‘That doesn’t please you?’ Giacomo asked as they turned towards the contrada’s central piazza.
‘It does please me, it’s just that I had hoped to ride,’ Archer confessed. He would be honest with his uncle. The sooner his uncle learned he was determined and wouldn’t accept no for an answer, the better. ‘Although I understand to be a mangini is a great honour,’ he added, not wanting to appear insulting.
‘Ah, I know the feeling. I would have loved to have ridden but it isn’t how it’s done for the Palio,’ his uncle commiserated. ‘The fantini don’t come from the contradas themselves. It’s no matter.’ Giacomo shrugged. ‘If Torre wins, you will still be a hero.’ He gave a mischievous wink. ‘The women will go crazy for you since you were part of the negotiation team that helped us win.’
They came out of the street into the piazza with its fountain. It was busier here, people starting to go about their daily errands. Although, Giacomo informed him, that wouldn’t last too long once the afternoon heat peaked. Everyone would retreat behind shuttered windows into cool stucco rooms for siestas. ‘My favourite part of the day with your zia.’ He gave Archer a knowing look. ‘In the evening everyone will come out again for strolling, la passegiatta, do you know it?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Everyone strolls within their neighbourhood or in their allied neighbourhood.’ He pointed to a banner hanging on the wall of one of the tall buildings surrounding the piazza. It depicted an elephant in the foreground, a tall tower in the back, done in crimson. ‘That’s our symbol. We are Torre, the Tower.’
‘Does neighbourhood matter so much?’ Archer asked, thinking of Elisabeta and the neighbourhood he’d wandered into last night before finding his uncle.
Giacomo threw back his head and laughed. ‘The contrada is everything if you are Sienese. You are born into the neighbourhood. If you ask anyone who they are, they’ll tell you their neighbourhood first, city second. If you know someone’s neighbourhood, you know everything about them; who their allies are, what they do; most of us in Torre are in the wool trade. You know where they live, you know who their enemies are.’
‘Enemies? Really?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Giacomo was in earnest. They strolled the perimeter of the fountain, stopping occasionally to greet people and exchange a little news. ‘Valdimonte’s enemy is the Nicchio Contrada, Aquila’s enemy is Pantera and so on. Our enemy is Oca, which is rumoured to be striking an alliance with Pantera. Pantera won the July Palio.’
Archer did his best to follow Giacomo’s conversation. It was a lot to take in, especially in a second language. English families and English neighbourhoods were far simpler entities by contrast. He wondered which neighbourhood he’d stumbled into last night? Would that make Elisabeta an ally or an enemy? ‘Do contradas ever intermarry?’
Giacomo gave him a keen look. ‘Of course, but during the Palio, husbands and wives often separate and go home to their own neighbourhoods.’ He grinned and wagged a finger at Archer. ‘You will learn. It’s the contrada above all else. My Bettina, though, your zia, was the old priore’s daughter so we are never separated.’ There was no mistaking the pride in Giacomo’s voice in having married a Torre woman. This was a new world indeed, his mother’s world, Archer reminded himself. She’d grown up in the contrada.
Giacomo clapped him on the back. ‘Do you have your eye on a pretty signorina already? Perhaps you refused my help because you have spied a pretty girl for yourself?’
Archer was tempted to tell him about Elisabeta, but thought better of it. If she had been from an enemy contrada it would only make trouble if he pursued her. Anyway, he wasn’t looking for a permanent relationship. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about her as they stepped into a few shops to meet some of the family’s especial friends. Was Elisabeta out in her neighbourhood doing errands? Talking with shopkeepers? Was she with friends? Another man?
Had he merely been an escape for her? Maybe he’d merely been part of a fantasy or the madness of the summer night? She’d not wanted to be followed. There were only so many reasons for that; none of them suggested she was unattached and free to make her own decisions. He should let it be and accept it for what it was: a few glorious moments. Yet, the thoughts persisted. Where was she? What was she doing? Archer chuckled to himself. He knew already he couldn’t just let it go. Against his better judgement, he was going to find her.
* * *
She was picking petals off a rose like a silly school girl. ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’ The foolishness made her laugh. Elisabeta snipped the roses and put them in her basket. To be honest, love had nothing to do with it. All right, then, she amended: he lusts me, he lusts me not. Even here in her uncle’s garden in the full light of day, thoughts of last night managed to bring a blush to her cheeks and a heat to her body that had nothing to do with the sun. Those thoughts made her want.
More.
Of him.
Pleasure once tasted was proving to be a potent elixir with a power, she suspected, to addict. Once was not enough. What a lovely addiction that would be. What an unexpected one. When she’d sought out her stranger, she’d not expected this wanting as a consequence. He was to remain a stranger, a man to whom she had no ties. But she’d come away with a name and a longing to have him again. Already, she was wondering if that name would be enough to find him. Over breakfast she’d reasoned an English name couldn’t be terribly hard to find among all of these Italian names. Nor was Siena so big that she wouldn’t be apt to run into him if she went to the city centre often enough. Surely, those odds would be in her favour if she chose to exercise them.
By the time she’d wandered out to the garden to pick flowers, the issue was no longer a question of finding him, but a question of did she truly want to? Her curiosity said yes. It was her curiosity that had driven her to distraction this morning with its questions filling her mind: Where was he now? What was he doing? Had he woken to thoughts of her? Had he dreamt of her? Did he too regret their veiled identities?
Then again, perhaps it was better to wonder than to know. The pleasure he’d offered might only have been the luck of the night, the work of the stars and summer magic. Surely such pleasure was not commonplace? It most certainly didn’t happen all the time. She’d lived her entire marriage without it and she would likely live through another without it, proof enough that Archer’s pleasures could not be conjured on a whim nor by just any man or woman. It would be a shame to have him again only to be disappointed by the ordinary nature of their lovemaking. Better to let him become memory.
‘Cousin! There you are. I’ve been calling for you.’ Giuliano came striding down the path, playful mischief sparking in his dark eyes. ‘Have we been daydreaming over our handsome stranger?’ he teased. ‘You were quick to disappear last night.’
She gave Giuliano a saucy grin in return, her good spirits making her reckless. ‘I told you I’d have him.’
Giuliano leaned in close, a grin on his face. ‘And did you? Have him?’
Elisabeta gave him a light punch on the arm. ‘You’re wicked. Besides, a lady never tells.’ She paused and gave him a considering look. ‘What of the lovely Widow Rossi? Did you have her?’
Giuliano groaned and had the good grace to look down at the ground. ‘Point taken.’ But a moment later any penitence he felt over probing into her personal affairs had vanished. ‘Will you see him again?’
Elisabeta shrugged and moved on to a new collection of flowers, trying to keep her actions nonchalant. She did not want to give too much away to Giuliano. He was reckless and there was no telling what he might do. ‘Of course not. We didn’t exchange enough information for that.’
Giuliano followed her, far too astute in the games of amore to take her response as a direct or even accurate answer. His voice was low now, his tone compelling. ‘But would you? If you could?’