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

Chapter 13

The Master of the Eight took us down to Florence. The sky was beginning to redden. All around thronged Frater Seraphino's dark riders, silent except for the clop of their horses' hooves. He and his two bodyguards rode in front. I rode beside the creaking cart, keeping an eye on my master. He was asleep, his face pale. I was still worried because certain poisons and sleeping draughts play strange tricks upon the mind, so it never comes out of its darkness. I was concerned that he be seen by some skilful physician. I wondered if I could reason with the Master of the Eight until I remembered his black heart and realized that begging would avail me nothing.

We entered Florence by a postern gate and, to my surprise, instead of going to the Stinche, the Master of the Eight took us to the Misericordia and into the care of its brothers. Benjamin was carried gently and carefully along darkened passageways into a white-washed room. Frater Seraphino came with us. Then he did the most surprising thing – he gripped me by the hand and shook it!

'Goodbye, Master Shallot.' He laughed gently at my surprise. 'You feared the worst, Englishman? You were in no danger. Besides, you have powerful patrons.' He stuck his thumbs into his girdle and cocked his head sideways. 'You are a strange one, Shallot. I'd put you down for a coward.'

‘I am,' I replied. 'And I swear this, I have done more battling in Florence than I have in my entire life!'

Frater Seraphino chuckled and turned away. At the door he turned and grinned impishly at me.

'Master Shallot, if you ever return, you really must be our guest again!'

I stuck up the middle finger of my right hand, but the door was already closing. The brothers were gathered around my master's bed, chattering and talking. They felt the pulse in his neck, lifted his eyelids, sniffed his mouth and felt the pulse in his wrist. God be my witness, they were good men – some of the most skilful practitioners of physic I've ever met. One of them tapped me gently on the wrist and smiled. 'Worry don't,' he said. 'You mean, don't worry?' 'Si, and that as well.'

They brought some concoction which smelt like horse-piss and forced it down my master's throat. Then they stood back, one of them holding up a bowl. My master stirred and abruptly turned sideways. He vomited as violently as I did after I'd drunk too much ale at the Gallows tavern just outside Ipswich. I was alarmed, but the brothers were very pleased. They stared into the bowl as if it held a collection of rubies and diamonds. More of the potion was forced down Benjamin's throat. Again he vomited. The room began to smell vile but the brothers were fairly hopping from one foot to another with excitement, pleased that his stomach was purged. One more time and my master was struggling awake. They let him rest for a while, then brought a fresh goblet. I could smell wine spiced with something else. They forced this between his lips. My master drank and fell back, snoring as if he was in the healthiest sleep. One of the brothers, merry-eyed and bald-headed, looked up at me. The goblet was refilled and I drank. Next minute I was fast asleep.

I was roused the next morning by Benjamin standing over me. He looked heavy-eyed but healthy.

'Must you sleep, Roger?' he joked. 'For God's sake, man, tell me what's happened!' I struggled awake, clambered to my feet and stared at him. 'You've fully recovered, Master?' 'Aye, thanks to you. But tell me.'

Further conversation was impossible, though. The good brothers came back to congratulate themselves and us. We were taken down to their refectory and given the most delicious stew, the softest white bread and goblets of white, light wine which the brothers swore, with a smile, contained no potions. Benjamin was ravenous. As he ate I told him what had happened. Now and again he would stop and ask me a question. When I had finished he put his spoon down, placed his elbows on the table and looked at me.

'I don't remember much,' he said. 'Giovanni came into my room. He said a new cask of Falernian had been broached and I was to taste it. I did so. But I didn't drink all of it because it smelled strange. Giovanni was looking at me curiously. I asked what was the matter. He looked alarmed, took one step towards me and said Lord Enrico had returned.' Benjamin shrugged. 'After that I remember nothing. I lay down on my bed. I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I remember you coming up. You were carrying someone?' 'Maria,' I said softly. Benjamin's eyes grew sad. 'Aye, God rest her! I also remember being picked up and carried downstairs. I glimpsed a woman's corpse, lying there like some dog.' 'Beatrice,' I told him.

'After that,' Benjamin continued, 'nothing. Until I woke up this morning, a little weak, starving, and found the brothers chattering like magpies, pointing at you, their faces and eyes so sad. They shook their heads and clucked their tongues. Oh sweet Lord!' Benjamin put his face in his hands. 'I never dreamt Enrico would do that! I planned to confront him when you returned.' He shook his head, i underestimated that young man's hatred, his thirst for vengeance.' He grasped me by the hand. 'Roger, I shall never forget this. You were very brave!'

