A Brood of Vipers

by Paul Doherty

  'Valerian,' he whispered. 'The wine was drugged by valerian.'

  'Who?' I shouted.

  'Giovanni.'

  I shook him by the shoulders. 'Giovanni!' I shouted. 'Giovanni! We were wrong, Master!'

  I recalled the mercenary's malignant look as he watched Maria and me leave the stableyard. He must be the murderer. I hadn't seen his body. He must have slipped up to my master's chamber, given him the drugged wine and, whilst the rest of the Albrizzis took their early evening siesta, carried out his bloody revenge. But why?

  My master was now recovering - dazed and only semiconscious, but in no real danger. I made him comfortable -and remembered Maria, still waiting in the stableyard below.

  I ran downstairs, kicking my boots aside, back through the blood-stained kitchen and out into the yard.

  'Maria!' I screamed. 'Maria!'

  I peered through the darkness. Our two horses stood there, tied to the post. They were nervous and skittish. I crouched down to ease my panic and saw a flicker of white against the stable door. I crawled silently over in my stockinged feet and stopped.

  'Oh, no!' I moaned. 'Oh, for sweet pity's sake!'

  Maria lay against the door like some little doll, arms hanging down, those tiny rose-topped shoes peeping out from beneath her dress. Her face was turned away, but I could see a trickle of blood seeping from her mouth. The white ruff of her dress was stained scarlet. Then I thought her hand moved. I crawled closer. I touched that pale little face, turning it towards me. God be my witness, those eyes, once so impish and full of mischief, flickered open. She forced a smile.

  'Roger, Roger! I should have gone in with you. He came and...' - she coughed, the blood bubbling through her lips -'he came ... drove my head against the wall.' She coughed again. ‘I feel so cold. So cold, I want to sleep.' Her head slipped down. She was gone.

  For a while I just knelt there, the tears streaming down my face.

  'God, I'll kill him!' I murmured. 'Giovanni, you bastard!'

  I noticed Maria's little hand stretched out on the cobbles pointing towards something. I followed its direction and glimpsed a white cuff, a leather jerkin sleeve, cheap rings on dead fingers. Giovanni's corpse lay just inside one of the stables. I heard a sound behind me. Rolling my tongue in my mouth, I curbed the rage that throbbed within me. I stood up quickly, drawing sword and dagger. I stared across the cobbled yard at the cowled, hooded figure standing there. The folds of his cloak swirled and, in the faint light from the kitchen, I caught the glimpse of steel.

  'Come closer!' I shouted.

  The man walked forward, pushing back his hood. I stared into Enrico's face: smooth, open, his eyes were no longer crinkled up against the light. He stood like the Angel of Death.

  'Your bloody work!' I snarled. He came closer, eyebrows raised in astonishment. 'Master Shallot, what nonsense is this?' 'Haven't you been in the villa?' I cried. He nodded. 'Oh, yes, I have. They are all dead. Master Shallot. Giovanni killed them.' 'Giovanni!' I exclaimed.

  'Yes,' he murmured, cocking his head to one side. 'I came back from Florence unexpectedly. Giovanni had completed his bloody work. I saw the cook, poor Alessandro, Bianca on the stairs. I came out here and killed Giovanni, sword against sword, dagger against dagger.'

  I stared in disbelief. 'Have you been upstairs?'

  He shook his head. 'No, when I saw Bianca I heard a sound from the garden. I came out and found Giovanni.' Enrico stared round into the darkness. 'I killed him here. I went back because he could have an accomplice who might still be here. I heard you and Maria arrive but I dared not reveal myself.'

  'You are a liar, Enrico!' I retorted. 'You are a liar!' I stepped back. 'You are mad! You are wicked and you are an assassin!'

  The bastard just gazed at me owlishly.

  'That's your story anyway, isn't it?' I said. 'You are going to say that you changed your mind and broke off your journey. You returned to find that Giovanni, in a fit of madness, or for revenge, or because he was paid, had massacred the entire family. He had drugged my master and would have escaped if it had not been for your fortuitous arrival.'

  Enrico smiled. 'But this is nonsense, Master Shallot. Why should I kill my family? Why murder?' I saw the light of madness flare in his eyes. 'Why murder my beautiful, beautiful wife?'

