A Brood of Vipers

by Paul Doherty

  Further conversation was impossible, though. The good brothers came back to congratulate themselves and us. We were taken down to their refectory and given the most delicious stew, the softest white bread and goblets of white, light wine which the brothers swore, with a smile, contained no potions. Benjamin was ravenous. As he ate I told him what had happened. Now and again he would stop and ask me a question. When I had finished he put his spoon down, placed his elbows on the table and looked at me.

  'I don't remember much,' he said. 'Giovanni came into my room. He said a new cask of Falernian had been broached and I was to taste it. I did so. But I didn't drink all of it because it smelled strange. Giovanni was looking at me curiously. I asked what was the matter. He looked alarmed, took one step towards me and said Lord Enrico had returned.' Benjamin shrugged. 'After that I remember nothing. I lay down on my bed. I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I remember you coming up. You were carrying someone?'

  'Maria,' I said softly.

  Benjamin's eyes grew sad. 'Aye, God rest her! I also remember being picked up and carried downstairs. I glimpsed a woman's corpse, lying there like some dog.' 'Beatrice,' I told him.

  'After that,' Benjamin continued, 'nothing. Until I woke up this morning, a little weak, starving, and found the brothers chattering like magpies, pointing at you, their faces and eyes so sad. They shook their heads and clucked their tongues. Oh sweet Lord!' Benjamin put his face in his hands. 'I never dreamt Enrico would do that! I planned to confront him when you returned.' He shook his head, i underestimated that young man's hatred, his thirst for vengeance.' He grasped me by the hand. 'Roger, I shall never forget this. You were very brave!'

  'Lucky!' I amended, bitterly. 'Fortunate. So when can we go home?' I stared around the white-washed refectory. 'The brothers are good but...'

  'Soon, Roger.' Benjamin said, i regret those deaths, those terrible, terrible deaths!'

  (My master never forgot the events at the Villa Albrizzi and never really forgave himself. But hindsight makes wise men of us all. And what could we have done? Enrico had set his mind on murdering everyone in the Albrizzi household. Nevertheless, I shared my master's sorrow. Every spring, just as the weather turns, I pay for a Mass to be offered for the repose of their unfortunate souls. Maria? Ah well, she's different. When she died so did a little of myself!)

  'But we were proved right, Master,' I reassured him. 'Enrico was the murderer. Nevertheless he had no hand in Borelli's death. And he knew nothing about the picture.'

  'No,' Benjamin said absentmindedly. i don't think he did. We are still in the darkness, Roger, and the game's not yet over.'

  I groaned but, of course, my master was right. A few hours later, whilst we were sitting in a shady arbour in the Misericordia garden, that excellent imp of Satan, His Eminence Cardinal Giulio de Medici, Prince of Florence, sent his minions to collect us. He was waiting for us, as before, in his palatial, opulent chambers overlooking the piazza. This time he was not so genial. He sat behind his great desk enthroned in that high, purple-backed chair. He reminded me of some splendid peregrine crouched on its perch, wondering whether or not to attack.

  'The captain of my guard,' he began, 'has been to the Albrizzi villa. News of their deaths is all over Florence.'

  'Enrico was the assassin,' my master told him.

  'Yes, I know,' the cardinal said.

  'Enrico believed,' Benjamin went on, 'that Lord Francesco Albrizzi and his brother Roderigo were behind his father's murder. Now, how would be have found that out, Your Grace?'

  The cardinal looked at him menacingly.

  'What are you saying, Englishman?' he asked softly.

  'Well, someone told him,' Benjamin said briskly, 'that the Albrizzis were the assassins and that they had taken an emerald from his father's body which they kept hidden until they handed it as a gift to King Henry.'

  The cardinal moved uneasily in his chair.

  'But that same emerald, Your Grace,' Benjamin continued, pointing to the painting on the wall, 'is the one you wear in that portrait, finished just a few years, perhaps even months, after the murder of Enrico's father. Now,' Benjamin crossed his arms, 'from the little I know, Enrico's father was in Rome buying a precious emerald from an eastern merchant. You will remember, Your Grace, that at the time Rome was under the governance of your uncle, Pope Leo X. Anyway, Enrico's father was murdered and the jewel was never seen again. I just wonder

  The cardinal leaned across the desk, tapping his little finger noisily on the wood.

