The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  A slight nod of the head to the three men signalled the end of the audience and she turned to the next in line to greet them. As the three men moved away William glanced back to see Vittoria glancing back at him. Such a look as the hawk gives.

  Honour, clock to itself

  A comely lad in a cream-coloured doublet of good cloth approached and thrust a silver tray of sweetmeats in front of the trio. Prospero’s hand hovered for a moment and then struck down upon a delicate-looking curl of fish and tomatoes that rode on a small wafer of bread. Oldcastle, still recovering, simply seized two large pastry baskets filled with chopped and spiced meats and plopped them into his mouth for sustenance of his nerves. William, taking nothing, waved the beautiful servant away. He looked around the gathering and saw that all of those serving were, in their own way, as ornamental as the room. Prospero, smiling, begged that Oldcastle and William excuse him a moment while he spoke to an old friend and slid away.

  William and Oldcastle found themselves alone within a whirlpool of people. Their fellow guests had clapped to each other with loud talk and laughter and the heavy revel that good wine at others’ expense will feed. Amid so many strangers and the chatter of so many voices, all in tongues unknown, William abruptly felt himself lost and far from home. In Stratford he had railed against the wearisome familiarity of each day. Now every moment was an assault of novelties.

  William opened his mouth to confess to Oldcastle that he began to think the old man’s fears had something in them. Before he could utter a word he and Oldcastle were surrounded.

  ‘My lord of England, I am Enrico Dandolo and this my son, Lucio. You are recently arrived in Venice?’ A grey-haired man gestured with a hand thick with jewelled rings at himself and the young man beside him.

  As he did so, three more men joined the circle.

  ‘Sir Henry, I am Mauro Foscari,’ said one of the three. ‘This is my brother Giovanni and his son Pietro. I trust you have found Venice to your liking.’

  A young man wedged himself into the growing circle, gorgeously garbed in flame-coloured stock, long hair slicked back from a dark face.

  ‘Introduce me to the Ambassador of England,’ he demanded. ‘I am Francesco Tiepolo.’

  The heavily jewelled man spoke again, through tight teeth. ‘Peace, Tiepolo, the Ambassador’s man has yet to translate on our behalf.’

  ‘I see no need to wait, Dandolo,’ said Francesco Tiepolo. ‘Nor will England find much profit in waiting on Dandolo business. Let the order of introduction stand not on the time but the value.’

  ‘I see you ever the foul-mouthed and calumnious knave, Francesco. It cannot be helped. It is in the breeding,’ the younger Dandolo said and rested his hand on an ornamental dagger at his belt.

  ‘At least I know my breeding, Lucio,’ replied Francesco Tiepolo.

  William withered before the tumult of translation and ill-will. Oldcastle stared around the circle like a bear at bay. What was this sudden show of rivalries?

  From behind William a voice whispered, ‘I imagine England’s business will be conducted in the morning. The evening is for pleasure.’

  William turned his head and caught a trace of perfumed air. He had no time to dwell on it. The hint was well taken. He rushed to damp the fire building before him.

  ‘My lords, you are all welcome,’ said William. ‘It is my master’s policy not to mingle business and pleasure. You will find him at our lodging in the morning. At which time we shall be happy to speak with you all.’

  He nodded at each group of men and then added in heavier tones, ‘In the order of your arrival.’

  Oldcastle seized the excuse and offered his own addition. ‘Against the noise and tumult of the feast my poor Latin will serve only to make strangers out of the strangeness of your words. I would rather we spoke in the quiet of a different setting. Forgive me.’

  His stumbling words themselves gave the ring of truth to his message.

  ‘Of course, forgive us. Till the morning,’ said Enrico Dandolo. He gripped his son’s arm and turned them away.

  The Foscari three proffered some further pleasantries before also turning away. Only the bold young Francesco Tiepolo remained, though only for a moment, during which time he allowed his eye to travel with insulting slowness across the figures of William and Oldcastle. Then he bowed and departed into the tumult without a word.

