‘Yes, the names. You need the names. The letters too.’
Sir Henry’s body shook. He clutched at his leg. His eyes stared wildly about him. His voice came in coughs and starts. ‘The letters, Adam, the letters.’
He pressed the wallet into William’s hand. ‘Stay at the House of the White Lion. Watkins. We are known there,’ he said.
‘Sir Henry, I don’t know what you want . . .’
The grabbing hand pulled William close. ‘For the Doge. The letters, for the Doge and none other. The names go with the sign of the Lion of St Mark. All turns on this. Promise me.’
‘I do.’
‘Swear it,’ Sir Henry pressed.
‘I do.’
William felt the breath shortening in Sir Henry’s body.
‘I have sinned,’ Sir Henry said.
A little whispered voice in dying echoes . . . ‘Bless me, Lord, I have sinned.’
And all was silence.
‘Oldcastle,’ whispered William. ‘Over here.’
‘God’s blood, William,’ said Oldcastle clutching his chest in fright at William’s voice from the darkness, ‘I nearly soiled myself. The horse is gone and leads our pursuers a merry chase. Where is Sir Henry?’
‘Gone too,’ said William.
‘Holy God,’ moaned Oldcastle. ‘We are undone.’
‘Enough of that, Oldcastle. We still live. Darkness comes. We must find safety.’
‘Darkness comes?’ Oldcastle nodded. ‘Yes, all’s darkness now. Cheerless, dark and deadly.’ He turned sad eyes on William and gestured: ‘Lead on. Let us see what safety may be left us.’
With what manners . . .
Ahead lay welcoming lights. The pair had made their way circuitously to the road and headed west in the gathering dark until they saw ahead a coaching inn. Three sides of building and a high stone wall sealed off a courtyard. The inn seemed more keep than lodging. No wonder, for it sat alone in a grey swathe of road.
‘Here’s refuge,’ said William.
‘Thank God,’ Oldcastle responded.
Oldcastle was a broken staff. William had hauled him much of the last mile.
‘Why do we wait?’ said Oldcastle. ‘Let us be in. Welcome, ale, food.’
William forgave the note of petulance in Oldcastle’s voice.
‘What if the men that attacked us have gone ahead to this place?’ he cautioned.
‘Vagabond kites?’ said Oldcastle. ‘Crows? They’re flown back to their nest. May they be buried in it.’
William did not think so. Carrion birds do not set traps or hunt the living and leave the dead. These were wolves. He hurried after Oldcastle, who had been given new spirit by the thought of wine nearby.
‘Wait a moment, Nick,’ William urged. ‘At least, let me go first and see how the land lies.’
Oldcastle grunted but made no further protest. He sat in the shadow of a tree and waved William on to approach the inn.
‘Open the gate there, ho!’ he cried.
William hammered at the door. After a moment a voice called out from above. He looked up. A cautious face peered over the wall of the inn’s yard. Again the voice addressed him, but in a language that William did not know.
‘A little help here,’ William tried again in timid Latin.
‘What’s your business?’ a voice called down.
William gave a little prayer of thanks that he was understood.
‘We have been attacked,’ he said. ‘On the road. All my company are dead save myself and one other. Help please.’
‘Get away,’ the voice said. ‘You think we’re fools to open our doors to you and your thieving friends.’
William’s mouth gaped. Of all the welcomes he had thought to receive, to be taken as a robber was not one.
‘I’m no thief,’ he said.
‘You’re no honest man either,’ answered the voice. ‘Look at your rags. Get away. We’ll not be fooled again.’ The voice above snorted. ‘Open the door and have your fellows set upon us.’
‘I am alone,’ protested William.
‘I catch you in your lies already, thief. You said you had a friend.’
It was William’s turn to snort. ‘I do. He’s injured and resting over there.’
