‘The little lord has dropped this,’ he said.
‘Ha, friend,’ said Master Russell. ‘He’ll need that if he keep up this flood of tears.’
Master Russell and the guard shared a laugh before the gate was pulled closed.
It began to rain.
For one’s offence why should so many fall
Oldcastle cursed beneath his breath. He had delayed being brought to the Duke’s presence as much as he might but he could put off the audience no longer. Where in the name of all the gods was Hemminges? Trust his friend to have made himself absent at just the moment that he needed him most. Surely this audience with the Duke was to put upon him, or say rather upon Sir Nicholas Hawkwood – alack the day he’d ever given voice to that ambitious character – the commission against the woodland rogues that had the Duke in such high temper. Oldcastle’s bowels turned to water at the very thought of it. He must have Hemminges’ advice: how to flee before the charge was given or, it being given, how to flee thereafter. The fleeing was all. Admittedly flight was not Hemminges’ talent, but why then had the man chosen this moment to flee himself?
So far, the Duke had done little but speak dangerous words about Father Thornhill and reveal his plan to marry his daughter at once to a neighbouring lord.
‘It is because you of all people have felt the burden of leadership that I dare to speak with a freedom to you that I do not with others.’ The Duke led Oldcastle to a table on which sat a silver jug and chalices. The Duke raised an eyebrow at Oldcastle who pursed his lips as if to say, wherefore not? The Duke poured two generous measures of cool wine. They drank and each smacked his lips in satisfaction.
‘I must away in haste,’ the Duke said.
He leaned in close to Oldcastle and the sour breath told him that the Duke had not waited for his arrival before pouring from the jug.
‘That thrice-blasted priest, Thornhill, is sent here to steal my lands.’
‘My lord, no,’ protested Oldcastle.
‘’Tis true,’ said the Duke. ‘He openly spoke of it to me. Such gall. To tell the man you wish to rob that you will do so.’
‘You’ll never let him,’ said Oldcastle.
‘Nor will I,’ said the Duke. ‘See my lands pass to the Republic of St Peter? Be mortgaged out to the whim of the Pope? Never.’
Oldcastle hiccoughed on his wine – for all that they were alone in the Duke’s closet, his companion spoke dangerous words. The Duke did not notice Oldcastle’s discomfort; instead he plucked his cup from him and set it down, with Oldcastle’s gaze mournfully following it. Then, taking him by the arm, he began to lead him down towards the palace’s hall.
‘Enough of this, Sir Nicholas. I must ask a favour of you. I ride today for the Count Claudio’s, he that is to be my daughter’s husband. Three days I am to be gone. Leave this priest roaming my palace in that time, stirring trouble and dissent? No.’
The Duke’s barked denial made Oldcastle start. The Duke noted his hesitation but took it for a criticism.
‘You think me overcautious?’
‘No,’ hastened Oldcastle in reply. ‘No, my lord. You said yourself, you’ve the proof of the priest’s intent in his own speech. Besides, it is not overcautious to send out scouts and set a watch over the camp at night. It is the disciplines of war.’
The Duke beamed at this answer. ‘Ay, right, Sir Nicholas, you have the right of it. For it is a war against myself and my lands, though it is not so declared as much. I am heartily relieved to find you of the same mind as I. Yet the battle is not begun. I dare not cast this Thornhill out while I am still weak. When Count Claudio is my heir, when his men are mine to call on, then there shall be a reckoning.’
They entered the hall of the palace and the Duke, still propelling Oldcastle by his grip upon his elbow, brought him to the captain of his guards.
‘Here,’ said the Duke to his captain, ‘is Sir Nicholas Hawkwood. He is to stand in my place in all matters pertaining to the defence of my lands while I am absent.’
Oldcastle’s face, which had drooped in shock at these words, hurriedly put on a martial visor as the Duke turned to him. Again, the Duke took his paleness for other than it was.
‘I ask too much, I know,’ the Duke said. ‘Yet I beseech you, Sir Nicholas: let me rest easy these three nights to come knowing that I have you watching over my palace and my daughter.’
