itinere | Open | Action: What is a sally if not another word for adventure? (literally)

"Rocinante is a name fitting of the steed of a Knight," the hildago blusters. For the truth is that he chose the name simply for the sound of it, not any particular meaning.

"Senora Borgia. It is a pleasure that I feel to my very toes to make your acquaintance!"

"It is most noble a name, Sir Knight. Befitting both a gallant steed and the brave one who commands him." She agrees with a small smile and a nod, her palm still petting steadily at the horse's neck. Rocinante doesn't seem to mind her touch. And Don Quixote de la Mancha seems alright with it as well.

In her mind's eye, she puts together a story of Rocinante and the Knight Errant. Lucrezia enjoys getting lost in stories far greater than the life she had resigned herself to with Giovanni Sforza.

"The pleasure is mine, good Sir." She assures him. And because he seems to be closer to her time than most others here. "Tell me, what think you of our fair city, Itinere?"

"This city is not unlike those in the great Romances of the day," intones the Knight. Poor Lucrezia could be in for a long sermon if she stays.

"In those books, the villages were populated by valiant Knights, upholding the tenets of Chivalry, honorable - and fair! - ladies who would serve as inspiration. The leader, of course, is always good and fair." Or evil and in need of vanquishing. Six of one ....

"Though," the hildago does admit, "the stones of the streets (by which he means asphalt) is very rough on the hooves of my horse."

Fortunately, Lucrezia neither minds a great sermon or words that wax poetic. The first because she is the daughter of the Pope. The second because she is somewhat of a romantic and does enjoy great literature and poetry that tends to wax poetic.

"I enjoy such tales of heroism, love and chivalry." She admits, slipping some lace gloves from the inside of her sleeves to slip delicately onto each hand. "To think that we might be living in one such similar circumstance is quite a romantic thought."

With the gloves on her hands, she once again pets at the horses neck. "Poor Rocinante. Is there anything we can do to ease his distress?"

Aside from kill the poor thing because he is old? Not that Don Quixote would advocate that.

"He is a hale and hearty creature," he assures the beautiful woman. "He shall be fine with some hay and some water."

"Were my heart not already pledged to the beautiful Dulcinea," he expounded, "I would pledge it to you, fair Lucrezia. For beauty of your kind deserves the attentions of a most noble knight."

Oh what a horrible and sad thought. Lucrezia is glad he doesn't voice such a thing. Lucrezia finds that she quite likes both Don Quixote and his valiant steed Rocinante.

She thinks of d'Artagnan, who has her own heart. Her love might be quite amused with Don Quixote de la Mancha. "You are too kind, Sir Knight." She says politely. But in truth, she does enjoy being called beautiful. She's only just getting used to kind words in regard to herself after having lived with Giovanni for awhile where nary a kind word was spoken.

"If you might accompany me to the stables by the racetrack, perhaps I could ride with you for awhile." She looks up to the Knight with the sincere hope that he might say yes.

"Of course, fair lady!" Of course, even he realizes that Rocinante could not carry the weight of them both, sway-backed as he is, so he, with great creaking of armor and heaving of lungs, landed on his feet with a clank. "Ride, fair Lucrezia," he says, holding out a hand for her to mount. "And I shall make sure that Rocinante does not lead you astray."

The effort it takes Don Quixote to dismount almost makes Lucrezia feel badly. But at the same time, even though she is the bastard child of the Pope, her mother a courtesan, she is high-born enough because of her father that she's accustomed to such acts of chivalry no matter how difficult it may be to perform them. Also, to deny a man such as Don's act of chivalry would be the most grave of insults. She knows this well enough.

Placing her hand delicately in his, she lifts her multitude of skirts just enough to place her foot in the stirrup and push herself up onto the horse. She doesn't ride astride, but rather as she has been taught to ride as a lady. Still, the reigns are quite familiar in her hands.

"Thank you, Sir Knight." She says, offering him the reigns as she takes a hold of the horses mane and saddle to remain atop the steed. "Your gallantry is most appreciated."

Nearly beaming with pride at such kind words, the knight begins to urge Rocinante toward the stables. "Where is it that you hale from, fair lady?" he asks, only slightly breathless what with the near-falling and the walking. "I am from Spain, myself, though not where the Moors are from, who are liars and cheats!"

*disclaimer: Cervantes did not think Moors were liars or cheats, but was merely parroting the views of the time for satiric effect.

Lucrezia, of course, knows of the Moors. She might believe some of them to be liars and cheats as well for the mere telling of it. They have only been brought into Rome in her time, to be slaves to nobility. Strange creatures, she thinks, from a faraway land of which she will never see. And perhaps they are a bit sad too.

But she will take the Knight at his word, for she knows no better.

"I've lived in the heart of the Holy City of Rome for most of my life." She answers him as Tocinante trudges slowly along the street. "But I was born in Subiaco, just outside of Rome. My mother still has a home there." At least as far as she knows, she does.

"Have you ever been to Rome, Sir Knight?" She asks.

"I have not," intones the Knight with a sincere skin-deep sadness. "A good many great books of Romance are set in Italy, though! But not as many as in Spain."

Spain, after all, has El Cid and nothing can top El Cid.

"How came you to be in this place, fair Lucrezia? I came through a stable door, myself."

She smiles down to the Knight. "I do so enjoy romances, Sir Knight. Have you a good one to tell?" She asks.

