by S. D. Sykes
I had heard these same words at the convent of Santa Lucia. They were Marco’s. “I don’t know,” I said, as I choked, not knowing how long I could now maintain consciousness.
“Of course you do. You lived with Enrico. You’re investigating his murder. Or so you say.” He looked up into my face. “Are you going to tell me? Or would you like a little longer to think about it? Or perhaps I will assume that you are a spy. Loitering outside the Arsenale to discover our secrets.” He laughed. “And you must know what happens to spies in Venice.” Once again he pressed his boot against the set of steps, causing them to move a little as I struggled, in desperation, to keep my footing.
“I’m not a spy,” I insisted. “But I do know what the letter means.” The searing pain in my shoulders and neck was now so intense that I feared I might vomit. “But you have to loosen the rope first.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because I can’t speak if I’m being sick.”
My interrogator regarded me for a moment and then signaled to the guards that they might allow some slack in the rope. The relief was almost blissful, but now I had to tell them something, or they would pull up the rope again, no doubt harder and tighter this time. Fear will spark venal, unscrupulous thoughts, for we are driven to survive, above all other motivations. So, as the blood coursed back into my veins, a plan began to form. It was contemptible, and yet I knew it could save me. I could tell them that it was Marco who had written the letter of denunciation. He was the person who knew Enrico’s secrets. If this was not enough to damn the man, then I could also reveal that Marco had taken other men as lovers. Surely these two disclosures would be enough to secure my release and send them after Marco instead?
This was the answer, and yet as Marco’s name formed on my lips, I sensed that something was watching me from the darkest corner of the room. It could read my mind, and it could see my weakness.
“What’s your answer?” demanded my interrogator.
I closed my eyes, trying to blot the creature from my mind, but as I did so, I felt its breath upon my cheek, and its fingers touching my skin, clawing at my conscience. “I do know what the letter means,” I said at last, lifting my head as far as my neck would allow.
“Yes?”
“The denunciation is a slur against Enrico Bearpark.”
He grunted a laugh. “Of course it’s a slur! But what does it mean?”
I hesitated, taking a deep breath before I spoke. “The letter accuses Enrico of taking men as lovers. That’s why it says he was corrupt and meddling where he shouldn’t.”
The man folded his arms and regarded me a little skeptically. “Are you saying that Enrico Bearpark was a sodomite?”
I nodded in response. “I am,” I said, knowing that they could not burn a dead man on one of their abhorrent pyres.
“You are certain about this?” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, as another trickle of my spit fell to the floor. “I know it’s true.”
“Were you Enrico’s lover?”
“No,” I said calmly. “I was not.”
“So who was?”
“His name is Gianni and he works at the Arsenale.” I managed to raise my head again. “That’s why I was trying to find him.”
Ten times he circled me, slowly placing one foot before the other on the dirty terrazzo, crossing the many stains of blood that peppered the floor of this torture chamber. Then he stopped with a sigh. “Untie him,” he told the two guards. The men obeyed and released my throbbing wrists from the rope, causing me to fall forward in a mixture of relief and pain, unable to break my fall, as my arms were too numb and useless.
As I lay upon the floor, the man leaned over me to whisper into my ear. “My name is Ballio.” Then he kicked my stomach. “What is it?”
“Ballio.”
“When you find this Gianni, you tell me.” When my only response was a groan, he kicked me again. “Understand?”
“Yes,” I said weakly. “I understand.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
If my mother and Clemence had not been overjoyed at my marriage proposal to Mary, their consternation was nothing compared to the misery it induced in Mary’s younger sister, Rebecca.
I found the girl in the stables, crying into the mane of her handsome palfrey, though the horse remained unaffected by her anguish, and continued to chew at its hay with the rhythm of a swinging thurible. It confounds me why people seek solace in animals, for it seems to me that you might expect to receive as much sympathy from a velvet cushion or a length of polished wood.
“What’s the matter with you, Becky?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Ada, the lady’s maid, had provided me with a long and tortuous account of the girl’s woes.
Becky turned to look at me with a tear-soaked face. “I thought you were in love with me, Uncle Oswald.” The awkwardness of this title still jarred, but it was untimely to reprimand her. The truth was, I was lost for words.
She buried her head once again in the mane of the palfrey. “Because I love you,” she said. “More than any girl has ever loved a man. And now”—she drew back her face and pulled the horse’s hair from her mouth—“now I will never love another.”
I would tell you that I was flattered by this sudden outburst of devotion, but I knew Becky’s nature of old—dramatic and inconstant. She had once threatened to jump from the northwest tower, when her ancient, flea-bitten cat had finally died. This had turned out to be an affectation lasting only as long as it took me to find a new kitten in the barn, so I had every expectation that Becky’s supposed love for me would be equally short-lived. But, after the announcement of my engagement to Mary, Becky continued to cry for the best part of a week.
The next Sunday Mother took me to one side after mass in the family chapel. We walked back to the house, arm in arm, circling the great hall and then passing beneath the solar, as was our habit on a Sunday morning. Mary followed us, but she disliked talking to Mother, so she hung back and picked dandelion heads so that she could blow their seeds into the wind.
