WeWriWa—Ser Folco wants to talk

Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

I’m switching back to A Dream of Peacocks, my alternative history about Dante and Beatrice. This comes from near the beginning of Chapter XIX, “Beautiful Betrothal.” It’s now late September 1288, and Dante and his much-younger halfsiblings have been staying at the Portinaris’ summer villa in Fiesole since July. They’ve postponed their return to Florence because Beatrice is recovering from a long, serious illness, a brutal beating from her now-deceased husband, and a birth that almost killed her.

Folco Portinari, father of Beatrice

I was reading Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics in an anteroom off of the great hall when I became aware of Ser Folco calling my name. With much reluctance, I closed the book and set it on a small table on my left. Respect for my host came before everything, even my beloved Aristotle.

Ser Folco took a seat on a golden-backed chair with scarlet velvet cushions. “I’ve been seriously thinking about a very important subject for the last few months, which we need to discuss. If you don’t agree with my suggestion, I won’t feel offended or insulted. I also won’t mind if you need some time to think about this before you give an answer. We’ll still be friends regardless.”

I suspected he wanted to talk about money, and began silently rehearsing how I’d politely refuse his charity. It was one thing to stay in his villa and accept some money and other generous gifts every so often, but it would be humiliating to entirely exist on charity.

The ten lines end there. A few more follow to finish the scene.

People already talked about how I had to beg for so many loans and the financial trouble my family had fallen into. They didn’t need any more reasons to laugh and disrespect me.

“What happened last November was a tragedy,” Ser Folco began. “I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to lose my wife so young and unexpectedly, and to lose a firstborn son before his life began. That obviously deeply affected you, and I’m glad you seem to be past the worst of your grief.” He paused before continuing. “You’re too young to live the rest of your life as a childless widower. It’s not good for man to be alone, and it’s our duty to have as many children as possible. Have you considered remarriage yet?”

Thank God, he wasn’t going to insult me by offering charity. “Of course I’ve thought about it, but I had far more important priorities over the last year, coupled with how I couldn’t leave my house for most of that time. Do you have a second wife in mind for me?”

Ser Folco smiled. “Indeed I do. I’ve discussed this potential marriage with Cilia, and she agrees with me that it couldn’t be more perfect. Would you be at all interested in Bice?”

WeWriWa—A Medieval Twelfth Night

Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

My final snippet for the holiday season comes from Chapter VI, “Christmas Celebrations,” from A Dream of Peacocks, my alternative history about Dante and Beatrice. The end of Christmastide has arrived, and there’s a lot of feasting and fun to be had at the Portinaris’ house.

Ravignana is Beatrice’s older sister, who in real life was married to Bandino Falconieri and died before her father made out his will in 1289. I decided to keep her alive, develop her into quite the free spirit, and marry her to a fictional Falconieri.

The sky was painted with a thick canopy of black punctuated by sweet stars after a full day of the usual feasting and merrymaking, signifying the happy arrival of Twelfth Night. A grand banquet was waiting for us when we drifted into the great hall—suckling pig, mutton, ravioli, gnocchi, meat and poultry pies, smoked eel, goat soup, oysters and scallops steamed in spiced butter, venison, a boar’s head on a platter, salmon baked with apples, a fat goose in a peach sauce thickened with breadcrumbs, duck cooked in pomegranate juice, fresh oranges imported from the Holy Land, sweetened milk, hippocras, figs, dates, blocks of soft sheep cheese flecked with bits of prosciutto and pancetta, hard-boiled ostrich eggs encased in pig intestines. Would that humans had been created with stomachs equal in size to those of the whales!

Despite this decadent cornucopia of plenty, the most important food on the tables were cakes baked with honey, rosewater, elderflower, and stuffed with raisins, almonds, walnuts, and apricots. One of these culinary delights contained a gold florin, and whomever found it would be named the King or Queen of the celebration. That person would be able to name his or her consort, and everyone would have to obey and respect them for the rest of the night. As dearly as I wanted to be the lucky one to find the florin and make Beatrice my queen, my rational spirit was afraid of such a situation causing my true feelings to be revealed. I also didn’t want to risk cracking my teeth if I bit into it unawares.

This difficult dilemma was resolved when, near the head of the children’s table, Ravignana jumped up and exclaimed that she had found it. I breathed a great silent sigh as Ravignana looked around the room for a King who appealed to her.

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to finish the scene.

After several minutes of decision, her eyes lit upon a handsome young man dressed in fine green garments, with deep brown eyes and thick dark brown hair brushing his shoulders. I recognized some of the people he was sitting with as members of the noble Falconieri family, who had made their fortune through banking and commerce. Some of them were also involved in politics.

