The Assassin of Verona

by The Assassin of Verona (retail) (epub)

  He finished with the stag and stood up. He began to hunt about for a branch thick enough to bear the animal’s weight and when he’d found it and shaped it with his dagger, bent again to bind the beast, hand and foot, to the pole. Hemminges peppered him with questions as he did so but he gave them no answer. At the last, when the beast was trussed for carrying, he turned to Hemminges.

  ‘Are you and the lad ready to go?’

  ‘Go where?’ said Hemminges, exasperate.

  ‘To the camp, of course. I cannot carry the thing alone. Not easily, at least.’

  It seems Aemilia shall have her wish for I am driven to it, thought Hemminges. I can’t leave William now he’s found. The dusk has come and we’ve no camp, no fire, no food. Let us hope that they remember Aemilia’s mercy.

  So pleased was Aemilia to find her plan enacted that she accepted without question that their new fellow traveller was a friend whom grief had made run mad but who was for all that, a friend. But when Valentine learned they were destined for the outlaws’ camp after all, he protested shrilly until a stern glance from Hemminges and a scoffing one from Aemilia silenced him. Thereafter he followed, his walk that of a man condemned and resigned to his fate.

  As he walked he loudly declared, ‘I found myself in a dark forest with the straight path lost to me, alas, how hard it is to say, what was this forest savage, rough and fierce, which to recall is fear.’

  And at their front William, hearing Valentine and understanding he quoted Dante, cried out in answer, ‘We are not in the forest now, friend. Abandon hope all you who enter here.’

  ‘You’re smiling, Master Russell,’ said Aemilia as she walked beside him. ‘That is a look I’ve not seen on you these three days past.’

  His attention drawn to it, Hemminges acknowledged his own good humour. Sure, their position was precarious but William was found and if there was any man in Christendom who might unpick the tangled trap he, Oldcastle and Aemilia all found themselves in then it was William Shakespeare. That is, if he was not truly run mad.

  So Hemminges, led by a madman, followed by a woman dressed as a man and trailed by a creature more sodden snail than worldling, tramped to his rest.

  Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark

  Hemminges’ seasoned eye noted two things chiefly as they entered the thieves’ camp. First, that there were no sentries set on guard, which was poor discipline and gave substance to Will’s claim and Hemminges’ own experience that these were new-hatched rogues. The second was that these were a wretched band of starvelings. They’d been met as they approached by one that William had hailed as Ludovico and who’d looked them over with undisguised interest. His had been the friendliest gaze. The rest of the outlaws had watched with grim faces as he, Aemilia and Valentine trooped in with William in the van. They halted by the fire. If William noted the grim looks that followed his companions he gave it no heed. He and Hemminges slung the pole across a frame already set near the fire and when it was fixed William slashed the bindings at the stag’s feet to let the body swing free, head down, antlers scraping against the dry leaves on the ground. A mocking applause greeted the completion of his task.

  ‘Fine work, Adam,’ said Orlando from a seat by the fire. ‘You have brought food and fire alike into our camp.’

  William paid him no attention, turning instead to ask something of Aemilia behind him. Hemminges spoke instead.

  ‘You offered us a place earlier.’

  ‘Earlier I was on my back with a sword at my throat.’

  Orlando looked unhurt by his encounter. The same was not true for others of the band. The five who had been with Orlando when they had tried to rob Aemilia and Valentine had risen to walk over to the fire. Their bandaged limbs and bruised faces answered for their unhappy look.

  ‘I remember,’ Hemminges said.

  The low muttering that came from the throats of the men around the fire said that they remembered too.

  ‘Quit your growling,’ said Orlando without looking about, his eyes locked on Hemminges. ‘The time to play the swaggerer was hours ago.’

  He got to his feet. ‘Have we had much luck of late, fellows? We have not. We lack the needful skill and discipline. Here is both. They sought our welcome earlier, we should give it now and ask as our price that they teach us how to war.’

