The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  ‘God’s wounds. Will the trials of this day never end,’ moaned Oldcastle.

  The cart ground to a halt and Oldcastle poked his head out from beneath the sheet to gaze forlornly at the cause of the delay. Squinting and fanning himself vigorously with a hat, he subsided with a sigh as if expiring at the thought of more time spent in the sun.

  William and Hemminges took a seat in the long dry grass in the shadow of the cart to await the resolution of the conundrum of the broken cart.

  ‘Odd, isn’t it?’ said William.

  Hemminges looked at him. William pointed at the cart on the bridge. Hemminges followed the finger but could not see what had prompted William’s comment.

  ‘To use such a fine horse to pull a cart, I mean,’ said William. ‘Odd. Still, the people are strange in these parts. Look at that man; no wonder he’s angry with such a heavy cloak on such a hot day.’

  Hemminges looked again. Ahead, Sir Henry could be seen gesturing his steward forward with quick flicks of his hand to see what might be made of the obstruction. The heat was cruel to Sir Henry. He mopped at his balding pate with a cloth. Some moments passed to the sound of Oldcastle snuffling beneath his canopy and Hemminges grumpily snapping off long-stemmed grass and whipping away at a fly buzzing about him.

  Fallow, the steward, having apparently engaged in conversation with the owner of the broken cart to some effect, walked back towards the gathered members of Sir Henry’s retinue. He beckoned them onto the bridge. Foulkes, Joiner and the two brothers, Ned and Tom, detached themselves from the small group with no great enthusiasm. They slowly made their way to join Fallow. Reaching the cart, the four bent to assist in lifting the corner with a broken wheel so that the cart might trudge its way off the bridge and out of the path of other traffic.

  The owner of the broken cart could be seen mounting his horse as if to urge it to the hauling. As William watched the scene changed. The mounted man gave a shout and dug his heels into the horse. The beast sprang forward, slipping its traces, causing the cart to tip heavily forward. The four Englishmen holding onto the rear of the car were knocked backwards by the same motion.

  Hemminges sprang to his feet. ‘God above!’ he cried.

  Emerging from beneath the arch of the bridge near to their side of the bank came two figures carrying crossbows, faces wrapped in red cloth. As Hemminges spoke, they loosed. Coll toppled backward as if plucked at the collar by an unseen hand; a spray of blood twisted through the air. Nate, leaning next to him, gave a surprised yelp as a crossbow quarrel hammered into his chest.

  On the bridge two more masked figures emerged from under sacking on the back of the cart, jumped down and fell on the sprawled English. Long knives flashed in summer sunshine. Men trying desperately to rise to their knees were kicked down and stabbed in chest or back. Fallow, who had been guiding operations and was not knocked over by the cart, stood a moment in astonishment before he came to his senses. He began to stumble backwards across the bridge. He turned to run. William watched as the two masked figures on the bridge took crossbows from the back of the cart. One fired, the quarrel looping into Fallow’s back. The steward fell forward with a surprised O on his mouth. Sir Henry’s horse, startled by the shouts of terror from the men about him, had begun to prance and twist. The old man struggled to bring the frightened mare under control. The other’s quarrel, surely intended for the rider, found instead the flank of Sir Henry’s horse. The mare reared and tossed its rider to the ground before sprinting away in agonised terror.

  In a matter of moments more than half the English party were cut down. The four masked men drew swords and advanced on the remainder. Frightened men ran in several directions. A brave pair pulled weapons of their own and moved to protect the moaning figure of Sir Henry, who lay stunned by his fall. Watkins was one, Sir Henry’s squire Hal the other. Of the two only Hal had a sword. He drew it.

  The two men from the bridge were the first to reach them. Watkins braced himself. Yet for all his bravery and skill, he could offer only a knife against the extra reach of a sword. The masked man feinted an overhead cut and then flicked it calmly round the rising guard of the knife to catch the man in the armpit in a backhanded cut that lifted Watkins bodily from the ground.

  Hal hurled himself on the other man with a terrified shout. His thrust was knocked aside with the dagger held in the masked man’s left hand. The sword in the right hand was sent straight into the boy’s chest. Hal sank to his knees, impaled. The masked man stepped forward and kicked him off the point. The boy lay awkwardly, bent on his back with knees folded under him; his chest made a wet sound as he drew air in ever shallower breaths.

