The Assassin of Verona

by The Assassin of Verona (retail) (epub)

  Oldcastle made a face of understanding that hid his relief at further time for thought. He wished he might speak with Hemminges, who would know what answers he should give the Duke. Oldcastle began to rise from his chair.

  ‘No stay, Sir Nicholas,’ commanded the Duke. ‘This conference will be the work of moments for I have little to say.’

  Oldcastle sat back down, unhappily.

  ‘Admit him,’ the Duke ordered, and Valentine came into the room. He was dressed in clothing of more sombre colour than his custom but in sleeves that opened near to his waist and trimmed with ermine, it was not a habit of any practical use and the Duke sneered to see it.

  ‘My gracious lord,’ began Valentine, then quavered to see the louring look upon the Duke’s face.

  ‘You have been wooing my daughter,’ said the Duke.

  ‘I have, my lord, a truer, purer woman this world knows not,’ said Valentine.

  ‘I know not either but you shall not have her,’ said the Duke.

  ‘My lord, we are in love and would be married with your grace and favour to the match,’ stumbled Valentine, who had prepared a speech but now discovered that all preparation is for naught in the first clash of arms.

  ‘Married? How is it that you dare tq speak of marriage to my daughter when you have nothing to offer,’ the Duke said.

  ‘I have my love, my lord.’

  ‘Love? Love?’ scoffed the Duke. ‘Do you hear, Sir Nicholas? The fool speaks of love.’

  Oldcastle deployed that useful sound again, desperate not to be drawn into the discourse. He buried his face in the cup.

  ‘Will love feed you? Will love defend these lands? What value has love?’ roared the Duke. ‘I tell you what love gives, trouble. I took you in, penniless child, and fed you, watered you, housed you, clothed you and what repayment for my love have you given?’

  ‘My endu—’

  The Duke cut him off with a cry. ‘Treachery is my repayment. You suborn my daughter in my own home. My own home!’

  The Duke’s voice was rising to a thunderous pitch with each spat word as the fears and frustrations of the past days found an outlet. Valentine began to edge his way back.

  ‘I have but one word for you,’ declared the Duke. ‘Exile.’

  Valentine turned and fled the room.

  ‘One word but such a long sentence,’ observed Oldcastle, more to himself than to the Duke.

  ‘What?’ said the Duke.

  ‘Nothing, my lord, an observation of no merit,’ said Oldcastle, lifting his cup. ‘To justice severely merited and swiftly delivered.’

  The Duke, whose temper had been up, subsided at these words and lifted his cup in acknowledgement of Oldcastle’s own.

  ‘Aye, and with it done we may to more important business turn. To purge the woods of thieves – how many men?’

  Oldcastle nearly choked on his wine. He’d forgotten he was to lay out his plan. What answer should he give? A score was a goodly company of players.

  A score?’

  ‘Twenty men?’

  Oldcastle quailed. Was it too many or too few that the Duke should use that tone? What reply met either challenge?

  ‘More than enough to be certain,’ said Oldcastle, praying that it was.

  ‘Good. Good. I feared you would want more,’ said the Duke. ‘Yet a score is all I have to spare.’

  Oldcastle sighed with relief and thought the moment right to proffer a story he’d prepared for the Duke’s amusement and launched into it. He did not tell it with his usual skill for half of his mind was with the thought of how to get to Hemminges. By God, he needed Hemminges now, for the two of them must be away from Verona at speed.

  Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece

  The Veneto

  The woods were full of mists and disappointments. The men returned to their camp in coughs and spits. They had scattered in all directions from the mounted men’s charge and gathered back only slowly, wearily and unhappily.

  Zago had rekindled the fire to heat the meagre pottage and the band now ate in silence. Orlando and William were the last to return. Both men’s faces were scratched and bloody from their frantic scramble through the trees and bushes but they were otherwise unharmed. The same was true of the rest of the company, save those that had lost their lives in the failed ambush.

  William fell to the ground by the fire and sat staring at its low flames. Orlando went to his camp, fetched his bowl and strode to the pot. When he reached it Zago looked up from his stirring, anger drawing lines about his eyes.

