by Paul Doherty
'Signors,' he said mockingly, 'welcome aboard!' He coughed. 'But you are-'
'You are in our place!' Beatrice snapped. 'This is our favourite spot on a ship.'
'In which case, Madam,' Benjamin replied. 'You have chosen well.*
Beatrice smiled at him and my heart lurched, for she was truly beautiful. She looked at me and her smile widened.
('Will you shut up!' I yell at my chaplain. 'In my day I was attractive to women despite the cast in my eye!' I pick my cane up and beat the little runt over the knuckles. What does he know? In my time I have courted the best, not like him, trying to peer down Phoebe's bosom whilst giving a sermon in church!)
I gazed speechlessly at her beauty. Her eyes were glowing, brown, wide and slightly slanted, with remarkably finely-shaped eyebrows which turned almost wing-like at the outer corners. Her nose was straight, her cheeks high-boned yet soft, her chin elfishly pointed beneath a delicate, rose-petalled mouth. (I can see my chaplain getting excited, jumping up and down, squirming on his stool, muttering feverishly. He always likes Shallot's bed trysts. I recount them because they are bound to keep the little bugger happy. Well, he should be more chaste.)
Anyway, on that mist-shrouded deck so many years ago I stood stock-still. Beatrice raised her hand, soft and smooth like the petal of some exquisite flower. I grasped and kissed it feverishly. Beatrice, the spoilt bitch, giggled. Giovanni looked on with disapproval. He stared up at the brightening sky. 'We should be gone,' he muttered. 'And the sooner the better. This could be a dangerous voyage.'
'Well!' Beatrice touched my hand, her eyes full of mockery. 'With a man such as Master Shallot, I should be quite safe.'
As a rabbit in a fox's lair, I thought. I was all set to continue the dalliance when, suddenly, the ship lurched. I grabbed the side and peered anxiously about. So engrossed had I been with the Lady Beatrice that I had hardly realized that the plank had been raised and orders for departure issued. Sailors released the ropes that held us to the quay and ship's boys scampered up the rigging as quick and lithe as cats up a tree. The Florentines moved away. I watched the gap between the quay-side and the ship grow and gazed despairingly into the darkness. Again the ship lurched. I thanked God Beatrice had gone, leaned over the side and vomited my breakfast.
(Mind you, whenever I think of ships, I remember the Mary Rose, Henry VIII's great warship, built at Greenwich. On its first voyage, the Mary Rose set sail, fired one cannonade and turned full-tilt in the water. Hundreds of good men died. The fat bastard Henry went purple with rage and commissioned me to seek out the murderer. Oh yes, don't listen to anyone else, old Shallot knows the truth. The sinking of the Mary Rose was no accident. Those sailors were drowned, and that great ship destroyed, by a soul as black as midnight.)
My voyage on the Bonaventure was a living hell. The sailors were pleased – they welcomed the winds that swept us out of the Channel and into the Bay of Biscay. I didn't. I remember some of the details of the voyage – the great white sails billowing in the winds, snapping and cracking; men shrieking; the patter of feet on decks; blue sky and racing waves; strange fish leaping up beside the ship – but it was all like a dream. I was sick in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening and during the night. At first I thought it would end eventually, but my stomach kept wringing itself like a wet rag and I was unable to keep any food down. I fell into a fever which lasted days.
I remember Preneste bending over me, my master's white, anxious face and, I am sure, little Maria mopping my brow and forcing some evil-tasting black substance between my lips. And then one morning I woke up. I felt light-headed and weak, but my stomach was calm. I didn't even retch at the stench of the fetid slops that had accumulated between decks and made the ship smell like a midden at the height of summer. My master bent over me. 'What day is it?' I croaked. 'The feast of St Ethelburga, the 25th of May.' 'Good Lord!' I replied. 'Twelve days gone!' Benjamin nodded. 'We have reached the tip of Spain.'
All around me I could hear the ship creak and groan. I noticed how hot and sour the air was. 'For God's sake, Master,' I groaned. 'Get me out of here!'
