City of Masks

by S. D. Sykes

  “Do you see it often?”

  “Yes. Though I’ve never looked into its face before.” I hesitated. “Not until today.”

  She drew closer to me. “Did it frighten you?”

  “No,” I admitted, “it disgusted me.”

  She bristled at this word but did not pull her hand away. “Why?” she asked. “Why did it disgust you?”

  Now I froze, for how could I tell this young woman that I’d seen a miserable, emaciated monkey among the wretched lepers on the island of the Lazaretto? How could I tell her that this imaginary creature had been pursuing me ever since I had left the shores of England; that it hid in the nooks and crannies of my life, judging me, condemning me, ready to leap out upon me when I least expected it. How could I tell her that I would rather die than have to face it again. “It’s something from my past that haunts me,” I said instead.

  She put her hand on my shoulder and whispered into my ear. “And this shadow. This ghost. Is that why you want to die?”

  The frankness of this question took me by surprise, because now that she was sitting here beside me, I was relieved to be alive. I might even say that I was pleased of it. “I thought I could ignore it. Drown it out,” I told her. “But now it’s found me, and it’s stronger than ever.” I felt tears clawing at my throat. “And I hate it, Filomena. I really hate it.”

  “The Devil sends ghosts, Oswald.” We sat back to find that Giovanni had silently entered the room. “They bring his disorder and malice to this world. You must not look upon their faces.”

  Filomena sprang to her feet despite the size of her belly, picked up her skirts, and then marched out of the room without even acknowledging Giovanni. Her face was red with anger, or perhaps it was embarrassment, for she should not have been alone with a man in his bedchamber. The warmth and intimacy of our conversation departed along with her trailing gown, and instead a cold chill invaded the room.

  “What do you want, Giovanni?” I said, turning away.

  Giovanni placed his hand upon my shoulder. “You saw this ghost on the Lazaretto, didn’t you?” He pressed his hand into my skin. “I knew there was something wrong.”

  “It was just a delusion,” I said. “A figment of my imagination. I haven’t slept well for many days, and my mind is exhausted.” I cleared my throat. “But you mustn’t worry. I’m recovered now.”

  He rubbed his fingers across my tunic, and more than anything I wanted him to stop touching me. “It was a demonite,” he said. “A spirit sent by Beelzebub to draw your soul into Hell.”

  Suddenly I felt the urge to laugh. “You mean a demon.”

  Giovanni shook his head. “No, no. It is a demonite.”

  “There is no such word, Giovanni,” I said, feeling adequately revitalized to dislodge his hand from my shoulder.

  “Your mind is unwell, Oswald,” he told me. “This demonite is trying to possess you.” I looked away, but he cocked his head to look into my eyes. “You must not be ashamed of this. Your mother has told me of your troubles.”

  Now I felt my anger rising. “Has she indeed?”

  “I understand your sadness,” said Giovanni.

  “I doubt it.”

  He smiled oddly. “But I do, Oswald. I’ve felt this sadness, as well. So you are not alone. But death will not ease your pain.” He placed his hand back upon my shoulder, before I had the chance to dodge away. “To kill yourself is a mortal sin. You will spend an eternity in Hell.”

  Now I could not suppress a laugh.

  “Don’t laugh at this, Oswald. Please.” He waited a few moments, and then reached inside his purse to retrieve a rosary that he then pressed into my hand. “Please. Take this.” The rosary felt cold—its beads like tiny, sharp teeth against my skin, but Giovanni closed my fingers about his gift and pushed it to my chest. “I do understand your sadness,” he said. “I lost somebody once. The person that I loved more than anything in the world.”

  I regarded him suspiciously. Was he telling the truth? “Did you lose her in the Plague?”

  He flushed and dropped his gaze. “At first the pain was very strong,” he told me. “At times I could not stand it.” He stared at the floor and whispered, “I was like you, Oswald.” He hesitated. “I wanted death. I even sought it.”

  “You tried to kill yourself?” I could hardly believe this story, and yet Giovanni’s confession seemed completely genuine.

  He nodded awkwardly. “Yes, I did. I thought it was the answer. But it was not.” He looked me in the eye again, trying to regain his composure. “So you see. You are not alone.”

