The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  ‘Do not overstep yourself to call me “child”, ’ Vittoria said.

  She took a long breath to calm herself.

  ‘I know you speak only from care for me,’ she said. ‘I am sensible of it. But I will not quake at rumours. Bring me something to prove your fears more than imagination.’

  Isabella did not trust herself to speak. She rose and bowed and left.

  After Isabella had departed Vittoria rang a small bell by her hand.

  ‘Send for Antonio,’ she told the servant who attended her call.

  While she waited for Antonio, captain of her guard, to come, Vittoria thought on Isabella Lisarro. Still beautiful even at thirty. She must have been something remarkable at twenty. Fierce too; though she was but little. Of undoubted cleverness, to have forged her own honours in this world. Vittoria wondered if others would say the same of her when she was Isabella’s age. If her own efforts could make it so, they would. Indeed, in titles and wealth she had already surpassed the courtesan tenfold. Some greater respect was due. How dare Isabella Lisarro call her child? Vittoria felt the sudden flare of anger and fought for calm. How easily I am transported, she thought. What of it, if I am? I act where others cower.

  The door opened to reveal a tall man, stiff, straight and grey as a gun. He bowed.

  ‘My lady?’ Antonio said.

  ‘I have again received warning of a plot,’ Vittoria said.

  ‘The same source?’ the captain asked.

  ‘The same,’ Vittoria said.

  ‘With what new information?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘My lady, should we tell your husband of this?’

  ‘No. He will only fret. I shall deal with this myself,’ Vittoria answered.

  ‘My lady –’ the captain began, but she cut him off.

  ‘No. When he returns from our estates in Salo then we shall tell him, and tell him too that the danger, such as it may be, I have dealt with.’

  The captain turned to the window and gazed at the commerce on the canal below.

  ‘My lady, I beg you to reconsider,’ he said quietly. ‘The courtesan’s warning may be well given.’

  The Duchess waved his concern away with her fan.

  ‘Trust me, Antonio,’ she said. ‘That warning is bred of something other than reason. I know love turned to hate too well to miss its signs in others. Besides, we have the letter from Prospero, Count of Genoa.’

  ‘True.’ The captain kept his unhappy look.

  ‘We have discussed this before,’ Vittoria said, rose spots of gathering anger blossoming on her cheek at the thought that the captain of her own guard still questioned her judgment. ‘What assassin writes to warn his victim?’

  Antonio raised his hands to show them empty of weapons, as he would to reassure a wary man he was no enemy.

  ‘It is strange, past question,’ he answered. ‘That only increases my mistrust of it.’

  Vittoria drew Prospero’s letter from her dress. She cast her eye across it again. It warned of imminent danger and promised information about an embassy from England, false and mortal in intent to her. Prospero, the Count of Genoa, asked that he give the warning in person for he dare not trust his news in full to paper.

  Vittoria’s heart raced. She dismissed her captain’s caution. Vittoria felt the sweet drug of danger flood her. Here would be some entertainment just as Venice began to pall. What is life without risk? She longed to see Giovanni Prospero and Isabella Lisarro together. If talk of him alone would make Isabella hot, a meeting would surely blow the coals to leaping flame. What of Prospero himself? How would he view his former lover?

  Yet to be bold is not to be foolhardy, Vittoria thought. So many warnings of impending doom. They must be sounded out, precautions taken. The invitations to the feast in three days’ time were already sent. Such guests there would be. Such a banquet, with so many things to taste. She turned to the captain.

  ‘Here is my plan, Antonio,’ Vittoria said.

  With surety stronger than Achilles’ arm

  The light of dawn through the shuttered windows had drawn William forth like a moth. When it had first become clear that he would visit Venice, he had sought to find out more of the city from such report as had come to England. Now he was eager to satisfy his eyes with sight of the memorials and the things of fame that hitherto he had only read about. He had not made the door before Salarino was on him, hands wringing with anxiety.

  ‘My lord,’ said Salarino, ‘you cannot walk abroad in such a state, no, no. Heaven spare us, your dignity and the dignity of this house will be offended.’