As my master helped me to my feet I saw how stained and dirty my clothing was. When we reached the deck I was at first nearly blinded by the light, for the sun shone hot and fierce. Then I saw a group including the captain and Roderigo watching some sailors dancing while a thin-faced boy played a flute. On the deck near the sterncastle some Florentines, Giovanni and Alessandro among them, exercised with wooden swords. When they saw me they called out and came over. The sweat coursing down their faces from matted hair, they looked like happy boys engaged in a game. I felt a stab of envy at their bronzed good looks.
'Your sea legs at last!' Giovanni teased. 'It's good to see you in the land of the living again, Master Shallot.'
Alessandro poked his wooden sword at me. 'Time for exercise. A short melde could banish the evil humours.'
Maria appeared, grasped my arm and, with my master, helped me to the ship's side. 'They mean well,' she murmured, 'but the Florentines, dear Onion Patch, have great experience of travel. They are used to much worse seas than those we have travelled through.'
(I can well believe it! That old pirate Drake told me that in mid-Atlantic there are waves higher than Hampton Court. But you know Drake – if he wasn't a sailor he would have made a fortune as a teller of tales!)
Maria and Benjamin propped me against the rail. I sucked in the sultry breeze, but had to keep closing my eyes to shut out the sunlight dancing dazzlingly on the water.
'Don't look at the waves,' Maria said quietly. 'Choose some point on the horizon and watch that. Then the giddiness will pass.' I heard the soft rustle of her skirts and caught the fragrance of a light perfume. I smiled down at her. 'Thank you,' I said, meaning it. 'For what? I can't have old Onion Crosspatch die on us!'
In a low-cut dress, the sleeves pulled back, Maria looked as fresh as some golden milkmaid on an English morning. Her eyes were soft and her mouth was welcoming. She stroked my hand lightly. 'You were very ill, Roger,' she said. 'And delirious.' 'About you,' I half-joked. 'No, no, about some other woman. Agnes.'
I looked away. Strange that someone like Maria should drag back the memories of Agnes – Agnes, pure and innocent as a doe, strangled in a garden just because she and her family knew me. 'Agnes is dead,' I told her. 'We all have dreams.' Maria looked past me at Benjamin.
'You must take him out of the sun,' she said briskly, 'and cover his head and the back of his neck, otherwise the sun will drive him mad. More people die of sunstroke than at the hands of the Turks.'
I looked at her uncovered head and neck and bare shoulders.
'In which case, Mistress, surely you should take better care?'
Maria giggled, ‘I am used to this heat. As a child I often ran naked.' 'And now?' I teased, forgetting my discomfort.
'Only in the company of friends,' she said mischievously, and walked daintily away.
Ah well, as you can see, I was getting better. My master borrowed a cloak and hood for me and I followed Maria's advice. Using his charm, he persuaded the ship's cook to serve me dishes of meat, slightly rancid but nonetheless appetising. Maria brought me strange fruits called oranges. I had seen their like in England, but these were full and ripe their juice slaked my thirst and cleaned the sourness from my mouth. I bathed under a water pump and changed my clothes and within a few days I had rejoined the company of the living, my eyes again sharp for mischief, with Lady Beatrice in particular. Now, though, she ignored me.
A few days later we sighted land, a grey dull mass. My master explained that we were slipping through the Straits of Hercules, past the outpost of Gibraltar, where we stopped to take on fresh water before turning north-west to the port of Pisa. At once the sky clouded over. We ran into a sudden storm, but that soon passed and I suffered no sort of sickness. The mood of the ship now abruptly changed. The ship's guns were cleaned and prepared. The crew had their weapons ready. Benjamin explained that we were now in t
he Middle Sea where Moorish corsairs prowled in their long galleys.
'Singly, they would probably not attack a warship,' he said, 'but there's always the danger that we might meet several of them working together and then, of course, they might try their chances even against a well-armed ship like the Bonaventure. Or we might come across a squadron of Suleiman's fleet from the Golden Horn.'
Two days after that conversation, just before sunset, ten long, narrow vessels appeared over the horizon. They swept towards us, low in the water. They reminded me of wolves, so silent, so eerie was their approach. Our captain ordered the beat to arms and the decks were cleared for action. The galleys came closer, dark sails flapping whilst their oars dipped slowly in the calm blue sea. The captain ordered a volley and the ship shuddered as our cannon roared out. The galleys were too far away to be suitable targets but they heeded our warning and kept their distance. Nevertheless, I was fascinated by these masters of the sea, these sea-wolves darting in and out from ports along the North African coast. At night I stood by the rail and watched their lights and heard the loud drumbeat of their master oarsman. The wind shifted and I gagged at the terrible stench.