  William drew breath and was once again aware of a perfume in the air. A woman stepped before him. William took in red hair and green silk and fine, strong features and thought of the profligacy of Venice, that it baited its traps with such wonders.

  Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun

  ‘S-ciào vostro,’ the woman greeted them both.

  William had been scant four days in the city and he had already seen two women more beautiful than he suspected lived in all of England. Such variety of beauty too. Where Vittoria Accoramboni had been a youthful creature of air and ice, this figure before him was a woman made of different elements, of earth and fire. They suited him better, much better. The woman stood before him in clothing that aped a man’s. It showed to William’s eye a scandalous extent of leg. The voice was the same that had hinted his excuse to him. At his silence the woman smiled.

  ‘Forgive me, sir, you don’t speak our Venetian dialect?’ she said in Latin.

  The wheel of William’s brain struggled to turn in the current. Getting no answer she broke into Greek. William fought to follow her meaning with his schoolboy Greek as she seemed to talk about a pipe with a broken reed.

  ‘No, lady, Latin, lady. Latin is best for me. For us,’ said William.

  Recovering some of his poise, he gestured at Oldcastle. The great man, royal lord of any tavern in England, now stood with a crumb of pastry poised upon the corner of his lips.

  ‘Then in Latin I may say that I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Isabella Lisarro,’ she said.

  She paused in expectation. William, aghast to realise his discourtesy, hurried to make his introductions. Isabella studied him as he did so.

  Her spies and servants had reported Prospero’s arrival in the company of two Englishmen. A young man and his master, whom rumour called the English Ambassador. The two did not appear in either number or appearance fitted to such a task. Strange company for the Pope’s assassin. Knowing of Prospero’s return was but one part of her task. She needed to know his business and prove it too. Isabella was certain that Vittoria was some part of Prospero’s schemes; surely this motley companionship must form some part of that plan. But, she thought looking at William and Oldcastle, were they part of the business or another of its objects? The old man seemed harmless. Unless too much love of food and good living were signs of ill intent, in which case he were the very Devil. The lad was harder to gauge. He had a sharp face that would be called handsome without being worthy of further comment were it not for two very dark eyes that moved in constant observation of the world. Those were clever eyes.

  It was a rash act to have come tonight, she thought. Prospero would see her. It could not be helped. Vittoria had as good as demanded it. Besides, there was only so much she could learn from report of others. These English, were they mere ciphers or the clasps that would unlock the book of the assassin’s intent? She would know.

  ‘You have come far?’ Isabella asked.

  William answered for his master. ‘From England.’

  The answer had seemed bland enough but Oldcastle, whose spirits had been swept this way and that by the tensions of the last few encounters, at the name of England heaved such a sigh and seemed to wipe his eyes of sudden tears. William in astonished embarrassment held his breath. Often he had heard it said that grief softened the mind and made it fearful. Here was proof.

  It was Isabella that rescued him.

  ‘The good knight seems troubled by the heat,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he might welcome refreshment. Shall we fetch it for him?’

  Oldcastle swiped at his brow with a lace ruff and t
hen endeavoured to hide the gesture by hiding the arm itself behind his body. When William suggested that he go with Isabella to find something more substantial for him to drink, his head bobbed in grateful assent. Oldcastle ploughed his way to the edge of the galleried room and there sat heavily on a chair.

  Isabella plunged into the crowd with William in the chase. She moved ahead in haste, to disguise her own amazement. So mild a question should not have produced so bitter a response. How to fit this into the puzzle of the English, she thought. So wrapped was she in her own contemplations she did not see the flaming Tiepolo step in front of her.

  ‘Isabella Lisarro. I thought you retired?’ he said.

  Francesco Tiepolo’s chest was swollen like a game-cock as he strutted up to Isabella. She sighed inwardly. If pride were money, Francesco Tiepolo would be the wealthiest man in Venice. If sense and judgment credit, the poorest in the world. Once, just once, some years ago, he had sought her out. More fool her, flattered by a younger man’s pursuit, she had allowed it, thinking to let him down gently with none the worse for the diversion of a pleasant month. He had not seen it as she did. Too much pride is men’s folly; too little, women’s. Well, his pricked pride was his problem, not hers. She had too much business on foot to take the time to smooth the ruffled feathers of this cockerel.

