The Madman of Venice

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Ned, I’ll wager that you will never guess!’

  Rose-cheeked, golden-haired, bluebell-coloured eyes sparkling, slim and graceful in her rustling blue silk dress, she looked to him like a fairy princess, or an angel. But she’d never look at him as a lover . . . never. He was too clumsy. Too tongue-tied. Too poor. Too different from her, with his love of stories and plays and dreams, while she was full of fire and spirit and practicality. But

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  also too familiar. She’d known him for years, ever since he was thirteen and she was twelve. Master Ashby had taken him into their household out of family charity, for Ned’s dead mother had been some sort of distant cousin to the merchant’s own late wife.

  At the beginning, Ned and Celia had fought like cat and dog, then found a way to rub along. Now they were easy enough with each other. He knew she had affection for him. But only as a kind of brother or cousin. And until a year or so ago, that’s how he’d thought of her. And then things had changed. Something had sparked in his heart. . . something that had quickly grown into a stronger and stronger flame. . . .

  Now he said mock-grumpily, ‘What should I guess now, flittergibbet? The time of day? The colour of your next dress? Its price, perhaps?’

  She pouted. ‘Oh, you are a dull dog, Ned, sometimes! If you are going to be like that, I shall not tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what? Oh, do,’ he said hastily when she made as if to leave the room. ‘I suppose this is about Mistress Lanier.’

  ‘Of course. Who else? She’s at the Court. Her husband is a musician in the service of the Queen, and she is a musician and poet herself.’

  ‘Ah, so that is what it was,’ said Ned.

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘Why she was different from anyone I’d met,’ explained Ned. ‘Go on.’

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  ‘Her mother was English but her father was a Venetian. A musician too, in the time of King Henry. His surname, I think, was Bassano.’

  ‘How strange. There was a Bassanio in The Merchant of Venice? said Ned, much struck.

  ‘What?’ Celia wasn’t much of a playgoer.

  ‘Something I saw at the Globe. By that playwright I told you about. Shakespeare.’

  ‘Never mind plays. This is real life. Ned, do you remember how Father and his merchant friends were presented to the Queen last summer? Well, Mistress Lanier was one of the musicians at Court. I think Father was rather taken with her.’

  ‘What did she want?’ said Ned sharply.

  Celia bridled. ‘If you’re going to be like that. . .’

  ‘Sorry. I did not mean ... I only meant, if she is from the Court, why did she come here in this cloak-and- dagger way? Is she in love with Master Ashby?’

  Celia looked at him as though he were mad. ‘In love? With Father ? Don’t be silly. She came about a missing girl.’

  ‘What?’

  Celia was enjoying herself. She leaned forward, eyes wide, lips parted. Ned had a sudden urge to grab her in his arms and kiss her till she was breathless. ‘A girl who’s missing in Venice,’ she whispered dramatically. ‘Her father wrote to Mistress Lanier, asking for help.’

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  ‘Why?’ said Ned stiffly. Show her a lion heart and you will win her ,; Mistress Lanier had said. God’s blood, how did you do that?

  ‘Because he’s an old friend of her family. A doctor, who once saved her father’s life. This girl is his only child. And Mistress Lanier wants Father to try and find her.’

  ‘Whatever for? Why doesn’t she go to Venice herself?’

  ‘Because she can’t. It’s a delicate matter,’ said Celia. ‘She can’t leave the Court. And her position at Court makes it impossible for her to interfere personally in the matter of this girl, Sarah Tedeschi. Before she disappeared, you see, Sarah ran into serious trouble. She was accused of witchcraft by a powerful Venetian lady.’

  Ned’s eyes widened. He whistled.

  ‘That’s not all,’ said Celia, enjoying the effect her words were having on him. ‘This Sarah and her father— they’re Jews. This Mistress Lanier, she asked Father if that bothered him.’

  ‘I wager I know what he said,’ said Ned, who’d heard Master Ashby pronounce on the topic more than once. ‘He said that of course he was not bothered, because in his eyes being against the Jews was a sin, for Our Saviour Jesus Christ was born a Jew, as were His family and apostles, and it was a Roman who condemned Him to death. Besides, though some people hate Jewish money- lenders, he thinks that if you borrow money, you must

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  expect to pay it back and not be made a gift of it. Business is business, and he’s never been cheated by a Jew. Unlike some Christians he could name.’