  'Yes, I gave that emerald to Lord Francesco Albrizzi,' he snapped. 'I gave him strict instructions that he was to tell no one where he got it, but say that it was part of his family's treasure.' He spread his hands and leaned back. 'It was the least I could do. Lord Francesco was spending good silver in travelling to England. I could not expect him to purchase the costly gift himself. But,' he held up a finger, 'you have no proof that it was the emerald taken from Enrico's father.'

  'Your Grace is correct,' my master smiled. 'I have no proof at all, just a surmise. Nor am I accusing you of having a hand in that dreadful murder in Rome so many years before. Nevertheless, the jewels were never found. It is strange that you donated such a precious stone to Lord Francesco to give to our noble prince. Perhaps it's the merest coincidence that the handing over of this gift sparked off the murders in the Albrizzi household. After all, what other motive did Enrico have for these slayings except revenge?' Benjamin moved in his chair. He was tense with rage at the silk-clad Prince of Satan sitting so serenely opposite us. 'So,' he said, 'I go back to my original question. Who would tell Enrico all this? Surely someone powerful, someone who has access to secrets. Enrico was already very resentful at being made to marry Beatrice. Perhaps he already entertained vague suspicions which were fed and nurtured by this powerful person. But it needed clearer evidence to turn his suspicion to certainty. That evidence, Your Grace, was, I believe, the emerald.'

  'I could have you arrested for treason,' the cardinal murmured.

  'I doubt it. Others may begin to wonder. After all, you have totally extinguished two of Florence's most powerful families - families which never fully accepted the Medici rule in Florence.'

  The cardinal permitted himself a small, wry smile. 'But, don't forget, Lord Francesco also handed over other presents.'

  'Ah, yes, the painting from poor Borelli, commissioned by the Lord Francesco.'

  The cardinal's eyes danced in demonic merriment. He wagged a finger at Benjamin.

  'You are good, Englishman. You are very, very good!'

  'No!' Benjamin snapped. 'Because of me, others have died. And, perhaps, justice will never be done. Lord Francesco did not commission that painting, you did!'

  'Oh? Why me?'

  'Because your so-called brother in Christ, my dear uncle, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey of England, asked you to!' 'And why should he do that?' 'As a favour.' 'For what?'

  'If Rome says yes,' Benjamin mimicked, 'England will say yes. What was the hidden significance of that painting, Your Grace?'

  The cardinal just threw his head back and laughed. He then beat gently on the arms of his chair.

  'Englishman, I don't really know. As I sit in my palace, I tell you, I don't really know.'

  'Borelli might have known!' I interrupted.

  'Perhaps.' That limb of Satan wiped a tear of merriment from his eyes. 'But, unfortunately, Master Borelli has met with a terrible accident. I believe his corpse is being buried today. Ah, Lord, save us!' The cardinal sighed. 'The violence of these times!' He looked at the clock as it began to 'chime. 'Tempus fugit,' he murmured, 'tempus fugit.' He rose to his feet. 'You are finished here.' He looked at both of us sternly. 'If you have further questions, ask your dear uncle. He'll tell you the answers.' He ushered us gently out. 'You'll find your bags packed, and horses stand ready in the courtyard below. You are to leave Florence now. Within a week you must be on a ship bound for England. You have my reply to your uncle?' Benjamin nodded.

  'Then m
ake sure you tell him the truth.' He walked towards the door. 'Master Daunbey!' he called out softly. My master and I turned.

  The cardinal sketched a blessing in the air. 'In a year, come to Rome.'

  And he began to laugh, low and mocking, as Benjamin and I were led along the galleries and out into the sun-washed courtyard.

  A group of burly retainers, wearing the Medici livery, stood waiting for us. We were out of Florence within the hour, pounding along the coast roads under a blazing sun to the nearest port. We dallied there a further day, before the leader of our escort secured passage for us on a Genoese cog bound for the port of London. I fairly skipped aboard and, although my relief was tinged by apprehension as the cog turned and made its way out into the open sea, we experienced little hardship. No corsairs or Turkish war galleys appeared. Some heavy weather blew up in the Bay of Biscay but our passage was uneventful. Within three weeks the weather grew cooler, the seas calmer and, when the white cliffs of England came into sight, I went down on my knees and thanked God. I had had enough of the treacherous, silken opulence of Florence. I never thought I would be so keen to slip between the sheets of my bed at Ipswich and sleep peacefully. (Well, at least until the milkmaid arrived!) Benjamin, however, remained taciturn. He was still melancholic over the deaths of the Albrizzis. Only now and again did he seethe openly at Giulio de' Medici's wickedness.

