"A Brood of Vipers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doherty Paul)

Chapter 10

Well, you know how it goes – it's always the same in any deliberate tavern brawl. These braggadocios had been sent to stir us up. Their leader spoke English. I gathered he was some apostate cleric or one of Italy's eternal students. I tried to ignore him but he began to taunt Maria, wondering if her privy parts were as small as everything else.

'Stop and play with us, little one!' he shouted, smacking me on the back of the head. 'The other one can go home and play with his mother!'

'Well, at least he's got one,' I said, 'and I know who my father was – claims none of you bastards can make!'

Well, that was it. Back they stepped, cloaks going over their shoulders, swords and daggers in their hands. I drew my own sword, seeing with relief that the landlord had opened a hidden door and was beckoning us to safety. Benjamin went to draw his sword. 'No, Master,' I ordered. 'Take care of Maria!'

We moved across the tavern floor, my body shielding both Benjamin and Maria. God knows what happened then. I never discovered if the tavern-keeper was part of the plot or if he just panicked. He dragged Benjamin and Maria through the door. I went to follow, but he slammed it shut in my face. I heard the bolts being shut even as I hammered on the door. 'Let me in!' I screamed. 'Oh, for God's sake! Let me in!'

The door didn't move. I whirled round, raising my sword just in time to block an attacker's thrust.

(Now I see my little chaplain giggle, his shoulders shaking. I know what he's thinking. Old Shallot either wetting his pants or telling lies! I rap him firmly across the knuckles with my ash cane. The little whelk of a bird-dropping! Yes, yes, I am a coward! There's not a tavern floor in London I have not crawled across in a mad desperate attempt to reach the door. Many a time I have told the attacker to look behind him and, when he does, I've hit him on the head and ran like the wind.)

However in that Florentine taverna it was different. I was cornered! And you know what they say about cornered rats? There were four attackers. Two were just bully-boys but the other two, one of them the leader, were professional swordsmen. They closed in, dancing, swords jabbing, daggers thrusting. I became hysterical with fright. My sword and dagger flashed like a scythe and, I tell no lie, I sliced off the leader's nose! One minute it was there, the next minute it was hanging by a few shreds of skin whilst the blood spurted out like wine from a cracked jar. He threw his sword and dagger to the floor and staggered back as a comrade took his place. Encouraged by my success I now opened both eyes. I pricked another attacker in the shoulder and was beginning to wonder whether I could play the hero again when the taverna was invaded by the black-garbed men of the Master of the Eight.

The braggadocios vanished like puffs of smoke, taking the noseless one with them. The men of Eight concentrated on me, battering me with their staves till I was beaten to the floor. I fought back, because I couldn't forget the nightmare scene, earlier in the day, of those three corpses twirling above the execution fire. One of the hooded men bestrode me and began to beat me around the head. I lunged back, biting the man in the genitals until he screamed. I fought on until a stinging blow on the head knocked me unconscious.

(Do you know, I always reflect on that? Some poor Florentine walking around with Roger Shallot's teeth marks in his balls! Whenever Benjamin used to say 'Roger, you always left your mark', I'd remember that fracas in Florence and, to my master's astonishment, burst out laughing.)

When I regained consciousness I was lying at the bottom of a cart, manacled hand and foot. My head ached and I was sore from chin to crotch. I hoisted myself up. The driver of the cart and his assistants were dressed in black, as were the men marching alongside, swinging their lead-tipped staves. Peering through the slats of the cart, I saw we were crossing the old market. I glimpsed the colours and heard the shouts of the crowd, but these died as soon as the Eight's men made their appearance. Believe me, they had no difficulty getting through the throng.

At last the cart stopped. I looked over the side and my heart sank at the sight of the grey, forbidding building that loomed before me. The whip cracked and the horses moved on. I saw a great, iron-studded gate slam shut behind me and smelled a stench that has haunted me all my life – the odour of unwashed bodies, swollen sewers and dirty cells that is the hall-mark of any prison. Now, on a number of occasions I have been in Newgate. I am acquainted with the Fleet, the Marshalsea and the Tower and have even spent two weeks with the happy crowd at the madhouse in Bedlam. But, believe me, that prison in Florence was one of the worst. They call it the Stinche and you can well believe it! I told young Francis Bacon that this was the origin of the English word 'stink'. He, of course, mocked the idea. If the clever bastard had paid a visit to that Florentine prison he'd soon have changed his mind!

