Damiano by R. A. MacAvoy

Author:R. A. MacAvoy [MacAvoy, R. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Historical
ISBN: 9780553235753
Google: XqsfAwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00J48FHPM
Barnesnoble: B00J48FHPM
Goodreads: 1587065
Publisher: e-reads.com
Published: 1984-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

The fingerboard was cold and slick beneath his fingers as his hand spidered its way through the melodies. He was not so out of practice as he had thought, and the familiar patterns came to him like old friends greeted in a strange place.

The pale winter sun seemed warm to a man who had spent the last week trudging through snow. He stretched his legs in front of him, in the hope that his boots might dry. Marketers passed by, their feet smacking through patches of mud. A matron of middle years stepped over Damiano’s legs; her skirts dragged against his knees.

“Pinch that thing!” cried the redhead of San Gabriele, with the authority of a musical expert. “Let the whole town hear it!”

Damiano was no performer, or he had not thought he was, but he was well taught. He pinched the little lute, and at least a reasonable portion of the town could hear. All the old tunes—the simple, conservative airs and dances that would not have offended even dirty Marco—he played them all and he played them again.

“Louder!” cried his single listener. Damiano smiled thinly.

“This is a lute, not a bagpipe,” he grumbled, but he obeyed. When he glanced up, the ragamuffin child was dancing a gavotte. No one had ever danced to his music before—not even Macchiata. His own booted toes were tapping together.

“Where’s your hat?” A tall young woman loomed over him.

Red hair, a color not too rare in the more northern Italies, seemed to run in San Gabriele, for this one had hair like copper wire that hung in spiral curls down her back. Her green dress stretched tautly over her bosom, and the curve of her hips was emphasized by a belt of amber, ending in a tiny crucifix that swayed back and forth in front of Damiano’s eyes. “How do you expect to make money without putting a hat out in front of you?”

Damiano stared at the crucifix, enthralled by its terribly inappropriate motions. “If I put out a hat, Signorina,” he said haltingly, “will you drop a coin in it?”

She giggled as though he had said something witty. “I’m a poor woman, Signore. By your appearance, you ought to be dropping your coins into my bowl instead!”

Damiano’s face flushed, and even the palms of his hands turned pink. But though his fingers stumbled, he did not lose the beat. “Fortune is fickle, beautiful lady, and yesterday’s velvet purse hangs empty. Fortune is also jealous of beauty, and she uses time as her claw.” He came down hard on the last downbeat of the dance and damped all the strings. His dark eyes flashed as he glanced up at the wanton. “Take care, Signorina.” She stepped back, swaying, for real wit was an article she was not used to, especially on so serious a subject. Yet she lifted her chin disdainfully.

“Seminarians do not usually play the lute on street corners, black eyes.”

Damiano shrugged. “I’m no more a seminarian than you are a nun, bold lady with eyes of green.

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