  'Don't you realize, Roger,' he said bitterly on more than one occasion as we leaned over the ship's side and watched the sunlight dancing on the sea. 'Don't you realize that the Albrizzis may have been innocent? The Medicis in Rome, perhaps the cardinal himself, may have been responsible for the murder of Enrico's father? They stood to gain not only the jewels but the weakening of a powerful Florentine family. They then used Enrico to destroy the Albrizzis.'

  'But that's only half the picture, isn't it, Master?'

  'Aye, and my dear uncle knows the rest. Borelli was never meant to come to England.'

  'So, why were we sent?'

  'To bear messages to Lord Giulio, to convey our master's fury, or supposed fury, at Lord Francesco's death. We are just pawns, Roger. However, in chess, pawns skilfully used may trap a bishop and even a king.'

  We entered the Thames and the ship docked at Dowgate. I ran to the side, drinking in the sights, smells and noises of London. It was a dull, grey, cold morning, but to me it was heaven on earth. Even the dung barges dumping their ordure in the river seemed pleasant enough and, after we disembarked, I surprised my master by going on my knees and kissing the quayside. It wasn't just that I was back in London.

  I was so pleased to be free from the dagger, the garrotte, the sling and, above all, the scraping clash of steel. I headed straight for the Vintry, into a dark, tangy taproom, whilst my master went further down river to visit Johanna at Syon. I drank three quarts of beer and joined in a sing-song with a group of sailors. I even surprised them with the dirty ditties I knew.

  Late in the evening my master returned, rather sad and downcast. Johanna, though beautiful, was witless, driven mad by the noble lover who had seduced and abandoned her. Benjamin had killed him, but it was too late. Johanna now lived in the past, constantly looking out of the window waiting for young Cavendish, the nobleman, to return. God forgive me, I suppose my mood only made matters worse. I was drunk as a newt and, when my master entered the taproom, one doxy had her arms around me and I had my hands down the bodice of another. Both were shrieking with laughter as I told them my version of the story of the preacher, the donkey and the buxom country wench.

  (Excuse me, my chaplain wants to know the story. I give him a fair rap across the knuckles with my ash cane. He is too innocent and young, and the story is complex and very, very scurrilous.)

  Anyway, my master dragged me away. We took a room in a hostelry in Cheapside. All I remember is singing every step of the way there. I believe I was still singing when I collapsed on the bed, fully clothed, and drifted into the deepest sleep.

  The next morning, a little wiser and more sober, Benjamin and I presented ourselves at the king's chancery in Westminster. A dripping-nosed clerk in charge of the royal messengers informed us that his Satanic Majesty and his much-beloved cardinal were in Surrey. We were told to wait a while. So we did, for at least an hour, kicking our heels on a bench in a shabby corridor. Benjamin kept returning to the table, demanding news. The clerk would raise his thin, narrow face, tap his quill against the side of his nose and tell us to be patient. Benjamin paced up and down. I decided to irritate the clerk as much as I could by coughing and sneezing and loosing the loudest belches I could muster. This seemed to work, for the fellow began to scurry about and, just as I was contemplating more devilment, a small black-garbed figure swept in the door - Doctor Agrippa, not a whit changed since we had last seen him at Eltham, his cherubic face wreathed in smiles. He shook our hands and clapped us on the shoulders. He seemed most pleased to see us, called us fine fellows, and told us that he had instructions from Wolsey. I grabbed him by the sleeve and looked into those hard eyes, black as coal.

  'What mischief now, good doctor?'

  He raised his eyebrows innocently. 'My dear Roger?'

  'Don't bloody "Dear Roger" me!' I snarled. 'Doctor Agrippa, I have been ill-used, abused, shot at, imprisoned, taken to the point of death by sea-sickness and met some of the most vicious bastards walking this earth! For what?' I pushed away Benjamin's restraining hand. 'Where's fat Harry and great Tom his chancellor? Are they finished with us now? Aren't they interested in us any longer?'

  Benjamin caught the drift of my meaning.

  'Doctor Agrippa,' he interjected softly, 'where is Borelli's painting?'

  Agrippa stepped back. 'The painting?'

  'Yes, the bloody painting!' I hissed.

  'Oh, there was a fire. A slight accident in the king's chamber. No real damage but, regrettably, the painting was destroyed.'

