Francesca's First Blade

Tuscany
June 8th, 1707

     With a flurry of anticipation, Francesca bounced down the dark oak stairs to breakfast. Today was her birthday. Today she was seven years old—a big girl. Today was going to be the best day ever, the day that Papa would start her training. He would give her a beautiful, shining blade engraved with her name and the DiCesare coat of arms, like he had for her older brothers Sebastian and Antonio.

     Today, with her new blade and her training, she would become a true DiCesare. Papa said that through all of Europe, the name DiCesare is synn… synom… She couldn’t remember the word.  The name DiCesare means ‘skilled with a sword.’ I have to be good at fencing. Sebastian and Antonio were well on their way, and she would be soon too.

     She tried not to think about the fact that her brothers had gotten their swords and their training on their sixth birthdays. It’s because I’m a girl, she told herself. I was too small last year; I needed another year to grow. But now I’m big. A worry tried to worm its way into her thoughts, but she melted it away with her excitement.

     Breathless, she ran into the family dining room, then bit her lip in disappointment. Only Nana had arrived. A small fire crackled merrily in the marble fireplace, glowed off the dark wood paneling, and lit up the tapestries.  Nana, stooped and tiny, stood near the fire leaning on her cane. Francesca’s oldest brother, Antonio, now twelve, already stood taller than Nana. She opened her arms and Francesca rushed into them.

     “There’s my sweet girl. Happy birthday.” Nana gave Francesca a warm hug. She cupped Francesca’s face in her gnarled hands and nodded to a bundle wrapped in sackcloth on the table. “Something to go with your beautiful green eyes.”

     Francesca unwrapped a lovely, emerald, velvet dress embroidered with silver butterflies. She held it up against herself and swished around the room. “Oh, Nana! It’s wonderful. When did you have time to do this?” She knew how much Nana’s hands hurt her.

     “Oh, a little here, a little there.” She smiled.

     Francesca heard footsteps in the hall and turned quickly toward the door, but only Antonio and Sebi appeared, already dressed for class in their white fencing jackets. They headed straight for the sideboard to spoon eggs from a silver ewer onto plates as they wished her a happy birthday. Antonio tousled her hair as he passed, and she tried to smooth it back into place. His grey eyes matched Papa’s, though without Papa’s intensity. Sebi, two years older than Francesca, had green eyes like her, and like the portrait of their mother above the mantle—though Sebi’s always seemed mocking. Then Papa’s footsteps sounded in the hall and her heart thumped.

     Papa entered with his hands behind his back. “There’s my brave girl, seven years old and nearly grown.” He strode toward her.

     His smile didn’t reach his grey eyes. He always seemed a little sad on her birthday since it also marked the day her mother died. He bent and kissed her on the top of her head. “Now, for your special gift. I had it made just for you.” Francesca’s breath caught and her heart pounded as, with a flourish, he presented her gift.

     A china doll.

     Disappointment crashed down, knocking the breath from her. Her chest caved in.

     Papa patted her on the head as he turned toward the eggs on the sideboard.

     The doll was beautiful, with auburn hair and green eyes like her, and a dress to match the one Nana had just given her, but she hated it with all her heart. She dropped it and burst into tears as she ran from the room. With bleary eyes she bolted up a flight of stairs, slammed her door, and threw herself on her peach bedspread. She sobbed into her pillow, crushing it to her face. She had been so sure.

     Last year, when she had hoped for her sword and training, Papa had given her a silver locket, engraved with the DiCesare coat of arms, containing an auburn curl of her mother’s hair. Francesca loved the gift but couldn’t stop her disappointment. Nana had once mentioned that Papa had taught Momma to fence, so she thought the locket meant he would teach her too, eventually. A hundred times last year she had asked Papa if she could start her training. Papa would shake his head and say “No, my Cesca,” then send her off to Nana or her governess.

     Today was supposed to be different. Surely, she must be big enough now. With no other girls at the salle except servants, she had no way to judge, but she was a DiCesare, surely her lessons must start soon. All the DiCesares fenced, except for Nana, of course, with her gnarled hands and bad hip. Today had to be her day.

     Papa’s footsteps echoed in the hall, and he knocked at her door. “Cesca?”

