by Paul Doherty
'We were sent to deliver a message to the cardinal,' he whispered. 'We have received his reply. Only God knows, dear Roger, what he and uncle are dabbling in. We know that the Medici have a spy in the Albrizzi household and that someone is busily killing off members of that household. And have you noticed that, since we came to Italy, there's been no further threat against our lives?' 'What about last night!' I exclaimed.
Benjamin shook his head, i don't think we were meant to be killed. I think the killer wanted to destroy certain evidence.' 'You mean the letter from the cardinal to Preneste?'
Benjamin pulled a face. 'Perhaps. I was tempted to ask His Eminence what it all meant. However, as the saying goes, "least said soonest mended". Now we have delivered our message!'
'Master,' I interrupted, 'Why do you think the assassin is no longer interested in us?'
'Oh, I am sure he or she still is. What happened in England was only an attempt to deter us from going to Florence. Now that we are here the assassin sees us as irrelevant in this silent but bloody war against the Albrizzi.' Benjamin pulled me back into the street again. 'As I have said, we have delivered our message and received His Eminence's reply. Now for the painter.' He called Maria over. 'The artist Borelli in the Via Fortunata?'
Maria pointed further down the street. 'Across the Mercato Vecchio. Come on, stop whispering to each other and I'll take you there.' 'Have you been before?' I asked.
She shook her little head and tripped down the street leading to the old market place.
'No,' she called over her shoulder. 'Lord Francesco commissioned the painter, it was his idea alone. Oh, and by the way, you are being watched.'
I whirled around. My blood froze. Standing in the doorway of a shop was one of the Eight, dressed in a dark-brown robe, arms hidden beneath his sleeves. He just watched us, the smooth-shaven face impassive, though the eyes were hostile. He reminded me of a hunting dog unsure whether to attack or not.
'Ignore him!' Benjamin hissed. 'We are doing no wrong, Roger.'
I hawked, spat in the spy's direction and followed Maria into the bustling square. Now the Mercato Vecchio is a singular place. On each of its four corners stands a church. Around the square craftsmen and dealers of every type have stalls stocked high with all kinds of goods, from sovereign remedies to silk from the lands east of the Indus. Apothecaries and grocers shouted for trade. Traders in pots and pitchers fashioned their wares and sold them. Tramps and beggars lurked in every corner. Butchers, their stalls festooned with hares, chunks of wild boar, partridge, pheasant, huge capons, shouted prices. Across the market the hawkers and falconers tried to restrain their hunting birds, restless as they smelt the blood pouring out from under the fleshing knives.
The din was ear-shattering, reminiscent of Cheapside, and as we crossed the market apprentices and women tried to catch us by the sleeves offering dried chestnuts, eggs, cheese, vegetables, herbs, flans, pies, and favourite Florentine dishes like ravioli. Girls from the country made their way elegantly through the throng, baskets stacked high on their heads. It was a miracle they could even walk, never mind hold burdens so easily. At last we were through the market and Maria led us down one street and into a narrow alleyway mis-named the Via Fortunata. It reeked of urine, the hordes of cats that plagued the area and boiled vegetables. Maria asked directions from a hawker, who pointed out a yellow, crumbling tenement.
'We'll find Borelli there,' she said. 'On the second floor, or so this fellow says.'
We entered the shabby building and climbed the rickety wooden stairs.
‘I don't think we'll have much trouble persuading him to come to England,' I whispered. Benjamin shrugged, then paused. 'Why this painter?' he murmured. 'Because the king liked Lord Francesco's present.'
Benjamin shook his head. 'An English court hires the best. Have you ever heard of Torrigiani?' 'Never.' 'He was a great Florentine artist, famous for his sculpture as well as for breaking the nose of the divine Michelangelo.' 'A thug?' I queried.
'A thug but a great artist. He was taken by the Inquisition and died in prison only last year. The point is, though, that he worked for the king's father.'
'So, why is Henry so interested in a minor Florentine artist like Borelli when he could have hired the best?'
'And that raises another question.' Benjamin turned to Maria. 'Why did your master hire such a minor painter to execute something for the king of England?'
