by Paul Doherty
(Do you know, that's the only thing the great killer and I agreed on - doctors! Most of them can't tell their head from their arse, and they include some of the biggest liars I have ever met. Remember old Shallot's advice - if you want to stay healthy, keep as far away from doctors as possible! When the silly old bastard who calls himself my physician tries to call on me I always take pot shots at him from my bedroom window. He just ducks, saying he means well. I loose my dogs on him and bawl, 'So do they!' You should see the bastard run!)
Ah well, back to Fat Henry. He squatted in that opulent room, his red-rimmed eyes never leaving my face. I felt like farting again, but felt that that would be pushing my luck too far, so I just smiled back.
"Throckle's dead,' Benjamin murmured.
'Yes, yes, he is, dear nephew. Now you are off to Florence. You have our message for Cardinal de Medici?'
'What does it mean?' Benjamin asked.
'That does not concern you.'
'Does His Excellency know we are coming?'
Wolsey smiled unctuously, clasped his hands and leaned across the table. 'Last autumn, dearest nephew, as you may remember, I travelled with His Majesty the King to Boulogne. I met Cardinal Giulio de Medici there. We were working on a fresh alliance which would unite England, the Empire, Spain, the Italian states and the Papacy against the French.' Wolsey pursed his lips. 'We discussed this and that. The Albrizzis came here as envoys to, how shall I say, confirm the bonds of friendship formed between the cardinal and ourselves at Boulogne. Now, you will go back with our secret message and, if possible, discover Lord Francesco's assassin.'
'What happens if he's English?' I protested. 'What is the use of going to Florence?'
Wolsey gazed at me bleakly. 'Don't be stupid! Who in England would want to murder the Lord Francesco? Look at the facts, you poltroon, you thick, addle-pated varlet!' He drew back. 'God knows what my nephew sees in you. Surely it's obvious that only someone in the Albrizzi household could plan such a murder?'
Actually it wasn't, but even then I knew when to keep my mouth shut. Moreover, Benjamin was kicking me on the ankle.
'You will go,' the king snapped, 'you will go to Florence, do you hear?'
Well, as they say, a nudge is as good as a wink to a blind man. Up we jumped like rabbits, bowing and scraping, out of the chamber and into the long gallery. Agrippa joined us outside, all friendly and solicitous.
'The king's temper is not as good as it should be.'
'What makes you say that?' I asked sarcastically.
Agrippa gave a smile, though it was more like a sneer, for it started and died at his lips.
'Are you coming to Florence?' I asked, staring into those colourless eyes.
'No, I can't go to Italy,' Agrippa said. 'And I shall not see you again before you leave.' He held up a finger. 'But be careful. As I have said on many occasions, with regard to our noble king and my master the cardinal, nothing is what it appears to be!' And, spinning on his heel, he walked back towards the king's chamber.
We had little time to mull over Agrippa's warning. The next morning we were roused early, long before dawn, by a burly sergeant-at-arms, who kicked our beds and warned us that the Albrizzis were leaving on the morning tide. I climbed out of my bed and looked through a small, arrow-slit window. In the courtyard below torches were lit and horses were being saddled. Servants lined up outside the kitchen door for bowls of hot oatmeal mixed with milk and honey. I glimpsed the Albrizzis and, rubbing my arms, I glared at my master.
'Why weren't we told that we would be leaving so soon?’ Benjamin shrugged. 'God knows!' He smiled thinly. 'Perhaps "dear uncle" thought we might try and flee.'
'"Dear uncle" is more bloody correct than he thinks!' I snarled. I would have continued my moaning, but there was a knock on the door and little Maria came tripping in as fresh as a daisy. She clapped her hands and giggled at me in my nightshirt.
it was only last night that we decided to leave,' she told us. 'Lord Roderigo received news that a Pisan ship, the Bonaventure, is sailing from Dowgate on the morning tide.' She clapped her hands again. 'You'd better hurry up!' She smiled at me. i am glad you are coming, Onion, I like you.'
'Oh, that's bloody marvellous!' I snarled back. 'And I love you too! And when we get to Florence I'll sodding well marry you!'
