A Brood of Vipers srs-4 Read online

  'This young man has just pawned a very rare and ancient goblet,' Benjamin's eyes gleamed with excitement. 'I have offered to pay him twice what the pawnbroker gave him in return for this billet. Then I'll go in and reclaim it.'

  'No, you won't!' I retorted. Grasping the seedy young man by the shoulder, I stared into his close-set, shifty eyes. 'You little spotted turd!' 'What do you mean?’ the rogue spluttered.

  'I'll pay you three times what that billet's worth on one condition!' I snapped. 'If you, my dear pullet sperm, you frothing scum, come back into the pawnshop with me!'

  The fellow nodded but as soon as I released my hand he dropped the billet and scampered off like a whippet. Benjamin stared in astonishment. 'What on earth?'

  'A well-known trick. Master, These malt worms forge a pawn-broker's billet, stand outside a shop and wait. They are usually crying and wailing their ill-fortune. A trusting person like yourself comes along and offers to buy the billet, thinking he will gain something precious at a lower price. However, when he goes into the shop with the billet he finds that the pawnbroker knows nothing about it.'

  Agrippa grinned like a cat. Benjamin clapped me on the shoulder.

  'Thank God I have got you, Roger! And thank God for your perception, God knows what I would do without you!'

  Agrippa coughed and looked away as if something had caught in his throat. I just glared at him as Benjamin put his arm around my shoulder. 'Thank God I've got you, Roger!' he repeated.

  (My little chaplain now stops and asks me how did I know? Oh, the pigeon-egg brain! Because in my youth I practised the same trick myself!)

  Anyway, Benjamin said he had seen enough. We collected our party of rogues from the Holy Lamb of God and made our way down to London Bridge. Fighting our way through the crowds, I nudged Benjamin and pointed to the gatehouse. Above this was a line of decapitated heads placed on spikes; the gulls, crows and ravens were fighting noisily for juicy portions. 'Our noble king has been busy again,' I whispered.

  Agrippa looked back over his shoulder. 'Remember my words, Roger. When the blood times come there won't be enough spikes to place the heads on.'

  His words frightened me. I realized that soon I, too, would enter the Mouldwarp's clutches and, once again, dance to his sinister tune.

  Across the bridge we rode, through Southwark and turning south-east towards Kent. We cantered under a warming sun past lush fields and down to the great palace of Eltham. Oh, and it was a palace, with its beautiful hall built of ash and ragstone, its outer and inner courtyards, gardens, orchards and fields, all defended by a deep, spacious moat. I heaved a sigh of relief – Henry and Wolsey were apparently in residence. Men-at-arms wearing the king's or the cardinal's livery guarded the roads and the entrance to the drawbridge. As we crossed, I saw the gallows set up on either side of the bridge. Each was six-branched and from every branch swung a half-naked corpse.

  'What did they do?' I asked, 'Cough in the king's presence?'

  'No,' Agrippa replied. 'They raided his stores. They were porters and scullions; they stole provisions from the kitchen and pantry to sell on the London market.'

  I covered my nose and mouth against the stench as Agrippa paused to show warrants and licences to the guards. We passed under the gatehouse and into the outer bailey. A chamberlain informed us that both Henry and the cardinal were hunting in the river meadows. Agrippa told the fellow to show us to our chamber. 'Are the Florentine lords here?' he asked. The chamberlain nodded.

  'Have the king's guests shown to their chambers.' Agrippa gestured at us. 'Benjamin, Roger, wash and change. You can meet the Albrizzis in the great hall.'

  And off he stomped, whilst the chamberlain, his sour face pinched into a look of disapproval, waddled ahead of us. Sweaty servitors, our saddlebags thrown over their shoulders, trotted behind. All I can say is I am glad we didn't have to carry the damned things. Guests! We were shown to the top of one of the outbuildings and given a little garret just under the roof – bare boards, dirty walls and a ceiling that was far too low. Two small cots were our beds, with a battered chest for our belongings. Benjamin protested, but the chamberlain puffed his little pigeon chest out. He said the palace was full so we were lucky not to be sleeping in the stables.

  'I'd rather be with the horses, you toad-spotted varlet!' I shouted after him, but the fellow waddled off. I slammed the door behind him and unpacked our panniers. We washed, sharing the same jug of water. I now had the devil in me. I went downstairs and returned, after a successful foray in the kitchen, with a jug of wine, two cups, some freshly baked bread and fairly clean napkins. 'Where did you get those, Roger?' Benjamin asked. 'Your "dear uncle" left them out for us.'