  Benjamin leaned over and whispered in Agrippa's ear. The good doctor pulled his head back in astonishment.

  ‘I think you had best follow me,' he murmured.

  We left the palace of Westminster and, for a while, walked in silence back up Fleet Street. Outside the Golden Bushel tavern Agrippa told us to wait. He went inside and reappeared a few minutes later, beckoning us in.

  He took us straight upstairs. 'The food here is delicious,' he said. 'Good beef in rich onion gravy. And they have a fine claret. I have hired a chamber.'

  I could have kicked him. I was also angry at my master for being so enigmatic.

  'What's going on?' I hissed.

  'I couldn't tell you, Roger,' he whispered. 'But the destruction of Borelli's painting has confirmed my suspicions.'

  The chamber was pleasant enough and the food delicious. Agrippa still played the nonchalant courtier. Only when the servitors had left did he get up, bolt the door and confront us.

  'What was Cardinal Giulio's reply?'

  'Rome will say yes,' Benjamin replied.

  Agrippa relaxed and smiled.

  'Aren't you interested in the rest?' I exclaimed.

  Agrippa came back and sat at the table. 'If you wish, tell me. I see Master Borelli has not come with you.'

  'No, he was slightly indisposed,' I told him.

  'He's dead,' Benjamin said. 'As are all the Albrizzis.'

  Agrippa raised his eyebrows. 'Tell me.'

  Benjamin summarized our adventures. Agrippa listened attentively, nodding, now and again whispering under his breath.

  'The king will be pleased,' he exclaimed when Benjamin finished. 'As will my Lord Cardinal.'

  'What does the message mean?' I asked.

  Agrippa shrugged. 'I don't know. If I did I'd tell you.'

  Benjamin leaned across the table. 'Then let me tell you, my good Agrippa. In 1509,' he said quietly, 'the present king's father lay dying. Sir Edward Throckle was his physician. Now, in the year before his death, the old king and his son, our present monarch, had seriously quarrelled. God knows the reason. Perhaps Henry VII, God rest
him, glimpsed the murderous madness in his son's soul.'

  I watched Agrippa steadily.

  'He is mad,' I whispered. 'You know that, Agrippa. He is the Mouldwarp of ancient prophecy, the Dark Prince who is going to drench this kingdom in blood.'

  Agrippa's eyes changed, becoming slate-coloured. He picked at his lip and glanced slyly at Benjamin.

  'Continue!' he ordered.

  'Now, the old king had also quarrelled with his very ambitious young clerk Thomas Wolsey. Both the Prince of Wales and young Wolsey were treated with disdain. My uncle's career might have ended there and then. However, to shorten a very cruel tale, young Prince Henry, resentful of his father's anger and desirous of getting his greedy hands on the crown, poisoned his own father. He used Sir Edward Throckle to achieve this.'

  Agrippa's face remained impassive. I admit, even though I believed Henry was the biggest bastard on God's earth, I couldn't believe what my master was saying.

  'Master, surely!' I exclaimed.

  'Oh, I tell the truth,' Benjamin continued serenely. 'The young prince, either with Throckle's connivance or his active co-operation, gave his old father, who was not in the best of health, certain noxious potions. The old king died and our Henry was crowned. Throckle took honourable retirement in the countryside of Essex. Now, I am not too sure about my uncle's role in all this, but I think he found out. Do you remember the story about the old king keeping a diary which a pet monkey tore up and ate?' Benjamin smiled. 'There was a monkey in that painting. Do you remember?' I nodded.

  'Well, perhaps dear uncle found it and carefully pieced it together. Whatever, I am sure the old king, lonely and frightened, wrote how he was fearful of his son. Maybe he even suspected he was being poisoned?'

  'Is that why Throckle committed suicide?' I asked.

  'Oh, yes, do you remember that letter of invitation? The good Sir Edward was invited to visit the court and bring with him certain herbs.' Benjamin smiled thinly. 'It took me some time to realize that these weren't ordinary herbs or flowers, but poisons such as belladonna and foxglove. The flower Henry was holding in that picture is a highly poisonous flower, the false helleborine. It can often be mistaken for the lily.' Benjamin touched me on the hand. 'That's why I sent you and poor Maria to the wise woman in the village near the Albrizzi villa. Most of the poison-flowers and herbs depicted in that painting are known in both England and Italy.'