As Francesco Tiepolo spoke that word Isabella let loose a harsh cry. She clutched at William’s arm to the point of pain. William looked at her fingers, white-knuckled, on his arm and was lost. Seeing this Francesco leaned forward on his stick and spoke slowly for the foreigner to understand.
‘The trentuno is a rape by thirty-one men,’ he said.
He pointed his walking stick at Isabella. ‘That judgment is long past due,’ he spat. ‘My greatest fear is that you will enjoy your punishment.’
Isabella pushed past William to spit back at him. ‘Curse you Francesco Tiepolo,’ she said. ‘No woman would give you willingly what you now take by force. This promised rape is not judgment on me but on you and your –’
Isabella did not finish but turned her back on Francesco. William saw in her face such fear and horror it took his heart in its grip and held it. Francesco spoke to William as he signalled one of his men forward.
‘Now leave, Englishman,’ he said. ‘Or stay and watch. As your humour guides you.’
The servant reached to drag William aside. Unresisting, William was moved as in a dream. As he was pulled past he plucked the man’s dagger from his belt. He stepped back, dragging the servant off balance. Then, channelling all the rage and horror roaring in his breast at the vile men before him, he slashed the servant across the arm.
‘Run!’ he screamed at Isabella.
She started like a hare and ran with the wind of terror behind her towards the only remaining escape. William turned and hurled the dagger at Francesco Tiepolo. It tumbled as it flew and struck him by the hilt. For an instant, all were too stunned at the sudden change of tempo to respond. Then Fransceco Tiepolo roared and William ran and the chase began.
When the square was quiet again Borachio stepped from the shadow of a doorway. For a moment he halted, clutched at his stomach, cursed and spat. Then he pulled himself up and headed in the other direction to report to Prospero on the success of the morning’s work.
Though the devil lead
Oldcastle recalled a fat priest in London preaching that suffering was part of God’s plan; that pain endured, ennobled. Oldcastle thought the priest foolish then; he knew him so now. Pain and suffering do not elevate; they drag you down. Nicholas Oldcastle was chipped away blow by blow. His fear was that even if they ceased there would be nothing left. Least not of the self that he recognised.
To their questions he told all. Oldcastle told how he was not the English Ambassador but a poor player. He told how his party had been set on. How all were killed save him and his companion. He begged for compassion and for understanding.
He was offered only a curious tilt of the head.
The questioning turned to his companion, Fallow. Oldcastle told all that he thought might interest them.
‘Why did he kill Iseppo da Nicosia?’ demanded Vittoria.
Oldcastle could answer only with a look of incomprehension. He earned a blow for his silence.
‘I swear I do not know what you mean,’ he pleaded.
Vittoria leaned in close. ‘This Iseppo. His throat was cut through. To the bone. Less a murder than a work of butchery. Why? What was Iseppo da Nicosia to you? To England?’
Oldcastle’s terror sucked words from him. Vittoria stood back and let her captain work.
Oldcastle answered as best he could, desperate to sate them. ‘He is as innocent in this as I, believe me, lady. We are both the victim of circumstance. Circumstance only. Oh, he can be a monster no doubt, and I have known many. I saw Drake in his pomp and Burbage in his rage and they were worse men but lesser.’
Oldcastle gave a little laugh and babbled on. ‘He seems to know you so well and know why you do what you do and want what you want. You begin by thinking that a scheme is your idea, an adventure your conception and then, when it is all done, you realise it was his all along. And above all that, he’s a poet too. Would you believe it? If I’d known that, I would have known he was not honest. But for all that, he’s no murderer. I can’t see him killing a fly let alone one such as you.’
Oldcastle gave another little laugh. It was a pitiful thing and came from a bruised face. He gazed up at Vittoria Accoramboni. Her blue eyes were the largest he had ever seen. The rest of her heart-shaped face was perfectly formed, of course. Her skin smooth and lips a delicate coral pink, but the eyes were everything, a murdering child’s eyes. Oldcastle looked up at them in hope.