  ‘Retired?’ she asked.

  ‘From the field of combat.’

  ‘Then your eye fails you for all you squint with it, for you see me here before you, do you not?’

  ‘I see you standing,’ said Francesco. ‘I understood in contests of your kind to be in play was to lie on your back and to be retired was to be back on your feet.’

  Francesco Tiepolo looked about in braggartly pleasure. He hoped for an audience for what he was sure was a hit, a very palpable hit on Isabella Lisarro, who had dared to deny him. From the corner of his eye he noted with satisfaction that one or two of his companions were watching. His satisfaction turned to instant gall at Isabella’s turning of his thrust.

  ‘You are mistaken, sir,’ she replied. ‘I am at my most potent when standing and sadly diminished when flat. Though I understand your confusion on the subject, for the idle prattle of the city has it that you are not familiar with the former state.’

  A most indicative movement of fingers accompanied Isabella’s words. Hands flew to mouths in those watching as laughter was stifled. Francesco Tiepolo’s face grew as red as his flame-coloured stock.

  ‘My eye holds scant regard for a bird so old as you,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a leer that wounds like a leaden sword,’ said Isabella. ‘Go boy, old birds are too tough for your milk teeth to chew on.’

  William had not followed the exchange of barbs, which had been conducted in the dialect of Venice with pace and venom. He had no difficulty, however, in recognising the growing colour in the man. Nor was there any mistaking the message of the clenching fists. He stepped between the two and spoke to the man.

  ‘Sir,’ said William, ‘my master, Sir Henry, has sent me to inform you that he would, of course, be pleased to speak to you in private in the morning.’

  With an effort Francesco Tiepolo dragged his eyes from Isabella Lisarro’s hot regard to the black-eyed Englishman before him.

  ‘You gave this message already,’ he hissed.

  ‘Did I?’ said William. ‘I am sorry, then. I was distracted by so many voices at one time. Forgive me. In the morning, then.’

  He turned to Isabella Lisarro. ‘My lady, you were showing me where I might find a cordial for my master?’

  At William’s gesture Isabella inclined her head and led the two away. Behind them Francesco Tiepolo made to follow and then recovered himself. The moment had passed but not the sensation. Twice now, and this time most publicly, that woman had slighted him. It would not stand. He grabbed a full glass of wine from a passing servant. With false cheer he rejoined his companions, who had the sense not to offer comment on what had passed.

  As William and Isabella moved through the crowd William whispered, ‘What unlooked for excitements Venice holds. If this is what Venice is like at a feast, I dread to think what it is like when at war.’

  ‘For certain, you must be ready for any happenstance in this city,’ she whispered back.

  ‘Or have a strong protector,’ said William. ‘You have no hidden dagger, my lady? I am already frightened of your words. I would not see you armed as well.’

  She laughed. ‘Quick wit and quicker actions, such as you have, will see you safe even from my weapons.’

  It was his turn to laugh.

  Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtesan

  Across the room Prospero glared. He saw Isabella laugh at something said and rest her hand for a moment on the boy Fallow’s arm. His heart danced but not with joy, not joy. The Duchess of Bracciano studied him in his distraction.

  ‘Something has unsettled your eye, Count?’ she asked.

  With an effort Prospero tore himself from the sight of the steward Fallow and Isabella Lisarro, so close in conversation as to seem to be meeting noses.

  ‘I am simply surprised to see you admit courtesans to your feast,’ he said.

  ‘Should I not? Cortigiana onesta, the “honest courtesans”, are they not part of the special charms of Venice? I am surprised to find you so –’ Vittoria Accoramboni’s eyes sparkled with immodest delight as she sought the right words, ‘– to find your thoughts so dry in appreciation of their delights.’

  ‘My thoughts are turned to only one concern,’ said Prospero. ‘Your safety, Your Grace.’

