A Shadowed Fate Read online

  ‘It is also unseemly.’ Paula grimaced. ‘A lady would never be seen in such a place.’

  ‘Or put herself in proximity to criminals,’ Raphael added.

  They exchanged glances from where they sat across the old wooden table, adorned with a rough, linen tablecloth and vase of white roses which Trelawny had given to me. Paula and Raphael sat side by side, close and united in their concern. I did not doubt they had my best interests at heart, but I had already made up my mind and no one would dissuade me.

  Calmly, I buttered my bread and sipped my morning cappuccino, letting them continue as I focused on Georgiana’s joyful, springy steps as she launched into her favorite filastrocca – a nursery rhyme that included clapping as she chanted ‘Batta le manine.’

  ‘Aunt Claire, are you paying attention to us?’ Paula demanded, her light-blue eyes clouded with uneasiness as she admonished Georgiana to quiet down. ‘I cannot believe that you would even consider something so reckless. Just think what could happen if Matteo tried to harm you again? He has already murdered once when he stabbed poor Father Gianni, and that was at the Medici Chapel – a very public place. What do you think could happen in a prison where you will be locked away from the world?’

  ‘Not to worry, my dear; Trelawny will be with me.’ I handed a small piece of bread to Georgiana who nibbled away, resuming her dance.

  ‘But he is molto anziano,’ Raphael chimed in, shaking his head. ‘How can a man protect you at his … age?’

  Affronted, I stiffened my shoulders. ‘He is hardly in his dotage – and was, I remind you, a fearless soldier in several wars—’

  ‘That was years ago, Aunt,’ Paula interjected in a firm voice. ‘You forget that he is not the same person that you knew in your youth.’

  ‘I agree, but his strength is undiminished.’ Or so I wanted to believe.

  Georgiana began singing more loudly, and my niece turned toward her and hissed, ‘Silenzio!’ She immediately halted, her features cast down with dismay, and I pulled Georgiana on to my lap in a reassuring embrace.

  ‘I appreciate that both of you care so deeply about my well-being, but I must be guided by what I think is best.’ My voice was gentle but firm. ‘I will take all necessary precautions, Trelawny and Lieutenant Baldini will be with me, and I promise not to do anything foolish that might antagonize Matteo. But I must know if he has some piece of information that could help us solve the thievery that occurred last night. It is possible, given his long-standing criminal activities. That Cades drawing meant more to me than I can say – and not just because it was part of my past; its sale would help considerably to alleviate our poverty.’ I gestured at the bare walls and empty shelves around us.

  Paula picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth. ‘I know our financial state leaves much to be desired, but I would rather scrape along than have you put yourself at risk of injury.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, you shall not be rid of me so easily – I promise.’ Dropping a light kiss on Georgiana’s head, I added, ‘Would you feel better if Raphael came along?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Raphael’s face lit with pride. ‘I shall guard her well, trust me.’

  Paula’s frown lightened somewhat, and I clasped her hand as if to remind her that he had more than proven himself at the Pitti Palace when he had fought with Matteo and saved us from being shot.

  And he loved her.

  Indeed, he was the type of man who I had always hoped would love Paula: someone to be counted on when events seemed most dire. He might not have wealth, but he possessed character – and I had come to believe that trait was more desirable than any other in life.

  ‘I suppose that I must agree – on the condition that Raphael accompanies you,’ Paula finally said, handing Georgiana a slice of buttered bread as a peace offering. ‘Where is Matteo being held?’

  ‘I believe Baldini told me … Le Murate,’ I said.

  Raphael gasped. ‘That is where they hold political prisoners – ruffians and villains. A hellish place.’

  ‘Murate? Does that not mean “walled up”?’ Paula queried. ‘A fitting name for a jail.’

  ‘It was not originally a prison.’ Raphael took on a thoughtful air as he brushed his fingers across the rose petals. ‘It was a convent built in the 1400s – the Santissima Annunziata alle Murate and Santa Caterina. The nuns who resided there chose the cloistered life, so they were murate – walled up. Some believe they lived a holy existence, but many of the nuns were said to have gone mad with the isolation – haunted souls within the stone walls.’