  Celia laughed-. ‘Yes. Exactly. He said it all in almost the same words. And Mistress Lanier looked relieved. She said that though she was not a Jew herself, she had some sympathy for these persecuted people. And her family owed a great deal to the Tedeschis.’

  ‘What happened? I mean, what led up to Sarah vanishing?’

  ‘It seems that some time ago, her father, Dr Jacob Tedeschi, was summoned to the palace of the Monte- moro family. They are a very grand family in Venice. He had not been there before, though he is well known in the city as a skilled doctor. He took Sarah with him as his nurse.’

  ‘Who was the patient?’ said Ned breathlessly.

  She shrugged. ‘I can’t remember exactly. Some relation of the Countess of Montemoro. Anyway, Sarah was left alone with the patient for a short while . . .’

  ‘And the patient died and they blamed Sarah?’

  ‘No, no. That’s what’s so strange. The patient recovered. But the next day the Countess accused Sarah of casting a spell against the Count.’

  ‘Against the Count ?’

  ‘The Countess says the girl put the evil eye on him. She says he hasn’t been the same since Sarah was there.’

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  Ned couldn’t help snorting. ‘The evil eye! What superstitious rubbish!’

  ‘That’s what Father said. He asked if Sarah Tedeschi was pretty.’

  ‘Oh ho,’ said Ned.

  ‘Oh ho yes,’ said Celia, dimpling. ‘Apparently the Tedeschi girl is very pretty. And the Countess is a very jealous and difficult woman. Mistress Lanier thinks the Countess suspects her husband has fallen in love with the girl. Accusing her of witchcraft is one way of destroying her.’

  ‘But you said Sarah was missing, not arrested.’

  ‘Yes. That’s odd too. Mistress Lanier says that the Countess has not made an official accusation. Not yet, anyhow. She sent a letter to the Tedeschis’ house informing them she was going to bring a suit against them. And that night Sarah vanished, leaving her father a note. It said she believed she was the victim of a conspiracy and wanted to find proof.’

  ‘Oh, my sweet lord,’ said Ned weakly. This is a knotty drama like something out of one of the Globe plays , he thought. ‘What did the father do?’

  ‘Mistress Lanier said that Dr Tedeschi tried to find her, but had exhausted all avenues of investigation. One thing he did find out was that Sarah had help from outside the Ghetto to escape—the Ghetto’s where Jews live, in Venice—so it follows that her helper must be a

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  Christian. And a Jew making enquiries about a Christian can run into trouble. Besides, the Montemoros are looking for Sarah too and they have tentacles everywhere in Venice. People are afraid of them. Sarah’s father didn’t know who else to turn to but the daughter of his old friend.’

  ‘What’s he going to think when he finds out she’s giving the commission to a total stranger?’

  ‘Mistress Lanier will give him a letter of introduction.’

  ‘Did your father agree to this plan?’

  ‘He did. He said it was a noble venture and he would do it.’

  ‘But what if Sarah’s found before we get there? It’s a long way to Venice,’ said Ned reasonably, though his heart thumped with excitement.
<
br />   ‘That’s what Father said,’ said Celia. ‘But Mistress Lanier said we would just have to play it by ear.’

  ‘We ? 9

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to let Father do all the investigating, do you?’ said Celia pertly. ‘He’s got enough on his plate with the piracy business. I’m a girl. It’s easier for me to go around asking around about another girl. And I had those Italian lessons all last year. My teacher said I was very fluent. Even Father agreed about that.’

  Celia’s father, who thought his own Italian was a bit rusty, had engaged an old Italian philosopher called

  Dr Rizzardo to teach her. Rizzardo had said Celia had a real ear for languages. Indeed, he had gushed, she spoke his language now almost as well as a native Italian. ‘So I proposed myself to Mistress Lanier,’ Celia finished.

  ‘Really! You didn’t!’ Ned was filled with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. ‘Surely your father won’t agree.’

  ‘Father will do what I want,’ said Celia airily. ‘You’ll see.’

  Yes, thought Ned, she's right . She's always right . She's got her widowed father wound around her little finger She's the apple of his eye . And mine . . . ‘I’ll help you,’ he said firmly.

  Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, I suppose you could’ was all she said.

  FORTUNE’S CARDS

  Two weeks passed. They took passage on a Venice- bound ship belonging to one of Master Ashby’s fellow merchants. The first couple of days were sheer seasick misery for Ned, Mistress Quickly, and Master Ashby. Not so Celia, fresh as a daisy and bright as a sunbeam. She soon had all the hardened sailors eating out of her hand, as well as the other two passengers, a French father and son named Jacques and Henri d’Arcy. Wealthy merchants with business ties to England, the pair spoke good English. And like the Ashbys and Ned, they were

  bound for Venice. For Jacques d’Arcy’s late wife had been Venetian and they still owned a house there.

  They went out of their way to be pleasant and friendly, but Ned couldn’t stand them. Chiefly, that was because Henri d’Arcy seemed very taken with Celia and spent nearly all his time at her side. To make matters worse, Mistress Quickly, who was chaperoning Celia, approved of Henri—and enjoyed his father’s company. There was nothing Ned could do about any of it. What was more, he was stuck in Master Ashby’s cabin much of the time, going over accounts and writing letters.

  Smouldering with resentment, he watched helplessly as Henri joked and laughed and taught bits of French to Celia and her aunt. What a silver-tongued fop the Frenchman was! Fair-haired, dark-eyed, slim and strong, he was always immaculately dressed and groomed, his pomade smelled good, everything about him breathed wealth, ease, worldliness. At nineteen, he was also a year older than Ned and two years older than Celia, but he seemed a good deal more mature and miles more sophisticated than either of them. Ned hated him with all his heart.

  But there was nothing he could say or do. He was just a lowly clerk, at the beck and call of his employer, with an uncertain future and dreams of being a writer, while Henri was a wealthy merchant’s son, whose actual future shone like solid gold. With solid gold. Piles and piles of gold. Besides, the older Monsieur d’Arcy and

  Master Ashby got on famously as well, swapping stories about London, Paris, Venice. Ned’s employer, who had once observed that no Frenchman could be trusted, had unbent so far as to declare to his clerk that the d’Arcys were sterling fellows and that he’d go into business with them in the twinkling of an eye. There could be no finer compliment from Matthew Ashby. Mind you, thought Ned, he didn’t take the French merchant completely into his confidence—didn’t tell him about either the piracy investigation or the Tedeschi case. But then Master Ashby was nothing if not prudent about these sorts of things. It was one of the reasons he had been delegated to go to Venice.

  Celia herself seemed to have forgotten about her enthusiasm for investigating Sarah’s disappearance. She seemed much more interested in investigating Henri d’Arcy’s company, thought Ned sourly. Unhappily, the French fop also had a rather nice line in conversation; the sparkling, witty words Ned so wished he could make his own seemed to just flow effortlessly from Henri’s elegant lips. Ned grew glummer and glummer. Celia got crosser and crosser with him. And he could do nothing to remedy the situation. . . .

  And then, one day, just a couple of days from Venice, the storm broke. Ned came out of his master’s cabin, having finished the morning’s work, and went for a breath of air on deck. Neither Celia nor her aunt were to be seen, or Jacques d’Arcy, but Henri was there,

  leaning on the rail, staring into the water. Ned had a sudden strong urge to push him in. Then a pressing need to get away. He was about to slip off in the opposite direction when the young Frenchman turned and saw him. He smiled.

  6 Bon jour! It is a fine morning, is it not?’

  It was indeed. Fine as a day at sea can be. Blue silk sky, lacy little clouds, a light breeze, the calm sea sparkling like jewelled brocade. A day fit for poetry, if Ned had been so inclined. But not that day; not that moment. He growled, Tine for those who don’t have to work, yes.’

  Henri’s eyebrows shot up. And of whom do you speak, my friend?’

  His polite, almost insultingly polite, tone made Ned see red. T am not your friend. And you bloody well know what I’m talking about.’

  Henri’s face closed. T do not.’

  'You . . . you French . . . you . . . you . . .’ The words choked in his throat. He couldn’t bring them out.

  ‘Master Fletcher,’ said Henri very coldly. ‘Beware.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ rumbled Ned.

  ‘I think you know,’ said Henri, shrugging.