     She didn’t answer, but he came and sat down, setting the doll next to her. As she turned her face to the wall she said, “Another whole year?  

     He sighed heavily. “I know what you were hoping for,” he said. “I’m truly sorry, dear heart, but I can’t give you what you want. I won’t. Girls don’t fence.” His voice sounded weary as he rubbed the scar that ran down his forehead and cheek, as he often did when upset.

     “Ever?”

     “Ever.”

     She felt a rip, as though half of her had been torn away. How can I be a DiCesare if I don’t fence? And if I’m not a DiCesare, what am I? Nothing. Nobody. “But. I’m big enough now. And Nana said that even Mamma—”

     “I made a mistake. If she hadn’t wanted to… If she’d been with the other women… I won’t make that mistake again. No.”

     Francesca curled into the hole in her stomach and gulped air between sobs. He put a warm hand on her back. “I’ve seen too much in this world, Francesca. Men are brutish, hard. Women and girls are meant for higher things. You are the best of us. You have a beautiful life ahead of you, Cesca. But it cannot include the sword.”

     He turned her gently to look at him. “It breaks my heart to deny you, but I must. So you must stop asking. I forbid you to ask me again.” He kissed her cheek, then rose, and left her with the doll and her tears.

     Francesca’s disappointment grew hot and transformed into anger. With a shrill scream she threw her pillow as hard as she could at the door Papa had just closed behind him. It made an unsatisfying poof. She grabbed her green-eyed doll by one leg, flinging it at the door. It made a much more satisfying crunch as the ceramic head caved in. I am good enough! She thought, slashing at her tears. It’s not fair! It’s not my fault I’m a girl!

     As she looked for something else to smash, she heard Papa and the students outside.

     She went to the window. The tan stone villa that made up Salle DiCesare formed a U around the cobblestone courtyard. On the right, a canvas awning striped in orange shaded benches and fencing gear. Beyond the courtyard stood the iron gate and beyond that, the stables, and the rolling green hills.

     Class began in the courtyard two stories below. Young men and boys in their white fencing jackets lined up on the left side of the courtyard. Papa called them to attention as he strode to the center of the yard. Francesca wanted to pound on the wavy glass until it crashed down on them. How could he look so calm when he had just destroyed her whole world? What made those boys so much better than her?

     The students took their en garde positions, knees bent, back straight, right shoulder and knee forward and blades ready.  She watched through tears as papa walked among them correcting their form.

     A soft rapping came at her door. Nana’s knock.

     Francesca reluctantly opened the door. Her new birthday dress draped over one of Nana’s arms. Nana tilted her head to the side and said, “That won’t do. Those red eyes are going to clash with your new dress.”

     “Don’t tease, Nana. Not today.” Francesca sat back down on her bed dropping her head and wiping at tears.

     Nana pushed the remains of the doll aside with her foot, picked the pillow off the terracotta floor and tossed it next to Francesca. She laid the dress down on the end of the bed. “I’m sorry, dear. But there’s no use crying over what can’t be helped. If there were, the world would be drowning in tears.”

     Francesca hunched her shoulders.  She could feel Nana’s soft, dove grey eyes sizing her up.

     Nana said “Come, dear. Why don’t you help your old grandmother collect some flowers for the dinner table tonight? The garden always cheers you up.”

     Francesca glowered toward the window but nodded.

     “Good. Then you can help me back down the stairs, it was a bear to get up here with this old hip.”

     After Francesca helped Nana down the stairs, through the kitchen to collect a basket and a knife, and out into the garden, they found Nana a seat on a bench facing the roses. Gravel paths radiated out from the circular bed of roses at the center of the garden. Usually, Francesca loved to run up and down the paths, delighting in the bright colors of the flowers against the green leaves, as the smells of lavender and rosemary blew on the breeze. But today she didn’t feel like it.

     The early morning’s sun had given way to low, gathering clouds and a wet wind, promising rain later.

     “Bring me five of those bright red roses,” said Nana. “And mind you cut the stems long.”

