A Brood of Vipers

by Paul Doherty

  '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?'

  'I could have told you as much!' Maria spoke up heatedly. 'Giovanni's a treacherous bastard. He's one of those men who like killing. He's no different from the family he serves. The Lord Francesco may have been a bad man but he didn't have the blood lust of the rest.' She lowered her voice, for her exclamations in English had attracted the attention of other travellers. 'They are all violent. They would have laughed if Alessandro had killed you. And Giovanni is a spy.'

  'What do you mean?' Benjamin pushed his horse closer.

  'He's a spy! Either for the de Medici or the Master of the Eight, or probably for both. I have seen him slipping out of the house at night when he's not poking the Lady Beatrice.' She gathered the reins of her donkey. 'That will end in blood,' she added darkly. 'Enrico's no fool. If he catches them in flagrante, either he or Giovanni will die.'

  'What else do you know?' I asked.

  Maria looked away. 'I have told you what I know.' She looked back across the city, where the great dome of Brunelleschi's cathedral loomed through the haze. 'I hate this place,' she whispered. 'My father died here. And, when I have enough silver and gold, I will leave.' She looked up and her face broke into a smile. 'And it's to England, isn't it, Roger?'

  I looked at my master, who shrugged. 'It is to England?' she insisted. 'Yes, Maria, it is to England.'

  We continued into the city under a gateway decorated with a number of severed heads. Maria went ahead of us, showing the way through the winding Florentine streets, past the butchers' stalls, stacked high with mutton and veal. I noticed something rather strange. In London you never know what meat you are buying. As I have remarked before in my memoirs, I am an authority on such matters simply because I have eaten both cat and rat meat and so can tell the difference. Others can't. What they regard as succulent hare is often the remains of some alley cat. However, in Florence, according to the decree of the Council, the skins and heads of all animals whose meat is sold must be displayed in front of the butchers' stalls. This may be a wholesome practice, but being stared at by the glassy eyes of sheep, cattle, rabbits and lambs is disconcerting.

  The streets were just as busy and packed as those in London. My ears dinned with the clash of pots and pans, the clinking of money, the cries of the owners of old clothes' stalls, the hawkers of wooden ware, kettles and frying pans. The streets were choked with mules and carts. Now and again we would debouch from some narrow alleyway into one of the beautiful squares or piazzas of the city, open and paved with pleasant fountains in the middle. Crossing one of these, I was disturbed by what appeared to be sombre-clad ghosts carrying a black catafalque. As they passed all heads were uncovered and even the most coarse and ribald carters drew their carts to one side to give more room.

  'They are the brothers of the Misericordia,' Maria explained. She pointed to the leader of these black ghosts.

  'Each unit of ten is led by a Capo di Guardia. You can tell him by the leather bag tied round his waist. It contains brandy, cough lozenges and the key of a drawer under the litter. In this there is a drinking cup, a stole, a crucifix and some holy water, in case a sick person should die on the way to hospital.'

  I gazed at the long, black cloaks, the hoods and cowls with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth.

  'They look like demons,' I whispered.

  'No, no,' Maria replied. 'The Misericordia are the great glory of Florence. They visit the sick and take them to hospital but, according to the rules of their confraternity, they must remain in disguise so no one will think them virtuous nor can they boast of their good work.'

  I watched the litter pass.

  'But isn't the person dead?'

  'Oh, no. They are hidden to save any embarrassment.' Maria wiped her little mouth on the back of her hand. 'Florence's hospitals are the wonder of the world.' She smiled sourly. 'Mind you, they have to be; there's more poisoning and dagger thrusts in this city than any in Italy, even Rome.'

  'They look like the Eight,' Benjamin observed.

  Maria urged her donkey on, looking over her shoulder at my master.

  if you ever fall into their power,' she called back, 'you'll find there's no mercy from the Eight!' A bell began to sound.

  'Hurry up!' she called and, as we came out of the alleyway, pointed across the square to a huge, rectangular, fortified building.

  'The Piazza de' Medici! The Lord Cardinal awaits you.' She drew in the reins of her mount and came alongside. 'We have a phrase in English - when you sup with the devil

  '... you carry a long spoon!' I finished for her. 'In this case,' Maria whispered, 'make sure your spoon is very, very long!'

  Chapter 9

  We stabled our horses at a nearby tavern and entered the palace. Now the Medicis are certainly corrupt, as I found to my cost, but they knew how to build and how to live. The palace was extraordinary. We went up some steps into a large courtyard with a fountain in the middle, the water cascading from a bowl held by a beautiful nymph carved in ivory. We crossed this court and entered a garden curiously devised with laurel trees, thickets of bay, closely shaded walks, great ponds of water and statues of every variety, mostly carved out of marble. In one corner, so Maria whispered, was a curious ice-house with a cool cellar under it where the melting ice dropped down upon barrels of wine, thus keeping them fresh.

  Chamberlains met us, arrogant men in their Medici colours with the Medici balls, the family coat-of-arms, emblazoned on their tunics. They
took us up through sumptuous galleries where paintings hung on the walls next to hangings of cloth of gold and the purest velvet with all sorts of devices depicted there - birds, trees, flowers and strange landscapes. In every room people worked or lolled. I noticed the number of men, some in half-armour, all wearing swords and daggers, who guarded the galleries, doors and antechambers. Cardinal Giulio had his principal chambers at the centre of this opulent web. He awaited us in a beautiful, high-domed room, the walls painted gold and silver and every inch of the floor covered in pure wool rugs. He sat at a desk near a large window overlooking the square, dictating letters - to princes and prelates all over Europe - to five or six clerks working at desks on either side of his own.

  For a while we just stood watching him. At last the cardinal took notice of us, studying us carefully with those hooded eyes as he fingered the gold tassel of his purple robe. He held up a finger. A curiously contrived clock fashioned out of ivory and gold, which sat on the ledge above a cavernous fireplace, chimed musically and then struck the noon day hour. As the last chime died, the cardinal picked up and rang a silver handbell. He clasped his hands, the clerks disappeared and he waved us forward. We walked towards him in a strange silence, because the woollen floor coverings and the heavy drapes on the walls deadened every sound. We knelt and kissed his purple-gloved hand. The rubies on his fingers could have bought half of England. Once the courtesies were finished, he led us over to a small, velvet-draped alcove and sat us down beneath a beautiful painting of Adam and Eve being tempted by the serpent. I remember it vividly, because the naked woman depicted there was one of the most beautiful and life-like I had ever seen. Cardinal Giulio sat opposite us on a small, throne-like chair, a fixed smile on his smooth, olive face. I felt nervous at the prolonged silence and wished those black mutes outside had not so expertly taken our sword belts from us. I looked across the room at the clock, which Benjamin seemed fascinated by.