by Frank Payton
I said nothing, but suspected that Father Pietro had gone to the prisoner. Jack led the way, and we descended dark stone steps into the undercroft of the house. There were numerous storerooms leading off a central passage. Light was provided by oil lamps set in niches in the walls. The air was fresh, but damp and cold. As I had thought, Father Pietro was there before us, seated comfortably on a wooden stool outside one of the doors. Two lanthorns burned brightly where they stood on the stone floor.
Father Pietro rose to his feet. “Good morning to you, Sir John, and to you also, Messer Onsloe.” He handed me a key and pointed to the door.
I thrust the key into its hole and turned the lock. There was a cry from the inside as we entered, and a dishevelled figure backed to the far wall away from the light of our lanthorns. Clad only in braies and a torn shirt, the prisoner was a sorry figure. He was a youngish man, longhaired, and with a beard several weeks old. His eyes stared wildly, and he trembled constantly.
“He is a sorry sight, Father,” I said. “Has he been badly treated already?”
“He was beaten by the Count’s servants when he was first brought here, and Gaetano locked him in this dark hole with no food and little water for a week. I prevailed upon him to feed the man when I came here. Let me speak to him. I know his name is Alessandro.”
Jack and I stood back as the priest went to the man. They spoke together in rapid Italian, from which I learnt little, its quickness and subtleties being too much for my knowledge of the language at that time.
“Alessandro tells me that he was recruited in a tavern by one he did not know. He was given several pieces of armour and a helmet, also a sword. On the day of the abduction, he was lent the use of a horse. He is a seaman from the ships which carry cargo between Genoa and foreign parts.”
“What was he told?” I asked.
“Very little it seems, except that a gentleman of blood wished to rescue his daughter from the clutches of a nobleman who had carried her away in order to force himself upon her.” He gave a wry smile. “The very reverse of the truth, it would appear.”
“What can he tell us of the man who approached him, and how much was he paid?”
There was another exchange of Italian, and Father Pietro continued.
“It is difficult. The man was heavily cloaked and sat in the tavern with his face in the shadow of a deep hood. As for pay, he was given five silver florins to begin with, plus the promise of a further fifteen. He is a poor man, and could not refuse such a sum.”
This would not do. I could see Jack was impatient to vent his anger against the wretch. He drew a ballock knife from his belt and tapped the blade upon his left thumb. The prisoner’s eyes bulged with fear.
“Does he know how the hooded man arrived at and left the tavern? Was he on foot or a-horseback? Does he remember anything of that?”
Father Pietro translated the answers to these questions. “He had a horse, which was dark brown with a white blaze down the nose.”
“Anything else? Does he recall anything else about the horse, Father?” My heart had begun to pound within my breast.
Again the question, again the reply.
“Most of the left ear was shorn away,” Said Father Pietro.
Startled, I looked at Jack. “Orlando Scacci!”
He nodded his head slowly. “I recall his horse from our first time here. You suspected him from the beginning; it seems that you were right. How do we get at him? Where can he be found?”
I turned to the priest. “Well, Father. Can you help me here? Can we together find Scacci? I would speak to…the source about whom you told me yesterday.”
He looked me squarely in the face. “And if I do, what about Alessandro here? Will you still punish him, a poor man, who thought he was only doing right by helping a daughter be reunited with her father?”
“I will keep him here, but in a better place, and with more food, drink and comforts. If all is well, and my Lady is saved, then I will free him and give him a rich reward. But he had better die now than later, if he has told me lies."
I was as blunt as I dared, as things stood.
Father Pietro nodded and touched the plain wooden cross which hung from a leather thong about his neck, as if he would draw some guidance from the holy object.
“So be it. I agree, but if you come with me, you must trust me without question. We shall go amongst the lowest of the low in Genoa, where thieves and murderers abound, and a man’s life may hang upon a glance.”
“I understand. I have been in dangerous places ere now. You’ll have to find me suitable clothes, Father.”
The priest laughed. “It seems you do know the sort of place I have in mind. Very well, I accept your judgement. Alessandro must be told before we leave.”
He spoke again to the ragged seaman, who cowered against the wall. The sailor’s face brightened and then took on an aspect of wonderment. I knew that must have been at the promise of the rich reward I had made. He went down on his knees in front of me spluttering out a torrent of thanks. He would have kissed the tips of my boots, but I drew back.
Jack slammed his knife back into its sheath, and snarling “Carrion!” sent the wretch sprawling with a vicious kick before stalking from the chamber.
Father Pietro’s eyes met mine. “You have a cruel and hard lieutenant, Sir John.”
“He has had a hard life which has treated him cruelly, Sir Priest. If you knew his tale you might think otherwise of him. Now, let us get to our own affairs without further delay.”
I locked Alessandro in his underground cell, and with Father Pietro went in search of Gaetano.
*****
The fat steward was seated in his chamber of business, listening to one of the servants read out details of the last grape harvest and the wine produced since the autumn. He silenced and dismissed the man, and, lumbering to his feet, bowed low to us both as we approached.
“Good morning, Signores. Have you spoken to the prisoner?”