Vittoria struck him hard across the face. She wiped her palm, damp with his sweat and tears, on the sleeve of his doublet.
‘I did not ask what your opinion of him was,’ she said. ‘Tell me where he is. Now. Or I will have your skin cut from you while you still breathe.’
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .’
Oldcastle’s voice was shrill in its pleading. Three thin streams of blood ran down his fleshy features from cuts made by her rings. Vittoria watched him for a long minute. She turned from him to her captain of guards.
‘He knows nothing, Antonio,’ she said in the rapid dialect of Rome. ‘Deal with him and return to me at once. We must find his friend. He is the true danger.’
‘At once.’ Antonio bowed.
Vittoria gave one last look at Oldcastle, who stared back at her. A hopeful and uncomprehending smile crept onto his sweat-slick chops. Surely, he thought, of all things she does not mistake me for a brave man? She sees I have told everything. He gave a little sob at the injustice of his suffering. He would have told them all for half as much a beating. The Duchess, a sigh fluttering through her lips, swept from the room.
Grey-haired Antonio smiled at Oldcastle. The fat fool smiled back.
Both alike in virtue
Isabella hammered at a door.
‘Off!’ she cried. ‘Off the street. We must get behind walls.’
The door remained barred. William looked up beyond the narrow confines of the small street to the spires peering above them. Wordless, he clutched at her arm and pulled her after him. They hurried down the narrow alley beyond. Isabella stumbled from one high shoe. William turned and snatched both off and hurled them away to leave her in stockinged feet in the mud of the alley. Her eyes, wider than a roe, fixed on him, not troubling to challenge his presumption but clutching at his arm.
‘For God’s sake let us hide. Anywhere.’ The thin touch of hysteria was in Isabella’s voice. ‘Let us be off the street.’
William looked behind them to where the corner had been rounded by the first of the pursuing men. The figure slowed as his companions joined him. A leer spread across the first of their pursuers’ cheeks. He advanced with purpose on the two. A moan escaped Isabella’s lips. William looked up at the skyline again and pulled her after him.
‘Not this one,’ he hissed. ‘On, on.’
They raced along the streets, turned corners, crossed a bridge and burst into a square marked only by a small well at its centre. Isabella sank to her knees only to be hauled up again by William.
‘They are on us. They will have us,’ Isabella wept. Her hands shook. Her breast heaved for breath. It is one thing to be brave at a distance, another when dangers are close.
‘Hush. Here is the house,’ said William.
‘House? What house? We are too late.’ A sob wracked her. ‘Any house would have done had we time. All refuge is alike. If it would only open to us.’
Isabella’s head was turned over her shoulder waiting the sight of the preening, swaggering men. She did not see William as he pulled her, stumbling, over to a high gatehouse set in one side of the square. She did not see him beat an urgent rhythm on the door or the little window slide open. She did not see his urgent whisperings. She saw only the men behind her spilling into the square, Fransceco Tiepolo striding at the rear. Faces red from the exertion of the chase and the thrill of the approaching kill.
She did not see but she did hear. A shout came from behind her. William pulled Isabella out of the way as, stepping through the opening and into the square, came three men. At the
sight of them Tiepolo’s men halted.
‘Ho. What have we here?’ the forward of the triumvirate demanded in loud voice. ‘Francesco Tiepolo, is it? You have strayed far from your cage, my pretty gamecock. Fly home.’
‘Stand aside, this is no business of yours.’ Francesco Tiepolo elbowed his way to the front of his company.
He pointed with his ebony walking stick at William and Isabella hiding in the lee of the gatehouse door. ‘My business is with these here.’
A bell began to toll from within the house. As it rang, more men spilled from the gatehouse door to join the first three till their number matched that of Tiepolo and his companions. Their leader spoke again.
‘You know me, Tiepolo?’
‘And if I did not, Dandolo,’ sneered Francesco, ‘I might learn of you by reading what is writ on any wall in Venice.’