     As Francesca walked glumly toward the roses, she thought about their visit last spring to Sr. Alba’s pig farm. She and her brothers had watched the squirming, squealing, pink piglets and Sebi had pointed out a tiny runt half the size of the others. When it tried to squeeze in to get a drink of milk, its mother ignored it and its brothers and sisters kicked and bit it until it crawled away into a corner of the pen, outcast. Sr. Alba told them the runt was too weak and would die within a few days. That’s what she felt like, too weak and useless to be a DiCesare. Why had she even been born?

     As she returned, flowers in hand, she saw Nana rubbing her hip, her forehead scrunched in pain. “Bad today?” she asked.

     Nana nodded. “These weather changes have played havoc with it since it broke.”

     “You never told me how you broke it?”

     Nana gave a chuckle, “Doing something I wasn’t supposed to.”

     Francesca’s eyes widened. “What were you doing?”

     Nana leaned closer to her and dropped her voice, though no one could hear. “Jumping my horse Carrots over a hedge.”

     Francesca stared at Nana, who laughed. “Don’t look at me like that. And close your mouth, its unladylike. I’ll have you know I was quite a rider back in my day.”

     “Really?” She couldn’t imagine Nana on the back of a horse, much less jumping a hedge.

     “Carrots was a natural jumper and I loved it as much as she. When I was young, my parents forbade me. As did your grandfather when we first married—as if I would listen. I gave it up after I had the children, and while they were young. They needed me. But after they’d grown, I started again. Your grandfather used to say it was unladylike, but I think that was part of the fun. Now, go cut three of the pink dahlias.”

     Francesca wandered to the dahlias trying to imagine Nana sneaking away to jump her horse. As she added the new flowers to Nana’s basket she asked, “Do you regret it?”

     Nana waved her words away. “No. I’m sorry I fell, but Carrots and I jumped for many years, and it brought us both a great deal of pleasure. Seven of the white roses, the ones that smell especially good, if you please.”

     When Francesca returned, Nana held the roses to her face and inhaled the sweet scent. “You know, my dear, there are two things people can regret in life. Doing something, and not doing something. Not doing something leaves you the poorer. At least if you regret something you’ve done, you have had the experience.” She looked at Francesca and lowered her eyebrows. “Within reason, of course. As long as no one gets hurt.”

     Francesca nodded. Nana seemed to be trying to tell her something, but she didn’t know what.

     “How about some rosemary for the scent,” said Nana.

     Francesca hurried off toward the bed of rosemary bushes. On the way, she passed beneath the old oak and noticed a branch on the ground about the length and width of a practice foil. She picked it up, but it only made her sadder. She felt like she had a big hole inside of her ribs. She went back with the rosemary, swishing the stick against the foliage along the path. “Nana?” she said as she added the rosemary to the basket, “why won’t Papa teach me to fence?”

     “What did he say?”

     “He said boys are bad and girls are better, but it doesn’t seem that way. It feels like he means that I’m not good enough. I never will be. And if girls are better, why do we have to have so many rules? It’s not fair.”

     “Well, my dear, in my experience, the world is very seldom fair. Especially to women. But that doesn’t make them not good enough.”

     “You said he taught mamma.”

     “Hmm, yes, I probably shouldn’t have told you that. It’s complicated. I don’t know exactly why he won’t teach you, but the decision is his, so you’ll need to honor that.”

     “So, I’ll never get to learn.” She poked the stick into the gravel at their feet.

     “Come, help me up. We’ll take these inside before the rain comes. We can collect some more greens on the way.” Nana took Francesca’s arm and leaned on her. Francesca carried the basket and stick in the other hand.

     Nana said offhandedly, “You know, teaching and learning are two different things. No one taught Carrots and me how to jump.”

     Papa usually insisted they all eat together, but he never showed up when the family gathered for lunch. Antonio said he had ridden into Casina shortly after fencing class. Francesca was glad he’d left. She flipped back and forth between two emotions. Half the time she still felt angry with him, and wondered if he didn’t want to face her after their breakfast scene. But the rest of the time she felt ashamed of being a girl and not being worth teaching. That part made her want to cry again.

     She spent the afternoon in history and piano classes and polishing the silver with her governess, Senora Álvarez, and then helping Nana arrange the flowers they had picked.