William’s mind was turning. He had approached the inn fearing that the embassy’s attackers would be there already. That was no more his worry. Now he feared they would not be given the safety of the inn. How to reassure the gatekeeper he was an honest man? He began to fear that he and Oldcastle would have fitful sleep beneath the tree that night, if they were not attacked again.
‘I tell you we were set upon,’ said William. ‘My “rags” are clothes stained with the blood of friends.’
‘Away, thief. I’ll no more of you,’ the head said and ducked back into the darkness.
‘Go to,’ William muttered, then louder: ‘There’s coin here. My master is a noble man. Give succour and be rewarded.’
Another snort came from above but the face returned.
‘Please,’ said William at the sight. ‘I shall return with my master, you’ll see. A knight.’
‘Hah! Very well, bring your knight. I’ll wait,’ said the voice.
William cursed under his breath and turned away to the sound of mocking laughter.
‘Never,’ said Oldcastle.
‘We have no other choice, Nick,’ said William.
‘It’s madness. And capital offence if we’re discovered.’
‘It’s not just a cold night beneath the stars we face but those that hunt us. We must have safety. Safety lies at the inn. They will not let us enter if we seem not better than we are,’ William said. ‘In the morning we are gone and none are the wiser.’
‘Why must we pretend to be other than we are?’ asked Oldcastle. ‘Will they not let poor players in?’
‘They will not.’
‘There’s Christian charity for you,’ huffed Oldcastle.
‘There’s caution on a dark road in difficult times,’ replied William.
Oldcastle blew air between his lips. ‘Faugh! Say rather there’s no profit in the saving of players but much in the saving of a gentleman.’
‘True. And still,’ William said.
He waited. Distantly, within the wood behind, the faint howl of a wolf cut the silence of the night. Oldcastle’s head turned to the noise, then back to William.
‘They will never believe us,’ said Oldcastle.
William smiled. ‘What? Have you never played a knight before?’
‘Of course,’ Oldcastle said.
‘Was not believed by those who saw it?’ William asked.
Oldcastle’s chest swelled. ‘Was met with roars and the stamping of feet.’
‘Well then.’
Oldcastle rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘It seems I was right to bring disguise,’ he said.
With great dignity Oldcastle bowed to William and, taking the bundle of clothes snatched from the cart, strode behind the tree to don the mantle of a knight. William spoke to the gloom as Oldcastle dressed.
‘I’ll be your steward and you the knight,’ he said. ‘We’ve no money between us so our credit depends on your performance.’
‘Never doubt me, William.’
‘I do not,’ his friend replied.
‘What is our theme?’ asked Oldcastle.
‘We’ll play the parts we know, Sir Henry and his embassy,’ said William. ‘In that way we are like to find ourselves constant in the telling.’
Oldcastle emerged. He had shed the bloody doublet and donned a costume of rich red raiment. A feathered cap sat at a jaunty angle.
‘Will’t serve?’ he asked.
William turned towards the inn. ‘Let’s find out,’ he said.
‘What knight speaks so little Latin and so poorly?’ the voice demanded.
William sighed inwardly at Oldcastle’s lack of learning. There was at least easy explanation.
‘An English knight,’ he called up.
‘Who’s that below?’
A second voice, refined and clear where there first was coarse and suspicious, joined in.
‘I do not know, my lord,’ the first voice said, now obsequious. ‘They claim to be an English knight and his servant. Robbed by the road.’
‘Well, fellow, let them in,’ the second voice said.
‘I fear an ambush, my lord. There are bandits on these roads would try to trick us.’
William saw his chance.
‘Yes,’ he called up. ‘Bandits that have attacked our party. Look at us. Do we look as if we have the strength for robbery?’
A muttered conversation from above was followed by the sound of bolts being drawn. Light from the courtyard spilled out from the open gate through which walked William and his false knight.
Stands on a tickle point
In the courtyard stood four men. Though the three servants of the inn stood with swords in hand, the eye was drawn only to the fourth, whose splendour cast all others into shadow. As different in appearance from the others as the night the day.
