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duty to both her family and to Florence. Then they returned inside the palazzo, leaving Francesca with her father. He took her by her shoulders and looked into her face. “You know what is expected of you, Francesca. This is no longer a game. I want you to be happy, but should you return to us it will be difficult to find a husband for a girl who has been refused by a duke’s son. Remember that you’ve turned down every respectable offer in Florence.”
    For a moment Francesca was frightened by the seriousness of his tone and by his blunt words. Was it actually possible a husband could not be found for her when she came home? No! She was Francesca Pietro d’Angelo. She was wealthy and beautiful. There was always a man available for such a girl. Still, she considered her father’s speech to her as his duty. “I will hope to find this duke’s son pleasing,” she said.
    “You had best hope he finds you pleasing,” Giovanni said sharply. Then he kissed her cheek and helped her mount the beautiful white gelding. “God bless you, my daughter. May our own Santa Anna travel with you.”
    Settled securely in her saddle, Francesca pulled her beautiful golden-brown leather gloves onto her hands. “Thank you,
Padre
,” she replied, smiling down at him.
    Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo raised his hand to signal the captain of his household’s men-at-arms to proceed. He stood watching as his second daughter and her personal attendants, surrounded by well-armed men-at-arms, slowly rode across the piazza through the small park that led out into the public streets. The baggage train had already gone on ahead of them. Old Father Bonamico stood on the steps of the church and blessed them as they passed by Santa Anna. When they were gone the silk merchant climbed into his waiting litter and went to his warehouses, for there was a new shipment of silk arriving today. It had come directly from Cathay.
    Francesca looked beautiful in her rich brown riding outfit. She knew it, and held herself proudly as they rode through the streets and out the gates onto the road leading to Milano. The normally rude streets, so bustling and busy, opened for her, allowing them easy access. She heard whispers and saw fingers pointing now and again in her direction.
    At the gate the sentry examined their travel papers. She heard the man say to the captain of her guard, “Don’t blame ’em for sending her away to find a husband. No man in Florence will have such a shrew.” Her cheeks grew hot but she didn’t deign to give the soldier a glance as they passed him. She was, after all, Francesca Pietro d’Angelo, and the opinion of a low soldier didn’t count.
    Because it was late spring coming into summer they rode each day from dawn until dusk. The baggage train was gone each morning before they finished their simple meal of bread, cheese, hard-cooked eggs, and fruit. As the light began to wane at day’s end they would reach the halt designated for the night. Within an hour the baggage carts would arrive, the cook fires would be lit, and Francesca’s silk pavilion would be raised on its sturdy wooden platform for the women. A smaller tent would be set up for the priest. Camp beds, tables, and chairs would be unloaded and placed within the pavilion. Father Silvio would take his evening meal with the women. The cook would bring in a hot delicious meal. The goblets would be filled with wine.
    Most days of the late spring as it moved into early summer were warm and pleasant, but some days they were forced to ride in the rain. Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo did not want his daughter stopping at any public inns. Most were flea-ridden, and not all of the travelers they housed were apt to be respectable or honest. The silk merchant wanted his daughter’s journey to be as pleasant as it could be given the distance they would travel. He wanted Francesca happy when she reached Terreno Boscoso.
    The Duke of Milano had at the personal request of Lorenzo di Medici given