  This speech did not end the muttering but it did seem to take the venom from it. There was no denying they had proved poor outlaws thus far, nor that Hemminges had ability they lacked and sorely needed. Still all might yet have ended in a brawl, for men that have been hurt have little heed for reason, were it not that at that moment William, who had planted himself by the fire and dragged Valentine to sit shivering beside it, began to sing.

  Who doth ambition shun

  And loves to live i’ the sun,

  Seeking the food he eats

  And pleased with what he gets,

  Come hither, come hither, come hither:

  Here shall he see no enemy

  But winter and rough weather.

  If it do come to pass

  That any man turn ass,

  Leaving his wealth and ease,

  A stubborn will to please,

  Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:

  Here shall he see

  Gross fools as he,

  An if he will come to me.

  Aemilia had noticed neither the lack of watch about the camp nor the fact that she was the only woman among them. Her eyes saw with the excitement of an innocent. She saw the company of thieves watch Master Russell pass and interpreted their close attention as born of the same admiration for his skill at arms that she felt. Aemilia came to stand behind Master Russell and Adam. She peeped past them at the bandit leader. He had recovered the poise he had held when first he confronted them in the woods. The dirt and leaves that had marred his hair and face after his wrestling with Master Russell had been washed clean. His hair, still damp, was swept back from his face and glinted darkly in the fire’s light. Adam turned to her sharply.

  ‘What was that you said?’ he asked.

  ‘Only that I have entered a brave new world,’ she said.

  ‘And such creatures in it,’ he added with a nod.

  When Aemilia’s attention was returned to the conference between Master Russell and Orlando she saw at last that theirs was a cold welcome. A circle of angry faces surrounded the little group and looked set for violent action, when the sudden, sweet voice of the madman, Adam, cut across them. The contrast between the song and the mood of the taut circle of men made itself at once apparent, as did the words, which seemed fit to the moment as if crafted for it, for all that they must be the invention of the moment.

  It was a little thing but it was enough to break the mood of the moment. Into the gap Orlando slipped his authority. After the second verse had finished, he turned to the gathered group and began to shoo them away.

  ‘Aye, asses, truly. If we are such fools that we would fight each other when we’ve barely the strength to fight our foes. Go, go to your beds and rest. Tomorrow you’ll see fighting enough for any men.’

  The men turned and tramped away, some more reluctantly than others.

  ‘What is “ducdame”?’ Aemilia asked Adam.

  ‘A Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle,’ he answered. He stood and stretched his arms wide and yawned. ‘I’ll go and sleep, if I can. If I cannot, I’ll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.’

  With these strange words he made off from the fire to a place nearby, pulled his cloak about him and lay still.

  Valentine felt sick. Was it any wonder? He had been on such a swell and ebb of fear these last few moments, he was quite seasick of it. First, he’d had the relief of fire and food promised, then the terror as it seemed they’d be mobbed by vengeful men, and last the odd tension of the mad fool’s warbling song that had become, oh strange indeed, the cue for all to sleep.

  He heartily wished he’d never spoken to the Duke of his love for Aemilia. He
’d been comfortable at the court but striving to better his position, he’d marred what was well. He sneezed. God’s blood, would illness now be added to his suffering? Why mock poor fellows thus?

  He turned to Aemilia for comfort and tugged at her sleeve. She was pulled from her careful watching of Master Russell and Orlando only after several moments.

  ‘Can we not to bed?’ hissed Valentine in her ear.

  He noted the look of annoyance that flashed across her face and felt angry at it. Was he not in this hell at her urging? At her insistence had he confronted her father with results all too predictable and harsh. He tugged again at her. Slowly she turned her gaze from the two men’s conversation to Valentine.

  ‘Let us rest, Ae—’ he began, before a harsh look reminded him of her new name. ‘Sebastian. I am a broken reed and must rest.’

  Aemilia’s despairing gaze suggested that she could not see why his need for rest involved her at all but Valentine was damned if he was going to sleep alone amongst this pack of hyenas. She shrugged in answer and, for want of a better thought, they made their way over to where the madman, Adam, had gone for rest. The ground there proved dry enough if rocky, and though Aemilia lay her head down not thinking sleep would come, the trials of the day saw her asleep before Valentine had finished his muttered complaints in her ear. Valentine’s mood grew darker still. He rolled to his side, wrapped his damp velvet about him and shivered his way to his own rest.

