by Sam Burnell
She bought hose, shirts and a used, but good, doublet for Richard. Jack, however, was never going fit into any of the selection of clothes available, too tall and too broad for anything the sellers had to offer. He had to make do with hose, shirt and boots. Jack still had the doublet he had taken from Robert, and Lizbet resolved to try her best to clean and repair it.
Returning later they found Richard still asleep. Jack stripped, shaved and sluiced himself with water that Lizbet hauled up from the street. Lizbet, ,satisfied, dispatched him back to hire another room closer to the centre that hopefully would have fewer rodents than this one. She had the unsavoury task of dealing with the less predicable brother. They had brought back food, but Richard was little interested in it and wanted only something to drink. She was thankful though, that after the ale with the herbs she had bought, he was quietly cooperative.
An hour later they were gone, Jack leading them back across Venice towards the room he had rented. Lizbet was delighted with the sudden and dramatic improvement in their circumstances. Richard, though, simply walked across the room and lay himself upon the bed, eyes closed to the world, Jack staring after him.
Chapter 8
A Truth Recognised
Thomas Gent needed to find Richard. This had not taken as long as he thought it would, although it cost more than he had wanted. When Andrew had arrived in Venice, believing that Richard might be close behind them, he had hired men from the Almilio family. Andrew had left Gent, along with these hired mercenaries, to prevent Fitzwarren from following them. After three weeks, when there was no sighting of either of the brothers, Gent dispensed with the services of Almilio’s men. It was a burden in terms of cost and Gent disliked their company.
After Gent had sighted the brothers on the boat, and then lost track of them, he had returned to Almilio. This was not his city, Gent was very much on his own, and he knew he needed help if he was to find them again. He had provided Almilio with a description of the one man who would stand out in crowd in Venice – Jack. Blond, a head taller than most men and English, he should not be hard to find. Almilio had thought differently, and had set a high price on the information. Thomas was forced to agree to it, knowing that without Almilio’s help he had little chance of finding Fitzwarren.
A boy, dark skinned and brown eyed, had come to find him. Gent trailed through the blisteringly hot streets after the boy to where he finally found Almilio playing dice. The boy’s patron was drinking wine in a canopied courtyard, wafted by the draft from a large fan operated by four boys. Jewelled water sprang from a trickling fountain in the centre of the courtyard, a constant cooling cascade pouring from the open mouth of a lion. Almilio saw Gent and beckoned him over. The boy snatched the coin that was sent spinning towards him, then darting through the doorway, he was gone, leaving Gent alone.
“You’ve news for me?” Thomas Gent asked, striding forwards.
Almilio nodded but did not look up, intent on rolling the bone dice on the board between himself and the other two players. They stopped their rolling dance and displayed an unwanted two and a one. Almilio groaned, cast the coins from his side of the table into the centre, and excused himself.
Rising, he made his way to Gent. “It looks like you have saved me from ruin.” He nodded behind him at the dice table.
Gent doubted very much if a few games of dice would reduce Almilio to a state of penury. He waited until they were out of earshot of the gaming table before he said, “Did you find him?”
Almilio nodded. “My brother rents accommodation near St Catherine’s, and the man you are looking for is there.”
“Are you sure?” Gent asked.
“He is with a man and woman, the descriptions fit. The boy who brought you here can take you there,” Almilio said, and then added, “There are two of them. Surely you will want my men with you again.”
Gent considered this for a moment. Almilio was trying to maximise his profit from the deal, but on the other hand he had a valid point. The two brothers were skilled and he had no desire to face them together alone.
An hour later, Thomas Gent flanked by two of Almilio’s men, was striding through the narrow streets following the small boy who guided them through the crowds. By the time they arrived the Fitzwarren brothers and the bitch they had with them had left. Gent, furious, left empty handed.
†
Richard told them what he wanted, and more importantly, where to get it. Jack was happy to go have something constructive to do, and taking Lizbet with him set out to get it.