  ‘There’s none left,’ Zago said.

  ‘Give me the ladle, Zago.’ Orlando’s voice lacked emotion.

  ‘There’s none left,’ Zago insisted, though he kept stirring. The other outlaws watched and waited. Here was the champion of their complaints.

  Orlando met and returned Zago’s baleful gaze. ‘I did not turn and run,’ he said.

  ‘Zounds! And you call me coward?’ Zago rose from his squat to outface Orlando, who did not flinch. The others of the band looked on.

  ‘I say that you should not challenge my command,’ said Orlando. ‘I cried to you “hold”. You ran.’

  ‘Against mounted men?’

  ‘Aye, even then.’

  ‘And what preparations had you made against their charge?’

  ‘Sent a man to scout the party, who spoke of only two guards that rode beside the merchant. But that man’s past punishment. He’s paid a mortal price for his failings. Dead with the rest.’

  Zago said nothing. He let his gaze slide away to travel over his fellows, not one of whom rose to match his standing. The only comments were Petro’s muttered claim that it was God’s judgement against them, a claim he made ten times a day at the least misfortune, and Luca’s grim observation that not all that were lost to them had died, that one of their company was taken prisoner. Silence fell again as all wondered if death might not be the better fate than residence in the Duke’s dungeons. Orlando reached out and snatched the ladle from Zago’s hand, bent and served two spoonfuls of the watery mess into his bowl. He turned to find a seat and as he moved he spoke to the assembly.

  ‘Tomorrow opens up another day,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘And with new dawns come new hopes.’

  William heard these words and thought of another day to come. Tomorrow, he ought to rejoin his friends, Hemminges and Oldcastle. Tomorrow, he ought to make for England with those secret names. Tomorrow, so many things he ought to do and yet he had no will to any of it. Should he have stayed to face the horseman’s blade? He had run and now must face another tomorrow and another and another. So creep in the days until the last utterance of recorded time, he thought, full of oughts and must-be-dones and all for what? All our yesterdays but lead us to this fruitless day and promise of a fruitless ‘morrow. The story of our lives is but a poor tale, told by an idiot, signifying nothing.

  Behind him Orlando sat down next to Luca and asked him his thoughts on the new men.

  ‘For Ludovico, I saw little of him in the mill of it, and for Adam,’ Luca said, gesturing at William’s still back, ‘he was as much use then as he is now. What did you spare him for? You were ever a strange one, Orlando, with strange fantasies, but your care for this one is passing strange. He’s nothing but a mouth to feed and by the look of him, half lost to us already.’

  Orlando stared at William as he ladled the pottage into his mouth and said nothing.

  The cry is still ‘They come.’

  Verona

  The following morning the Duke’s breakfast was again disturbed. A merchant came through the palace gates with three bodies added to the loads upon his asses’ backs. The Duke came to meet him in the courtyard and was presented with the muddled heap of corpses.

  ‘Robbers, my lord, that would have taken my goods and my life were it not for these men.’ The merchant gestured to a group of four mounted men, their faces dusty and sweat smeared, their hands on the pommels of the swords at their sides.


  ‘You come to speak, man, your story quickly.’

  Hastily the merchant told the story of the ambush, of the first defeat and then the sudden redemption in the fortunate appearance of the four men. Then he pointed. Standing at the rear of the train of asses was a bound man, crusted blood upon his scalp.

  ‘We took one of their number and it may be that he can tell us more of their place and numbers.’

  The Duke clapped the merchant on the back.

  ‘This was well done.’ He signalled for the prisoner to be taken away and turned to the men who had saved the merchant.

  ‘To you I owe much thanks,’ declared the Duke. ‘Your names?’

  ‘Arrigo, Giovanni, Baptiste and Benetto, my lord, all soldiers in the service of His Holiness and sent with message for Father Thornhill.’

  The Duke’s smile curdled at the news of their office but he kept his welcome for their deeds. They were taken to find food and wine and their horses stabled.

  ‘My lord, these outlaws grow braver,’ complained the merchant. ‘Where once a simple guard or two was shield enough, now they arrive by the score.’

