The Heretic's Mark

by S. W. Perry

  ‘No harm was done by it, m’lord,’ Rose says. ‘My Ned is returned to me, and for that I thank you from the depths of my soul. I just ’ope your conscience isn’t troubled by ’aving to lie to the court.’

  Lumley smiles, something Rose has hardly ever seen him do before.

  ‘It was a very small deceit, Rose.’

  ‘But a deceit in God’s own house, nonetheless.’

  Lumley takes her arm in his. ‘Fear not, Goodwife Monkton. The court is adjoined to the Protestant Church, whereas I am a Catholic. Therefore what I say in it doesn’t count.’ He raises his eyes heavenwards. ‘Besides,’ he says, ‘I think the Almighty would approve of a very small deceit, if it was made in order to save the life of a good man.’

  Madonna Antonella has agreed the Beguines may attend the horse race planned for tomorrow, the feast day of the Holy Rosary. ‘To give charity and counsel to the poor amongst the crowd, mind – not to gamble,’ she says sternly. ‘Or… Sister Agnes’ – and here she sends a cautionary glance in the direction of the oldest member of the order of Beguines – ‘to lust over the handsome riders.’ This causes much amused twittering, most of all from Sister Agnes herself, a sweet-faced biddy of eighty who, even on tiptoes, stands less than five feet tall.

  Madonna Antonella dismisses the Sisters to their duties, reminding them not to let their excitement make them late for Vespers. As they scatter into the cloisters, Hella pulls little Carlotta into the cover of the doorway to the refectory. It is time to put the last pieces of her plan into motion.

  ‘Do you have the two messages I gave you?’ she whispers. ‘Have you kept them safe?’

  ‘As safe as if they were my own honour,’ says Carlotta, laying her hand just below the neckline of her plain cloth gown to show where she has hidden them.

  ‘You haven’t read them?’

  ‘Of course not! You made me swear an oath not to.’

  ‘If you have, I promise you this: at a moment of my choosing, your eyes will begin to burn, and they will go on burning until they are as black and shrivelled as raisins. Now, repeat the instructions I gave you.’

  Half-thrilled, half-terrified, Carlotta does as her friend commands her. She finishes with a gabbled, ‘Shall we go to the race together? Please… Hella… say yes.’

  ‘No, sweet Carlotta, we shall not.’

  Carlotta’s happy expression crumbles. Hella tries not to laugh.

  ‘But… but… it is not safe to go on your own.’ Carlotta’s protest has more to do with her own disappointment than her concerns for her friend’s welfare. ‘It’s a horse race. There will be men there – common men, the sort who have no respect for the honour of a pious maid.’

  ‘You are right,’ says Hella, relenting. She lays a consolatory hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘I hadn’t considered that.’

  ‘Then I may accompany you?’

  But the young Beguine’s sudden surge of relived joy is only fleeting.

  ‘No, Carlotta, you may not accompany me,’ Hella says. ‘But you may fetch me a sharp knife from the kitchen.’

  ‘A knife? What need do you have of a knife?’

  ‘To set your mind at rest, of course. So that, if accosted, I shall be able to defend myself. What else would I need a knife for?’

  39

  Padua, 7th October 1594, the Feast of the Holy Rosary

  Bianca wakes to the sound of raised voices. They pull her from a troubled dream in which she saw herself as an ugly demon in the painting at Den Bosch, forcing a draught of fatal cantarella down the throat of a sinner on Judgement Day.

  As she looks around the chamber in the dawn light she cannot help but feel a sense of power. In the dream she felt guiltless. Pouring the clear liquid into the gaping mouth – prised open by the fiery fingers of her demonic accomplices – she experienced nothing but cold triumph. She whispers, or perhaps just imagines that she does, Never seek to curse a Caporetti, or those they love. And especially not their unborn children. Yes, she thinks, without question I am my mother’s daughter.

  Noticing the space beside her is empty, she curls herself up on the part of the rumpled sheet that Nicholas has vacated. She can smell the scent of him, feel the heat of him still trapped in the linen.