“I want Blasio Falconieri,” she announced.

Blasio rose from his seat and moved to our table.  A manservant carried his chair and set it beside Ravignana. From what I could estimate, Blasio looked a few years older than Ravignana.

“Mille grazie,” Blasio said with a shy smile. “It’s an honor to be chosen as the King of such a great noble lady.”

Several of our friends who knew Ravignana’s true headstrong, rebellious nature suppressed snickers and smiles.

“My first act as Queen is to order everyone to eat goat soup after they finish their cake,” Ravignana said. “No one can eat anything else until the last drop of soup is gone. Then we’re going to drink hippocras.”

“I want everyone to drink with one arm behind their backs and standing up,” Blasio said. “When you finish your mug, you should spin around in a circle and babble nonsense.”

Through the entire rest of supper, Ravignana and Blasio continued to give orders ranging from very serious to hilariously ribald. While they held court, we were also entertained by puppeteers, acrobats, jugglers, and troubadours playing lutes, drums, flutes, and pipes as they danced and sang Christmas hymns. All this joyous merriment made me wistful that Christmastide was nearly at its completion, and that it would be almost an entire year until this glorious season would return.

WeWriWa—The Feast of Fools

Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

My New Year snippet comes from Chapter VI, “Christmas Celebrations,” from A Dream of Peacocks, my alternative history about Dante and Beatrice. In the Middle Ages, New Year’s Day was the Eighth Day of Christmas and the Feast of Fools. Nine-and-a-half-year-old Dante didn’t get much sleep due to staying up so late for Watch Night Mass, but he doesn’t want to miss a moment of the fun on the first day of 1275.

Mass was led by the subdeacons, and they, the priests, and altar boys wore their garments inside-out. They also wore masks, each in a different style, size, and color. At the heart of this comical display was an ugly, snub-nosed subdeacon who was proclaimed Pope of Fools soon after Mass commenced. Several priests dressed him in richly-embroidered vestments, not inside-out, and set upon his head a textured, decorated, conical metal crown with a ring of gems on the bottom and a large ruby on top.

Another subdeacon pressed into his right hand a staff topped by a cross, and a mirthfully fat priest draped a pallium around his neck. Finally, the Pope of Fools was led to and seated in a ceremonial throne painted in red, with gold trimming. Several altar boys on each side fanned him with large ostrich fans, just like the real Pope Gregory X!

Soon after this jestful ceremony concluded, a short, stout priest with a face full of deep smallpox scars led a roan donkey into the church, driving the creature down the middle of the aisle to uproarious laughter. Many people on both sides of the aisle petted it and offered handfuls of grain from their pockets, and much of the congregation, both clergy and laypeople, made loud donkey noises. The subdeacons’ spirited troping soon dissolved into hysterical laughter, and Mass didn’t resume until they had composed themselves.

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to finish the scene.

Presently, the air filled with the strong, unmistakable smell of burning leather, magnified by the small space and close air. Part of the fun of the Feast of Fools was burning old shoes in place of incense at the altar. The Pope of Fools shouted curses and insults at the priests offering up this unorthodox incense, and they shouted back at him. More donkey noises followed, alongside more vulgar sounds which are only acceptable in church during this stretch of Christmastide.

The smell of burning shoes soon commingled with the delicious scent of sausages, which the clergy feasted upon gluttonously. A huge silver platter overflowing with this culinary delight was placed upon the lap of the Pope of Fools, and he began ravenously stuffing them down his throat. Then out came the unconsecrated wine, with a dazzling scent of various fruits and spices.

A very tall priest with a sharp Roman nose poured a bottle down the Pope’s throat as he continued to glutton himself on the sausages, and the other clergy punctuated their troping with drinking. Even the world’s most pious person who ever lived couldn’t have been in a serious, holy state of mind by the time the Host and sacramental wine were finally consecrated!

Mass concluded with a benediction slurred by much drink, from a subdeacon whose mouth was also full of sausages. The donkey ran through the church as we filtered out, and everyone made more braying noises.

WeWriWa—The end approaches

Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

This comes from Chapter XVIII, “Merciful Deliverance,” of my alternative history about Dante and Beatrice. It’s now July 1288, and Dante’s summer holiday with Beatrice’s family in Fiesole was interrupted by the news that Beatrice’s husband Simone is back from Cyprus. All the men of the household went back to Florence (Fiorenza) to confront him for what he did to Beatrice last year.

That violent confrontation ended with de ’Bardi stepping on a nail before he could be dragged to a judge to start the annulment process. Five days later, his cousin came to relay the message that he’s dying and wants Beatrice by his side in his final hours. Though Beatrice’s father suspected this might be an elaborate hoax, he nevertheless embarked on the journey and brought all his sons. When they arrived, it immediately became obvious de ’Bardi is really dying.

