by S. D. Sykes
“No, no.” I said quickly. “I’m fully recovered, thank you.” I then cleared my throat confidently as if to demonstrate the thorough success of my recuperation. “I just needed to ask you a couple of questions.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes? About what?”
“The death of your brother,” I said, before regretting my bluntness, for my words caused her to recoil. “I’m sorry that you witnessed the return of his body. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
She took a deep breath. “Are you investigating Adolpho’s murder now, as well as Enrico’s?” she asked me.
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“Well,” I paused, “because I believe the two murders are connected.”
She sat up straight and turned to regard me dubiously. “I don’t understand.”
I drummed my fingers against my thighs and tried to think my words through carefully before speaking. “Well, firstly it was Adolpho whom I chased from the water gate on the night of Enrico’s murder.” I hesitated. “And then, when we found Adolpho’s body, there were a number of gold coins in his possession. Nobody can explain where this money came from.”
“I see,” she said, with a long sigh. “I didn’t know that.” For a moment she appeared to be thinking, before she clasped her hands together and turned to face me, as if this were a manorial court and I were the judge. “So, please, Oswald. Ask me your questions.”
I bowed my head in thanks. “Do you know anything about the coins?”
She shook her head. “My brother never had any money.”
“Could he have secretly saved them?”
She couldn’t suppress a laugh at this question. “Saved? Adolpho never saved a thing in his whole life. Every coin was spent before it dropped into his purse.” She turned her head and gazed into the fire. “My brother was always asking me for money, but what could I give him? I’m not even allowed a few soldini.” Her tone became bitter. “My husband and his clerk make sure of that,” she added, almost to herself.
I nodded in recognition of this unfairness, though not enthusiastically enough to provoke any farther discussion on this topic. “When was the last time that you saw Adolpho?” I asked instead.
Filomena paused to think. “It was the morning of the Giovedì Grasso.”
“Do you know if he was intending to leave his post and go to the carnival?”
“I don’t.” She fixed me with a stare. “But if that was his intention, then he wouldn’t have told me.” She suddenly looked away, rubbing her hands over her face and turning toward the fire. “Adolpho was my brother, but we were not close. You must understand that.”
I paused, allowing her the time to relax her hands from her face. Instead of talking, we both watched the fire for a while as it hissed and crackled in the hearth—the flames dancing like a circle of charmed snakes.
“Is there anything you could tell me about your brother, Filomena?” I said eventually, though I was loath to end this spell of silent companionship. “Anything at all that could help me with my investigation?”
“I don’t know what you mean?” said Filomena, not taking her eyes from the flames.
“Was there anything that made you suspicious about Adolpho’s life, for example? Perhaps there was a secret that you both shared?”
She shook her head. “I knew only that my brother was not a good man, Oswald. He was lazy and greedy, so I stayed away from him. Even when he came to this house.” Though her face was still turned toward the fire, I saw a solitary teardrop creeping down her cheek. Soon it was joined by others, and within moments her face was painted with tears. I placed my hand instinctively upon her shoulder in sympathy—but she tensed at my touch, so I withdrew it quickly.
“There is too much sadness in this world, Oswald. First my brother is murdered, and now I fear for myself and for my daughter.” She then rubbed her hands into her eyes as if this would prevent the tears from flowing.
“You mustn’t worry. Nothing bad will happen to you.”
She suppressed another sob. “Can you be so sure of that?” Before I could answer, she turned to me sharply. “I know what the servants are saying about me. Oh yes. They say that my husband is not the father of my child.” She managed to laugh, but it was an empty sound, quickly dying in the stuffy air. “They say her father is Enrico Bearpark. A man who never took a woman to his bed in his whole life!”
I was a little taken aback by this. “So you knew Enrico’s secret then?”
She nodded, wiping her face with her sleeve. “Yes, I did.”
“Was this common knowledge?”
