. I suspect you'll learn quickly. Watch what I do, child, and then you'll do it until I tell you to cease." Rolling up her sleeves, the innkeeper demonstrated the art of kneading, then said, "Now you do it."

Francesca followed Alonza's lead, rolling up her sleeves, and began to press the dough over and over again.

"Good! Good," she was told. "I'll tell you when to cease."

Francesca kneaded the dough for several minutes until her hands began to tire, but it wasn't difficult. Finally Alonza bid her stop and spoke once more.

"Now, this is how you shape the loaves," she said, demonstrating as she quickly formed two loaves. When they were done Alonza put them on a board with a handle. "You try," she told Francesca, and hummed with approval as the girl managed to successfully duplicate her own efforts. "Excellent! You are a quick study," she told her. "Now put them on the board. There is enough dough for two more loaves. When you have shaped them we'll put them in the ovens for baking. Then you will do the dough in the other bowl, readying them for the oven too. We'll mix the rest of the bread to bake after the men have eaten," she told Francesca. "That way we'll have enough for tonight."

"Do you bake twenty-four loaves each day?" Francesca asked her.

"Some days more, for I can shelter twenty men if needs be. Some days less. At the height of the winter we'll be doing forty loaves a day, two for each man. Now, when you've finished with the bread I'll want you to go out to the henhouse and gather the eggs. I'll give you the basket when you're ready."

Francesca went back to shaping the last two loaves from the first bowl. Then dumping out and kneading the second bowl of dough, she shaped the additional loaves and set them on a second wooden paddle. Alonza came, opened the oven doors, and showed her how to slide the bread loaves off the paddle and inside. Then she handed her new servant a willow basket.

"Just pull the eggs from the nest. If the hen is setting, pay no attention to her and thrust beneath her. Bring in all you can," Alonza said, sending her off.

The morning was crisp and the air fresh. Francesca shivered and was glad once again she hadn't spent a second night in the forest. The carefully fenced-in poultry yard was filled with cackling chickens picking in the dirt. She ducked beneath the low door lintel, wrinkling her nose at the strong stench of its inhabitants, and began to seek for the eggs. The nests were empty but for one old hen who glared at her. The creature pecked at Francesca's sleeve as she pushed beneath it to collect its eggs. The girl shooed it away, and it flapped from the henhouse, clucking indignantly.

Returning to the kitchens, Francesca proudly displayed her finds. Alonza quickly counted the eggs. "Twenty-seven!" she said. "I always had to send Serafina back, for she didn't like the stink of the birds and would not stay long enough to get all the eggs."

"It does stink," Francesca admitted, "but you have a large group to feed. The birds were mostly in the yard but for one old hen who pecked at me. I shooed her off."

Alonza chuckled and nodded. "Aye, you can't let them know if you're afraid. Serafina was, and how those hens enjoyed bedeviling her."

When the bread was baked the innkeeper showed Francesca how to use the paddle with its long handle to withdraw them from the ovens. Then she set her to work peeling carrots and onions for the venison stew she would feed the men tonight. Francesca had never peeled anything in her life other than an orange. The knife was uncomfortable. She held it so tightly that it made her fingers cramp. Twice she cut herself, but only slightly. She could hear the men in the dining hall now. Alonza went out carrying trays of eggs, bacon that she had cooked up earlier while Francesca had done other ch.o.r.es, and the round loaves of bread, along with stone crocks of b.u.t.ter.

When the men had eaten and left the inn to hunt in the autumn forest, the innkeeper sent Francesca into the dining hall to retrieve the plates and mugs and leftover food, but there was little of that. Francesca saw there were pots of honey and even salt on the trestles. When she asked about the salt Alonza explained that as the duke owned the inn for the comfort of his huntsmen and he supplied much of what was cooked and served, it was his generosity that brought them the luxury of salt to season Alonza's cooking and be available for the tables.

Francesca had managed to consume a hard-boiled egg and some bread and b.u.t.ter while she completed her ch.o.r.es. She was exhausted by late morning as she helped Alonza get the stew in two large kettles and swing them over the hearth to cook.