'Slaves,' Benjamin murmured, standing beside me. The galleys are packed with Christian men who, until the day they die, have to man their oars. Pray, Roger, that such a fate is never yours or mine.'
Believe me, I did. And for once the good Lord must have heard me for, at dawn the next day, the galleys had disappeared and we continued our journey. At last the lookout spied land and I ran to the rail searching the horizon until I made out a dull grey line.
'Italy!' Maria said, coming up beside me. 'Soon, Master Crosspatch, Lord of the Onion, we shall be in Florence.'
She sauntered off when I refused to react to her teasing. I stood and stared at the fast approaching land, gaping like a schoolboy. This was Italy, of which I had heard so much. Now I look back and laugh. I have had my fill of Italy! Venice has a price on my head. The Roman cardinals would love to burn me at the stake, and there are certain noble families who would pay large amounts of gold to have me as their guest in some stinking dungeon. Now I know Italy for what it is – a violent country, drenched in wine and blood, stuffed with the glories of the past and the promise of things to come; a country where you will see the best and worst of what the human soul can fashion.
By evening we were in port. The anchor came rumbling down and the decks were cleared for a convivial feast. Boatloads of urchins came out from the grubby port offering fruit, wine, women, anything a sailor could desire. But Lord Roderigo was strict – the bumboats were driven off and the Florentine nobleman had his own feast, broaching a special cask of wine which he served us personally in small, fluted goblets. Today I hold this strange memory, of a banquet under the stars, on board a ship where I'd almost died. The sky was of dark-blue velvet and the stars glittered like a wild spangle of precious jewels. On one side of me sat Benjamin, on the other Maria. The Florentines sat further up the table. Lord Roderigo raised his cup in a toast and sipped the blood-red wine.
Maria identified it for me. 'Falernian,' she said. 'The same wine, Onion, Pilate is supposed to have drunk when he sentenced Christ to death on the cross.'
I find it hard to describe what happened after the banquet. Maria had stopped her teasing and begun to yawn. She hurled a final good-natured insult at me and retired. The Albrizzis, who had virtually ignored us throughout the meal, also left. Matteo the steward had been trying to draw me into conversation throughout the meal – he had offered some conventional phrases of good-will that Maria had interpreted. Now, just as I rose from the table, he grabbed my arm and whispered something in Italian. (I can't remember the words, but Maria later told me they meant, in a little while, in a little while!') I was very unsteady on my feet, full of Falernian and almost beside myself with the prospect of being back on terra firma. I went below decks feeling I loved the world and everybody in it. I sat for a while wondering if Italian women were golden-brown all over, whilst Benjamin dozed beside me.
The sound of a small explosion shattered my dreams. I heard a cry, followed by a splash and the sound of running feet. I shook Benjamin awake. We clambered up the ladders and back on to the moonlit decks. Roderigo, in hose and shirt, came out of one of the small cabins; he joined a group of sailors clustered around their captain and staring over the ship's side. Roderigo questioned them quickly. 'What is it?' my master asked. Roderigo turned and even in the moonlight I could see that his face was pale. 'Matteo has gone!' 'What do you mean, gone?'
Roderigo waved the captain towards him. The monkey-faced sailor in his sea-stained velvet tunic shuffled forward, his battered hat in his hands. 'What happened?' Benjamin asked.
The man shrugged and spread his hands. 'Everybody else is below decks,' he replied in broken English. 'But Matteo was on the bulwarks. He was holding a rope, staring into the water. We heard an explosion, like an arquebus being fired. Matteo gave a cry, now he's gone!'
Others were now coming on deck. Benjamin and I hurried to the ship's side and looked over.
'It's useless.' Roderigo murmured. 'The sea looks peaceful enough but there are powerful undercurrents. Matteo will never surface.'
My master turned. 'Quick, Lord Roderigo, the ship must be searched!'
Roderigo passed the order to the captain and the decks became alive with the slap of bare feet as the sailors hurried hither and thither. Benjamin and I stared out at the distant shoreline. 'Why Matteo?' Benjamin whispered. 'I think he wanted to speak to me,' I replied.