     Wearing her new green dress, she entered the dining room for her birthday dinner. Sebi and Antonio looked up as she entered, and Sebi laughed. “You look like a frog.” He stuck his tongue out, like a frog catching a fly.

     Antonio swatted him with the back of his hand. “Don’t be a pig. You look nice, Francesca.”

     “You’re the bug.” She stuck out her tongue at Sebi. “I’ll eat you up.” But she responded from habit, and she felt even more worthless.

     Papa entered pushing Nana in her rolling chair. “Marvelous!” said Papa, “we’re all here.” He seemed excited and happy, but it seemed wrong somehow, and Francesca couldn’t meet his eyes all dinner. She felt ashamed of being a no-good runt. She didn’t even look at him when he said, “Cesca, there will be a surprise for you in the morning. For now, let’s just celebrate our brave girl.”

     I hope it’s not another doll, thought Francesca, hiding a grimace as the servants brought in their dinner.

     Papa woke her early. Bleary-eyed, she followed him down the stairs, out the double doors of the villa. The sun, barely up, painted the courtyard peach.  She yawned as they passed through the wrought iron gate of the salle toward the stables where the sun glowed orange off the terracotta tile roof and yellow off the tan stones of the walls. She gave Papa a confused look as he opened the corral gate behind the stable and ushered her in.

     Cassio, the head groom held the end of a rope around the neck of a beautiful black foal. It had long, delicate legs and an elegantly arched neck. Francesca gasped as Cassio gestured toward her with the rope.

     “For me?” she asked.

     “You’re the birthday girl,” Papa said, grinning.

     Francesca’s heart melted and expanded at the same time. She wanted to run to the colt and throw her arms around it, but she approached cautiously, not wanting to spook it.

     “Don’t be shy,” said Cassio, “he’s not.”

     She held out her hand as she neared, and the foal sniffed and nibbled at her fingers with rubbery lips. He let her stroke his head, then she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. The colt pressed into her arms and rubbed his jowls against her. Francesca thought her heart might explode from so much love. She blinked away tears. “What’s his name?”

     “That’s up to you,” said Papa.

     The colt pulled away and Cassio removed the rope letting him run and caper around the corral.

     Papa put a hand on her shoulder. “This is a big responsibility, Cesca. He’s just weaned, and he’ll need a lot of care.”

    “That’s for certain,” said Cassio. “At his age, he’s growing so fast he’ll need twice the food of a horse full grown. And he’ll need brushing, training, and socializing.”

     “Yes! Oh yes! I’ll do all of it! Thank you, Papa!” She hugged him, squeezing as tight as she could. She watched the colt running and kicking up his heels. His jet-black coat gleamed in the sunshine, except for one white patch on the back of his front right fetlock. “Look. He has an Achilles heel. That must be where God held him when he dipped him in black ink and made him all shiny.”

     Papa laughed. “It must be. Is that his name then? Achilles?”

     “Of course!”

     She spent half the morning with Achilles and Cassio, learning how to brush, feed, and exercise her colt. And they started training him.

     As she headed back into the salle to help Sra. Álvarez with the mending, Papa worked in the courtyard, teaching the older students advanced fencing skills, working with a rapier in one hand and a dagger in the other. Despite the happiness of the last few hours, her sorrow and shame crashed back down on her. She knew Papa gave her Achilles to distract her from not being good enough to fence. She also knew it wouldn’t work.

     When she stopped in her room to clean up, she saw the branch she had found the day before and thought of Nana’s words. “No one taught Carrots and me how to jump.” She glanced out the window at the students. Nana taught herself how to jump her horse. Maybe I could teach myself how to fence. Is that what Nana was telling me? If I learn on my own, then, would I still not be good enough? Would that make me a DiCesare? Does it count if no one else knows I’m doing it?

     Those seemed like big questions, and she didn’t know the answers. She gnawed on a fingernail as she stared out the window at Papa teaching an advanced move outside.

     She turned at a light knock on her open door. Two of the laundry maids curtsied, eyes cast down. One of them gestured toward her bed. “May we, Signorina?”

     When Francesca nodded, they hurried to the bed and expertly stripped the sheets to be washed. Francesca started to turn back to the window but stopped to watch them.