'Lucky!' I amended, bitterly. 'Fortunate. So when can we go home?' I stared around the white-washed refectory. 'The brothers are good but…'

'Soon, Roger.' Benjamin said, i regret those deaths, those terrible, terrible deaths!'

(My master never forgot the events at the Villa Albrizzi and never really forgave himself. But hindsight makes wise men of us all. And what could we have done? Enrico had set his mind on murdering everyone in the Albrizzi household. Nevertheless, I shared my master's sorrow. Every spring, just as the weather turns, I pay for a Mass to be offered for the repose of their unfortunate souls. Maria? Ah well, she's different. When she died so did a little of myself!)

'But we were proved right, Master,' I reassured him. 'Enrico was the murderer. Nevertheless he had no hand in Borelli's death. And he knew nothing about the picture.'

'No,' Benjamin said absentmindedly. i don't think he did. We are still in the darkness, Roger, and the game's not yet over.'

I groaned but, of course, my master was right. A few hours later, whilst we were sitting in a shady arbour in the Misericordia garden, that excellent imp of Satan, His Eminence Cardinal Giulio de Medici, Prince of Florence, sent his minions to collect us. He was waiting for us, as before, in his palatial, opulent chambers overlooking the piazza. This time he was not so genial. He sat behind his great desk enthroned in that high, purple-backed chair. He reminded me of some splendid peregrine crouched on its perch, wondering whether or not to attack.

'The captain of my guard,' he began, 'has been to the Albrizzi villa. News of their deaths is all over Florence.' 'Enrico was the assassin,' my master told him. 'Yes, I know,' the cardinal said.

'Enrico believed,' Benjamin went on, 'that Lord Francesco Albrizzi and his brother Roderigo were behind his father's murder. Now, how would be have found that out, Your Grace?' The cardinal looked at him menacingly. 'What are you saying, Englishman?' he asked softly.

'Well, someone told him,' Benjamin said briskly, 'that the Albrizzis were the assassins and that they had taken an emerald from his father's body which they kept hidden until they handed it as a gift to King Henry.' The cardinal moved uneasily in his chair.

'But that same emerald, Your Grace,' Benjamin continued, pointing to the painting on the wall, 'is the one you wear in that portrait, finished just a few years, perhaps even months, after the murder of Enrico's father. Now,' Benjamin crossed his arms, 'from the little I know, Enrico's father was in Rome buying a precious emerald from an eastern merchant. You will remember, Your Grace, that at the time Rome was under the governance of your uncle, Pope Leo X. Anyway, Enrico's father was murdered and the jewel was never seen again. I just wonder

The cardinal leaned across the desk, tapping his little finger noisily on the wood.

'Yes, I gave that emerald to Lord Francesco Albrizzi,' he snapped. 'I gave him strict instructions that he was to tell no one where he got it, but say that it was part of his family's treasure.' He spread his hands and leaned back. 'It was the least I could do. Lord Francesco was spending good silver in travelling to England. I could not expect him to purchase the costly gift himself. But,' he held up a finger, 'you have no proof that it was the emerald taken from Enrico's father.'

'Your Grace is correct,' my master smiled. 'I have no proof at all, just a surmise. Nor am I accusing you of having a hand in that dreadful murder in Rome so many years before. Nevertheless, the jewels were never found. It is strange that you donated such a precious stone to Lord Francesco to give to our noble prince. Perhaps it's the merest coincidence that the handing over of this gift sparked off the murders in the Albrizzi household. After all, what other motive did Enrico have for these slayings except revenge?' Benjamin moved in his chair. He was tense with rage at the silk-clad Prince of Satan sitting so serenely opposite us. 'So,' he said, 'I go back to my original question. Who would tell Enrico all this? Surely someone powerful, someone who has access to secrets. Enrico was already very resentful at being made to marry Beatrice. Perhaps he already entertained vague suspicions which were fed and nurtured by this powerful person. But it needed clearer evidence to turn his suspicion to certainty. That evidence, Your Grace, was, I believe, the emerald.'

'I could have you arrested for treason,' the cardinal murmured.