Maria spread her little hands. 'Lord Francesco could be generous,' she replied, 'but perhaps he thought the work of an unknown would be more impressive.'
Benjamin sighed. 'We will do as the king wishes,' he declared sourly. 'Let's meet Master Borelli.'
We knocked on the faded, cracked door on the second floor. It was flung open by a thin, narrow-faced man with tousled black hair, close-set eyes and bloodless lips above a receding chin. He was dressed in an old smock covered in blotches of paint. 'Signors?' he queried.
Maria rattled out the introductions. The man stared at us.
'I speak some English,' he said. 'I was in your country seven years ago after I had visited Bruges.' 'Can we come in?' Benjamin asked.
The man waved us into a dark room reeking of paint, oil and stale cooking. Every available space was filled-with pots of paint, brushes, knives, easels carrying canvases. The fellow kept us standing as he wiped his paint-daubed hands with a rag. He muttered something to Maria and stared over his shoulder at a half-finished canvas.
'Master Borelli is busy,' Maria explained. 'He has a commission to complete.'
I studied the fellow closely. Busy, yes, but he was also very nervous. He kept swallowing hard and made no attempt to put us at our ease. Indeed, if we had walked back a step we would have been up against the door. Benjamin, too, was uneasy.
'Master Borelli,' he said, 'we bear the compliments of the king of England; he praises the painting you gave him, the one you did for Lord Francesco Albrizzi.' The man gave a crooked smile. 'I am glad your king was pleased.'
'We also bear messages from England,' Benjamin continued. 'His Majesty the King and my uncle, Cardinal Wolsey, have authorized us to offer you a commission. If you come to the English court, under the patronage of the king, undoubtedly there would be much work for you – and certainly more opulent surroundings than these.'
Borelli pulled a face, turned his back and went over to the easel. He picked up a brush and, holding a small pot of paint in his right hand, began to dab carefully at the canvas.
'Master Borelli!' Benjamin took a step nearer. 'Are you not interested?'
'Very,' the painter replied. 'But, as I have explained to your companion, the little woman, I am busy. I have paintings to do in Florence.' He turned back, the brush still in his hand. 'And, as for my surroundings, I like being here. I have my friends, my taverna, the sun, wine, the glories of Florence. Why should I exchange all this for an uncertain future at your cold English court?'
Borelli put the paint brush and pot down. He plucked at the rag tucked in the cord tied round his waist. 'Signor Daunbey, yes?' Benjamin nodded.
'Signor Daunbey, I do not wish to appear rude. But I have many orders to complete and in a few days I am to go to Ferrara and on to Rome. I thank your king for his favour. I will give my reply in a few days. You are staying…?' 'At the Villa Albrizzi.' ‘In which case I shall send it there.'
After that he fairly hustled us from the room, slamming the door shut. Maria giggled behind her gloved hand. I glared at her. Benjamin flung up his hands in despair.
'Mystery upon mystery,' he murmured. 'Why was he so surly?'
I stared at the door. Something was wrong. Borelli had hardly welcomed us and shown no surprise at our offer. He'd made no enquiry about what fee or what terms would be given if he came to England, and he couldn't get rid of us quickly enough. If I had been on my own I would have kicked the door down, dragged the fellow outside, beat his head against the wall and repeated our offer until he accepted.
'Roger,' Benjamin called, as if reading
my thoughts, 'we can do nothing now.'
We left the dirty, smelly tenement. Maria took us by a different route around the old market. The day was growing hot, already people were beginning to disperse to their houses for the siesta. Sensible Florentines would lounge in their upper rooms and wait for the sun to dip and the shadows to grow longer. Maria said she was thirsty. I licked dry lips and remembered the cool white wine we had drunk at the Medici palace. I stared over my shoulder, searching the crowd, but I couldn't see anyone following us. We passed a taverna, a brightly painted, shady establishment; fragrant cooking smells wafted through the door. Outside, leaning against the wall, two tinkers, their noses dug into their tankards, smacked their lips as they slaked their thirst. 'Master,' I insisted. 'We must drink something.' Benjamin agreed. We went inside.