  ‘How awful.’ My arms tightened around Georgiana as if to protect her from such a fate. ‘What happened to the nuns?’

  ‘They were evicted when Napoleon conquered Italia. He confiscated the convent and sold all the gold artifacts to pay for his warmongering. By that time, there were only a handful of nuns left who lived there, and they scattered to the winds after they were turned out, never to be heard from again,’ Raphael said on a sorrowful note. ‘Later, before Risorgimento, political prisoners were held there … and tortured. More men will be walled up there in the future, no doubt. Those who follow the shadowy road of crime will find a home there, never to be seen again.’

  Paula touched his cheek with a soft caress. ‘Thank God that was not your fate, my love.’

  She avoided referring directly to his misspent adolescence, but the unspoken reference lingered in the silence. Raphael had lived hand to mouth as a child of deceased parents, not sure where his next meal would be found. I could only guess what he had to do to survive, although he had never related more than the barest details to me.

  He took her hand and buried a kiss in the palm. ‘I moved into the light when I met you, Paula. No more darkness.’

  ‘Yes, indeed – Paula’s love has transformed you,’ I added. ‘The men of Le Murate may also be those who can be redeemed and restored to the same place where you are now, Raphael.’

  ‘Not Matteo.’ He frowned. ‘There is nothing good in him – perhaps there never was. No, he is vile to the core.’

  Paula visibly shuddered, then glanced at me. ‘Are you sure that you want to go there, Aunt? It sounds like a horrible place, scarcely fit for a gentleman, much less a lady.’

  ‘I shall be fine, I assure you.’

  My niece, her pale and beautiful face still filled with doubt, finally gave in with a short nod.

  By early afternoon, I was seated in our small open carriage, which Raphael expertly steered through the narrow, crooked streets of Florence. With only my parasol as a shield from the sun, I leaned back against the worn brocade cushions, hardly noticing the impact of its wheels thumping on the uneven stones. I was too distracted at the prospect of speaking with Matteo, our seemingly kindly landlord who, as I had learned only recently, had a secret criminal life in Florence.

  The hidden alleyways and shady corners where brutality flourished.

  A tiny puff of breeze fluttered against the bare skin of my arms as we crossed the Ponte Vecchio, but it dissipated the moment we entered the crowded square on the other side of the Arno River. Fanning myself, I traced the modest neckline of my best light-green muslin dress, lingering over my mother’s gold locket, which I had donned to give me strength. And for the hundredth time, on this day of all days, I wished fervently to have known the identity of my father who gave it to her.

  She never spoke of him, and I never asked.

  But I could not think of them today because I had to keep my wits focused on the task ahead at Le Murate. The words echoed through my mind, soft and melodic. So strange how the Italian language could make even a sinister prison sound like a soulful paradise.

  People already swarmed around the Uffizi Palace, speaking in various languages as they hurried toward the gallery that housed some of Italy’s greatest artists – all eager to behold the magnificent paintings of Botticelli and Da Vinci.

  Raphael turned down the Via Ghibellina and, after a few more blocks, halted the carriage in front
of Le Murate – a grim, multi-storied structure. Built of rough, blanched stone, its high, forbidding walls were dotted with barred windows. No possibility of escape; these portals were fashioned to keep prisoners inside and hope locked outside.

  Trelawny and Baldini stood under an archway in front of two massive wooden doors; both men wore black jackets and somber expressions. As I scanned the prison’s bleak exterior, I felt a moment’s hesitation. Had I made a mistake in coming here? Was it more dangerous than I had realized? Before I could change my mind, Raphael halted the carriage and Trelawny moved forward to assist me.

  I could not turn back now.

  Trelawny grasped my elbow as I stepped out of the carriage, whispering, ‘You do not have to see him yourself; Baldini and I can question Matteo while you listen outside his cell.’

  A tempting offer – but no. ‘I … I think a woman’s touch might work better with someone like Matteo.’

  ‘He deserves to be hanged.’ Trelawny gave a short, scoffing exclamation. ‘I only wish that I could be there to watch.’