  The sarcasm was lost on Benjamin, he was so innocent and naive! He sat on his bed, sharing the bread and sipping at the rather thin wine. 'So, the dance has begun again, eh, Roger?'

  'Aye,' I replied bitterly. 'First here, then heigh-ho to Florence.'

  Benjamin grinned. 'Don't be so downcast, Roger. Think of the glories we'll see. The sun, the beauty. They say the Italian cities are the fairest in the world and Florence is their queen.'

  'They also say,' I replied, 'that many people there die young.'

  Benjamin refused to be despondent. We changed our boots for more comfortable footwear and went down to the hall. There was the usual pandemonium, servants and chamberlains keen on emphasizing their authority and high office, stopping us at every turn. The hall itself was guarded by royal halberdiers and we had to kick our heels until Agrippa arrived to usher us in. 'The Albrizzis will soon be here,' he whispered. I gazed around the deserted hall. It was a beautiful, long, polished chamber, lighted by trefoil windows at each end and large bay windows down either side. The furniture consisted of sumptuously quilted chairs, covered stools, delicate-looking tables and sturdy aumbries. Coloured banners and pennants hung from the hammer-beam roof. Gorgeous paintings on the walls were interspersed with shields and the different insignia of the Knights of the Garter and the polished, oaken floor was covered in long, woollen rugs. Servants came in. The table on the dais was hidden by blue velvet curtains; these were now pulled back and chairs placed around the table. I was about to ask Agrippa if the king was returning when a herald, dressed in a glorious red and gold tabard, entered the hall. 'His most august lord, Roderigo Albrizzi!'

  The herald stepped aside as Francesco's brother, Roderigo, now head of the family, entered, followed by the rest of the Albrizzis.

  My first impression was one of arrogance and colour. The Albrizzis seemed not one whit abashed by the recent and sudden murder of Francesco. They hardly noticed us. Agrippa scurried towards them like some black spider. He bowed and kissed Roderigo's ringed hand whilst the rest of the family chattered and milled about. Agrippa whispered to Roderigo and the Florentine stared at us from under heavy hooded eyes. His face was swarthy and sunburnt. His hair, surprisingly, was not black but auburn, closely cut round his head as was the beard and moustache, which he now carefully stroked as he gazed at us.

  A hawk, I thought, or a brilliantly plumaged falcon, ruthless and powerful. Roderigo continued to stare at us, then his mouth twisted into a conceited smirk, as if he had expected one thing and found another. A dangerous man, I concluded. Even more so was the character on his right, whose face, dark as a moor, was framed by glossy black hair. He had the features of a harsh woman, which sat ill with his boiled leather jerkin, steel-studded wrist-guard and the war belt wrapped around his thin, narrow waist. The fellow – I guessed it was the soldier Giovanni – was armed with a sword and two daggers. Roderigo turned and whispered to him, apparently sharing some secret joke, for his companion's lips opened in a smile. I glimpsed white, pointed teeth; he reminded me of a mastiff just before it attacked.

  Agrippa coughed and waved us to the table. As they took their seats, I quickly studied the rest of the group. Bianca, plump and comely, was clothed in a black, silken dress, her raven hair hidden under a white wimple, her face still tear-stained – the grievin
g widow, I thought. Alessandro, the dead Francesco's haughty-faced son, was dressed in black velvet, the sombreness of his clothes relieved only by a white cambric shirt collar. He, too, wore a war belt, as did the short-sighted Enrico, a sandy-haired, gentle-faced man, smooth-cheeked and clean-shaven. He caused confusion by knocking into the chairs, creating a ripple of laughter until his wife Beatrice tugged him by the sleeve. Ah, now, she was a song bird! One of those blonde-haired Italians whom you meet in parts of Lombardy – golden-skinned, golden-haired, with clear blue eyes – the type so loved by Botticelli and the great court painters. Beatrice, too, was dressed in mourning weeds, but these were elegant. She wore a gold lace veil and a dark velvet dress, tied at the neck and pulled tightly over her swelling breasts, tapering from the waist in voluminous folds. Finally, there was Preneste, their physician and chaplain, clever-faced with sharp eyes, long nose and silver-grey hair and moustache.