     Bianca, sixteen, had a lot of muscle from dealing with all the wet linens.  She, and her sister Elena who was thinner and fourteen, both had circular faces with round noses and chins, and watery eyes beneath thin, arched eyebrows. Their cheeks flared red as they whispered to each other, glanced at Francesca, and quickly dropped their eyes, just as she’d been doing to Papa all day. She recognized that ‘not good enough’ gesture. The girls gathered up the sheets and curtsied again as they hurried out.

     Francesca followed, stopping in her doorway to watch them go into Sebi’s room next door. Leaning against the doorframe, she thought again about her question of yesterday. If I’m not a DiCesare, what am I? She was already hemming her brothers’ clothes, fixing their ripped fencing jackets, polishing the silver they used, now not meeting their eyes. Am I a servant as well? Is that all I’ll ever be?

     The maids came out of Sebi’s room with arms full of sheets. They bobbed a curtsey as they passed her, carefully avoiding her eyes, and hurried toward the servants’ stairs.

     Tears threatened to well up again. I’m a servant with pretty dresses and a horse.

     Antonio came around the corner from his room down the hall with a cup and saucer in hand. “Ah, Francesca,” he said, walking over to her and handing her the cup and saucer. “Be a good girl and take this down to the kitchen for me.” He turned and walked away without waiting for an answer.

     Francesca’s breath huffed out as a cough. Anger and humiliation warred in her stomach, making her feel sick. Anger won. “No!” she shouted at Antonio’s back. She stomped over to him as he turned toward her. She shoved the cup and saucer into his chest, and he wrapped his hands around them. “I’m your sister, not your servant!” She stomped back to her room and turned toward him, hand on the door. His eyes were wide in surprise. “I’m not a runt. I won’t be. And you can’t make me!” She slammed the door.

     I’m a real DiCesare! I’m as good as they are. I’m a fencer!  She flourished the branch she had found like a blade. Somehow, just that action made her feel better. Like a person again, someone who counted. She looked out the window, at Papa teaching below. Someday you’ll know I’m a fencer. For now, I’ll know.

     Slowly, her anger faded. She regarded the branch. If she was going to do this, she wanted to do it right. The branch weighed almost nothing. It’s too light. I need something heavier, like a real blade.

     She opened the window. A rack of fencing gear stood under the canvas awning to her right. She could just take one, but Papa would notice if one suddenly went missing. What would he do then? She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed risky. How do I get a blade? She pondered the question as she hurried to see her governess who was probably waiting for her impatiently by now.

     A spinning wheel stood in one corner of the bright, sunny sewing room.  Francesca and her governess sat on comfy brocade chairs. Sra. Álvarez taught Francesca how to darn some of her brothers’ wool socks with holes in the toes. Francesca wanted to refuse, but didn’t relish a lecture from her governess, so she gritted her teeth and fixed Sebi’s socks. Then they worked on repairing frayed hems and torn seams on some of the fencing jackets. With so many growing boys and young men at the salle, something always needed repair.

     As her governess turned to speak with one of the maids, Francesca slipped one of the badly torn jackets deep under her armchair. She’d pick it up later and take it to her room. She didn’t know what she would do with it, but it seemed like a fencer should have a fencing jacket and she was going to be a fencer.

     As she descended the stairs to dinner that evening, Sebi walked down the steps with her, teasing her as usual. “I hear your new horse is black, just like your soul.”

     “Yeah? Well, well, your horse is the color of poop. Just like your soul.”

     Sebi laughed and Francesca bristled. Later, as she looked at Sebi across the dinner table, she thought, maybe I can’t just take a blade without getting caught, but Sebi could lose one, and I could find it. Then he’d get in trouble, not me. She licked her lips, the thought of getting Sebi in trouble seemed extra delicious.  

     It took Francesca nearly a week to catch Sebi at just the right time. She needed to get his attention while he had a practice blade in his hand. Then she needed to distract him enough that he’d forget he held it. She decided her best bet was right after fencing class when she would be coming back from working with Achilles anyway.

