by Carmen Caine
“Then you do believe me that he has gone to England!” Liselle’s lips parted in surprise.
“I’ve always thought your instincts were exceptional,” Orazio replied, drawing his fine, aristocratic lips into a thin line. “It is your heart I fear for, little one. Do you remember the tale of Pippa?”
Liselle heaved an internal sigh. Her family took every opportunity to remind her of the ill-fated Pippa, the beautiful Venetian assassin who had betrayed her own land for the love of a Scottish highland lord—and how she had lost her life for it. Frowning, she reminded him tartly, “I’ve already told you I care not for Lord Gray.”
“It is your nature that concerns us, Liselle. You are a dreamer,” he said softly. And then he pushed the carved rosewood box towards her. “Nicoletta wishes you to have these. Keep them well.”
Holding her breath, she unclasped the lid to reveal a pair of finely made stilettos with bone handles wrapped with leather cording. She ran a light finger over the cool steel of the sharp blades. Her hands were trembling, but whether from apprehension or excitement, she could not tell. She had spent her entire life waiting and countless hours of studying and training, all for this moment, to be sent out on her first serious assignment.
“I will keep them well, Orazio,” Liselle whispered the vow. “And I will make you proud.”
Orazio was silent a moment and then asked, “Then are you ready for your viper’s tongue, cara?”
Her heart leapt. “My viper mark? Will you finish it now?” she asked breathlessly.
Crossing his arms, Orazio peered down at her from the lengths of his long nose. “You are merely to find Dolfin and not yet to dispatch him.”
She dropped her eyes to hide her disappointment.
“Stay with Albany, Liselle,” her brother continued. “And when you find Dolfin, send for me. I have words that must be said to the man ere he dies.”
Liselle nodded and glanced up as Pascal arrived to slouch in the doorway.
And then Orazio took out a needle and a small pot of ink from a leather pouch about his waist. “But I shall not send you forth without authority, cara,” he said with a half-smile.
Liselle caught her breath in excitement.
“Diàmbarne! That is a dreadful mistake!” Pascal objected with a curse. Holding up a hand to forestall Orazio from cutting him off, he continued, “Do not give her the tongue! You know that she does not have the heart to become one of us!”
Orazio raised a surprised brow at the youth. And then reaching over, he caught Liselle’s wrist. His dark eyes searched her face. “Are you truly ready for this, cara sorèla? If not, I can find another to replace you. Are you certain you wish for the pigeons and the viper tongue this day?”
Liselle’s eyes lit. Finally, she was being given what she had spent her life waiting for—the tongue to announce her position in the Vindictam, one of respect and authority. And the pigeons would be given to her at her destination, pigeons that she would use to immediately inform the Vindictam of her success.
She glanced down at her ankle, hidden by her skirts. Once he added the tongue to her viper tattoo, there was no return. She would have to succeed or lose her life trying.
Resolutely, she lifted her chin and assured, “I am ready!”
Orazio was watching her closely. “Then heed my words well. When your path is unsure, cara, focus only on the next step before you and nothing else!”
She nodded firmly.
“And always be suspicious of those you trust first—the ones closest to you," he warned, his fingers still gripping her wrist hard.
"Then, that would be you, Orazio." Liselle smiled sweetly in reply. She knew he was worried, but she was too thrilled to share his concern. “Do not fret, Orazio caro. I will be like Le Marin! I will always be successful and never be caught!”
He grimaced at that. Le Marin was a sore subject with Orazio. Three times the French spy had bested him in the past few years.
And then she had to ask, “But if I should fail?”
Orazio hesitated and then replied, “Even I could not save you.”
She blinked in surprise.
Pascal expelled a breath and rolled his eyes. “She is not ready, Orazio!”
“Those who carry the viper’s tongue cannot walk the earth if they’ve failed, cara sorèlina,” Orazio said, ignoring Pascal huffing by the doorway. “As Magno Duce, I would be called to slay you myself should you fail. And if I did not, then any member of the Vindictam to travel with us, such as Pascal, would be required to slay us both. And should he fail, the Quattuor Gladiis of our family would hunt us down to slay us all.”
