Chapter 98

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 98
Chapter Title: The Death of a Beloved Woman
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News of Arabella's death was immediately sent to Taranto.

This was to ensure her older brother, Ippolito, the eldest son of the house, could attend the funeral. For noble families in San Carlo, the custom was to prepare the body and lay it in a coffin for a seven-day wake, during which visitors would pay their respects. Afterward, a funeral and memorial mass would be held at a church, followed by the burial. Commoners were laid to rest in a public cemetery, while nobles found their final resting place in a separate plot within the great cathedral. Since Arabella's family had to travel from Taranto, the viewing period was extended from the usual seven days to a slightly longer fourteen. This was only possible because it was the dead of winter.

“Young Master Ippolito, a message has arrived for you to return to San Carlo at once.”

A servant of House de Mare had managed to find Ippolito in the middle of a party in Taranto to deliver the message from his family.

“What? Why is the family calling for me again?”

Ippolito glared at the servant, not bothering to hide his irritation. *Did Mother have another whim? No, even so, sending a servant to fetch me from the middle of a banquet hall is just embarrassing. Her obsession is getting out of hand…*

“Lady Arabella has passed away.”

“What?”

“You are to return immediately to attend the funeral.”

Ippolito felt no great affection for his youngest sister, who was much younger than him. There was a twelve-year age gap between them, and he had left to study in Padua not long after Arabella had started to speak. He had rarely ever had a proper conversation with his youngest sister. Besides, he was in the middle of enjoying life to the fullest, attending every winter social event in Taranto. Hearing the news of a sister he barely knew’s death amidst wine, meat, and parties filled him with half surprise and half annoyance.

“What happened to her all of a sudden?”

“It was an accident…”

“Ah, what in the world…!”

Not an illness, but an accidental death—it was a bolt from the blue. *She should have been more careful!*

“When will you depart? Shall I have a horse prepared immediately?”

The journey from Taranto to San Carlo could be made in three or four days by riding day and night. But Ippolito had no intention of making such a strenuous trip.

“The memorial mass is in fourteen days, you said?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Then prepare a carriage. I'll stay here tonight and leave tomorrow morning.”

“What? A carriage? Not a horse?”

Riding a single horse at full speed was several times faster than making the tedious journey by carriage.

“Sleeping out in the open on a snowy road? What a dreadful thought. If we hurry by carriage, we should make it in ten days.”

Since the messenger from home had taken three and a half days to reach Taranto, Ippolito had a little over ten days left. But the de Mare servant hesitated before asking again.

“…Will you not be participating in receiving the guests?”

As the eldest son of the family, Ippolito was, in principle, supposed to take a leading role in greeting the mourners. But he just snorted.

“Does it make any difference whether I'm there or not? Besides, there's no one important left in San Carlo right now anyway.”

His plan was to skip the tiresome duty of greeting the few visitors he'd meet and attend only the memorial mass, which required less effort and was more visible to others.

“Oh, dear…”

The servant let out a short groan. But what power did a servant have?

“I will have it prepared as you command.”

The servant from his household bowed and retreated from the banquet hall. Ippolito rubbed his face dryly and looked around. He was at a party for the Taranto winter social season. The place was teeming with important socialites. To think he had to leave all these people behind and return to San Carlo. What a shame. Ottavio, who had seen the servant enter the party and speak with Ippolito, approached him.

“Ippolito. Has something happened?”

“Ah, Ottavio. I've just received news of a death in the family.”

Ottavio was startled by the word "death."

“Surely not His Eminence the Cardinal…”

There was no one in that household of an age to die, nor anyone who was gravely ill. If anyone, the Cardinal himself or his mistress were the ones closest to the limits of an average lifespan. But Ippolito's expression was far too calm for it to be his father, the source of all his material wealth, who had passed away.

“Or perhaps your mother…?”

At Ottavio's cautious question, Ippolito laughed loudly and shook his head.

“No, no, don't say such dreadful things! It seems my sister had an accident.”

He said it with a hint of irritation.

“So I must return to San Carlo at once. I don't suppose anyone will be joining me?”