He did not wait for Oldcastle’s assent. His own words had sparked a remembrance in the Duke.
‘Rodrigo,’ bellowed the Duke and at his cry his steward ran to his master’s side, stumbling slightly in his haste, from where he stood in conference with another servant. ‘Valentine, that perfidious child ...’
‘Gone, good my lord,’ said the steward, anticipating the Duke’s question with a smile. ‘The guard at the postern gate reports his departure this hour past. He went, so it is said, tearful and wailing at his fortune.’
‘Good. His fate is not near my conscience. Where gratitude and loyalty should have lain in his bosom there rested only a grasping and a lecherous desire. That at least is done.’
The Duke dismissed his steward with a wave and the man returned to finish off the hasty preparations for departure. The Duke turned back to Oldcastle.
‘I am grateful beyond measure, Sir Nicholas, for your timely arrival at my court.’ He seized Oldcastle by the shoulders and dragged him into an embrace, once, twice, three times kissing him on alternate cheeks. Then, holding him at arms’ length, he declared: ‘Fortune herself has delivered you to me in my hour of need.’
Oldcastle had decided that he and Lady Fortune would share a few words should he chance upon her and words of no sweet breath but of demand: wherefore should an old man who never did harm to any be so assailed by her distemper? A quiet life was all he asked.
‘Rodrigo,’ the Duke roared again, causing Oldcastle to blench. Again, the Duke’s steward ran to his master’s side but his passage was checked by the Duke himself, advancing at speed, and he was picked up in the Duke’s wake as he passed. ‘All is ready?’
‘It is.’
‘Then we ride. Adieu, Sir Nicholas, keep my daughter safe and the wolves from my door,’ the Duke called and was gone towards the stables, the sound of his called orders to his steward soon fading to an echo.
Oldcastle stood in the suddenly quiet hall alone. Here’s a to-do, he thought. Best make of it what I can. First to find Hemminges, and then to find food and wine. On consideration, food and wine first, then John’s advice. I shall never hear him out properly if I am distracted by my stomach’s growl. He headed toward his rooms, aping the Duke’s manner by picking up a servant by the arm as he did so, and sending the man scurrying to the kitchens for food and drink.
In the comfort of his chambers and with the prospect of refreshment on its way he began to feel calm again. After all, he need only pass three days in comfort and good eating and then receive the Duke’s gratitude and good favour. He put his feet upon a stool and leaned back in his chair. A knock at the door announced the servant’s arrival with a platter of meats and breads and some of that fig preserve that he had grown partial to in Venice.
‘Good man, good man,’ Oldcastle murmured as the table was laid. And if you would be so kind as to find Master Russell and send him to me?’
Oldcastle dismissed the servant. A slice of cured ham on warmed bread and a glass of wine later and his mood had turned from trepidation and despair to good humour and high hopes. A knock at the door heralded the servant’s return. The face that answered Oldcastle’s cry of entry was pale and trembling. Oldcastle shot to his feet.
‘Out with it, man.’
‘Oh, my lord, such terrible news,’ said the servant. ‘The Lady Aemilia is gone.’
‘How, “gone”?’ said Oldcastle.
‘Fled, my lord, with the exiled Valentine.’
‘You’re certain?’ said Oldcastle, now cold with fear.
‘Past question, my lord,’ answered the servant. ‘She has taken
some of her jewels too. Her maids have searched the palace this past hour, fearing to make false report.’
Oldcastle clutched at his thin pate. Not two hours passed since the Duke had left him in charge of his daughter and the damn girl had run away. This was disaster writ in words of flame, Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.
‘Quick, man, fetch Master Russell to me with haste,’ cried Oldcastle. God how he needed Hemminges’ counsel and his calm now. Would he had that cunning rogue Shakespeare here too.
‘Hurry, man, hurry,’ Oldcastle cried, seeing the man did not move.
‘My lord, it seems ...’ The man hesitated and Oldcastle, full of fears, roared at him to speak.
‘My lord, it seems that Master Russell went with them.’