  ‘The cart. Get on the goddamned cart,’ Hemminges yelled.

  Hemminges’ hand yanked William away from his reverie at the bloody scene before him. Hemminges pushed him onto the back of the cart and across Oldcastle. The driver, Connor, was already trying to turn the little cart around. His whip was flying back and forth upon the horse’s back. Stung by its effects the horse was jerking forward trying to escape the harsh pull on its bit. Oldcastle had popped his head from his tent and was staring at the unfolding tragedy with his mouth sagging open. As William landed on him the air blew from Oldcastle’s lungs. Then his head rapped sharply against the cart as it surged suddenly forward, stunning him. Arthur was pressed into the back, screeching with fright.

  Hemminges was running down towards the river. William hauled himself up to the driver’s box. He stared back at the four masked men who were continuing their butchery with casual efficiency. Great wails could be heard coming from unseen victims as the four spread out in search of the other members of the English party. Into the gap Hemminges raced. William watched him reach Sir Henry. Hemminges bent and hauled him across his shoulder. He turned and began to run back to the cart.

  ‘Hold, Connor, hold. Hemminges is not with us,’ William shouted at the terrified man. Connor paid him no heed.

  William bounded from the back of the cart. ‘Hold the cart, Nick,’ he screamed at Oldcastle.

  He started to run towards Hemminges. Oldcastle, finally following events, levered himself up and began to wrestle with a wild-eyed Connor, while the horse bucked and twisted in its traces. The nearest of the masked men saw them. He began shouting in a strange dialect to his companions and gesturing with his sword at Hemminges.

  Hemminges was waving William back to the cart when the quarrel clipped him in the arm, spinning him to the ground. William slid in beside him and dragged him to his feet. The body of Sir Henry had crunched heavily to the ground as Hemminges fell. Now Sir Henry let out a piteous moan as William heaved him onto his own back. William and Hemminges, white in the face, staggered towards the cart. Oldcastle had a meaty hand on the collar of Connor, who was trying to free himself from the big man’s grip by flicking his whip blindly behind him. William flung the semi-conscious Sir Henry onto the back. Hemminges crawled in beside him. William vaulted into the driver’s box next to the carter.

  ‘Drive, man, drive,’ he cried.

  All were now of one mind. The former struggle between Oldcastle and Connor was forgotten. The horse was whipped to action and lurched to haul the cart forward. A quarrel slammed into the side wall of the cart, punching through to embed in the side of a chest of costumes. Connor, hunched as low as he could manage, urged the horse forward with desperate shrieks. William heard the whine of another quarrel skimming low above the cart as it began to gather speed. Hiding low on the cart, William risked a glance behind him.

  The horseman whose sudden shout had signalled the beginning of the attack was now swimming his horse back across the shallow river. His companions were cranking back their bows and gesturing at the escaping cart.

  A false quiet fell. The only sounds that broke the silence were the panting breaths of Hemminges and Connor’s sobbing voice whispering, ‘Oh Lord, Oh Mary,’ again and again.

  William turned his gaze back to the cart. Hemminges lay to one side. Cradled across his legs was Ar
thur. The boy’s eyes stared emptily at the sky. The fletches of a quarrel stuck from his neck.

  Goodnight sweet prince

  Connor urged the cart on with wild cries. It heaved over a stony hill and into the forested plain beyond. Connor’s whip flicked back and forth across the horse’s back like an adder’s tongue. The cart lurched wildly across the stone-strewn path.

  ‘For God’s sake be calm, be calm,’ called Hemminges.

  He laid Arthur’s dead body aside and hauled himself towards Connor.

  ‘You’ll snap the axle-tree, you fool,’ he cried.

  Connor ignored him. Hemminges tried to catch his whip arm as it danced about. Connor, fear-strengthened, flung his arm back and caught Hemminges across the mouth, knocking him into the well of the cart. The horse roared on, mouth foam-flecked.

