The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  ‘I am informed that Elizabeth of England sends embassy to Venice,’ the Cardinal pronounced.

  ‘Informed?’ asked Prospero.

  ‘The source of my information need not concern you, my son. The report is soundly based, be certain of it,’ said the Cardinal. ‘An embassy to Venice to encourage their support of the Protestant powers.’

  ‘Hardly news,’ said Prospero. ‘The English have made that their message for a score of years or more.’

  ‘What changes is that now their words are turned to action. Rumour speaks of greater support for rebels against Philip of Spain in the Netherlands.’

  ‘Venice is far from the Netherlands,’ Prospero said.

  ‘Venetian coin travels far,’ said the Cardinal. ‘English merchants further still. The flow of one towards the other would greatly aid the English and discomfort Spain. Meanwhile, it makes corpulent Venice fatter still with foreign money. The English Ambassador brings with him subtle promises to the Signoria that will benefit them and much discomfort us.’

  ‘Us?’ asked the Count.

  The Cardinal waved his hand in irritation at the question. ‘Us. Rome. The Church. What does it matter to you? Your task is simple. That embassy must not succeed.’

  ‘Your Grace intends that I –’

  The Cardinal struck the table again. Despite his better will he was finding it hard to contain his anger. ‘You know full well what I intend, and that no hint of blame must come near our person.’

  Prospero picked up and chewed upon a slice of fig.

  The Cardinal looked on him with a vinegar aspect. Must he always make such a performance out of these matters, the Cardinal wondered. He supposed it was some choleric spirit within Prospero. The same spirit that gave him such imagination in the doing of dark deeds. Truly, there was none to match this Count of Genoa in mischief. Were it not so, the Cardinal would not deal with him. Not for the last time the Cardinal worried that the spoon he held was not long enough to dine with such a creature.

  ‘I shall send you Borachio,’ the Cardinal said, ‘to assist you in your labours.’

  ‘Your Grace is kind but, as you know, I prefer to work alone,’ said Prospero. ‘Besides, I query if Borachio has the delicate touch required for such tasks.’

  ‘It is not a request, Giovanni,’ said the Cardinal. ‘If it makes you easier to bear, pretend he is your servant.’

  Prospero bowed his head in submission to the Cardinal’s command.

  ‘I shall, of course, need funds,’ he said.

  ‘You always do,’ replied the Cardinal. ‘You will find credit awaiting you with my bankers in Venice. By the time you reach them I will have sent word about the English Ambassador’s departure and all I know of his train, his route.’

  Prospero smiled at the knowledge that the Cardinal, despite his condemnation of Venice, still banked with them. That he hated the Turk yet dressed in robes more opulent than the Sultan’s. That he spoke of the glory of Heaven but soiled himself with earthly matters. So much the better, thought Prospero. One always knew where one stood with a hypocrite. It is honest men whose actions defy prediction.

  ‘I am grateful. Death is always so –’ Prospero paused, searching for the right word.

  ‘Expensive?’ suggested the Cardinal.

  He looked with distaste on his assassin and thought with no little pleasure of the moment when he would tie off that particular knot.

  ‘I was going to say “costly”, ’ replied Prospero, ‘but Your Grace’s word hits something of the point.’

  He finished the last of his fig.

  ‘Your Grace made mention of two tasks?’

  The Cardinal shifted in his cushions. ‘Yes. This second is a matter more delicate still.’

  The Count of Genoa smiled again, for he knew what was coming.

  ‘Vittoria Accoramboni,’ said the Cardinal.

  There is the name I expected, thought Prospero. Vittoria Accoramboni, more beautiful than any Helen and cause of as much strife among men. Vittoria Accoramboni, once the wife to the Cardinal’s nephew, Francesco Perreti. Now widow of the same and married to his murderer. Though, if rumour were believed, the question lay open as to which had dealt the fatal blow, the wife or the now husband. Some even said it was her brother. Such a family, thought Prospero. He suspected they would make merry company at a feast, provided one remembered to eat only from the same dish as they did. As for the dead husband, the Count had met Perreti once. The Cardinal’s nephew was a man so dull Prospero had been tempted to kill him himself. Except that it was a fool that offended the Cardinal – and Prospero was no fool.

