The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this,” Sanchia whispered. “But it seems to me that if you hate it, you wouldn’t do it.” He didn’t answer and she continued uncertainly, “Is it any different with me than it is with Giulia Marzo?”

  His arm fell away from his face to reveal dark eyes still glittering with resentment. He smiled cruelly. “Of course; she’s much better at it. Do you think I’d bother with you if she were here?”

  She felt a wrenching pain that took her off guard. “I’m sorry you don’t find me adequate. Perhaps if you’d tell me what I’m doing wrong …”

  “What are you doing wrong?” His voice was suddenly savage as he jumped to his feet and began unsaddling Tabron. “You’re too tight around me, your nipples are too rosy and pointed, your skin is too soft.” He jerked the saddle from the stallion’s back and dropped it to the earthen floor. “And you stare at me as if I were going to devour you until I cannot stop myself from doing it.” He stood with his back to her, his head averted. “Take off your clothes.”

  She gaped in amazement. He surely couldn’t want her again already.

  “Stand up and take off your clothes!”

  She scrambled to her feet and hurriedly pulled off her gown, slippers, and undershift.

  “Come here.”

  She walked toward him, her gaze fixed anxiously on his averted face.

  He turned his head and his gaze went over her body searching out every curve and hollow, every secret place. “Mine,” he said hoarsely, his nostrils flaring. “Every bit of you is mine for as long as I care to keep you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded quickly.

  His hands reached out and cupped her breasts. “Mine. No one is to touch you. You will not let anyone lay his hand on you.” His hands moved to the tight curls protecting her womanhood. “Never. You will give no other man so much as a smile unless I bid it.”

  His voice was so fierce she could do nothing but stare up at him helplessly.

  “Say it. You belong to me.”

  “I … belong to you.”

  “No man will ever touch you but me.”

  “No man will ever touch me but you.”

  He seemed curiously tormented as he stared down into her face. Then his hands dropped away from her body and he turned away. “Now you can stop looking at me with those big frightened eyes and get out of here. Put on your gown and go to the house.”

  She stumbled back away from him and swiftly started to dress. “I could help you with the horses.”

  “Go to the house.”

  She walked across the earthen floor and glanced back over her shoulder as she reached the door. Lion hadn’t moved; his spine was taut with tension. “I’m not really frightened of you any longer. I was at first, but I don’t think you mean me harm.”

  His hands clenched on the mane of the horse. “I must have the Wind Dancer.”

  “I know you must,” she said, puzzled at the sudden change of subject. “I’ll get the key. I promised you and I keep my word: When do I have to go to the palazzo?”

  “Tonight, if Marco has the information we need.”

  Shock ran through her. “So soon?”

  “Yes.” He turned away and began to loosen the cinches of the mare’s saddle. “Go and tell Lorenzo to see that you’re bathed and freshly gowned before Marco arrives.”

  Not garbed for Lion’s pleasure this time, she thought numbly, but to go to the palazzo.

  “Hurry!”

  Sanchia whirled and walked quickly across the barnyard toward the house.

  Marco Andreas rode into the barnyard just as the last glorious scarlet rays of sunset were caught and mirrored on the still surface of the lake. He stopped a moment gazing at the beauty before him and a smile warmed the chiseled perfection of his features.

  “Well, what do you think of him?” Lorenzo murmured to Sanchia as they watched Lion as he walked across the yard to greet his brother.

  Sanchia gazed at the handsome man laughing down at Lion and an involuntary smile touched her own lips. “He’s one of the shining people.”

  “The shining people?”

  “You know, the ones you see walking along the streets who always seem to be so happy and full of life. They wear the gayest clothing, they play the mandolin and sing serenades to their ladies. They usually paint or have a passion for sculpting or writing poems …”

  Lorenzo raised a brow. “And what do you think is Marco’s particular passion?”