  ‘Alas, I have no other garments,’ William said, ‘and my master and I, having been robbed, are out of funds.’

  News of a robbery set Salarino into such a caterwauling in Venetian that William became quite concerned for the man and the rousing of the other residents of the osteria. When finally order was restored, Salarino, face wet with tears for the misfortune of his guests, clapped his soft little hands together with surprising loudness. A scurrying maidservant rushed to call a gondola to the canal entrance of the house. William was then brought out into the sun. He was guided to a seat in the waiting boat. Salarino addressed him from the jetty.

  ‘Now, please, my lord, I shall join you and direct you at once to your bankers. Oh devastation that you should have been so set upon. I curse them, yes, yes, curse them from the heights of my propriety to the depths of their iniquity.’

  He smoothed the wildly wafting locks of hair upon his head and, calmed, stepped aboard. He gave directions to the gondolier.

  ‘When you are in funds again, my lord,’ Salarino said, ‘please, please, to go with me to the tailor and obtain fresh garments for you and your master. We have, you know, the finest cloth in Europe here in Venice. Why do you laugh?’

  Salarino’s anxious face stilled William’s chuckling.

  ‘Nothing good Master Salarino,’ William said. ‘I am simply pleased that I shall, today, meet the Tailor of Venice.’

  It was past noon when William returned to the House of the White Lion to find Oldcastle still nestled in his burrow of sheets.

  ‘Fie, you slug-a-bed,’ said William. ‘Not up yet? When I have seen the world in a city?’

  ‘Pipe down, Will,’ said Oldcastle. ‘I have been engaged in strenuous thought whilst you were gadding about.’

  ‘ “Thought” you call it now,’ said William, eyebrow arched. ‘Truly, I see the strain writ on your face. What thoughts did you generate with your efforts?’

  ‘Your own thoughts are as low as your birth, William. My thinking is as yesterday. We were best gone before we are discovered.’

  Oldcastle sat up in the bed and stared. ‘What are you wearing?’ he asked.

  ‘The fruits of this morning’s labour,’ said William.

  He spun about to allow Oldcastle to admire the flare of the cloak. ‘Courtesy of the English Ambassador’s funds,’ he said.

  Oldcastle let out a moan. ‘We are undone. Undone! It is one thing to play the Ambassador to ’scape danger. It is another thing entirely to spend his money.’

  ‘Be calm, Oldcastle,’ said William. ‘If we do not draw on the ambassador’s credit to dress ourselves out as fitting to our rank and station then we are questioned for it and our deceit discovered.’

  For response Oldcastle simply moaned again and clutched at his fraying beard. William ignored his wailings. ‘Nor do I think we will be begrudged some small sum if we succeed in our mission. Come man. Dare do all that we may win all.’

  There was a rap at the door. William answered it to find Salarino beyond.

  ‘My lord, the tailor is here to measure the worthy Ambassador,’ said Salarino.

  At this news William turned and smiled at the blanching figure of Oldcastle. The figure of the worthy ambassador groaned and rolled deeper into the bed. Salarino came bustling past William with the tailor in his train. Oldcastle was soon mounted on the truckle bed, his measure being taken. Salarino smiled wi
th satisfaction at the sight. He turned to William and handed him a letter.

  ‘For the English Ambassador, my lord,’ Salarino explained. ‘It came this morning while we were out.’

  William slit it open with the dagger from his belt and scanned it.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Oldcastle. ‘What is it? Are we betrayed? Orders from England? Spit it out, William, for the good Lord’s sake.’

  ‘It’s an invitation,’ said William.

  ‘An invitation?’ said Oldcastle.

  ‘We’re going to a feast.’

  A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men

  Three days later William and Oldcastle stood in the courtyard of the Ca’ Bracciano in readiness for Vittoria Accoramboni’s feast.

  It was early evening but the light was still clear and with that quality that made all things more beautiful to the eye. The white Istrian stone with which each storey of the palazzo was adorned glittered with a golden coat of sun. Each storey of the courtyard, tiers of sharply pointed arches and windows each ornately decorated, pulled the eye upward to a lapis sky.