  The Cardinal continued speaking. His face, already so like the gruesome mask of Pulcinella in the commedia all’improvviso, was further twisted into that shape by hate.

  ‘She anticipates my elevation and has fled to Venice to seek the protection of the Signoria. She thinks that there my hand cannot reach her. You will prove her wrong in that belief.’

  ‘Your Grace need say no more,’ said Prospero.

  ‘You understand what I want?’ asked the Cardinal. ‘Her and that coward husband of hers, the Duke of Bracciano.’

  Prospero relished the venom with which the Cardinal pronounced the word husband. How stung he was. How his ridiculous forked beard danced about at talk of his nephew’s murderers. Did he even notice the spittle that glistened on the front of his robe?

  ‘To speak the deed to me, Your Grace, is to have it done.’

  ‘But quietly, mark you. Quietly.’

  Giovanni Prospero rose and brushed his clothing clean. In truth it remained as spotless as when he had donned it that morning. He pushed back his chair and approached the Cardinal. The black stones of the Cardinal’s eyes tracked him as he bent to kiss the fat ring on the Cardinal’s hand.

  ‘Am I ever otherwise, Your Grace?’

  Act Two

  London, April 1585

  Such welcome and unwelcome things at once

  The broken, mangled bodies were dragged from the pit. Two boys ran out with buckets of sawdust to cover the blood. Henry Carey, Baron Hunsdon, leaned forward in his seat to await the next part of the entertainment. On the verge of his sixtieth year, Hunsdon had a worn look. He played incessantly with the tankard in front of him.

  ‘Disaster. Already disaster.’

  Hunsdon’s companion, Sir Henry Carr, could barely hear the muttered words against the hubbub of the crowd. The two men sat in a private booth at the Paris Garden, the bear-baiting ring in Southwark just across the river from the City of London. Around the pit at the centre were rows of benches rising up on scaffolds at a steep rake to allow the battle in the ring to be seen. On one side, at the back, were stalls with cushioned seats and curtained privacy for those that could afford it.

  ‘The meeting of the Privy Council went badly?’

  Sir Henry’s shrewd, round face emerged from a doublet, oddly unkempt, for all it was made of fine cloth and expensive lace. Hunsdon flung up his hands in answer.

  ‘Fools and suitors. All must know there’s none to match the Spanish for war. Braggarts, who talk of glory and do not see that once Philip of Spain has crushed the Dutch rebels he will turn to England, surround Her Majesty. Worse yet, she listens to them.’

  ‘You know my thoughts, Hunsdon,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Venice.’

  ‘Venice. Always it is Venice with you, Henry,’ Hunsdon said. ‘You have your embassy, be content with that.’

  The crowd about them rose to a roar. Two fresh dogs were led, snapping and snarling, into the pit at the centre of the wooden O. The bear fixed to the post on the far wall shook its head, flicking sweat and blood from its ears. Its fur was matted here and there with crusting blood from wounds taken before it crushed the backs of the first pair of dogs set against it. It let out a low growl in counter to the dogs’ barking.

  ‘The embassy,’ said Sir Henry, ‘is bootless without matter for the bargaining with Venice.’

  ‘I tell you, Henry, I have wrung from Sir
Francis all that I can.’ Hunsdon turned to Sir Henry as he stabbed a finger into the wooden rail before him. ‘By the Lord, there is too much on foot and too little to spare for frolics.’

  ‘It is because there is so much on foot that we must persuade Walsingham for Venice,’ Sir Henry Carr replied.

  Below them the dogs were let slip from their leashes. They bounded forward. The bear rose on its hind legs and roared.

  ‘By God, Henry, I despair. I came to you for sound counsel and all you can do is prate at me of Venice.’

  Hunsdon swept his hand across the crowd. ‘Look at these baying fools, drinking and swiving and all uncaring that England is beset. I need your help, Henry, not your fancies. I need your counsel, talk to me of how I may put an end to this mad suggestion of an army to support the Dutch rebels, of how we may make peace with Spain before he turns his eyes on us. Do not distract me with some Italian folly.’

  ‘Hunsdon, put aside your doubts a moment and listen.’

