Cloux
I did not know it was raining until one of the King’s pages brought me a rain-spattered note, ink and coat-of-arms smudged.
“What is it?” Francesco asked, standing by me protectively, holding the door.
The page grinned and wiped rain off his face. Probably he was perplexed since he could not understand Italian.
“The King is sick,” I said, reading the note. “He wants me to come to the château and talk to him.”
“In this awful rain!”
Water was sluicing off the page’s cap.
“I won’t let you go out...in this cold rain,” protested Maturina. “You have no umbrella...it’s being fixed.”
Francesco tugged my sleeve.
“The tunnel,” he said. “We’ll walk through the tunnel, to the château. It’s been worked on...we’ll keep dry... Shall we?”