  Oldcastle stood sweating in more finery than he could recall wearing in his life, even when he had played King Solomon. William was next to him, also draped in gorgeous weeds. William flicked a mote from Oldcastle’s doublet.

  ‘Do at least try and look like the worthy Ambassador of England,’ he said, ‘rather than a hogshead in a sack.’

  William was once again cloaked, which he disliked, but he accepted its weight as the price for the fine figure he cut. He flicked his cloak back and flexed a calf. Oldcastle rolled his eyes.

  ‘Your self-love rivals Narcissus,’ he said.

  ‘Self-love is not so great a sin as self-neglect, your Excellency,’ responded William.

  He felt calm and cool. He was enjoying the sweet, salt smell of the sea that blew in across the lagoon. The evening was mild. William suspected Oldcastle’s sheen owed more to a heated spirit than a heated climate.

  ‘This is madness, William,’ Oldcastle hissed. ‘No, say not that. Were madness doubled still it would know well enough not to come here.’

  ‘Gather your courage, Nick,’ said William. ‘We but play a part tonight. You yourself have told me that the playing is all. People will see what they expect to see. The danger lies only in refusing to perform at all.’

  William was torn. There was sympathy for the lingering effect of Hemminges’ death on Oldcastle’s spirit. The old man was not sad without cause. Still, it had taken all courage from Oldcastle and put fright in its place, as a dog caught in black rain is cowed and scurries beneath a cart, refusing to emerge until better weather. William’s sympathy warred with his frustration. His friend had never previously shirked adventure.

  ‘If we hide in our chambers and shun society it will be asked, why?’ William said. ‘What mischief do the English plan that they hide it from men’s eyes?’

  ‘What will they say to see our motley?’ Oldcastle gestured at his own cloak.

  The tailor had worked as if pursued by a demon. Even so, not all could be prepared in the time. Both William and Oldcastle had been forced to supplement their Venetian clothes with pieces from the chests of costumes sent ahead from England. Though Oldcastle fretted now, the viewing of the costumes had briefly lifted the clouds that hung over him. He had displayed with pride a cloak, ‘as cost me more than all your meagre worth, Will.’

  William prayed they would withstand close viewing.

  Behind the two men the sudden slap of water on stone announced the arrival of a new gondola at the water entrance to the palazzo. Liveried servants advanced; shunning their assistance Prospero stepped lightly from the gondola. He strode through the crowding guests, who parted before him as weeds before a ship’s prow.

  ‘Your Excellency,’ Prospero bowed to Oldcastle and then turned to offer a shallower nod to William.

  His dark hair shone black as a beetle’s shell.

  ‘So soon in Venice and already at the centre of society,’ Prospero said.

  His sharp-toothed smile cut through the neatly trimmed beard. William could see that Oldcastle’s own smile was as fragile as glass and like to shatter at the smallest knock.

  ‘Tell him I’d rather be in my bed in the company of a cup of sack than here among all the princes of Europe,’ muttered Oldcastle.

  ‘I shall do no such thing,’ said William, smiling at Prospero as he and Oldcastle spoke in English. ‘Screw your courage to the sticking place, your Excellency, or you will undo us.’

  ‘Then you banter with this coxcomb knave. I am done,’ Oldcastle said.

  He bowed to Prospero as if completing a compliment.

  William, whose own smile had grown the broader and more fixed through the exchange, turned to Prospero and his taunting brow. He did his best to disguise Oldcastle’s dangerous mood.

  ‘My lord,’ he said to Prospero, ‘enquires if you are well, and begs you to forgive him. He has not that facility for idle talk that he would wish. It is not just that he must speak in a strange tongue. The food in Venice is strange to him also. Having surfeited on squid at noon he finds himself now distract. His shame, he wishes to convey, is only made worse by comparison with your own magnificence.’

  Prospero laughed. ‘He said all that, did he? In so few words of English. Truly it is an expressive language.’

  ‘We have words to suit all occasions and persons,’ said William. ‘And where we do not, we find no shame in taking them from other sources. Latin for example.’

  ‘I shall have to learn it,’ said the Count. ‘Very well then. We must ensure that your master is provided with food of more bland complexion than the heavy fare of Venice.’

