chapter 27

Matt, walking through the night from the farm where the cart had left him the evening before, reached the place where the simple track to the villa left the main road north to Urbino. The air was clear and cool, soft with the rich scents of late summer, lavender and rosemary and ripening hay. As the black of the night turned to gray, pale colors appeared, filling in like light washes of watercolor. Rising above the ridge, the early-morning sun dappled the road with shadows as the cicadas, warming up, began to scrape one by one. The wood by the road soon resonated with birdcalls, answered from the tall stand of hay in the narrow field between the path and the hillside.

The morning breeze died, the trees and fields falling still until the only motion was Matt walking along the road, the supple leather of his boots white with dust. As the sun reached toward the meridian, high overhead, time seemed to slow to a halt, refracted by the glaze of the heat into the steady buzz of the cicadas, rising and falling like an ocean swell on a calm day. There was no past, no future, nothing but the world he walked through, as it was just then. What memories he had were of the morning, and the walk during the night, and the long cart ride and the day before. Frescoes, and a chapel, the city, and, ahead of him, the villa, and Anna. The rest was all a dream, fading under the hot sun like fugitive colors, crowded out by the scent of wild oregano and thyme and the beauty of the tapered cypresses that lined the dusty road, the curve of the hills against the sky.

Thirsty, Matt stopped at the sight of a trickle of water seeping down the hillside from the olive grove above. He scrambled up the steep slope to the welcoming shelter of the trees, a canopy of silvery green like a school of fingerlings against the sky above. Reaching the source of the stream, a pipe that had been driven into a rock ledge, he found an old cup, the majolica chipped and faded, hooked on a stick. He drank, enjoying the coolness of the water against his face as much as the wetness and the fresh, clean taste of it, and then put the cup back, careful not to disturb the frog willing itself into invisibility under the nearby fern, motionless but for the steady pulse in its sagging chin.

Matt walked farther up through the grove. Next to an old ladder leaning against a trunk several willow baskets lay tumbled together, ready for the harvest of olives ripening on the branches. The edge of the canopy was underlit by blue, as though the sea lay beyond the trees. A field of asters greeted Matt as he stepped from the grove, and he paused to enjoy the sight. An afternoon breeze had sprung up, rippling the sea of flowers and carrying a sound from far across the field, heavy, like a bear moving through the brush. Matt squinted, shading his eyes against the bright sun as he looked to see what it was.

Green scales coruscating, wings lifting like a hawk balancing itself, the manticore stepped sideways, arching its neck. From across the sea of flowers the beast watched Matt, its eyes opalescent in the sun, its head barely moving as the seconds became minutes. Finally it turned again, stamping its foot and twitching its tail, the forked end snapping like a whip, and then loped down the field and leaped up into the sky with a sweep of its powerful wings. Curving around low over the trees, forelegs held up, it gave a long harsh cry.

As if in echo, the faint silvery call of trumpets came to Matt from deep in the woods across the field, punctuating the high tenor yelp of dogs on the hunt. Each horn had its own note, sounding again and again, distinct but blending with the others. Like the scent of fire, the call aroused a sense of danger in Matt. Orlando, he thought. He must not waste time. He drew his sword and checked the edge, a sharp, unbroken line of silver, and then slid the blade back into its sheath.

Matt crossed the field, the flowers parting and then rejoining behind him, leaving no trace of his passing. Entering the forest the air was cool and fragrant with the resinous scent of hemlock. The yelping of the dogs, drawing closer, rose to an almost hysterical pitch, accompanied by the high whinny of horses and the heavy clump of their hooves on the ground as they forced their way through the underbrush. The shouts of men calling back and forth echoed through the trees.

Matt advanced as fast as he could, intent on finding what he knew was somewhere in the woods. Black and brown, gone so fast they seemed a trick of the light in the shadows, lean hounds slipped past through the brush. A man appeared, no more than a glimpse of bright colors against the green, a black stave slashing a bush aside. Seeing a lightening of the canopy off to his left, Matt angled across the forest. Crowns meeting far overhead, the trees opened to form a natural amphitheater, their black trunks surrounding it like mute spectators. Carpeted with leaves and grass, the clearing was no larger than a man could throw an ax. Matt emerged from between two trees and stopped at the edge of the grass.

The ring of his sword as he unsheathed it, loud in the quiet of the clearing, stopped the tall figure armored in black on the other side, his own sword in his hands. Beyond him Orlando lay propped against a tree, holding his leg, fear plain on his face as he looked up at the bronze eagle, wings raised and beak open in midcry, nodding down at him from the helmet framed against the leaves and the sky above.

The knight turned to face Matt and raised the blade, the point reaching toward the sky. He began to laugh, a low rumble that grew louder and louder as it echoed across the clearing, rising to the trees and filling the still air, resonating in Matt’s ears after it had died away again to silence. The knight advanced across the clearing, an oncoming avalanche of polished black armor and chain mail, greaves and arm guards and armored boots and the empty black gash of the visor and, riding above, beak open and wings raised, the bronze eagle.

Standing his ground, Matt lifted his own sword high, as high as his arms could reach, and then sharply reversed it. He brought the point down as hard as he could, burying it deep in the ground. As the hilt quivered, he unfastened the belt around his waist and tossed it to the side. A quick turn of the pin fastening the silver belt holding his doublet and it was loosed, the coat falling open. He shrugged it off and threw it aside to land crumpled among the dead leaves and grass. With a firm pull the sword was free of the ground, the tip arcing around as he lifted it high in both hands, ready to meet his opponent.

Closer, step by step, the blade came on like a black line slashed into the green of the forest. Almost within striking distance of Matt it rose, the tip reaching higher, pausing like a hawk ready to fall from the sky, and there it stayed, the massive figure of the knight frozen as he looked down at his prey.