  Oh yes, I thought, trouble here for Shallot! But I was wrong – not trouble but worse, bloody-handed murder, awaited us.

  Chapter 3

  The Albrizzi clan sat down, chattering volubly. I was about to take the stool Agrippa indicated when a fantastic-looking creature pushed me out of the way. I stared down in astonishment at this little woman, dressed in blue buckram edged with silver, her dark hair caught up and hidden beneath a white coif. Her face was perfect and sweet as a child's, but in everything else she was a woman in miniature. 'Stand off, oaf!' she ordered.

  I'll be honest – I stared speechlessly at her, drinking in her little breasts, waist, hips and petite movements.

  'You've got a cast in your eye,' she said. 'I shall call you Crosspatch.'

  This caused merriment at my expense. I gawked like some rustic. 'Lord above!' she continued.

  Her voice was surprisingly low and mellow. She sprang to her feet and performed a cartwheel. I caught a flurry of white lace and red-heeled shoes, then she landed lightly on her feet at least six yards away from me. She stared at me, hands on hips. 'Can you do that, Crosspatch? Or this?' She came somersaulting back, in a perfect springing movement, head-over-heels, and landed before me, a little red-faced, her small chest heaving, but no more than if she had run down a gallery. She turned, hands on hips, and looked down the table at Lord Roderigo.

  'We are going to have fun with Crosspatch.' She repeated the phrase in Italian and everyone laughed.

  Agrippa saved me from further embarrassment by standing up to make the formal introductions. Benjamin tugged at my sleeve to sit on the stool next to him as Agrippa, in flowery phrases, described each of the Florentine visitors. He then introduced Master Benjamin, drawing respectful looks and nods from the assembled company. My name and title provoked further chuckles of amusement, especially from the dwarf, whom Agrippa introduced as Maria.

  'Shallot?' she asked, bubbling with laughter. 'Shallot means onion. Are you an onion, Master Crosspatch? How many layers do you have? And do you make people cry?'

  'No, Madam," I snapped back. 'I make them laugh, usually on the other side of their faces!'

  I caught the glimmer of hurt in the little woman's eyes and glanced quickly around the table. They regard me just as they do this woman, I thought, as another jester. They are waiting to be entertained. I turned back to Maria, took her tiny hand and raised it to my lips.

  'Madam,' I said, getting to my feet. 'I apologize for my bad manners. It was not your size or your antics that surprised me but your fairness.'

  Maria smiled faintly and, before she slipped her little hand away, pressed my fingers ever so carefully. 'Crosspatch Onion,' she announced, 'is a courtier.'

  This time I joined in the laughter. Lord Roderigo tapped the tabletop. 'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot, we are pleased to meet you. The Lady Maria' – he gestured elegantly to the little woman – 'always rejoices in new acquaintanceship with her countrymen.' His face became serious. 'But the matters before us are most grave. My brother, the Lord Francesco, has been foully slain in a London street. We seek vengeance, but we do not know the killer. His Grace the King and your fair uncle, His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey, have assured us, Master Daunbey, of your skill in hunting down and unmasking murderers. You have been assigned to my household.' He paused so we could take in the emphasis on the word 'my'. 'Whatever your lowly status,' he continued, glancing superciliously at me, 'you are our guests.' He stroked his moustache. 'We look to you for justice to be done!'

  The last words were tinged, however subtly, with a threat. I stared at his 'household', who sat like wooden statues. Nevertheless, I thought, the assassin must be here; beneath the courtly etiquette, tactful murmurs and polite smiles flowed an underlying tension. People can say more with gestures than with torrents of words. I glanced quickly to my right. Little Maria was studying me closely. Agrippa, sitting midway down the table, coughed and spread his hands. He still wore his black gauntlets.

  (Ah, excuse me, my little chaplain, my beloved apple-squire, is jumping up and down. 'Why did he wear those gloves? Why did he wear those gloves?' he pleads. Very good, I'll tell him. I have seen the cross burning red on each of Agrippa's palms, open wounds to remind him of where he came from.

  My chaplain is still not satisfied, he has other questions. 'How could those Florentines understand Agrippa? They surely knew little English.' Now my little noddle is wrong. Listen to Old Shallot. I have been constantly amazed in my long and varied life by how poorly the English can speak their language or anybody else's, yet how quickly others can master our tongue. I don't know why. I was discussing the matter with young Ben Jonson and Walter Raleigh when we met for a meal in our secret chamber in the house of Bethel. Do you know what I told them? I think the English believe God is an Englishman and speaks our tongue. Consequently, we consider it useless learning anyone else's language, whilst insisting that everyone else learns ours?)