Oh Jesu, thought Oldcastle as he collapsed to his seat, I am undone, I can bear no more. A knock came at the door and another servant entered.
‘My lord,’ the servant said, ‘Father Thornhill demands audience.’
Act Three
Verona and woods in the Veneto, March 1586
Arise, dissembler; though I wish thy death
The Veneto
The outlaws’ camp was sombre. A day and night of rain had cooled the hot mutiny in the men’s eyes to sullen embers of discontent. Their leader strode among the perturbed faces and gave the glowering looks no heed.
‘Come, Adam,’ said Orlando to William. ‘Let us leave these oysters to their grim silence. I am sure they have pearls within em but right now they speak to me only of slime and salt.’
William couldn’t understand why Orlando thought him any different. He’d less to say to Orlando than any man among the company. For the first time in his life William did not feel like speaking and had sat more silent than the surly band, who spoke only to make complaint. He’d passed about the camp doing such business as the day demanded, fetching water and wood for the fire, cleaning a rabbit that Zago had trapped, all without the need for words. There’d been little enough to do and he’d spent such leisure as he had in reading the folio of Isabella’s verse he’d taken from her table as he’d left.
In disparte da te sommene andata,
per frastornarti da l’amarmi, avante
ch’unqua mostrarmi a tanto amore ingrata:
Oh, Isabella, I would you had not left me. You have cleft my heart in twain and now I must live without the better part of it.
He’d had a purpose once, or so he thought, but what it was he’d quite forgotten.
‘Come, dreamer, up, up.’
Orlando’s voice cut through William’s thoughts and he pushed himself to his feet and followed after the bandit leader. They passed through the forest with Orlando whistling a jaunty tune. The man gave every appearance of being quite unconcerned either by the previous day’s slaughter or by the possibility of being surprised by those who might seek to bring a bandit to justice. At last they came upon a brook and Orlando, without pause, stripped off his baldric, sword and clothes and dove in. He surfaced and threw back the hair from his head.
‘Ah, God, but that is cold as Hecate’s teat. Jesu, it cleans the soul like a frosty fire.’
He beckoned to William. ‘Come, Adam, a man of your name should not shame to bathe in nature.’
He flopped backwards and sculled a little against the current, waiting. William peeled off his clothes and balled them up, laying them on the rock beside Orlando’s. He felt the grime of many days’ walking and sleeping in the forest and was suddenly desperate to be clean. He took a shallow dive into the river and felt the bite of the cold as his head cut below the water’s surface. The current was strong and he warmed himself by swimming against it and up the stream to stand on a shallow rock beneath a drooping willow that stood askant the brook. He looked about him – the afternoon sun cut through the willow’s hoary leaves to play upon the water and the reeds. Orlando swam up to join him and drawing near, reached up and grasped a branch of the willow and held it to stay the current’s pull from dragging him back downstream. William did not look at him but stared out at the scene, taking its beauty in. This would be a good place to die, he thought.
‘I know you are not who you claim to be.’
William did not look over. If Orlando had intended to shock him from his meditation then he was disappointed in William’s leaden response.
‘Who is?’
‘Hah, says the philosopher.’
‘We all but play parts and tread our brief hour on the stage,’ said William. ‘You, Orlando, are not who you claim to be neither.’
‘And who do I claim to be?’
‘The soldier, full of strange oaths, bearded like the pard: you are not making a thievish living on the common road from necessity. You have a reason as do I. My reason’s known, but the cause of your sorrow...’
William ended with another shrug. He had felt the faintest spark of heat within him, curiosity to know this fellow’s story. It was a pale and cheerless thing when set against the furnace that, in the past, was wont to flare within his breast at the merest hint of mystery. For all its shallow heat it was more than he’d felt within him in a week.
‘By Jesu, you have the right of it.’ Orlando struck the water with his hand. ‘I have reason enough for this and more than this and it is that I would speak of to you.’
William shook his head. ‘Who’er you think I am, you are mistaken.’
‘I know that ring.’