‘I am Giovanni Prospero, Count of Genoa,’ the splendid man said.
‘Your servant, my lord,’ said William. ‘My master, Sir Henry Carr.’
William gestured at Oldcastle as he bowed.
‘I am his steward, Fallow,’ said William.
‘You’re hurt?’ the Count asked.
The voice mellifluous from thin, bloodless lips. The brow arched in polite enquiry above an eagle’s beak. A handsome face against whose sharp features William imagined many maidens’ ships had found a rocky end.
‘The blood is not ours, my lord,’ William replied. The proud manner of the man before him made William disdain himself. Next to such gathered majesty William felt every patch and thread in his muddied and bloody clothing.
‘What’s he say?’ Oldcastle enquired with a formal nod to the man.
‘He’s asking if we’re hurt, Sir Henry,’ said William.
‘Most gracious, most gracious,’ Oldcastle said.
Oldcastle did his best against the bruises of the day to bow. He embarked on conversation of his own. His Latin as beaten as himself.
‘You, sir, are a man of true nobility,’ said Oldcastle. ‘It has been a terrible day, an awful day.’
For a moment Oldcastle’s voice caught in his throat. He recovered.
‘Finally, we are returned to civilisation, to comfort,’ he said in English. ‘I am undone with tiredness.’
Oldcastle staggered. William did not think it all play-acting.
One of the landlord’s men sheathed his sword and made to help Oldcastle to a chair, then halted. He held himself a moment until a slight nod from the dark figure of the Count released him to assist. William and the servant steadied Oldcastle.
‘I do not speak English,’ the Count said.
The man’s tone made clear he did not consider the difficulties in communication were his failing.
‘My master, Sir Henry Carr,’ said William, ‘is expressing his gratitude to you and to the owner of the inn, my lord.’
‘Quite so,’ replied Prospero.
The party moved to the comfort of the inn. William sat down on a bench and was handed a glass of wine. His hand shook to take it. The tension of the day, held at bay by the demands of that awful afternoon and evening, were freed to flicker through him. He looked across at Oldcastle. He seemed shrunken.
In a high-backed chair beside the low fire sat Prospero. His legs, dressed in fine black cloth, stretched before him, crossed at the ankle. He reached out and received a glass of wine from the landlord without his eyes leaving William and Oldcastle.
‘So,’ said Prospero.
‘My lord?’ a tired William replied.
The man had a sharp and hungry look. William did not like it.
‘How came you to this perilous pass?’ asked Prospero.
William bristled. The question was understandable, expected. The offence lay, rather, in the manner of its asking. It spoke of amusement, not sympathy. William noted a small scar that ran across the socket of the man’s eye from cheek to brow. Its presence pulled the man’s eyebrow up, a further mockery.
‘Our party was on course for Venice,’ said William. ‘As we rode towards our planned night’s lodging we were set upon. Our party murdered.’
‘All dead?’ Prospero interrupted.
‘All.’
‘Save yourselves,’ said Prospero.
‘By God’s grace and only by a hair’s breadth,’ answered William. ‘And at great cost. They killed our company, children and all.’
‘Innocents ’scape not the thunderbolts of Heaven.’ Prospero smiled sadly to accompany his saying. The sorrow did not reach so high as his eyes. ‘Tell me what happened.’
William felt he began to understand the man. Dull is the life of those to whom all is given, for there is no exercise in it. Some address the boredom with adventures and high deeds. Others, and this surely was one, live in the lives of others. William had no desire to be entertainment for a bored lord or pass his losses before a stranger’s eyes to dazzle them. He told the tale of their assault in swift, short statements.
‘And so we find ourselves here, my lord,’ said William. ‘At the mercy of our host’s kindness.’
William had finished his tale.
‘Not at all,’ said Prospero with a wave of his hand. ‘I consider it my duty to offer you succour and our host his true recompense.’
Oldcastle, unable to follow the full flow of conversation, was turning his head from William to Prospero in a vain attempt to gather what was happening. He saw William’s surprise.