'I doubt it. Others may begin to wonder. After all, you have totally extinguished two of Florence's most powerful families – families which never fully accepted the Medici rule in Florence.' The cardinal permitted himself a small, wry smile. 'But, don't forget, Lord Francesco also handed over other presents.'

'Ah, yes, the painting from poor Borelli, commissioned by the Lord Francesco.'

The cardinal's eyes danced in demonic merriment. He wagged a finger at Benjamin. 'You are good, Englishman. You are very, very good!'

'No!' Benjamin snapped. 'Because of me, others have died. And, perhaps, justice will never be done. Lord Francesco did not commission that painting, you did!' 'Oh? Why me?' 'Because your so-called brother in Christ, my dear uncle, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey of England, asked you to!' 'And why should he do that?' 'As a favour.' 'For what?'

'If Rome says yes,' Benjamin mimicked, 'England will say yes. What was the hidden significance of that painting, Your Grace?'

The cardinal just threw his head back and laughed. He then beat gently on the arms of his chair.

'Englishman, I don't really know. As I sit in my palace, I tell you, I don't really know.' 'Borelli might have known!' I interrupted. 'Perhaps.' That limb of Satan wiped a tear of merriment from his eyes. 'But, unfortunately, Master Borelli has met with a terrible accident. I believe his corpse is being buried today. Ah, Lord, save us!' The cardinal sighed. 'The violence of these times!' He looked at the clock as it began to 'chime. 'Tempus fugit,' he murmured, 'tempus fugit.' He rose to his feet. 'You are finished here.' He looked at both of us sternly. 'If you have further questions, ask your dear uncle. He'll tell you the answers.' He ushered us gently out. 'You'll find your bags packed, and horses stand ready in the courtyard below. You are to leave Florence now. Within a week you must be on a ship bound for England. You have my reply to your uncle?' Benjamin nodded. 'Then make sure you tell him the truth.' He walked towards the door. 'Master Daunbey!' he called out softly. My master and I turned.

The cardinal sketched a blessing in the air. 'In a year, come to Rome.'

And he began to laugh, low and mocking, as Benjamin and I were led along the galleries and out into the sun-washed courtyard.

A group of burly retainers, wearing the Medici livery, stood waiting for us. We were out of Florence within the hour, pounding along the coast roads under a blazing sun to the nearest port. We dallied there a further day, before the leader of our escort secured passage for us on a Genoese cog bound for the port of London. I fairly skipped aboard and, although my relief was tinged by apprehension as the cog turned and made its way out into the open sea, we experienced little hardship. No corsairs or Turkish war galleys appeared. Some heavy weather blew up in the Bay of Biscay but our passage was uneventful. Within three weeks the weather grew cooler, the seas calmer and, when the white cliffs of England came into sight, I went down on my knees and thanked God. I had had enough of the treacherous, silken opulence of Florence. I never thought I would be so keen to slip between the sheets of my bed at Ipswich and sleep peacefully. (Well, at least until the milkmaid arrived!) Benjamin, however, remained taciturn. He was still melancholic over the deaths of the Albrizzis. Only now and again did he seethe openly at Giulio de' Medici's wickedness.

'Don't you realize, Roger,' he said bitterly on more than one occasion as we leaned over the ship's side and watched the sunlight dancing on the sea. 'Don't you realize that the Albrizzis may have been innocent? The Medicis in Rome, perhaps the cardinal himself, may have been responsible for the murder of Enrico's father? They stood to gain not only the jewels but the weakening of a powerful Florentine family. They then used Enrico to destroy the Albrizzis.' 'But that's only half the picture, isn't it, Master?'

'Aye, and my dear uncle knows the rest. Borelli was never meant to come to England.' 'So, why were we sent?'

'To bear messages to Lord Giulio, to convey our master's fury, or supposed fury, at Lord Francesco's death. We are just pawns, Roger. However, in chess, pawns skilfully used may trap a bishop and even a king.'

We entered the Thames and the ship docked at Dowgate. I ran to the side, drinking in the sights, smells and noises of London. It was a dull, grey, cold morning, but to me it was heaven on earth. Even the dung barges dumping their ordure in the river seemed pleasant enough and, after we disembarked, I surprised my master by going on my knees and kissing the quayside. It wasn't just that I was back in London. I was so pleased to be free from the dagger, the garrotte, the sling and, above all, the scraping clash of steel. I headed straight for the Vintry, into a dark, tangy taproom, whilst my master went further down river to visit Johanna at Syon. I drank three quarts of beer and joined in a sing-song with a group of sailors. I even surprised them with the dirty ditties I knew.