It has been described as 'the torture chamber', 'the home of the Eight', 'Hell on earth' and, most appropriately, 'the hole of oblivion', for many who went in there were never seen or heard of again. I was dragged out of the cart and on to the filthy cobbles, then hauled to my feet by the cowled, masked figures. I stared in horror at a man being pegged out in the yard. A great metal-studded door had been laid over him and heavy iron weights were now being placed on this. The poor fellow began to scream as a torturer, with an hour glass in one hand, tapped the cobbles with a white wand and asked the prisoner a question. When the fellow shook his head, another weight was placed on him.

I was only too glad when my guards, urging me with their staves, drove me up wide, sweeping stone steps and into the eeriest of chambers. It was dark as pitch; ceiling and floor were painted black and purple drapes covered the walls. At one end a massive silver crucifix swung from a rafter. Beneath this stood a desk and a high-backed chair. Two candlesticks at either end of the table cast a pool of light on the face of Frater Seraphino. He smiled and got to his feet, gesturing me forward as if I was some long-lost relation.

‘I heard you were coming,' he lisped. ‘I speak your tongue very well, Master Shallot. When I studied at the Sorbonne, most of my friends were English. Please sit.'

I had no choice. A high-legged stool was brought forward and placed before the table and I was forced to mount. I had to balance myself carefully lest I fall off. I stared like an idiot across the black velvet-draped table at Frater Seraphino. He clapped his hands and gestured with his fingers as a sign for my guards to stand back. He then leaned across the table like some benevolent uncle.

'Master Shallot, you are not a stupid man and neither am I. You have been arrested for' – he ticked the points off on his fingers – 'being involved in a tavern brawl; resisting arrest; and injuring one of my officers in' – he grinned – 'a most sensitive place. But you know and I know that's only a pretext. Those bullies who provoked you into a fight were sent by me to provide the pretext for inviting you here. I only mention this because I can prove my story, whilst you have no evidence to the contrary. Now, what do you say to that?'

'Piss off!' I retorted through blood-caked lips. 'I know a little of the law. I am the accredited English envoy of his gracious Majesty King Henry VIII, my master is-'

'Benjamin Daunbey, nephew to the great Cardinal Wolsey,' Frater Seraphino finished for me. 'But they don't know where you are. You were involved in a tavern brawl. You are my prisoner and you are very rude.' He clicked his fingers and gabbled something in Italian.

One of the guards came out of the shadows carrying the iron poker he had been heating in a small brazier just inside the door. He pressed the red-hot poker against the back of my neck. I screamed in agony and fell off the stool. The sharp-edged manacles dug into my wrists and ankles and I jarred every bone in my body. Seraphino spoke again and the guards picked me up and put me back on the stool. Frater Seraphino smiled benignly.

(By the way, have you noticed that professional torturers always smile and are usually very softly spoken, as if they personally regret every little inconvenience they cause you. Richard Topcliffe, Elizabeth I's master torturer, was no different. Once, as we were admiring the gardens at Greenwich, I asked him why. Do you now what he said? 'My dear Roger, it increases the sense of terror. Such a sharp contrast can unnerve the coolest wit.') Well, Frater Seraphino certainly terrified me. 'Your first name is Roger?' he asked me. I nodded. 'But don't you English use that word "Roger" to describe the sexual act?' Again I nodded. 'And are you one for the ladies, Master Shallot?' 'So they say.' 'Like the Lady Beatrice? Or the Lady Bianca?' I just stared back. 'Who is killing the Albrizzis?' 'I don't know.' 'Why are you so interested in the artist Borelli?' I told him.

'And what messages do you carry to the Cardinal Giulio de' Medici?'

I told him that, as well as what the cardinal had said in reply. Frater Seraphino leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. 'What did Cardinal Wolsey mean by that message?' I shook my head dumbly. Frater Seraphino smiled.

'I am not sure, Roger,' he said quietly, 'whether you are lying or telling the truth. You see, you have told us something, but only pieces of a puzzle. They don't fit together.' Again he ticked the points off on his stubby fingers. 'Who's killing the Albrizzis and why? What is this message to the cardinal? What does it mean? Why does your royal master want to hire the painter Borelli?'