  Proof of Hemminges’ prophecy came in that same instant. The cart began to slide, a wheel caught in a rut, there was a noise like Jove’s thunderbolt. With a terrible heave the cart spat forth its contents. William saw the sky flash blue above his tumbling head and cracked the ground, rolling into the grass. Again a silence fell, but only for a moment.

  ‘Up! Up!’ Hemminges was hauling Oldcastle to his feet.

  The great man stood pale and swaying. His eyes fixed on the lifeless form of Arthur. He sat heavily down again.

  William scrambled across the grass to where Sir Henry lay motionless. The man’s face was bloodied. He stared up at William and groaned.

  ‘His leg is broke. Maybe more,’ William called out.

  Tears of pain ran from the corner of Sir Henry’s eyes.

  ‘He lives,’ William muttered.

  He turned to see Hemminges staring behind them. At the crest of the hill a silhouetted horseman appeared. As William watched, the figure swirled a signalling sword in the air and set his horse to the canter. Connor wasted no time on his passengers. He drew a knife, cut the traces and vaulted onto the back of the dray horse. He urged the terrified beast away.

  ‘Stop him, Hemminges. He has the horse,’ William shouted and lurched to his feet.

  Hemminges did not move. The horseman closed on the cart. Hemminges stepped back to put the broken vehicle between him and the mounted man. The figure slowed as he approached. William could see little in the shadow between the brim of the hat and the red scarf wrapped about his face. To William’s surprise the horseman did not stop.

  Cantering past, he closed upon Connor ahead. The dray horse, tired from a hot day hauling the players’ cart and driven to distraction by fear and Connor’s whip, was easily overtaken. The sword flicked out. It was in the casualness of the slaughter that the horror lay. As Connor slid from the dray horse’s back the swordsman swung his own horse round. He began to trot back towards the players.

  Hemminges pushed Oldcastle. ‘Get away, Nick.’

  The fat man was too stunned to move. He sat heavily upon the ground.

  ‘William, help him. Hurry, lad. Hurry . . .’ Hemminges’ voice was high-pitched.

  William reached under Oldcastle’s arms and tried to pull him to his feet. As well try to move a millstone. Hemminges kicked. Oldcastle screeched.

  ‘Up and live, quickly, you fat fool,’ cried Hemminges.

  It was too late. The swordsman was near. He urged his horse to the canter. The sword was held, pointed in front of the animal’s head, and William saw in it the death of all. He thought he heard a whispered word from Hemminges.

  ‘Hopeless.’

  Hemminges looked to William and Oldcastle and back to the horseman. Then the passage of time halted. What followed William saw as if in a series of embroidered moments: Hemminges standing breast bared as his murderer bore down upon him. Hemminges dart, swifter than a swallow, across the horse’s path to catch the man’s leg as he passed. The killer’s sword-hand seeking to follow but, the horse’s neck obstructing, rise and fall. It turning as it moved so that not the blade but the basket hilt cracked Hemminges’ head. Hemminges’ hands, tighter than iron on the man’s leg, drag both to the ground as the horse rode heedless on. The swirl of cloak and sword as the two tumbled on the ground. The rise and fall of the heavy sword hilt as it hammered. Hemminges on his back and his murderer rearing up above him. The great groan from Hemminges and then the lion’s roar from Oldcastle.

  The anguish in Oldcastle’s voice was outmatched by the fury. Oldcastle, with a broken spar of axle, loomed up behind the cloaked figure and struck. The masked man’s skull turned to bloody, broken shards. Only William’s restraining hand ended the assault. Whereupon Oldcastle ran to Hemminges. He knelt slowly by his friend and wept.

  A curtain of blood had fallen across Hemminges face. He made no movement. Oldcastle stroked his friend’s face.

  ‘Oh, stay a while. Stay a while,’ he whispered.

  William could barely hear Oldcastle’s voice.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Oldcastle cried out. ‘I might have saved him. Now he’s gone forever.’

  His howl was terrible to hear. He hugged Hemminges to him. Hemminges’ body lolled in Oldcastle’s arms. William did not know where to look. Oldcastle howled again. He drew breath. He looked up at William.

  ‘He’s yet alive,’ he said. ‘Quick, get me a glass from the baggage.’

  ‘Nick, Nick, we must be away,’ said William. ‘The others will be upon us.’