A shiver of trepidation ran down Liselle’s spine, but she quickly brushed it away. There was no possibility that she would fail.
“I am ready,” she said, lifting her chin in determination.
“Ah sì? Then one day, no doubt, I shall be called upon to slay you,” Pascal muttered from the door with a dark look.
Orazio sent him a glance of mild reproach and then dipped the needle into the inkpot.
Liselle didn’t even feel the needle drawing through her flesh. She could only stare in fascination at the tongue forming upon her tattoo.
“It is done,” Orazio said at last, giving her tattoo a gentle pat.
Liselle didn’t respond. She couldn’t remove her eyes from her ankle.
“That mark alone will give you authority wherever you may travel,” he said, wiping the ink from his fingers. “I will join you when I may.”
“Then I’m going alone?” Liselle gasped, surprise overcoming her distraction. “You are not coming with me?” Heavens, surely they weren’t sending Pascal with her in his stead!
“Pascal will travel with you as your decoy and protector,” Orazio said, peering down at her with a slight air of apology.
Liselle scowled. “But you should be going with me!”
Orazio hesitated, and then leaning close, confessed in a soft tone, “I have a most pressing concern. There are rumors that … Le Marin is here in Sarlat.”
In spite of her annoyance, Liselle’s hazel eyes took on a sparkle of humor. “Ah! I see! What is it now, Orazio? Is it three times that Le Marin has outwitted you?”
“He’s a dangerous man, Liselle, and not one to be taken lightly!” He sent her a disapproving frown. “And the fact that he has rescued Dolfin from my clutches more than once can only mean he is of the Saluzzo family, working for Ferrara. We must do whatever it takes to protect our homeland!”
She smiled. She was so different from her brother. He preferred to stay close to Venice, to protect it and its precious domination of the salt trade. He thrived on subverting enemy spies and delighted especially in sabotaging the schemes of the enemy city-state of Ferrara.
Not her. She wanted nothing more than to leave Venice once and for all, and to explore far-off lands. “Then I wish you fortune in finding the man,” she said.
At that, Orazio snorted, and then he ordered Pascal to make ready to join Albany’s party and to leave for England at once.
Slipping past her arrogant cousin, Liselle skipped to her chamber as her spirits took wing.
At last, she had her tongue. She was truly an assassin, and she was truly on her way to her first mission. She could only hug herself in anticipation.
Taking a deep breath, she warned herself aloud, “Patience, Liselle. You must stay focused on your task.”
Her foolish fascination with Lord Gray had nearly sent her back to Venice. She would never make that blunder again. Yes, the man was striking, with a rugged jaw, lean hips, and strong, muscular legs. And yes, the soft, rolling vowels of his Scottish burr sent chills down her spine. There was no doubt that Lord Julian Gray had been fascinating.
But then, so were many other men.
He certainly wasn’t worth the risk of being sent back home.
Shrugging all thoughts of him aside, she quickly changed into a golden gown adorned with velvet and silk ribbons and slipped the stilettos into the
hidden pockets sewn in the sleeves just for them. And then throwing her green, fur-lined mantle about her shoulders, she ran down to join Orazio at the garden gate, shaking raindrops off the leaves of the shrubbery as she passed.
He said nothing as they set off through the rain pelting the cobblestoned streets. And in a matter of minutes, they had entered the inn housing Albany and were immediately escorted to where the prince was already waiting.
Nobly attired in crimson velvet, Alexander Stewart, the Duke of Albany, was tall in stature, broad-faced, red-nosed, and large-eared. His hair was also red, but the brows over his brilliant green eyes were dark, almost black.
He stood before the fire crackling on the hearth, clutching something in his hand and demanding that Orazio take care of the matter at once.
As her brother joined him at the fireplace, Liselle moved to the window, shaking the rain from her mantle.
“What does it mean?” Albany was asking Orazio, his face darkened in worry.