  The Duke nodded at the merchant’s words.

  ‘My lord, what will you do?’

  ‘Do?’ roared the Duke. ‘Do? I will scour them from the woods and have those that still live at the end of it, hanged from the palace walls as a warning.’

  A good lenten answer!

  The four guards rose quickly from their table as Thornhill entered. He looked with distaste at their plates.

  ‘You break your fast at this early hour?’

  He peered a little closer.

  Is that meat?’

  Aye, Father, for we have been broached in battle. Is it not permitted to have meat when the labour demands it?’

  Thornhill ignored this special pleading, sat down at the table and pushed aside the bowl of food with the back of his hand. The men did not dare sit again.

  ‘Tell me of this battle, quickly now.’

  The four men’s leader, Arrigo, hastened to give a good report.

  ‘And?’ said the priest when Arrigo was done.

  ‘Father, our companion, Ludovico, was among them as you commanded him. We saw him and he us and, after the general broil when the outlaws were dead or scattered, there came a moment for us to make quick speech unseen. He tells us that there are not three Englishmen within the outlaws’ company but there is one strange fellow with an English name and questionable Italian. He will watch him till you command him otherwise.’

  Thornhill nodded at this news. He had not hoped of finding the English hidden among ragged outlaws in the forest but it was best to be certain. Look how the overconfidence of Monsignor Cesare Costa had allowed the heretic English to evade judgement in Venice, like eels slipping through an old net. He would not allow the same to happen.

  Costa had sworn the English were in Venice on Fat Tuesday and swore they must be there still. If not, then even on horseback they could not have made it so far in so few days. No, either they still hid in Venice, waiting for the hot pursuit to cool, or they had ridden towards Verona.

  Thornhill’s heart suddenly thrilled with the possibility that he would be the one to catch these English heretics. Then he would know, with a certainty, that he had played his part in bringing England back to the Church. Blessed be the Lord and the Church that sustains His message. He crossed himself in the closing of his prayer and bent his head.

  He scowled at the food before him. It was casuistry such as this, that slipped in ‘maybes’ and ‘ifs’ to the clear rules of the lenten fast, that unpicked the simple word of God, which had allowed these Protestants to rend the unity of the Church. A fat king’s lusts had been given form and shape and words by fawning, flattering priests. He praised God for this Pope, a strong Pope, that would bring the Church back to its true strength.

  Thornhill picked up a spoon and stirred the bowl before him. Venice and its vassals were too liberal. Was not the university at Padua filled with dissenters, with English heretics? Venice, too, by all report, allowed any, even base Moors, turbaned Turks, infidel Jews, to come to the city, if they had gold.

  ‘Throw away this unlenten meat and make a penance of it,’ said Thornhill, rising.

  The liberality of the world, he thought as he closed the door behind him, is the crack through which seeps in wickedness.

  Alack, no remedy – to the greedy touch

  The Duke was finally at his breakfast; he brooded over it. This news of robbery so insultingly close to his palace made yet more urgent the need for Aemilia to marry. Then might her new husband bring his charge of men to aid the Duke in preservation of the peace.

  ‘Your Grace, Father Thornhill,’ announced the steward, his words followed hard by the priest himself.

  ‘Your Grace, the men who are sent to join me bring further report of villainy on the road,’ Thornhill said.

  ‘I know that, priest,’ said the Duke, pushing a piece of bread into his mouth and speaking through its obstruction. ‘Was I not there when the bodies were brought in? Do you think I know so little of what happens in my lands?’

  Thornhill watched the Duke chewing without comment for so long that the Duke became aware of each bite. He really has the most unnatural coloured eyes, he thought. When at last Father Thornhill spoke, it was to admonish.

  ‘My lord does not keep the lenten fast?’

  ‘I keep it well enough for one of my age and labours.’

  Somehow the priest’s simple disapproving murmur of the lips at this answer was greater insult than any outright condemnation. The Duke’s colour grew a darker and more liverish shade.

  ‘No doubt you have the matter of these outlaws in hand,’ said Thornhill.

