Chiara – Revenge and Triumph by Gian Bordin Read Free Book Online Page A

world with two faces, like a coin, one hideous and cruel, the other beautiful and kind, and the face to turn up is at the mercy of chance.
     
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    Chiara would learn later that the harbor she ran away from was Porto Pisano, Pisa’s new sea port for large galleys and merchantmen, which could no longer go up the Arno since its lower reach was silting up.
    By the time she had retraced her steps, the sun had risen, but she was grateful to be the only one about. Luck sent a wild duck scurrying from a bush nearby. It was holding one of its wings half opened as if injured. The bird did not fool her. The nest was hidden under the bush. It contained eight eggs — a second clutch? she wondered. She cracked one into her open hand, hoping that it was still fresh, and almost cried out in joy when she saw the clear liquid and its yellow yolk. She eagerly slurped it up, drinking another four right away, and took the remaining three along for later. She did not know if it was the nourishment itself or simply the thought of nourishment, but her stride showed renewed vigor. Farther on, she spotted a tree laden with wild cherries no more than fifty feet off the road and gorged herself on the tart, juicy fruit, sating the worst of her thirst.
    Initially the road led through a flat, swampy expanse of trees and stagnant pools. Raised two or three feet above the level of the plain, it was wide enough for two carts to pass each other and lined with poplars on both sides. It continued almost straight in a more or less northerly direction.
     It was midmorning before she heard the first travelers, two riders coming up from behind. They slowed as they passed.
    "Boy, you’re on the road early. On to Pisa?" one of them shouted.
    "Yes, sir. How much farther?"
    "You’ll make it there by noon. God be with you." And they were off at a canter.
    A short time later, she encountered five heavily laden carts, pulled by teams of four oxen each, traveling south at a slow pace. A group of young men and boys walking alongside eyed her with open curiosity. She overheard one of them say: "I bet he stole those clothes."
    When they had passed, she looked critically at her garments. The bottom of the hose was covered in dried mud. Pale skin showed through a large rip on the side. Her breeches and tunic, although dirty and creased were richly embroidered, in sharp contrast to their plain, woollen ones. And she had no belt or hat. She was a dubious-looking character, alone on the road and not carrying any belongings. It made her feel embarrassed, self-conscious. But there was nothing she could do about it now except hope that it would not lead her into trouble. At least, she was warned and could make herself inconspicuous whenever possible. She was though bemused that they took her for a boy.
    She rested for a while in the shade of a poplar, ate the three remaining eggs, and brushed off most of the mud from her hose. Swarms of buzzing insects drove her onward again.
    As the sun approached its highest point, the landscape changed. The swamps and forests, and occasional pasture, where sheep grazed on the lush grass, guarded by shepherds, yielded to cultivated fields and orchards, with farmhouses, partially hidden behind shelter belts of poplars. Men, women and children, in colorful clothing, were tending the crops. By the time she passed the little church of San Piero a Grado, a constant stream of carts, riders and pedestrians, farmers and their wives returning from the city after selling their wares, was coming toward her, while there was only a trickle of pedestrians and a few riders going in her direction. She continued attracting curious glances and had questions shouted that she mostly ignored or answered with a smile, which seemed to disconcert the questioners into desisting.
    In the distance, she could see several church spires, including the famous white tower of the Duomo of what surely must be Pisa. At the cluster of houses by San Giovanni al Gatano,