At Orazio’s sharp intake of breath, Liselle’s interest was piqued. Leaving the window, she crossed the room to stand at her brother’s side.
“The Turk’s head knot,” Orazio murmured softly, gingerly taking the fine gray corded knot from Albany’s outstretched hand.
“Is it Le Marin?” Albany cleared his throat nervously. “But what has Le Marin to do with me?”
Orazio was silent for a time, inspecting the knot closely before finally admitting, “It appears genuine.”
As Albany began to curse, Liselle reached over him to pluck the knot from Orazio’s grasp. Curiously, she turned it over in her palm. The fine gray cord appeared vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall where she’d seen it before. And as Albany and Orazio’s conversation turned into a heated debate over Le Marin’s possible concerns in Albany’s doings, she lost interest entirely. After placing the knot on a nearby table, she returned to the window.
Le Marin was Orazio’s business. Not hers.
Chapter Four – The Quattuor Gladiis
Sometime later, after Albany’s fear of Le Marin was appeased, Pascal arrived and Orazio introduced him as a master spy to satisfy Albany’s every whim. Pascal was tall and thin, and with his arrogant air, dark cloak, and black doublet, he certainly looked the part.
Albany was pleased immediately.
And when Orazio explained that Liselle would be traveling in Nicoletta’s stead, Albany’s pleasure increased. Apparently, the man detested Nicoletta as much as she did him.
As the conversation waned and they made ready to depart, Liselle caught Albany’s lecherous gaze upon her more than once. But it wasn’t particularly troubling. She knew many ways of handling such men, with methods ranging from cold words to sharp stilettos.
A short time later and with rising excitement, Liselle found herself mounting a black mare and waving her farewells. And then, carefully fanning her green mantle out across the horse’s flanks, she turned her mare’s head and joined Albany’s party, bound for Bordeaux and thence to England.
It was still raining as they set off, but as the day wore on, the clouds drifted away. They stopped for only brief periods of rest, pressing on until finally the last rays of the sun swiftly faded into darkness. And the moon was high in the sky when they finally arrived at a small inn to take rest.
Liselle retired at once to her small, assigned chamber, but she was too excited to sleep. She stayed awake until the first signs of dawn, staring out of her window and listening to the crickets and frogs singing in a nearby pond.
The morning found Albany in a particularly lusty frame of mind, and Liselle wasn’t surprised when the red-haired Scottish prince caught her about the waist and pulled her down to his knee.
“Give us a wee kiss now, lass.” He laughed suggestively. “A kiss for luck!”
From the corner of her eye, Liselle spied Pascal gracefully slouching against the wall with a smile of perverse amusement playing across his handsome face. It was clear that he had no intention of rescuing her. Not that she needed him to. But she found his attitude and lack of action annoying all the same.
As Albany’s hand inched towards her breast, Liselle refocused her attention upon the man. And sliding a stiletto from her sleeve, she whispered into his ear, “I pray you, my lord, please remove your hands.”
“And why would I do that?” Albany chuckled in delight. “My hands are quite pleased to remain where they are!”
Liselle lowered her lashes with a lazy smile. “But I would fain see you keep them, my lord,” she breathed softly as her blade lightly pierced the flesh beneath his ribs.
Albany jerked and removed his hands at once, but the interest in his eyes only deepened.
Rising swiftly to her feet, Liselle stepped away, relieved that the prince was not one to force his interests. Returning her blade to its hiding place, she paused to send Pascal a disapproving look.
He responded with an exaggerated yawn that plainly signaled boredom.
And then Albany swept his arms in a grand gesture and announced he was ready to leave at once.
The rain returned, and the going was slow. But finally, after several days of squelching through the mud, they arrived at Bordeaux where the burly Scottish captain, James Douglas, awaited them on his ship The Michael.
Once settled in her small cabin, Liselle gratefully peeled off her wet clothing, and after slipping into a dry gown, wandered curiously around the deck for a time. But, as the looming dark clouds overhead threatened even more rain, she returned to her cabin and spent the evening listening with unease to the waves slapping the ship’s side.
