Free Ariosto by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

shallow young man than in himself.
    “Precisely,” Damiano agreed. “He’s rich, self-indulgent, vain, and venal. Hardly a man Sir Thomas would confide in, or trust. Ippolito hates me. If he were convinced that the journey to Muscovy would in some way harm me, he would be eager to go. My Cardinale cousin would insist upon it.” He put his hand on Lodovico’s shoulder. “You’re too much my friend, and that would make you an object of suspicion, which would endanger you, Sir Thomas, and the mission.”
    “I am willing to face danger,” Lodovico said quietly, but with a certain frightened pride.
    “You may have to yet,” Damiano said, and under his jocularity there was a steely grimness. “It isn’t necessary now, but it may come to that.”
    “Damiano?” He could sense a retreat in the other man, and wondered if, inadvertently, he had annoyed il Primàrio. He fixed his thumbs in his narrow, rosetted belt. “Tell me how I am to assist you and you may be sure I am your man.” He winced as he heard the fabric at his waist tear, then looked down, chagrined, at the dangling brocade belt.
    “San Pietro del Pescatori!” Damiano stared and laughed, brown eyes sparkling. “What are you wearing such old clothes for? I know that poets are said to be unworldly, but Lodovico, this…?”
    “It’s the best I have,” Lodovico said stiffly as he gathered up the ruined belt.
    “Then order something new. I can’t have you looking threadbare. It makes me appear mean. Tell Rodrigo to make you something appropriate. Two giorneas and one of these French-style doublets.” He shook his head. “Those doublets. If they get any shorter, we’ll have to pad our bums as well as our thighs and calves. You’ve seen what the English are wearing now—codpieces like Turkish cushions! That monstrosity that Sir Warford had on…”
    “Outrageous,” Lodovico nodded, though he had been more amused than shocked by the English fashions. He realized, irrelevantly, that Alessandra would be delighted to hear of Damiano’s instructions. “My wife and son could use new garments,” he ventured.
    “Of course. You needn’t wait for me to give you permission. Let Rodrigo know when you’ve decided you want something more. You’re not unreasonable in your demands. Two new suits of clothing in a year is quite acceptable; three, if there are state reasons for the third.”
    Lodovico inclined his head. “As you wish.”
    “Lodovico,” Damiano said kindly, “you’re not here on sufferance, and I won’t deny you any sensible request. But I can’t watch over you either. If there is something you require, give the order for it. If you have doubts, ask me, but don’t wait for me to authorize it before you act. I have too much on my mind for that.”
    “Thank you,” Lodovico said, not certain why.
    Damiano’s long hand dropped. “Watch More while he’s here, Lodovico. I want to know what he does.”
    “As you wish.” Even as he accepted this assignment, he felt some of the pleasure of his meeting the Chancellor of England go out of him.
    “It’s not what I wish, but what I must do.” Abruptly he turned and pulled the door open, and without another word strode away down the hall.

La Fantasia
    Somehow Lodovico survived the evening celebration with the Cérocchi, but much of it seemed a dream. He could not look at Aureoraggio without feeling his love go through him like a lance. When she moved, the earth trembled. When she spoke, the wind was hushed and the water in the nearby river was silent. Like the sunbeam for which she was named, she shone among the others. Nothing was more graceful than the motion of her hands. The very air was perfumed by her breath.
    There were endless speeches, or so it seemed to Lodovico as he sat in the great hall of the castle of the Cérocchi King. Ballads were sung of the exploits of the heroes and the perfidy of their enemies. Great scholars told of the history of this gallant people and the priests