  Prospero let the intensity of his sudden anger appear as fierce regard for the woman before him. She smiled back at him and laid a hand, light as a leaf on water, on his arm.

  ‘That I was in danger I knew and accepted,’ she said. ‘Thanks to you I now know the direction from which that danger comes. You may trust that I will defend myself.’

  The pressure on his arm increased as she said, ‘And trust that I will not forget to whom I owe thanks for my safety.’

  Prospero let his eye travel down to the pale pink hand and then back to the Duchess’s face. He bowed.

  The honest courtesan and the false steward stood at the edge of the gathered company. They waited for the return of a swan-necked serving-girl, sent to bring them a draught of cordial comfort for Oldcastle.

  A silence had arrived with the departure of the girl on her errand. Isabella smiled at William. She would not profess to have the measure of him on so short an acquaintance but, she would admit it, he had a sweet wit to him. He had made her laugh more in the past minutes than she had in all the three months since Prospero had returned to her life. William returned her smile and then, having no better thought, turned his head to look past the marble columns of the windows to the lights of the city beyond.

  ‘I have never seen so many lights at night,’ he said.

  ‘The ancone. The shrines. You have seen them? The city pays for the lamps to be lit each night,’ Isabella answered.

  ‘Aah. I wondered at their purpose as I wandered this morning,’ William said. ‘So many of them, on every corner. Now I see. I thought them simply ornaments. I am beginning to realise that nothing in this city is done without purpose.’

  ‘The sun may set on Venice but the city does not let the light depart,’ Isabella said.

  ‘ “The sun may set and yet rise again,” ’ William said to himself in answer to her words.

  ‘Catullus?’ she asked.

  William looked up. ‘You know it?’

  ‘I do,’ she said and, at his raised brow, quoted back to him, ‘ “Once our light, that briefly shone, sets, we rest in a night without end.”’

  Isabella’s head tilted. She looked again at the young man who quoted Catullus.

  ‘Venice pleases you?’ she asked.

  ‘There are many things here that, in outward show at least, are beautiful,’ he replied.

  Isabella studied William’s face.

 
‘Sometimes the interior proves more interesting than all the outward show,’ she said.

  ‘I have often suspected so.’

  ‘Do you know the church of San Rocco in the sestiere of San Polo?’ Isabella gestured beyond the windows to the city with her fan.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘You should visit,’ she said. ‘Inside there is more, much more that would profit the curious and discerning visitor than the exterior, for all its magnificence, ever could.’

  This time it was William who paused before answering. ‘A suggestion from a woman of your beauty is as good as a command.’

  She smiled. ‘I shall be careful then for fear I will lead you astray, now that I know your judgment extends no further than a fair show of face.’

  Protest at the challenge to his judgment was prevented by the return of the servant with the cordial. William took it. Isabella gestured to the drink. ‘What lies within is not always sweeter. You should remember, sir, that even in a gold cup there may be a spider steeped. I hope your master’s health and humour are much recovered by the cordial.’

  Isabella bowed her head and turned away before William had even completed his own bow in return. His gaze followed her as she moved through the guests and disappeared into the gathering.

  William was no chaste and anxious boy. No stranger to women. He had not seen this woman’s like before. How this Isabella had outfaced that peacock wretch as if he were a cipher, no more, a very nothing. His blows parried and returned. His threatening look met with hot regard and hotter wit. William’s own sallies, his talk of Catullus met and matched and more. Such a creature was a wonder to him. She burned with a fierce, fast fire that matched his own. She was of his humour. It made him think of his mother and her strong will, of Anne and her quiet confident calm, of Alice and her boldness, Constanza and her beauty. Oh, he might admire or speak in praise of others. Here was something he might love.

  William cursed the memory of his clumsy compliments. A woman like Isabella Lisarro knew her beauty. She did not need him to remind her of it. He would have to do better. And doing better he might do much. What was it that Prospero had said? ‘None but the strong deserve the fair’? Well, in this game of wits, he would prove himself no green and backward boy.