Wolves in Winter by Lisa Hilton

Author:Lisa Hilton [Hilton, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780857897091
Publisher: Atlantic Books Ltd
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

PART TWO

FORLI

1496–1499

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WE SET OUT ON A BRIGHT MORNING IN DECEMBER. I rode astride, comfortable in my boys’ breeches and warm cloak. Ser Giovanni had given me a good horse, a young chestnut. I shared his delight at being freed from his frosty winter stable as his long strides covered the frozen ground. Ser Giovanni was travelling as a merchant, not a Medici prince. His clothes were as solemn and drab as even the fanatics of Florence could wish, but his doleful appearance couldn’t quite disguise the light of happy expectation in his eyes. The closer we drew to Forli, the more apprehensive I became, though the crisp bright winter sun shone and Giovanni was in an exultant mood, singing snatches of strombelli to himself and kicking his horse into a gallop wherever the path lay clear. He, at least, was not fearful, and when, bivouacked around the fire at nights, we heard the wolves singing, nor then was I. The others might huddle closer to the fire and draw their daggers near, but at night at least I could believe I was riding towards a new life, free of old books and rituals and the endless scratch of the pen that never let me forget what I was not. The crying of the wolves brought back my dreams of my mother, and I fancied again that she was bringing me safely to the Countess, away from the ghosts and griefs of Careggi. I was eager to see this extraordinary woman, I would try hard to please Caterina, I thought, and serve her well.

Forli, when we reached it after four days of hard riding, seemed at first a charming place. As we walked the horses slowly down the pass, I could see over the city walls to a circle of gardens, where cachi fruits, plump and orange-coloured, gleamed against leafless branches in the sharp winter light. Two rivers crossed the plain, and there were several water mills turning, whilst within the oval of the walls I could make out the roofs of fine palaces and churches, and a tall campanile adorned with a huge clock, such as I had never seen before. It wasn’t until we drew closer to the principal of the four gates that I made out the hideous human skulls, draped with strands of hair and leathery flesh, impaled on posts to remind newcomers of what would befall those who were disloyal to Forli’s countess.

We came into the broad piazza, with a church at either end, and I felt another shudder of disgust when I saw the Palazzo Signoria, blackened and abandoned, which the Countess had deserted when her first husband was murdered. I remembered Maestro Ficino’s description of the people falling on the corpses of the murderers like cannibals. Yet there was no dark place on the stone flags to show where such horrors had taken place, and the stallholders and housewives in the market looked clean and cheerful, prosperous. It was difficult to imagine them as a howling mob of flesheaters.

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