It was a precarious way to survive. No wonder that Caesare didn’t want to go himself to Casa Brunelli with a scroll destined for someone other than Ricardo. To be kept secret from Ricardo, in fact.
For a guest at the Casa . . .
“Well, there it is.” Benito pointed down at the glass windows of the Casa Brunelli. Across the canal, Marco could see the massive edifice which served the Holy Roman Empire as its embassy in Venice.
“You stay up here,” said Marco sternly. “Don’t try and peek. I’ll be out presently.”
Benito shrugged. “Huh. Can’t see anything on the south side anyway. Unless I climb up the Imperial embassy, and I hear they’ve got some of the Knights of the Holy Trinity on watch on the roof.”
“Just stay here,” repeated Marco, as he dropped off the guttering to a narrow, rickety wooden outside loft-stair. It was only when he was close to the cobbled street that it occurred to him that Benito knew more than was comfortable about watching the Casa Brunelli.
With a boldness he didn’t feel, he went up to the arched doorway and raised the heavy knocker. Before the hollow boom of it had even died away, the door opened. The liveried door warden looked disdainfully at Marco. “Yes?” he asked frostily.
“I have a message—” began Marco.
The door-warden snorted. “Messages for those in the Casa Brunelli are carried by the house messengers. Not by scruffy urchins.” The door began to swing closed.
“For Senor Eneko Lopez—your master’s Castilian guest,” said Marco, hastily putting a foot in the way and hoping that the heavy iron-scrolled door would not simply crush it.
The heavy door stopped. “He’s Basque, not Castilian!” For some reason, the point seemed important to the door warden. From his slight accent, Marco suspected he was originally from Spain. But Marco found Italian politics confusing enough, without wanting to know the quirks of the Iberian variety.
“I will have it taken to him,” the door warden added, grudgingly.
Marco shook his head. “No. My master said I must give it into his very hands, and carry his reply.”
The doorman snorted again. But he plainly did not want to anger his master’s guest. Reluctantly, he opened the door and allowed Marco to enter. Watching Marco as if he expected this cockroach-in-human-form to instantly begin laying eggs or stealing the silver, he tinkled a small bell. A footman appeared hastily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The door warden sniffed. “Louis. Take this . . . messenger up to Senor Lopez. He says he is to wait for a reply.”
The tone said: and watch him like a hawk.
The footman led Marco to the back stairs. Not for the likes of him the front steps. They walked up four flights of ill-lit stairs . . . And then were nearly knocked down them again by an extremely angry woman, who was so busy looking back up that she failed to see them. Even in poor light she was a truly beautiful lady, clad in a low-cut azure Damask-silk gown, trimmed with a jabot of finest Venetian lace. Her hair was on the red side of auburn; her skin, except for flaming patches on her cheeks, a perfect unblemished cream.
The footman nearly flung himself up the wall to get out of her way, with a hasty terrified “scusi.”
Marco pressed himself against the wall too. She didn’t say anything to either of them, but her angry look promised retribution later. Marco was glad he wasn’t the footman, and that he’d never have to encounter her again. He had a feeling that despite her legendary beauty, Lucrezia Brunelli (and this could only be her) would enjoy making someone else’s life a misery. And she looked mad enough about something to be looking for a victim, shortly. But even angry, she was beautiful.
Marco shook himself guiltily. How could he think this of anyone but Angelina?
They walked on to the upper floor. The footman knocked.
“I am at my devotions, Lucrezia,” said the voice from within. The accent was distinctly foreign. But the tone had a suggestion of tried patience.