“No, no. Not at all.” Her voice lost its momentum and returned to a whisper. “I might not have known my brother’s secrets, but I knew Enrico’s well enough. You see, he was kind to me when I first came to Ca’ Bearpark,” she said. “We were both young, both trapped in this house with an old man, so sometimes I crept into his room at night to talk to him. Enrico confided in me.” She heaved a great sigh. “We were friends, but never lovers. That story is a lie. I have never been unfaithful to my husband. Not with Enrico, and not with anybody else.” Then the tears returned with more force. “But now I think my husband will use this foolish story as an excuse to rid himself of me. Just because our child is a daughter.”
I took her hand in mine, and this time she did not recoil. “You will not come to any harm, Filomena. I will not allow it.”
“But what can you do?” she said. “You’ll be leaving Venice soon.”
“Not necessarily.”
She frowned. “The galleys for Jerusalem will sail in a few weeks. We all know that. Now that there is peace with Hungary.”
“But—”
She withdrew her hand sharply. “No. You must not make promises that you cannot keep, Oswald. It does not help me, and it does not help my daughter.”
“Then I will speak to Bearpark on your behalf,” I said, a little wounded by her words. “I will warn him not to mistreat you.”
“No!” she said fiercely, throwing her hands up in alarm. “You must not do that.”
“Why ever not?”
“Don’t you understand?” she said, screwing up her face in anguish. “If you speak to my husband, then it will only make matters worse for me.” She grasped my hands. “Please. You must not speak to him. He will punish me for it.”
“Very well then,” I said reluctantly.
“Do you promise?” She glared at me. “You must promise!”
“If that’s what you want.”
She released my hands and turned back to the fire. “My life isn’t easy Oswald,” she said grimly. “So, please. Do not make it more difficult.”
An awkward silence followed this exchange, so I stood up to leave. “I’m sorry, Filomena. I shouldn’t have come here.”
She looked up at me with a start. “Don’t go, Oswald,” she said. “Please. Stay for a while and talk to me. I never have any company.”
I hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Please. At least pour me some water before you go.” She pointed to the earthenware pitcher on a nearby table. “I’m so thirsty, but they only allow me to drink wine.”
I looked at this pitcher with suspicion. “Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked.
Filomena nodded. “It’s just rainwater from the well in the courtyard.” She let a small smile cross her lips. “I wouldn’t drink it in the summer. But it’s sweet enough before Lent.”
I passed the bowl to Filomena, and after this I poured one for myself. I had not risked drinking plain water since we had passed through the Alps many months before, but this room was so warm and stuffy that I had also developed a raging thirst. While this was not the fresh and icy water of a mountain spring, it did not assault my tongue with the taste of a ditch, as I had suspected it might.
I then found myself returning to the seat alongside Filomena, even though I had had every intention of leaving. The fire had died down a little, but the warm glow from the embers picked out the c
url of her lip and the softness of her skin. “So. What do you want to talk about?” I said quickly, making sure to turn my eyes back to the flames.
“Something that will make us merry,” she said. “Tell me about London. The palaces and the great river. And your king.” Then she waved her hands in almost child-like excitement. “No, no. Forget London,” she said. “Tell me about your home. I want to hear about your castle and your lands.”
Since I had traveled to Venice, few people had asked me about my life back in England. In fact, few people asked me anything at all—particularly in this household, where Bearpark liked to dominate every conversation with his own stories, always firmly extinguishing any attempts to change the subject.
And so, as Filomena closed her eyes, I told her about my house at Somershill. How it had once been a castle, complete with battlements, four towers, a moat, and a drawbridge. How my grandfather had demolished most of this building, claiming it was old-fashioned, and built a manor house in its place, with a great hall, a solar, and two retiring chambers where the men and the women of the de Lacy family could sleep, apart from their servants.
