A Shadowed Fate by Marty Ambrose

Author:Marty Ambrose
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448303618
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2019-09-15T16:00:00+00:00

SIX

‘But few shall soar upon that eagle’s wing,

And look in the sun’s face, with eagle’s gaze,

All free and fearless …’

The Prophecy of Dante, III, 70–72

Vergato, Italy (en route to Bagnacavallo)

July 1873

A tap on my shoulder startled me.

I glanced up to see Trelawny, though my mind was still in the world of pre-revolution Ravenna. Assassins in the dark. Secret societies. Lies and betrayals. A time of such dangerous uncertainty. As I refocused my attention on the present, I noted everyone else in our little cortege had already left the café. Fumbling to remove my spectacles, they slipped from my hands and fell on the floor. He retrieved them, murmuring that we were ready to leave Vergato.

‘It should be an uneventful trip,’ Trelawny continued, ‘now that Georgiana has been suitably chastised.’

‘I pray that it is so.’ After slipping the Ravenna memoir into my bag, I extended a hand to Trelawny.

‘We should still arrive in Bologna before dusk,’ he said, escorting me to the carriage, where Raphael already sat next to the driver; Paula and Georgiana were inside, positioned on opposite sides with the glass windows shut tightly. I took my place with them and found neither inclined to talk after the trauma of Georgiana’s disappearance. Secure in the knowledge that Trelawny rode near the carriage, I decided perhaps it was best to simply soak in the woodland scenery while our emotions had time to recover.

Once we set out for Bologna along a narrow road, our journey went rather quickly as we descended to the Po Plain at the foot of the Apennine Mountains and arrived at the outskirts of the city in fewer than two hours. We trooped into the hotel and took to our rooms for an early night. I turned in almost immediately, too tired to pick up my reading where I had stopped. Drifting off, though, I found my thoughts drawn back to the tense moments Byron had described at the Palazzo Guiccioli, when he anxiously awaited the dawn in the company of his wounded driver.

The stakes of his gamble with the Carbonari were high: life and death.

That night I dreamed of the fateful summer of 1816 in Geneva. The sun had broken through a thick layer of clouds, and the air smelled fresh. I was strolling happily up the short path between the Maison Chapuis, where I stayed with the Shelleys, and Byron’s much grander Villa Diodati. Suddenly, I could not find my way and began to stumble blindly through the underbrush of thorny vines. They scratched at my ankles, drawing blood as I hurried my pace. Panic flooded through me. I called out for Byron or Shelley, but no one responded. Black clouds gathered above – thick and heavy – and I grew frightened.

I kept running.

Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder rolled in with deep, pounding waves. I covered my ears and halted, not knowing whether I should go back.

The storm’s ferocity grew into a violent dance of light and booming explosions.

Then rain began to fall in cold, hard sheets, and I sank to my knees.

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