“We have, Gaetano, and I wish you to move him now to a secure chamber on this the ground floor. It must be a very strong place, as he must not escape. If all goes well I will free him myself. In the meantime he is to be given better food and drink, plus clean water. Find him some work which he can perform in his cell. I will go to see the Count directly. Have you visited him this morning?”
Yes, indeed, Signore. He seems unchanged, but your healer may tell you more than I.”
I left him then, and together with Father Pietro went up to Ludovico’s chamber, which looked out to the east and was flooded with light. Hal Peasgood was busy at a small side table covered with fragrant bunches of dried herbs, and jars of God knows what. He was pounding some mixture in a mortar, and its bitter, aromatic odour assailed our nostrils.
“How is the Count in health this morning, Hal? Has he slept easily?”
“I will answer that myself, Giovanni.”
I turned towards the bed to see Ludovico struggling to sit up. Hal rushed to help him; and, once laid back on the pillows, the wounded Count gave us a weak smile. “I am still very tired, but I have slept well for the first time since that dreadful day. Your Hal has achieved that, at least. It is good to see the sun, and in this chamber I can look out over part of the estate. Tell me now what you have discovered.”
Thus I sat and recounted what Alessandro, the prisoner had told us. I also spoke of my early suspicion of Orlando Scacci. In addition to all this, I asked Ludovico if he recalled the name of the irate merchant who had been ordered to leave the Council Chamber by the Doge. He shook his head after a moment.
“I cannot remember, my friend. My mind and memory are not yet clear, and I find it impossible even to say what happened when we were attacked and Proserpina was taken away. Perhaps later, when the medicines have had more time to do their work, I shall remember.”
“Then we must leave the matter be for the present. I am going now with Father Pietro, to see a likely source of information. Until I return, Messer Onslo
e will be in command of my men here. Ask of him what you will; he will help you. He is loyal to me. For the present then I must bid you farewell.” I laid my hand briefly upon his shoulder, then turned and left. He gave a wan smile, and closed his eyes once more.
*****
Father Pietro led me into a warren of mean streets in Genoa, where it seemed just as possible to get a knife between the shoulder blades as a ‘Good morning’ greeting. I was dressed as poorly as we could contrive, and I slouched along beside the good priest in manner suited to the rest of the population of the area.
It was a far cry from the stately palazzi and elegant squares through which I had ridden on my excursions with Proserpina, so long ago, it felt as if it had been a dream.
I had taken care to wear a mail shirt under my other clothes, and an iron skullcap was concealed by my hood. My sword I had had to leave, but I carried in its stead, under my cloak, as long a dagger as I could find amongst the men who had accompanied me on the venture.
“This not a good place to be, my friend,” said my guide. “Even though I am a man of the Church, I carry a stout stick as some form of defence. Many of these are just poor people, not thieves or murderers, although it is difficult to say which are which on occasion. We turn in here.”
‘Here’ was a low sort of tavern frequented by the lower orders of Genoese people, the kind of place I had not entered for many a year. Villainous faces were on all sides, or so it seemed. Slatternly serving women moved between the rough tables, bearing jugs of wine and bowls of stew and other food, which I had to admit smelled reasonably appetising. We found a clear space at the end of one of the tables and seated ourselves.
“God save you, Father, and help your good works amongst us poor sinners,” a fawning voice spoke at our side. Its owner bowed and scraped before us, but I noticed his sharp eyes slide over me like a snake over a stone.
“May I send some wine to you and your friend, Father? You know it will be of the best.”
“Indeed you may, Benito. The best is your trade, is it not? Is the wine honestly bought, though? That is a another matter, I think.”
Benito’s thin lips twisted in what might well have been either a smile or a grimace.
“We poor sinners must make shift to look after ourselves as best we can, Father. I will send the wine.”
He slipped away between the tables, and I felt the air, foul as was, a little cleaner for his going.
The wine, when it came, was good; indeed it was better than much that I had tasted since arriving in Italy. I remarked on this to Father Pietro.
He sighed. “Yes, I know. Stolen of course, and probably lives lost in the taking. But that is the way of things at this level of society.”
“Bless me, Father,” the serving maid had said when she brought the wine and a dish of sweetmeats. Her grimy face, rat-tailed hair and filthy garments repelled me, but her voice had been soft and low, and I wondered at this but said naught. I had begun to grasp that much at this tavern was not as it appeared at first sight. The maid had knelt to receive the blessing, and despite her lowered gaze I felt her questing, appraising glance when she rose to her feet and gave us an innocent smile. She moved off to clear away cups and dishes from a nearby table, and as she disappeared behind a screen she looked back directly at me.
“Well Father, where, pray, is your informant?”
He smiled. “You have just met him, and shortly will do so again. Be patient. You must be patient. These matters take time, and money.”
“I see. I fear I have little enough of the one, but am well provided with the other. As the matter now lies in your hands, I must be guided by you.”
Some little time passed, during which I chafed and fretted. We sipped our wine. The affairs of the tavern went on about us, but I noticed that the fawning man did not reappear, neither did the maid. Eventually, my patience gave out.