Late in the evening my master returned, rather sad and downcast. Johanna, though beautiful, was witless, driven mad by the noble lover who had seduced and abandoned her. Benjamin had killed him, but it was too late. Johanna now lived in the past, constantly looking out of the window waiting for young Cavendish, the nobleman, to return. God forgive me, I suppose my mood only made matters worse. I was drunk as a newt and, when my master entered the taproom, one doxy had her arms around me and I had my hands down the bodice of another. Both were shrieking with laughter as I told them my version of the story of the preacher, the donkey and the buxom country wench.

(Excuse me, my chaplain wants to know the story. I give him a fair rap across the knuckles with my ash cane. He is too innocent and young, and the story is complex and very, very scurrilous.)

Anyway, my master dragged me away. We took a room in a hostelry in Cheapside. All I remember is singing every step of the way there. I believe I was still singing when I collapsed on the bed, fully clothed, and drifted into the deepest sleep.

The next morning, a little wiser and more sober, Benjamin and I presented ourselves at the king's chancery in Westminster. A dripping-nosed clerk in charge of the royal messengers informed us that his Satanic Majesty and his much-beloved cardinal were in Surrey. We were told to wait a while. So we did, for at least an hour, kicking our heels on a bench in a shabby corridor. Benjamin kept returning to the table, demanding news. The clerk would raise his thin, narrow face, tap his quill against the side of his nose and tell us to be patient. Benjamin paced up and down. I decided to irritate the clerk as much as I could by coughing and sneezing and loosing the loudest belches I could muster. This seemed to work, for the fellow began to scurry about and, just as I was contemplating more devilment, a small black-garbed figure swept in the door – Doctor Agrippa, not a whit changed since we had last seen him at Eltham, his cherubic face wreathed in smiles. He shook our hands and clapped us on the shoulders. He seemed most pleased to see us, called us fine fellows, and told us that he had instructions from Wolsey. I grabbed him by the sleeve and looked into those hard eyes, black as coal. 'What mischief now, good doctor?' He raised his eyebrows innocently. 'My dear Roger?'

'Don't bloody "Dear Roger" me!' I snarled. 'Doctor Agrippa, I have been ill-used, abused, shot at, imprisoned, taken to the point of death by sea-sickness and met some of the most vicious bastards walking this earth! For what?' I pushed away Benjamin's restraining hand. 'Where's fat Harry and great Tom his chancellor? Are they finished with us now? Aren't they interested in us any longer?' Benjamin caught the drift of my meaning.

'Doctor Agrippa,' he interjected softly, 'where is Borelli's painting?' Agrippa stepped back. 'The painting?' 'Yes, the bloody painting!' I hissed.

'Oh, there was a fire. A slight accident in the king's chamber. No real damage but, regrettably, the painting was destroyed.'

Benjamin leaned over and whispered in Agrippa's ear. The good doctor pulled his head back in astonishment. ‘I think you had best follow me,' he murmured.

We left the palace of Westminster and, for a while, walked in silence back up Fleet Street. Outside the Golden Bushel tavern Agrippa told us to wait. He went inside and reappeared a few minutes later, beckoning us in.

He took us straight upstairs. 'The food here is delicious,' he said. 'Good beef in rich onion gravy. And they have a fine claret. I have hired a chamber.'

I could have kicked him. I was also angry at my master for being so enigmatic. 'What's going on?' I hissed.

'I couldn't tell you, Roger,' he whispered. 'But the destruction of Borelli's painting has confirmed my suspicions.'

The chamber was pleasant enough and the food delicious. Agrippa still played the nonchalant courtier. Only when the servitors had left did he get up, bolt the door and confront us. 'What was Cardinal Giulio's reply?' 'Rome will say yes,' Benjamin replied. Agrippa relaxed and smiled. 'Aren't you interested in the rest?' I exclaimed.

Agrippa came back and sat at the table. 'If you wish, tell me. I see Master Borelli has not come with you.' 'No, he was slightly indisposed,' I told him. 'He's dead,' Benjamin said. 'As are all the Albrizzis.' Agrippa raised his eyebrows. 'Tell me.'