  ‘No doubt? Have I not told you already of Sir Nicholas’ commission?’

  ‘Ah yes, the Englishman. He arrived recently?’

  ‘These few days past.’

  ‘That is a rare coincidence for I am in search of some Englishmen. Heretics. Spies. Three men.’

  ‘You suggest Sir Nicholas to be a heretic spy?’ scoffed the Duke.

  ‘I know not what he is.’

  ‘Your arithmetic is as poor as your manners, priest. Sir Nicholas and his lieutenant are not three men.’

  ‘The spies may have parted company, the better to evade pursuit.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ The Duke shook his head. ‘Sir Nicholas is no spy. Why, he has given me proof of his life in every story that he has told. A very Hannibal.’

  Thornhill made that same disagreeable murmuring sound in answer.

  ‘I would I might meet with him.’

  ‘A matter for him,’ said the Duke.

  ‘My lord might yet arrange it.’

  ‘Alas,’ the Duke said, raising his arms in a gesture of disappointment so shallow it might have served as a spoon, ‘today I ride to my neighbour to discuss matters touching our two lands.’

  ‘Your Grace refuses to aid the Church?’

  ‘I refuse you, Thornhill.’

  ‘Your Grace should consider how he will answer St Peter when his reckoning comes and how soon that might be.’

  The Duke had been taking great pleasure in the visible enjoyment of the food he consumed, stirring his bread in the small dish of honey before lifting it to his lips. Now he pushed his food from him and spoke with a deadly softness.

  ‘You threaten me?’

  For a moment it seemed Thornhill would let silence be his answer. He seemed untroubled by the fury which sat on the Duke’s brow and showed itself in his grinding jaw, but after some moment he spoke again.

  ‘No, Your Grace. I am sorry if you mistook me. I think only of the Gospel of Matthew, “watch therefore, for you know not the day nor the hour”. Your people must look to your stewardship for their safety. You have no heir, all turns on you. A great burden I am certain, one to weary your old age. It is natural in the shadow of that duty that Your Grace rides to propose his daughter’s marriage to Count Claudio.’ If Thornhill
saw the Duke start to hear his secret plans for Aemilia’s marriage spoken of as if they were common currency, he did not show it. Instead he steepled his hands beneath his chin. ‘But if I may? What benefit does the marriage of your daughter bring? Your title passes from your hands and the hands of your family to those of another and yet you, my lord, see no benefit from it.’

  ‘I shall be dead, priest, and little care for benefits.’

  ‘Quite so,’ answered Thornhill, who, uninvited, now drew out a chair at the Duke’s table and placed himself within it. ‘That is why His Holiness offered to take your lands into the fold of St Peter.’

  ‘You will not speak of this to me again.’

  Thornhill spoke on, unperturbed by the sudden crack of the Duke’s fist on the table. ‘Your concerns now must be not with this life but with the life to come. Your aid to the Church now will be part of the account to come. Think too on what indulgence your lordship would gain by a gift to His Holiness of your lordship’s lands. Think what years in purgatory’s fires you might allay with His Holiness’s own intercession on your behalf? Think too what safety, both of their lives and of their souls, your subjects might thereby gain. Your daughter might still receive a mighty dowry or, if your lordship prefer it, a pension and a place of comfort in Rome. Of course, all this, many years from now – if God, whose church I serve, grace you with long life.’

  The Duke’s face had turned a colour not seen outside a raw steak and stood up, pointing his finger at the door.

  ‘Get out. Priest, dare you try to sell my bones before I am dead? Get out. Tell His Holiness that my lands and title are not for sale.’

  Thornhill nodded. A tilt of his head disclosed that he was saddened by this rude treatment, saddened but not, alas, surprised. He rose and pointed to the table laid before the Duke. ‘My lord, at lenten time, food before the noonday is forbidden even to the elderly.’

  ‘Get out.’

  It took the Duke some minutes to recover after the door had closed on the priest. He stuffed the remainder of the bread in his mouth and then, through full lips, called for his steward and ordered him to prepare his horse and an escort of men.