Acre Excerpt

 

When Vignolo dei Vignoli forced his eyes open, the world remained dark. The sounds of the city were muffled, the air around him damp and stagnant, with not a trace of the cool breeze always present in Acre’s Mid Earth Sea harbor. It was not the first time Vignolo had had a sack tied over his head. He found the blackness comforting, once his breath had returned from being struck in the abdomen and he had managed to spit out the moist cloth of the hood he had sucked in and out of his mouth as he struggled to regain his wind.

He tottered along with a captor at each elbow, his hands tied before him, and tried not to think too much. No sense in attempting to figure out who had hired these men or where he was going. Sadly, it could have been any of a number of people and he would know soon enough. So, he relaxed his shoulders, blew the coarse material out of his mouth once again, and allowed himself to be led through the narrow side streets of Acre. For a time he found himself almost enjoying the freedom of letting someone else dictate his course, but that initial thrill soon wore off.

A door squealed open. His toe caught on the threshold as he was pushed through and he almost fell. They weaved in and out of rooms and the sounds of the late night denizens of Acre were shut out. Another door opened and they were back outside. A woman’s voice cursed them and a man grunted in surprise as they pushed past.

“Oi, watch yourselves!” the woman said. The smell of sweat, alcohol, and sex found its way inside Vignolo’s hood.

“Excuse us, my lady,” Vignolo said, turning his head back to the couple. “Might I have your name for future—”

A fist pounded into his stomach and he found himself sucking on sack cloth yet again. His breath returned faster this time. I must be getting better at this, he thought.

“My father is a rich man. I can get you double whatever they are paying you.”

A hard palm or maybe an elbow smashed half onto his nose and upper lip. Pain registered immediately and Vignolo cursed. He hated being hit in the nose for the eye-blurring pain always had a way of making him instantly angry. Still, it had been worth a try. You never knew who was going to turn at the opportunity to make a better profit. Vignolo had once bribed his way out of a fix when he was caught in bed with a noble man’s sister. The man was rich, but the prospect of being even richer was more attractive than his sister’s honor. Of course Vignolo had never actually paid the man.

“Dead men cannot spend coin,” a rough voice said in Italian with a strong Milanese accent. “And we know your father hates you.”

Milan? Oh, this is not good.

“Hates me? That is an exaggeration. I am his only heir, the last of his blood. I assure you, he could not bear to see harm come to the last of the Vignoli line.”

The man laughed. “And what if we already work for him? Who would pay us then?”

That was a prospect Vignolo had not considered. No, his father would never hire Milanese thugs. Too unpredictable. They were cheap and you could get them to do anything for a bit of silver, but they had a tendency to take matters into their own hands. Every time Vignolo had hired one he had regretted it. Of course rough work required rough hands, but a level head was required to lead those hands.

“Why so silent Vignolo?” The man pushed him stumbling into the side of a stone building, caught him as he rebounded and shoved him forward through a doorway. Once again the sounds of the city died away as one of the men slammed the door shut and slid a locking timber into place.

Milanese. Who in Acre would be stupid enough to hire Milanese? Vignolo silently went down his list of French and English creditors and could think of no one. Then it hit him.

Oh, Mary.

But not Mary. As far removed from the Blessed Virgin as one could possibly imagine, in fact. Provenzano. Francesca Provenzano. Only another Milanese would hire Milanese thugs. Albeit, she had married into a rich Venetian family and had publicly severed all ties with that world.

They brought him to a stop and someone ripped the hood off his head, taking with it more than a few of Vignolo’s wavy dark hairs. He clenched his eyes shut, telling himself it was because of the pain and the sudden influx of lantern light. But the truth was, he was in no hurry to see the woman standing before him.

“Open your eyes, Vignolo.” The voice was flat, almost bored.

Vignolo opened first one eye and then the other. “Ah, hello Francesca. What brings you to Acre?”

The man holding his left elbow leaned around and punched Vignolo in the stomach. “She said nothing about speaking.”

Vignolo coughed and leaned against his captors until he caught his breath. He straightened up and looked at Francesca. She was a tall, beautiful woman, perhaps ten years older than Vignolo. Even in his current state of distress he found himself admiring the length of her and wondered if there were any truth to the rumor that her late husband had expired in the throes of passion. She caught him staring. Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head.