  He has not spoken to her about his visit to Hella Maas, and she has not prompted him. But she can trace – to the very moment – when the strength returned to her, the strength to shake off the strange servitude the maid had imposed upon her mind; to defy the curse. It had occurred the day before yesterday when Nicholas had taken her in his arms, after she had agreed to his meeting with the maid on the condition they would then put her out of their minds for ever. As if she had never existed, he had told her. And then the thunder had rolled down from the mountains – like one of the omens that Hella was forever going on about. That had convinced Bianca. It was indeed a sign. Not a sign that Hella had power over her, but rather confirmation that if the curse was to be lifted, it would be down to her to do it; down to a Caporetti.

  She sat at breakfast yesterday wrestling with her new-found determination. Whatever the outcome of Nicholas’s meeting with the maid, she has decided to give Hella a warning of her own. She will tell her that danger does not come in the form of a stranger in a grey coat, but in the form of the woman with whose mind she has so recklessly toyed. Withdraw the curse, leave our lives – or I will bring about your own personal Judgement Day. And this one will not be made of paint: it will be made of poison.

  From the courtyard the raised voices reach her again. She can make sense of them now: Bruno is chiding Alonso and Luca for some crime of indolence or omission. Her cousin has become ever more agitated in the past few days, consumed by his determination that the Arte dei Astronomi shall be accorded its rightful status in the forthcoming festivities. She smiles. At least one person close to her has an unswerving and thoroughly optimistic view of what the future holds.

  When she has washed and dressed, she goes down to breakfast. The courtyard is enveloped in a sullen mist, like a bathhouse after the fires have been doused. The sound of Bruno’s chivvying seems to come from some distant place, flat and listless with the travelling. She finds Nicholas inside, at the dining table. He offers her bread and cheese from the plate Luca has laid there.

  ‘You haven’t told me of your meeting with Hella Maas,’ she says, taking the chair opposite.

  ‘There is nothing to tell. I warned her she might be in danger. She didn’t seem to care. Even poor Matteo’s death seemed hardly to move her.’

  ‘Then we are done with her?’

  He looks at her, his head slightly tilted, his eyes uncertain. ‘I am done with her. The question is: are you?’

  ‘This is Bruno’s day, Nicholas. I refuse to let her sour it.’ Aware she hasn’t answered his question, she adds, ‘I wish to go to the Basilica of St Anthony, before they close it to prepare for the procession. I want somewhere where I may sit quietly in contemplation.’

  ‘Do you wish to be alone?’

  ‘You may come, if you want. But I will not speak of… her. So do not waste your breath asking.’

  They walk together mostly in silence, each unable to unburden themselves, both acutely aware that silence is not the natural state they share. In the mist, Paduans of all shapes and sizes, colours and estate surge around them. Priests and clerks hurry here and there on missions of organization, like black wraiths moving through a churchyard. Streets are being cleared of obstacles and sanded for the horse race scheduled in the afternoon. Vendors are setting up their stalls. The city heaves with a common expectation, as though it is a single organism stirring after hibernation.

  At length they emerge into the cobbled Piazza del Santo. Nicholas knows enough of the city now to recognize Donatello’s great bronze equestrian statue of the warrior Gattamelata. Skirting the plinth, they approach the stern brick façade of the Basilica. To Nicholas, it looks like a Moorish temple that has drifted in on the tide of mist. Flanking its six domes, two spires lance into the
opaque heavens, each more like a minaret than a Christian bell tower.

  ‘Are you going to make confession?’ Nicholas asks as they enter the echoing interior.

  ‘Why, do you think I might have committed a sin?’

  ‘No, of course not, I…’ He stops, unable to breach the walls of Bianca’s reserve.

  ‘If I do, promise me you won’t go wandering off. Remember what happened in Den Bosch.’

  ‘If I had my time again, I would have left Hella there,’ he says. ‘You must know that?’

  ‘We are both responsible for what has happened, Nicholas. Perhaps the maid is right: once knowledge is out, it cannot then be put back in its cage. We must each deal with it as we think best: either placate it or defy it.’

  As she walks on towards the altar, leaving Nicholas in the doorway, Bianca wonders if perhaps she should make confession. But how could she admit what is in her mind, even to a faceless priest behind the confessional screen? How much penance will he expect from her for the sin of wishing someone dead? How much more for actually planning it? And she suspects he could never answer the question that has plagued her since the notion first came into her head: if Hella dies, will the curse she has laid die with her? Or will it live on, like a malignant pestilence, waiting for the moment to strike?