The Piazza De Fino had long been associated with scribes. They sat in the shade of the columns, surrounded by their low wooden writing tables, attended by their apprentices. The Piazza, reached though a narrow passage, was away from the hustle of Venice; a haven of peace and tranquillity, a small quiet isolated place that had been home to scribes for as long as anyone could remember. They spent their days quietly around the piazza where a statue of Venus poured perpetual water from a jug; it was both a calm and quiet place to be.
Venice’s very lifeblood might be her canals that veined their way through the city, but they were fed by a heart, and that heart was fuelled by trade. Commerce was life in the Doge’s Venetian empire. Most of the larger merchant houses had scribes and clerics on staff completing bills of lading, invoices, letters and notes of credit in stuffy airless small offices. The smaller merchants, though, still used the ad-hoc services of the scribes in the Piazza De Fino, rather than carrying the unnecessary expense of such staff when they were not always needed.
At the end of the day the apprentices stowed away the tools of their trade and folded away their masters’ wooden writing tables. Richard had told Lizbet exactly what he wanted and it did not take her long to find it. A balding man was haranguing his apprentice for tipping over a pot of ink on the flags. The boy had already placed a bare foot in the black spreading stain, the imprint of his toes appearing repeatedly over the alabaster white flags, as he hopped from foot to foot in increasing agitation.
The writing tables, when folded flat, were carried by means of a leather strap clipped onto each side of the table. The second clip, having been twisted by Lizbet’s quick fingers as she passed, was no longer properly closed. As the boy hoisted it to his shoulder, the strap fell away, the wooden box hitting the stone with a crack. There followed a clatter as the lid slapped open and a rolling rattle as the contents tumbled out.
Lizbet threw her arms wide. With an exclamation on her lips that was certainly not Italian, she claimed the scribes and apprentice’s attention as she descended upon them. Her helpful hands were unwanted, but the scribe’s polite gestures and accented Italian did not deter her. Eventually all the pens, pots of ink and sheets of velum were stored again inside the writing table, the leather strap was fixed firmly back to the side of the box. The scribe, retreating from Lizbet, his hand firmly on the elbow of the boy, backed from the Piazza, muttering words of thanks. He clearly wanted to absent himself from Lizbet’s attentions as quickly as possible.
Soon afterwards, Lizbet put down her stolen offerings one by one in front of the Master. Two sheets of velum, rolled and creased, two short ink-blackened pens, a pot of dark ink with a cracked and blackened cork stopper and a small block of sealing wax.
Richard drained his cup, then slid both pens towards him and observed their sorry state. Meeting Lizbet’s eye over the nibs, he said, “This one…” He held out the shorter and fatter of the two. “…is for marking and tallies and not much use for writing.” He rolled the goose quill between his fingers before placing it on the table and picking up the narrower longer one. “While this one is split from here…” He tapped his finger on the top. “…to here.” The split ran half way down the length of the ink stained pen.
It was Jack who spoke in her defence. “How is Lizbet supposed to know a good pen from a bad one?”
“Maybe you should teach her to write?” Richard said, absently pulling one of the creased sheets towards him.
; “Don’t you say anything about that. It’s not my fault it got creased. This great oaf here squeezed my arm and squashed it where it was rolled up.”
“Sorry,” interrupted Jack, sounding not at all apologetic. He selected the split pen, inspected it and threw it back on the table in front of Richard, placing his knife next to it. “Trim that down and it will serve you well enough.”
“Any complaints about the ink?” Lizbet asked grumpily.
“None, and the sealing wax was a nice addition as well,” Richard said.
Lizbet met his eyes. They were bright but lacked humour. She yanked a chair away from the table and dropped down heavily into it, elbows on the wood. It was obvious she had every intention of watching him write the letter.
“Come on then, I’ve never seen it done before,” Lizbet announced.
“Trust me, it’s not that exciting to watch,” Jack supplied. He was leaning against the window frame, observing the narrow street below, from the crack between the shutters. His next words were directed at Richard. “So you think this letter will get a reply?”