It was a beautifully cool room with a high ceiling and great open windows on every side. Onions and vegetables hung from the rafters. The floor, surprisingly enough, was tiled with an exquisite mosaic depicting a hand clutching a succulent bunch of grapes. We took our seats at a table near a window overlooking the fragrant-smelling garden behind the taverna. A young boy dressed in a white apron, chattering like a monkey, came to take our order. Maria advised us to drink not wine but the juice of crushed oranges with slivers of ice in it. 'The wine will only make you thirstier,' she explained.
She was right. The boy brought back pewter flagons and both Benjamin and I exclaimed our appreciation at the cool and tangy fruitfulness which washed the dust from our mouths and slaked our thirst. Maria, still chattering about the different types of food and drink, ordered some bread with cheese and apple slices mixed together in an open earthenware bowl. We were so engrossed that I hardly noticed the wiry, grey-haired man sitting in a corner by himself, a wine cup cradled in his hand. After some minutes he got up and came over. 'Inglese?' he asked.
Maria jabbered some reply. The man nodded and drained his cup. He whispered something to Maria, then left the taverna. 'What did he say?' I asked curiously. 'He told us to be careful.'
As we started to eat one of the Eight came in through the door. He saw where we sat and abruptly left. Maria's face was pale, her eyes anxious.
'In Florence,' she murmured, 'the Master of the Eight is feared. The old man did us a great favour.'
I stared around the taverna. I could see no one watching us and I wondered what the man really had said to Maria. I looked at my master. He, too, was staring suspiciously at the little woman.
'That's what he said!' Maria exclaimed heatedly. 'Here in Florence the Eight are not liked. It is a courtesy to warn people when they are being watched.'
Benjamin shrugged and looked out across the garden. A group of children, probably the tavern-keeper's, were busy decorating the statue of a saint and letting off fire-crackers around it. Maria, standing on a stool, also peered out.
'They are preparing for the carnival,' she explained. 'In Florence every saint's day is celebrated, with flowers, fireworks, processions. It is a beautiful city,' she added wistfully. 'At least on the surface.' I saw her little body shiver. 'Give me London any time,' I said. 'Oh, for a day in Cheapside, eh, Master?' 'Eh, Inglese?'
I whirled round. Four men had suddenly entered the taverna and were now grouped around the table, staring at us. At the far side of the room the tavern-keeper was watching anxiously. The newcomers, with their plumed hats, tawdry finery, high-heeled boots and sword belts carrying dirk and hangar, were clearly bully-boys – an unholy bunch with their narrow faces and sneering mouths! I went back to my drink.
'Is the Inglese stupid as well as insulting?' one of them asked. He came towards me, coming so close his codpiece almost thrust into my cheek. He tugged my ear lobe. 'Inglese, look at me!' I stared up. He bowed down, pushing his face closer. 'Inglese, you insult me! Kiss my boot! Or I'll kill you!'
Chapter 10
Well, you know how it goes – it's always the same in any deliberate tavern brawl. These braggadocios had been sent to stir us up. Their leader spoke English. I gathered he was some apostate cleric or one of Italy's eternal students. I tried to ignore him but he began to taunt Maria, wondering if her privy parts were as small as everything else.
'Stop and play with us, little one!' he shouted, smacking me on the back of the head. 'The other one can go home and play with his mother!'
'Well, at least he's got one,' I said, 'and I know who my father was – claims none of you bastards can make!'
Well, that was it. Back they stepped, cloaks going over their shoulders, swords and daggers in their hands. I drew my own sword, seeing with relief that the landlord had opened a hidden door and was beckoning us to safety. Benjamin went to draw his sword. 'No, Master,' I ordered. 'Take care of Maria!'
We moved across the tavern floor, my body shielding both Benjamin and Maria. God knows what happened then. I never discovered if the tavern-keeper was part of the plot or if he just panicked. He dragged Benjamin and Maria through the door. I went to follow, but he slammed it shut in my face. I heard the bolts being shut even as I hammered on the door. 'Let me in!' I screamed. 'Oh, for God's sake! Let me in!'
The door didn't move. I whirled round, raising my sword just in time to block an attacker's thrust.