  “What stopped you?” I asked.

  “It was Mother Maria. She saved me from the sin.” He pressed the rosary again into my chest. “Let her in, Oswald. Give her your soul.”

  I hesitated to answer.

  “Speak to Mother Maria, and she will listen.”

  I looked at the rosary. Though it was only a simple string of wooden beads, it must have been a sacrifice for Giovanni to part with such a treasured possession. His lecture had annoyed me, but his kindness was touching and I almost felt some affection for him—though, predictably, this did not last for long.

  Giovanni straightened his clothes and searched about the room for my looking glass. I had hung the thing behind the door, since I had barely bothered looking in a mirror in the last few months, and when I did need to for some reason, then I took care to be quick about it, lest I caught something of the shadow in my reflection. Seeing that the surface of the looking glass was covered in a thin layer of dust, Giovanni puffed and then carefully removed a small square of linen from his sleeve. “Shall I tell my master that you will not continue with the investigation?” he said, as he cleaned away a swath of grime to reveal the mottled silver finish beneath.

  “No. Why would you do that?” I said sharply.

  He stopped wiping. “You are unwell, Oswald. Is it wise to carry on?”

  I was unwell, that much was true, but I could hardly afford the luxury of giving up on my investigation—especially when I had only six days to earn my fee. “I’m perfectly healthy Giovanni,” I said. “Have no fears on that front.”

  For some reason I felt that my answer disappointed him.

  Chapter Ten

  I had not intended to buy a monkey. It was the summer of 1355, and I was in London to meet a wool merchant who had been causing me some trouble with payments for Somershill fleeces. I would not usually have undertaken such negotiations, as they were the remit of my reeve, but since I suspected my reeve of conspiring with this same merchant, I thought it worthwhile to supervise all transactions.

  It was a warm June morning, and while I was waiting for the obstinate merchant to answer my latest entreaty for payment, I decided to kill some time by taking a walk along Cheapside market. My intention was to purchase some saffron and mace for the Somershill kitchen—for good quality spices were sometimes difficult to find in Kent. I was also in search of a gift, however. A souvenir from my visit to London. Some trinket or bauble to warm the tepid heart of a particular young woman. A young woman who had thus far remained immune to my advances.

  Cheapside was noisy and overcrowded that morning—the air warm with the rotting stench of the nearby meat market at the Shambles. In the busy streets of West Cheap, the stallholders appeared to be as wilted as their vegetables; their customers as bad-tempered as bears in chains—quick to pick fights and slow to apologize. I kept away from the stalls, but the flies attracted by the sweating food still swarmed about my face, so I was forced to hold a hand over my mouth. When the miasma of insects, rotten food, and rude behavior became too much to bear, I took a diversion into a side alley, hoping to find fresher air and a sanctuary from the crowds.

  I was certainly able to remove my hand from my mouth now that I was away from the main thoroughfare, but this was still a dark and meandering passageway, located between two rows of houses that reached for the sun like closely planted trees. As a gang of shoeless children rushed past, I held tightl
y upon the leather pouch that hung from my belt. Such ragged children were always cutpurses, or so I had been warned by every servant, family member, and general busybody since I had declared my intention to visit London. And yet, thus far, I had managed to keep my purse safe from their villainous little fingers. As the children disappeared around the far corner, a mule strayed across my path, pulling at its tether as it tried to reach a pile of discarded cabbage leaves on the other side of the alley.

  I pushed the stubborn beast aside, and it was then that I saw it—a creature crouching behind the iron bands of a crate that was no larger than a pillory cage. An unpleasant fug of droppings and rotten fruit hung about the crate, like the fumes of a steaming midden heap, and, as I approached the beast, it lifted its hands over its head, as if protecting itself from falling masonry. Even in this squalor, I could see that it had once been a magnificent animal. Beneath its dusted, matted topcoat was a pelt of glossy black fur with two flamboyant, fringed manes of white hair, which ran from its shoulders down to the base of its long back. Its small, leathery face was encircled by this same white fringe, as if it were poking it through the tasseled trim of a robe. It was unlike any beast I had ever seen, but, in truth, it was the creature’s pathos that really appealed to me—for, more than anything, it needed to be nursed back to health. I thought about the young woman in question, knowing that this decrepit monkey would make a perfect gift.