Three irises, precious stones set in gold and silver, shone in the subdued light against the whiteness of Matt’s shirt. He raised his own sword high, angled to the right, the tip back over his shoulder, and then with all his might he lunged forward. His blade sliced through the air to land with a clash against the other, the steel of both ringing as his slid down, stopping only when it slammed hard against the hilt.

Without pausing, Matt’s blade soared up, circled, and fell against the other once again, the clashing of the steel ringing out even louder, the note true and pure. The knight stepped back, uncertain, and then with a quick circling of his sword threw Matt’s off and gathered himself to attack.

Matt, leg forward, braced himself against the onslaught, his arms giving only slightly as the knight’s blade landed against his with a tremendous crash, the same note thrumming through his arms and torso as it filled the air. The knight seemed to hesitate again, as though confused by the sound. Wheeling back around, he attacked again and again, but Matt parried, held, crossed, met each slashing attack, always ready for the blade when it descended on him. Again and again it fell, the note ringing until it became one continuous sound in the air, and then the knight, a last furious assault spent, lurched away, sword dangling.

Matt paused, chest heaving wildly, throat burning as he dragged air into his lungs. He fought to hold on to his sword, his hands numb from the vibration still ringing in his ears. His eyes stinging with sweat, the leather against his skin slick and hot, he watched the knight stagger as he regained his balance and then turn back to him, raising his sword, ready to attack again. Not waiting, Matt charged forward, the silver edge of his sword high and gleaming with a rainbow of color in the dappled sunlight. At the last moment, he dropped the point of the sword and drove it straight into the black slit of the visor.

The force of the impact lifted the knight and threw him back, his arms spread wide, his sword tumbling to the ground. He hung in the air and then toppled over to land with a hollow clang on the ground. Matt, hands entwined on the hilt, stumbled forward, gasping for breath, the point of his sword still buried inside the helmet, the knight lying motionless and limp. Matt let go of the hilt and the sword fell over sideways to the ground as he sank to his knees, spent.

Matt rested, sitting back on his heels, as his breathing slowed, and then reached for his sword. About to clean it on the knight’s sleeve, he stopped. There was no blood. The blade was clean.

Matt reached over to unlatch the visor, but the helmet fell away from his hand, rolling to its side, the eagle lying in the leaves as though it had fallen from the sky. Matt pushed the cuirass and then lifted it by the neck hole. It pulled free, the sleeves of the chain mail shirt slipping out of the heavy gloves and dangling like the shed skin of a snake. He tossed it aside and pushed apart the rest of the armor. Empty, the pieces lay scattered in the leaves like pieces of a forgotten dream.

A giraffe, a hippopotamus, a lion and two cubs, the topiary menagerie stood guard as Matt passed. Down the short flight of steps, worn with age, to the lower garden, he followed one of the paths between the flower beds to the pool in the center, where a dolphin leapt, half in and half out of the water. By the side of the pool was a table, veined marble, and on it a majolica jug and glasses, one almost full, with a bright circle of thinly sliced lemon floating in it. Matt settled into one of the chairs and poured water into another of the glasses. Circling the rim with his finger, a note rose in the air, high and pure.

Asleep in the chair next to him, Anna stirred, but relaxed again as the note faded away. Her dress, damascene silk the color of ivory, fell in soft folds from the golden belt tied in a lover’s knot under the bodice. A light blue cape, turned back to show the black lining, was draped over her shoulders, and holding her hair was a braided silver cord set with a single pearl mounted in gold.

Matt, as Anna slept, put aside thoughts of what lay ahead. At supper he would talk to Rodrigo about the project for the pigments, and there were other plans to be made, but for now it was enough just to enjoy the view out across the valley, the deep green of the hills on the other side infused with gold in the early evening light.

Anna stirred again, and awoke. She smiled at him, her eyes still filled with sleep. “You’re back,” she said. “Is it late?”

“No, it’s barely evening. Have you been asleep long?”

“I don’t know. After you left, I tried to work on the painting, but I was just so tired. I didn’t get any sleep last night, you know.”

“I’m glad you had a chance to rest.”

“I had the strangest dream while I was asleep. I was in a theater and people were singing.”

“What? ‘Miracolo d’Amore’?”

“No.” Anna laughed. “It was music I had never heard before. And you were there, too.”

“What happened?”

“There was a storm, and it got dark. I couldn’t see. The worst was the silence. But then—it must have been our talking about it at dinner—I saw the manticore. It was walking on the sea. And then I heard a trumpet. It was the most beautiful sound, like a rainbow.”

“And then?”

“I woke and you were here.”

“The hunt’s over. The manticore got away.”

“I’m glad.” Anna leaned over and touched the compresa pinned to his shirt. “And Leandro?”

“There is no Leandro. He’s gone.”

“You had no way of knowing, and I couldn’t tell you. The count died yesterday. That was why last night— I was afraid of what Leandro might do when he found out and knew his way was clear.”

Matt put his hand over hers, still resting on his shirt. “I missed you.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, I did,” Matt said, and kissed her palm. He stood, and she rose, too, her hand still in his as he drew her close. She was light, as he put his arm around her and lifted her, and so was the kiss, as light as the sun reflecting off water.

“I want to have your portrait done,” Matt said, his arm around her waist as they walked back up the path toward the villa.

“You can paint it.”

“I wouldn’t be able to do you justice. I think I’ll stick to flowers.”

“Who, then? Piero?”

“I was thinking about that Florentine, the one Rodrigo knows.”

“How delightful,” Anna replied. “He just painted my cousin Ginevra.”