A Brood of Vipers Read online

  They say the wine is good and the women even better. So, don't despair. I am sure you will do the king justice and come back laden with glory.'

  Sarcastic bugger! When, I asked myself, did that ever happen? Oh no. Hunted across cold moors! Chased by man-eating leopards in a maze outside Paris! Assassins of every hue and kind dogging our footsteps! Believe me, I was proved right. We were about to enter a nest of vipers and embark on one of the most dangerous escapades in my long and varied career. Yet, that's life, isn't it? If you sat upon the ground and told sad stories about the fate of kings (I gave a line like that to Will Shakespeare) you'd end up barking mad - yes, just like Will's Hamlet mournfully declaiming To be or not to be, that is the question'. Will Shakespeare thought of that line as he was sobering up after a drinking bout with myself. He has a slight strain of melancholy has Will, probably inherited from his mother and certainly not helped by his shrew of a wife. Lord save us, you could cut steel with her tongue! But, there again, poor lass, perhaps she's got good cause. Will's never at home and he's for ever mooning about some dark lady - he even refused to tell old Shallot who this mysterious Helen of Troy could be. I did try to make him change Hamlet's line. 'It's not being which matters,' I cried, 'but being happy!' Old Will just shook his head, smiled mournfully and refilled his cup. Ah well, that's the way with writers! Not the happiest or most contented of men. Except myself, but there again I do have Margot and Phoebe to comfort me and I tell these stories for a purpose -to reveal the wickedness of the great beast; to extol the virtues of my master, because he was a most honourable man; and finally to instruct you young men (and the not so young) about the dangers of lechery, cursing, roistering, drinking, gambling and all the other fascinating aspects of life. Yet the young never reflect and neither did I as we continued our journey and entered the joyous, filthy, tumultous city of London.

  Now, I have lived ninety-five years and if I live another hundred and fifty I would never tire of London. It's filthy, reeking, bloody, violent, colourful and totally unforgettable. We entered by Bishopsgate. I was happy to be there, but Benjamin was puzzled.

  'Surely,' he called out to Agrippa, 'we should pass through Clerkenwell to go down to Eltham?'

  Agrippa pulled a face. 'I want to show you where Francesco Albrizzi died. You may not have the opportunity again."

  I didn't care. I just stared around, drinking in the sights, listening to the bustle, the noise, the clack of tongues. I was searching out those whose company I so loved - the ladies of the night, proud sluts in their taffeta dresses; magicians and wizards in their black cloaks festooned with silver stars and suns; madcap tumblers; beggarly poets shouting out their works; princely rogues strutting in their silks and lambswool, mixing their rich perfumes with the sulphur sprinkled on the streets to hide the stench from the shit and offal thrown there. I kept my hand on my purse, watching out for those brazen-faced villains, those varlets, grooms of the dunghill, rats without tails, all the lovely lads who, in my youth, I had run wild with.

  We turned down Threadneedle Street, past the stocks and into Poultry. We crossed Westchepe, stabling our horses at the Holy Lamb of God tavern near to St Mary-Le-Bow. The gallows birds who accompanied us immediately rushed into the tavern bawling for tankards whilst Agrippa took

  Benjamin and me across the bustling thoroughfare. Now Cheapside hasn't changed much, so you can imagine the scene. To the north of Cheapside, between the college of St Martin-Le-Grande and St Mary-Le-Bow, lie two main thoroughfares - Wood Street and Milk Street. Separating the houses built along Cheapside between these two streets are narrow alleyways or runnels. Agrippa, pointing to his left, showed us the clothier's stall where Francesco's daughter Beatrice had been shopping. He then moved forward a little.

  'Francesco was standing about here.' He pointed between the stalls and we glimpsed the mouth of a dark alleyway. 'So he must have been looking towards where the assassin was hiding.'

  'And the son-in-law?' I asked.

  'Enrico?' Agrippa pointed past the clothing stall to a line of shops. 'He was in that goldsmith's. Can you see it under the sign of the silver pestle?'

  'And no other members of Francesco's household were around?'

  'Apparently not.'

  'So, what happened?' Benjamin asked.

  'The crack of the gun is heard. Francesco falls dead. A crowd gathers, they are joined by Enrico and Beatrice.'

  Benjamin shook his head in disbelief as we walked into the alleyways. The sunlight suddenly died and we had to hold our noses against the stench of human ordure and urine, not to mention a dead cat, squashed by a cart, that still sprawled there, its belly swollen under the hot sun.

  'And no sign of the assassin was found here?' Benjamin asked.

  'Not a trace, and no one saw anyone running away.'

  Benjamin nodded at me. 'Roger, go and ask the haberdasher, then the goldsmith.'

  I was only too pleased to leave the alleyway. I pushed my way through the throng. The sour-faced clothier retorted that he was too busy to answer my questions; when I threatened to turn his stall over he sighed in exasperation and glanced narrow-eyed at me.

  'Yes, yes,' he snapped. 'The Italian woman was here fingering the cloth, her father was with her. I saw him walk away.'

  'You heard the shot?'

  'I think I did. I looked over. I saw the man's body on the cobbles. A cut-purse already had his dagger out, so I shouted. A crowd gathered, then the young Italian man came. He was dressed all in white and had eye-glasses on.'

  'Eye-glasses?' I exclaimed.

  'Yes, you know. The new-fangled Italian ones with wire. He was here with his wife, very short-sighted he was. He went across to Crockertons the goldsmith's. I told the same story to the coroner, to the sheriff and to the under-sheriff. No, I don't know any more. Do you have any further questions?'

  'None.'

  'Good,' the fellow snarled. 'Then piss off!'

  I pushed by his stall, knocking a roll of cloth to the ground. That's one thing I can't stand about London, some of the merchants are as ignorant as pigs! The goldsmith was no better mannered. He gazed at me suspiciously.

  'Yes, I remember the day well,' he replied to my question. 'The young Italian came in here. Oh, thinks I, here comes a dandy. He was dressed in a white taffeta jacket, all puffed out it was, at sleeves and chest. He started asking me about figurines, rings and such-like. I couldn't understand him. He was a bloody nuisance, peering at things.' The fellow gestured at the door. 'I told him to go out and look at the stalls. He could do less damage there. He left. Then I heard the commotion.' He shrugged. 'That's all I know.'

  I thanked the fellow and walked out, back along Cheapside to the alleyway. My master and Agrippa were talking to a young man outside a pawnbroker's shop. Benjamin was patting the man gently on the shoulder whilst studying with interest the billet the fellow held.

  'What's the matter, Master?'

  '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 wi
th 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 grieving 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-g
rey 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.