A Brood of Vipers

by Paul Doherty

  Borelli pulled a face, turned his back and went over to the easel. He picked up a brush and, holding a small pot of paint in his right hand, began to dab carefully at the canvas.

  'Master Borelli!' Benjamin took a step nearer. 'Are you not interested?'

  'Very,' the painter replied. 'But, as I have explained to your companion, the little woman, I am busy. I have paintings to do in Florence.' He turned back, the brush still in his hand. 'And, as for my surroundings, I like being here. I have my friends, my taverna, the sun, wine, the glories of Florence. Why should I exchange all this for an uncertain future at your cold English court?'

  Borelli put the paint brush and pot down. He plucked at the rag tucked in the cord tied round his waist.

  'Signor Daunbey, yes?'

  Benjamin nodded.

  'Signor Daunbey, I do not wish to appear rude. But I have many orders to complete and in a few days I am to go to Ferrara and on to Rome. I thank your king for his favour. I will give my reply in a few days. You are staying... ?'

  'At the Villa Albrizzi.'

  ‘In which case I shall send it there.'

  After that he fairly hustled us from the room, slamming the door shut. Maria giggled behind her gloved hand. I glared at her. Benjamin flung up his hands in despair.

  'Mystery upon mystery,' he murmured. 'Why was he so surly?'

  I stared at the door. Something was wrong. Borelli had hardly welcomed us and shown no surprise at our offer. He'd made no enquiry about what fee or what terms would be given if he came to England, and he couldn't get rid of us quickly enough. If I had been on my own I would have kicked the door down, dragged the fellow outside, beat his head against the wall and repeated our offer until he accepted.

  'Roger,' Benjamin called, as if reading my thoughts, 'we can do nothing now.'

  We left the dirty, smelly tenement. Maria took us by a different route around the old market. The day was growing hot, already people were beginning to disperse to their houses for the siesta. Sensible Florentines would lounge in their upper rooms and wait for the sun to dip and the shadows to grow longer. Maria said she was thirsty. I licked dry lips and remembered the cool white wine we had drunk at the Medici palace. I stared over my shoulder, searching the crowd, but I couldn't see anyone following us. We passed a taverna, a brightly painted, shady establishment; fragrant cooking smells wafted through the door. Outside, leaning against the wall, two tinkers, their noses dug into their tankards, smacked their lips as they slaked their thirst.

  'Master,' I insisted. 'We must drink something.'

  Benjamin agreed. We went inside.

  It was a beautifully cool room with a high ceiling and great open windows on every side. Onions and vegetables hung from the rafters. The floor, surprisingly enough, was tiled with an exquisite mosaic depicting a hand clutching a succulent bunch of grapes. We took our seats at a table near a window overlooking the fragrant-smelling garden behind the taverna. A young boy dressed in a white apron, chattering like a monkey, came to take our order. Maria advised us to drink not wine but the juice of crushed oranges with slivers of ice in it.

  'The wine will only make you thirstier,' she explained.

  She was right. The boy brought back pewter flagons and both Benjamin and I exclaimed our appreciation at the cool and tangy fruitfulness which washed the dust from our mouths and slaked our thirst. Maria, still chattering about the different types of food and drink, ordered some bread with cheese and apple slices mixed together in an open earthenware bowl. We were so engrossed that I hardly noticed the wiry, grey-haired man sitting in a corner by himself, a wine cup cradled in his hand. After some minutes he got up and came over.

  'Inglese?' he asked.

  Maria jabbered some reply. The man nodded and drained his cup. He whispered something to Maria, then left the taverna.

  'What did he say?' I asked curiously. 'He told us to be careful.'

  As we started to eat one of the Eight came in through the door. He saw where we sat and abruptly left.

  Maria's face was pale, her eyes anxious.

  'In Florence,' she murmured, 'the Master of the Eight is feared. The old man did us a great favour.'

  I stared around the taverna. I could see no one watching us and I wondered what the man really had said to Maria. I looked at my master. He, too, was staring suspiciously at the little woman.

  'That's what he said!' Maria exclaimed heatedly. 'Here in Florence the Eight are not liked. It is a courtesy to warn people when they are being watched.'