Maria, giggling with laughter, skipped out of the room. Benjamin and I washed, changed and packed our saddlebags. When we had finished I stood looking out at the mist swirling across the courtyard. I felt homesick. I thought of Ipswich, with its cobbled market-place and its church spires clear against the blue sky. I even missed Benjamin's school for snotty-nosed urchins.
i don't want to go to Florence,' I moaned, i don't want to see the bloody glories of Italy!'
'Come on, Roger.' Benjamin shook my shoulder, it's time we were gone.*
We travelled into London and down to the quayside at Dowgate. The Bonaventure was already far ahead with its preparations for sea. All the provisions had been loaded on board; empty carts and unsaddled horses were being led away. The Albrizzis had already arrived. We followed them up the water-soaked plank and on to the deck.
Now I am no sailor - ships terrify me, and none more than the Bonaventure. It was a three-masted man-of-war, armed to the teeth with cannons and culverins. Benjamin and I were allocated a space between decks beside one of the cannons and, looking around through the smelly darkness, my heart sank - this would be no pleasure jaunt down the Thames. We threw down our saddlebags, sword belts and other items and went back on deck. Roderigo, Alessandro and Bianca were standing with the chaplain and some of the ship's officers near the great mainmast. Dressed in their sombre cloaks, and with the mist rolling in from the river, they looked like a collection of ghosts. Roderigo saw us and waved us over.
'Master Daunbey, your uncle bids us good voyage.' He pointed to the barrels being brought on board. 'And sends us wine as a token of his appreciation.'
A little brown-cowled man, olive-faced with bright button-eyes, scuttled up on deck. He was chewing the end of a quill and studying a roll of parchment. He mumbled to himself, stared around and rushed hither and thither checking the stores and household goods of the Albrizzis.
'Matteo!' Roderigo called. 'Come here!'
The man shuffled sheepishly across. He looked a merry soul, more like a friar than a steward. He couldn't understand a word of English. Roderigo introduced him as Matteo, the Lord Francesco's principal steward.
'A man to be trusted,' Roderigo declared, clapping Matteo on the shoulder. 'My brother always said he would trust his life to him.'
Matteo caught the gist of his words, his face became lugubrious and tears pricked his eyes. He shook his head mournfully.
'He will mourn for ever,' Roderigo said softly. 'He loved my brother. Only by staying busy will Matteo keep his sanity.' Again he patted the fellow's shoulder. 'Matteo obtained this ship. He wishes to leave England as soon as possible.'
Roderigo said something in Italian. Matteo listened intently, smiled benignly at us then chattered in a torrent of Italian.
'What did he say?' Benjamin asked.
'I told him that you would obtain vengeance for my brother's blood,' Roderigo answered.
'And what was his reply?" I asked curiously.
'Matteo says he will give you every help.*
We both thanked him. Roderigo turned away. Benjamin and I walked towards the ship's side and leaned against the bulwarks, staring out over the empty dark quayside.
'Don't worry, Roger,' Benjamin murmured. 'We will return. I have a feeling in my blood. We will not meet our deaths in Italy.'
'Oh, thank you very much,' I replied bitterly. 'I still hate bloody ships!'
I stared up at the great mainmast, where the reefed canvas sails snapped in the early morning breeze as if they wished to break free. Sailors, naked except for a pair of breeches, padded around the deck, apparently oblivious to the cold, clinging mist - strange, lean, hard men, with their hardened feet and salt
-soaked skins and bodies, and agile as monkeys. They scampered around us, mouthing abuse. I was too despondent to reply in kind. I heard some of the sailors whistle and looked round. Across the deck a small door to a cabin had opened and two figures emerged. One was Beatrice. Even in the half-tight I could see that she was beautiful. Unabashed by the sailors' comments and salacious whispers, she carried herself like a queen. I nudged Benjamin as she and her companion walked across the deck, past the group of sailors and came towards us. Benjamin turned to greet her.
'Good evening, signors!'
Beatrice's voice was musical and her English good, though tinged with a slight accent. Beside her, Giovanni threw back his hood, revealing his strange, harsh womanish face. I noticed how clean and well-kept his fingers and nails were. He gave a slight bow.
'Signors,' he said mockingly, 'welcome aboard!' He coughed. 'But you are—'
'You are in our place!' Beatrice snapped. 'This is our favourite spot on a ship.'
