by Stella Riley
The Black Madonna
A Novel of the English Civil War
Stella Riley
The Black Madonna
Stella Riley
Amazon Edition
Copyright 2013 Stella Riley
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Front Cover
The Storming of Basing House
Ernest Crofts
GENOA
April, 1636
I am armed with more than steel – the justice of my quarrel.
Christopher Marlowe
PROLOGUE
Beneath the richly-painted ceiling of the Villa Falcieri’s vast and opulent salon, four pairs of eyes dwelt with varying degrees of incredulity on the still, silent figure which faced them across several yards of gleaming marble floor. Vittorio Falcieri’s normally inscrutable gaze held a glint of speculative interest mixed, almost imperceptibly, with amusement; but two of his three sons bristled with such strong hostility that Vittorio could almost hear the blood pounding in their heads. His amusement deepened and acquired a touch of malice.
It would do his finicky, silken-clad brood no harm to wait and wonder. They were too cocksure, too spoiled by soft living - and much too eager to forget that their grandfather had started life in the backstreets of Genoa. Now it was only Vittorio himself who recalled that tiny workshop in the Via Margarita that had been the foundation of the present Falcieri empire; and he wished his sons had just a tithe of the steel such memories engendered – and of which their cousin, standing alone in his shabby black amidst the chilly splendour, had in abundance.
It was evident in the cold, quiet way he waited for an answer. Iron control – and something more. Something which Vittorio had never quite been able to name but which, even when the boy had first presented himself as a gaunt and travel-torn twelve-year-old, had whispered that this unknown nephew with the face of a dark angel, incongruously set above a pair of imperfectly matched shoulders, had more strength of character in his little finger than all three of his own sons put together.
It was an unpalatable thought and one which laid new resentment over old. For the boy was the son of Alessandro and Lucia; Alessandro, his bright and laughing elder brother – and Lucia Vitri, the girl whom he, Vittorio, had striven so long and hard to win, only to see her fall victim to Alessandro’s charm and elope with him to England. And, as if this had not been hurt enough, they had taken with them the symbol of the Falcieri luck and left behind a void that no amount of carefully nurtured anger could ever quite fill.
It had been a black time but Vittorio had survived it. He’d married Lucia’s sister, Mariana – and he’d prospered. And then, after a silence lasting fifteen years, had come the boy, bringing a tale of treachery and ruin and his tiny sister, Gianetta, to tear at Vittorio’s heart by looking at him with Lucia’s eyes. Lucia … who was still more real to him than her sister had ever been and who it seemed had died in some French hovel after Alessandro had gone to a traitor’s grave in England.
Ignoring the hiatus of impatience behind him, Vittorio laid his fingertips together and regarded his nephew thoughtfully. Eight years ago the boy had stared him in the eye and demanded nought save to be apprenticed to a master-goldsmith. Now, in much the same manner, he was calmly asking for a loan large enough to buy half of Genoa.
The apprenticeship, Vittorio had given him – binding him for seven years to Lorenzo Verga in the Via Margarita where he’d learned his own trade – and trying thereafter to ignore him. But little Gianetta he’d made into the daughter of his heart and, by installing her in his house and gratifying her every wish, effectively sundered her from her oddly disturbing brother.
What the boy had made of this was impossible to tell; but as time wore on, Vittorio began to suspect that it was he himself who was the loser. For Alessandro had grounded his son well. At fifteen the lad had mastered all the techniques and, at eighteen, was crafting pieces so intricate that every goldsmith in Genoa was trying to buy his indentures. And thus, prompted by an emotion he was still reluctant to name, Vittorio had opened the doors which led to the other Falcieri interests of money-lending and shipping … and then watched without surprise as his nephew developed a flair for finance that bade fair to outstrip his skill with the gold.
And that was why his request wasn’t as ridiculous as it appeared; for, if anyone ever had the will and power to succeed, it was the neat but threadbare young man in front of him.
‘Don’t I pay you enough to buy a decent coat?’ he demanded abruptly. ‘You dress like a lawyer’s clerk.’
‘I dress to suit my station,’ came the pleasantly indifferent reply.
‘Damn it – you’re a Falcieri!’
‘Del Santi,’ added his youngest son, sotto voce.
‘Del Santi,’ nodded Vittorio, oblivious of levity.
‘So.’ His nephew’s dark brows rose in faint but eloquent mockery. ‘Do I shame you, signor?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ Vittorio scowled at him. ‘What makes you think I’d lend you the price of a hair-cut – let alone a sum of this size?’
‘Because you know I don’t fail,’ said the distant voice simply.
This was too much for his cousins. Carlo and Giuseppe burst into a torrent of impassioned speech and young Mario – who alone of the three had been born with a sense of humour – gave a long appreciative whistle. Then Carlo’s voice emerged triumphant.
‘Arrogant upstart!’ he spat. ‘You’ve already wormed your way far enough into this family’s intimate concerns to learn financial details that even I – the eldest son – don’t know!’
The ghost of a sardonic smile touched the lean mouth but its owner said nothing.