"You're a good worker, for all I suspect you've never been in a kitchen," Alonza praised her. "Go and rest yourself, for tonight you will help me as I serve up the meal."

"May I take some bread and cheese?" Francesca asked her. "I am very hungry."

"Of course, child! I do not want to starve you. Take what you want."

Francesca took bread, which she b.u.t.tered, cheese, and an apple. She went out and settled herself on the edge of the woods to eat. The sun was warm on her back. Finished with her meal, she crept upstairs and lay down. Her comforter had a wonderful fresh smell to it after its morning in the sun and fresh air. Pulling off her boots, she lay down and drew the coverlet over her, and fell quickly asleep.

It was late afternoon when she woke again. Rising quickly Francesca got her boots on, folded the down blanket, and hurried down to the kitchens. The kettles with the stew were emitting a steamy fragrance, and there was the smell of baking apples. Alonza gave her a smile.

"Here you are and just in time. Draw pitchers of ale from the keg and place two upon each trestle. Then put two loaves upon the tables, and half a wheel of good hard cheese on each trestle, along with a crock of b.u.t.ter. Each trestle seats eight, so set twenty places for tonight, and put a trencher of bread and a pewter mug at each place, along with a spoon."

"You have no forks?" Francesca asked.

Alonza laughed. "No, child, I don't. Forks are for fine folk in the big cities and their castellos. Spoons serve just as well, and the men have their own knives."

"Where did those trenchers come from?" Francesca inquired curiously.

"I baked them yesterday. I bake a supply of trenchers each afternoon for the following day," Alonza told her. Then I have fewer dishes to wash," she chuckled. "Now, no more questions and get about your work, child. The sun is near to setting, and the men will be coming in from the forest."

When she had finished her ch.o.r.es the innkeeper demonstrated to Francesca how she could carry several mugs at a time. "Some men will come in late, and the first thing they will want is a mug of ale in the taproom. They won't necessarily go directly to the hall to eat. Tomorrow you will serve in the taproom. Tonight you will ladle stew into the bread trenchers. I will give you a small kettle and a ladle. We'll refill it as it empties. Just move quickly from place to place, filling their trenchers. I'll tell you now that you're bound to be pinched. These men are fierce, but actually quite good-hearted. However, you'll have to put them in their place if you're not to end up black and blue all over, child. Do what you must to keep them civil, or they will never cease plaguing you."

Francesca was terrified of the evening ahead. She had never served food in her entire life. She had had servants to perform such a ch.o.r.e. How could she stand to avoid the abuse that Alonza predicted would be visited upon her? If she was serving one man, her back of necessity had to be to another. Men were not permitted to accost her rudely. She was a maiden and delicately raised. Yet she doubted the men visiting the inn knew anything of gently raised maidens, but she had never been required to stand up for herself, defend her honor. She would ignore their advances, Francesca decided. She would move quickly, not speak to anyone, and do just what was required of her.

The men began to enter the inn, and Alonza went immediately into the taproom.

Francesca filled the smaller pot the innkeeper had laid out with a ladle, and peeping into the hall saw several men taking their places at the trestles. Picking up her container she now hurried into the hall to fill the trenchers of the men already seated. Fortunately the earlier diners were more interested in their food, and she was not accosted. But shortly more hunters began to pour into the hall, seating themselves.

"What's old Alonza cooked up for us tonight?" one asked her as she began to ladle food into his trencher.

"Venison stew," she answered politely, and then jumped as she felt the sting of a pinch. But Francesca ignored it. More pinches and leers followed as she moved about, serving them. She ignored them all until, to her horror, a big hand slid beneath her skirt and fondled a cheek of her bottom. Unable to help herself, Francesca shrieked, dropped her almost-empty kettle, and burst into tears.

A horrified silence descended on the hall and then a loud voice boomed, "Now, see what you've done, Pippino! You've gone and made the maiden cry. Did Alonza not warn you she was not to be harmed? A friendly pinch is expected, but you put hands on the maid and without her permission." The speaker was a huge man, well over six feet in height with a large body to match. His long hair was pulled back and tied.

"I didn't mean to do harm, Bernardo," Pippino defended himself, "but the maid is so pretty I couldn't help myself." He was not small but appeared so before Bernardo.