  Benjamin shrugged and looked out across the garden. A group of children, probably the tavern-keeper's, were busy decorating the statue of a saint and letting off fire-crackers around it. Maria, standing on a stool, also peered out.

  'They are preparing for the carnival,' she explained. 'In Florence every saint's day is celebrated, with flowers, fireworks, processions. It is a beautiful city,' she added wistfully. 'At least on the surface.'

  I saw her little body shiver.

  'Give me London any time,' I said. 'Oh, for a day in Cheapside, eh, Master?' 'Eh, Inglese?'

  I whirled round. Four men had suddenly entered the taverna and were now grouped around the table, staring at us. At the far side of the room the tavern-keeper was watching anxiously. The newcomers, with their plumed hats, tawdry finery, high-heeled boots and sword belts carrying dirk and hangar, were clearly bully-boys - an unholy bunch with their narrow faces and sneering mouths! I went back to my drink.

  'Is the Inglese stupid as well as insulting?' one of them asked. He came towards me, coming so close his codpiece almost thrust into my cheek. He tugged my ear lobe. 'Inglese, look at me!'

  I stared up. He bowed down, pushing his face closer. 'Inglese, you insult me! Kiss my boot! Or I'll kill you!'

  Chapter 10

  Well, you know how it goes - it's always the same in any deliberate tavern brawl. These braggadocios had been sent to stir us up. Their leader spoke English. I gathered he was some apostate cleric or one of Italy's eternal students. I tried to ignore him but he began to taunt Maria, wondering if her privy parts were as small as everything else.

  'Stop and play with us, little one!' he shouted, smacking me on the back of the head. 'The other one can go home and play with his mother!'

  'Well, at least he's got one,' I said, 'and I know who my father was - claims none of you bastards can make!'

  Well, that was it. Back they stepped, cloaks going over their shoulders, swords and daggers in their hands. I drew my own sword, seeing with relief that the landlord had opened a hidden door and was beckoning us to safety. Benjamin went to draw his sword.

  'No, Master,' I ordered. 'Take care of Maria!'

  We moved across the tavern floor, my body shielding both Benjamin and Maria. God knows what happened then. I never discovered if the tavern-keeper was part of the plot or if he just panicked. He dragged Benjamin and Maria through the door. I went to follow, but he slammed it shut in my face. I heard the bolts being shut even as I hammered on the door.

  'Let me in!' I screamed. 'Oh, for God's sake! Let me in!'

  The door didn't move. I whirled round, raising my sword just in time to block an attacker's thrust.

  (Now I see my little chaplain giggle, his shoulders shaking. I know what he's thinking. Old Shallot either wetting his pants or telling lies! I rap him firmly across the knuckles with my ash cane. The little whelk of a bird-dropping! Yes, yes, I am a coward! There's not a tavern floor in London I have not crawled across in a mad desperate attempt to reach the door. Many a time I have told the attacker to look behind him and, when he does, I've hit him on the head and ran like the wind.)

  However in that Florentine taverna it was different. I was cornered! And you know what they say about cornered rats? There were four attackers. Two were just bully-boys but the other two, one of them the leader, were professional swordsmen. They closed in, dancing, swords jabbing, daggers thrusting. I became hysterical with fright. My sword and dagger flashed like a scythe and, I tell no lie
, I sliced off the leader's nose! One minute it was there, the next minute it was hanging by a few shreds of skin whilst the blood spurted out like wine from a cracked jar. He threw his sword and dagger to the floor and staggered back as a comrade took his place. Encouraged by my success I now opened both eyes. I pricked another attacker in the shoulder and was beginning to wonder whether I could play the hero again when the taverna was invaded by the black-garbed men of the Master of the Eight.

  The braggadocios vanished like puffs of smoke, taking the noseless one with them. The men of Eight concentrated on me, battering me with their staves till I was beaten to the floor. I fought back, because I couldn't forget the nightmare scene, earlier in the day, of those three corpses twirling above the execution fire. One of the hooded men bestrode me and began to beat me around the head. I lunged back, biting the man in the genitals until he screamed. I fought on until a stinging blow on the head knocked me unconscious.