  'Out of revenge,' I replied. 'Just as you killed Lord Francesco, the steward Matteo and the magus Preneste.' I took another step back. 'Quite a subtle plan. Who will conclude to the contrary? After all, Giovanni was only a condottiero, a mercenary, a hired killer. Who would even dream of suspecting the Lord Enrico, madly in love with Beatrice Albrizzi, the faithful godson, the quiet merchant prince. My master?' I smiled. 'That was clever, Enrico. A subtle, nasty touch. What happened? Did you come back to the villa, stable your horse and go into the kitchen, pour a goblet of wine with an infusion of valerian? Did you tell Giovanni to take it up as a present to my master? After all, Cardinal Wolsey of England might well have been enraged at the death of his nephew but this way Benjamin would not only stay alive but would be your principal witness. He would recall that it was Giovanni who served him the drugged wine and thus corroborate your story. You would walk away free, the sole heir of the Albrizzi fortune as well as the perpetrator of a most bloody act of vengeance. So, what do you intend to do with me?'

  'With you, Master Shallot?'

  I glimpsed the half-smile on his face.

  'You meant to kill me too, didn't you? How?'

  Enrico shook his head. 'You are insane, Inglese. You have no proof for what you say.'

  I placed my body between him and poor Maria.

  ‘I have a witness,' I said softly. 'The dwarf woman. She's not dead but unconscious. She even told me how you had hidden Giovanni's body in one of the stables.'

  Enrico shivered as if the night had grown cold.

  'Must we talk here?' he asked, turning his face away.

  'We can talk here,' I said, 'or in the palace of Cardinal Giulio de Medici, or in the chambers of that bloodthirsty bastard, the Master of the Eight!'

  Enrico looked back, biting his lip, as if faced with some vexing problem.

  'There could be another solution,' he said. 'What if I accused you of the murders?'

  'There's still Maria.'

  By now I was terrified. What could I do? If I followed him into the house and left Maria sprawled in the yard, he would know I was lying. If I stayed, he might kill me there and then. If I turned my back and pretended that Maria was only unconscious, that would leave me exposed. My mind teemed with plots and subtle strategies.

  'We'll go in,' I said brusquely.

  'That's good, Inglese.'

  'On one condition. I go first. Lower your sword, Master Enrico, and put it and your dagger on the ground. As well as the sling or catapult you undoubtedly carry.'

  He smirked. 'How did you know?'

  I shrugged. ‘We have a saying in England - don't judge a book by its cover. The choice is yours. We either talk in the house or we fight to the death out here!'

  Enrico stepped back and placed his sword and dagger on the ground. From beneath his cloak he took out a viciously powerful-looking Y-shaped sling with a leather cup. He put it on the cobbles beside his sword and dagger.

  'Anything else?' I asked.

  Enrico put his hands in the air. 'Inglese, you have my word of honour!'

  Chapter 12

  I felt so unreal. I sheathed my sword, took off my cloak and backed away, moving so that my eyes never left him. I wrapped the cloak around poor Maria's corpse, talking softly to her in English as if she were still alive. I pulled the cloak around her little face and head so that Enrico would never guess the truth. He might have another weapon, a stiletto pushed into his boot top, perhaps another damnable catapult or sling. However, as I lifted Maria, light as a feather, and began to back towards the house, I realized that the cunning bastard needed to talk to me. He needed to find out how much I knew, to see if there were any unseen gaps in his story. Or perhaps he saw
me as a rogue who could be bought and sold. God knows the truth! All I remember is that it was one of the longest journeys I ever made. Carrying Maria, her thin body wrapped in the cloak, - the dagger still clasped in my sweaty hand, I backed towards the villa.

  'Meet me in the hallway,' I ordered. 'Stand facing the wall, with your hands flat against it. I shall first go upstairs. Wait for me.'

  I didn't like the way the evil turd was smiling. I returned to the darkened villa, knocking my shins against walls, doors and pieces of furniture, but at last I reached the stairs.

  Sweating and cursing, I stopped half-way up to light the sconce torches then, hurrying along the gallery, I reached our chamber. Benjamin still lay prostrate, in a pool of vomit. I placed Maria down on my bed and straightened her little body, passing my hand gently over her eyes. She looked as if she was asleep, except for the waxen paleness of her face, the blood coursing down one side of her mouth and the bloody tangle of hair around the nape of her neck. I stared down at her.