With a member of Cardinal de Mare's family dead, every prominent house in San Carlo would send a representative to the funeral. But there was no guarantee that representative would be someone important enough to have traveled all the way to Taranto. An older relative left behind in the capital, a member of a branch family, or perhaps the head of the household staff would go. *To die in winter, of all times,* Ippolito added to himself. Ottavio, who also had no intention of going to San Carlo himself, clicked his tongue and agreed with Ippolito that the season was unfortunate. For House Contarini, his younger uncle, who hadn't come down to the winter court in Taranto, would likely go as their representative. It was something his father would handle. But one thing did bother him.

“Which of your sisters was it? Surely not Lady Isabella?”

Ippolito de Mare himself was a rather unremarkable fellow, but his two sisters were renowned in high society. Besides, Ottavio had something of an acquaintance with Isabella. Though he had asked after Isabella's well-being for a more instinctual reason, he lied to himself, telling himself it was simply because they were acquainted.

“No, no, of course not. Isabella is fine. Though she's probably overcome with grief.”

“Ah.”

Ottavio, his interest plummeting, nodded. Disappointed by Ottavio's lukewarm reaction, Ippolito stood up.

“I must be going. I need to pack now if I'm to leave in the morning.”

“My condolences for your loss. Please convey my regrets and sympathies to Lady Isabella as well.”

“Thank you. I will.”

As soon as Ippolito left the party, Ottavio quickly spread the news to the bored socialites.

“Ippolito's sister has died!”

“What? You mean Cardinal de Mare's daughter?”

“Which of his daughters?”

The dull winter social scene of Taranto was suddenly abuzz with the unexpected news of a death.

“Surely not Isabella de Mare?”

“Why Isabella, all of a sudden?”

“You know, because of that rumor… heartbroken and…?”

Holding the key information and thus the upper hand, Ottavio scoffed at their wild speculation.

“What a dreadful thing to say! It was an accident. And it was the other sister.”

“Oh, so it wasn't Isabella?”

“Then was it Lady Ariadne?”

The crowd buzzed, blossoming with chatter. And as one person heard this, his heart shattered. It was Prince Alfonso, who had been standing by Grand Duchess Lariesa's side like a statue.

“Your Highness, are you all right?”

Noticing the grave change in Alfonso's expression, Grand Duchess Lariesa, who always hung on his every move and mood, immediately looked up at his face.

“It is nothing.”

He wanted to rush over to Ottavio and demand to know what had happened, what had befallen Cardinal de Mare's second daughter, but Grand Duchess Lariesa was gazing up at him with innocent eyes.

“Your Grace, please excuse me for a moment.”

Alfonso rose smoothly from his seat beside Lariesa and cut a straight path through the crowd. The partygoers exchanged surprised glances as Prince Alfonso, who had been sitting on a high dais like a piece of decor, mingled with the throng. As soon as he found a vaguely familiar face in the hall, Alfonso skipped the pleasantries and asked directly.

“Who did you say died?”

While waiting for an answer, Alfonso wiped the cold sweat from his palms onto his trousers.

“Oh, Your Highness! Cardinal de Mare's daughter has passed away.”

“Which daughter!”

His voice was strangely hoarse and cracked; it must have sounded odd. It was not at all like the polite and gentle Prince Alfonso they knew. The noble he had questioned, also a bit taken aback, answered.

“They said it wasn't the eldest, so I suppose it must be the second daughter, Lady Ariadne de Mare?”

“!”

Without so much as a word of thanks to the young noble, the prince turned and left the grand hall. As soon as the prince exited the hall, his secretary, Bernardino, hurried after him.

“Your Highness! What of Grand Duchess Lariesa? Why have you left the hall…?”

“Bernardino. I need you to clear my schedule for about a week.”

Alfonso gave the order in a low but uncharacteristically firm voice.

“Prepare a horse, a token to exchange for fresh mounts at the post stations, and travel funds.”

“What? A whole week? Where on earth are you going?”

“San Carlo.”

Bernardino stared up at his master in horror.

“…Is this because of Cardinal de Mare's daughter, Your Highness?”

Alfonso shot Bernardino a cold glance.

“If you do not bring me those things at once, I will summon someone else to carry out my orders.”

“Your Highness, it is a tragedy that the young lady has passed, but it is entirely inappropriate for you to go to San Carlo now. The dead are dead, and—”

“If your goal is to breed me like a stable stud, then a dead woman shouldn't matter to you at all, should she!”