  She tried to gaze objectively at Marco Andreas who was now in deep discussion with Lion. Objectivity proved difficult when faced with such comeliness. Marco bore little resemblance to his brother. He was perhaps a few years younger and his features were classically beautiful in the manner of Michaelangelo’s statue of David. His shoulder-length hair was not the onyx black of Lion’s but a shining acorn brown, and his eyes were not cold, glittering ebony but warm hazel. At last she said, “He paints.”

  “And how do you come to that conclusion?”

  “He was gazing at the sunset and smiling as he rode into the barnyard. A sculptor is usually concerned with solid shapes and probably wouldn’t have noticed the sunset. A poet would have been frowning as he tried to transform the beauty he saw into words. Messer Marco accepted what he saw with joy, knowing that he need only copy what was there.”

  Lorenzo burst into laughter, and Lion and Marco turned to look at him inquiringly.

  Lorenzo nodded at Marco, his lips still twitching with amusement. “Good evening, Marco.”

  Marco smiled easily. “You seem very happy to see me. Have I done something deserving of mirth?”

  “Would I dare laugh at one of the shining people?” Lorenzo turned to Sanchia. “He does paint and, though he does not play the mandolin, he has quite a pleasing tenor.” He turned back to Marco. “Tell me, have you sung any serenades of late?”

  Marco grimaced. “I won’t rise to your jabs, Lorenzo. I take it I’m the butt of one of your less than kind jokes?”

  “You malign me. I was just verifying Sanchia’s estimate of your character. She finds you very pleasing to the eye.”

  “Does she indeed?” Lion asked softly, his gaze narrowing on Sanchia’s face.

  “I meant no offense,” she said quickly. “Messer Lorenzo merely asked me to— It was like a game, a puzzle.”

  “A puzzle you wish to solve?” Lion asked, his tone silky. “In what manner, I wonder?”

  Marco cast a quick glance at his brother before stepping forward and bowing gravely. “I’m honored you find me of interest, Madonna Sanchia. Knowing Lorenzo, I’m sure his words have no real weight. He takes pleasure in amusing himself by setting us all topsy turvy. Isn’t that so, Lion?”

  “At times.”

  “Most of the time.” Marco went on quickly, “Lion tells me you’re going to aid us in retrieving the Wind Dancer. It’s very kind of you to offer your help. When you see how beautiful the statue is, you’ll understand why a man like Damari should never be allowed to possess it.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it. She has no choice. Sanchia does as she’s told.” Lion took the reins of Marco’s horse and abruptly turned away. “Go into the house. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve stabled and watered your horse.”

  “I can do it,” Marco protested.

  Lion didn’t answer as he led the horse across the barnyard.

  Marco pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Lion appears to be in a less than felicitous temper. I suppose it’s to be expected considering this night’s work. He’d much rather go after the key himself than have to wait while you bring it to him, Madonna Sanchia.”

  “Sanchia,” she corrected. It was pleasing to be addressed with such unusual respect but it also brought with it a sense of awkwardness. “Call me Sanchia.”

  Marco smiled gently. “It would be my delight. A lovely name for an exquisite lady. And you must call me Marco.” He gestured for her to precede him into the house. “We must make sure nothing happens to you tonight.?
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  The words were spoken with such warmth Sanchia felt as if she had been touched suddenly by sunlight. She smiled back, feeling a surge of optimism. “Lion said I would be safe.”

  The faintest frown marred Marco’s brow. “I hope so. The task won’t be easy.”

  “You have the information?” Lorenzo asked as he followed them into the house.

  Marco nodded as he reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a folded parchment from his belt. “I was able to bribe old Vittorio to draw me this map. He was a gardener at the palazzo before Damari bought it, and he greatly dislikes the new master. He was glad to have sufficient ducats so he could retire to the home of his grandson in Genoa, and he very wisely left Solinari this morning while Damari was still in Pisa.”

  “Damari isn’t here?” Lion asked from the doorway.

  Marco unfolded the parchment and spread it on the roughhewn table in the center of the room. “He’s been in Pisa for two days and isn’t expected back until early next week.” His gaze lifted from the parchment to meet Lion’s. “According to Vittorio, the captain of the guard said he went there to meet with Duke Valentino.”