“You were about to say something?” Francesca said.

“I was under the impression I had another month.”

Francesca’s lips spread into a line. “You think I would bother coming all the way here for the likes of you and the paltry sum you owe? Your head is as big as your arse.”

“Excellent. Then I will be on my way.”

Francesca tilted her head and laughed. She ran her tongue over her lips once, giving them a luster that matched her eyes. Then she nodded to the man at Vignolo’s side. He sunk his fist into Vignolo’s guts so far Vignolo thought he felt the man’s knuckles bounce off his spine. He doubled over and black spots swam before his eyes.

“That is for looking at me with the eyes of a man.”

Some time later, with his lungs only partially filled, Vignolo found his voice. It squeaked out, and he cringed at the sound of it. “So, why are you here then?” At least he felt confident he did not have the voice of a man at the moment.

“Business, Vignolo. Honest business. But I would not expect a Genoan to know anything about that. Believe it or not, I have more on my books than treasure hunting no-goods like you.”

“If the quality of your employees is any indication of your clients, I find that hard to believe.” Vignolo was prepared for the blow this time, even though it came from the man holding his right elbow. He recovered quickly and spat on the floor.

“This conversation is going to take a long time if you keep letting your monkeys hit me whenever I say something.”

“Yes, we do know how much you like to talk. And speaking of employees, I sent a man with a message for you before you fled Venice. But I am not sure you received it, for I have not seen him since.”

Vignolo shrugged. “Venice can be a dangerous place. It is possible he was waylaid before he found me.”

“I suspect there is at least some truth to that.”

“So… What was the message?”

“He was to tell you not to leave Venice.”

“Ah. Well now, that is an unreasonable request if you ever expect to see the money I owe you. I am a ship’s captain. I make my living on the sea. And as you are well aware, the Venetians are not always hospitable to Genoans. Or anyone for that matter.”

“Maybe I do not expect to ever see that money again.”

Francesca had a point. It was not a great deal of coin to someone of her means.

“You will get your money. I swear it. I have something in the works as we speak.”

She shrugged. “I will, or I will not. But that is a discussion for another day. Right now, I have someone here that wishes to see you.” Francesca twisted her head and spoke over her shoulder, but kept her eyes fixated on Vignolo. “Giacomo. Bring him in.” A red curtain, heavy enough to be a carpet, slid aside behind Francesca. A tall, gaunt man backed through dragging a limp form along the ground by one booted ankle. He let go of the man’s leg and it bounced twice before settling on the floor. His hooded head lolled to one side. Other than that, he did not move. The gaunt man wiped his hands on his breeches and, as he looked into Vignolo’s face, a slow smile creased his angular features.

Vignolo’s stomach turned. He had never seen this man of Francesca’s before, but he had known a handful of men like him over the years. Men from the docks of Genoa who worked not for gold or glory, but for the simple thrill of violence. Perhaps he was not from Genoa; he could have been from the streets of Milan or the public squares of Venice. It did not matter, for these men were all the same. They shared a lust not for life, but rather, the absence of it. Those that were disciplined enough sometimes managed to find a place within one of the elite Genoan Crossbowmen mercenary troops. Life amongst the soldiers of the red and green offered a steady salarium, along with a healthy measure of respect from the world’s fighting forces. But for some men that was not enough. Vignolo understood this well, for he himself had served three years as a Genoan Crossbowman while in his late teens, but his restless nature soon had him turning in his crossbow and pavaise and taking to the seas.

“Remove the hood,” Francesca said.

Squatting low over the body, Giacomo did as she bid, but he kept his eyes on Vignolo’s face lest he missed something fascinating. He yanked the coarse material away in one swift motion like a magician revealing a vanished rat.

Vignolo raised his eyebrows at Francesca. “Am I supposed to know this young man?”

Francesca’s eyes lit up and laughter bubbled out of her. She put a hand to her mouth and for a moment, ever so brief, Vignolo thought a lady stood before him. That was before she slapped him.

She grabbed his chin in both hands and turned his face to hers. “Oh, Vignolo. You are one of the best liars I have ever dealt with.”

Vignolo licked at a cut on the inside of his lip. “I am not sure how to take that. I imagine a woman like you gets lied to more than even you would think.”

