by Paul Doherty
She shrugged her dainty shoulders and clambered on to the bench, squeezing her little body between me and Benjamin.
'Can I go into Florence? If I am not needed here,' – she glared spitefully at Alessandro – 'then perhaps it's best if I am gone.' 'Half-woman!' Alessandro replied maliciously. 'Better that than no man!' she replied.
Alessandro leaned across the table, hand raised to smack her. I caught his wrist and held it tightly.
(Yes, yes, I am a coward born and bred. I always wear brown hose and, when a fight starts, old Shallot is on his hands and knees crawling for the nearest door, but I can't stand bullies!) 'Let go of my wrist!'
Alessandro's face looked so petulant that I laughed. Before Roderigo could intervene, Alessandro brought his other hand up and slapped me across the face. I let go of his wrist.
'Apologize! Alessandro, apologize!' Roderigo demanded. 'Apologize now!' Alessandro bit the quick of his thumb and spat towards me.
(I later learnt this was the most offensive insult any Italian could bestow. I told Will Shakespeare about it and he used it at the beginning of his play Romeo and Juliet. It started a duel then and it did the same at the Villa Albrizzi.) Lord Roderigo grasped my arm.
'Signor Shallot, Alessandro is hot-headed. Moreover, you are only a servant. There is no need to accept his challenge.' Benjamin murmured his agreement.
'I agree,' I replied, smiling ingratiatingly at Alessandro. 'Signor Alessandro, I forget myself.'
He curled his lip. I was about to eat even more humble pie when I caught the look in little Maria's eyes – not contempt, just surprised hurt, as if Alessandro's insults had stripped her of the little humanity she believed she had.
'Mind you,' – I got to my feet and stretched – 'my old mother always told me to be a gentleman. If you are that, she said, you can always recognize another.' I leaned across the table and glared at Alessandro. 'I do not recognize you. You slap women, so I put this question to you. Were you born so uncouth, or is it a habit you have worked at diligently over the years?'
I shook off my master's warning hand. Alessandro, I am sure, did not understand the word 'uncouth'. Nevertheless he sprang to his feet, face red, eyes blazing.
'In the garden!' he shrieked. 'In the garden!' And stormed out of the room.
Roderigo glared at me. 'You shouldn't have said that, Shallot,' he said softly. 'Alessandro is a good swordsman. He will kill you!'
By now my first flush of courage was beginning to cool. I glanced around the table. Enrico sat there cradling his chin in his hand, looking up at me, smiling encouragingly. Maria was fluttering her eyelids like some lady from one of those stupid romantic stories the troubadours like to recite. Benjamin sat, head down. I did not know whether he was angry or amused. The Lady Beatrice came in. Lord Enrico rose to his feet, pulled her down on the chair next to him and whispered what had happened. She smirked maliciously, clapping her hands.
'Alessandro will be the victor,' she declared. 'Husband dear, why are we still here when my brother waits in the garden?'
Ah well, I had no choice. Benjamin and I left the refectory and went back to our room. I took off my jerkin, strapped my sword belt around me and, trying to hide my fear, walked towards the door. My master gripped my arm. 'Roger!'
'No sermons now, Master! He's an arrogant bastard!' I looked into Benjamin's eyes and glimpsed the admiration there.
'Oh, no, I am proud of you, Roger. I know you abhor violence. It was brave of you to defend Maria. If you didn't, I would have done!'
(Lord save us, my master was such an innocent! Abhor violence! Too bloody right he was! I can't stand the sight of blood, particularly my own!)
Anyway, I acted the brave Hector, gulped and just prayed my hands wouldn't become too sweaty to hold a sword. Benjamin tapped my sword belt.
'He will probably use a rapier. Don't forget what the Portuguese taught you.'
We went down to the garden. All the household had gathered. I studied their faces; apart from Enrico and Roderigo, they all saw the impending duel as some sort of show put on for their benefit. Even the servants, standing further off, had brought out fruits and cups of wine so they could watch the tail-bearing Inglese be wounded and probably killed. Maria was looking at me sorrowfully as if she'd realized what she had caused. Little lips half-parted, she ran across the grass and grabbed my arm.
'There was no need, Crosspatch,' she whispered. 'He's always hit me. Never very hard.'