  Oldcastle snatched dry grass and held it in front of Hemminges’ mouth.

  ‘Look, look. His breath lifts the grass. He lives. He lives.’

  William pulled gently at Oldcastle’s shoulder but the anguished man threw him off.

  ‘He said something before – before the villain was on him,’ said Oldcastle. ‘What was it? Did you hear it?’

  William was no longer sure what he had heard in Hemminges’ whisper. He knew only that he could bear to look upon the tragic scene no more.

  He stumbled over to the figure of Sir Henry. The old man was groaning through clenched teeth. The dray horse, terror abating, had ambled back to the cart. William looked up to the crest of the hill. No one could be seen there yet but it could be only moments more before the other men, their bloody business finished, arrived. William hauled the little knight to his shoulder and staggered over to the dray horse. He shoved the old man over the horse’s back to the tune of groans. He grabbed the severed reins to drag the horse’s head round. On the crest of the hill figures appeared.

  ‘Nick, we must go,’ William said.

  ‘No. No. There’s breath yet in him.’

  ‘Oldcastle, he’s gone.’

  ‘Please,’ said Oldcastle.

  ‘Nick, we’ll all be dead unless we go,’ said William. ‘Now.’

  William’s stern command seemed to bring Oldcastle to his feet. He cast a final look at his friend and strode to the cart. Snatching from it two tied bags he joined William.

  ‘Disguise.’ He nodded at the bags.

  Oldcastle and William moved off into the wood dragging the reluctant horse and its moaning load with them. Behind they left a scene to delight any butcher, bright red on green.

  The first of the flies beginning to descend.

  Upon the pikes o’ the hunters

  ‘We’re hunted, Nick,’ said William. ‘We must lose the horse.’

  ‘We cannot carry him,’ Oldcastle said and gestured at the stricken knight.

  ‘I know it. I know it. Trust me,’ said William.

  Oldcastle’s face was streaked with grime and blood cut by tracks of tears but his voice was calm. Here was a man who had put his grief in a box. There it might stay, safely locked, until some more prosperous time allowed it to be taken out and treasured. William, too, felt cold and numb, a stony image of his morning’s self. His only thought was safety.

  ‘They will track us by the horse,’ explained William. ‘So, we take Sir Henry off and secrete him nearby while the horse is sent to lead them astray. Then we make our way to refuge and to succour.’

  Oldcastle shrugged, past caring. William set to pulling Sir Henry
from the horse. Oldcastle dragged the horse off to set the trail.

  William lifted the little knight and carried him away, deeper into the wood. When they had gone fifty yards William laid him on the ground and dragged him into the cover of a thick bush. He turned to drag brush over the gaps.

  Sir Henry’s eyes flickered open.

  ‘Watkins?’ he said into the darkness beneath the bush’s canopy.

  ‘No, Sir Henry. William.’

  ‘Shakespeare?’

  William could hardly hear the hollow voice.

  ‘The same, Sir Henry,’ he said.

  William heard laughter crackle in the knight’s chest.

  ‘The sacrificial lamb is become the shepherd,’ Sir Henry said.

  William stared at the knight. In the shadows of the bush Sir Henry’s face could barely be made out.

  ‘We are both sheep now, Sir Henry,’ William said, ‘and fly from hunger-starved wolves.’

  ‘Not me, Master Shakespeare. My running is done.’

  Sir Henry’s hands fluttered over his leg. A great sob of pain wracked him. ‘You must run for me.’

  ‘Hush, Sir Henry,’ said William. ‘We’ll not leave you but we cannot carry you. You must stay hidden here till aid can be found and brought.’

  ‘You’ll not leave me but I will leave you,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I feel myself going.’

  The knight grabbed William with an urgent hand. ‘Listen. All is changed but you must do this.’

  He scrabbled about within his coat and pulled from it a package wrapped in a leather wallet. ‘These are for Venice from England,’ he said. ‘See that they reach him.’

  ‘Sir Henry, there’s time enow.’

  ‘There’s never time. Do this. Do this. Venice must agree, our names for theirs.’ Sir Henry’s voice was urgent.

  ‘Names, Sir Henry?’