Francesca leaned in close. Vignolo could smell orange blossoms.

“A woman always knows when a man is lying.” She pushed Vignolo’s head back and jerked her hands away. Then she turned to Giacomo. “Get him up.”
Giacomo sloshed a full chamber pot of what Vignolo hoped was water onto the face of the young man. He came to coughing and bucking, his face heavily bruised, bloodied, and swollen.

“Andrea Moresco. Second son of your much older sister. Deny his identity again and I will have Giacomo slit his throat before your eyes.”

Vignolo thought he saw Giacomo stand a little taller, the furrow in his face that passed for a smile grew a little deeper. “Ah, Nephew. Is that you? I suppose I failed to recognize you with all the recent beatings you have received about the head.”

“The fool boy swore up and down that his dear uncle Vignolo could help him. I pray for his sake that he is right.”

Vignolo did not like the sound of Francesca’s words. It was not what she said but rather how she said it. Her voice had a bored, monotonous ring to it.
Andrea coughed and rolled onto his side as he dragged one hand across his face to clear his vision. He gave Vignolo a weak look and when he spoke there was little air in his words. He kept his elbows pressed tight against his ribs to lessen the pain there.

“I am sorry Vignolo. I had no other choice.”

“Nonsense!” Vignolo said. “We are family are we not?” Andrea nodded eagerly, perhaps too eagerly. The sudden movement made a fresh grimace appear on the young man’s boyish features.

Vignolo looked at Francesca. “What is the boy’s sum?”

“A week ago it was a hundred. Today it is two hundred.”

Vignolo allowed himself a private sigh of relief. It was a large sum, but not unworkable. “That is rather aggressive interest. Are you not concerned for your soul?”

Francesca laughed. “Usury is the least of my sins, I assure you. Now, the situation here has grown old. Can you help the poor boy or shall we just move on?” Her eyes moved slowly around the room until they came to rest on Giacomo, who leaned against a wall directly above Andrea.

“Can I have a moment alone to confer with my nephew?”

“I will give you two,” Francesca said. She smiled and curtsied before leaving the room through the heavy curtained doorway. The men holding Vignolo’s elbows deposited him roughly on the floor beside his nephew and followed their mistress. Giacomo stared at Vignolo for a moment longer and then he pushed himself off his wall and followed the others.

“Thank you for coming, uncle. You have no idea how relieved–”

“Shut up!” Vignolo leaned in close so his words could not be overheard in the next room. “Do you not realize how much trouble we are in? Francesca Provenzano is the most notorious money lender in all of Venice. She regularly executes her least profitable clients just to keep her reputation up. And when I say execute I do not mean in a ‘stab you through the heart and be done with you’ type of way. Oh, no. It is always slow, with many witnesses present to spread the word about how long and how hard you screamed.”

Andrea’s eyes grew wide and he reached out a hand to claw at Vignolo’s sleeve. “Please, Vignolo. There must be something you can do. I have heard that you deal with her regularly. That is why I sought her out in the first place.”

“Why would you need the likes of her? Your brother is the Governor of Rhodes for God’s sake. Why not go to him if you cannot pay off your gambling debts?”

“This is not about gambling. I needed the money to buy a ship.”

“A ship?”

Andrea nodded. “A galley with two banks of oars. She is a beauty. You would have approved, Uncle. I tried to get my brother to buy her for me but he accused me of trying to live out some boyhood trader captain fantasy on the seas when I should be helping him rule Rhodes for the Byzantine Emperor.”

Vignolo leaned back. This is not what he had expected to hear. He had assumed the boy had spent all the money on whores and gambling. That would have been the more sensible thing to do, what with all the Venetian and Turkish pirates prowling the waters these days.

“So, let me guess. You got your beautiful ship loaded up with silks from Damascus and set sail to make your fortune. Unfortunately, you were set upon by pirates and they took everything.”

“How–?”
“And probably, at some point during your flight from these pirates your ship had an unfortunate mechanical failure which resulted in your capture.”

Andrea cringed, but not from any physical pain he might be experiencing. “Our rudder pin sheared off leaving us unable to maneuver. It does sound almost too coincidental. Are you saying someone on my crew was one of the pirates?”