It was left to Vittorio to observe that, if Carlo had any interest in finance beyond having sufficient money to entertain his fine friends, it was the first he’d heard of it. Then, bidding him be silent or get out, he looked back at his nephew and said slowly, ‘Now, Luciano … let us know what we say. You are asking for a family favour? A massive loan on no better security than my faith in your abilities?’
‘Not at all,’ came the cool reply. ‘I am asking you to advance me fifty thousand in gold for a period of ten years, at a rate of interest in accordance with your normal transactions and to be repaid annually. Should I fail to meet this obligation, you are entitled to terminate our agreement and reclaim the whole. As to the matter of security …’ He paused and, moving for the first time, produced from the folds of his cloak a narrow, irregular-shaped package. ‘For security, I offer you this.’
Giuseppe looked up from buffing his fingernails long enough to snigger.
Carlo said derisively, ‘Some bauble you won in a dice game?’
With the same unshakeable impassivity that had maddened Carlo for eight years, Luciano ignored him and crossed the room to lay the parcel before his uncle. ‘I understand that you once held this in some esteem … but perhaps you no longer care to have it.’
Vittorio reached out a hand but, even before he touched the package, knowledge of its contents rushed in upon him and he said hoarsely, ‘You – you have it still?’
‘Of course.’ A vagrant smile flickered
across the remote, finely-boned face. ‘Did you never suspect it?’
Without seeming to be aware of what he was doing, Vittorio rose from his chair saying, ‘You said everything was put under seal – confiscated by the English Crown. The house, land, money, papers … everything. I thought that this, too --’ He broke off, a surge of colour staining his skin. ‘You deceived me!’
‘No. You deceived yourself.’
The admission implicit in this speech caused Vittorio’s flush to assume choleric proportions and prompted sixteen-year-old Mario to say quickly, ‘Father? Won’t you open the packet?’
‘Yes,’ drawled Carlo. ‘By all means let us see if what our dear cousin offers us against several years’ profit is worth it.’
There was a long pause and then Vittorio said quietly, ‘It is worth it – and your cousin knows it very well. He has brought the Black Madonna home.’
The effect of this announcement on Carlo and Giuseppe was not prodigious but Mario said eagerly, ‘The Madonna? Truly? May we see it?’
And finally, with an odd reluctance, Vittorio sank back into his chair and, taking the parcel between his hands, slowly unwrapped it.
The Madonna was not large – nor did it possess any obvious feature to suggest that it was, in fact, a Madonna at all. There was no enamelling, no gilding, no jewels; only the slender form of a young girl, simply fashioned of dark, red-veined obsidian. Her hair was demurely covered, her hands clasped in the folds of her robe and her mouth curved in a sweet, secret smile.
For the first time in twenty years, Vittorio’s eyes caressed the smooth glossy surface of the stone and marvelled afresh at the mystery of it. He was not a sentimental man and nowadays he had a house full of beautiful, expensive things; but not one of them held a fragment of the lure contained in this austere and probably valueless piece.
All he knew of the lady was that she had been in his family for generations and had been treasured through years of obscurity and squalor since before the Falcieri had left their native village of Santi. He had been bred to revere her – as had Alessandro. But Alessandro had stolen her and, in doing so, brought about his own destruction. Or so Vittorio thought. Yet the wheel of Fate had ground on … and the Madonna was home at last.
‘Is that it?’ Carlo shattered the silence with three supremely disparaging syllables. ‘How dreary! It’s no more than a crudely-worked lump of stone.’
Vittorio came to his feet with a force that sent his chair grating back across the floor. For a long moment Carlo was subjected to a wave of intense, silent fury. Then, sweeping round to face his nephew, Vittorio said, ‘And you? Do you see only a lump of stone?’
‘No.’ Luciano looked on the Madonna with hooded eyes. ‘I see something which, once lost, I can never replace.’
Some of the wrath left Vittorio’s face and he growled, ‘Then you’d better be sure of what you do.’
‘I am sure. I’ve had eight years in which to plan it.’
‘And?’
‘And I propose, signor, that we gamble.’ Again that chilly, impersonal smile. ‘You hold the Madonna and advance me the money. If I use it successfully, you regain it in full and with interest – but return the lady. If not, you take what I have and keep her. Either way, you can’t lose.’
‘Very clever.’
‘Not particularly. It’s my only option.’
Unexpectedly, Vittorio laughed.
‘You don’t favour your father, do you? He hadn’t a calculating bone in his body.’
Luciano replied with the merest suggestion of a shrug, a gesture he rarely permitted himself because it emphasised the slight irregularity of his left shoulder. He said merely, ‘I have read Il Principe.’
‘Machiavelli? Yes. You would. But there’s more to this than a desire for your own enterprise. What is it? A girl?’
The dark, cobalt gaze filled with derision. ‘Hardly.’
‘Then what? I think I’ve a right to know what my money will be buying.’
It was a long time before Luciano spoke and, when he did, each word arrived sheathed in ice.