I felt like telling him to ask the cardinal himself, but remembered the hiss of that red-hot poker and kept my mouth shut. One thing was clear, even to my fuddled wits; Lord Giulio had been right – in Florence information meant power. The Master of the Eight, for reasons best known to himself, was intent on entering this game of shadows.

'Well.' Frater Seraphino beamed. 'You'll have to be our guest a little while longer.'

The black-hearted turd muttered something in Italian to one of my keepers. Seraphino glanced at me sharply to see if I understood what he said, then he nodded his balding head. 'We shall meet again,' he whispered.

I was dragged off to one of the loathsome hell-holes beneath the prison, a rank, fetid pit. It was simply a stone cavern, with wet, mildewed walls and no light except the few weak rays struggling through the cracks and seams of the heavy trapdoor above me. I was thrown on to a bed of black, rotting straw and given a tallow candle to light and place in a niche in the wall. A cracked bowl of dirty oatmeal and a tin cup of brackish water were also lowered down to me, but both oatmeal and water tasted so vile that I emptied them on the straw. I squatted and watched the cockroaches, big as butterflies, crawl from beneath the straw into the bowl. I didn't feel too frightened. Master Benjamin would surely discover my whereabouts and arrange my release. I leaned back against the shit-stained wall. At first I felt homesick for England. I cursed King Henry, starting with "Fat Bastard", and when I had exhausted my litany of insults started on Cardinal Wolsey. I must have been shouting, for the trapdoor was flung open and a bucket of cold slops hurled down on me, followed by a stream of curses which, I understood, told me to be quiet. So I shut my mouth, my mind going back over the events that had brought me to this filthy hell-hole.

Now, sitting in a prison cell with nothing to do is not my favourite pastime, but does concentrate the mind. Certain images kept recurring – the garden at that taverna, the children and their fire-crackers, Cardinal Giulio's silent menace, his lack of interest about the murders at the Albrizzi household. I scratched my chin and watched the king of the cockroaches squat in the middle of my dirt.

'Now, that's strange,' I mumbled to myself. 'Why didn't the good cardinal ask me a question? What are the messages he and Wolsey are sending to each other? And the painter Borelli? How can a man paint in a darkened room?' I recalled the picture I had seen in the king's chamber at Eltham, then I rattled my chains with glee. Whoever had painted that was right-handed, yet the man we had met, calling himself Borelli, had held the brush in his left hand. Did that painting hanging on the walls of Eltham Palace lie at the heart of this mystery? And what of the assassin with the arquebus? For some strange reason I kept remembering those skeletons Benjamin and I had unearthed outside the manor at Ipswich.

I was about to develop my thoughts when the trapdoor opened and another prisoner was flung into the pit. A greasy-haired, sallow-faced man, he spent the first few minutes shaking his fists and cursing his captors, until they poured down a bucket of cold slops to silence him. 'Welcome to Hell!' I murmured. He got down on all fours and peered through the gloom. ‘Inglese?' 'Yes.'

'Signor.' He extended a hand. 'My name is Bartolomeo Deagla, Europe's principal trader in relics, now detained by the Florentine authorities over a minor misunderstanding.'

I grasped his hand. He scrabbled across and sat beside me. He smelt like a midden-heap. His moustache and beard were all straggly and unkempt, but his eyes were watchful. I smelled the wine fumes on his breath. 'What are you doing here, Inglese?' 'Minding my own business!' I snarled. 'So hostile!' he murmured.

'Hostile but not stupid!' I snapped. 'Oh, for God's sake, man, you're wasting your time. You're no relic-seller. Your hands are soft. You have just drunk a goblet of the most fragrant wine. Finally, don't you think it's a coincidence that here I am, an Englishman in a Florentine gaol, and wonder upon wonders, another prisoner joins me who can speak English.' I thrust my face closer. 'You're a sodding informer! A Job's comforter! Now, why don't you piss off and tell Frater Seraphino he'll have to do better!'

The fellow shrugged and smiled to himself; he got to his feet, walked under the trapdoor and shouted something in Italian.

A ladder was lowered. The fellow climbed up this but stopped half-way and grinned down at me.