  ‘There will be none of that talk,’ Lieutenant Baldini cut in with a warning note in his voice. ‘Our Italian laws will dispense justice as it is due. Even though Matteo confessed to murder, he will be given a fair trial and a judge’s sentence. I must remind you that he may not be involved in the second crime at all since he was here at Le Murate when your apartment was vandalized last night. This visit is a courtesy to you as a guest in our country.’

  ‘Certainly.’ I could not disagree with the young lieutenant; this was probably a fool’s errand, but if there was a chance that Matteo had any connection to the theft of the obelisk sketch, I had to give it a try. ‘We are most appreciative of your generosity.’

  I told Raphael that I would be finished in half an hour. He agreed with a warning nod in Trelawny’s direction before he urged the horse forward.

  ‘I believe Raphael would slit my throat if I allowed anything to happen to you,’ Trelawny said matter-of-factly as he escorted me toward the entrance. ‘But he need not worry – I will have my eye on Matteo the whole time. You are quite safe.’

  Feeling somewhat reassured, I slipped my arm through Trelawny’s as I readied myself for what awaited us. Then Baldini pushed against one of the doors, which made a loud creaking sound as it opened slowly, almost like a low-pitched moan of unheard voices and lost memories.

  Once we were inside, the air took on a damp and cool quality, like the moss-lined walkways near the Arno River – a relief from the heat, but too clammy for comfort. An elderly man with thin shoulders and a craggy face was stationed at a small table. As we drew near, he held out a quill. ‘Il nome?’

  Trelawny and I signed our names in a large book and moved on.

  Baldini led us down a soundless corridor lined with identical wooden doors on either side; each one had an iron bar stretched across the middle section that fit into a large, sturdy lock. Most of the doors stood open, bars up … waiting for the men that would be brought here to spend their days shut away from society. Waiting for the last march out of the daylight into darkness. Waiting for the end of all dreams.

  It made me remember another time and place when I had visited a prison.

  Very different, but no less harsh.

  During that summer of 1816, I secretly met Byron at Castle Chillon on Lake Geneva. He had sailed there with Shelley to see the abandoned fortress that once held François Bonivard – a religious reformer who spent seven years chained to a stone pillar before he was liberated. I had been filled with romantic ideas of meeting my lover in that ancient citadel to tell him I was expecting his child. So naïve. When I surprised Byron in the dungeon and revealed my news, it did not go as I had planned … He made it clear that marriage was not an option. I was so upset that I tumbled down the stairs, although I always believed someone had shoved me. Perhaps it had been di Breme’s servant – I do not know. It was so long ago …

  But I could see the castle in my mind’s eye and hear the lines from Byron’s poem to honor Bonivard, ‘The Prisoner of Chillon’:

  Dim with a dull imprison’d ray,

  A sunbeam which hath lost its way,

  And through the crevice and the cleft

  Of the thick wall is fallen and left …

  Oddly, as I remembered those lines, it brought me back to the present and somehow made Le Murate more bearable, remembering that Bonivard had been freed. The sun could penetrate even the most dismal place.

  ‘We have few “residents” since they are still renovating the buildings,’ Baldini was saying as our footsteps echoed on the stone floor. ‘But I expect that Le Murate will fill quickly; there is never a scarcity of criminals.’

  I said nothing, still striving to rein in my memories.

  Once we reached the end of the hallway, we climbed steep, narrow stairs to the second floor. It, too, echoed with emptiness. Then Baldini led us through an archway and pointed at a much larger wooden door than the ones downstairs. ‘This is the cell that once housed political dissidents during the Risorgimento – one of few that still is habitable.’

  ‘Too good for a rogue like him,’ Trelawny muttered.

  ‘Perhaps, but if we do not treat men humanely, then we are no better that the prisoners that we prosecute.’ Baldini produced a key and unlocked the iron bar, swinging it upwards in one smooth motion. ‘Matteo is expecting you both.’

  As Baldini unlatched the door, he turned to me with an unreadable expression in his eyes. ‘I would not expect much from him. There seems to be very little empathy left in him now that the façade of his life has been stripped away. He may seem civil on the surface, but that is mere pretense.’ He paused. ‘I shall return in thirty minutes.’