  (Do you know, I always reflect on that? Some poor Florentine walking around with Roger Shallot's teeth marks in his balls! Whenever Benjamin used to say 'Roger, you always left your mark', I'd remember that fracas in Florence and, to my master's astonishment, burst out laughing.)

  When I regained consciousness I was lying at the bottom of a cart, manacled hand and foot. My head ached and I was sore from chin to crotch. I hoisted myself up. The driver of the cart and his assistants were dressed in black, as were the men marching alongside, swinging their lead-tipped staves. Peering through the slats of the cart, I saw we were crossing the old market. I glimpsed the colours and heard the shouts of the crowd, but these died as soon as the Eight's men made their appearance. Believe me, they had no difficulty getting through the throng.

  At last the cart stopped. I looked over the side and my heart sank at the sight of the grey, forbidding building that loomed before me. The whip cracked and the horses moved on. I saw a great, iron-studded gate slam shut behind me and smelled a stench that has haunted me all my life - the odour of unwashed bodies, swollen sewers and dirty cells that is the hall-mark of any prison. Now, on a number of occasions I have been in Newgate. I am acquainted with the Fleet, the Marshalsea and the Tower and have even spent two weeks with the happy crowd at the madhouse in Bedlam. But, believe me, that prison in Florence was one of the worst. They call it the Stinche and you can well believe it! I told young Francis Bacon that this was the origin of the English word 'stink'. He, of course, mocked the idea. If the clever bastard had paid a visit to that Florentine prison he'd soon have changed his mind!

  It has been described as 'the torture chamber', 'the home of the Eight', 'Hell on earth' and, most appropriately, 'the hole of oblivion', for many who went in there were never seen or heard of again. I was dragged out of the cart and on to the filthy cobbles, then hauled to my feet by the cowled, masked figures. I stared in horror at a man being pegged out in the yard. A great metal-studded door had been laid over him and heavy iron weights were now being placed on this. The poor fellow began to scream as a torturer, with an hour glass in one hand, tapped the cobbles with a white wand and asked the prisoner a question. When the fellow shook his head, another weight was placed on him.

  I was only too glad when my guards, urging me with their staves, drove me up wide, sweeping stone steps and into the eeriest of chambers. It was dark as pitch; ceiling and floor were painted black and purple drapes covered the walls. At one end a massive silver crucifix swung from a rafter. Beneath this stood a desk and a high-backed chair. Two candlesticks at either end of the table cast a pool of light on the face of Frater Seraphino. He smiled and got to his feet, gesturing me forward as if I was some long-lost relation.

  ‘I heard you were coming,' he lisped. ‘I speak your tongue very well, Master Shallot. When I studied at the Sorbonne, most of my friends were English. Please sit.'

  I had no choice. A high-legged stool was brought forward and placed before the table and I was forced to mount. I had to balance myself carefully lest I fall off. I stared like an idiot across the black velvet-draped table at Frater Seraphino. He clapped his hands and gestured with his fingers as a sign for my guards to stand back. He then leaned across the table like some benevolent uncle.

  'Master Shallot, you are not a stupid man and neither am I. You have been arrested for' - he ticked the points off on his fingers - 'being involved in a tavern brawl; resisting arrest; and injuring one of my officers in' - he grinned - 'a most sensitive place. But you know and I know that's only a pretext. Those bullies who provoked you into a fight were sent by me to provide the pretext for inviting you here. I only mention this because I can prove my story, whilst you have no evidence to the contrary. Now, what do you say to that?'

  'Piss off!' I retorted through blood-caked lips. 'I know a little of the law. I am the accredited English envoy of his gracious Majesty King Henry VIII, my master is—'

  'Benjamin Daunbey, nephew to the great Cardinal Wolsey,' Frater Seraphino finished for me. 'But they don't know where you are. You were involved in a tavern brawl. You are my prisoner and you are very rude.' He clicked his fingers and gabbled something in Italian.

  One of the guards came out of the shadows carrying the iron poker he had been heating in a small brazier just inside the door. He pressed the red-hot poker against the back of my neck. I screamed in agony and fell off the stool. The sharp-edged manacles dug into my wrists and ankles and I jarred every bone in my body. Seraphino spoke again and the guards picked me up and put me back on the stool. Frater Seraphino smiled benignly.