Then I told her about the village of Somershill, where my villeins and tenants lived in low cottages with roofs of thatch. When I described how these same villagers sometimes brought their cows and pigs into one end of the house in the coldest nights of winter, she began to laugh—for she had spent the whole of her life upon this lagoon, where the only farming to speak of was fishing. There were no flocks of sheep or herds of cattle in Venice. The only livestock was the chickens and pigs that scratched about the streets and small patches of waste land between buildings, and these animals were certainly not given house room, at any time of year. The more I told her about my village, the more it seemed to amuse her.
The mood was light and cheerful, but just as I was about to laugh myself at the strange antics of the English, I sensed something in the darkest corner of the room, watching me intently from the shadows. Its cold, disheartening presence stopped me dead.
“Finish your story,” said Filomena, opening her eyes in displeasure. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing,” I lied, getting to my feet. “But I think I should leave now. I’ve stayed too long.”
“No. Not before you tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t.”
She held her arm across my path. “It’s here again, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, trying to push past her gently.
“Yes you do, Oswald,” she said, standing up beside me and looking me straight in the eye. “Your shadow. It is here, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Where is it now?” she asked, casting her eyes nervously about the room.
“I don’t know,” I said, looking to my hands.
She leaned toward me and whispered softly, as if we were in church. “What does it want?”
“What it always wants.”
“Which is what?”
I took a deep breath. “It wants me to look into its face.”
Filomena took my hand. “Then why don’t you?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’ll never do that.”
“But maybe you should, Oswald.”
“Why?”
She hesitated. “Because then it might go away.”
I was about to answer, when Mother threw the door open and strode into the chamber as if she were mistress of the house. “Oswald?” she said, nearly dropping her small lantern upon seeing my face. “What are you doing in here?”
Filomena and I jumped apart guiltily. “I was just telling Monna Filomena about Somershill,” I said quickly, before adding, “I was describing how our villagers don’t build an upper floor to their cottages.”
Mother frowned, clearly not believing a word. “This is a room of confinement, Oswald, and the girl has recently given birth. I doubt she cares a whit about cottages.”
“This girl asked your son for some company.” Filomena’s words rang out across the room, both loud and confident, causing Mother to flinch as if they were the scorching fumes of a bread oven.
“You speak English?” Mother said, before turning to me. “Monna Filomena speaks English, Oswald!”
“Yes. I know,” I said wearily.
Mother shook her head. “I can hardly believe it. Goodness me.”
“What did you want?” I asked. “We were having a private conversation.”
Mother ignored my question, before attempting to drive me toward the door, like a sheepdog rounding up a willful ewe. “Come along, Oswald. You need to leave. This is no place for a private conversation, even if it is in English.”
Filomena spoke again. “No. It is you who must leave, Lady Somershill.”
Mother froze. “I beg your pardon?”
Filomena continued. “Please leave this room. I wish to finish my conversation with your son.”
“Then I must protest,” said Mother with a gasp of dismay. “It is highly improper for Lord Somershill to be alone in a bedchamber with a married woman. Especially one who has just given birth. He should leave immediately, for both your sakes.”
“No. On the contrary,” said Filomena. “It is very important that I speak to him.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I have some important information,” said Filomena. “Concerning Lord Somershill’s murder investigation.” Filomena did not break her gaze, despite Mother’s best attempts to glare her into submission. “But you may wait outside the door, if it pleases you,” added Filomena haughtily. “It will not take long.”
Mother turned on her heel. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said, before stalking out of the room with her nose in the air. I might say, it was only moments before we heard her ear pressed against the wood of the door.
Filomena beckoned for me to sit down again. “Please, Oswald. I do have something to tell you,” she whispered. “That wasn’t a lie.”
She sat and stared into space for a while, both twisting and then untwisting her hands until she drew the courage to speak. “My husband wants you to find Enrico’s lover, doesn’t he? I’ve heard him speak to you about this.”
I nodded. “Yes, he does. Do you know this man’s name?”
She raised her dark eyes and looked at me suspiciously. “Can I trust you, Oswald de Lacy? If I tell you this man’s name, will I see him burning in the Piazzetta?”
I shook my head. “No, no. Of course not.”