‘What’s happening now?’ he asked.
‘The Count has paid our lodging for the night,’ William said in English.
‘That’s uncommon kind of him,’ said Oldcastle.
‘It is, it is,’ acknowledged William.
Prospero smiled graciously as Oldcastle stood unsteadily and bowed to him before sitting heavily back down.
‘You will return now to England? Or on to Venice?’ asked the Count.
William realised he had no answer to this question. For some hours he had thought only of immediate horrors, not of the next day. He turned to Oldcastle.
‘He wants to know if we are returning to England now.’
‘I understood that much,’ said Oldcastle. ‘Well, not now. I must sleep first.’
‘No. Not now, Sir Henry,’ said William, wishing Oldcastle’s had his wits more about him. ‘In the morning. Where do we go?’
‘Well, England, of course,’ said Oldcastle.
William paused. He was aware of the scrutiny of the Count on him as he and Oldcastle deliberated. He wished they could have privacy.
‘I don’t think we can go to England straight,’ said William.
‘No, of course not. You’re right,’ Oldcastle said. ‘We must try to find poor John’s body and give him a Christian burial.’
William nodded. ‘Yes, but I think we must go also to Venice.’
‘What? Whatever for?’
‘You have something you must deliver,’ said William.
‘I do? No, I don’t,’ said Oldcastle.
‘Are you sure? Sir Henry?’
Oldcastle looked puzzled but William was thinking of the weight of Sir Henry’s packet of letters in his doublet. He had intended simply to dispose of them as he passed through the woods. That he had paused was not just in memory of the droll little knight but in fear of what would be asked of the survivors of the massacre. How had they alone survived when all the others were murdered? To whom would explanation have to be given? Who had set men upon them? William did not think they were the victims of ragged bandits, though the woods were full of such people. Poor thieves did not come armed with crossbows and fine swords. These were hunting dogs and William did not know who held the leash
. These fears made him think that the better part of valour lay in completion of the task given to him by Sir Henry. More than that, such a deed might, if not explanation make, then fair excuse when he and Oldcastle returned to England.
Oldcastle did not follow William’s thoughts but he caught on quick enough to the possibility that William understood something he did not. Prospero, whose eyes had not left Oldcastle, clearly waited an answer.
‘Ah yes. You are right, Fallow. We must to Venice.’ Oldcastle nodded at Prospero and then muttered, ‘When our wits are quite recollected.’
William translated. Prospero smiled, revealing sharp little canines set at an odd angle within his mouth.
‘What a fine pass of fortune,’ the Count declared. ‘Had you been for Verona or for England I should have been forced to leave you. But I travel to Venice myself. It would be an honour to accompany you.’
William moved to fend off Prospero’s goodwill.
‘Most kind, my lord, but beyond the call of courtesy,’ he said.
‘I did not ask you,’ the Count said. The eagle’s beak swung to William. ‘I asked your master. Do not interrupt me again but do your office and translate between your betters.’
William had thoughts on the subject of superiors. It was with an effort of will he pressed them from his mouth. To express the hot touch of choler would do him no good. As like light the gunpowder on which all sat; harm one, harm all.
‘Sir Henry,’ said William, ‘the Count offers to accompany us on our journey to Venice.’
‘Really? That’s very kind of him,’ Oldcastle said in English.
If only Oldcastle’s brain was not befuddled by the day. William rolled his eyes. Fortunately neither Prospero nor Oldcastle were looking at him. The former watching the latter and the latter’s eyes slumping to the table with tiredness. Prospero may not have understood Oldcastle’s words but he had no expectation but acquiescence to his suggestion and took Oldcastle as having offered it.
‘Very good. You and your party,’ he did not look at William when he said this, ‘are clearly not capable of completing the journey without assistance.’
Oldcastle spoke again, this time once more in his limp Latin. ‘My lord, forgive us. We are broken men and must to our beds.’
The Spy of Venice Page 19