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

in the convent—the first time, I mean, the convent near Milan. I was staying there while the final arrangements were being concluded by my brother, for me to marry the Sforza. Perugino was working in the convent chapel. He had been hired to make paintings on the walls.”

      “Which Sforza were you to marry?”

      “Galleazzo Maria himself. The negotiations were all secret. Matthias badly wanted an alliance with Milan.”

      “Ah. Small wonder His Majesty was so angry at you when you thwarted him. Tell me more. I suppose the bridegroom-to-be was perturbed also?” If Galleazzo Maria Sforza’s reputation has now fallen behind mine—I should say remained above it—it was not always so.

      “There was a delay in the final arrangements. The Sforza was away on some business or other, I was never told what. So of course there I was, waiting in the convent, as the only proper place for me to stay. And in the chapel a young painter was at work. I was consumed with quiet anger at my brother, at what he was doing with my life for the sake of politics. As if I were only a soldier, to be used up in battle at the commander’s will.”

      “That is the way of battles. And of life.”

      “I tell you I … not of my life. Or so I thought. It began, with Perugino, as a way of getting back at Matthias. But Perugino was the first man I had ever had, and it became … great love. The two of us ran away together. And we have been together ever since, as much as we could be. We thought we would be quickly caught, so at first we lived with a kind of … raging joy. Do you understand? To do just as we liked, to fear nothing. I wanted to leave scandal wherever we went, to get back at my brother and at the world. For what they had tried to do to me.

      “Then later, it was … later it began to be no good. I have sold myself, to get food when we were starving. Again to get shelter, when Perugino was ill. When I was sick, he … I don’t know what he did, but he stayed with me. Now to save his life I will do anything you like.”

      “Why did you leave that dagger on my pillow?” Helen did not seem to know at first what I was talking about. I drew it from the sheath at my belt and held it up by the tip of the blade. The steel was still lightly notched where I had used it once to cut through a small chain. “This very dagger, here.”

      At last she remembered. “That? It was meant to show you that I did not hate you, you were not my enemy. Otherwise I would have killed you before I ran away.”

      “I see.” I looked at the weapon, and restored it to its sheath. “And where have you been living? Just now?”

      “As I said. In the next village down the road.”

      I had one more question. “Does Perugino know that you have come to me now?”

      Helen took thought, then shook her head. “I don’t see how he could.”

      “I want to talk to him, before I decide anything.” Helen wanted to speak, but I put up a hand and she was silent. “I am going to have him brought over here now. I want you to step into the other room, and listen from there. As you value his life, keep hidden and silent, no matter what you hear, until I tell you to come out.”

* * *

      Perugino’s beard, if he had ever in fact shaved it as Leonardo had once informed me, had long since grown back to greater length. There was gray in it now; though he was still in his twenties, probably a decade younger than I, his face was already becoming that of an old man. Still, I was quite sure that I would have known him, had I ever gone to look closely at the hostages.

      “I recognize you, Perugino,” I announced, when the soldiers who had brought him had gone out of the house again, leaving the two of us together. “Do you know me?”

      I honestly do not believe that he did know me, at first. He was shivering worse than Helen had been, and I believe a good part of his shivering was due to fear.

      “Come. In your position you have nothing to lose by admitting it. You know that we met at Verrocchio’s studio.”

      Gradually it dawned on him. He almost met my eyes, and then would not. His hands were bound behind him, which made it hard for him to find the least refuge in a pose, or in gestures.

      “Well, speak up, man. Answer.”

      “Yes, signore, I think I do know you. I’m sure of it, in fact.” Perugino’s voice was so low that I could scarcely hear it. There seemed to be no resistance of any kind left in him; there had been some in Helen, despite her continued claims that she was giving up.

      “Good,” I said cheerfully. “Good, I am glad. Then the chances are that you remember my wife as well.”

      Despite the cold, Perugino stank of sweat. Old sweat, fear-sweat. The stink grew now a little fresher. His face sicklied over with an attempted smile. He shook his head a trifle, not knowing what I wanted of him, how much I knew, or what if anything he ought to try to say.

      I tried to imagine him impaled on a high stake. He would stink even worse that way. The image brought me nothing but disgust. I sighed. It was hard to imagine that this creature before me had at one time been truly young, and good-looking, and brave enough to play at games with the betrothed of Galleazzo Maria Sforza inside high convent walls.

      I said: “I am in no mood to play games with you, man. I know that you and she have been together. The thing is