I don't know what he said, but he pointed to a grille in the far wall. He clambered up, the ladder was withdrawn and the trapdoor slammed shut. At first I sat, quite pleased with my perspicacity, watching the daylight fade through the cracks.

I began to grow cold and wondered when my master would arrive to save me. My courage, never the best, began to fade. My eyes were drawn to that large grille in the wall. What had the spy meant? Drops of water began to seep through the grille. I heard a scurry and a squeak and glimpsed red, mad eyes glaring at me through the grating. 'Oh, Lord save me!' I muttered.

An idea formed in my tired mind but I dismissed it as some new, cruel game the Master of the Eight had decided to play. At first I thought the grille was fixed in the wall but, straining my eyes through the gloom, I saw that it was held by wires attached to a chain. I heard a creak. The wires became taut and the grille began to lift. I huddled in a corner and watched the long, black, slimy-tailed rats slip out. No, I don't lie, these weren't your robust little English rats. Believe me, I have seen smaller cats! The leading one was at least two feet from snout to tip of tail; its fur was black, sleek and glossy and its eyes glowed like fragments of fire. In the poor light of the candle (and now I knew why the bastards had given it to me) I glimpsed long snouts and cruel, yellow teeth. These were sewer rats, voraciously hungry. They were probably lured from an underground river and trapped for a while to whet their appetites before being released into that God-forsaken hole.

The leading rat crawled across the floor, fat-bellied, sliding over the ooze, its snout twitching. It turned and watched me. Another joined it, sliding up beside it, then another. Four, five now dropped into the cell. They stopped, packed together like a group of imps from hell. I stayed still, not from any cunning but from sheer terror. One of the rats edged forward, then came at a scurry towards my leg. I screamed and lashed out. The rat withdrew.

'Signor!' A voice sang out from above. 'You like your new companions?' I yelled abuse back.

'There are more, Signor. Surely you would rather talk than dine with them? Or should I say for them?'

Lord, I could not believe it! Another grille, in the far corner of the cell, hidden by some wet straw, was lifted. More of the slimy bastards emerged. Now my dear little chaplain often gives a sermon about the enemy encamped around us. I know what he's bloody talking about! Most people believe rats are furtive rodents, squirming under a bale of straw, fleeing like shadows at any footfall. But you talk to any rat-catcher, a man who knows his business. He'll tell you about sewer rats. They are fierce and, when hungry, relentless hunters. There must have been at least a dozen in the cell. At first they snouted amongst the straw for bits of food. Then they massed like an enemy for attack. I closed my eyes. If I showed any sign of weakness they would close in. I edged across the cell, took the candle from its holder and began to rip the shirt from my back. I lit this and used it as a torch, flinging it at the rats. They retreated back to the grille, but then the fire died. The smoke made me cough and the rats re-emerged. The candle was beginning to die. I shook my chains, shouted and screamed, but the rats appeared to have become accustomed to this. One edged forward, then another. They began to fan out. I kept my eyes on their grey-muzzled leader. A lean, vicious bastard, he suddenly sprang across the floor and, abruptly changing direction, came at me from the side. The little bastard went straight for my neck, those yellow teeth scrabbling for the great vein which pulses there, as if I was some chicken in a farmyard. I put my hands up, more in fright than in bravery. I felt the slimy body squirm in my hands. God knows how I did it. Its claws were round my wrist and fingers. I brought my arm back against the wall of the cell, smashing like fury. I flung the rat at his watching companions. Oh God, the nightmare grew worse! The rats withdrew. I don't know whether I had killed or only stunned their leader. Its body lay on the floor until the pack closed in and tore it to pieces. I will not offend your sensibilities by describing the sound, the smell or the sight. I was contemplating prayer when the trapdoor was opened and a ladder pushed down. The rats scurried away as torches dropped in amongst them. Burly arms seized mine. I was hoisted up the ladder and collapsed in a heap at the foot of my master.

'What is this?' Benjamin shouted. 'Frater Seraphino, explain this!'

'Signor Daunbey, Signor Daunbey, my apologies. There was an affray and this prisoner was brought in. I did not realize he was your servant.' Lying bastard!