Mother looked back to ensure that Mary was out of earshot. “Are you sure you are marrying the right sister, Oswald? The younger girl seems very devoted to you.” She gestured up toward the window of the ladies’ bedchamber, where Becky’s despondent face was watching us from behind the glass. Becky had refused to attend mass. Mother squeezed my arm. “And I would say she is the prettier of the two sisters. She’s the one I would have chosen, in your place.”
I smiled and waved at Becky, which only induced the girl to withdraw into the room and release a great wail that could be heard from our position below. “I’m very fond of Becky, Mother. But it’s Mary whom I love.”
Once again, Mother turned her head to check Mary’s location. Thankfully Mary had peeled off from this dull promenade to visit her horses in the nearby stables. “But Mary is very masculine, don’t you think? Always riding that burly horse of hers about the forest. With her legs straddling the beast.” Then she whispered, “I cannot help but think this practice will cause you some disappointment on your wedding night.”
I tried to keep my voice equable. “How else is a woman supposed to ride a horse, Mother? Particularly when she is hunting with a hawk.” I quickened my step, in the hope of losing her. “Or perhaps you would prefer that Mary rode side-saddle and risked falling off?”
We reached the end of our promenade by the back porch, but Mother would not let go of my arm willingly. “But Oswald. You must listen to me. Are you prepared to keep a firm hand on such a headstrong creature as Mary de Caburn? Especially as she bears a residual grain of her father’s malignance. And we know what a murderous fiend he was.” I tried to break free. “Mary’s wildness concerns me, Oswald.”
I disentangled myself. “It’s her wildness that I love.”
Becky de Caburn was not to be my bride, but nevertheless, the girl managed to dominate my wedding day. The night before the ceremony was due to take place, she ran a
way from Somershill—though not without informing a selection of servants of her destination.
I wanted to find Becky that same night, knowing full well that Mary would not agree to continue with the ceremony the next morning if her sister was lost, so I pulled on my boots with some irritation and rode out to retrieve the errant girl. I might add that I was not in the least bit flattered by this supposed devotion. Becky wanted only me because Mary had me.
I soon found Becky at the house of Robert Wolfenden—the boy who had previously followed her about the estate with the faithful eyes and flopping tongue of a puppy. I interrupted something of a feast in the Wolfenden household, as it transpired that Becky had married Robert that very day. At first, the family were concerned that I would be angered by their union, but Robert’s father assured me that they were very much in love, and that his son would inherit both the Wolfenden family farm and another sixty-five acres from a childless uncle. I looked across the room at Becky’s crowing face, and knew that this marriage had been prompted by spite. She no more loved Robert Wolfenden than she claimed to love me.
When the moment was appropriate, I took the girl to one side. She clasped me desperately and then flung her arms about my neck. “I knew you’d come, Oswald,” she said in the breathy, exaggerated style that she had adopted of late, used exclusively for talking to men.
I gently freed myself from her. “Of course I’ve come. You ran away!”
She spoke with the coquettish gasps that might work their wonders on other men, but had no effect upon me, other than to cause irritation. “I knew that you’d come, if you thought that I’d married Robert.”
The girl had momentarily baffled me. “What are you talking about? You have married Robert Wolfenden.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “It can be undone. The marriage is not consummated, and it was just their village priest.” She grasped me once again about the waist. “We can still marry.”
How could she not understand the situation? “Listen to me, Becky. I’m marrying your sister. Tomorrow.” I looked into her eyes. They were glazed with the rosiness of wine and delusion. I needed to be firm and clear. “I don’t love you, Becky. I never will.” These words were harshly said, but with good reason. She needed to understand the truth.
Suddenly her eyes came into focus. “No! That’s not so.”
“It is, Becky.” I forced her to look into my face. “I will never marry you. Do you understand me?”
Her face dissolved into rage. She was as furious as a small child who’s been sent to bed early. “No! You’re lying. You do love me the best. It’s me you want to marry.” She started to beat her fists against my chest, and drew the attention of some of the wedding guests who were sitting on benches nearby. They seemed alarmed, but looked away when I stared back at them, for every person in this room was a tenant of mine.
I grasped her fists and looked into her eyes. “Listen to me Becky. I can take you home. I can have your marriage annulled. But I will never marry you myself.”
Her face reddened. “No! I’m not coming home.”
“Don’t stay with Robert to spite me, Becky. It will not work.”
She wriggled free of my grip and crumpled into a sob. Robert watched us nervously from the other side of the hall. He wore a concerned expression, as if he knew the nature of this conversation.
I put my hand upon her back, in an attempt to be sympathetic. “Come home with me, Becky. I will sort this out later.”
She shook her head, though I sensed a weakening in her resolve.
“Come on. Come to my wedding feast tomorrow. Be pleased for me. Be pleased for your sister.”
I should not have mentioned my own wedding. “No,” she said grimly. “I will never watch you marry Mary.”