  She settles quietly in a pew near the altar rail and tries to calm her racing mind. She imagines she must glow with guilt, visible to all around. Yet no one pays her attention. The roof does not fall in upon her. The flagstones do not crack and gape beneath her feet. God does not whisper even the softest condemnation to her. In the end, she thinks He must understand that she is no murderess, but simply someone trying to protect her husband from a threat she cannot quite put shape to. And more than that, even – protecting the child growing inside her.

  Eventually a peace she hasn’t felt for weeks comes over Bianca. She rises, genuflects, crosses herself and walks back to where Nicholas is waiting. As they leave the Basilica, she takes his hand. ‘Whatever happens, Nicholas,’ she says, ‘I did not bring you back from your darkness only to let another have you.’

  He is about to ask her what she means when they notice, simultaneously, a small band of citizens gathered in the mist by Donatello’s statue. A woman’s voice reaches them, throaty and insistent.

  Hella Maas is standing with her back to the plinth, her face transfused with righteous vehemence, her words laden with warning. The small crowd stares at her in appalled wonder.

  Before Nicholas can stop her, Bianca lets go of his hand and pushes her way forward. He follows, fearing what she might do. The crowd parts for them. In an instant Bianca is within striking distance of the maid. Startled by the sudden movement, Hella glances at her. Her eyes widen in recognition, but her voice does not falter.

  Bianca stops for a moment. Nicholas reaches out to grab her sleeve, to restrain her. But then she steps forward again, not aggressively, but calmly, until she is close enough to the maid to embrace her.

  Hella stops her ranting. She lowers her arms and regards Bianca with a quizzical expression. Bianca leans in close and says something Nicholas cannot hear. He knows it cannot be a threat, because Bianca’s body remains loose and calm. There is no anger in the way she holds herself.

  Hella bows her head in thought. Then she replies – in Italian, and too softly for Nicholas to catch. Bianca turns, walks back to him, takes his hand once more and leads him out of the Piazza del Santo.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ he asks.

  ‘What does it matter? I have already forgotten her,’ she replies. ‘What was the phrase you used? As if she had never existed.’

  Bianca’s new gown has arrived in the nick of time. She takes one look at the pearl-coloured brocade with red lace trimmings and proclaims it the most exquisite thing she has ever seen. Nicholas thinks he has never seen her looking more beautiful.

  ‘I wish Rose were here to see it,’ she says, after thanking Bruno so profusely that he has begun to blush.

  ‘I insist on paying you,’ Nicholas says, drawing him aside. ‘This is too generous to stand, even for you.’

  Bruno pats his arm. ‘I told you before: it is my way of thanking you both for saving my life when I came to London. If you want, you can pay for the panels when they’re needed.’

  ‘The panels?’

  Bruno’s hands spread outwards from his doublet, in imitation of a swollen belly.

  ‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean: when she’s… larger.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Bruno.

  The mist still clings to the city like a spurned lover. The sun has not been seen all day. Those citizens who have listened to the warnings given by the strange maid in the Piazza del Santo go about the streets with troubled faces, wondering if her predictions are coming to pass even sooner than she had claimed. Their mood does not improve when word spreads that the hour-hand of the great clock on the face of the Torre dell’Orologio has stopped moving.

  It’s just nesting birds, gumming up the mechanism with straw and mud, the Podestà’s men announce. We’ll have it fixed in time for the horse race. But their assurances find little purchase with those who prefer a more supernatural explanation.

  In the race stables, the favourite stallion suddenly rears without warning. Panicked, its flailing hooves break the skull of the groom’s thirteen-year-old assistant. The groom lays the blame on a rat seen running across the cobbles. Highly strung stallions are prone to such terrors, he tells the owner – who has him soundly flogged for trying to spook the horse on behalf of a competitor in the hope that it might injure itself. But by the time the news is common knowledge, another explanation is already in play: the mount reared in terror when an eagle – the colour of the darkest night – alighted upon the rail of its stall.

  The wise men at the university on the Palazzo Bo laugh at these stories. The common people do not. Italians, Bianca reminds Nicholas as they walk to the Piazza dei Signori to watch the start of the race, often have superstition running in their veins more thickly than blood. But it doesn’t make them stupid.