  'Maria, before God, I meant you well! Before God, I swear, you would have returned to England with me and, before God, I swear I'll avenge your death!'

  I covered her face. My master stirred and moaned. I hurried across. He was fast asleep but breathing easily and some colour had returned to his face. When I shook him he stirred and muttered. Enrico called from the bottom of the stairs.

  'Master Shallot, I gave my word.'

  I quickly dashed water over my hands and face and wiped them dry, took my dagger and edged out into the gallery. Now, on one wall was one of those armorial displays - two halberds covered by a shield. I took the shield down. It weighed heavily but, slipping my hand and arm through the clasp, I edged sideways to the top of the stairs. Enrico stood at the bottom in a pool of light provided by the sconce torches. He had his hands against the wall, smiling up at me as if we were two boys engaged in some prank. I wondered if I was having a nightmare.

  'Master Shallot, you should hasten. Night draws on and by dawn the servants will have returned.'

  I edged down the stairs, the shield before me. Enrico seemed to think this was funny.

  'You look so frightened, Inglese.' 'I am not frightened!' I hissed.

  'If I wanted to,' he continued conversationally, 'I could kill you. Shield or no shield. Don't you know, Master Shallot, I am no Alessandro but a master duellist.'

  I stopped half-way down to control my churning stomach. Enrico was so confident. If I stayed he would kill me. If I ran he could denounce me as the murderer, rouse the local villagers, organize a pursuit and take me prisoner or kill me on the spot. I have met many murderers, cold hearts, black souls, but Enrico was one of the worst. He'd set up a game where the only way he could lose was if I killed him. Yet he had every certainty that in any duel he would be the master. If only Benjamin had been there as a witness. And what about the Master of the Eight? Didn't his men have the villa under close watch? But what if they intervened? Who would they believe? Me or Enrico? I reached the bottom of the stairs. Enrico smiled and walked into the refectory. He pointed to the table on the dais.

  ‘I have lit candles and there's more wine.'

  I followed him on to the dais.

  'You, Master Shallot, sit at one end. I will sit at the other.' He splashed wine into two goblets. 'Taste it!' I ordered.

  He shrugged, drank deeply, refilled the cup and passed it down to me.

  'And the sling-shot? The catapult?'

  He put his hand beneath his cloak and tossed it on the table.

  'Well, well, well!' He smiled and sat down, leaning forward, gazing at me expectantly. 'All alone, eh, Inglese, you and I.'

  'You forget Maria!' I snapped. 'And my master. He's not drugged,' I added quickly. 'I roused him. He's asleep but remembers we are here.'

  For the first time I saw his evil smile slip for a few seconds.

  'Tell me, Master Shallot,' he said, 'about these silly allegations, or, rather, these groundless accusations. Why should I commit murder?'

  'It started many years ago,' I began, 'when your father and uncle were murdered in Rome. They were there to buy jewels, precious stones. Two men were taken and hanged.'

  Enrico nodded.

  'At the time,' I continued, 'Rome was under the dominance of Pope Leo X, a member of the Medici family. I suppose he trapped the killers?'

  Enrico murmured his assent.

  'But you always had your suspicions. I surmise that, just before you left for England, Cardinal Giulio de Medici told you that your father and uncle's real murderers were not the two hapless unfortunates hanged. These were only the bully-boys who carried out the crime; the real assassin was Lord Francesco Albrizzi.' I sipped from the goblet. 'Now, you would have asked the cardinal for proof?'

  'Perhaps.'

  'You did,' I insisted. 'And the good cardinal told you that a priceless emerald stolen from your father's corpse was in Lord Francesco's possession.'

  Enrico watched me unblinkingly. I breathed deeply to control my panic.

  'Now the cardinal went on to say that when Lord Francesco arrived at the English court he would give King Henry a precious jewel. No Albrizzi had ever seen that jewel before; it was the one taken from your father.' I shook my head, ‘I don't know what further proof the good cardinal gave you, but you were half-convinced. The Albrizzis had certainly profited from your father's death. They had taken you into their house and, as your guardians, had access to your dead father's wealth. Of course, they had also arranged the marriage between you and their daughter Beatrice - a beautiful young woman with the morals of an alley cat.'

