The Assassin of Verona

by The Assassin of Verona (retail) (epub)

  ‘I would I were a soldier,’ said Aemilia. ‘Then might I make my own fortune.’

  Emotion took her. Tears, unbidden but unstoppable, came from her then as she thought of how soon she would be married to a man of her father’s choosing and how little choice she would be given in what was to follow. She fought to bring herself back under control.

  The dancing-master said nothing. He bent and picked up his sword and turned away to let her have her privacy. He put the sword back in its baldric and the cane back in the earth and returned to her.

  ‘Lady, speak to your father,’ he said. ‘None but he can help you.’

  Aemilia shook her head, her throat too thick with tears to make speech.

  ‘I have seen him seek your counsel and follow it,’ Hemminges said. ‘Why would he not listen to you in this?’

  ‘Why?’ said Aemilia, anger giving her strength to speak through her shameful tears before this man. ‘I would I knew. I would I knew. He speaks to me of rule and command but offers me none.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘He has himself told me of Caterina Sforza. You have heard of her?’

  Hemminges shook his head.

  ‘A noblewoman, married to the nephew of the last Pope Sixtus, the fourth of that name. Why do you laugh?’

  Hemminges shook his head again. ‘Nothing, lady, I am just struck by how it is a lesson to be learned: be wary of the wife of the nephew of a pope. Go on, I pray you.’

  Aemilia frowned at his strange answer and brushed her cheek of tears before she continued. She doubted Master Russell cared to hear about the Lady of Forli but it calmed her to speak and the thought of Caterina Sforza steeled her. ‘Her husband’s uncle, the Pope, died and chaos followed. Her husband’s palace in Rome was attacked, destroyed. Mobs ran riot through the city, murder abounded. Caterina was with child but she was not daunted. She took her husband’s men and she herself seized the Castel Sant’Angelo. She did not yield it until the Cardinals had given her husband the city of Forli to rule and eight thousand ducats. Then when her husband was murdered, she ruled Forli till her son came of age.’

  ‘A mighty woman.’

  ‘Mighty whatever her sex, Master Russell,’ said Aemilia fiercely. ‘After she fought the Venetians to a standstill they named her the Tiger. Cesare Borgia so feared her command that he offered ten thousand ducats for her capture. When Cesare’s army at last stormed her fortress she fought and was captured with a sword in each hand.’

  Hemminges nodded. ‘She won back Forli?’

  ‘No. She died in exile.’

  ‘Surrounded by those she loved?’

  ‘Alone. Her first two husbands were murdered. Her third died in her arms.’

  ‘Her life was not a happy one, then,’ said Hemminges.

  ‘That I do not know,’ answered Aemilia. ‘But I do know it was her own.’

  She curtsied. ‘Forgive me, Master Russell. I have quite lost the mood for dancing.’

  She did not wait on his reply but turned and left.

  Behind her, Hemminges unbent from his bow and watched her depart, her head held high despite a slight limp in her leg. He shook his head and wondered at his own foolishness, to have struck the daughter of the Duke, to have put a sword in her hand. He hit his fist into his thigh. Oldcastle’s stupidity in trapping them here had set him in a fretful mood. Aye and faith, but he was provoked. He sighed. Maybe Oldcastle is not the most foolish among us. Maybe he sees more clearly than I do. With that thought he strode back to the water barrel, pulled off his shirt and dunked his head in the frosty water until the cold brought him his good sense back.

  O’erstep not the modesty of nature

  Valentine allowed a moment after he finished his recitation, holding himself very still, for Aemilia to admire his pose. He had practised it in front of the mill pond and seen in its reflection a rather striking figure, the hand just so, the face tilted thus, the mane of the hair gathered, la! The perfect complement to the words of his poem.

  ‘Beautiful, Valentine. It is for me?’

  ‘As are all things, Aemilia, for you are my muse.’

  In truth, he sometimes found Aemilia a little frightening. She had a fretful spirit that flared and boiled with unseen heat and he had trouble following her moods. She had come to him in such a mood this day, a fever in her blood brought on by, the Lord alone knew. To his good fortune then that he did not lack imagination, for he had fixed on that spirit as inspiration for his poem.