“They were no common pirates.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Because if Vignolo had been in Francesca’s position, he probably would have done the same. A naive young captain with rich family connections would have been too much for her to resist. Now she had his cargo as well as his original debt and whatever Vignolo was about to promise her to spare the lad’s life. Of course Vignolo was not one of those rich family members, but he suspected Francesca knew that.

“Because you are alive. At the very least you should be living the miserable life of a galley slave right now if your attackers had been true pirates.”

“Then who–?”

Vignolo cut him off. “Look, Andrea, you can puzzle this all out later. We have little time. I may be able to get us out of here alive, but you have to trust me and do exactly as I say. Understood?”

“Of course, Uncle! You and my brother may have issues, but I have always admired how you carved your own way through this world. Whatever you can do…”

“Very well. Do you still own your house on Rhodes? The one in the valley with the orchards attached?”

“I do…” Andrea said, his eyes narrowing.

“The second we get out of here, IF we get out of here, I will take you to a scribe I know and you will sign over the house and lands to me.”

Andrea pushed himself up on one elbow. “Are you mad? My brother would kill me if I gave you that house! It was a commission from the Emperor himself.”

“Oh come now. You exaggerate. Your brother would never kill you. But Francesca Provenzano will, of that you can be sure. And without your house under my name I will never be able to secure enough credit to satisfy her.”

Vignolo watched the light in Andrea’s eyes dim as he lowered his gaze to the floor. No doubt he was hearing his brother and father talking about what a scoundrel Vignolo was and how it was no wonder his own father had disinherited him. When the boy looked up again his eyes were set, hard. They had lost every last bit of adulation Vignolo had always seen in them. That was good, Vignolo thought. He was nobody’s hero. Heroes belonged in songs and children’s stories and the sooner the boy understood that the sooner he could get on with living.

“All right, Uncle. I will do as you say if you get me out of here and my debt to Francesca is cleared.”

Vignolo’s eyebrows twitched. “I did not say anything about clearing your debt to her.”

“No, but I know the value of my house.”

The boy was a faster learner than Vignolo thought. “Very well. I will try.”

Vignolo stood and as he was straightening his clothes, Francesca entered the room. A step behind her was Giacomo.

“I trust you had a nice reunion,” Francesca said.

“Very nice, yes. Thank you. I feel I understand the situation much better now,” Vignolo said.

“Good,” Francesca said, her eyes as cold as her voice.

“You have the boy’s ship somewhere near?”

Francesca shrugged. Vignolo took that as a ‘yes’.

“All right, we are prepared to give you his ship as payment of his debt.”

“The ship is damaged,” she said.

“Surely you know someone who could repair that damage?”

“In fact, I do. But he is not cheap. My investors would not be happy if we had to pay the cost of repairs.”

“I do not suppose you know exactly how much your shipwright would charge?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. He could do it for exactly the same amount as your own current debt to me.”

“I see. Well it just so happens that I have a contract coming up that will see me with enough funds to repay both my debt and the boy’s as well. Would that prove satisfactory to your investors?”

“It depends. Tell me of this contract.”

Vignolo held up his hands and smiled. “Now, Francesca. What kind of business would I be running if I talked about my clients so openly? I am sure you of all people understand.”

“I understand that you are Vignolo dei Vignoli, liar, cheat, adulterer, and pirate. Did I leave anything out?” She stepped toward him and raised up on her tiptoes to brush at a patch of dirt on his shoulder. His shirt was freshly torn there and he felt the heat of her slender fingers brush along the skin near his collar bone. “And if you cannot convince me of the legitimacy of this contract you say you have, then you are worth far more to me dead than alive.”

Vignolo had often wondered just how high a position he held on her overall client list. Apparently, it was quite low. Disturbingly low.
He cleared his throat and caught her eyes with his own. They sparkled with the thrill of the hunt, and they both knew Vignolo was the one up the tree.
“I suppose there would be no harm in a little sharing between friends. On one condition, of course.”

She raised her eyebrows and took a step back. “Condition, Vignolo?”

He held his arms out wide to display the poor condition of his shirt. “My chemise has suffered at the hands of your men. I see it only right that you contribute toward a new one. I know a good tailor in Acre, but perhaps you have a source that could supply him with a bolt of silk. Damascene silk, preferably?”

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