Benjamin summarized our adventures. Agrippa listened attentively, nodding, now and again whispering under his breath.

'The king will be pleased,' he exclaimed when Benjamin finished. 'As will my Lord Cardinal.' 'What does the message mean?' I asked. Agrippa shrugged. 'I don't know. If I did I'd tell you.'

Benjamin leaned across the table. 'Then let me tell you, my good Agrippa. In 1509,' he said quietly, 'the present king's father lay dying. Sir Edward Throckle was his physician. Now, in the year before his death, the old king and his son, our present monarch, had seriously quarrelled. God knows the reason. Perhaps Henry VII, God rest him, glimpsed the murderous madness in his son's soul.' I watched Agrippa steadily.

'He is mad,' I whispered. 'You know that, Agrippa. He is the Mouldwarp of ancient prophecy, the Dark Prince who is going to drench this kingdom in blood.'

Agrippa's eyes changed, becoming slate-coloured. He picked at his lip and glanced slyly at Benjamin. 'Continue!' he ordered.

'Now, the old king had also quarrelled with his very ambitious young clerk Thomas Wolsey. Both the Prince of Wales and young Wolsey were treated with disdain. My uncle's career might have ended there and then. However, to shorten a very cruel tale, young Prince Henry, resentful of his father's anger and desirous of getting his greedy hands on the crown, poisoned his own father. He used Sir Edward Throckle to achieve this.'

Agrippa's face remained impassive. I admit, even though I believed Henry was the biggest bastard on God's earth, I couldn't believe what my master was saying. 'Master, surely!' I exclaimed.

'Oh, I tell the truth,' Benjamin continued serenely. 'The young prince, either with Throckle's connivance or his active co-operation, gave his old father, who was not in the best of health, certain noxious potions. The old king died and our Henry was crowned. Throckle took honourable retirement in the countryside of Essex. Now, I am not too sure about my uncle's role in all this, but I think he found out. Do you remember the story about the old king keeping a diary which a pet monkey tore up and ate?' Benjamin smiled. 'There was a monkey in that painting. Do you remember?' I nodded.

'Well, perhaps dear uncle found it and carefully pieced it together. Whatever, I am sure the old king, lonely and frightened, wrote how he was fearful of his son. Maybe he even suspected he was being poisoned?' 'Is that why Throckle committed suicide?' I asked.

'Oh, yes, do you remember that letter of invitation? The good Sir Edward was invited to visit the court and bring with him certain herbs.' Benjamin smiled thinly. 'It took me some time to realize that these weren't ordinary herbs or flowers, but poisons such as belladonna and foxglove. The flower Henry was holding in that picture is a highly poisonous flower, the false helleborine. It can often be mistaken for the lily.' Benjamin touched me on the hand. 'That's why I sent you and poor Maria to the wise woman in the village near the Albrizzi villa. Most of the poison-flowers and herbs depicted in that painting are known in both England and Italy.'

'So Throckle,' I interrupted, 'read between the lines of that invitation?'

'Yes, he did. He thought he was being summoned to court to answer for certain secret crimes. So, he took the Roman way. He destroyed whatever evidence he possessed, filled a bath with hot water and opened his veins.'

'But why would your uncle threaten Throckle?' Agrippa asked, head slightly cocked to one side. 'Oh, he wasn't threatening Throckle,' Benjamin replied. 'He was, in fact, threatening the king. Henry must have seen a copy of that letter, heard about his old physician's death and realized his chief minister, somehow or other, was also party to the secret.'

'I don't believe that,' I interrupted. 'I think that Wolsey was from the beginning in the plot to kill the old king. After he died the three plotters never mention poison. Throckle takes an early retirement. Wolsey is rapidly promoted and Henry is master in his own house. Now the story lies dormant until Throckle intimates that he would like to leave the country and Wolsey sends him an invitation to court.'

'You believe dear uncle was party to the conspiracy from the start?' Benjamin asked.

'Yes, I do,' I snarled. 'Throckle was safe until he asked to go abroad. He may have thought he was safe even then, that your dear uncle had forgotten what happened sixteen years ago. Dear uncle's invitation, with its secret message, literally terrified Throckle to death.'

'But the painting?' Agrippa asked. 'What has that got to do with it?'