I shook my head. 'I want to run!' I hissed. 'But where can I go?' I plucked one of the little velvet gloves she had stuffed into her belt and pushed it inside my shirt. 'I'll wear that as my gauge of battle.'
The little creature blushed and caught her lower lip between her teeth. 'I am sorry I called you Crosspatch.' 'Are you ready, Inglese?'
I stared across the dew-wet grass. Alessandro stood elegantly, rapier and stiletto in his hands. He was waving them from side to side, twisting them about so that the sun caught the edges of the blades, dazzling in their sharpness. My stomach lurched. I prayed that I wouldn't close my eyes, something I always did when I duelled. I can't explain why, it's just a childish reaction. Or, worse still, vomit or swoon. 'You are ready, Roger?' my master asked. 'As ready as I ever will be.'
I sheathed my sword and dagger and strode across the grass. I wished I hadn't – the sole of my boot was slippery. I stumbled and fell to my knees, blushing in embarrassment at the chorus of laughter this provoked.
'Are you nervous, Inglese?' Alessandro called. 'Bianca, bring your smelling salts!'
I got to my feet, stuck sword and dagger into the soil and sat down. 'You'll wet your pants!' Alessandro called. Ignoring him, I pulled off my boots and the linen stockings underneath.
(Now you young men who read this, remember old Shallot's advice. On a slippery surface, bare feet are best. That is, if you really can't run away!)
I got to my feet and, armed with sword and dagger, walked nonchalantly across, hoping my stomach wouldn't betray me. Roderigo came in between us, the saturnine Giovanni beside him.
'Lord Alessandro,' he said quietly. 'You need not fight this man. He's not your equal.'
'Yes, uncle, he's from the gutter but he has to be taught his manners.' Roderigo looked at me sadly and shrugged. 'Then fight!' he exclaimed. 'Until the first blood's drawn!'
My heart leapt with joy, but then I glanced at Giovanni's sly face and knew the first blood could be the wound through my heart. He and Roderigo stood back. The hubbub of conversation died. Alessandro languidly took his position, turned slightly sideways, sword raised. I edged nervously forward, acting the ignoramus, and copied his stance. Our swords touched. Alessandro sprang back then forward, lunging low. I blocked his sword, stepping back. He came on. Then, to a chorus of cheers and shouts of 'Alessandro!' he closed, sword against sword, dagger against stiletto. He was probing, testing my weakness and I acted the nervous neophyte, but carefully so. I recognized Alessandro's type, a treacherous bastard. He would show no mercy if he saw an opening, wanting a quick kill. He came at me furiously, sword jabbing the air, and I quickly realized he was a better dagger man than he was a duellist. It was not his rapier I had to watch but the stiletto. He would suddenly bring this up, lunging at my exposed body and, on one occasion, he nearly had me in the groin. Now that was enough for me. A man without balls is a man with no future. I stepped hurriedly back and changed my rapier to my left hand, enjoying the look of astonishment in Alessandro's eyes. And then I began. I am not bragging but after that it wasn't much of a duel. Alessandro had simply no experience in facing a left-handed swordsman. The very change disconcerted him. He became clumsy, parried a dagger thrust, stepped back too slowly and I nicked him in the shoulder. The blood welled out, staining his linen shirt, making it look much worse than it was. Lady Bianca began to scream. 'Stop it! Stop it!' Alessandro's face became as white as his shirt had been. He looked nervously at his uncle, who stepped between us. 'The matter is settled. Alessandro?' He just shrugged. 'Master Shallot?' '
Whatever you say.' I turned – and I swear I'll never do that again! Stupid old Shallot, cocky as ever! 'Roger!' my master screamed.
I threw myself to the left and Alessandro's sword whistled over my shoulder. I lunged forward, caught him by the belt and, in the good old English fashion, brought him crashing to the ground. I rose and stepped back. Alessandro, eyes wide, watched me nervously. His sword had fallen out of his grasp; he crouched with only his dagger protecting him. I stared back. No one dared to intervene. According to the laws of duelling, I could have, and should have, killed him there and then. I walked back slowly, sheathed my sword and dagger, bit my thumb and spat the piece of skin towards him. 'As your uncle said, it's finished!'
I waited until Roderigo and Giovanni went to assist my fallen enemy, then I turned and walked back to the house, cocky as a sparrow on a dunghill. 'Well done, Roger!' Benjamin came up behind me.