  I pushed the door of the adjacent shop open to find a farther menagerie of animals for sale. Goldfinches, jackdaws, spaniel puppies, kittens, and a pair of smaller monkeys, chained by their necks and crouching together on a perch as they picked at one another’s fleas. Even by the standards of London, this was a repulsive-smelling den—though the shopkeeper seemed immune to the reek of his establishment, since he was whistling a merry tune as he fed peas to a rabbit.

  I cleared my throat to get his attention. “How much for the monkey outside?”

  The shopkeeper stood back with some shock, as he had not noticed my entrance. “Good day to you, my lord. How kind of you to visit.” He held out his hand. “Please. Allow me to present to you my collection of exotic marvels and curiosities.”

  By now the smell had forced me to return my hand to my nose. “It’s just the monkey outside that interests me,” I said.

  He dropped his smile. “Ah, yes.” He paused, scratching his chin a little awkwardly. “I’m afraid that beast is not for sale.”

  So, this was his tactic. Well, I could play this game as well. “Never mind,” I said, swinging my cloak with a flourish. “Then I bid you good day.”

  I turned to leave, but the man darted to the door with the speed of a jack hare. “Sire. Why don’t you take one of these lovely Barbary apes instead?” He pointed at the monkeys on the perch. “They’ve just come in from the land of Granada. And they’re such tender creatures. Very gentle with children. And look at their endearing little faces. They would keep your family amused for hours.” I looked across at the macaques, who were now baring their formidable fangs to me. In truth, it was hard to imagine a more unsuitable companion for a child.

  “How much is the monkey outside?” I said again.

  The shopkeeper bit his lip. “You don’t want that animal, my lord. It’s inferior. As miserable as a leper.”

  “Maybe that’s because you keep it so miserably? Could you not clean out its cage occasionally?”

  The man went to say something, but stopped. He could not be insolent to me, and he knew it. Instead he rolled his tongue about his gums and then gave a sigh. “It likes the cage, sire.”

  “I doubt that’s true.”

  He smiled awkwardly. “No, no. It is. I’ve let the creature out before. With a chain on its foot, of course,” he added quickly. “But it always crawls back into the cage of its own volition.” He tried the smile again. “You really would be better with one of the Barbarys.” He rolled his hands together. “I do have a fine and noble lady interested in one of them, but I could give you a very good price for the pair.”

  I folded my arms. “How much for the monkey outside?”

  “I cannot sell it to you,” he insisted.

  “Why not? Did you steal it from somebody?”

  “No, my lord. Of course not.”

  “Then name your price.”

  The man regarded me for a while, before heaving a great sigh. “Very well then,” he said. “You may have it for half a mark.”

  The price he named was surprisingly low, and I was unable to disguise my surprise.

  “Oh, don’t congratulate yourself, my lord,” he said with something of a smirk. “I’ve sold that creature many times before. But it’s always returned to me.”

  “Oh yes?” I suddenly felt suspicious. “Is it aggressive then?” I thought back to the fangs of the macaques. No doubt the monkey outside had a similar set of teeth—even if it was without the heart to bare them. I didn’t have children myself, but there were children who visited Somershill regularly. Namely my nephew, Henry—a boy who was always accompanied by his overprotective and fussing mother, my sister Clemence. I was sure that she would have something to say about such a house guest.

  The shopkeeper shook his head. “No, no. It never bites or scratches. It just causes . . .” He hesitated. “Well. Let me put it this way, my lord. It seems to cause melancholia. Even bad luck.”

  “I don’t believe in such things,” I said. “So, you need not concern yourself on that front.”

  The man merely raised an eyebrow.

  I felt the sudden need to elaborate. “It’s a gift,” I said. “For a person who is talented with such injured and abused animals. I can guarantee that she will not be disturbed by its melancholia. In fact, she will be moved by it.”

  He disguised a snort, and then bowed to me. “In that case, sire. The monkey is yours.”