'Ah!' Benjamin pushed away his platter. 'All three of us know,' he said quietly, 'that the king is tiring of his present wife, Catherine of Aragon. We know there are rumours that, with his tender conscience, the king now has an attack of scruples that he should not have married his brother's widow.'

'But Catherine,' I said, 'was a virgin when she married Henry. Her marriage with his elder brother, Arthur, was never consummated.'

'Henry doesn't give a fig for that. Catherine is old and dumpy, God bless her! More importantly, she hasn't borne a living male heir and Henry is getting older. I suspect he began to blame Wolsey, seeking a way out, and my uncle's star began to dip.' Benjamin leaned over and refilled all our cups. 'How can Henry get rid of Catherine?' he asked.

'Poison,' I suggested. 'I wouldn't put anything past that evil bastard!'

'Catherine has her own physician,' Agrippa spoke up. 'She's a Spanish princess as well as Queen of England. Her uncle the emperor would not be pleased.'

'So, what do you do,' Benjamin asked, 'if you have an attack of scruples like our noble king?'

'Seek an annulment,' I replied. 'From the pope. Get the royal lawyers to argue that there was no marriage in the first place.'

'Ah,' Benjamin said, 'but the present Holy Father, Adrian VI, is a man of integrity and great sanctity. He would reject such a plea.' 'But a corrupt pope wouldn't,' I put in.

'Precisely,' Benjamin continued. 'Last autumn my dear uncle took part in a secret diplomatic meeting at Boulogne, ostensibly about England, the Italian republics and the emperor creating an alliance against their inveterate enemy, the King of France. Now,' Benjamin sipped from his cup, 'at that meeting were both dear uncle and Cardinal Giulio de Medici. They would talk, take long walks in the cool of the evening. Lord Giulio would talk about his own problems, the enmity of powerful families like the Albrizzis of Florence and, above all, his great desire to become pope. And what would Wolsey talk about, eh, Roger? His fear of losing control over the king and fat Henry's desire for an annulment?''Of course!' I breathed. 'And that's when plans were laid.' 'Oh, yes, Cardinal Giulio plots to murder the present Holy Father. Secretly, mysteriously, Adrian will die. There will be a conclave of cardinals. England will back Giulio de Medici's elevation to the papacy but,' Benjamin ran his finger round the rim of his cup, 'our good cardinal in Florence does not want to leave for Rome knowing the likes of Albrizzis might make their bid for power. So the Albrizzis are sent to England.' Benjamin sipped from his cup. 'Now, before they leave, Giulio tells Enrico that the Albrizzis were responsible for the murder of his father and uncle and that the emerald Lord Francesco will give to King Henry is proof of this. He persuaded Enrico to begin his bloody vendetta far away from Florentine soil so he would bear no blame.' 'And the painting?' Agrippa asked.

'Oh,' Benjamin replied, 'at Boulogne Lord Giulio revealed his soul's secret to Wolsey and demanded something in return. Wolsey tells him about the mysterious murder of Henry VII. He asks Cardinal Giulio to ensure that the Albrizzis bring a painting which secretly depicts this.' 'Why?' Agrippa asked.

'As a subtle reminder of the secret agreement between Wolsey and Giulio de' Medici. Each has the power to blackmail the other. The Albrizzis commissioned the painting, not knowing its hidden significance, and the stage was set. Giulio knew the truth behind the old king's death. Wolsey knew that Giulio is hell-bent on not only the destruction of the Albrizzis but also on the death of Pope Adrian VI and the acquisition of the papal tiara. In the end,' Benjamin mused, 'they were both successful. The Albrizzis are gone and so is Enrico, with no blame being laid at the door of the Medicis.'

'That's what the Master of the Eight was trying to ferret out, wasn't it?' I exclaimed.

'Oh, yes,' Benjamin replied. 'Now, Throckle's dead. Wolsey is secure in his power because he has Giulio de Medici's sworn word that when he becomes pope he will annul the present king's marriage.' Benjamin sighed. 'He, in turn, was able to destroy the Albrizzis and secure English support. Borelli is dead – some of the cardinal's men would have taken care of him – the painting's destroyed and, heigh-ho, we are dancing along the road to hell.' Agrippa unclasped his hands and shook his head. 'Don't you believe me, Doctor Agrippa?' The magus rubbed his face in his hands.