'Well done, too, Master!' I replied. 'The cowardly bastard would have killed me!' 'And then I would have killed him!'
I stared at my master's long lugubrious face. He would have done. 'Never judge a book by its cover' they say and that axiom applied to Master Daunbey, one of England's finest swordsmen. One evening we met on a cold sea shore and fought over a woman whose heart was as black as hell, but that's a story for the future. At that time, in the Villa Albrizzi, he saved my life. Maria came hurrying up, beckoning me down. When I stopped, instead of whispering in my ear, she kissed me passionately on my cheek, blushed and ran away. 'Master Shallot!' Lord Roderigo approached.
'Thank you,' he whispered, gesturing back at the lawn. 'Thank you,' he repeated, all hauteur gone. 'You could have killed my nephew twice; for pardoning him on the second occasion, you are truly a member of my familia. Come, let me reward you.' Now, you know old Shallot. Mention the word reward and it's like offering a carrot to a starving donkey. Still, nevertheless, trying to play the cool, self-sufficient hero, I followed him back into the refectory. Other members of the household joined us. Beatrice stood afar off. Now sire, too, had changed – she was looking at me, head slightly down, those lustrous eyes smiling and the tip of her pink tongue running slowly round those luscious lips. Her ample bosom rose and fell quickly – she was one of those people whom blood, as long as it is not their own, sexually excites. Lady Bianca was no different. She came up, touched me gently on the arm and, as she passed, allowed her hand to drop and stroke my codpiece. (Lord, what a family! Worse than the Boleyns!) Enrico grasped my hand, eyes screwed up.
'You are a good swordsman, Master Shallot, a rare roaring-boy, as you Inglese would say. A fine touch, a fine touch, especially the twist of the wrist. I must remember that.'
Benjamin looked at him curiously, but then Lord Roderigo came back with a carafe of wine and a tray of cups. He placed these on the table then, taking a golden, jewel-encrusted goblet, half-filled this and handed it over.
'Master Shallot, this is from the Villa Mathilda, what the Romans called Falernian.' He smiled his thanks. 'The wine is yours and so is the cup.'
(No, I haven't got it. We had to leave Florence so quickly! I did later write to that evil bastard the Master of the Eight asking for it to be sent on to me. The little slime-turd wrote back that it was on his shelf, just waiting for me to come and collect it! The evil sod!)
I thanked Roderigo, toasted the assembled company and drank the warm, fragrant wine. This washed my mouth, soothed my throat and stirred a fire in my loins which would have boded ill for any woman present had it not been for the most curious of interruptions. Roderigo was pouring the rest of the wine, there was the usual chattering and back-slapping. I stood playing the modest hero when, despite the sunlight, a small owl fluttered through the open window from the garden, circled the room then fell to the floor dead. Lady Bianca dropped her goblet and screamed. Beatrice half-swooned and had to be helped to a chair, whilst the men paled and stared down at the bundle of feathers on the floor.
My master went over, knelt, and studied the cluster of tawny feathers on the floor. 'What does this mean?' he asked.
'The owl is the harbinger of death!' Roderigo whispered. 'For this to happen…' He turned to a pale-faced Giovanni. 'Burn it!'
The soldier just shook his head, so I picked up the still-warm body and walked to the door. Everybody stepped hastily aside as if I was a plague-bearer. I walked into the garden and put the pathetic corpse on a midden-heap. When I turned little Maria was there, ashen-faced, eyes rounded as she stared at the corpse of the bird.
'A terrible sign,' she whispered. She looked up, her little fists pressed against her chest. 'Master Shallot, the Florentines are the most superstitious people on God's earth. For an owl to fly into the house in the early morning is an omen of dire portence. For it to die means the house is about to fall!'
I stared back at the villa. 'It looks secure enough to me!' I joked.
She grasped my fingers in her little warm hand. 'It's a sign that the Albrizzis will fall from power.' She pulled on my finger. 'Let me come to Florence with you and Roger.' I stared down. 'No Crosspatch now?' I jibed. 'I am sorry,' she whispered.
I dug my hand inside my shirt and pulled out her little glove. 'May I keep this?'
'Of course,' she whispered. 'But promise me, promise me, that when you go back to England you'll take me with you!'
She looked so lonely, so pitiful, that I agreed. She turned, skipping like a young girl up the path, waving at my master, who was striding down to meet me.