  My purchase was delivered to my inn later that same day. The monkey was free of its filthy cage, but the shopkeeper had made sure to fasten one metal ring to its leg and another to its neck. These two rings were then attached to a chain in order to create a double leash. Anybody would think the man had been supplying a lion from the king’s enclosure at the Tower, rather than this reticent, cringing creature. The chains were heavy, so I chose to remove the ring from the monkey’s leg immediately, so that it could enjoy a little more freedom of movement. But it refused steadfastly to take advantage of this new privilege, and instead chose to crouch in the corner with its face against the wall.

  When the news of my purchase reached the innkeeper, he thumped at the door and entered the room without waiting for my command. The fool was full of bluster, claiming that the monkey was causing a great inconvenience to my fellow guests. The scent of the monkey had set off the dogs in the yard, and in turn this had caused complaints among his other “very respectable” customers. Neither of these claims bore any scrutiny, but the man demanded another shilling for a night’s stay. I was due to return to Somershill the next day, so I offered to pay the greedy crook half what he was demanding and eventually we settled on a price, as long as I agreed to have all of the monkey’s droppings removed before I left.

  That evening, I tried to coax the creature into turning its face from the wall with a crust of bread, but my efforts were in vain. In fact, the harder I tried to gain its confidence, the more it shuffled into the corner, until its nose touched the damp wattle and daub of the wall, and it could shuffle forward no farther. As I looked upon the patchy fur of its hunched back and the two knotted manes of white hair that flanked each side of its spine, I will admit that a wave of melancholia washed over me. I had purchased this creature with all the best intentions, but it seemed immune to my care. To be honest, its presence was starting to depress me.

  However, I was determined not to be as fickle as those other people who had purchased the monkey, only to return it the next day. I was better than them. I would try harder, and where they had failed, I would succeed. So, when I heard the strawberry seller calling from the street
below, I sent my valet to buy a punnet of the fruit. They were the sweetest, most delicious of strawberries, fresh from the fields, and guaranteed to tempt even this miserable simian from its solitude in the corner.

  I offered the largest strawberry to the monkey, slowly provoking a reaction from the stubborn creature, as it turned its head and then picked the berry from my hand, before placing the fruit very gently into its mouth. It seemed to want more, so I continued to offer strawberries until we had exhausted the whole punnet. The monkey neither grabbed nor bolted the fruit. Instead it delicately ate each piece with the manners of a noblewoman.

  With the strawberries exhausted, I would say that the monkey seemed a little revived. At last it turned from the corner, paying particular attention to the window from where the evening sun filled the room with shafts of golden light. Closing its eyes, the monkey allowed this burst of sunshine to warm its skin, blissfully soaking up the light after years in the dark confines of a London alley. Now its face no longer seemed sunken and skeletal, with its ragged corona of dirty fur. Instead the monkey seemed at peace. Joyful even. I looked to my valet, and we shared a smile. Our munificence had been justly rewarded.

  The monkey opened its eyes sharply as a cock pigeon landed on the sill of our window and began to cluck and coo to a nearby hen. It was startled and then fascinated, as the pigeon strutted up and down the sill, puffing out its chest and bobbing its head. It stretched out its arms, as if it wanted to touch the other creature in an instinctive movement of delight, and suddenly I was reminded of my nephew, Henry—flexing and clenching his fists in a passion to stroke Mother’s small dog.

  I don’t know why I did it. Only that I should not have. But my pleasure in the monkey’s change of heart was so great that it warped my judgment. I could save this creature. I could cure its melancholia. These things were within my power.

  What foolishness. What vanity!

  I unlocked the ring at the monkey’s neck and I carried it to the open window. For a few minutes, the creature clung to my side and looked with unabated wonder at the world outside. The pale blue of the sky. The flock of pigeons on the opposite roof. The tendrils of smoke from the bread ovens of the inn. It cocked its small and expressive face and sucked in these sights, and when it seemed satisfied, I held it on the sill, so that it might see more. This was my mistake. Now that the creature was away from the security of the room, it tensed. I tried to pull it back, but my reactions were too slow—for suddenly it leaped from my arms, jumping across the short gap between the inn and the building opposite. I called for it to return, but to no avail, and soon it was scampering away on all fours, across the roofs of London, as if it were fleeing a crowned eagle.