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

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 were 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 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 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.

      “Why are we waiting here?” Helen asked me, between measured mouthfuls of her second biscuit.

      “For some friends to join us.” I wondered how much more to say, and sighed. She was going to have to be told at some point, and the telling really could not be put off much longer. “Including one who is a priest.”

      At that Helen looked bewildered. I glanced meaningfully at Verrocchio, who with apparent relief stood up and left the table and the room. The girl and I were alone with the dim-eyed paintings.

      I met her darkly puzzled gaze. “The priest is coming here to marry us,” I informed her.

      Comprehension grew by degrees in Helen’s eyes. Never shall I forget how she looked on that first night we were together, sitting at that rude table. (Mina, my beloved, you will understand.) The model’s gown, begrimed by use like all the women who had worn it, yet held some glory in its rich brocade. Her hard, small fingers, crumbling a biscuit. Her beaten, hunted, haunted face, so young. Her bare feet worn with the stones of Florence, with the hard roads of half of Europe. Her wild and filthy hair. Leonardo should have been on hand that night, and so should Goya.

      As