Bernardino froze in shock at Prince Alfonso's outburst. His master never used such vulgar words, nor did he know how to be cynical or sarcastic. Alfonso's voice was filled with resentment as he lashed out at Bernardino.

“If I cannot even be there for her in the end, I will never be able to forgive myself. Ariadne is dead, so the situation you're so worried about can't happen anyway, can it?”

Alfonso's voice grew thick with emotion.

“Let me go.”

This was an unfamiliar side of his master. The boy who had grown into a young man was trying to break free from the fences the adults had built around him. This could not be stopped. Nor was it his place to stop it. Bernardino bowed his head.

“…Your Highness, I am merely your aide. You need not ask for my permission.”

He bowed deeply at the waist and spoke to his lord.

“When my lord's mind is made up, my role is only to assist, nothing more.”

Bernardino spoke quickly.

“I will prepare a swift horse, a writ for exchanging mounts, gold coins for your use, and identification to pass through the city gates. I will instruct the household staff to prepare clothing and provisions. However.”

He lifted his head to look at Alfonso.

“You absolutely cannot go alone. Take ten of your most discreet personal guards with you.”

Alfonso had ten young knights who were more like playmates than a royal guard. Chosen purely for their swordsmanship, many were of humble birth, but their skill and loyalty were beyond reproach. At Bernardino's words, Alfonso gave a slight smile.

“When you said I couldn't go alone, I thought you were going to offer to come yourself.”

Bernardino chuckled.

“Are you trying to have this old man die on the road?”

Then his expression hardened.

“Besides, I must remain here to manage the aftermath. You will be absent from your schedule in Taranto for a week. What reason shall I give?”

Alfonso answered at once, without a moment's hesitation.

“Say I was visiting Bianca for three days, and for the remaining four, I was ill in bed.”

“The illness will be a light cold, developing into a fever. My deputy, Matias, is at the prince's palace in San Carlo, so you may leave any administrative loose ends to him.”

Having quickly settled the arrangements, Bernardino hesitated for a moment before cautiously asking.

“By the way, Your Highness, what should I do about the letters that arrive each morning?”

For the first time, a look of annoyance crossed Alfonso's face.

“You write something.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

***

Ippolito's claim that no one important remained in San Carlo, having not gone down to Taranto, was not an exaggeration.

“Poor Arabella…”

The sister in charge of the San Ercole Cathedral wiped her eyes. The people seeing Arabella off on her final journey were mostly those from her immediate circle—her tutors, the owner of her dress shop, the nuns, and so on. The others who appeared were merchants or lower nobles trying to curry favor with the Cardinal, or clergymen hoping for a promotion. Tired of the worthless flatterers, Cardinal de Mare soon gave up on his fourteen-day vigil in the grand hall. He would show his face for about an hour a day, leaving the rest of the duties to the other family members.

Not that Arabella's full-blooded relatives were any more diligent in keeping watch over her coffin. Isabella found it uncomfortable to remain by the coffin of the sister she had killed with her own hands. She quickly excused herself, claiming she was exhausted from crying. It was the same for Lucrezia, who feared her own indifference might have played a part in Arabella's death. The only one left was her half-sister.

Naturally, the role of chief mourner fell to Ariadne. On the eighth day after Arabella's death, she was greeting each visitor and shaking their hands.

“May God's grace be with you…”

“Amen…”

After seeing the nun out, the grand hall where Arabella's body lay became quiet. As Ariadne looked around the empty hall, intending to sit and rest for a moment, she noticed a new arrival at the entrance. With the viewing period extended to fourteen days, twice the usual length, all the prominent figures had already paid their respects. Now, only the riffraff, peddlers, or those who had taken a long time to travel were left. By the eighth day of mourning, most of the visitors were women or the elderly. But the person standing in the doorway was a well-built young man wearing a fur-lined hood.

*Did Arabella have such a visitor…?*

*Perhaps a gamekeeper from the Bergamo estate,* Ariadne thought. She straightened her posture, smoothing the black velvet of her mourning dress as she watched the visitor approach. She prepared to respond with "Thank you for coming all this way" when he offered his condolences. But the man said nothing, simply reaching out and taking her hand.

“Ariadne…!”

It was a voice she knew well. Startled by the touch of his hand and the sound of her name, Ariadne looked up.

There stood Prince Alfonso, who had ridden for three days and nights through the snow to get here.