Margherita's Arrival
Citadel Obertenghi
Alberto could not decide what to wear. The decision, mired with implications, beset him early this morning. His reverie at the dawn left him refreshed, energized, but, and this thought arrived most unwelcome in his mind, with a wardrobe no more impressive than it had been yesterday. For an hour now he had gazed interminably at the clothes assembled before him, addressing their minutia with the nagging suspicion that his bride, whose father’s wealth dwarfed his own, could scarcely be impressed.
The first option of course, was martial. An adequate if uninspiring warrior, Alberto could don his hauberk, strap on his sword and the miniscule circlet with its gleaming if humble precious stone, one of the few relics of his father remaining to him. He grimaced at the thought. Indeed, a warrior Lord presiding over a host of motley men at arms and glorified peasants, his mail dusted and unoiled from lack of use. And the circlet? Had it not been just last week that he mockingly deemed it the ringlet, refusing to wear it as requested by Azzo during the “investment” of his father in law? Quite the image to portray, indeed, she would be impressed.
The second option presented a more formal avenue. A doublet embroidered lovingly with his arms and in rich red, gold, and blue thread dancing across the fabric crafted by Pisan artists, a gift from his mother’s family in one of the odd moments when they remembered him, exquisite to behold, gleaming with richness and dripping of prestige. How rich though? He thought. Aside from this suit of clothes gifted to him, he owned nothing so fine, nor could his studious seamstresses ever dream of creating a work of art equal to this, they had gasped in awe at it when it arrived, their eyes adoring at its fine colors, aware no dye or craft was known to them to create its likeness. No, he thought, he would not disappoint her immediately upon her arrival by setting her expectations so high that she would be immediately disappointed.
The third option he considered veered in the opposite direction. Early in the morning, he had sent for the garb of a fisherman. Perhaps, he had thought, he should greet his bride as a Corsican, if nothing else this avenue would lead to elated cheers among his people, who adored the thought of their Lord mixing among them, infinitely proud of their status as a sovereign realm. But what of his bride he thought? This might be the course which would gain him the most acclaim, indeed. But how shocking and rough would the proposition to his bride be that she had traveled from home and hearth to wed a Corsican fisherman? No he thought, he would not inflict that upon her, whatever else his many faults were. He continued his pondering for a moment, eyes lingering upon each for a moment.
“My Lord..” Azzos smooth voice lingered in the air, aware his Lord would need a moment to be drawn from his daydreaming. What was the subject today? He wondered to himself, no matter, there were things which they needed to do today, tasks to be done, and so he served. ..”Your bride’s ship arrives, shall we meet it at the dock?”
“Indeed, indeed” Alberto spoke, shaking himself awake from his thoughts. But what to wear..
“Do you require a moment to dress..I shall send for your manservant..” Azzo began, his instinct for expediency piqued as he noticed the wardrobe laid out before his master.
Alberto opened his mouth, resigned to the doublet for all its splendid excess, then paused. No, he thought..this girl arrives to marry the Count of Corsica, Marques Alberto Obertenghi. Let her meet him as he is, in his normal clothing, the rough tunic sewn by his servants, his arms awkwardly stitched upon the breast, his rough boots, ready to ride but hardly suited for a Genoese dinner. If she is to be the Countess or Corsica, he thought, she should meet her count as he truly is. Azzo appeared significantly perplexed by his master’s open mouth, a brow slowly furrowing across his forward in confusion. Alberto smiled inwardly at the man’s perplexity as he finally gave his reply “No, thank you though Azzo. I shall go as I am, is everything in order?”
“Indeed, my Lord. Your company awaits you.” Ever prepared, Azzo had had them assembled hours earlier, to anticipate Margherita’s arrival at any moment of the day. Years of insistence, suggestion, and plain work had gone into this moment on Azzo’s part, and he refused to allow anything to vex its arrival.
“Very good. Let us go.” Azzo strode out the door to the stairs with a brisk stride to the awaiting company of men at arms, servants, and local dignities that had assembled to welcome their new mistress with their master, gifts long crafted at their sides, the best catch in the hands fishermen elected to the task by their brethren. Eager to follow him to the docks below. Azzo flashed each and every one a warm, paternalistic smile, the best his mother had taught him, and led the way. He could not recall when he last felt so well.
The Bay
Margherita was ill. Her hands shook, and she no longer knew whether the sea was to blame or her destination, Corsica. The voyage had passed with inordinate speed for her, inducing little but vomit and a growing apprehension of dread in her.
She remembered with desperate clarity her fathers visiting her chambers informing her, with that infinite air of certainty he expressed in all his dealings, from merchants to the family’s servants, of her marriage. “No” the words left her lips before he finished his proposal, as he had saved the best part for last, that this “Marques” would install in him the title he had purchased at no small expense from a disgraced Lombard lord several years ago. It did not surprise her that her father did not pause when she spoke, nor that he continued for some time after her eyes closed, tears forming at their edges, about the various benefits that this union would bring to their family, of the infinite delight of her mother. Of her impending station. Of her dowry. Of her inevitable happiness. The man never possessed much heart, for all his skill at commerce. She could think of none of these things. Instead, a single thought consumed her.
How would she tell Francesco? Francesco. What did she know of Corsica? What strange and alien lord resided there? She knew nothing of Corsica, and everything of Francesco. A young man in her father’s employ, they met at her eldest sisters wedding a year ago- to a petty noble evidently less revered than this Corsican lord her father lauded, for he possessed no sovereignty- she could recall the first time his lips touched hers, a hesitant peck in her father’s gardens after the ceremony. The blissful passion of the first time they made love several weeks after in his home, which she discretely visited after providing her mother with the pretense of church. He spoke of marrying her, hoping that her father would consent to a lesser match for his youngest, in light of his contributions to the family business. They spoke of a life together, a family. She knew the brilliant fire in his eyes when he spoken of the future, the tender, warm tone in his voice when he spoke of her, and above all the soaring emotion his presence filled her with. What could she tell Francesco?
He had learned immediately of the plans, rushing to her home on the pretext of business, stealing a moment away to speak with her. No you heard mistakenly she had said manufacturing a story about her middle sister, recently widowed, to be remarried. She would not rob him of their last moments together she thought; he would have time for his pain later.
She had told her father she did not want to meet the Corsican when he arrived, insisting she thought herself too young still, her father, more concerned with making a new banner mentioning prominently and commissioning new arms acquired as a result of his elevation, acquiesced, indifferent to the details.
And so she departed Genoa before dawn one morning, her father muttering something inane about her writing often, and her mother beaming with the idiotic grin she was born with. On to Corsica, she thought, to be a Countess. So be it she thought. Only then did she weep. The voyage had passed by as a blur.
“M’lady?” Her lady-in-waiting, the servant elected to travel with her to help her assume her new station, spoke.
“Yes?” Her hands still shook, her palms sweaty…but, she noticed, the motion of the ship had stopped, she no longer felt ill.
“We have arrived. Your Lord awaits you on the docks.” The woman scurried away, no doubt to assemble the various packages she had been burdened with on her voyage, rich gifts, and of course, above all, her still greater dowry.
Margherita closed her eyes and commanded her body to stop shaking. Whatever else they may say of me, she thought, I will not be called a coward. Rising from the bed she ran her hands over her dress briefly, smoothing its creases. She would meet the Corsican without tears, she told herself, she could mourn what might have been later, but for the moment, she must go forth and meet the future. Margherita began to walk up the steps, headed for the dock and next chapter of her life.