  The piazza itself is too packed for Bianca’s liking, so they find a place in a nearby street where there is still room to stand in relative safety, their backs to the stucco houses. The make-up of the crowd has Nicholas imagining that the entire population of Padua has been poured into a bucket, stirred with a ladle and decanted into the streets. Gallants in satin doublets and striped hose rub shoulders with artisans in broadcloth; women in vibrant gowns stand beside friars in brown sackcloth; children shelter between the steel knee-guards of men-at-arms, glancing up at them with wary fascination.

  The Podestà’s men have proved to be overconfident. The hour-hand of the clock on the Torre dell’Orologio is still jammed. But the bell in the tower works. As it begins to toll, the Podestà drops his official baton. In the side-street where Nicholas and Bianca are standing, heads turn expectantly towards the great roar coming from the Piazza dei Signori. Bianca clings tightly to Nicholas’s arm.

  And then the ground seems to sing, as though an invisible tide is beginning to flow over the cobbles. Bianca senses the people around her holding their collective breath. From the direction of the piazza comes a noise that she can only liken to barrels of ale rolling down the ramp to the Jackdaw’s brewhouse. Faint at first, it swiftly rises to a frightening roar.

  At the end of the side-street where it gives onto the Piazza dei Signori, a tight phalanx of horses bursts out of the mist. Heads tossing, jaws grinding on iron bits, nostrils gaping, spume flying, they plunge forward like creatures fleeing out of hell. Their jockeys ride bareback, stirrupless. Clad in vibrantly coloured silk tunics, they crouch low over the necks of their mounts, gripping the reins with one hand, lashing furiously with a leather crop held in the other. For Nicholas, it is impossible to distinguish the crowd’s shrieks of terror from its screams of encouragement. He has the brief impression of a dark wall of rippling muscle bearing down upon him, then a roar like a mountain falling into a w
ild ocean.

  And then they are gone. Almost as one, the crowd lining the street turns to watch them go. Catching his breath, Nicholas says, ‘I’ve never seen the like. It was terrifying.’

  ‘I don’t like the way they whip the horses,’ Bianca confesses. ‘And you wouldn’t want to be a bull in Italy.’

  He looks at her quizzically. ‘A bull? The Paduans race bulls, too?’

  ‘No, Husband,’ she replies, grinning. ‘The whips. If you’re a bull, they cut off your pizzle, dry it out in the sun, stretch it and make a lash out of it.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind, next time we argue,’ he says, realizing that it’s the first time they have laughed together in a long while.

  And then he notices, further down the street, people beginning to break away from the crowd. They are running in the direction of the vanished horses, and something about the agitation in them tells him these are not merely supporters trying to follow the progress of the race. Something is amiss. A woman’s scream pierces the mist.

  ‘Oh, Jesu, there’s been an accident,’ Bianca says, raising a hand to her mouth.

  Without even thinking, Nicholas runs towards the commotion, Bianca at his heels. Rounding the bend at the end of the street, he runs into the back of a throng of spectators, all jostling for a view. He calls out in Italian, ‘I’m a physician, let me pass.’ Grudgingly, the crowd separates and Nicholas finds himself at the front.

  A crumpled, bloodied figure in bright-yellow Venetian hose lies face-down in the street, his awful stillness a rebuke to the agitation of the people gathered around him. Rivulets of blood snake out through the spread of white hair, finding the easiest path through the cobbles like the first tentative signs of a turning tide. Too old to be a competitor, Nicholas thinks.

  A quick glance around tells him he is right. Two horses stand a short way off. One is being calmed by his rider, who stands beside his mount’s sweating neck, cursing his luck. The other is riderless, his head making great sweeping bows, vapour pluming from his nostrils. A spectator struggles to hold him steady by the reins. The jockey sits propped up against the wall of a house, his face screwed up in agony, one leg twisted outwards at a sickening angle. Someone has torn away the hose from the injured limb and an elderly, grey-haired man in a black gown has his ear close to the flesh, listening for the telltale noise of bone fragments moving. Nicholas recognizes him from his visits to the Palazzo Bo as a colleague of Professor Fabrici.