My Brave Girl

They picked their way through the panicking townsfolk and their horses and carts. Mother was slow, and groaned in pain when someone bumped her, so Thurio lifted her in his arms, carrying her. She felt like nothing, so frail and delicate.

Mary hurried along with a hand tucked inside Thurio’s elbow. He glanced at her and she gave him an encouraging smile. My brave girl.

He remembered the day they met. She’d appeared in the midst of battle with a sword at her side and a healer’s bag over her shoulder. Despite the spattered blood, she was beautiful, her deep red hair swirling about her. “My little Paprika” he would come to call her, teasing her about her hair. She’d sewn up his injured leg with artillery firing not fifty yards away.

That was six years ago and there was still no one he’d rather have at his side in a crisis. He could count on Mary to keep her head no matter what befell them.

Thurio was glad that they had left their boys home – two hundred miles north in Tuscany - before coming to Salerno to help Mother convalesce. Antonio was four and Sebastian two. With Mother injured and Mary to have the child, the boys would only have added to the difficulty. He and Mary had missed them horribly, but now he was glad they were out of harm’s way.

“How much time do we have?” asked Mary as they ducked between carriages. She had to shout over the street noise.

The maestro shook his head. “I’ve no way to know. The wind is against them. That at least is in our favor.”

Mary gasped and her step faltered. A dart of fear lodged in Thurio’s chest. “What is it, my dear!”

She regained her pace and smiled. “Our little one is complaining about all the commotion.”

Thurio returned her smile, but hurried his pace with his heart racing. Everything depended on reaching the ship before it departed.

He jogged the last few blocks with Mary panting as she struggled to keep pace beside him and his mother bouncing in his arms.

They turned a corner into the harbor. It was nearly deserted. Three ships remained in the bay, their crews working feverishly. Only their ship, the Anglia, remained at the wharf and a crewman on the pier was casting off ropes. Thurio’s heart froze.

“Oh dear Lord, they’re leaving,” gasped Mary.

She broke into a labored run with Thurio at her side.

The last crewman boarded and the ship began to move as their footsteps echoed hollowly on the dock.

“Wait,” yelled Thurio.

“Com’on then!” yelled the captain. A dozen weathered, crewmen’s faces crowded at the side and tar-stained hands extended over the rail.

The Anglia slid forward along the pier. Thurio reached the side and thrust Mother’s slight form upward. Sturdy hands caught hold of her and hoisted her up. She cried out as she disappeared over the side. Thurio and Mary hurried along the dock as the ship gained speed.

“Up you go,” he said to Mary as he grabbed her hips and lifted her up toward the waiting hands. She raised her arms and curled her legs to protect her stomach. In a moment she too was aboard.

Thurio reached the end of the planking and leapt for the outstretched palms.

Thurio stooped as he carried Mother into a low, dark cabin and placed her gently on the cot. She stifled a cry of pain. Mary, carrying a glowing lantern, and three other women followed. There was barely room to move in the cramped space. Shadows swung across the bare wood walls as the occupants swayed with the ship. Mary set the lantern on a wooden chest beside the cot. She was a spot of calm among the flustered ladies with pinched faces and wringing hands.