matilde & bastiano ii.

Bastiano

A day goes by. Then another. A messenger arrives, rushes straight to Lorenzo's chambers. Later that evening, he summons Matilde, and that is when she must pretend to be shocked, or at least surprised, by the news of the Pope's bastard.

The next morning the guard is doubled, and the gates of the estate are closed and barred. Even so, the missive manages to reach her. The seal is her Franciscan friend's. The hand inside is unfamiliar, and requests a time, a date, a meeting. Soon.

The signature: B.

Matilde

The following days go by without incident. She asks no questions out of the ordinary, she gives no advice beyond what is expected. She conceals her agitation until nightfall, when she gives herself over to a hunt of some semi-amphibian creatures lurking along the river south of the residence, dragging some hapless wanderers to their deaths. It helps, killing a few things. For an hour or two, she is able to stop thinking about Bastiano.

The next night, though, while she prepares for bed, she is summoned. She dresses, and she does not rush, because she never rushes. She fans herself idly as Lorenzo tells her about the body that was found. Her eyebrows do lift, then draw together. He asks if she is not shocked. She laughs at him. She asks him at what point the death of powerful men became shocking in this city. He is displeased with that answer, and she is contrite, and it is far more distracting to him than a gasp would have been. From her, at least. She begins asking questions about his own security forces, about how he will protect himself, before she ever gets around to asking what they think happened.

Who they think could have done such a thing.

She is very persuasive. Lorenzo trusts her.

--

No one intercepts the message from a monk. Lorenzo's adviser is not known for her devotion, but it is well understood that she gives generously to the Poor Friars. Some rumor and gossip that it is her way of paying for her many sins, for her harlotry at least and perhaps even witchcraft, but these whispers are never spread widely. People who whisper too much about Lorenzo's inner circle tend to regret it.

But she receives it, and sends the maid away who brought it, and her hands are shaking when she opens it.

She reads it four times before she burns it. As it smolders in her fireplace, she writes her response. She addresses it to the monk, and it is very brief indeed, only giving her assent, her assurance, that she will see him soon.

Her signature is more elaborate, though.

Bastiano

For a few days, Bastiano is a friend to the friars. He lives amongst them as a lay brother; wears their robes and works their tidy little fields, carries their wood, scrubs their floors. He asks little in return other than a bedroll to sleep on, a small share of their austere meals. And of course: that they deliver his missive and its reply.

When it comes time to leave, he leaves a small sack of coin atop his neatly folded bedroll. Perhaps it is to be seen as a donation. Perhaps, a bribe.

--

The vineyard is some distance south of the city, amidst hazy hot hills that retain their warmth deep into the night. On the vines, the new grapes are ripening. The summer harvest is some months away yet.

He waits for her there in the thick of the vines, knowing she will find him by scent and sound if need be. He has changed again: now in the crude clothes of a peasant, loose oft-mended tunic and leggings some decades out of style. He left his horse by the road. He has a dagger in his boot. In case.

Matilde

As it turns out, the friar who knows Matilde understands Bastiano from the start. Or thinks he does, at least. He senses something about the man, other than the obvious stance of a warrior, the quick reflexes, the previously broken nose. He suspects. But when Bastiano requests a message sent to a certain raven-haired woman in the de Medici house on the river, the middle-aged monk understands.

He mentions something to Bastiano as he seals the letter himself. A blessing from the Mother of all creatures, great and small, She who brings fruit to the fields and grace to the orphaned. He mentions no tribal allegiance, and his features give little away, but there is a feral glint in his eye, a wolfish recognition of one's own blood.

The bribe is not necessary.

The donation is welcome. Their order is called to poverty, after all.

--

Another night or two. A vineyard a good distance from the house where she met him. Every day it grows warmer. Every night grows more enjoyable, every day stretching luxuriously into evening for just a few more minutes. They are far from the solstice but there is a certain headiness in the air, a restlessness that causes animals to rut and humans to flirt and makes Matilde's heart thump as she moves through the heavy vines, wearing no cloak but

fur, deep black, melting into shadows until only her eyes catch the moonlight. She moves swiftly, silently, searching for him through the smell of grapes. The closer she gets, the more her memory flickers. She thinks she smells blood only to correct herself. She thinks she is on her own land only recall that she owns no such thing.