  (By the way, have you noticed that professional torturers always smile and are usually very softly spoken, as if they personally regret every little inconvenience they cause you. Richard Topcliffe, Elizabeth I's master torturer, was no different. Once, as we were admiring the gardens at Greenwich, I asked him why. Do you now what he said? 'My dear Roger, it increases the sense of terror. Such a sharp contrast can unnerve the coolest wit.')

  Well, Frater Seraphino certainly terrified me.

  'Your first name is Roger?' he asked me.

  I nodded.

  'But don't you English use that word "Roger" to describe the sexual act?' Again I nodded.

  'And are you one for the ladies, Master Shallot?' 'So they say.'

  'Like the Lady Beatrice? Or the Lady Bianca?'

  I just stared back.

  'Who is killing the Albrizzis?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Why are you so interested in the artist Borelli?' I told him.

  'And what messages do you carry to the Cardinal Giulio de' Medici?'

  I told him that, as well as what the cardinal had said in reply. Frater Seraphino leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

  'What did Cardinal Wolsey mean by that message?' I shook my head dumbly. Frater Seraphino smiled.

  'I am not sure, Roger,' he said quietly, 'whether you are lying or telling the truth. You see, you have told us something, but only pieces of a puzzle. They don't fit together.' Again he ticked the points off on his stubby fingers. 'Who's killing the Albrizzis and why? What is this message to the cardinal? What does it mean? Why does your royal master want to hire the painter Borelli?'

  I felt like telling him to ask the cardinal himself, but remembered the hiss of that red-hot poker and kept my mouth shut. One thing was clear, even to my fuddled wits; Lord Giulio had been right - in Florence information meant power. The Master of the Eight, for reasons best known to himself, was intent on entering this game of shadows.

  'Well.' Frater Seraphino beamed. 'You'll have to be our guest a little while longer.'

  The black-hearted turd muttered something in Italian to one of my keepers. Seraphino glanced at me sharply to see if I understood what he said, then he nodded his balding head.

  'We shall meet again,' he whispered.

  I was dragged off to one of the loathsome hell-holes beneath the prison, a rank, fetid pit. It was simply a stone cavern, with wet, mildewed walls and no light except the few weak rays struggling through the cracks and s
eams of the heavy trapdoor above me. I was thrown on to a bed of black, rotting straw and given a tallow candle to light and place in a niche in the wall. A cracked bowl of dirty oatmeal and a tin cup of brackish water were also lowered down to me, but both oatmeal and water tasted so vile that I emptied them on the straw. I squatted and watched the cockroaches, big as butterflies, crawl from beneath the straw into the bowl. I didn't feel too frightened. Master Benjamin would surely discover my whereabouts and arrange my release. I leaned back against the shit-stained wall. At first I felt homesick for England. I cursed King Henry, starting with "Fat Bastard", and when I had exhausted my litany of insults started on Cardinal Wolsey. I must have been shouting, for the trapdoor was flung open and a bucket of cold slops hurled down on me, followed by a stream of curses which, I understood, told me to be quiet. So I shut my mouth, my mind going back over the events that had brought me to this filthy hell-hole.

  Now, sitting in a prison cell with nothing to do is not my favourite pastime, but does concentrate the mind. Certain images kept recurring - the garden at that taverna, the children and their fire-crackers, Cardinal Giulio's silent menace, his lack of interest about the murders at the Albrizzi household. I scratched my chin and watched the king of the cockroaches squat in the middle of my dirt.

  'Now, that's strange,' I mumbled to myself. 'Why didn't the good cardinal ask me a question? What are the messages he and Wolsey are sending to each other? And the painter Borelli? How can a man paint in a darkened room?' I recalled the picture I had seen in the king's chamber at Eltham, then I rattled my chains with glee. Whoever had painted that was right-handed, yet the man we had met, calling himself Borelli, had held the brush in his left hand. Did that painting hanging on the walls of Eltham Palace lie at the heart of this mystery? And what of the assassin with the arquebus? For some strange reason I kept remembering those skeletons Benjamin and I had unearthed outside the manor at Ipswich.