"Apologize to the maiden, and take your meal into the taproom," Bernardo ordered. "Ye'll eat there for the next few days. The morning meal too." Bernardo then went over to where Francesca stood sobbing and picked up her kettle and ladle, saying, "Get yourself back into the kitchen now, Cara." He handed her the pot, the ladle now in it.

Francesca managed to stop crying. She took her equipment from him and said, "Mille grazie, signore," and bobbed a little curtsy.

Bernardo was not used to receiving such courtesies. Nodding his head at her, he growled gruffly, "Go on, now."

Francesca fled gratefully, not waiting to hear Pippino's apology.

Alonza, who had come from her taproom at Francesca's sound of distress, was waiting for her. "I'll fill the pot, child, and serve the rest of the supper."

Francesca sniffled but then said, "I'll get the bowls with the baked apples."

Alonza nodded, pleased by the girl's recovered strength.

October turned into November. Francesca grew surer of herself around the huntsmen. Bernardo seemed to have taken it upon himself to be her protector. The chastised Pippino was allowed back into the hall after two days because of Francesca's intercession to her self-appointed guardian, who, it turned out, was the duke's head huntsman. She was learning how to twist and turn herself as she made her way through the taproom, carrying several mugs of ale for Alonza's guests. She didn't avoid all the pinches aimed at her, but she did escape most of them now.

She knew the names of all the huntsmen now, and had begun to banter back and forth with them as she worked. To her distress, her hands were becoming rough with all the work she was doing. Alonza had set her to certain ch.o.r.es she herself was no longer able to do because her joints, she told Francesca, ached too badly. The silk merchant's daughter found herself scrubbing the floors. She also did the laundry. As the days and nights grew colder she developed chilblains on the knuckles. I never realized how hard other people worked to make my life so comfortable, Francesca thought. Well, at least if her parents refused to have her back, she could hire herself out as a housemaid or cook's helper. Then she smiled to herself. Her mother would be horrified, which would probably make Orianna forgive her or at least take her back.

But did she want to go back to Florence? To that insular life that she had lived until now? She could always remain here with Alonza. Her life had become interesting, even if every bone in her body ached each nightfall. She sighed. Of course she had to go back. She was Giovanni Pietro d'Angelo's second daughter and meant for greater things than being a serving wench in a forest inn. Briefly she thought of Rafaello, but dismissed him with her usual practicality. He hadn't loved her, and she wasn't going to spend her life without love.

Then one bl.u.s.tery evening at the end of November the inn door swung open, and a tall bearded man stepped into the taproom. Bernardo was the first to spot him. "Carlo!" he said. "I wondered if we would see you at all this winter. Come in and get warm. Alonza! Your favorite is here," he called out to the innkeeper.

She bustled out from the kitchen with a cry of delight. "Carlo, amore mia! It has been forever since you have come. Have you any news, good or bad, to report to us?" She gave him an enthusiastic hug.

"The wedding of the duke's son has been postponed," the tall huntsman reported.

"The blushing bride did not think there was enough time to prepare the wedding she had always dreamed of, and she wanted her parents to come from Florence. So we must wait until springtime for this great event," Carlo told them with a laugh. "Duke t.i.tus is not pleased, but the Signore Rafaello will indulge the maiden. It is said he is madly in love with her. So instead of a ducal alliance on December first, the wedding of Valiant Corda.s.sci to Louisa di Genoa will be celebrated quietly and privately. He is the lad raised with our Rafaello since the time they were four. He is always at Rafaello's side. Oh, and France is sounding as if it would go to war again, and 'tis said the Venetians have made some sort of secret alliance with the Ottoman sultan. The pope is furious, but Venice denies it."

Those in the taproom all listened avidly, but none more so than Francesca. So they had postponed the wedding. She would wager that her parents were indeed coming from Florence in the spring. She had not requested their presence in December. Orianna would be intolerable with her victory. She had hoped to keep them away from the wedding. She realized now that the bay had returned to its stables, and her whereabouts were being sought. Even after two months. Poor Terza and little Roza. She knew they would be worried, but Terza would not give her up until they laid Francesca's dead body before her faithful servant.