In spite of having been born in Venice on the edge of the sea, she had never cared for sailing.
She could only pray the journey to England was a smooth one.
But, alas, her prayers went unanswered.
They set sail with the dawn, and shortly afterward the gusty winds ratcheted to a near gale force, tossing the ship about in the waves like a toy.
At the captain’s insistence, Liselle remained below deck, huddled in her cabin as the ship heaved and rolled.
Day upon miserable day passed as the incessant winds mercilessly pounded The Michael, each day an eternity in which she could do nothing more than groan as her stomach lurched and churned with the ship. And each night the snapping of the sails and creaking of the ship’s timbers made sleep impossible.
Several times each day, Pascal poked his head through her door to mercilessly tease her about her green complexion. And on each occasion, she found his smug grin even more aggravating than before.
The storm finally stopped, and she fell into the first deep sleep she had known since the voyage began. And when she woke once again, it was to find her cousin’s smirking face planted mere inches from hers.
“You’ll never find Dolfin skulking below decks like this,” he observed with a careless shrug. “And I’m not finding him for you.” Straightening, he adjusted the red-velvet sleeve of his doublet and meticulously brushed imaginary lint from his gold-colored hose.
Scowling, Liselle swung her feet over the edge of the bunk. “When have you ever done anything that wasn’t in your own best interests, Pascal?” she asked in a scathing tone.
“Does anyone?” he queried philosophically, tossing his long, dark hair over his shoulder.
She eyed him from head to toe and didn’t bother to reply.
“Albany’s quite fascinated with you,” he drawled, raising a brow. “You should use that to your advantage.”
Liselle snorted. “Why? I’ve already learnt all that I can from the man. He’s no longer useful to me. He scarcely knows Dolfin.” Picking up her mantle, she threw it about her shoulders and added, “Dolfin was looking for someone—someone he was certain would appear wherever Albany tarries. I believe we will find the old man in Fotheringhay.”
“So you say.” Pascal yawned as if he found conversation with her tedious. “And I still doubt your reasoning.”
“I care little what you think, dear cous
in,” Liselle replied sweetly as she shoved him away from the door.
Brushing past him, she strode down the narrow passage and up to the ship’s deck.
The retreating storm hung low on the horizon, and the gulls rode the winds high above her head as she emerged from below, wincing in the bright light.
As a sudden gust of cold, bitter wind tore through her garments, she scowled, “Will this journey ever end?”
“Look there, bábia,” Pascal’s lip curled into a superior smirk as he pointed behind her.
Scowling at being called a fool, she turned to see a long dark ribbon of land painting the horizon.
“Inghilterra. England,” Pascal murmured in her ear. “We’ve arrived.”
They watched in silence as the land rose to fill the skyline. And soon they were sailing past the dramatic white cliffs of the Isle of Wight and heading inland up the river, past the reedy salt marshes to the sheltered port of Southampton.
Eager to get off the boat and to leave the tempestuous winds and stormy waters behind her, Liselle followed Albany down the rough-hewn gangplank at the earliest possible moment after the ship dropped anchor.
They were met by a red-haired, square-jawed man with a bushy beard and a small scar under his left eye. Grinning widely, he strode forward to soundly slap Albany’s back in greeting.
“That is Archibald Douglas, the Fifth Earl of Angus,” Pascal softly informed Liselle. “A Red Douglas.”
“Because of his hair?” Liselle whispered, her mouth twisting in wry humor.
Pascal sent her a dark look. “Heed my words well, bábia! You must learn these clans if you wish to succeed!” He waited until she erased the smile upon her face before continuing. “The Clan Douglas is a great clan holding vast lands. The Black Douglases were named so for their dark deeds, and nigh on thirty years ago sided with the Yorkist kings of England against the Scottish crown. The Stewart king only survived with the help of the Red Douglases of Angus. Yon earl’s father fought with the Stewarts and drove their own kin, the old Black Douglas and his men into exile in England, where they’ve lived ever since.”