  “Borgia?” Lion tensed. “Then we have little time.”

  Marco shrugged. “Perhaps more than we think. Cesare may not be in a mood to listen to Damari’s proposals. He’s had his hands full to overflowing with his conquest of the Romagna and, as you know, it was only a few months ago he used his old friend De Lorqua’s head to decorate a pike in the piazza at Cesena because of the unrest there.”

  “Borgia’s always in the mood to further his ambitions.” Lion strode forward to peer down at the parchment. “What is this?”

  “A map of the grounds of the palazzo.”

  “It’s getting too dark to see in here. Someone light a candle.”

  Sanchia hastened to obey and set a fat tallow candle on the table.

  The flickering flame illuminated a crudely drawn map that seemed to consist of a complicated series of dashes. “This doesn’t look like a map,” she said, puzzled.

  Marco made a face. “Vittorio is no mapmaker, but I hope he’s accurate.” His slim index finger tapped the longest dash at the top of the paper. “This is the palazzo.” He traced a complex square of markings near the middle of the parchment. “And this is the maze in the garden.” He pointed at a square in the exact center of the maze. “And this is the storehouse where Damari keeps his treasures. The maze has only two entrances, each guarded by two men.”

  “Very clever.” Lorenzo stepped closer to the table. “Even if someone manages to overpower the guards at one entrance the chances are that, without a map, a thief would become lost in the maze either before he reached the storehouse or when he was trying to leave with his loot.”

  “And Damari would undoubtedly have the guard-posts checked at frequent intervals,” Lion said.

  “Every thirty minutes,” Marco agreed. “Damari usually keeps at least fifty men in the guardroom at the palazzo, but he took an escort of fifteen to Pisa with him.”

  “Thirty-five men against three,” Lion remarked dryly. “Let’s hope we can move through the maze fast enough to avoid them.”

  “Is that where I have to go?” Sanchia touched the square in the middle of the maze. “The storehouse?”

  Marco smiled reassuringly. “No, you only have to go as far as the south entrance to the maze. Rodrigo Estaban, the officer guarding the entrance, has the key to the storehouse on a ring at his belt.” He reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a large iron key and handed it to Sanchia. “It looks a good deal like this one. Your task is to steal the key to the storehouse and substitute this key in its place on the ring in such a way that Estaban won’t realize it’s been stolen.”

  “Are there other keys on the belt?” Sanchia asked.

  “Two. One to the dungeon and one to the gates of the high iron fence that surrounds the palazzo and the grounds. There’s dense shrubbery bordering the fence that will be useful for cover, and you don’t have to worry about the gates. Vittorio gave me his key to unlock them and passed on a bribe to the soldiers who usually stand guard there.”

  Sanchia gazed blindly down at the iron key in her hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Lion asked sharply.

  “The other keys. I’ll not only have to steal the key and put this one on the ring but keep the other keys from clanging together. I’m not sure I can do it.”

  “You can do it,” Lion said. “You have to do it.”

  “Lion, for God’s sake, if she can’t do it …” Marco frowned. “I didn’t consider the noise.”

  “Ducats clink in a purse, but she lifted mine with not a whisper of noise in the piazza.” Lion’s expression was unrelenting. “She’ll just have to be careful. You can do it, Sanchia.”

  She swallowed and then nodded jerkily. “I can do it.”

  A rare smile lit Lion’s face. “In a few hours it will all be over and you’ll be handing me the key. We’ve tried to make it as safe for you as possible. We’ve hired three whores from the village who will distract the guards at the entrance of the maze and try to prevent the watch from making rounds on time.”

  “Won’t they wonder why the whores decided to come to the palazzo?”

  “They may wonder, but it won’t keep them from availing themselves of their services,” Lorenzo said dryly. “Most men don’t think with their brains when a pretty whore offers to spread her legs for them.”

  Lion nodded. “You go in with the women and pretend you’re one of them until you manage to get the key.”

  “Very well,” she said faintly.