It is easier, when she is certain of his presence, his location. It centers her in this place, this time. She approaches him with a gently loping gait, arriving on all fours, her eyes golden, tinged with green at the edges. Comes at him quickly, her tail wagging fiercely, becoming a woman in a dark grey cloak just a moment, a heartbeat, before she is leaping into his arms, hands on his face, pressing a kiss to his mouth.

Bastiano

Bastiano does not know the wolf that approaches, though he certainly has his guesses. All the same, he stands where he is, wary but not fearful and certainly not aggressive, as it approaches -- lean paws moving fast, tail wagging hard. A beat before it is upon him, it becomes a woman,

his woman, he thinks, with no right at all to think such a thing,

and then she is leaping into his waiting arms as he embraces her fiercely. That kiss is a wild, fiery thing. He drags his fingers through her hair.

Her feet touch ground again some moments later. They are shadowed by the swaying vines, which hide tiny burgeoning bunches of grapes under broad leaves. The moon rises slowly; the landscape is asleep, lazy, heavy with the oncoming spring.

"I missed you," he whispers. "I believed you would come, but I didn't know it until this moment."

Matilde

There's so much joy in her. Even before she changes, her ears are cocked forward, her paws eager on the ground. And when she's a woman again, she's smiling, she's all but laughing, throwing herself into his embrace with a joy she can't quite contain in one form. In any form.

She's dressed so simply. Under her cloak is just a plain woven dress, little more than a shift. She could look like a peasant if not for her grace, her fair skin, her soft hands. The hood of her clock falls back as he runs his hands into her dark hair, a gasp leaving her lips as he holds her to him.

It does not entirely occur to her that she's not standing on the earth until he sets her down. She is smiling at him, her hands on his arms to steady herself and keep herself near. And to feel him, truthfully, alive and warm under her touch. She is reassuring herself of his realness, of his vitality, of his safety. Her eyes are shining.

"And I you," she says back, just as soft. "It feels like so much longer than a few days."

She smiles then, touching his face, her relief causing her to grin recklessly, foolishly, with a sort of pure happiness she would normally conceal from... anyone else, perhaps.

"What do you need of me? Name it."

Bastiano

Her joy is infectious. He finds himself smiling back at her, closing his eyes into her touch, leaning his brow to hers.

Her words bring him back to reality. His eyes open; there's a furrow in his brow, and his exhale is half a sigh.

"I feel ... wrong, asking it of you. As though I were taking advantage of our feelings for one another."

Matilde

She's so happy to see him. She never feels this way. There is always a touch of detachment, always a hint of wariness, always something else tempering such feelings in her life. With him, there is only a flicker of how strange this all is, how mad, but the impact such thoughts have on her dwindle by the moment. They feel like someone else's voice urging caution; her own heart trusts so fully, so utterly. She doesn't understand it. She doesn't care.

She is so happy to be standing here with him, bare feet on the grass, the smell of wind in her hair from the night-run to this place, his arms warm around her.

But he furrows, and he sighs, and her brow mirrors his, her breath echoes.

Her head is shaking slightly even as he says he feels wrong. She almost laughs, but it's little more than a breath.

"I wanted you to take me with you that very night," she whispers to him, her voice fierce with truth. "I only stayed where I was so that you could use my position."

A small smile, half teasing, half aching: "Do not make my sacrifice vain."

Bastiano

To his credit, he hesitates still.

Also to his credit, the hesitation lasts barely a second. Then: "Giacomo della Rovere -- you know of him, yes? A great cardinal from a line of great cardinals, master and pupil, stretching back some three or four centuries. Only, we think there are no masters and pupils, and never have been. There is only one man, one blooddrinker who can change his face and the face of those who serve him. Thus he appears to age, to die, to be someone wholly different, even to walk about during the day when his kind should burn to ash.

"He is known to have had a heavy hand in the current Pope's election, and to have been grooming the Pope's bastard for power. Both are likely enthralled to della Rovere. Since his protege's untimely death, Cardinal della Rovere has been relentless. He has made numerous inquiries into the matter. He has sent spies into every corner of Italy. He has levied heavy taxes on every road and port carrying Florentine goods through Rome, and he has excommunicated a number of Florence's finest. This morning, he demanded from your Lorenzo a list of every guest at the masquerade -- the men, the women, even the castrati -- doubtlessly to give his assassins targets. If Lorenzo de' Medici refuses to comply, he has threatened to expel him from the Church and loose the papal armies on his city. In all things, of course, he has the backing of the Pope.

