Thorn by Fred Saberhagen (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

commented, “there are more women here than in the tavern, I would guess.” I reached out a hand to squeeze a passing buttock, whose owner paused briefly to give me back a nervous smile. I drank some wine—not much. “But I am a hard man to please, gentlemen. Without meaning the least disrespect to your hospitality, I must admit that these wenches look to me like so many cows filled with milk. To a man like myself these are as nothing. I want fire.” At this point I emitted a loud, completely un-Florentine belch; and I must confess that it was a deliberate attempt to express bold worldliness.

      My hosts averaged about fifteen years younger than myself, and I was still far from an old man. They were duly impressed, and exchanged glances.

      “It is something more fiery than these that you require,” mused Sandro.

      “Something different, at least.” I waved a haughty hand.

      A fat genuine cousin, Allessandro, raised his brows, hiccupped, and offered a suggestion. “There is a stableboy here, I am told, who plays the part of a girl quite—”

      “Bah!”

      Sandro was coming visibly to a decision. “Nay, old cousin Ladislao, come along with me. If it is fire you want, real female fire, then I think that I can promise you a treat.”

      The others, understanding what he meant after delays corresponding to their several states of drunkenness, hiccupped, shouted, and belched their approval. Sandro rose, and with a flourish took up one of the candles from the table, signing me to do likewise. Then with another great gesture he bade me follow him.

      We went up one flight of stairs after another, to a cramped top floor where some of the heat of the past day still lingered in the roof whose beams forced me to duck at almost every step. I counseled myself as we climbed that if this rare treat proved not to be the one I sought, I had better enjoy it anyway, or appear to do so. If I stayed on good terms with the Boccalini, sooner or later I would find out what had happened to Helen. If they had really taken her. With my luck, I thought, she was probably at that very moment on her way to Naples, or to England, or the Sultan’s court.

      But my luck was not that bad. We came to a heavy, crude door, from which Sandro took down a bar. Then, having to duck his own head at this point, he went in ahead of me with his candle. The room was small and windowless, meaner than my own cell back in the Tower of Solomon, and ovenish with heat. A girl lay on the floor. Her face was in shadow and she appeared so small my first thought was that they were offering me a kidnapped child. But as she sat up on the strawed floor I saw the soft proportions of a grown woman’s body under the rough shift that appeared to be her only garment. I noticed now that one of her ankles was secured with a fine, bright, elegant pet’s chain to a vertical beam supporting the low roof.

      My guide held up his candle, that I might see the captive better. “She has been here two days, continually insulting us,” he explained, rather like a physician detailing the symptoms of a mysterious illness to a visiting specialist. “She will have nothing to do with us willingly, gentle though we are.”

      The girl’s face, when at last I could see it under her fall of darkly matted hair, was bruised as well as grimy. Yet I was certain of it at first glance. “Why then did you bring her here?” I asked.

      Either Sandro did not hear the question, or he preferred to let it pass. “Two nights ago she was scratching and biting like a wildcat, my brothers and I can all testify to that. All the fire anyone might want, my friend. Myself, I haven’t been up here since then—maybe she is a little weaker now, I don’t think she has been fed much.”

      The girl’s eyes, that at first had blinked and squinted even in the weak candlelight, were steadily open now. She had the self-numbed, withdrawn look of a brave prisoner. With gentle caution I put a hand under her chin and raised her face more fully into the candles’ glow. “She’ll nip you,” Sandro warned. But she did not.

      Yes, beyond doubt my first impression had been correct. This was precocious Leonardo’s model—but a Magdalen who now looked as if she had lapsed from divine forgiveness. She would indeed have liked to bite me, or to spit at me at least, but she no longer quite dared to do so. The Boccalini, not trying very hard, had taught her that much in two days.

      I set down my own candlestick on the floor. “I thank you, cousin. This is what I wanted. I will see you in the morning.”

      “I wish you a sound night’s sleep,” laughed Sandro. And with a bow my benefactor left, taking his own candle with him and leaving the door ajar.

      I could hear him starting down the stairs. As far as I could tell the girl and I were now the only people on the whole upper floor of the great house. With a tired sigh I sat down on the dusty boards beside my candle, and then in afterthought, turned and bawled after Sandro: “Send up some water and wine! And food!” There came some unclear words in reply.

      Waiting, I sat looking at the girl and thinking about her in silence. She was holding her torn shift together with both hands, and leaning against the wooden post to which her chain was fastened. She was looking back at me rather as if I were some inanimate tool with which she was going to be hurt.

      A small padlock held a loop of the chain around the wooden post. Another similar lock bound another loop round her tiny ankle, which was certainly smaller than