  Ah well, back to Agrippa. He was making the usual silky, courtly protestations, but at last he came to the nub of the matter.

  'I have informed Master Daunbey of everything the king has done in this matter,' he said, 'and we have visited Cheapsidc and seen where the Lord Francesco was killed. Yet I must be blunt, we can discover nothing.'

  'But that's impossible!' Enrico drummed the tabletop, his eyes squinting down at us. 'How can a man take a gun into a busy London street, fire it, kill my father-in-law and escape?'

  'That is the mystery,' Benjamin said. 'An arquebus is cumbersome; it has to be loaded, primed, aimed and fired. It stains the person who uses it and cannot be easily hidden.' Benjamin shrugged. 'If we could solve the mystery of how the gun was used, we would trap the assassin and hang him or her at Tyburn. But there is a much more important question.'

  'Which is?' Alessandro demanded imperiously. He stared down his hooked nose as if we had crawled out of the nearest sewer. He simply couldn't understand why we were sitting at the same table as he.

  Benjamin pulled a face and pointed at the henchman who had been introduced to us simply as Giovanni. He sat playing like some girl with the tresses of his long hair. His hooded eyes never left mine. 'Master Giovanni,' Benjamin asked. 'You are a soldier?'

  'I am a condottiero,' the man replied. 'What you Inglese call a mercenary.' 'And you have experienced gunfire?' 'Of course.' 'And you would agree with what I say?' The man pulled a face and waved one be-ringed hand.

  'What is your "important question"?' Alessandro insisted, gesturing at Giovanni to keep silent.

  The condottiero's eyes narrowed in a look of hate. Oh dear, I thought, here are two men who have no love for each other.

  'My question is quite simple,' Benjamin replied. 'Concedo, for the purposes of the argument, that the Lord Francesco was killed by a ball fired from an alleyway off Cheapside. He was, however, a great Florentine lord visiting the English court – not the sort of man who would saunter through London whenever the whim took him. What really intrigues me is who knew he would be in Cheapside on that particular day?'

  Benjamin stared around. The Florentines gazed ston
ily back. 'What are you implying?' Alessandro asked menacingly.

  'My master is implying nothing.' I spoke up. 'The question is simple enough. Someone was waiting for Lord Francesco. Someone who knew he would be there. And someone who knew the best place to commit the murder. There's a warren of alleyways and runnels in the city which would delight any rat, be it four-legged or two!' Commotion broke out. Chairs were pushed back. Alessandro gabbled something in his native tongue to Roderigo, his hand going to the dagger in his belt. Roderigo sat motionless; he rapped the table for silence. 'Master Daunbey, your servant is blunt.'

  'Not blunt, Lord Roderigo, honest. If you want the truth, honesty is the best path to it. And may I add another question – why did the Lord Francesco go unaccompanied?' He stared at the condottiero but Roderigo was now determined to take the heat out of the situation.

  'I agree,' he said flatly, 'that silken niceties will not lead us to the truth. To answer bluntly, my brother thought that he was safe in London. Who here would wish him ill?' His hand touched the wrist of the condottiero sitting next to him. 'But we are wealthy people and so attract violence. Master Daunbey, you have seen the gallows outside the palace. If varlets are prepared to steal from their king, why should they draw the line at attacking visiting strangers?' He sniffed, pulled a silken handkerchief from beneath the cuff of his jerkin and politely dabbed his nose. 'And as for anyone here knowing where my brother was, why I knew! But so did everyone else. He made no secret of his excursion.'

  'In which case, my lord, I have one more question,' Benjamin said. 'Where was everyone else when the Lord Francesco was killed?'

  This time no hand-waving from Roderigo could still the tumult. Alessandro shot to his feet. He was all excited, chattering volubly in Italian, pointing down at Benjamin and myself. I knew very little of the tongue, but I understood he was not wishing us well. Enrico sat staring across the room, his face pulled in silent disapproval. The women, though not so excitable, were dabbing at their eyes and whispering to each other. Preneste the physician and Giovanni the condottiero remained impassive. I glimpsed a flicker of a smile on the soldier's face, as if he enjoyed seeing his noble, wealthy patrons upset.