  Besides, beggars could not be choosers and he was a beggar. He cursed again his family, his father most especially, wastrels that had so left him without estate. He had resented being sent to live with his father’s second cousin, the Duke. His status as an object of charity had been so clear in the sneering contempt he saw on the faces of all, all, at the Duke’s court. Yet his choices had been no choice at all: cur of charity or holy orders in the Church. At least though, there had been his cousin Aemilia at the court, a little tall, a little dark for fashion, but with the most distracting eyes, dark opals, of a black so deep her eyes seemed like a night sky through which meteors flashed. Oh, that was good, he should make use of that line in his next poem. Those stars looked into his eyes now.

  ‘Oh, Valentine, would that we could be together. When will you speak?’

  Valentine could not hide a small shudder of fear at the thought of confronting the Duke with his wooing of his only daughter. He disguised it with an embrace, burying his face into Aemilia’s neck and breathing in her rosewater scent. He knew he brought nothing to a marriage, save that which women wanted, a fair face, a goodly wit, fine hair. Nothing, in short, to give the Duke any will to let them marry. Yet Aemilia, stubborn Aemilia, would not be moved by his warnings that the quest was a hopeless one. Aemilia insisted that love and filial piety made its demands and that, before any talk of flight and of secret marriage be entertained, Valentine must first see if lawful permit might be granted.

  ‘And if your father banish me?’

  ‘Then we shall heed the lessons of your verses and I shall join you in exile, beloved Valentine, and we shall live together in the woods as innocents do.’

  Valentine closed his eyes and sighed. He might speak in a poem of the freedom of the outlaws but the life of the innocent in the woods sounded uncomfortably close to the woollen shirts, simple food and hard beds that the Church offered.

  ‘Then, beloved, I shall summon up my courage and my art to make persuasion of my love to your father. I pray I do not fail you.’

  ‘Oh best of men,’ cried Aemilia, clutching up his hand. ‘Fail me? Never. If my father consents we shall be married. Refuses, we shall be happy exiles.’

  Valentine rose and kissed her hand.

  ‘I go, your Lancelot, to win this hand or die in the attempt.’

  He turned quickly and allowed his hair to fly out and flaunt itself as he did so. First to my chambers, he thought; this doublet and hose are all well enough for wooing but something with a more martial air is needed before I front the Duke. God above, let him be in good spirits. After lunch will be best.

  ‘You should be more discreet,’ said Hemminges.

  Aemilia gave a cry of fright and struck him on the shoulder. It was like hitting a locked door. A shock of pain ran up her wrist. She stumbled back and looked about her to see if anyone besides the English dancing-master were about, but saw no one save him. He was dressed in a thick coat against the chill of morning and dark shadows beneath his eyes spoke of a sleepless night. She drew her own cloak tighter about her.

  ‘You scared me.’

  ‘I see that,’ said Hemminges. ‘You grow too bold. You did not think to see who was about before you left off your meeting with Valentine.’

  ‘You were spying on me?’ Aemilia said, drawing herself up to use her height to its full advantage.

  ‘I was,’ said Hemminges.

  Aemilia saw that he answered without shame, and anger grew in her.

  ‘Who do you think you are, Master Dancer, to spy on a duke’s daughter?�
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  ‘Do you think a duke’s daughter so should defy her father, so risk her own honour, as to meet secretly with a young man?’

  Aemilia grew angrier still. ‘What do you know of it? I dare do all that might become a duke’s daughter. So does Valentine. He will today ask for my hand.’

  ‘I wish him good fortune,’ said Hemminges. ‘And you better.’

  He turned away but halted when Aemilia called after him.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What better fortune could I have than marriage to Valentine?’

  ‘A young man that woos without permission? Suborns a daughter in her father’s house?’

  ‘Knave. What hope of licence can Valentine have with my father, when he has no lands and no fortune?’

  ‘In saying so, you have answered your own question. As I say, I wish you better fortune.’

  ‘He loves me, Englishman, and there is no better fortune in this world than to be loved.’

  ‘I know many that would deny it so.’