‘It will be buying justice, signor. I’m surprised that you needed to ask.’
‘Justice? From the English? After so long?’ Vittorio snorted. ‘You have no hope.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ Another pause, and then, ‘But fortunately, if justice fails, one may look for revenge.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
FALLING SHADOWS
July 1639 to October 1640
The business now talked of in Town is all about the question of Ship Money. Those subjects that refuse to pay – whereof Mr Hampden is one – have their counsel to argue the case in the Exchequer Chamber before judges.
Thomas Knyvett
ONE
Situated on a slight rise in the ground and shrouded by the gentle screen of ash and whitethorn that gave it its name, the modest gabled manor nestled peacefully like a jewel in its setting. It was built around a small but pleasant courtyard; a low, two-storeyed quadrangle of weathered amber and grey stone in which three styles of architecture blended into a mellow, stubbornly un-modernised whole.
Begun by Roger Maxwell in 1351, it had remained almost untouched until great-grandson Robert’s timely switch on the eve of Bosworth Field resulted in the addition of a chapel and a gatehouse. Then, three decades on, Robert’s son Piers saw the completion of an upper floor to the inner court. Succeeding Maxwells had continued to play a spasmodic part in the affairs of the nation and one, indeed, had gone to the stake under the reign of Catholic Mary; but in the last century, none of them had chosen to alter the structure of their dwelling. And now, in this shimmering July of 1639, when the creeper glowed against the stone and the small panes of Pier’s lancet-tipped windows reflected the sky, it was the turn of Richard Maxwell to look on the irregular, unimposing house of his ancestors … and, like them, to find it good.
Soft air, heavy with the scent of roses and slumberous with the humming of bees, drifted through the open window where, her embroidery forgotten in her lap, his wife Dorothy sat gazing into the garden below. Laughing, youthful voices rose and fell in the distance and she smiled a little. It was a perfect day.
Through the swaying fronds of the willow-tree, she caught a glimpse of rich mahogany hair and her glance quickened. Eden, eldest of her children, had been home for almost two weeks now but each morning she still revelled in the knowledge of his presence as though it were new. After twenty months at the finest military academy in Europe, he had come back – no longer a boy and so like his father that at times it stopped her breath. It was not his looks, of course; those he had from her. But the quiet obstinacy, the sensitive, open mind, the ready laughter … these things he had from Richard. And Dorothy was well-satisfied.
‘What’s the matter, Dolly? Afraid he’ll vanish in a puff of smoke?’
She turned, smiling. ‘No. I was just thinking.’
‘Oh?’ Brown-haired and in his mid-forties, Richard Maxwell was cast in a large mould. ‘Of what?’
‘Of how well he’s turned out – and that having him home again will be good for Kate. The twins are too young to be company for her; and, as for Amy, well …’
‘Yes.’ A quiet laugh shook Richard’s frame. ‘With all due respect, there are times when I wonder how we came by Amy.’
‘I know. She’s too – too … too everything for a fourteen-year-old. And have you seen the way she’s behaving with that nice boy Eden brought home with him? It’s no wonder Kate finds her such a trial.’
‘Chalk and cheese,’ said Richard, his fingers lightly exploring her nape. ‘They always were. Or can you possibly be intimating that young Cochrane has exposed a chink in Kate’s armour?’
Dorothy looked up at him. ‘Is it likely?’
‘Not unless she’s changed since yesterday,’ he replied. And took the opportunity to kiss her.
A long moment later, Dorothy freed herself to say as sternly as she was able, ‘This won’t do. The Langley child
ren are in the garden with our brood and we are standing in the window.’ She failed to entirely subdue the betraying quiver in her voice. ‘Aged parents like us don’t behave this way.’
‘They do – but in the case of Gervase and Mary Langley, not usually with each other.’ He grinned at her. ‘And how can I settle into respectable middle age? Matrons with grown-up children are supposed to be plump and homely.’
‘And middle-aged squires are supposed to fondle the dairy-maid and snore in front of the fire of an evening.’
‘Oh? I could try, if you like.’ His fingers tightened on her shoulders. ‘But not while you look at me like that.’
She achieved a downcast sigh. ‘I’m very sorry.’
He pulled her into his arms.
‘Don’t be sorry – just don’t do it now. Or alternatively, let’s move away from the window.’
* * *
On the smooth turf beyond the shrubbery a young gentleman reclined on the grass with a volume of poetry while two others passed an hour at the butts. Only one of these held a bow; a compactly-built figure whose dark red hair fell in thick waves about his shoulders. Watched critically by the giant at his elbow, he shook back the fullness of his cambric shirt-sleeves, positioned another arrow and took careful aim. The sun burnished his head to living bronze and lent his arrow a transitory, gleaming grace as it sped from the bow to land quivering in the mark.
There was silence. Then the giant turned a fair, perpetually ruffled head to encompass the lace-trimmed elegance of the other man. ‘Francis?’
Blue eyes were reluctantly raised from the page. ‘Yes?’
‘Eden has scored a bull’s-eye.’