(Now I see my little chaplain giggle, his shoulders shaking. I know what he's thinking. Old Shallot either wetting his pants or telling lies! I rap him firmly across the knuckles with my ash cane. The little whelk of a bird-dropping! Yes, yes, I am a coward! There's not a tavern floor in London I have not crawled across in a mad desperate attempt to reach the door. Many a time I have told the attacker to look behind him and, when he does, I've hit him on the head and ran like the wind.)
However in that Florentine taverna it was different. I was cornered! And you know what they say about cornered rats? There were four attackers. Two were just bully-boys but the other two, one of them the leader, were professional swordsmen. They closed in, dancing, swords jabbing, daggers thrusting. I became hysterical with fright. My sword and dagger flashed like a scythe and, I tell no lie, I sliced off the leader's nose! One minute it was there, the next minute it was hanging by a few shreds of skin whilst the blood spurted out like wine from a cracked jar. He threw his sword and dagger to the floor and staggered back as a comrade took his place. Encouraged by my success I now opened both eyes. I pricked another attacker in the shoulder and was beginning to wonder whether I could play the hero again when the taverna was invaded by the black-garbed men of the Master of the Eight.
The braggadocios vanished like puffs of smoke, taking the noseless one with them. The men of Eight concentrated on me, battering me with their staves till I was beaten to the floor. I fought back, because I couldn't forget the nightmare scene, earlier in the day, of those three corpses twirling above the execution fire. One of the hooded men bestrode me and began to beat me around the head. I lunged back, biting the man in the genitals until he screamed. I fought on until a stinging blow on the head knocked me unconscious.
(Do you know, I always reflect on that? Some poor Florentine walking around with Roger Shallot's teeth marks in his balls! Whenever Benjamin used to say 'Roger, you always left your mark', I'd remember that fracas in Florence and, to my master's astonishment, burst out laughing.)
When I regained consciousness I was lying at the bottom of a cart, manacled hand and foot. My head ached and I was sore from chin to crotch. I hoisted myself up. The driver of the cart and his assistants were dressed in black, as were the men marching alongside, swinging their lead-tipped staves. Peering through the slats of the cart, I saw we were crossing the old market. I glimpsed the colours and heard the shouts of the crowd, but these died as soon as the Eight's men made their appearance. Believe me, they had no difficulty getting through the throng.
At last the cart stopped. I looked over the side and my heart sank at the sight of the grey, forbidding building that loomed before me. The whip cracked and the horses moved on. I saw a great, iron-studded gate slam shut behind me and smelled a stench th
at has haunted me all my life – the odour of unwashed bodies, swollen sewers and dirty cells that is the hall-mark of any prison. Now, on a number of occasions I have been in Newgate. I am acquainted with the Fleet, the Marshalsea and the Tower and have even spent two weeks with the happy crowd at the madhouse in Bedlam. But, believe me, that prison in Florence was one of the worst. They call it the Stinche and you can well believe it! I told young Francis Bacon that this was the origin of the English word 'stink'. He, of course, mocked the idea. If the clever bastard had paid a visit to that Florentine prison he'd soon have changed his mind!
It has been described as 'the torture chamber', 'the home of the Eight', 'Hell on earth' and, most appropriately, 'the hole of oblivion', for many who went in there were never seen or heard of again. I was dragged out of the cart and on to the filthy cobbles, then hauled to my feet by the cowled, masked figures. I stared in horror at a man being pegged out in the yard. A great metal-studded door had been laid over him and heavy iron weights were now being placed on this. The poor fellow began to scream as a torturer, with an hour glass in one hand, tapped the cobbles with a white wand and asked the prisoner a question. When the fellow shook his head, another weight was placed on him.
I was only too glad when my guards, urging me with their staves, drove me up wide, sweeping stone steps and into the eeriest of chambers. It was dark as pitch; ceiling and floor were painted black and purple drapes covered the walls. At one end a massive silver crucifix swung from a rafter. Beneath this stood a desk and a high-backed chair. Two candlesticks at either end of the table cast a pool of light on the face of Frater Seraphino. He smiled and got to his feet, gesturing me forward as if I was some long-lost relation.
‘I heard you were coming,' he lisped. ‘I speak your tongue very well, Master Shallot. When I studied at the Sorbonne, most of my friends were English. Please sit.'