Tiepolo’s men snorted laughter. Dandolo ignored them.
‘Then you know you are not welcome here,’ said Dandolo. ‘Nor any of your House. If you have business with these two let it be conducted in your own private place. If there be space enough for three in such a “privy” room.’
This punning talk bought appreciative laughter from Dandolo’s men this time and angry growls from those behind Tiepolo. William began to pull Isabella with him along the wall towards the edge of the square. Seeing their attempt at escape Tiepolo moved to intercept. An action that prompted Dandolo’s men to bare their cudgels.
‘Do not move, Tiepolo,’ said Dandolo.
Francesco Tiepolo, face hot as the sun, growled back at Lucio Dandolo, ‘You command me? Faugh! I will move, Dandolo, for I am moved to anger. Stand not in the way of a swooping hawk lest you find yourself the prey.’
‘Hawk? Hah!’ spat Dandolo. ‘Pigeon, maybe. Or parrot, all squawk and feathers. You will move, aye, turn to run. Only the valiant stand fast and I see none of that virtue before me.’
With these words the strained peace broke. Roaring, the parties leaped at each other.
William pulled Isabella round the corner of the square as the two sides crashed together like wave on cliff. They fled into the maze of Venice to cries of ‘Strike’, ‘Beat them down’ and the resounding clash of arms.
William laughed loudly at a horror escaped. He looked back at Isabella, who ran behind him, breathless, still trying to understand what had passed.
‘You see, lady,’ he said, ‘not all houses are alike in virtue.’
So keen and greedy to confound a man
Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. So thought Oldcastle as the angelic form of Vittoria Accoramboni left the room in which he sat, tied. A trickle of blood ran down his face, mixing with his tears, to leave him blushing pink before his executioner. Foolish old man am I, Oldcastle thought, that might have sat in comfort in England were I not greedy.
Antonio walked to the nearby table and picked up a length of rope. He tested its strength. Finding it to his satisfaction he began to coil it round his hands as he walked behind his prisoner. Oldcastle found his courage returning as his last moments approached. He thought of his friend Hemminges, whom he would shortly see again. His back straightened against the ache of his bruised flesh. He stared ahead. He did not think of what was to come but of all the good humour that had passed. His only surprise was that somehow, unaccountably, till that moment he had believed William would return and save him from his fate.
The door opened. Prospero stepped into the room. He was followed by Vittoria Accoramboni. Seeing Prospero, Oldcastle thought himself saved. His hopes were in the instant transformed to bitter realisation of betrayal.
The talk in Italian that passed between Prospero and Vittoria, Oldcastle did not understand. Their looks he did, and also the name of Fallow and the questions in Latin that followed. He told again how he was not the English Ambassador but a poor player. He told how his party had been set on and all killed save him and his companion. He begged for compassion and for understanding. He was once again offered only a curious tilt of the head.
Through bloody brows Oldcastle saw the arrival of Borachio. Prospero’s servant whispered into his ear. A smile rose on Prospero’s face at the news. He announced to Vittoria Accoramboni that the steward Fallow, or whoever he truly was, had been embroiled in a brawl with Francesco Tiepolo. He took care to speak in Latin so that Oldcastle might understand.
‘Unless one man can defeat thirty, he is most like now dead,’ Prospero said.
At the groan that broke from Oldcastle’s lips at this news Prospero’s smile grew broader still.
‘I shall obtain proof of the steward’s death,’ Prospero announced.
He took Vittoria’s hand and pressed it. Then, with a final contemptuous look in Oldcastle’s direction, he took his leave.
‘Shall I finish with him?’ Antonio asked his mistress.
She looked down at Oldcastle, who boldly held her eye.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Let us be certain the other is dead.’
She waved Oldcastle from her thoughts. ‘Keep him safe till the Count returns with news.’
I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap and be buried in thy eyes
Even with the hand of fear to push them on, there came a moment when their flight gave pause to gather breath and then to think. William leaned against the wall of the street and, doubled over, hands on thighs, drew breath against both the chase and laughter. Isabella looked back to where they had come and then at the laughing man. William bent his head up and returned her gaze.