  He frowned. “It will be all right, I tell you.”

  She tried to smile. “Do you use the key to steal the statue tonight?”

  “No, tomorrow night.”

  “I see.” Her hand clenched so tightly around the key that it cut into her palm. “Could we go to the palazzo right away? I don’t want to think about it. I just want to do it. Could we go now … please?”

  A multitude of emotions flickered across Lion’s face as he gazed at her. “Yes.” He turned abruptly away. “We can leave this instant. Marco can go to the village and get the whores and meet us at the gates of the palazzo in one hour’s time.” He turned to Lorenzo. “Marco tells me there’s a grove about a quarter of a mile from the gates of the palazzo. We’ll need you to come with us and wait there with the horses.”

  “Splendid. I always prefer the passive role. Though I could think of more stimulating companions with whom to spend an evening.”

  Lion held out his hand to Sanchia, and again the smile that made his strong, brutal features appear almost beautiful lit his face. “Come along, cara.”

  Cara. The word of endearment echoed warmly in her ears. No one had ever used such a word to her before and she was suddenly filled with a glowing eagerness. She took two steps forward and shyly took his outstretched hand. “I’m coming.”

  His big hand closed tightly around her small one. She was safe. For this moment there was no fear, no threat. Lion had called her cara, had sworn she would be safe and was holding her hand as if there was affection between them.

  She let him lead her from the house.

  Seven

  I didn’t realize the Wind Dancer actually existed.” Cesare Brogia lifted an ornate goblet to his lips. His gaze was fixed on the muted colors of the tapestry portraying Diana at the hunt on the wall beside the door of the loggia. “I’ve heard how the Wind Dancer was brought to Italy, but I thought it only an exaggerated tale. You wouldn’t be trying to gammon me, would you, friend?”

  Borgia’s tone was idle, almost playful, but Damari was not lulled into a false sense of security. Cesare’s temperament was known to swing abruptly from laughter to violence. “It exists and I have it in my possession.”

  The faintest flicker of interest crossed Borgia’s features. “Here in Pisa?”

  Damari shook his head. “In a safe place. You do not hire fools to fight your battles, my lord.”
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  “True.” Borgia sipped his wine, his gaze still on the tapestry. “How do you know the statue to be genuine?”

  “There could be no other like it. You will realize when you see it that it’s beyond compare.” Damari leaned forward in his chair, speaking quickly, persuasively. “Think, my lord. Think of the power it would give you. You know the legend of the Wind Dancer. You’ve heard the tales—”

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard the tales. That the Holy Grail for which the Knights of the Round Table sought was not a grail but a golden statue, that Alexander the Great kept a golden-winged Pegasus in his tent during his conquest of Persia.” Cesare shifted his gaze from the tapestry to Damari’s face. “There are a hundred tales about the Wind Dancer and I believe none of them.” He smiled. “And neither do you. We don’t rely on talismans to bring us what we want when a sword is more certain.”

  “But your father does believe in talismans,” Damari reminded him. “And so does King Louis of France. You don’t have to believe in a pawn to use it.”

  Borgia laughed and for a moment his raddled face held a remnant of its comeliness before he’d been afflicted with the pox. “As you intend to use me.”

  “No one uses you, my lord duke. Your mind is too quick not to perceive deception.”

  “Sweet words won’t buy you what you want from me. We’re too much alike.” Borgia set his goblet down on the Venetian carved table next to his gloves. “If Andreas owned the Wind Dancer, why did no one know it? It would have increased his consequence to possess such a treasure.”

  Damari shrugged. “He is a fool. His family brought the Wind Dancer from Persia over a hundred years ago, and they regard themselves as guardians of the statue. The Wind Dancer was kept in a tower room at the castle in Mandara. Even persons who were very friendly with the family were never invited to see Wind Dancer.”

  “Then how did you come to know of it?”

  “I was born in Mandara and I served as an officer under Lionello and his father before him. I listened, I watched, I planned to form my own condotta, and I knew that when I left Mandara I would take the Wind Dancer from them.”