  Enrico smirked. 'How can you say that?'

  'Oh, for God's sake!' I replied. 'You played the role of the doting husband well, but you were not blind to the lovelorn glances between Lady Beatrice, God rest her, and the soldier Giovanni!'

  He leaned back, flexing his fingers - the only sign of the rage seething within him.

  'Do continue,' he said softly.

  'Well, the rest you know better than I do,' I told him, stating the obvious. 'The powerful Albrizzis travelled to the English court as envoys from Florence. The exchange of gifts was made. Lord Francesco produced the emerald for our good King Henry. The Albrizzi women protest at a precious stone they'd never seen before being given away. So now you have your proof. Already seething at being under Lord Francesco's control and being cuckolded by the faithless Beatrice, you decided to act. Lord Francesco's death was so easy. You went to Cheapside with him, remember?'

  'Of course.'

  'Your wife is looking at English cloth. Lord Francesco walks on. You pretend to be busy in a goldsmith's. When the goldsmith tells you to look outside, you do so - and slip into the mouth of that alleyway and, from its narrow darkness, kill the Lord Francesco.'

  'But how?' Enrico spread his hands, Inglese, you move so fast. This story about the cardinal and the jewel?'

  'Oh, don't lie!' I snarled, it's in your face. What are you saying, Enrico? That you'd allow your father's assassin to walk away laughing? That you'd allow him to kill your father and seize his wealth and his son?'

  My words stung Enrico. His hand went under the table. My blood chilled. He had been in the refectory before I arrived, and arranged the wine. Where was the crossbow he had used to kill Roderigo? Enrico straightened up.

  'Let us assume,' he said, digging at the table top with his finger, 'that the Lord Cardinal produced evidence - a letter written to him by my father many years ago expressing his fears about the Albrizzis and their ambitions. Let us assume that the Lord Cardinal had a list of the jewels and precious stones my father was carrying when he was killed and that one of these matched Albrizzi's gift to your fat king. Let us assume that the Lord Cardinal produced proof that when Lord Francesco Albrizzi claimed he was elsewhere, he actually was in hiding on the outskirts of Rome. And let us assume that I saw such proof. How it would chill my heart and spark a burning passion for vengeance!' Enrico sat up, placing his elbows on the arm-rest of the chair. His mood had ab
ruptly changed. 'But assuming is one thing, proof is another. Lord Francesco was shot by a handgun.'

  'Nonsense!' I replied. 'You know that and so do I. There was no gun. That was simply a red herring - a device used to confirm that, although you were near Albrizzi when he was slaughtered, you could not have killed him. You could not possibly have been carrying an arquebus. No powder stains could be found on you. And how could poor short-sighted Enrico have fired the fatal shot?'

  I rose and collected the sling from the centre of the table, pulling back the thick leather cord.

  'But, of course, no gun was used, was it? A small musket ball was placed in this and, from the shadows of that alleyway, you shot it, clear and true.' I pulled back the leather thong to let it go. ‘I am not skilled in these things. But a sling may be more accurate than a gun, and a slingshot may have as devastating an effect as a ball from a gun. Isn't that how David killed Goliath? And don't the shepherd boys in Tuscany drive away wolves, even kill them, with their slings? And weren't you, Master Enrico, for a while, protected by shepherds?'

  Enrico laughed softly. 'But the report that was heard when Francesco died? And what of Preneste? And poor Matteo?'

  I fished in my wallet and brought out the fire-cracker that Benjamin had given me.

  'Florentines love fire-crackers,' I said. 'We saw some children using them in a taverna garden.'

  I leaned over, pushed the fuse of the fire-cracker into the. candle flame and dropped it to the floor. For a few seconds it spluttered, then it exploded with a bang that echoed through the refectory.

  'You used one of these,' I said, 'in that narrow alleyway off Cheapside. Lord Francesco is walking slowly along the stalls. He looks back over his shoulder to where his daughter is stopping. He calls to you. You light the fire-cracker, and it explodes. Lord Francesco looks up and you loose your sling-shot. On board ship it was even easier. The fire-cracker explodes, poor Matteo, near the rails, is knocked into the sea. In the garden of the Villa Albrizzi all eyes are on Preneste and his silly mummery. God knows whether he would have named you, but you could take no chances.'