Free Juliet by Anne Fortier

trespasses on Salimbeni territory?”
    Friar Lorenzo yanked on the reins of his cart to stop the horses, while his travel companions did their utmost to position themselves between the cart and the bandits.
    “As you can see,” replied the most senior of the monks, holding out hisshoddy cowl as proof, “we are but humble brothers from Florence, noble friend.”
    “Huh.” The brigand leader looked around at the alleged monks, his eyes narrow. Eventually, his gaze settled on Friar Lorenzo’s frightened face. “What treasure on the cart back there?”
    “Nothing of value to you,” responded the senior monk, backing up his horse a bit to better block the bandit’s access to the cart. “Please allow us passage. We are holy men and pose no threat to you or your kinsmen.”
    “This is a Salimbeni road,” the captain pointed out, underlining his words with his blade—a signal for his comrades to move closer. “If you wish to use it, you must pay a toll. For your own safety.”
    “We have paid five Salimbeni tolls already.”
    The villain shrugged. “Protection is expensive.”
    “But who,” argued the other with stubborn calm, “would attack a group of holy men bound for Rome?”
    “Who? The worthless dogs of Tolomei!” The captain spat twice on the ground for good measure, and his men were quick to do the same. “Those thieving, raping, murdering bastards!”
    “This is why,” observed the monk, “we should rather like to reach the city of Siena before dark.”
    “She is not far,” nodded the brigand, “but her gates close early nowadays, on account of the grievous disruptions caused by the rabid dogs of Tolomei to the general disturbance of the fine and industrious people of Siena and even more so, I might add, to the grand and benevolent house of Salimbeni—in which dwells my noble master—in particular.”
    The captain’s speech was received with supportive grunts from his gang.
    “So, as you can surely appreciate,” he continued, “we do, in all humbleness of course, rule this road and most other roads in the general vicinity of this proud republic—of Siena, that is—and so my insightful advice to you, as a friend to another friend, is to hurry up and pay that toll now, so you can get on your way and slip inside the city before she closes, after which point innocent travelers like yourselves are likely to fall prey to the scoundrelous gangs of Tolomeis that come out to pillage and such—as shall not be specified in the face of holy men—after nightfall.”
    There was a deep silence after the villain had spoken. Crouched onthe cart behind his companions, holding the reins slack, Friar Lorenzo felt his heart hopping around inside his chest as if it was looking for a place to hide, and for a moment he thought he was going to faint. It had been one of those days—a scorching sun and not the slightest breeze—that reminded one of the horrors of Hell. And it did not help that they had run out of water many hours ago. If Friar Lorenzo had been in charge of the moneybag, he would readily have paid the villains anything in order to move on.
    “Very well, then,” said the senior monk, as if he had felt Friar Lorenzo’s silent plea, “how much, then, for your protection?”
    “Depends.” The villain grinned. “What do you have on that cart, and what is it worth to you?”
    “It is a coffin, noble friend, and it contains the victim of a dreadful plague.”
    Most of the brigands drew back at this news, but their captain was not so easily put off. “Well,” he said, his grin broadening, “let’s have a look, shall we.”
    “I do not recommend it!” said the monk. “The coffin must remain sealed—those are our orders.”
    “Orders?” exclaimed the captain. “Since when did humble monks get
orders?
And since when”—he paused for effect, nursing a smirk—“did they begin to ride horses bred in Lipicia?”
    In the silence that followed his words, Friar Lorenzo felt his fortitude