William looked down at the gold ring with its cornelian heart and the strange sigil of a lance with a pen’s nib. His head snapped up at Orlando’s next words.
‘You are the Count Prospero, the Pope’s blade.’
There was no passage between the words and the actions. William was upon Orlando in an instant, his hands about his throat, driving the wideeyed figure under the water and screaming: ‘Speak not that name to me. Speak not that name.’
Orlando thrashed against William’s closing hands and struggled to find purchase on the slime-covered rocks below his feet, the current pushing him from any footing as William held him beneath the rolling stream. His hands beat at William’s sides without force and darkness began to close over his eyes. Suddenly William hauled him up and threw him on the bank where he rolled and coughed and spewed green water on the ground. William stood in the brook still, shivering against both the cold and the sudden flood of anger that had consumed him. He was brought back to himself by the sound of Orlando laughing.
‘So, there is still life in you,’ said Orlando. ‘And there I was fearing you were turning into a statue.’
‘Do not call me by that name,’ said William.
Orlando held up a hand placatory. ‘Never again will it cross my lips.’
Orlando retched again upon the ground. William dove into the water to swim and let the cold calm his thoughts. He emerged and strode to the bundle of his clothes, which he began to unfold. The shirt he took to the water’s edge and, squatting, bent to wash some of the salt and dirt from it. Orlando, recovered from his fit of coughing, leaned back against the bank and spoke to the sky.
‘That ring, I knew I had seen its seal before. Then when you moved with such dexterity against Luca, well, let us say only that the Pope’s assassin’s reputation precedes him.’
William carried on beating the dirt from his shirt with hands that thrilled with nameless emotion. Orlando raised an eyebrow at his silence but seemed to take it as proof of his conjectures. Neither spoke for as long as one man might count three hundred. The gentle susurration of the brook in that time was enlivened only by the drumbeat of William’s laundry-work.
‘Why do I confront you with this character? Not to fright you. I had hoped, here at the river, my sword upon the ground and without any possibility of hidden blade, well...’ said Orlando, it being his turn now to shrug. ‘As you guessed, I was not born an outlaw.’
‘No man is,’ said William.
‘There you are wrong,’ answered Orlando. ‘Some men have a thief s life thrust upon them but others are born thieves.’<
br />
His voice now took on a tone of pride. ‘I was born a nobleman and the heir to a fair estate not far from here. My father was a good man but unlucky. Unlucky to have married my mother who died at my birth. Unlucky to be married again to a woman I’ll not call Medea for fear I do that lady a dishonour. A woman of great beauty, though not in the flush of May; a Florentine and a libertine. She brought with her a son by her first marriage, the father dead, the son my elder by some years. I’ll not say that we were enemies, nor were we friends, but such is sometimes the way with brothers. Rumour spoke of cruelty with his fellows, of privilege demanded of the village girls, but of all that I saw nothing. I was blind to the truth.’
Orlando sat up and grabbed a stone from the bank that he sent skipping into the brook. ‘When I was of an age, I left to study at the university in Padua, as my father had done and his father before him. I had been there scarce a year when a letter reached me that my father had taken sick and died. I left Padua at once and rode without rest to my father’s castle but arriving, found the gate barred against me and my brother on the battlements, those arms that I should have borne upon his shield. I called for entry but was denied it, words of such foul scorn poured upon my head: that I was the cause of my father’s death, impatient of my estate, that my brother had discovered a plot against our father’s life too late. I fled their arrows and by my flight put confirmation on their charges.’
The beat of stone on shirt had ceased. ‘Your brother was the murderer?’ asked William.
‘So I think it. My mother, my second mother, outlived my father not one month more. If the plot was hers she’s paid for it, but I think it more probable that my brother, rising to the joys of rule, quickly tired of a dowager’s demands and removed her as he had my father. I fled to Padua but my brother pursued me there, laid charge of murder at my door and had me arrested. I pawned such favour as I had to have it let out that in my prison cell I had been taken by a fever and carried off from life. And now a dead man I fled here to the forest.’
The Assassin of Verona Page 17
