The Lion and the Rose

  I scowled. Bartolomeo had been with me in this whole ordeal with the French, and really he’d comported himself very well—helped me parcel out the food we were given, heated up mugs of wine over a brazier to keep everyone warmed on the inside, and kept his voice cheerful and steady through it all, too. But he’d gotten used to seeing me worn and frightened, and that was no good at all. The mistress of the kitchens must be Law Itself: eagle-eyed, all-seeing, fierce, and steely, not a weakness to be seen anywhere. Let your apprentices see you’re only human, and it’s the beginning of the end as far as discipline is concerned. “To bed, Bartolomeo!” I ordered. “Or I’ll toast your gizzard in a little good butter and have that for a midnight snack!” I must have had some steel left under all the exhaustion, because he bolted off at once.

  Though he did stop at the door and give me a smile over his bony shoulder. “We’re home, signorina,” he said. “That’s a prayer answered, isn’t it? I don’t think I had a thought for days that wasn’t a prayer to get home. Or,” he added practically, “a prayer that the French wouldn’t split our heads open with those nasty pikes. Or start raping anybody—mostly I worried about that on your account, and the maids, but with the things you hear about the French . . .” He rumpled a hand thro