  ‘No. I do not. State it in plain words, sir,’ said Ned, incensed by the other’s tone.

  ‘For sweet Jesus’ sake . . . ,’ sighed Henri. ‘Stop being so belligerent. I am not your enemy. If I make myself amusing to Mademoiselle Celia and Madame Quickly,

  what of it? Is there a law against such a thing? You would do best to. follow my lead, if you wish to win her heart. For you do, do you not, my friend?’

  7 am not your friend/ said Ned between gritted teeth.

  ‘No. You are your own worst enemy,’ said Henri d’Arcy wearily. ‘And this foul humour will not avail you in the least with Mademoiselle Celia.’

  ‘How dare you,’ hissed Ned. ‘You keep out of my affairs. Keep right out, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Henri d’Arcy looked Ned up and down. With a scornful look he said, ‘You make threats to me! But you are a nobody—I am a d’Arcy. What can you possibly do to me?’

  Ned’s hand leaped to his sword. A wild, hot anger, stronger and more violent than anything he’d ever felt in his life, spewed into his throat. ‘I can fight you,’ he challenged d’Arcy.

  Henri laughed. ‘Here?’ He waved around him. ‘On the ship? Are you mad? You will be put in chains at once if you try.’

  ‘Very well, then. Not here,’ said Ned, dropping his hand. ‘I will fight you in Venice. And I’m warning you-— in the meantime stay away from her!’ The rash words came out of him fast, like hot stones thrown out of a smouldering volcano that had finally erupted. He hardly recognized that it was himself saying them.

  Henri d’Arcy’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Fine words. But deeds cost more.’

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  Ned went deathly pale. But all he said was, ‘Well, will you fight me in Venice?’

  ‘You fool,’ said Henri d’Arcy. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. I am reckoned to be one of the finest swordsmen in Paris.’

  ‘I am not afraid of you,’ growled Ned, though his heart beat fast and his scalp prickled. ‘Set a date and a place.’

  Henri d’Arcy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Very well, then. The day after we arrive, meet me at the stroke of midnight, at the corner of the Bosco Alley. It runs off Bosco Street, two streets back from the Cannaregio canal. You can’t miss it. And it’s quiet. The guards don’t come near it. Come alone. Agreed
?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Ned coldly, and stalked away, shaking a little, the blood pounding in his head. The die was well and truly cast now, Fortune’s cards on the table. And for that he was glad.

  But after the first heady excitement of the challenge had worn off, he began to feel scared. Not scared of the actual fighting. Last year he’d had lessons in swordsmanship from an old friend of Master Ashby’s, a man who’d once been a soldier. Master Ashby said every young man should know how to use a sword. And strangely, despite his general clumsiness and dreaminess, Ned had been good at it. His teacher had even praised him: said he could make a living at it, if he’d had a mind to it. . . . Not that he had. Ned didn’t at all fancy the

  footloose life of a soldier, always scrounging for money, or the dangerous one of the paid bodyguard or hired sword, unable to maintain any kind of family life or home.

  He could hardly believe he’d actually called a duel. He usually only dreamed of adventure and excitement and danger. Now the real thing had come to him. What was more, he had made it come to him. And now he had cold feet! But there was no way he could call off the duel. He would look like a dishonourable coward. No. He would fight hard, and fight to win, and trust to God he wouldn’t be killed or badly wounded.

  But if he did win, it would be because he’d killed or badly hurt Henri. What would happen then? What would Jacques d’Arcy do? The merchant was friendly, but Henri was clearly the apple of his eye, and if anything happened to him he would want the perpetrator punished. And he had influence in Venice. Things could get very sticky indeed. No, at all costs, he must avoid involving Celia or Master Ashby or Mistress Quickly. They must not know a thing. It would be much safer for them that way.

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  That way madness lies

  Venice! Venice at last! Though he’d seen it in the paint- ing and onstage, nothing had really prepared Ned for the reality of the golden city. Everything was so much bigger, so much more awesome and magnificent than he’d imagined: the lagoon no gentle pond, but huge, with the powerful salty surge of the sea in it; the blue and gold of St Mark’s Basilica, with its vast domes and arches and tall red bell-tower; the pink marble and filigree of the Ducal Palace; the elegant silhouettes of palaces, crowded on the splendid sweep of the Grand