Filomena rolled her tongue around her teeth, still unsure whether to trust me fully, just as Mother tapped on the door. “Do hurry up in there!”
“I’m telling you the truth, Filomena,” I said, ignoring the distraction. “I promise. I will not hand this man over to the Signori di Notte. But I do need to speak to him.”
She took a deep breath. “Very well then. Enrico had a lover named Marco. He lives with the sisters on the island of Santa Lucia.”
Chapter Nineteen
After the incident with Becky and the bathtub, I tried to speak to Mary alone—to assure her that nothing had happened. Mary was upset at first, but then she laughed the episode away, saying that men always found her sister irresistible, so it was hardly surprising that I had also fallen under Becky’s spell. I made some great excuse about my role as their uncle, if only by marriage, and how it would be a dereliction of my duty to behave in such a way toward my own niece. This was a foolish argument however, because, how then could I justify my feelings for Mary? If such behavior was inappropriate toward Becky, then it was no nobler when it came to her sister.
There had been a time in my life, when I was a boy, that the pretty and angelic face of Becky would have excited and enthralled me. Her hair was blonde, her eyes were large, her nose was upturned and childish. But as I became a man, I learned that there are other models of beauty. These faces might not attract the first attention, but they are, nonetheless, just as appealing to a man’s eye. It could be the graceful gait of a woman�
�s walk. The way she throws back her head to laugh. It could be the look of concentration upon her face as she reads her Psalter. This is the subtle side of beauty, and it is as rewarding as finding a shining pebble on a beach, hidden beneath the larger, more obvious stones. A man might think he is the only person to know of its existence.
And so it was for me and Mary. I found her to be a true beauty, though few felt she matched her sister. She refused to dress her hair. She would wear only the loosest of tunics, and her manners were sometimes as brisk and gruff as those of a huntsman. But she could ride horses like a knight, better than any man on the estate. She could shoot a rabbit with a longbow, and then she could skin and gut the creature. She kept deerhounds that were as fast and obedient as the king’s.
But do not think her coarse and uneducated. For she would also sit with me at night and read. We could discuss the subjects that had interested me for so many years—subjects that nobody else cared to discuss, such as the trajectory of Venus, and the teachings of Aristotle. She even feigned, for my sake, an interest in the writings of Pope Pius. And Mary had extended my own interests into more popular books, such as the Gesta Romanorum, with its legends and classical histories, and tales of monsters and magicians. We laughed and argued over these stories. I liked them a good deal more than I let on.
By the time I was twenty-four and she was sixteen, I had asked Mary de Caburn to be my wife. I had expected my offer to be accepted immediately, and the marriage to proceed with all respectable haste. But my arrogance was soon punished. Mary was rarely disposed to make my life easy, and insisted upon time to consider the proposal, and to review this opportunity against her other options. What options were these? I argued with a gust of umbrage. She was the daughter of a dead knight, with a half brother due to inherit her father’s estate. She was neither rich, nor considered a beauty. I will admit that these last two points were made with some rancour, since she had hurt my feelings, and it will come as little surprise that these ill-advised comments prompted an immediate refusal.
I might have dismissed the idea at this point, but I loved Mary—and despite her obstinacy, I believed that Mary loved me. So I tried again after the period of a month, this time using the tactics of flattery and humility. I even wrote Mary a poem, though it was so badly rhymed that it caused us both to cry with laughter. Comedy can be an aid to lovemaking, or so I’m told. There are plenty of wits who have won the heart of a lady—though I suppose they used clever observation and biting satire to impress their lover, rather than a foolish poem written quickly upon the back of a rarely used Psalter. Nevertheless, this unintended approach assisted my cause, and did not elicit an instant refusal to my offer of marriage. Instead, Mary told me that she would consider my proposal again, now that it had been made with some modesty and lack of assumption. I will say this of Mary, she knew how to make me love her the more, for what satisfaction is there in catching the easiest prey? A man needs to feel that he has worked for his prize.