“Has he a will?” Manetto asked.

A man in an ugly yellow robe opened a drawer and removed a long, wide piece of paper. “He had no time to amend this after learning of his wife’s infidelity, unfortunately. Most of his money will go to her, and the rest is for his brothers.”

“My daughter never committed adultery,” Ser Folco said in a stern tone of voice as he grabbed the will. “Only gossiping yaps would slander her character and filter her good name. I brought Bice here upon Mone’s request, though he doesn’t deserve her presence at his deathbed.”

De ’Bardi groaned and clutched his abdomen.

“Ser Simone is unable to speak any longer,” the doctor said. “His condition dramatically plummeted after he sent his cousin to summon you.”

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to finish the scene.

“Do you have an idea of when the end might arrive?” Ricovero asked.

The doctor looked at him sharply. “Life in the eternal kingdom might be preferable to life in the earthly kingdom, but that doesn’t mean we should gleefully anticipate someone’s impending death. If you want a serious answer, I can only say Ser Simone probably won’t outlive the day.”

Ser Folco eased himself into a chair. “Then we’re staying here until the end arrives. My sons and I need confirmation that he’s been sent to Hell and will never hurt my daughter again.”

“You’re not God to decide who’s going to Hell,” the lady said. “What kind of Christian are you?”

Ser Folco glowered at her. “Mone never repented of the sins he committed against Bice. On the contrary, he continually defended his monstrous behavior.” He pointed to de ’Bardi. “That man beat my daughter almost to death, destroyed her medicines and forbade her to use them again, falsely accused her of committing adultery with someone I trust as much as one of my own sons, and admitted he committed adultery himself. I’m disgusted at my poor judgment in arranging this marriage.”

“We won’t attend the funeral,” Ricovero said.

The doctor shook his head and sliced into de ’Bardi’s left arm with a sharpened blade. I immediately looked away when his hateful blood began spurting into a basin. This long nightmare might finally be almost over, but we still had to reach the end of its concluding chapter.

WeWriWa—Horrors upon arrival

Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

This comes from Chapter XVIII, “Merciful Deliverance,” of my alternative history about Dante and Beatrice. It’s now July 1288, and Dante’s summer holiday with Beatrice’s family in Fiesole was interrupted by the news that Beatrice’s husband Simone is back from Cyprus. All the men of the household went back to Florence (Fiorenza) to confront him for what he did to Beatrice last year.

That violent confrontation ended with de ’Bardi stepping on a nail before he could be dragged to a judge to start the annulment process. Five days later, his cousin came to relay the message that he’s dying and wants Beatrice by his side in his final hours. Beatrice’s father isn’t entirely sure this story is true, but nevertheless decides to go back to Fiorenza.

The closer we drew to Fiorenza, the more knotted and bitter my insides felt. After this obligation, I never wanted to see de ’Bardi’s face again as long as I lived. By the time the carriage stopped and Ser Folco opened the door, I was once again immersed in dark fantasies of stabbing de ’Bardi over and over again as he begged for mercy.

“We’re going to go in that house and drag Mone to the judge,” Ser Folco said. “As soon as our business here concludes, we’re returning to Fiesole. I can’t believe all the trouble he’s making us endure.”

I prayed for moral courage as we proceeded into the imposing house de ’Bardi had relocated to. The knots in my stomach tied ever tighter with each step I took. Finally, after a miniature eternity, the door loomed in front of me, and I was obliged to enter. I lagged behind the others on the way up the stairs.

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to finish the scene.

A noxious smell choked my nostrils the moment I stepped into the bedchamber indicated by a maidservant. The closer I drew to the bed, the stronger the stench grew. De ’Bardi was curled up on his left side, his breathing abnormally rapid and his heartbeat audible. His legs and arms were swollen to a grotesque degree, and his eyes bore a glassy look. I stood as far back from him as possible and kept my eyes down.

“He just received Last Rites,” a lady in a green dress informed us. “This dire condition came on so swiftly, and it progressed more and more each day. The doctor isn’t quite sure what caused this, unless Mone got a severe infection from that nail he stepped on. All the usual symptoms associated with wound infections are absent, like muscle spasms.”

The doctor grunted. “What does a fool woman know about medicine, diseases, and infections? I’m the one who studied at the University of Montpellier and has been treating patients every single day since I graduated. Passively observing maladies and attending to the most basic of nursing obligations are no equivalent to my training and experience.”

Ser Folco glanced at de ’Bardi. “This doesn’t appear to be a hoax. I’m sorry I assumed the worst, but Mone should’ve sent a message much sooner than today to appraise me of this development.”