"We need you to convince your lord to swallow his pride and capitulate to the Cardinal, and to do so in person, here, at a private banquet held in the Cardinal's honor. Then, we need you to make contact with the Cardinal yourself; to offer yourself as his hidden hand in Florence. If he knows who and what you are, he will not be able to resist so tempting a pawn, and he will not send a servant wearing his face. He will come himself to collect his due. Doubtlessly, he will still be disguised -- perhaps as a lowly footman, or a steward -- which is why we need you to plant a dozen of my brethren in de' Medici's household as servants, guards, cooks. When the times comes, we will bar the exits and fall upon the guests; strike down every last one of della Rovere's retinue to leave him no chance of escape.

"Afterward, we will have to run fast and far. I doubt Lorenzo would ever forgive any of us for such a grotesque violation of hospitality, and Rome will certainly not forgive Lorenzo. I'm afraid your lord will have to pay a price for our acts -- but if it is any consolation, he is cunning and strong, and might yet make the best of the situation. The Florentine elite, at least, would thank him for breaking Rome's stranglehold on their economy."

Matilde

They hold each other. Not crushingly, not desperately, but still they embrace among the vines. He has not let go of her. She does not move from him.

But her eyes are clear as he tells her what he -- what they -- need of her. She gives a short nod when he mentions the cardinal. She nods again when he mentions the inquiries, the spies and taxes, the excommunications: she has heard of these things.

There is only one interruption, when he says We need you to convince your lord --

She scoffs at this, these two words. "Only to his face."

Beyond that: she is still when he gets to precisely what is required. And at the end, when he thinks aloud about the potential consequences, she has stepped back in her mind, is considering, is only half listening to that part.

Because as soon as he is done:

"It will raise no alarm when I ask de Medici for a pair of guards of my own, and I will suggest a few more for him, too. The two assigned to me will have the fewest eyes over their shoulders. The ones for de Medici and his family will be watched more closely.

"I will make sure to make my request before he tells me about the list the Cardinal has demanded. When he does, I will insist on the new guards, but advise humility and caution." A wry twist of her mouth. "He will blame my so-called faith, and I will lay out for him all that he is losing, and will lose, for defying Rome. I will ask him how many new guards he thinks he will need when Florence riots at his door."

She exhales softly. "After that, the planning of the banquet will go quickly, and we will need to make several hires to give it the sort of grand scale worthy of a Cardinal."

Her hand lifts, touching his face. "And then we will leave. And fight our own war."

Bastiano

Almost at once his hand covers hers, grips. He kisses the heel of her hand, and then -- irrepressibly drawn -- he kisses her again.

"Our own war," he repeats, like a promise or an invocation.

Then, releasing her, to business again: "I'll pass word on. The next few days will be busy. Spread word into the streets of when your banquet is to happen and I'll hear of it. If you need to reach me, there's a drop box we use in Giotto's Campanile -- a loose stone on the second flight of stairs, just beneath the sconce shaped like a seashell. I'll check every night for a message.

"Otherwise, we'll not see each other again until the banquet."

Matilde

When he kisses her again, her eyes close. Her chin lifts, her mouth meeting his. Both her hands, now, on his cheeks. The kiss does not last very long but it is intense, passionate, and she drowns in it. There is something of the river and sea still in her eyes when they part, and he echoes her own words back to her, which were only ever an echo of his own, given to her in her bedchamber.

He releases her, but she stays close to him, holds to him, cleaves herself to his side. She can hear him leaving her again in the words he says, no matter how hard she tries to focus. She wants to howl. She wants to say no to all these intrigues, all these plans. Humanity has ever been complicated, its rules maddening, its boundaries oppressive.

Matilde nods to him, tightly, to show she understands. The stairs, the stone, the sconce shaped like a shell. When he tells her what he does, at the very end, her hand moves, her fingers across his lips, trying to silence him but not intently. She leans forward, pressing her brow to his chest.

She says nothing. But she doesn't need to.

Bastiano

His arms close around her at once. Tightly. He clasps her to his body, bowing his head to hers, his nose in her hair. Closes his eyes and inhales.

"Don't fear, mio amore," he murmurs. "We do this one thing, we finish it, and we will leave. We will never be parted again."

