From The Legacy:
The force of the solar door being thrown open roused
Francesco. He couldn’t be certain that he was still asleep; the
shouts of men, coming in and out of his senses like waves
upon a shore, were part of a dream. His hands groped
drunkenly for the blankets, unsure of their proximity.
Somewhere in the tangle of linen and wool lay his sword. The
voices continued to come to him in waves of shouts and
curses. He smelled meat roasting on spits. Movement came
with difficulty. How was the simplest task now impossible?
Francesco tried to stand and fell head long into a wave of
blackness. When he came to, the enclosure of the bed was
pitch-colored; he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.
The lamp above the bolster had been extinguished.
Why?
Wrenching open the bed curtains he saw nothing amiss.
There by the dying fire was his favorite alaunt bitch. His
clothes still lay in a heap on the floor, and under his pillow he
found Serafina’s dainty sapphire ring. He made several
attempts to slip it on the small finger of his left hand and
finally succeeded. The blue-grey light of dawn was creeping in
through a space in the arras. But then he turned in bed and
saw Edmund, who had entered unannounced and armed.
Lorenzo came running after him. From below came the
shouting of men and the unmistakable sound of metal meeting
metal in combat, the pounding of missiles against the gates of
the inner bailey.
“We are besieged!”
Francesco struggled out of bed. Even dressing himself was
a Herculean effort. Lorenzo, frightened and trembling, was
fortunately there to assist. Francesco noted his anxiety and
ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately, managing a smile for him.
“How many armed are we?” he asked Edmund.
“One hundred and fifty, at most. Reinforcements have yet
to arrive.”
“Damn me for a fool,” Francesco pulled the arras back from
the window to see for himself. “They’ve penetrated the first
wall and outer bailey. How could that be?” Francesco swung
toward Edmund, an accusatory scowl on his face. Why wasn’t
he surprised by Edmund’s unwonted silence? Alarmed by his
cool indifference? An innocent man would protest such a
charge. Yet Edmund avoided his glance, choosing to pace the
chamber like a trapped wolf. “Set the women on the roof with
the pots, arm them with crossbows. And find Roberto.”
A man had been dispatched, though Francesco could not
remember his leaving, but there he stood again, shouting and
gesturing frantically to ward the door.
“Jesus wept! Francesco!”
Roberto’s cry alerted Edmund, who turned to see
Francesco slumped like an over laden sack against the bed.
Lorenzo was trying his best to hold the giant on his feet, but
the task was too onerous, and they both crumpled on the
chests surrounding the bed. Roberto wrenched Francesco to
his feet and shook him, then struck him so hard that Lorenzo
cried out and threw him self between the men to stop what he
thought was abuse.
That Francesco might die had never occurred to Edmund.
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