Guards pulled me to my feet. I was in a small cell. Black-garbed buggers stood around, holding torches. Frater Seraphino sat languidly in a chair. My master stood next to him. Little Maria, her hand through his, was dancing from foot to foot. She moaned when she saw me and, running up, jumped like a little child about me, clapping her hands. I'd had enough! I looked at one of the torches, it began to whirl! Maria was still calling my name as I collapsed in a dead faint.

When I came to, I was seated in a closet of a taverna. (Something very similar has now been introduced into England to provide privacy in the taprooms – private recesses cordoned off from the stare of the vulgar by wooden partitions.) I had been placed on a bench and covered with my master's cloak. Maria was standing beside me, pushing a small bowl of herbs doused in hot water beneath my nose. I struggled awake, sat up straight and stared across the table at my master. He pushed a large goblet towards me. 'Drink, Roger! Drink some of Caesar's wine!'

Drink! I gulped it in one mouthful, so fast that 1 began to feel dizzy again. I leaned my hands on the table. Well, you know me, I was out of that damned pit and away from those hideous rodents so I felt happy and very, very hungry. Benjamin stood up, leaned over the partition and shouted at the innkeeper. Within the hour I was sitting back, my belly full, gently burping, sipping at another goblet of wine. I had gorged myself on the juiciest pieces of steak, cooked in a strong pepper sauce with a bowl of vegetables, and the softest white bread I have ever tasted. I looked down at the marks on my hand. My arm and the back of my head still ached and the nightmares returned. 'What took you so long?' I wailed.

Benjamin shrugged. 'The tavern-keeper pulled us down a secret passageway which led out into a street. But the time we returned, all I could see was the blood on the floor and some Florentines jabbering about how the Eight had taken you away. I went to the Stinche. They, of course, denied any knowledge of you. I returned to the Medici Palace. I had to threaten, shout and plead until the good cardinal agreed to intervene. I returned to the Stinche with his personal warrant. Only then did Frater Seraphino order a thorough search of the records, admit there had been a mistake, profusely apologize and take me down to where you were.'

I told him in short, pithy sentences what had happened. Benjamin whistled under his breath and shook his head.

'When we return to England I shall inform dear uncle and-'

'He'll laugh his bloody head off!' I roared. 'How long will it take for a letter to come to Florence? And, if that cruel bastard, the Master of the Eight, decides to reply, he'll apologize as prettily as a maid, as well as point out the dangers that might befall anyone who breaks the peace in Florence. Master, I am not as stupid as I look!' Benjamin tapped my hand. 'No one says you are, Roger.'

I slurped from the wine cup and looked at Maria. She gazed owlishly back. 'You are so brave, Shallot,' she murmured.

'Brave!' I bellowed. 'Brave! I've been shot at, nearly died of sea-sickness and escaped from a burning chamber. I have twice been inveigled into a duel. I have been burnt on the back of my neck, thrown into a filthy pit and tormented by a horde of filthy rats! And I am not only talking about the creatures I met in the dungeon!' Maria smiled and stroked my hand.

'You are not a rogue, Shallot. You are just a man who has lost his soul.'

(I looked at her curiously. What did she mean? Years later a young priest I was hiding said the same, or something similar. Not that I had lost my soul but that I had misplaced it. God knows what that means!)

Anyway, in that sweet-smelling tavern which, after the horrors of the Stinche, seemed like paradise on earth, I just stared at the dwarf woman, belched softly and turned back to Benjamin. 'Master, what is happening? When can we go home?' Benjamin looked away.

'You know we've been told lies!' I snarled. 'Everything's a lie, Master. Nothing is what it appears to be. Why didn't the good cardinal question us more closely about the deaths amongst the Albrizzis?' Benjamin glanced at Maria.

'Oh, I trust her,' I said, smiling. 'She's too weak to have fired that arquebus, if that's what was used.' 'What do you mean?' Benjamin asked.

'Master,' I cried in exasperation. 'What are we doing here in Florence trying to persuade an artist who has long disappeared to come to England? That wasn't Borelli we met.' I explained the conclusions I had reached in the prison. Benjamin cupped his face in his hands.

