Read Online The King's Agent by Donna Russo Morin - Free Book Online Page B

third opening in the long row of arches. “Then from there I will wait.”
    Battista clapped him on his shoulder, leaving the hand resting for a moment. There was no more to say, no more to do, but for Battista to change his clothes and to wait ... wait for full dark to descend and the party to become fully engaged.
    “You should eat, Frado.” He laughed the suggestion, tying his horse loosely to a budding birch.
    Frado tossed up his hands, shrugged, and began to gather small twigs for kindling. He could always eat. Not so Battista.
     
    “Two hours, no more, Frado.” Battista pierced him with his dark stare. “Upon your honor.”
    Since their acquaintance began, these two had run roughshod over the Italian countryside. Since then, the agreement between them had stood, though never had it been tested. Long ago they had made the pact, should one or the other not return in the appointed time, the man left behind would flee, taking the other’s disappearance as a sign of capture, taking themselves to safety.
    Frado’s thin upper lip curled with blatant disagreement. “Upon my word, Battista.”
    He made the vow without pleasure, but he would keep it nonetheless.
    Battista smiled with bitter sweetness, accepting the affection offered through Frado’s discontentment.
    “How do I look?”
    He preened then, twirling round so Frado might enjoy the full impact of the purple silk doublet embroidered with green leaves, black trunk hose, and a gold-trimmed hip-length cloak. A bright peacock feather adorned the ribbed cap worn on the side of his head, and his flat black leather shoes were slashed lengthwise at the toes, allowing the green of his stockings to show through.
    “Ascanio would be very proud.” Frado smiled, but it soon faded away, lost in the darkness surrounding them and the meager light of the small fire between.
    He stood then, crossed to Battista, and without word or preamble wrapped his pudgy arms around his friend, round head resting upon Battista’s chest.
    Battista stumbled back a step with the force of his friend’s embrace, hands shocked into the air with the surprise of it. With a sniff of a laugh and a shake of his head, he returned the hug, kissing the top of Frado’s bald pate.
    “Get off me, you silly man,” Battista chided without genuine rebuke.
    Disentangling himself from his friend’s arms, he mounted his horse, and, with a last glance at the dear face, set off.
     
    Battista sat tall in his saddle, one now caparisoned with a gold-tasseled blanket, as he approached the guards at the gate; he had played parts before, this one merely unfolded upon a grander stage.
    “ Buonanotte, ” he called out with not the slightest hint of hesitation, handing down the forged invitation to the closest guard.
    The helmeted soldier unfurled the small scroll, eyes squinting in the dim light of the three torches at his back, and studied Battista with an equally acute stare.
    “ Benvenuto, signore,” the guard at last decreed with a bow, and his fellow soldiers followed with equally unenthusiastic murmurs of welcome.
    Battista ignored the lackluster greetings, as the minor nobleman he pretended to be undoubtedly would, and led his horse into the cobbled courtyard, one so vast another impressive palazzo could easily fit within its confines.
    The yellow and cream stone walls rose up around him on all four sides as the fountains in its center gurgled with water and wine, the liquid sparkling with a brilliant profusion of torchlight, a glow turning night into day, revealing the details of the wrought-iron-railed balconies and twirling Solomonic columns. He took himself to a fountain, accepting a large chalice of deep red liquid from the posted servant, and tossed it back for one long gulp of liquid courage.
    Battista had more than a little knowledge of the palazzo and its layout, having studied the plans for hours in the days preceding the trip, but he had no idea where the gala might take place and could but