Matilde

In another life, in perhaps countless other lives, they have scarcely found one another but they have stayed together, night and day, for the rest of their brief lives. In this one, they must not. It is possible, it is even desirable, but they each have promises to keep. And deep down she knows it: this cardinal cannot be permitted to go on as he has for decades, centuries, until he gains all the power he needs to turn the whole countryside into a farm of blood-slaves.

Still her hand curls in his peasant garb. Still he inhales the scent of her hair: rosewater and balsam and citrus. She breathes, to steady herself and to take in his scent again. The way she misses him feels as though it may cripple her. In some ways it feels as though it already has.

She wants to tell him she cannot bear it. That she can only do this if she has him with her, if she has the strength she feels when she's with him. She wants to tell him that she refuses all his little army desires of her unless they pay her with his heartbeat beneath her ear every night, his arms around her in her bed.

Resting against his chest, Matilde opens her eyes, and says none of this. She holds him for a while.

And in that while, eventually, she whispers:

"How long do we have, tonight?"

Bastiano

"I'm reporting back at dawn," he replies. They've not yet drawn apart.

And then, hesitantly: "I ... made a little camp. It is a presumption, I know, and there is little luxury there. But it's not far."

Matilde

Dawn.

The way she looks at him then. The way he can almost taste the watering of her mouth.

He says he made a camp. He says it's a presumption; she exhales, laughter that almost sounds like a gasp. He's so apologetic for the lack of luxury he offers, and she is charmed beyond reckoning. She kisses him again, hungrier now, her hand flowing around him to graze the hair at the back of his head.

"Take me there," she whispers, when she parts from him. Then, before she can hesitate, before she can be wary of how the words sound to him: "I need you."

Bastiano

There is hunger in her kiss, hunger in his response. Their hands are hungry too, gripping at one another as though they might otherwise slip away into smoke.

"You'll have me," he promises; neither of them heed what this may sound like, the wanton disregard for caution. "And I you. Can you ride? Or must you run?"

Matilde

She laughs after he asks if she must run. It's because of the question just before it, because of where her thoughts have gone, have been going for days, were going from the moment she met him. She wants to bite him again. She is gleeful now, a swift change from the ache of a moment ago when she thought these few moments of secrets were all she could have with him. She has her hands on his sides, perilously close to drawing up his garments and luxuriating in his skin there amidst the vines.

Can she ride.

"I can indeed ride, and well," she murmurs to him, "but tonight I will run first."

Bastiano

In an instant his mind has joined hers. She can see it, the crook in his smile, the lazy light in his eyes. He huffs a laugh. He leans into her, kisses her beneath her ear, grips her rather shamelessly by the ass.

"I'll meet you there," he murmurs. "Go up into the hills. Straight west until you come upon a narrow river. Follow it upstream. You'll see my camp before long."

Matilde

Her head tips back when he bends his mouth to that spot beneath her ear. Her body elongates, her hand falling to his arm, squeezing gently. She doesn't even laugh when he touches her like he has a right to her, because she delights in it. She bites back an eager little sound, something pent up for days,

decades,

lifetimes.

Truth be told, she has no need of his directions. She could find his scent when it was cool for hours or days, she could find him if he were masked by roses, by fire and ash, by eons. She thinks she could find him anywhere, now.

"Mi amore," she sighs, and moves from him only slightly. When he releases her, she looks at him once before before she changes.

In myths, women like her can only take their animal shapes when their loves don't look upon them. She is no myth, though. She is flesh and blood and then she is fur and fang, her body similar in size as before but burning hot with rage, her coat black as shadows, her eyes still a vivid golden-green. She licks her chops once, looking upon him, then turns, running towards the hills, up beyond where the vines can no longer grow.

Bastiano

He watches her without fear; without even the wariness he held when first she approached. He knows her now. He knows, instinctively, that she would never harm him.

So she turns into an animal. The humans would burn her for it if they could, but he knows just as certainly that they could never catch her, could never outsmart her, could never defeat her or capture her while she lived. Her tongue flicks and her teeth flash, and then she is running, vanishing into the night. Behind her, he laughs aloud, a quick and joyful sound. He thinks she might beat him there if he doesn't move quickly. He thinks he might find her in his bed, or what passes for a bed, naked as that first night.

He turns and he runs, too: jogging through the vines on two feet instead of four, bursting out onto the road, leaping astride that patiently waiting horse of his. He turns its head to the hills and lets it run.