Wings of the falconElizabeth Peters
Writing AsBarbara Michaels
To Joan and Fred
Caroline, Mary Ann, and Nancy
and the four-footed Hartsocks
whose number is, at the time,
Indeterminate.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Though all of the characters in this book are completely fictitious, some of the more improbable events are based on actual fact. The history of the Risorgimento in Italy is filled with incidents as dramatic as any writer could invent. The Falcon, of course, is an invention; but Emilio and Attilio Bandiera are not. The town of Parezzo is imaginary, but Perugia’s insurrection and the retaliation of the papal troops are factual. Captain De Merode is a fictitious character, but Schmidt of Perugia and other mercenary commanders supplied the data on which I based my fanatical soldier. There is not and never was a family like the Tarcontis. However, their Etruscan cemetery resembles real ones and the tomb of the princess is based on the historical Regolini-Galassi tomb. Several early excavators claim to have seen perfectly preserved bodies crumble as the air entered the tomb. Even the white rabbits come from a factual account by Mrs. Hamilton Gray.
The historical background of Italy in 1860 is as accurate as I could make it. I hope I have succeeded in conveying the courage and dedication of the men who fought to unite Italy and free her of medieval institutions.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Praise
About the author
Books by Barbara Michaels
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Authors who write in the first person cannot expect their readers to be seriously concerned about the survival of the main character. A heroine who can describe her trials and tribulations in carefully chosen phrases obviously lived through those trials without serious damage. Yet I remember being absolutely breathless with suspense when the madwoman entered Miss Jane Eyre’s chamber and rent her wedding veil asunder: and I bit my nails to the quick as I followed the perils of Mrs. Radcliffe’s haunted heroines.
Not being Miss Brontë or Mrs. Radcliffe, I have no hope of engaging my reader’s attention to that extent. Yet some of the experiences that befell me, at a certain period of my life, were as distressing and almost as improbable as any of my favorite heroines’ adventures. Perhaps my youth and inexperience made my problems seem worse than they were. But even now, when I am a good many years older (I prefer not to state how many)—even now a reminiscent shiver passes through me as I remember Lord Shelton, and that dreadful moment when he held me helpless in his grasp, with his breath hot on my averted face and his hands tearing at my gown.
I anticipate. It is necessary to explain how I found myself in such a predicament; and that explanation must incorporate some of my family history.
My father was an artist—not a very good one, I fear. It is a pity, in a way, that his father was able to leave him a small sum of money, for without it Father would have had to seek gainful employment instead of pursuing the elusive genius of art. His small inheritance was enough to keep him in relative comfort for several years, while he traveled on the continent, ending, finally, in that artists’ mecca, Rome. To a young man of romantic tastes and ardent spirits, the old capital of the Caesars had many attractions beyond its artistic treasures—the colorful models who waited for employment on the Spanish Steps, the companionship of other struggling young artists, the wine and laughter and song in the soft Italian nights.
Father was a remarkably good-looking man, even when he was dying. Consumption is not a disfiguring disease. Indeed, that is one of its diabolical qualities, that it should give its victims a ghastly illusion of health and beauty just before the end. Father’s slenderness and delicacy of features were intensified by the ravages of the disease. The pallor of his complexion was refined by soft dark hair and lustrous black eyes framed by lashes so long and thick that any woman would have envied them.
Knowing him as he was in his decline, I can imagine how handsome he was at twenty, when he met my mother, and I can understand how he won her heart so quickly. Her family did not find it so easy to understand; for she was the daughter of a noble Italian house. In the ordinary course of events my father would never have met her. A romantic accident threw them together. The carriage in which she was traveling to Rome was delayed by bad weather, and in the darkness was set upon by bandits. Her attendants fled or were overcome; and Father happened upon the scene at the most critical moment, just as the miscreants were dragging the lady from the carriage. As his horse came thundering down upon them, the bandits thought him the leader of a troop of defenders, so that there was time for him to lift my mother’s fainting form into the saddle and escape before they discovered their error.
