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pursuit ahead of any of the others. My intent was to appear to be chasing Helen, at least until it became
necessary to do more.
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Helen ran with better speed than I had counted on, her white figure staying a little ahead of me in the
darkness, maintaining a lead my long legs did not overcome. My drawn sword in my hand slowed me a
little. I had taken off belt and all on entering the house, as a twentieth-century visitor might have doffed his
hat, but then had routinely buckled the weapon on again as I came out.
Before I had run ten strides, shouts shattered the night behind me. A great alarm was going up, drunken
voices, in which merriment was still the dominant tone, bawling for more torches. But not everyone,
unfortunately, insisted on waiting for more light. Two pairs of feet were pounding after us, and one of
these pursuers was already getting uncomfortably close. Meanwhile, ahead of me, Helen's first burst of
speed was faltering. Fear indeed lends wings, but chaining and hunger are not the best of training
regimens.
No use trying to delay what must now be done. I stopped and turned abruptly and cut at the nearest
sportsman, aiming low for the legs. My blade bit bone, and with a loud cry he went sprawling. My
second pursuer was drawn and ready for me when he came running up. He was evidently an armed
professional retainer of some kind, and managed to delay me in masterly style, our swords conversing
almost invisibly in the near darkness, whilst he bawled for help. But his allies behind him still dawdled,
clamoring for their precious torches.
At last I got him with a thrust to the midsection, and was able to turn and run away again. Behind me the
cries of my latest victim went up alarmingly, mingled with a new uproar from dogs safe behind stone
walls. There was no hope now of avoiding a pursuit in deadly earnest. But of course I very soon had to
slow my flight, begin to grope my way slowly, meanwhile calling the girl's name loudly as I dared. I added
in her own language such assurances as I could think of, and prayed that she had had the wit and nerve
to stop and wait for me, or else that some of the Medici men had come to her aid.
There were actually, as I later learned, no Medici men on hand. Their sole spy on the scene had stayed
prudently where he could keep a good watch on the Boccalini. But fortune and the saints smiled upon us
anyway. Helen's voice, a ghost-whisper of softness, replied at last to one of my more urgent hisses, and
presently her small hand came reaching out of darkness to touch mine. I sheathed my sword and took it.
"Can you find the way," I whispered, "to the workshop of the artist called Verrocchio?"
"Yes." She paused as if surprised. "Yes, I think so." A moment more to get her bearings, and she tugged
at my hand and we were off. Helen had been in the city longer than I had, had walked in it much more,
and so had greater knowledge of its streets. More dogs awoke behind the walls surrounding us; but
behind us the enemy was still organizing, perhaps suspecting some trap, at any rate not ready to dash
recklessly off into the dark.
We turned corners; the sounds of their preparations fell behind us and disappeared. I began to breathe a
little easier.
"Why are we going to Verrocchio?" The king's sister was not shy of asking questions.
"They know us there, and are friendly. It has been arranged."
Helen said nothing more at the time, but led me through alleys and narrow ways, until we emerged upon
a broader street almost at the painter's door, having met no one en route. It took a minute of rapping with
my dagger hilt to get any answer at all from within the studio, and somewhat longer than that to get the
master of the house roused and brought to the door. Then, however, it was opened for us promptly
enough. Verrocchio, candlestick in hand, alarm showing in his heavy features, his gross body wrapped in
a fine robe, motioned us hastily in; we were already past him. After one last fearful glance into the
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darkness, he closed the portal quickly behind us.
"Send word at once that we are here," I ordered him, thinking it unnecessary to specify to whom word
should be sent. Then turning to the gaping servants and apprentices, I demanded: "Bring decent garments
for this girl at once." The help all stumbled away hastily under my glare, wrapped in whatever oddments
of bedcovers and clothing they had grabbed when the alarms began, the younger apprentice tugging the
bearded one by the arm to get him moving. Leonardo, who slept at home, was of course not in the
group. Helen meanwhile stood quietly at my side, waiting for whatever might happen next.
"What happened?" Verrocchio blurted to me, then looked as if he did not really want to know. He
turned his head and called after his retreating staff: "Perugino, there is a message you must carry!"
I took the candle from the master's shaking hand, and set it on a table, and seated myself there. I did not
bother to answer his question. Helen, at my gesture, seated herself next to me.
The bearded apprentice was back in a few moments, fully clothed. As he was unbarring the front door
again, ready to go out, I detained him with some words of caution. If he should have the bad luck to be
collared by the watch for breaking curfew, he was to say that he carried an urgent business message for
the Medici, and demand to be escorted to their house; and if it should become necessary to tell the
watchmen any more than that, he could add that the message concerned a painting of the Magdalen. He
gave me a look of fear and desperation mingled, and hurried out as soon as I released his sleeve.
Verrocchio and I barred up the door again. When I turned back to the table, Helen was gone into a
back room to change her dress, an old woman servant assured me. I sat down again to wait. In a minute
or two Helen was back, and as she re-emerged into the light of the candle on the table I rose
unconsciously to my feet. What they had given her to put on was the very gown of the painting.
"It's all we have that really fits her, sir," muttered the old woman, a little perturbed by my reaction.
"Never mind . . . it is all right . . . it is beautiful. Now, bring us something to eat and drink. Biscuits, wine,
whatever."
Again Helen, my unknowing bride-to-be, sat down with me at table. The dress that had appeared
glorious in dim candleglow at the far side of the room was not as glorious seen close up. Faded,
somewhat worn, a little dirty here and there, tired with the flesh of many models.
Paintings, stacked in racks along the far walls of the room, regarded us with dim eyes. Verrocchio, still
nervous, joined us at the table when I gestured. He was still wrapped in his fine robe. Biscuits and spiced
and watered wine were brought, in fine dishes and crystal goblets that were doubtless used ordinarily
only as artists' props. I sipped wine, but after all did not feel much like eating. Helen, after days of
hunger, was not going to let any opportunity pass. Noting her appetite, I counseled myself that tomorrow
I should begin to limit her intake; I had no wish for a fat wife.
Only after my drowsy thoughts had reached this banal conclusion did I realize that I had decided a
matter of considerable importance, without ever giving it full conscious thought. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]