  After he left, I steeled myself for the chamber’s foul conditions and the even more repugnant sight of Matteo as we entered, Trelawny at my elbow. But, surprisingly, the small room had clean, white walls, neatly arranged furniture, and even a portrait of a Tuscan villa at sunset hanging near the iron-barred window. Not lavish by any means, but not filthy either. Matteo was seated at a small, plain desk reading a book with the air of a gentleman in his study.

  Irritation flooded through me as I beheld him lounging so pleasantly after he had viciously stabbed my dear friend, Father Gianni. But he had an ancient family name and some political connections, which I supposed afforded some degree of creature comforts.

  ‘Are you surprised to see me not living in squalor, Signora Clairmont?’ Matteo asked without looking up as he turned a page.

  ‘Perhaps “surprised” is not the word I would use.’ I heard the edge in my voice; it held the sharpness of a thin blade cutting through paper. ‘But men like you always seem to find a way to enjoy the comforts that you have possessed as a Florentine of rank and station.’

  ‘Until the noose is placed around your neck,’ Trelawny spat out. ‘I have seen many villains end like that, and it is a painful death, believe me …’

  ‘Edward, enough.’ I might resent Matteo’s amenities, but I did not want to imagine his agony at the end of a rope. That type of brutal revenge held no attraction for me in spite of the justness of the punishment.

  ‘Please, sit.’ He gestured toward two high-backed chairs, upholstered in faded red velvet.

  I complied, but Trelawny remained standing, positioned behind me.

  ‘Finally, you have found a cavaliere who seems a worthy companion for you,’ Matteo commented as he closed his book, his glance flitting over both of us with a disagreeable gleam. ‘I always wondered why you lived without a protector in Firenze with only your niece and her daughter; even now, you possess the type of charms that a man would find attractive. You must have been quite beautiful when young – la bella figura, with the fiery looks of our Italian clime.’

  Trelawny bristled, and I cut in quickly, ‘That was many years ago, and I will remind you that I am a respectable, if somewhat … middle-aged English woman.’

  ‘Of course.’ Smiling, he held up the book
and my breath caught in my throat as I saw the title.

  The Prophecy of Dante.

  Byron’s poem, written during his years in Ravenna – a lyrical tribute to the beloved Italian poet. He thought it was his best work, but I could never bring myself to read it since it was dedicated to his last mistress, Teresa Guiccioli – the ‘Lady … in the pride of Beauty and Youth,’ as he described her.

  ‘I find your poet’s theme of being exiled appeals to me right now.’ He gave a short, ironic laugh. ‘Like Dante, I have been disowned by everyone, reviled by one and all, so I shall expect no mercy at my trial. I know that.’

  Shifting with discomfort, I eyed the book’s cover with Byron’s name blazoned across the upper half in large gold cursive script. I knew he had written it in 1821 when he lived in Ravenna with Teresa – a wealthy, beautiful, young Italian woman who was also married; she was the perfect combination for Byron’s last liaison, until she left her husband to live openly with the poet as her lover. No more furtive meetings in the lush, romantic pine forests – just the domestic messiness of being a cavaliere servente. I had heard all about it from Shelley when he, Mary, and I lived in Pisa on the other coast of Italy at the same time. Mary had been shocked at Byron’s ménage à trois, but I had not. He made women forget all sense and reason – and I included myself in this coterie. I would have followed him anywhere as long as I had Allegra with me.

  Ah … I missed the passion of my youth.

  ‘You deserve the fate that awaits you, sir.’ Trelawny stressed the last word with a sneer. ‘Anyone who would kill a man of God has no right to live.’

  ‘Forse.’ Matteo shrugged. ‘I do not pretend to be other than the man I am, flawed and corrupt, but Father Gianni may not have been the saint that most Florentines believed him to be—’

  ‘How dare you vilify the dead!’ I exclaimed. ‘Father Gianni was the kindest person I have ever met. His entire life was devoted to his parishioners – helping even those who were some of the worst sinners. You have no right to say such things about him.’