  Only Hemminges stayed awake, sat by the fire, watching. He and Orlando had spoken after the other men had departed.

  ‘What fighting do you plan for tomorrow?’ he had asked Orlando. The outlaw leader turned to him and shrugged.

  ‘I have no plan save action,’ he said. ‘Your rout of our brave forces is but the latest in a string of failures that have taken the heart from us and kept us from food and treasure. We must do something tomorrow or fall apart in dribs and drabs.’

  Hemminges looked about him at the paltry camp. ‘Perhaps that would be no bad thing.’

  Orlando shook his head. ‘I need these men. We’ve a greater destiny if we can but...’ He broke off with another shake of his head. He raised his hand in farewell and without more words made his way from the fire to his own sleep.

  So Hemminges sat alone by the fire until at last he too rose and went to lie near the others.

  That night the quiet was broken by a gruesome crack, the sound of a rock striking rock. It was followed by a whistling of wind and then a howl as Hemminges plied a branch across the calves of the fool who’d tried to murder him under cover of dark. Hemminges had feared such a course when he saw the anger on the men’s faces and instead of lying down to sleep had, in the darkness, wrapped his cloak over a rock and stuffed it out with branches, to make it look like he slept. Jacopo, whom Hemminges had struck senseless in the forest at noon, had, at midnight, struck only insensate stone with his own blow. Now Hemminges paid him back with whipping of his tender flesh. The first blow lifted him and set him jumping, the second, the wheel of Hemminges’ strike bringing it now across his shins, took him to his knees. Hemminges pulled his arm back to take the fool’s head from his body but stopped even before Orlando’s shout of ‘Hold, enough!’

  Jacopo rolled on the ground, clutching at his bleeding shins, groaning and cursing. Orlando, roused, came to stand over him. Hemminges gave the outlaws’ leader a cold stare and to it Orlando threw up his hands. ‘This business is nothing of my doing.’

  Orlando looked down at the moaning Jacopo. ‘Jesu, man. Leave off your petty vengeances. It’s not good for your health. Hie you to your bed. Go, man, go.’

  Another of the outlaws, several of whom had gathered in the darkness to view the matter, dragged the hapless Jacopo to his feet and took him, stumblingly, to his bed. Orlando watched them go before he turned to Hemminges.

  ‘You see, they need action.’

  Hemminges only grunted.

  A deed of death done on the innocent

  Verona

  ‘The Duke has forbidden it,’ said Arrigo.

  ‘What do I care for the Duke’s orders?’ said Thornhill. He paced back and forth in the mean little room given him by the Duke, making Arrigo shuffle out of the way as best he might.

  ‘Father, there is much ill-will towards us here,’ began Arrigo but Thornhill turned on him and thrust the parchment in his face.

  ‘They are gone from Venice more than a week,’ he barked. ‘Do you understand that? What it bodes?’

  He turned and hurled the letter from Cesare Costa into the fire. He put a hand on the mantel to steady himself and stared into the flames. I am going to be too late. They are going to escape me. The letter crackled as the fire burnt away words confirming the English spies had escaped from Costa’s grasp. At least the fool had discovered that they were indeed travelling separately. One at least had been taken alone by gondola across the lagoon. They must come this way. Thornhill beat his hand on the mantelpiece – they must. Yet, where were they? Too many days had passed. Why could Costa not have discovered this earlier? They might be anywhere.

  ‘What news from Ludovico?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Get a message to him. I must know if anyone is newly come to join these rogues in the woods.’

  Arrigo nodded but wondered how this was to be achieved.

  ‘And we must speak to Sir Nicholas again.’

  ‘Father, he departs this morning.’

  ‘Stop him. Bring him here.’

  ‘He rides to carry out the Duke’s commission against the outlaws. Their preparations are made with haste. He may be already gone.’