  Below, the two dogs pulled, darted and bit and seemed to swarm the bear as if more than two animals beset it. The bear swung and twisted but could bring neither beast within its reach.

  ‘Venice is all, Hunsdon, all,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Forge an alliance with Venice, however secret, we gain gold that will pay for men, for ships and for the succour of the Protestant rebels in Holland. More than that, Philip’s eyes turn east. When Venice’s territories sit right beside his Duchy of Milan they must. How can he not fear that the Spanish road through which pass all his supplies from Spain, through Italy and on to his armies in the Low Countries will be cut?’

  One dog darted behind the bear to worry at its heel.

  ‘More than that, the Pope will be much distracted. Venice and the Pope are no friends, and Venice has shown its mettle against a pope’s will before,’ Sir Henry said. ‘With such an ally we may stand. Without them we will surely fall.’

  The two dogs twisted apart as the bear’s great paws swung and missed. The dogs turned back together as if the two bodies had but one mind. The bear roared as their teeth ripped into its hind legs. The crowd roared with it. The dogs darted back but not before one was raked across the flank by the bear’s claws.

  ‘I am too tired to debate with you, Henry,’ said Hunsdon. He slumped back against the bench and ploughed his hands through his hair.

  ‘I have the right of it,’ said Sir Henry.

  ‘I wish to God it were not so. I wish to God our choices were not so few and so poor.’

  ‘This costs you little, gains you much,’ Sir Henry pressed. ‘Trust me, Hunsdon. Trust me and lend your weight to mine in this.’

  Below them there came a lull in the fight as bear and tormenting dogs drew back and drew breath for the end. The crowd gave a low moan of delight at the gathering storm of the battle ahead.

  ‘The bargaining will be hard. Venice will know its price,’ Hunsdon said. ‘It will be easy enough to promise attacks on Spanish shipping at the Cape to drive trade back through Venice’s arms. Drake and Hawkins need more holding back than setting on. Will it be enough?’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Sir Henry leaned his head towards Hunsdon. ‘But there is another stake we might place on the table. Our knowledge of papal spies in Venice.’

  The crowd roared again as the dogs leaped as one to finish the bear.

  ‘Walsingham will not give that knowledge away,’ said Hunsdon.

  ‘He may if he is offered Venice’s knowledge of Jesuit spies in England in return,’ said Sir Henry.

  ‘Will he be?’ Hunsdon’s attention was now all on Sir Henry, the fight below forgotten.

  Sir Henry scented victory for he had saved the best for last. ‘Our gold for theirs. Or so my man in Venice promised me.’

  The bear twisted away from the first dog and swung at the second. The second dog was slower than before, its speed and strength seeping from the raking wound down its flank. Where before the bear had struck only air this time it connected. The crack of bones as the dog smashed into the wall of the pit could be heard even over the crowd’s halloo. The other dog backed away and the bear strained at the chain about its leg to reach it.

  ‘What else does your man tell you?’ Hunsdon asked.

  ‘Very little,’ Sir Henry replied. ‘A letter reaches me today to say he was found, drowned, at the beginning of March.’

  ‘The Pope?’

  ‘Or Philip of Spain or the Signoria of Venice itself. Or simply drink and a city built on water making for poor bedfellows.’ Sir Henry shrugged.

  Hunsdon leaned back against the wall of the booth. After a moment he looked down into his tankard and saw it empty in his hands. He put it to one side. ‘You’ll be looked for in Venice, for certain. The Pope will not sit idly by, not if he learns we may at a stroke unpick all the threads his Jesuits have woven in England. My God, Henry, there’s a prize.’

  ‘He’ll learn of my embassy, sure, but of my true intent?’ answered Sir Henry. ‘I am but a simple knight, my concern Venice’s pleasures.’

  ‘You’ll be watched. The Pope has spies enough to rival even Sir Francis. How will you be free to carry out your business in Venice?’

  ‘I will not be,’ said Sir Henry.

  ‘An agent, then?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You know the man?’ asked Hunsdon.

  ‘Not yet. Such a man would be a lodestone for our enemies’ intent. The sacrificial lamb must not have cunning enough to know he is to be sacrificed. Yet, if he is to do good service, he must have cunning enough to live some little time at least.’