'In which case, Madam,' Benjamin replied. 'You have chosen well.*
Beatrice smiled at him and my heart lurched, for she was truly beautiful. She looked at me and her smile widened.
('Will you shut up!' I yell at my chaplain. 'In my day I was attractive to women despite the cast in my eye!' I pick my cane up and beat the little runt over the knuckles. What does he know? In my time I have courted the best, not like him, trying to peer down Phoebe's bosom whilst giving a sermon in church!)
I gazed speechlessly at her beauty. Her eyes were glowing, brown, wide and slightly slanted, with remarkably finely-shaped eyebrows which turned almost wing-like at the outer corners. Her nose was straight, her cheeks high-boned yet soft, her chin elfishly pointed beneath a delicate, rose-petalled mouth.
(I can see my chaplain getting excited, jumping up and down, squirming on his stool, muttering feverishly. He always likes Shallot's bed trysts. I recount them because they are bound to keep the little bugger happy. Well, he should be more chaste.)
Anyway, on that mist-shrouded deck so many years ago I stood stock-still. Beatrice raised her hand, soft and smooth like the petal of some exquisite flower. I grasped and kissed it feverishly. Beatrice, the spoilt bitch, giggled. Giovanni looked on with disapproval. He stared up at the brightening sky. 'We should be gone,' he muttered. 'And the sooner the better. This could be a dangerous voyage.'
'Well!' Beatrice touched my hand, her eyes full of mockery. 'With a man such as Master Shallot, I should be quite safe.'
As a rabbit in a fox's lair, I thought. I was all set to continue the dalliance when, suddenly, the ship lurched. I grabbed the side and peered anxiously about. So engrossed had I been with the Lady Beatrice that I had hardly realized that the plank had been raised and orders for departure issued. Sailors released the ropes that held us to the quay and ship's boys scampered up the rigging as quick and lithe as cats up a tree. The Florentines moved away. I watched the gap between the quay-side and the ship grow and gazed despairingly into the darkness. Again the ship lurched. I thanked God Beatrice had gone, leaned over the side and vomited my breakfast.
(Mind you, whenever I think of ships, I remember the Mary Rose, Henry VIII's great warship, built at Greenwich. On its first voyage, the Mary Rose set sail, fired one cannonade and turned full-tilt in the water. Hundreds of good men died. The fat bastard Henry went purple with rage and commissioned me to seek out the murderer. Oh yes, don't listen to anyone else, old Shallot knows the truth. The sinking of the Mary Rose was no accident. Those sailors were drowned, and that great ship destroyed, by a soul as black as midnight.)
My voyage on the Bonaventure was a living hell. The sailors were pleased - they welcomed the winds that swept us out of the Channel and into the Bay of Biscay. I didn't. I remember some of the details of the voyage - the great white sails billowing in the winds, snapping and cracking; men shrieking; the patter of feet on decks; blue sky and racing waves; strange fish leaping up beside the ship - but it was all like a dream. I was sick in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening and during the night. At first I thought it would end eventually, but my stomach kept wringing itself like a wet rag and I was unable to keep any food down. I fell into a fever which lasted days.
I remember Preneste bending over me, my master's white, anxious face and, I am sure, little Maria mopping my brow and forcing some evil-tasting black substance between my lips. And then one morning I woke up. I felt light-headed and weak, but my stomach was calm. I didn't even retch at the stench of the fetid slops that had accumulated between decks and made the ship smell like a midden at the height of summer. My master bent over me.
'What day is it?' I croaked.
'The feast of St Ethelburga, the 25th of May.'
'Good Lord!' I replied. 'Twelve days gone!'
Benjamin nodded. 'We have reached the tip of Spain.'
All around me I could hear the ship creak and groan. I noticed how hot and sour the air was.
'For God's sake, Master,' I groaned. 'Get me out of here!'
As my master helped me to my feet I saw how stained and dirty my clothing was. When we reached the deck I was at first nearly blinded by the light, for the sun shone hot and fierce. Then I saw a group including the captain and Roderigo watching some sailors dancing while a thin-faced boy played a flute. On the deck near the sterncastle some Florentines, Giovanni and Alessandro among them, exercised with wooden swords. When they saw me they called out and came over. The sweat coursing down their faces from matted hair, they looked like happy boys engaged in a game. I felt a stab of envy at their bronzed good looks.