  Thornhill struck the mantel again. How was he to find these damned spies?

  Arrigo shuffled in awkward silence trying to think of a way to excuse himself from the room before whatever fire built within Thornhill consumed all in its reach. Occupied with this thought, it was a moment before he realised that the priest was muttering.

  ‘Father?’ he ventured.

  ‘Send to Monsignor Costa,’ said Thornhill. ‘I want from him a detailed description of those he suspects of being the English spies – detailed, you understand, it must be exact in every particular. Tell him to respond with all urgency. We must spread out our net if we are to catch these fish.’

  He drummed his fingers on his thigh and spoke half to himself, ‘There is something about this Sir Nicholas I do not like.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Arrigo behind him, ‘that you had found Sir Nicholas to be an innocent.’

  Thornhill turned slowly about. His pale eyes were bloodshot and feverish.

  ‘None of us,’ he said, ‘are innocent. Now go and bring me Costa’s reply.’

  But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

  The day had dawned fair and Oldcastle had seen it do so, much to his displeasure.

  Dionisio had roused him while it was still dark and helped him to dress. The Duke had offered Oldcastle armour to replace that lost in his reported flight from the robbers, which Oldcastle grimacing to put it on, so heavy was it on his massy frame, now declined as unnecessary, against so meagre a foe as the outlawry of the woods’. He’d drawn on the heavy cloak offered him, though, against the anticipated cold of the forest nights, and a brightly polished helm and two steel-backed gauntlets gave him, he felt, a sufficiently martial air to make the absence of a breastplate an inconsequence. He had snatched at some twice-baked bread with ham on it that was offered him and gratefully washed it down with a cup of wine, which he noted with a nod of approval to his servant had not been watered. Then he straightened his back and followed Dionisio from his room, casting a loving glance backward at his bed as the door shut behind him.

  In the courtyard of the palace were gathered the Duke’s troop of men. A dozen, led by a grey-haired corporal of horse whose grand moustaches drooped like two plumes from beneath his proud nose and made the man look like proud Charlemain as his horse pranced before Oldcastle.

  ‘Your men, Sir Nicholas, stand read
y. What is your command?’

  Oldcastle, admiring the man’s whiskers despite himself, drew in his belly and strutted to his own horse to mount. He placed his foot within the stirrup and made to rise only to realise that the addition of the heavy cloak, helm and gauntlets made grasping of the pommel difficult and graceful rise impossible.

  ‘A little help here, ho,’ he called to Dionisio. The man dismounted his own pony and ran to assist him. He did his best to lift Oldcastle’s other leg, as Oldcastle commanded, at the count of three. It was a fearful task and Dionisio took several knocks from Oldcastle’s sword swinging. At last, with some labour and no grace at all, he took his seat and surveyed his soldiery. For all the corporal’s magnificence the others had a careworn look. Their armour was old and pitted and their lances, held at wrist and knee, were tipped with rusting blades. Their faces bore looks of resignation, not excitement. Oldcastle sighed. From beneath the brim of his helm he caught sight of the Duke appearing on the balcony above. Best make a show of it, he thought.

  ‘Soldiers, my brothers in arms, today we make sally to bring your lord’s justice to the farthest corners of his realm. Let no man fear us save the outlaw and him ...’ His voice rose to the climax: ‘Let him tremble as the dormouse does before the eagle!’

  Good enough, he thought. The men seemed largely unmoved and it was a moment before Oldcastle realised that in his nervousness he had spoken in English. Damned if I will repeat it, he thought. The tone is what counts.

  ‘Ride out,’ he called and dug his heels into his horse’s flank. The beast, more finely trained than those that Oldcastle was used to, sprang to his touch and leapt forward at the canter with Oldcastle clinging and bouncing upon its back. The horse shot through the gate and out on to the road beyond with Oldcastle by the one moment hauling at the reins and calling for the damn thing to halt and by the other flopping forward over its neck as he struggled to maintain his seat. At last he brought it to the trot and then the walk and at last to the halt. He turned its head to the palace where the small troop was now emerging and trotting to join him.