Read Online The King's Agent by Donna Russo Morin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Donna Russo Morin
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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steed to join Battista as he galloped off.
Not another bear call greeted them, nor that of any human, as the pair kept to the woods and fields, avoiding any towns or villages along the trail northward. Late afternoon of the second day arrived with a light drizzle, and as they crested a small rise the magnificent palazzo rose up on the next hill, greeting them with its splendor.
Neither spoke, neither moved, far too assailed by the sight before them to do either. In all of his travels, Battista had never visited the Palazzo of Mantua, had never seen for himself the architectural beauty of the cluster of buildings comprising the compound, its cornerstone laid two hundred years ago in the fourteenth century.
The grouping of structures spread across the horizon, abutting the supporting village gathered at its feet to the west, the lace edge of the magnificent gown. Battista surveyed the cream and terra-cotta stone edifices rising into the violet crepuscular sky with respectful regard for artistic beauty. A mixture of military stronghold and noble palace, the spiky turrets sat atop the Gothic arched loggias, fusing the strong with the delicate. Battista beamed at its splendor.
Revelation quickly forgotten, his heart skipped a beat, catching up quick, thudding arrhythmically against the walls of his chest, for only the palace’s impenetrability rivaled its beauty, and yet he must penetrate it. Battista sucked in his breath, willing the burst of oxygen to still the unsteady beating.
“We are in time,” he said, as if to distract Frado from the flash of fear exposed for an instant across his features, forcing the muscles in his face to relax.
Though they advanced from the west, ignoring the main approach from the south, skirting the large thoroughfare leading up to the palazzo, they could see the entrance from the edge of the forest, watched as the opulently outfitted horses and gaily festooned conveyances delivered the guests invited to the evening’s gala. It was this very event—the celebration of the marquess’s birth—that had brought the pair to this door in a rush, knowing a well-attended occasion such as this would provide the perfect camouflage for their roguery.
With a cluck of his tongue, Battista urged his horse forward into a slow canter, Frado quick to follow.
They circled the palazzo, lost and invisible amidst the comings and goings of the palace and the festivities taking place in the village in honor of the lord. Taking turns, their backs to the palace, one spoke gaily of nothing, while the other surveyed the field, noting every egress and every guard. When each assured the other with a silent signal, one of many created over their years together, they left the grounds as casually as they had approached, making once more for the seclusion of the forest.
Within the curtain of the trees, they dismounted and studied the palazzo yet again.
“You will not be able to exit as you enter,” Frado said with little inflection; only someone who had known him as long as Battista would recognize the thin pitch of skepticism in his tone. “Especially not carrying a triptych of paintings, rolled or not.”
“This we knew.” Battista pointed to the columned loggia on the mezzanine level of the western wall. “It is just as the plans showed us. From there I will descend, three from the right.”
Their intelligence had assured them Battista would find the paintings in the marquess’s trophy room. And though the location seemed far too obvious, it had come to them from a number of reliable sources. What their sources could not tell them was if the paintings hung on the wall or were otherwise kept, but all conveyed the sure sense that their placement in the room would be obvious. The trophy room was on the eastern side of the palace, inconveniently so, for escape from that side, with its main entrance and thickly populated portion of the village, would be impossible.
Frado’s gaze followed the digit to the
Not another bear call greeted them, nor that of any human, as the pair kept to the woods and fields, avoiding any towns or villages along the trail northward. Late afternoon of the second day arrived with a light drizzle, and as they crested a small rise the magnificent palazzo rose up on the next hill, greeting them with its splendor.
Neither spoke, neither moved, far too assailed by the sight before them to do either. In all of his travels, Battista had never visited the Palazzo of Mantua, had never seen for himself the architectural beauty of the cluster of buildings comprising the compound, its cornerstone laid two hundred years ago in the fourteenth century.
The grouping of structures spread across the horizon, abutting the supporting village gathered at its feet to the west, the lace edge of the magnificent gown. Battista surveyed the cream and terra-cotta stone edifices rising into the violet crepuscular sky with respectful regard for artistic beauty. A mixture of military stronghold and noble palace, the spiky turrets sat atop the Gothic arched loggias, fusing the strong with the delicate. Battista beamed at its splendor.
Revelation quickly forgotten, his heart skipped a beat, catching up quick, thudding arrhythmically against the walls of his chest, for only the palace’s impenetrability rivaled its beauty, and yet he must penetrate it. Battista sucked in his breath, willing the burst of oxygen to still the unsteady beating.
“We are in time,” he said, as if to distract Frado from the flash of fear exposed for an instant across his features, forcing the muscles in his face to relax.
Though they advanced from the west, ignoring the main approach from the south, skirting the large thoroughfare leading up to the palazzo, they could see the entrance from the edge of the forest, watched as the opulently outfitted horses and gaily festooned conveyances delivered the guests invited to the evening’s gala. It was this very event—the celebration of the marquess’s birth—that had brought the pair to this door in a rush, knowing a well-attended occasion such as this would provide the perfect camouflage for their roguery.
With a cluck of his tongue, Battista urged his horse forward into a slow canter, Frado quick to follow.
They circled the palazzo, lost and invisible amidst the comings and goings of the palace and the festivities taking place in the village in honor of the lord. Taking turns, their backs to the palace, one spoke gaily of nothing, while the other surveyed the field, noting every egress and every guard. When each assured the other with a silent signal, one of many created over their years together, they left the grounds as casually as they had approached, making once more for the seclusion of the forest.
Within the curtain of the trees, they dismounted and studied the palazzo yet again.
“You will not be able to exit as you enter,” Frado said with little inflection; only someone who had known him as long as Battista would recognize the thin pitch of skepticism in his tone. “Especially not carrying a triptych of paintings, rolled or not.”
“This we knew.” Battista pointed to the columned loggia on the mezzanine level of the western wall. “It is just as the plans showed us. From there I will descend, three from the right.”
Their intelligence had assured them Battista would find the paintings in the marquess’s trophy room. And though the location seemed far too obvious, it had come to them from a number of reliable sources. What their sources could not tell them was if the paintings hung on the wall or were otherwise kept, but all conveyed the sure sense that their placement in the room would be obvious. The trophy room was on the eastern side of the palace, inconveniently so, for escape from that side, with its main entrance and thickly populated portion of the village, would be impossible.
Frado’s gaze followed the digit to the
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