'Your sea legs at last!' Giovanni teased. 'It's good to see you in the land of the living again, Master Shallot.'
Alessandro poked his wooden sword at me. 'Time for exercise. A short melde could banish the evil humours.'
Maria appeared, grasped my arm and, with my master, helped me to the ship's side. 'They mean well,' she murmured, 'but the Florentines, dear Onion Patch, have great experience of travel. They are used to much worse seas than those we have travelled through.'
(I can well believe it! That old pirate Drake told me that in mid-Atlantic there are waves higher than Hampton Court. But you know Drake - if he wasn't a sailor he would have made a fortune as a teller of tales!)
Maria and Benjamin propped me against the rail. I sucked in the sultry breeze, but had to keep closing my eyes to shut out the sunlight dancing dazzlingly on the water.
'Don't look at the waves,' Maria said quietly. 'Choose some point on the horizon and watch that. Then the giddiness will pass.'
I heard the soft rustle of her skirts and caught the fragrance of a light perfume. I smiled down at her. 'Thank you,' I said, meaning it.
'For what? I can't have old Onion Crosspatch die on us!'
In a low-cut dress, the sleeves pulled back, Maria looked as fresh as some golden milkmaid on an English morning. Her eyes were soft and her mouth was welcoming. She stroked my hand lightly.
'You were very ill, Roger,' she said. 'And delirious.'
'About you,' I half-joked.
'No, no, about some other woman. Agnes.'
I looked away. Strange that someone like Maria should drag back the memories of Agnes - Agnes, pure and innocent as a doe, strangled in a garden just because she and her family knew me.
'Agnes is dead,' I told her. 'We all have dreams.'
Maria looked past me at Benjamin.
'You must take him out of the sun,' she said briskly, 'and cover his head and the back of his neck, otherwise the sun will drive him mad. More people die of sunstroke than at the hands of the Turks.'
I looked at her uncovered head and neck and bare shoulders.
'In which case, Mistress, surely you should take better care?'
Maria giggled, ‘I am used to this heat. As a child I often ran naked.'
'And now?' I teased, forgetting my discomfort.
'Only in the company of friends,' she said mischievously, and walked daintily away.
Ah well, as you can
see, I was getting better. My master borrowed a cloak and hood for me and I followed Maria's advice. Using his charm, he persuaded the ship's cook to serve me dishes of meat, slightly rancid but nonetheless appetising. Maria brought me strange fruits called oranges. I had seen their like in England, but these were full and ripe their juice slaked my thirst and cleaned the sourness from my mouth. I bathed under a water pump and changed my clothes and within a few days I had rejoined the company of the living, my eyes again sharp for mischief, with Lady Beatrice in particular. Now, though, she ignored me.
A few days later we sighted land, a grey dull mass. My master explained that we were slipping through the Straits of Hercules, past the outpost of Gibraltar, where we stopped to take on fresh water before turning north-west to the port of Pisa. At once the sky clouded over. We ran into a sudden storm, but that soon passed and I suffered no sort of sickness. The mood of the ship now abruptly changed. The ship's guns were cleaned and prepared. The crew had their weapons ready. Benjamin explained that we were now in the Middle Sea where Moorish corsairs prowled in their long galleys.
'Singly, they would probably not attack a warship,' he said, 'but there's always the danger that we might meet several of them working together and then, of course, they might try their chances even against a well-armed ship like the Bonaventure. Or we might come across a squadron of Suleiman's fleet from the Golden Horn.'
Two days after that conversation, just before sunset, ten long, narrow vessels appeared over the horizon. They swept towards us, low in the water. They reminded me of wolves, so silent, so eerie was their approach. Our captain ordered the beat to arms and the decks were cleared for action. The galleys came closer, dark sails flapping whilst their oars dipped slowly in the calm blue sea. The captain ordered a volley and the ship shuddered as our cannon roared out. The galleys were too far away to be suitable targets but they heeded our warning and kept their distance. Nevertheless, I was fascinated by these masters of the sea, these sea-wolves darting in and out from ports along the North African coast. At night I stood by the rail and watched their lights and heard the loud drumbeat of their master oarsman. The wind shifted and I gagged at the terrible stench.