“Certainly,” Richard replied. Under Lizbet’s scrutiny, he trimmed the quill back and set down the knife on the table. “I expect it will bring about our arrest, which should place us where we want to be. There we go, the shortest pen I’ve ever used but it should work.” Richard held the pen out for Lizbet to see. It was barely long enough to grip. Lizbet’s small quick hand took a rapid hold of his wrist and turned it over to view the back of the pen.
“Are you satisfied with my work?” Richard said, sounding annoyed.
Lizbet nodded.
“If I may…” Richard opened the sheet out, rolling it in reverse to flatten it. “Pull the stopper from the ink pot,” he instructed.
“Why?” Lizbet exclaimed.
“I don’t want ink all over my hands, that’s why.”
Lizbet twisted the gnarled cork from the small bottle, sniffing at the contents, her nose wrinkling.
Jack rolled his eyes. “It’s not meant for drinking.”
“Good. It smells as bad as your feet.”
Jack shot her a dark look, and Richard ignored them, turning his attention to the sheet of paper.
“Are you watching?” Richard said as he held the pen over the inkpot. Lizbet nodded. Dipping it in he turned it over so she could see the wet mark of the ink on the reverse. “No more than that much at a time.” Then smoothing the sheet out with his hand, he began placing the black cursive marks of the letters on the page.
“Each block is a word, is that right?” Lizbet asked.
Richard nodded.
“Well, you have a lot to say then, don’t you?” Lizbet remarked.
Richard’s eyes met hers as he paused to dip the pen into the ink once more. “Not as much you, woman.”
Lizbet heeded his words and watched him compose the rest of the letter in silence.
Richard sat back when he was finished, staring at the completed sheet before him.
Jack turned his gaze from the street. Seeing that the letter was finished, he crossed the room and lifted it from the table. His brow furrowed in consternation as he read.
“Christ, Richard! You’ve missed out words. It doesn’t make any sense.” Jack raised his eyes from the letter to meet Richard’s. His brother’s gaze had returned again to some point between them and he didn’t meet Jack’s look. “This looks like a child wrote it!”
Richard still didn’t reply. Wordlessly he raised himself from the chair and returned to the bed, lying down on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Jack swore, took the vacated seat and, pulling the unused sheet of vellum towards him, carefully copied out the letter in his own neat hand.
Lizbet watched him. His confident strokes contrasted markedly with the shaky indecisive lines she had watched his brother create on the page. When he had finished he picked up the uneven lump of dark wax. “Can you melt that?” he asked Lizbet.
Lizbet looked between Jack and the lump of wax, and then said, “We’ve no fire.”
“It’s hot enough out there to melt hell,” Jack replied.
Lizbet watched as he opened the shutters a degree more and placed his knife on the dusty stone sill. He sat the lump of wax on the widest part of the blade and as she watched the wax closest to the hilt began to run.
Jack balanced the molten wax on the blade, carried it back and poured it to the folded sheet. The room was warm and the wax remained soft and pliable long enough for Jack take his ring from the purse and press it carefully into the seal, staring at the Fitzwarren crest he imprinted there.
Soon after Jack left the room. A few coins ensured that the letter would be delivered. He was about to return to the room, but instead took himself further along the narrow street to the end where it met the canal. On the left, facing the water, was a tavern he had seen earlier. It was of the cheaper type, he could tell from those sat drinking and playing cards outside. It catered for the city’s workers, the bakers, the dyers, the tanners, the boatswains, the men who toiled to make Venice the city it was.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted ale. What he did know was that he didn’t want to go back to the room. He certainly didn’t want his brother’s company. Not at the moment. The meeting with Chester had obviously not gone his brother’s way, and the letter he had written had shocked Jack.