This was becoming tiresome. “You needn’t come to the ceremony. You may stay in your bedchamber, if that pleases you,” I whispered hoarsely. “But you must come home with me tonight.”
Now she looked up at me. Her eyes were cold. The fury had dissipated and only a bold and calculated obstinacy remained. I might even say hatred. “No,” she said. “You and Mary will never see me again. That will serve you right.”
“It will not serve me right, Becky. You will only be harming yourself.”
Her eyes gave nothing away. “One day you’ll be sorry.”
How to convince such a stubborn creature that she was making a mistake? “No. I won’t. Now stop this nonsense and come back to Somershill.”
She growled at me. It was the low, feral snarl of the child she had once been—running about her father’s castle, dressed in his old leather tunic, and wielding a rusty sword. “Leave me here,” she said. “I’ll be Robert’s wife. See how you like that!”
I heaved a sigh. “Very well then. You have just married him, after all.” I waved at the fellow, who still watched us from the other corner of the hall. “I shall leave you to it.”
She took my hand gently. I thought she had seen sense, but I was completely mistaken—for her words bore the cruel hiss of a serpent. “I curse your marriage to Mary.”
I wanted to pull my hand away, but somehow it remained glued to her fingers. “I don’t believe in curses,” I said.
She smiled and dropped my hand. “You’ll see.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I was released from the doge’s palace to find that it was now Wednesday and nearly a day had passed since my arrest. As I hobbled across Venice, rubbing my shoulders at every third step in the hope that my arms still rested fully in their sockets, I could tell that my small spy was still following at a distance. When I went into Ca’ Bearpark via the street entrance, I raised one of my battered hands to wave ironically at the young boy, and to my surprise, he waved back, so at least we both acknowledged how this arrangement worked.
It was late morning, and the house was quiet, so thankfully my return went unnoticed by Giovanni, and I was able to reach my room without a barrage of questions. My neck ached and my arms felt numbed and bruised, and after my incarceration in the Pozzi, I smelled as if I had been swimming in the filth of the River Fleet, just downstream from the slaughter houses at Smithfield.
I was attempting to remove my clothes when Mother blew in with her dog in her arms. Her face was animated and pink. “Oswald! Thank goodness. It’s true. You’re still alive.” She dropped the dog and embraced me. “John was especially worried about you.”
“I wouldn’t want John to be upset,” I said, trying to untangle myself from her grip.
She drew back. “Where have you been?” And then she held her nose. “And what, in the name of the saints, is that smell?”
I held my arms in the air. “Just help me out of this tunic, please.”
“But Oswald—”
“Please, Mother. Just do as I ask.”
She carefully pulled the garment over my head and then helped me to draw my battered arms through the sleeves. “What happened, Oswald?” she said, as she looked at my blistered wrists and bruised arms.
“I was arrested.”
“Arrested?” Her face stiffened. “What for?”
“Loitering outside the Arsenale.”
“Did they do this to you in the doge’s palace?” I nodded. “Well, what a disgraceful way to treat an Englishman.” She tried to take my arm. “Come along. You must tell John about this outrage. He has many friends in the palace, you know. They must be informed of this—”
I slipped my arm carefully from hers. “No, Mother. Please. Just let the matter lie.”
“But Oswald. John is most anxious to speak with you.”
“I don’t care.”
She gave a short snort of dissatisfaction, but had the sense to back down from any farther argument. “Very well. We’ll speak later. Just stay here and rest.”
Rest? How was I supposed to rest? My whole body might have throbbed with pain, but I still had a murderer to find. I still had a debt to repay. “Would you give me some money please, Mother?” I said.
&nbs
p; “What for?”
“I just need it.”
I believe my approach was seen from the convent. In the pale light, I caught sight of figures at the windows, looking out across the silver waters of the lagoon and noting my progress. There were only a few boats out on the water that afternoon, as the leaden clouds of a storm were gathering overhead. The fishermen we had passed were rowing back toward the city and waiting for the rain to abate before they returned to the lagoon. My oarsman asked me to be quick when we reached the landing stage on the island, as he feared our return to Venice would be difficult if we delayed, but I had every intention of being brief. I needed only to speak with Marco and discover what he had truly meant by the words of his letter of denunciation. He would give me Gianni’s full name, and then he would tell me the genuine nature of this “dangerous” affair in which Enrico had involved himself. This time, I would not leave the convent until I was told the truth.
I thumped at the door and was admitted immediately by an old man with a curved spine and a barnacled face. He didn’t ask for my name, nor even appear surprised by my request to speak with the abbess. Instead he indicated that I should follow him through the convent, along corridors that were eerily silent—as if the whole place were deserted. It was so different from my last visit there, when children had run noisily about the courtyard.
The old man guided me along a portico, down three steps to a side door that appeared to lead into a storeroom, and I wondered if he had understood that I wanted to see the abbess. This was not the grand and opulently decorated door that I had expected to open into the private quarters of a mother superior. However, when he knocked at this simple, modest door, it was answered by the woman herself. She poked her head out to look me up and down, and then indicated that I may enter. The old man shuffled in after me and then slammed the door behind him.