Her hair was in a disarray and tears had turned her woman’s artifice to muddy ruin. She stood in stockinged feet, her fine clothes smeared with dust and the mossy green of walls struck close in the haste of their flight. Her eyes were still wide and her chest heaved with the efforts and fears of the moment passed. Then her serious face broke into a smile. It was full and deep with the lips pulled back wide and the dark eyes lit with an inner light. Emerging from her came an open pleasure such as William had seen only in children before, a delight that swept up both the person smiling and the one watching. In that moment William thought he had never seen someone so beautiful.
‘I am the fool of Fortune’s mood,’ he muttered.
He looked past her, listening for sounds of battle ended or pursuit begun.
‘A line from one of your poems?’ Isabella spoke in gasps.
‘Not yet. Perhaps it will be.’
‘I pray not. It is a conceit too obvious to mention.’
He frowned at her.
‘Oh don’t pout,’ she said.
‘You know something of poetry, I recall,’ said William.
‘Enough to have had two folios of verse published,’ she replied between breaths.
William cocked his head. ‘Is there no end to your mysteries?’
‘I hope not,’ Isabella answered. ‘My mysteries are all that I have. All that any woman has.’
‘Now it is you descends to common conceits,’ William said. ‘I have seen many a plain-dealing woman. None that could match you for variety.’
Isabella smiled again, and again the smile appeared most in her eyes. William wondered that any man could resist such a siren call of promised happiness.
‘Come.’ She took his hand and pulled him after her. ‘We must to my house.’
Isabella saw his grin. ‘Now it is you that smiles at me as if I spoke naughtily,’ she said.
William shook his head. She gave him the kind of look the constable gives when the drunk man slurs denial he is a drunkard.
‘Tush,’ she said. ‘We are not yet safe for you to be at your wooing again. Let us first be far from the threat of imminent death.’
William took the lead and they began to run again, hand in hand.
‘Oh you and I,’ he panted as she followed, ‘you and I are too wise to woo peaceably.’
There was joy bubbling in William’s breast as he ran. His memory flew back to another chase, far from here in the cold March of Arden, and the thrill he had fel
t then. The smell of Venice was strongly in his nostrils, its gold and rose colours in his eyes, its heartbeat of water slapping on walls loud in his ears. Her hand was warm in his.
Later she would question him about his knowledge of the factions of Venice, of how he knew where the Dandolos lived and of their hatred for the Tiepolos. Later she would tell him about the kings and princes she had known, of her poetry and her love of painting. He would ask to hear a verse and she would take a small book of hers and let him read it while she watched his face to see how he reacted. Later she would show him a portrait of her by her friend Tintoretto when she was just William’s age. When her beauty was like the power of armies that by their mere show make men crouch down and yield.
Later he would begin to understand that to understand her was as impossible as to understand himself and that it did not matter. That answers did not matter. All this for later, but for now he ran with her hand in his and his heart burned with fierce joy to be alive.
Since night you loved me; yet since night you left me
When William and Isabella had reached the safety of her home that night they found her maid, Maria, waiting for them. Seeing her mistress so late returned and in such a state, Maria had wailed and fussed. Isabella excused herself and left William in the salon of the house. Isabella went with Maria and calmed her with promise of explanation in the morning then sent her to her rest. Isabella changed to fresh clothes and cleaned her face. She returned to William in a simple dress, her face unmade, her hair hanging freely.
‘You see me now without artifice,’ she said. ‘My painted rhetoric removed.’
‘I see only that your beauty is ingrained.’
‘You’re kind,’ Isabella said, pouring them both wine. ‘Be certain that if the hour were not late and the room dark I would not dare this show.’
‘Your maid is calmed?’
‘Calm is not the word. Maria is content that I am well. She will wait for morning to demand more explanation of me.’
The Spy of Venice Page 31