'He knew something,' Benjamin said. 'Perhaps he used the voyage to reflect on what has happened.' He smiled bleakly at me. 'Well, at least we've established one fact, Roger. The assassin's definitely on board the ship and not back in England.'
After an hour the captain called the search off. He shook his head, muttering that there was no sign of any gun.
As we walked over to join Roderigo and his household, Benjamin said, 'How on God's earth, Roger, can a man load and prime an arquebus on board ship, kill poor Matteo and hide the gun – all without leaving any traces?' The Florentines were asking themselves the same question.
'It's ridiculous!' Giovanni declared roundly. 'Lord Roderigo, this is impossible!'
'Well, it's happened!' I snapped. 'Someone came on deck with a primed handgun.' I looked at the mercenary meaningfully. 'It would have taken a good marksman to hit his target in this poor light.'
'Did the sailors on watch,' Benjamin asked, 'see anything at all.'
Roderigo shook his head. 'They admit they were half-asleep or staring out to shore. They saw Matteo at the ship's side but paid him little attention. Then they heard an explosion – a crack – and Matteo's cry and the splash as his body hit the water.' 'And where was everybody else?' Benjamin asked.
His question provoked a babble of answers. People had been in and out of cabins, some had even seen Matteo sitting on the ship's rail, but no one's movements seemed suspicious. The assassin had chosen his time well. I remembered Benjamin's oft repeated remark, that the most skilful murders are those carried out in public and in busy places.
'You see, Roger,' Benjamin observed as we returned below deck, 'everyone is tired and fuddled with wine.'
'But, Master,' I exclaimed, 'how could anyone carrying an arquebus not have been noticed?'
Benjamin stopped on the ladder, putting his hand out to steady himself as the ship rolled slightly. He looked at me, his face sombre in the poor light.
'God knows I can't answer that, Roger. But I tell you, most solemnly, this is only the beginning!'
Chapter 6
We disembarked and made our way inland. You have to know the glories of northern Italy, the exotic colours of Tuscany, to appreciate what I saw. Imagine, in your mind's eye, brilliant blue skies, a sun which hung like a golden disc, thick grass and wild flowers of every variety and colour, bees humming as they plundered for honey. To be sure, the roads were dusty but, as we began to climb into the Tuscan hills, co
ol breezes fanned our brows. I love England and its soft, wet greenness, yet Tuscany must be very close to Paradise. The same is true of the countryside around Florence; lush green hills where pines and cypresses shimmer in the sunlight. Orange trees perfumed the air. Now and again the beautiful wildness was broken by a cluster of whitewashed cottages. This is the contrado, the countryside, the source of Florence's wealth, which makes it self-sufficient in everything – cereals, vegetables, wheat, even silver. The city itself nestles among the hills on either side of the Arno, which runs through the city like a silver ribbon. If you went there now, you'd find that Florence has been ravaged by war, greed and the moria, the dreadful pestilence which sweeps in and, every so often, harvests the people with its cruel scythe. Now my journal is no travel book and there are plenty of descriptions of Italy – of its warmth and opulence, of its cool porticos and silver fountains. You can read elsewhere about the sound of a lyre on a moonlit velvet night, and of beautiful men and women locked in the dramatic dance of love. Everything I know about Italy, and Florence in particular, I have told to Will Shakespeare. Read his plays and you will see what I mean. I have met Duke Orsini from Twelfth Night and been introduced to two gentlemen of Verona. I witnessed the tragedy of the star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet. Oh, yes, I don't lie! I've met Portia, but she was not like the Portia you meet in The Merchant of Venice, black-haired and golden-hearted. The one I met years later was golden-haired and black-hearted. And the Jew Shylock was one of the most generous-hearted men I have ever met. I was angry with Will when I saw how he had described him. I respect the Jews -they are like the Irish, full of black humour without a grain of pomposity.
Ah, Florence, home of Donatello, Fra Angelico, Giotto and Machiavelli! I suppose that's it in one sentence. Florence is a city of contrasts: on the one hand, love, wine and roses; on the other, a world of intrigue – the secret police known as the Eight, the stiletto in the dark, the garrotte string around the throat. It is a city of churches, convents, priories and monastries, but its real God is commerce.