'Let's go back to the beginning,' he said. 'We have a physician who commits suicide because he has been invited to court. The letter's not threatening, yet poor old Throckle fills a hot bath and opens his veins. We have a Florentine lord shot through the head in Cheapside, a steward who disappears on board ship and a priest-magician killed whilst we all look on.' He glanced across at Maria. 'We bring messages to a powerful cardinal, pure gibberish to us but meaning something to him. He gives us an equally nonsensical reply. We have the Master of the Eight, who senses that some juicy morsel of information lies behind these mysteries so he tries to torture it out of Roger. However, you can't tell him, for the simple reason you don't know yourself.' He paused. 'What else, Roger?' 'The artist?'

'Oh yes, Signor Borelli. He executed a painting based on an idea given by Lord Francesco. Henry now wants to invite him to England, but we find that he has disappeared and an imposter has taken his place. Why?' He smiled bleakly, ‘I have also discovered something, Roger.' He leaned across the table and whispered in my ear. I drew back and gazed at him in astonishment. 'The jewel!' 'Well, something similar. Do you remember that the king showed us an emerald, a gift from the Albrizzis?' 'Yes, I remember.' 'Well, I am sure I saw a similar stone around the neck of Giulio de Medici in that painting.' I stared at Maria, who looked puzzled. 'Where did Lord Francesco get that gift for our king?'

She shrugged. 'I don't know, but I was at court when he presented the emerald to King Henry. I am sure Lord Francesco said it was a family treasure. However, if I understand what you gentle signors are saying, the gift was not from the Albrizzis but from the Lord Cardinal?' Benjamin drummed his slender fingers on the table top.

'Why should Giulio de Medici, if our reasoning is correct, give a gift to Lord Francesco to pass on to our noble Henry and why should Francesco claim it was from him?'

'The same could apply to the painting. How do we know that the picture was a gift from the Lord Francesco? What if that also was given by the cardinal?'

'But this is stupid!' Maria edged closer. 'Lord Francesco was a very wealthy man. He was also an envoy. He would never lie about the source of a gift from so powerful a man as the ruler of Florence.'

'Let us say, for the sake of argument,' said Benjamin, 'that both the emerald and the painting were given to Lord Francesco by the cardinal with the express instruction that they be handed over the English king as gifts from the Albrizzis.' 'But why?' I exclaimed.

Benjamin pulled a face. 'Let's put it another way, Roger. You have a precious chalice made out of pure gold, encrusted with diamonds and full of the richest wine – but it contains a poison. Might you not give it to someone else to hand to your intended victim?'

'But how can a diamond and a painting be a poisoned chalice?' I asked.

'I don't know, Roger, but only after Lord Francesco had handed those gifts over did the murders amongst the Albrizzis begin. Somebody saw that painting and emerald as a sign. So, what is their real significance? And whom did they provoke into murder?' I stared at little Maria. 'Can you help?' She shook her head mournfully.

'Maria, please!' I insisted. 'Did the rest of Lord Francesco's family know about these gifts?'

'No, I don't think so,' she replied. 'The emerald was kept in a small locked casket and the painting was concealed in a canvas wrapping. We went to Eltham and your king, the one Roger calls the "fat bastard",' – she grinned impishly – 'was sitting in his throne room, Cardinal Wolsey beside him. Lord Francesco made a pretty speech, your king replied and the gifts were presented.'

'Did you notice anything untoward?' I asked. 'Did anyone cry out or exclaim?'

'At the painting, no. But I do remember the ladies Bianca and Beatrice were jealous at such a jewel being handed over. I think they were angry, particularly Lady Bianca, that such a precious stone had been hidden over the years. After all, the only time they saw it was when it was being given away.'

'And that,' I interrupted, 'brings everything back to the Albrizzis. The Lord knows, Master, there's enough seething passion in that family for murder on every side. Bianca has an adulterous relationship with the dead man's brother and Beatrice is hot for anything with a codpiece. Roderigo is ambitious. Alessandro, well,' – I shrugged – 'Alessandro's just a bastard!'

Benjamin grinned and drummed on the table top with his knuckles. 'It's good to see you back in good health, Roger. Let's start with that artist.' He held up a hand, ‘I know it's late and you are tired and sore, but no one will suspect if we go back there now. Come on, come on, drink up!'

I couldn't object. I comforted myself with the thought that the sooner this matter was resolved, the sooner I would be back chasing the wenches around Ipswich. Oh, if I'd only known!