     The first day she had stood in the cobbled courtyard, just inside the main gate as the students finished their lessons. Moments after Papa called, “Dismissed” she called “Sebi!” He looked at her, rolled his eyes, and turned away to talk to one of the other students as they wandered toward the weapons rack. She curled her hands into fists, awash with anger and shame.

     The next day, when she called him, he walked to the fencing rack and put his blade away before coming over to her.

     “What is it?” he demanded.

     She stammered. “I, well, I…” she hadn’t thought of what to say if he didn’t have his practice blade. She lied. “Sr. Gallo wants to talk to you about your history lesson.” Sr. Gallo had said no such thing, but everyone knew Sebi hated history and never did his schoolwork. So, there was at least a chance she spoke the truth. He grumbled as he turned toward the salle.

     Two days later, she called him again. This time he walked over with his blade and her hopes rose.  “What do you want,” he asked.

     “Well, I was hoping that you could help me with Achilles’ training.”

     “Go talk to Cassio. I’m busy.” He walked away before she could think of anything else to say.

     Today, when class ended, she called to him, “I bet Achilles is better behaved on a lunge line than Arrow.” She felt a little ridiculous. Sebi’s horse, Arrow, a two-year-old gelding, was saddle trained, and Achilles was a high-spirited colt, but she knew Sebi couldn’t resist a bet.

     Sebi scoffed, walking in her direction still carrying his practice blade. “What are you talking about? Are you stupid?”

     “Achilles behaved perfectly on the lunge line today. And we all know how Arrow likes to misbehave.”

     Sebi laughed. “I don’t believe you. Achilles is a colt. He won’t do more than three circuits on the lunge line before he gets distracted.”

     “I’ll bet you a week’s worth of chores that he can do five,” said Francesca. She’d lose, but it would be worth a week of chores to get a foil.

     “Deal,” said Sebi, shaking his head in amusement and turning toward the weapons rack.

     Francesca nearly panicked. “Now,” she said, “or the bet’s off.”

     “Fine,” said Sebi, heading out the gate toward the corral. “You’ll have to clean up the school rooms every night for a week, and there are three saddles Papa wants me to polish.”

     “And what if I win,” said Francesca.

     “Don’t worry. You won’t.”

     When they entered the corral, Achilles kicked and bucked playing with a one-year-old bay with a white blaze on her forehead and a two-year-old dapple. The trio nudged each other as they ran around the pen. “You get the rope,” said Francesca to Sebi as she called Achilles to her.

     Sebi set his blade on the ground next to the gate and ducked inside the stable. She smiled to herself. Nana liked to say, ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ So, with Sebi gone, Francesca scooped up an armful of alfalfa from the feed bin and dropped it on top of the practice foil. She hoped Nana was right.

     They slipped the knotted rope over Achilles’ head and coaxed him to run in a circle around them as they turned to face him. He cooperated for one and a half circuits before he ran back to Francesca for some ear scratching as she lectured him on behaving.

     Sebi crowed with delight at getting out of weeks’ worth of work. Then he brought out Arrow, his chocolate brown horse, to show off to Francesca. After that, they played with the colts until one of the kitchen boys called them to lunch.

     Foil long forgotten, Sebi headed toward the villa. Francesca lagged behind, saying she needed to ask Cassio a question, then, filled with glee, hid the practice blade in Achilles’ stall to pick up later. For the price of a few simple chores, she’d gotten a blade.

     The next morning at breakfast, Francesca hid her smile as Sebi got a lecture from Papa about losing his belongings.

     Afterwards, as class began outside her bedroom window, she took her en garde position with her new fencing foil in hand. She watched them for a moment as Papa called, “Advance. Advance, Retreat, Lunge.” Then she fell into en garde position and followed his orders, advancing across her room from her window to her door and back again. A thrill of pride ran through her. I’m doing it!  I’m fencing. She couldn’t remember ever being happier. Today I’m a real DiCesare.

     Papa called a halt and had the students pair off. Francesca laughed. Now she knew what to do with that fencing jacket. She pulled it out of her closet along with a petticoat she’d outgrown and stuffed the petticoat inside of it. It could use some more stuffing, but it was a start. “It’s nice to meet you, Signore,” she said as she propped it up on her bed. She saluted her new opponent, then skewered it with her blade. “Touché.”