'You'd think the sun had fallen from the sky,' he commented, nodding back at the villa.
'Master, even in England the owl is considered a bird of ill omen.'
'I don't believe in such nonsense, Roger. Oh, yes, Preneste could call up Satan, but I think all creatures are God's.'
Benjamin walked over to the midden-heap, picked up the bird and studied it curiously. He took his gloves from his belt, put them on, prised open the small yellow beak and sniffed. 'Master?' Benjamin wrinkled his nose and flung the bird down.
'I agree, Roger. That little owl was not so much a bird of ill omen as ill-omened.' He pulled off his gloves. 'The poor thing's been poisoned, with a good dose of belladonna. But how was it made to fly into the house?' Benjamin tapped the side of his nose. 'Roger, what do owls love?' 'Mice.' 'Oh, don't be stupid!' 'Darkness, barns.' 'And if you released a bird, a young owl that had been poisoned, where would it fly to?' 'Straight for shelter.' Benjamin turned and pointed to the great open window. 'Well, the poor thing flew through there.' 'But who released it? Everyone was in the room with us.'
'Were they?' Benjamin asked caustically. 'The two ladies perhaps. But it would be so easy to go out, release the bird and come back.' He looked up at the villa. 'Very clever,' he murmured. He pointed to the windows shuttered against the sunlight. 'Someone prepared this. Do you realize that's the only window open? Moreover, I am sure if that owl had died anywhere else it would have had the same effect. Some hysterical servant bounding in, bawling the news.' Benjamin rubbed his chin. 'But I do wonder who released it?' 'We must not forget the Master of the Eight!'
'Aye,' Benjamin muttered. 'And we mustn't forget our meeting in Florence. Come, master swordsman, it's time we left.'
By the time we returned to the villa the Albrizzi household had gone their separate ways. A physician had been called to attend to Alessandro's scratch. The two ladies were in their chambers with an attack of the vapours. Giovanni was in the stableyard, with our horses ready. Maria, standing some way off, held the reins of her little white donkey. The look on her face showed she had already clashed with Giovanni in her efforts to accompany us to Florence. I'd washed and changed my shirt after my sweat-soaked duel. My master had advised me to wash regularly in such a warm climate. it opens the pores,' he explained, 'and keeps the skin fresh. Otherwise' – he grinned – 'you can end up scratching and clawing at your codpiece fit to burst.'
(A sensible man, my master. I only wish others, particularly the present queen, had his standards of cleanliness. Queen Elizabeth's idea
of a bath is to dab rose water on her face and hands, then hide nature under numerous bottles of perfumes. I tell you this, the English court, at the height of summer, smells like a midden-heap. I once tried to pass my master's advice on to the queen, but she stared back horror-struck.
'Bathe at Easter and Christmas!' she exclaimed. 'Don't be stupid, Roger! Warm water weakens the humours and ages the flesh.'
Well, what could I do against the advice of some silly fart of a physician?)
The sun was climbing in the sky when we left the Villa Albrizzi. You must remember it was still early in the morning. (The Italians rise just before daybreak and take their rest in the early hours of the afternoon.) At first Giovanni was taciturn, still frightened by that bloody owl, but my master had questions to put to him and was insistent. He conversed casually at first, complimenting Giovanni on his horse and his skill at riding, asking where he had been born and what campaigns he had fought in? Giovanni was like any soldier the world over and, as we ambled down the dusty track winding through the vine- and cypress-covered hills towards Florence, he explained how he had been a soldier for as long as he could remember. I listened intently, trying to ignore Maria, who rode behind Giovanni pulling faces and mimicking him.
'So, you've always fought for Florence?' My master interrupted one rather boring story.
'No, no. For a while I fought with the French. I even spent two years on your island. I was hired as a master gunner.'
'You are skilled with the arquebus?' Benjamin asked innocently. 'As any in Europe,' Giovanni boasted.
Then he realized what he had said and became taciturn again. Urging his horse forward, he hardly said a word until we reached the busy thoroughfare heading through Florence's northern gate.
'I have seen you to the city,' he muttered. 'Now I must return.'
Benjamin turned his horse, watched him go and smiled at me.
'A Florentine mercenary who has worked for Henry of England and is skilled with an arquebus. Interesting, eh, Roger?'