  ‘To them go and offer your advice. It is not looked for here. Yours is a counsel of despair.’

  ‘As honest counsel often is.’

  ‘What do you care that you offer me counsel?’

  Hemminges made no reply. The sinews of his jaw could be seen to tighten and release but he said nothing and she would be damned before she spoke again. How dare he presume to counsel her? A foolish thought crossed her mind in answer, that he was envious of Valentine, but she dismissed the vanity of it. Their glowering battle of hard stares was interrupted by commotion from the palace. Hemminges called out to a servant hurrying past for the cause.

  ‘The papal emissary is come again.’

  Hemminges cursed under his breath and turned back to Aemilia but she was gone. He hurried on to the hall of the palace. Of Aemilia, the Duke and the Pope, it seemed that it would not be one or other but all at once that brought about his doom.

  To seek new friends and stranger companies

  The Veneto

  William stared up at the canopy of the forest. Three days he’d been among the outlaws now. He was numb, but not from cold alone. A voice called his gaze downwards.

  ‘What’s your name, fellow?’

  A dark-haired man about William’s age, most notable in his ugliness for the wild brow smeared in a single line across his head, sat down on a fallen log near William.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Luca, his bad eye squinting at William. ‘You’ll get no answer from him. He sits and mopes and stares all the long day. As much conversation in him as a hog.’

  ‘Smells like one too,’ said Zago from where he squatted by the fire, stirring the pot that hung over it.

  ‘Luca, Zago, Adam, and that there is my brother Tommasso,’ said Luca, pointing to each as he sat himself down by the fire to await Zago’s declaration that the meal was ready. The men sat in a small clearing that served as Orlando’s camp. A stream ran along the bottom and canvas shrouds were strung in the trees, offering poor shelter against the winds and weather of the first days of March.

  ‘Ludovico,’ nodded the new arrival in answered introduction.

  ‘What’s your story then?’ asked Luca.

  ‘Same as yours, I’ll warrant,’ answered Ludovico. ‘Though I’m from Ferrara, south of here. My master turned me off the land when he could not meet these taxations of the new Pope. What living could I earn? What food save that which I would take? Yet that selfsame Pope has driven all away with the sword and the executioner’s axe.’

  Luca nodded. ‘These are hard times that have so many stories such as yours in them. Mine and my brother’s would dull the ear in repetition of your own.’

  ‘Mine also,’ sniffed Zago at the pot.

  ‘And yours?’ asked Ludovico of Will.

  ‘His is a story of love lost and we must not press it from him until the moment ripe,’ said Orlando coming up from behind. ‘Here there are many stories.’ He pointed to Luca with a grin. ‘Luca here was dropped on his head as a child and has wandered these woods ever since. He must thank heaven that his brother cares for him like a shepherd with a lamb, though he the younger. Petro here’ – he gestured to a man in a filthy habit who was picking at his nails – ‘is a priest, or was until he picked a fight with his abbot. Zago here was cook to the Bishop of Mantua, or was it his mistress you cooked for? How is our feast, Zago?’

  A mongrel dog had run up with Orlando and now nosed its way about the pot until Zago lifted the ladle as if to strike it. The dog twisted away and William saw that it had only three good legs; the fourth trailed weakly behind it and gave it a strange sideways gait.

  ‘Scant pickings, Orlando, we must fill the pot with better hunting or find some target to aim at for our thieving. Of late, all you have done is add numbers to the mouths we must feed,’ answered Zago, and then nodded to Ludovico. ‘No offence.’

  Ludovico shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ll show my worth.’

  ‘Oh, you shall,’ smiled Orlando. ‘I’m come to tell you that, if Zago’s cooking will hold, we might profitably head to the road now and surprise a merchant and his two fat asses.’

  Zago was on his feet before Orlando had finished. ‘There’s the food and nourishment for men such as we. Up, up.’ He went about, kicking first at Luca then at Will and then the rest to rouse them at the name of action.

  ‘That is the spirit I so admire, Zago,’ said Orlando. ‘You are the very devil for thieving.’

  The dozen men gathered up such meagre store of weapons as they had and Zago tamped the fire beneath the pot and covered it. When they were ready Orlando pointed the way and they set off. As he passed, Orlando pulled Luca aside.