'I heard rumours,' he said, 'that the old king was estranged from his son. That he had turned against Wolsey. I knew Throckle was constantly watched. True, your uncle did meet Giulio de' Medici at Boulogne. The king was impatient at him and is desirous of getting rid of Catherine. And certainly Cardinal Giulio is evil. He hated the Albrizzis and he wants to be pope. Yes, yes, they are all strands of the same rope. But, tell me, the painting?'

'Think about it,' Benjamin replied. 'The original is destroyed, but do you remember the flowers?' 'Yes.'

'Well, on reflection, they were all poisons! And the small picture on the tomb? A saint dressed in armour. We thought it was St George. In reality, it was St Julian Hospitaller. Very few people know about the legend regarding this saint. Julian was a soldier who killed his own parents and spent his life in reparation for this terrible crime. Henry would know its significance. I am sure there were other hidden signs – that's why the painting is now destroyed. Of course Borelli was murdered, just in case he began to reflect on what he had done.'

Agrippa scratched his chin. 'But why was the painting sent to Henry?'

'Oh, firstly, Wolsey was subtly reminding the king about the plot. Secondly, Lord Giulio was intimating that he knew about the king's dark secret.' 'Why should he do that?'

'Oh, as a guarantee. Wolsey, Henry and Giulio are now all bound by a chain of sinister, murderous secrets. These will hold them hostage to their promises for the future.' 'What will happen now?' I asked.

'Ah!' Benjamin got to his feet and stretched. 'I suspect that within twelve months we will have a new pope in Rome, Henry will have his marriage annulled and Cardinal Wolsey will still be his most trusted and faithful servant.'

Agrippa got to his feet. He ran his fingers round the brim of his dark hat. His face had gone pale and his eyes had changed to the colour of flint. 'I told you,' he said softly. 'Henry is the Mouldwarp, the Dark Prince of Merlin's prophecy. The king will be most pleased with you. You will receive his grateful thanks because he thinks his plans are set.'

'I still can't understand,' I said, 'why Cardinal Giulio and Cardinal Wolsey are so close?'

Agrippa was moving towards the door. 'Years ago,' he said, 'Wolsey made over the revenue of the bishopric of Worcester to Giulio de Medici.' He smiled at the astonishment on my face.

'Yes, Giulio de Medici has been Bishop of Worcester for some time.' He shrugged. 'He's never been anywhere near the place but he enjoys the revenues of one of England's richest sees. The meeting at Boulogne only capped his friendship with Wolsey.' 'There's another reason, isn't there?' Benjamin asked, staring at Agrippa. 'And, I think, good Doctor, you know more than you are telling us.'

'The king's mind is slipping into madness,' Benjamin continued, 'and my dear uncle fears him. Arranging for that picture to be sent was a great gamble. Wolsey was reminding the king of a dark secret from his past as well as binding the Florentine cardinal in their exchange of sinister secrets. Each is bound to the other now.' Benjamin played with his cup. 'But Wolsey had another objective. He has taken out surety against Henry. He has told the king's secret to a foreign power. I am sure that Cardinal Giulio has secret instructions to use that information on dear uncle's behalf if he should fall from grace.'

Agrippa smirked. 'We shall see. We shall see.' And, bowing mockingly towards us, he opened the door and slipped away – before I realized the cunning fox hadn't paid the bill!

Benjamin and I returned to the manor house outside Ipswich. Of course, 'dear uncle' sent letters of congratulations and purses of silver after us, but Benjamin remained strangely quiet. He immersed himself in good works on behalf of his tenants. Never again did he go to that ancient hill fort which overlooked the mill near the river. Perhaps it brought back sad memories. Now and again I climbed it. I'd sit down and stare at the diggings we had made. It was there that our great Florentine adventure had begun. I would close my eyes and summon up the spirit of Maria, gently mocking, full of life. I would stare around to make sure I was alone and I'd grieve like only old Shallot can, and ever will. I still take out the little glove I took from Maria as a token so many, many years ago in that beautiful warm garden in the Villa Albrizzi. I hold it against my cheek and smell the fragrant perfume. Poor Maria! Poor Shallot! Who shall grieve for the both of us? Oh, I went to see old Vicar Doggerell. I emptied my silver box and arranged for a specially cut stone to be laid in the chancel before the altar. It bore the following inscription: