* * *
Marco knew his normally excellent memory was . . . having trouble. He was . . . married? Standing accepting congratulations from the Powers-that-be . . . from Lucrezia Brunelli herself. 'My, but Angelina caught herself a handsome one,' cooed the legendary beauty, taking his hands in hers. She tickled his palm with one of her fingers. 'You look . . . almost familiar. Have I met you before?'
Marco swallowed. Not all the lessons in etiquette had taught him how to deal with this. Yeah, I met you on the back stairs of Casa Brunelli, with you in a fury because you'd failed to seduce Senor Lopez. . . .
Was not the right thing to say. 'No, m'lady.'
She laughed. 'Come now, Marco! We're going to be . . . friends, aren't we? Call me Lucrezia.' Then she continued--in an entirely different tone. 'Well, I wish you a happy married life. You and dear Angelina.'
Bishop Capuletti, who had just approached them, looked like he might consider making that a very short life, if he had the opportunity.
PART VI June, 1538 A.D. =================================
Chapter 70 ==========
It was about a month after the wedding before Maria finally got a chance to see Kat.
The Arsenal was working flat out. It was always like that, anyway, this time of year. The convoy for the Golden Horn would leave in a week and the last-minute outfitting was still going on. Now, with a war looming, there was additional work getting the navy's galleys ready.
A couple of cousins waved to Maria as she rowed in with the load of brass nails from Seino's. 'Maria, we need a piece of trompe l'oiel work for the admiral's cabin fetched from the Botega Giorgione,' said the foreman, when she'd off-loaded. He pulled a sour face. 'The admiral sent it back because of the cherubs. So they've held it back to the last minute. They're not punishing Admiral Niccolo. They're punishing us. But do you think they can see that?'
Great. That meant into town. Again. Well, she'd see if she could fit a trip to Giaccomo's into her rounds. They said trade was tight in Venice lately, because of the political situation, and you could see signs of it. But not right now. She felt she was being run off her feet, or more like rowed off her shoulders. 'Consider it done, Paulo.'
He patted her shoulder. 'We trust you, Garavelli.'
Yeah. They trusted her. The boatyard work was reliable, but for real money she still relied on Giaccomo. And the trouble with the squeeze on trade on the Po, the Vinland trade, and Genoa trying to muscle Venice . . . everyone was poorer and everything was more expensive. Which didn't worry those who had a lot coming in.
The trouble was--since she'd been living with Caesare, she'd gotten used to those little luxuries, like sleeping warm and dry. But they seemed so short of money, especially with Marco not putting in anymore. Caesare seemed really tight.
She was in a brown study about it as she sculled along to Giaccomo's. It took her a good moment to realize the 'Psst!' from the gondola resting against the poles was addressed at her. It was Kat. She looked drawn and miserable.
'Been lookin' for you for days,' said Maria.
'I went to the mainland,' Kat replied dully. 'We still own a small farm there. It's mortgaged to the hilt, so we can't sell it. And then Giuseppe didn't give me your note until Madelena decided it might stop me . . .'
'Crying into your breakfast,' finished Maria. Kat didn't look like she'd eaten or slept much in the last ten days.
Kat nodded.
Maria snorted. 'She must have been pretty desperate.'
Kat shrugged. 'She always told me men were like that. I didn't believe her.'
There was a time for sympathy. There was also a time for no mercy. This, decided Maria, was the latter. 'Like what?'
'False!' spat Kat. 'Cheating, lying, and false. Making up to . . . becoming engaged to someone when they say they're not even involved with anyone. Not even seeing anyone.'
Maria shook her head. 'I don't know what maggot you've got in your head. The only other woman young Marco has 'seen' in the last three months is me. Unless you are talking about women he passed in the street! And he hasn't 'made up' to me. That's for damned sure.'