“Enough of this waiting. This man, whoever he is, plays with me, and that I will not endure. I will bring men and tear this hovel to shreds, and teach this informant a lesson in manners. I will not be trifled with in this way.” I stood up and turned for the door.
“If you go now, you will lose all. Now sit, for here comes a messenger, if I mistake me not.” Father Pietro pulled at my sleeve and so, raging inwardly, I seated myself once more. In later years I became used to the slowness with which the Italians dealt with matters, even those of importance, but at first it caused me much frustration.
A boy was moving towards us between the crowded tables. He was small and dark, and to my great wonder in that place, clean of face and neatly dressed.
He passed us by and in passing said, “My name is Carlo. Please come with me.”
We both finished our wine and started after him. Across the main room of the tavern we followed him. Then on to a door set in the far wall, which the boy unlocked, then relocked after we had passed through. Before us was a narrow passage, poorly lit by slits in the outer wall. Carlo hurried on ahead, and turning a corner we found ourselves at yet another door. A knock, and the door was opened from within. I grasped the hilt of my dagger as we stepped inside, and the door closed silently behind us.
“Welcome, Father Pietro. You, Signore Giovanni Haucuud, are especially welcome.”
Before us, seated behind a long table littered with books of account and documents, was a man richly dressed in clothes of gold-stitched velvet. I was startled to find myself looking at the fawning tavern host who had greeted us in a most servile manner on our first arrival.
“You are surprised to see me in another guise, Signore. Behind you is your serving maid.” He laughed at my confusion as I whirled about. Sitting demurely in a sunlit corner was a young lady, or so she seemed by her rich attire and jewels. She inclined her head graciously towards me, then carried on with her work upon a piece of embroidery with lowered eyes.
“My daughter, Caecilia, Signore, who is the light of my poor life. Please seat yourselves. Will you take some more wine, Father?”
I shook my head, as did the priest. I had need of a clear head and sharp wits. “I would fain know your name,” I said, “so that I might commit it to memory for the future.”
“Many wish to know my name, Signore, some for ill purpose. I must therefore decline to accede to your request, but if in Genoa you ask the right people for the ‘Innkeeper’, they will know who you mean. But now to your business, Signore Haucuud. The good Father here has spoken to me of your concern for the Lady Proserpina di Lucanti, stolen away by…but who knows who?”
“I am more than merely concerned,” I said. “She is my love, my betrothed, and I would wrest her from whoever it may be who has taken her, and see them brought to punishment.”
My nameless host sipped his wine. “I have asked some questions already, of those who might have heard something of the affair, but as yet I have received no replies. If is often difficult and costly to gain access to such information.”
I took his meaning. “You must know that cost to me is of no consequence, but I will not be cozened. I have behind me a veritable army, which I would bring to bear if I felt that any advantage was taken of my good nature.”
I took a leather bag from the wallet at my belt, and slid it across the table. The ‘Innkeeper’ picked it up and hefted it in his hand. His eyes met mine.
“This is a large sum, Signore. I have no cause to insult you by examining the contents of the purse. You may rely on my intense interest in this affair.” He placed the bag carefully on one side. “I shall send a messenger to you at the Palazzo Lucanti as soon as I am able, with whatever I have been able to discover.”
We took our leave then, and the boy Carlo took us through a maze of passages and rooms and showed us out into a street which was not the one from which we had first entered the tavern. Thence we made our way back to the Lucanti residence, where Huw awaited us with the horses.
“I note you did not say that you were not at the Palazzo,” said my priestly companion, as we set off for the count
ryside.
I laughed. “It would not have been wise. The ‘Innkeeper’ is not the only one who can be secretive.”
*****
Upon our return to the estate, I had all the four servants who had survived the abduction attack brought before myself and Father Pietro. They were stalwart young men, dressed alike in the di Lucanti livery of gold and green.
“What can you tell me of the attack?” I began.
They looked at each other, and at the floor. They shuffled their feet and one coughed nervously.
“Well?” I asked.
“We are sorry we could not save your Lady, Signore Haccuud. Wooden staves are of little use against swords and men clad in armour.”
“I do not blame you. It was not your fault, and I am told that you all fought bravely. One of your number was slain, another wounded. It is in my mind to give you all a reward, but first I must ask you some questions.”
“Anything, Signore, ask us what you will,” they chorused, doubtless with an eye to having my florins in their purses.
There was a great difference of opinion as to the number of attackers. There were six, or eight, perhaps, or even a dozen, or more. The men all rode black horses, no, there were three brown ones, and a grey. There was certainly no dappled one. As for the weapons, well, they all had swords, but no, perhaps there were two each armed with a mace. All this was delivered in a babble of Italian, some of which I understood, but most of which Father Pietro had to translate for me. Finally, I held up my hand for silence. Peace reigned at last.
“Think now, what colour horse did the leader have? Only one of you answer.”
“A brown one, Signore, with a white blaze upon its nose. Oh, and only one ear. Its rider was the one who fought with our master, the Count. He wounded him with a thrust of his sword that caused our master to fall off his horse. The same man also snatched the reins of Lady Proserpina’s mount and dragged her away.”
“In which direction? This is important.”