  As he spoke the party had found itself moving within the press of guests towards the entrance of the palazzo. The three men moved within and climbed the stairs to the first floor: the piano nobile. Viewed through the high windows of the long gallery room, the solemn churches and gorgeous palaces lining the Canal Grande formed a backdrop of reds, whites and golds cut by the green of the canal.

  The feasting room was richly decorated, the ceiling fretted with golden cherubim. Yet all its ornament and the splendour of the view beyond could not draw the eye. Not when at the centre of the room stood the most exquisite creature William had ever seen.

  She stood, draped in white and gold, welcoming her guests. Vittoria Accoramboni, Duchess of Bracciano. Golden hair, near white, pulled into the tightly bound curling horns that were the Venetian fashion and from which two tangled curls hung artfully down the slender neck. Her dress, also in the Venetian fashion, had a bodice like a dagger that cut sharply down to flaring skirts. The bosom draped in fine lace and pearls through which it seemed at any moment all the treasures of the world might be glimpsed.

  Prospero ushered Oldcastle and William forward, whispering as he went. ‘The scandalous Vittoria Accoramboni, gentlemen. Deny it if you will, but having seen her, do you not understand a murderer’s desire? For myself I think it only right that any husband should be tested if he wished to keep such a trophy. None but the strong deserve the fair.’

  William and Oldcastle understood Prospero’s allusion. When William had revealed to Oldcastle that they were invited to a feast at the Ca’ Bracciano in three days’ time their host, Salarino, near fainted with excitement. How thrilling for his honoured guests to be invited to the foremost social event, and yet how scandalous too. Dare the English Ambassador accept the invitation of the notorious Vittoria Accoramboni and her new husband, who, rumour had it, was also the murderer of the old? Of course, yes. Such rumours were no more than that. Envy of the beautiful Duchess, so beautiful, and her new husband, so lucky. Doubtless the wicked rumour’s origin lay only in the speed with which the Duchess had married her new husband on the expiry of the old. For Salarino this was nothing more than thrift. The funeral meats had, coldly served, formed the wedding feast. Thrift only. And envy. Oh, and such people would attend, the finest in Venice. Yes, yes, they must be there to
see and to be seen. Salarino had then broken into a torrent of Venetian dialect directed at the tailor. The little figure had moaned and clutched his temples and then applied himself with even greater vigour to the caparisoning of Oldcastle.

  Now they stood before her and William was not disappointed in his imaginings.

  ‘Your Grace, may I introduce the English Ambassador, Sir Henry Carr, and his son, Fallow,’ said the Count.

  William was surprised to hear himself described as Sir Henry’s son. He wondered if Prospero did it to elevate him from his status as a steward or to set a trap of indelicacy should he have to explain that he was Sir Henry’s bastard.

  ‘These are the men you talked of, Count?’ The Duchess spoke in Latin. In her mouth it had a musical quality.

  ‘They are, Your Grace,’ Prospero answered.

  The beautiful creature turned her gaze on William and Oldcastle. At first the coldness of the fair white face and pale gold hair took William aback. Yet, as he felt himself being weighed and measured, her face broke into a smile of pearl-white teeth and frost-pink lips, so dazzling it was as if they had seen winter turn to summer in the passage of an instant.

  ‘You are very welcome, England,’ said Vittoria Accoramboni.

  William spoke for an Oldcastle whose strings, strained taut already, had been quite frayed and snapped by the appearance of this ice queen and the sudden passage from cold regard to smiling warmth.

  ‘Your Grace’s kindness and hospitality are matched only by her beauty and generosity,’ William said.

  ‘He’s silver-tongued, Count, this son of England,’ Vittoria laughed.

  ‘I would that I were golden-tongued, Your Grace, to give you due repayment for the pleasure of your company,’ said William. ‘As it is, my lord’s embassy begins as it had not hoped to, in Venice’s debt. For having given us sight of you.’

  ‘Enough, England,’ said Vittoria. ‘Too much of flattery and I see already this is a game in which you are my master. You’re welcome and the debt is ours, that we should have the pleasure of your company.’