"I entered Itinere through the Vatican doors after my brother Joffre's wedding." That's right, the Vatican. Only certain people would be in the Vatican at all, much less there for a wedding.

"My intent was to get to my horse to make the journey back to... Pesaro where I was living." With a husband who treated her horribly rather than how one should treat the daughter of the pope. "I was brought here instead."

"Well!" Isn't that exciting?

Don Quixote ponders such a thing. How they can come from such different places to end up here.

"I have a good many stories of romance that I can share," he offers, smiling up at her with no few missing teeth. "Would you wish to hear one?"

It is a curiosity, so many differing types from faraway places and different worlds entirely, all in one place. Such magic is beyond her understanding. But she's pleased by it, nonetheless. It brought her to d'Artagnan, after all.

She dips her head, excitedly. It might seem ridiculous to tell someone a story. But one must not forget that she is still very young. Marriages were made, especially by nobility, at such young ages in her time. To her it is of no mind that she is only just fifteen years old.

"I would like that very much, yes." She says.

"Well!" With great relish, Don Quixote prepares himself for the telling of such a tale.

A great and noble tale of Romance!

What a shame it is, then, in that moment, that they all escape him! A terrible shame! He stammers about as he walks, racking what wits he has in an attempt to recall even one such story.

At last he settles on Francesca and Paolo, a very old story indeed (and a very poor story for impressing the ladies, it's true).

"A beautiful Italian woman with the most noble name of Francesca," he begins, "was wedded to the brave, yet crippled Giovanni. It was not," he adds, "a marriage based on love. But on position! And the quest for power."

"After all! Guido had been at war with the Malatesta family, and the marriage of his daughter to Giovanni was a way to solidify the peace that had been negotiated between the Malatesta and the Polenta families!"

A sad reason for marriage, in the Knight's view. For he had never been married, you see and did not know the trials that came, even with good marriages.

"While in Rimini, the beautiful, and now lonely Francesca fell in love with Giovanni’s younger (and still hale) brother, Paolo. For love follows not the matters of the mind, but the matters of the heart!"

"Paolo too was married, but that stopped them not, as they managed to seek and share their love for over ten years!"

"But," he finally says, looking up at Lucrezia with rheumy eyes. "Giovanni, a wise man of his own right, ultimately surprised them in Francesca’s bedroom, finding them there in flagrante!, and killing them both!"

Lucrezia's head dips. The Malatesta and Polenta families sounded very much like the Borgia and the Sforza families. Her marriage had been to form an alliance, thrown to Giovanni the wolf who knew nothing of love or kindness. She had been stripped bare, but had yet to be full hardened against such notions of love.

Her sweet Paolo had saved her from growing cold.

And how parallel to her own life the tale of Francesca and Paolo. "Isn't it strange, Sir Knight, that love cannot survive without pain? In all the stories of old it warns us of this. And yet, we dream of love so pure, infallible and innocent in spite of ourselves."

She pauses. "It seems a futile effort at best. And yet we dream and dream..."

"Oh, fair Lucrezia!" Don Quixote rears to a stop to face her, his own countenance most serious, despite being without his wits.

"True love will always exist! It merely needs to be found! Love with pain is no love at all."

At his complimentary exclamation, a small smile graces her lips again She looks up to him again, wishing so badly that what he says is right.

"I met a man here that I could love so truly and completely, as in the old romantic tales. Thus far, there seems to be no pain." Although, her tone is clear that she is tentative in believing it will remain that way.

"Well, if this man is a knight, good and true, then it shall be!"

Not that Don Quixote has any way of testing that or even proving it, but still!

"And you then shall have a story of Romance of your own."

"He is what he calls a Musketeer. A soldier of France." She explains it to the best of her ability, which, granted, is very minimal. She knows little of soldiers and knights and war aside from what she has read before.

"Is that similar to you, Sir Knight?" She asks.

"If he fights for the tenets of chivalry?" The hildago attempts a shrug that does little more than rattle his armor, "then he is a Knight! If he fights, too, for your honor, then he is worthy of being a knight."

So, in that way, that is settled. "I shall, though," he adds, "have to meet this man, to be sure."

"I do believe him to be chivalrous, yes. And true." Lucrezia is quick to assure Don Quixote.

The smile she gives him is gentle but playful. "You will see to my interests, good Sir?" For some reason, this is a welcome thing. Lucrezia is from a time when she is a piece on a chess board. No one to see to her better interests but Cesare. But her brother isn't here.

And Don Quixote is arguably old enough to be her grandfather and shall treat her just like that.

"I shall," he proposes. "After all! It is part of my attention to the tenets of Chivalry!"

Turning in a slow circle, he accomplishes two things. 1) he ties himself in the reins, and 2) he doesn't locate this knight.

Oh, dear.

"Then I do hope you meet my d'Artagnan someday, Don Quixote de la Mancha. For surely you can tell the depth of his chivalry, and perhaps of his love for me." She encourages good-naturedly.

"Sir Knight!" She exclaims around a laugh as she reaches down to help to untangle him. "Perhaps it is you who should ride and I who leads."

"Never!" With a creak of rusty armor, the hildago unwinds himself, reins still in hand with a kind of triumph. "I will guide you where you wish to go, fair Lucrezia. Then I can meet your knight and declare him sound."

Because in the books, these things are always clear and straightforward. How will life not be the same way?

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