  The surviving dog darted in again. It twisted past hammering paws to close its jaw about the bear’s leg but stayed too long in its triumph. The bear, no longer distracted by the other dog, dug its claws into the dog’s back and pinned it. Then it bared its teeth and bent to bite. The second dog’s lifeless body was thrown against the pit wall. Hunsdon had already risen.

  ‘You will not stay to see Sackerson fight?’ Sir Henry asked.

  Hunsdon shook his head. ‘I must speak with van Hegan tonight. The Queen will meet with the Dutch soon. I must smooth the way.’ He gathered up his cloak. ‘I will speak with Walsingham too.’

  He turned at the curtain to the booth in which he and Sir Henry had sat.

  ‘I promise nothing.’

  A long-tongued, babbling gossip? No, lords, no

  William’s heart still raced at how close they had come to disaster. Behind him Oldcastle stumbled.

  ‘May God strike me down,’ he groaned, ‘if ever I turn robber again.’

  ‘Never mind God,’ muttered William, ‘I shall do so myself.’

  The halloo of the Watch could still be heard outside as William pushed his way through the crowd at the Paris Garden, Hemminges and Oldcastle following close behind. Among the gathered multitude the three men disappeared as rain into a river.

  ‘They’ll not find us among these many. Take seats. I will get us wine,’ William ordered Hemminges and Oldcastle, then disappeared into the crowd. His return some minutes later with a jug of wine was greeted by Oldcastle as the return of the prodigal son. The crowd about William roared their excitement as the bear below threw the last dog against the wall of the bear pit.

  ‘He’s leaving.’

  ‘Who is?’ asked William as he pushed in beside Oldcastle and Hemminges on the crowded benches.

  ‘Lord Hunsdon,’ said Oldcastle.

  William peered across the wooden O of the bear pit. He had heard of Lord Hunsdon as a patron of players. He knew him also to be the Queen’s cousin. More than that, her half-brother, if rumour were believed, and when was it not? Was there a Boleyn girl that the old King had not lain with? Truly it was good to be the King and so little troubled by the vows of marriage. William’s thoughts strayed to Anne and from her to his children, Susanna and the twins, Hamnet and Judith. He missed them.

  ‘The wine, William?’ asked Oldcastle, his breath and his appetite regained with remarkable speed.

  William scarcely
heard him as he passed the jug. He had not reckoned his family would be so present in his thoughts since he came to London. A letter had come from Stratford that day, from his mother. In her terse prose it told him his family were well, thriving. He’d been oddly hurt by the news. How calmly they endured his absence. The same letter brought still less comforting word of the continued rage of Hunt. It was perhaps the distraction of the letter that had led to his agreement to Oldcastle’s ill-fated scheme. He tried to dismiss thoughts of Stratford from his mind.

  ‘If our plays ever need a bear,’ said Hemminges, ‘the part is yours, Will. You shake your head just as that weary beast below.’

  ‘Much to think on,’ said William.

  In the ring the bear, ragged, bloody and exhausted by its victory, was being hauled from its post. No lull was allowed in the entertainment. As the bear was dragged from the pit two men ran in with baskets of bread. They hurled the loaves into the audience, prompting a small riot of shoving and scrambling as the crowd sought a prize. William watched a fat woman stagger past him wrestling with a much thinner man over one of the loaves.

  ‘Why do we care about Lord Hunsdon coming or going?’ William asked, to turn the talk to other topics.

  ‘He’s a patron of players,’ Oldcastle declared, ‘and we are players sorely in need of a patron.’

  ‘There’s truth,’ said Hemminges. ‘We’ve no talent at robbery. That’s certain.’

  ‘We have ended the adventure poorer than we started,’ agreed William. ‘I am not an experienced thief but I am sure that is not part of the plan.’

  ‘There was a plan?’ asked Hemminges.

  Oldcastle looked hurt but said nothing. The scheme had been his, a prank on a pompous wool merchant who had offended him. The man was to be fooled into believing he was being robbed by Oldcastle and his companions.

  ‘To fright him from his hubris,’ Oldcastle had declared when he laid out the scheme.