A small earthenware jug of ale was delivered to his table. He smiled at the girl as she placed it quietly before him, waiting until she left before he poured the ale into the cup. The jug was small and quickly emptied. Jack was considering another and attempted to summon the girl who had brought him the ale over. She was, he saw, more profitably employed, her hand in that of a man wearing a floury apron and with his dark hair full of wheat dust. She was leading him towards a narrow alley that led down the side of the tavern. Jack cast his eyes around, looking for another serving wench, but apart from another handful of men sitting talking quietly over their drinks he was alone. It looked like he would have to wait.
She was back soon enough and he waved her over. Fetching another glazed brown jug, she made her way between the tables towards him. Did he really want to sit here and get drunk? Jack knew the answer to that question was a resounding yes, but he knew he couldn’t. Lizbet and Richard were back in the room and he had no right to leave them while he drowned his sorrows.
The girl put the jug down and leaned across the table to stroke his arm, an invitation playing across her face. Did he want a woman? His body supplied the answer to that question. He was on his feet a moment later, being led to the alley along the side of the tavern. Behind the tavern there was a low crumbling wall that served the girls well. Perched on it already, her legs spread either side of a grunting man, was another girl, who acknowledged with a smile the girl leading Jack.
Letting go of his hand and hopping up onto the wall she hoisted her skirts for him, leaning back and spreading her legs wide. Jack needed no further invitation. The man to his right finished with a loud groan and a moment later the girl pushed him away, her eyes now on Jack. Holding his gaze and reaching down between her legs, she matched his pace.
Jack felt guilty when he paid her from the small supply of coins he had. Then when she nodded at the other girl and said, “You give Nicole money as well,” he felt even worse. He had no choice but to pay. Somewhere close would be the girl’s owner ready pounce on those who failed to part with coin. That he had been rolled by two prostitutes was something he would be keeping to himself.
Jack sat down at the tavern table and slowly drank the remainder of the jug of ale, his mind wandering back to that appalling letter drafted by his brother. Richard would have berated him for an age if he’d done something like that. When he’d been stupid enough to poach pheasants, he’d not heard the last of it for weeks. So what had changed? He knew Richard didn’t care overly about what happened to himself and Jack could recognise a pain felt on the inside, he had suffered it himself, but this was something different. There was something else.
As they had travelled south he’d become less and less talkative. The only times he’d ever really spoken to them were when Lizbet gave him whatever it was she’d bought at the apothecary’s.
Jack’s hand, reaching for the jug, stopped in mid-air.
What had the apothecary given her?
Jack didn’t finish the jug. He was on his feet and strode quickly back to the rented room, finding Lizbet and Richard where he had left them. His brother was sprawled out on the bed, Lizbet was sitting at the table, the ink pen in her hand. She was busy making patterns on the reverse of the abandoned sheet of vellum that had Richard’s failed letter on it. Lizbet looked up at his entrance, guilt on her face as she discarded the pen quickly on the table.
“Lizbet, the herbs you’ve been giving him, where are they?” Jack asked as he closed the door behind him.
Lizbet looked confused. “He doesn’t need any now. I gave him some a while ago just before he was writing the letter.”
“Let me see them.” Jack held his open hand out for them.
Lizbet patted her skirt and found the small jar, extracting it and dropping it into his hand. “There wasn’t much left, but I got some more today.”
The ale cup Richard had drunk from earlier was on the table. Jack slopped more into the cup and pushed it towards her. “Put in there what you give him.”
Lizbet looked confused.
“Please, I need you to,” Jack reassured her.
Lizbet took the jar back, pulled away the stopper and tipped in what she normally gave Richard.
Jack took the cup, stirred it with his finger, and tipped the contents into his mouth. A moment later he spat it onto the rushes in the room. “Christ, woman! No wonder he can’t write.”
“Jack, what’s the matter? It’s just herbs.” There was an edge of panic in Lizbet’s voice.
“Yes, it is. The type that robs a man of his senses. The kind that he can’t do without once he’s started. You’ve been giving him poppy tears,” Jack exclaimed.