  ‘Watch Ludovico and Adam, eh? These are new men and yet to be given our full trust. Adam have a special care with.’

  Luca nodded and walked on.

  Here comes the holy legate of the Pope

  Verona

  Hemminges reached the hall and squeezed between the gathered courtiers to find Oldcastle standing in the shadow of a pillar, taking as much care as his bulk would allow not to be seen. Hemminges stood next to him, better able to see the scene. The Duke was sat at his great chair, as he had been when Oldcastle and Hemminges had first come to the court. Before him stood a man in priestly raiment, flanked by two armed men. The Duke’s own guards stood alert beside him and even if he had not seen the way their hands shifted on the shafts of their halberds, Hemminges would have known the mood uneasy. The Duke’s brow, never smooth, was creased deeper than a river’s valley and he chewed at his beard as the priest before him spoke his request for lodging for himself and for his men.

  The papal emissary was not a figure that Hemminges or Oldcastle recognised. A relief, for Hemminges’ greatest fear had been to see Monsignor Cesare Costa or one of his companions gathered in the hall, ready to attaint them. The priest that stood before the Duke was a tall man, thin, and drawn in the face. The most noticeable aspect of him was his hands, which fluttered in ceaseless twitching motion at the end of his arms, arms that hung like dead-weights by his side. The whole effect was like watching two tethered birds struggling to escape. His voice was shrill as a bird’s too, but that was not its most noticeable feature.

  ‘The man’s English, I’ll swear it,’ whispered Oldcastle to Hemminges.

  Hemminges made no answer, though he thought Oldcastle right and remembered Faustina’s rumours of an English priest and of his cruelty. He wanted to hear what was being said.

  ‘We did not look to see you returned so soon, Father Thornhill,’ said the Duke. ‘Your last visit was the cause of strife. I have sent complaint to Rome.’

  Thornhill shrugged. ‘I have received no censure from His Holiness. All that I do, I do by his command and to the greater glory of God and the Church.’

  ‘Why are you now returned?’

  ‘Events, my lord, have driven me to return to your court with an unseemly haste,’ he said.

  ‘Events?’


  ‘Events, my lord,’ repeated Thornhill, unheedful of his offence. ‘We will not trouble your lordship a moment more than we must.’

  ‘Would that you did not trouble me at all,’ said the Duke.

  ‘My lord, how can an emissary of His Holiness be aught but succour to you?’

  Had Oldcastle said these words then Hemminges would have thought the savage humour of his question clear, but in this reedy fellow’s mouth the words carried no jesting at all.

  ‘What priest travels with ten men-at-arms?’ grumbled the Duke. ‘And all wanting lodging, food and provender. Has the Pope such abundance of soldiers that every priest has so many guards about him?’

  ‘I have but nine men, my lord, and I would they were not needed. Alas, there is such a deal of outlawry here about that it was thought prudent to provide an escort. The safe passage of travellers in these parts is your responsibility is it not, my lord? Then I regret I must inform you, even in our coming here we have lost one of our own to those outlaws. We were ten, we are now nine. I thank the good Lord above we are not less.’

  ‘You were attacked?’

  ‘An ambuscade upon the road to the north-west of the city, my lord, where it passes through the great wood. We had not thought that danger would lie so close to your lordship’s lodging.’

  The Duke’s face had taken on an angry red colour as Father Thornhill spoke. ‘I know my duties, priest. I have commissioned a noted knight, Sir Nicholas Hawkwood, to clear the woods of this scourge of robbers.’

  ‘Oh Jesu,’ muttered Hemminges to this declaration. The priest’s head had come up at the English name and, still birdlike, he peered about the hall.

  The Duke went on: ‘A scourge of bandits, I add, that came upon us when they were driven from His Holiness’s lands to mine.’

  Father Thornhill briefly turned his attention back to the Duke to answer the implicit charge.

  ‘Thieves such as these, they have no welcome in His Holiness’s lands. It is true he beat out those that would abuse his laws and God’s, my lord. It is not His Holiness’s fault that the anvil was doting when he struck the hammer.’