by S. D. Sykes
After another month, Mary de Caburn finally agreed to be my wife. It was then that I had to cross the next hurdle for the union. Or should I say hurdles, for both my mother and my sister were against the match from the start.
“You must have expected me to marry at some point?” I said to my sister, Clemence, as she paced the room with her arms folded, while her faithful servant, Humbert, followed her with his eyes. The giant man was always at my sister’s side. Silent, impassive, but ever-watchful. No harm would come to Clemence while this man could protect her.
“No, I didn’t expect you to marry,” she snapped. “And certainly not to your own niece.”
“Mary is my niece only by marriage. We share no blood.”
Clemence stopped still and snorted. “You share no blood with me, Oswald. Your own sister. So perhaps we should marry?”
The words were said, and could not be retracted. Yet none of us knew how to answer. Instead we let this most inflammable of family secrets blaze between us for a few moments, before it finally lost its heat. I looked to Humbert, but he would not meet my eye.
“I expected you to marry better than Mary de Caburn,” said Mother, as if Clemence had not made her last contribution. “You are lord of the Somershill estate, after all. And who is this girl? A raggedy creature who used to wear braies and wield a sword.” Mother picked up Hector’s paws and kissed his bristly muzzle. “Mary de Caburn would do better to marry the blacksmith, wouldn’t she, Hector? Then he could forge her a weapon. Or perhaps she could join those women who wander after armies and do all their cooking and washing. What are they called? Oh yes, camp followers.” Hector growled in agreement. He disliked Mary de Caburn and her pack of boisterous deerhounds.
I was astounded at these comments. “Mary is the eldest daughter of a nobleman,” I said. “Not only that, she is well educated.”
Mother shrugged. “Yes. But what good has education done her? Only filled her head with inflated ideas of her own place.”
“She’s a woman of standing, Mother. Lady Mary de Caburn. And soon she will be Lady Somershill.”
At these words, Clemence stalked across the room and grabbed Mother by the arm. “Do you hear that, Mother? Mary de Caburn will become Lady Somershill. She will take your title. How will you like that then?”
Mother shook my sister away. There was nothing more guaranteed to change Mother’s mind than hearing Clemence’s opinion on a matter. “Well. I’m not sure what I can do about it, Clemence. If your brother wants to marry the foolish girl, then that’s his business.”
“But he’s not my brother, is he?” Clemence lowered her voice. “Not my true brother.”
Mother stroked Hector’s head with increasing intensity, until her hand became claw-like and the stroke became a scratch. “Well, we all know that, Clemence. But nobody else does. So, I’ll thank you to keep your voice down.” Mother looked to Humbert, but the man continued to stare into space, as if he had not heard a word of the conversation.
Clemence turned on her heel with frustration, marched toward the window, and let out a growl that rattled against the windowpanes and then reverberated across the solar.
When her rage had subsided, Clemence turned to speak again. “So Oswald. What of your promise many years ago? That my son would inherit Somershill, as well as Versey Castle.”
“That wasn’t my promise, and you know it. I promised only Versey to Henry.”
She curled her face into an ugly rosette. “Yes. But I thought that you had decided not to marry.”
“No, Clemence. I never said that either.”
Mother placed Hector upon the floor, and the dog began to snuffle about the reeds, looking for any stray food that might have been dropped by Clemence’s young son, Henry. The child was a walking breadcrumb dispenser, leaving enough food in his wake to feed a flock of geese.
“You can’t expect Oswald to become a monk, Clemence,” said Mother. “You might have turned yourself into a drab donkey and decided not to marry for a second time. But there’s no reason why Oswald should not take a bride.” Clemence let out a second roar, though its anger was diluted this time with frustration. I could hardly blame my sister for finding the term offensive. The roar did not dissuade Mother from continuing, however. In fact it seemed to induce farther insults. “And in a way, it is only natural justice that Oswald should marry Mary de Caburn.”
“Oh yes?” said Clemence, folding her arms. “And why is that?”
“Well. Mary would have inherited Versey,” said Mother. “Had you not married her father only days before his death.”
“My husband was murdered, Mother. You make it sound as if I lured an old man into a marriage contract upon his deathbed.”
Mother waved her hand. “Doesn’t matter how you die, does it? You’re still dead.”
“Not quite,” I said, feeling the need to interject.
Mother groaned. “Stop being so pedantic, Oswald. You’ve left this world, whether you die of your own accord, or somebody helps you along the way.” I tried to answer, but she spoke over me. “The point is this. Clemence and her son, Henry, took Versey from Mary. So Mary will take Somershill from Clemence.” She stood up and clapped her hands. “It seems entirely fair to me. So I think we should congratulate Oswald upon his choice of bride.” She turned to me. “So, well done. I hope the girl will provide you with many children.”
At these words, Clemence picked up her skirts and sped out of the chamber, closely followed by her faithful servant Humbert, who had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the low lintel. Clemence then stamped her foot loudly on each step of the staircase, before slamming the door at the bottom.
Mother sat down again upon her stool and beckoned for Hector to return to her knee. The dog had found a knitted sock somewhere behind the stools and was now attempting to kill the thing by dashing it from side to side upon the floor, as if it were a rat. “Clemence will come round, Oswald,” Mother said, as she patted her dog’s head.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you think so?”
Mother pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Either that, or she’ll plot against you.”
I gave another laugh. “How reassuring.”
She looked up at me earnestly. “There’s no reason to laugh, Oswald. I’m being perfectly serious. Your sister can be a dangerous opponent. You know that.”
Chapter Twenty
I woke to remember that it was Tuesday, leaving me only four days to find the killer or to meet my fate at Vittore’s hands, so I missed breakfast and went straight to see Giovanni, finding him in his office, kneeling in front of his small diptych. He didn’t notice me at first, so I stood in the low doorway and watched him for a while. He held a new rosary tightly to his lips—a primitive-looking thing made from rough wooden beads, and I suddenly felt a small pang of guilt, for I had stuffed the rosary he had given me into a corner and then forgotten about it. When I coughed he quickly scrambled to his feet, darting in front of his desk, to obscure my view of some neatly stacked piles of coins. He put his hand behind his back and then dropped his rosary onto the table next to the coins. “Oswald,” he said, with some breathlessness, “I didn’t see you there.” He smoothed down his hair. “Were your hours of contemplation useful yesterday?” he asked.
I closed the door behind me. “Yes. They were.”
Giovanni briefly checked his reflection in the small looking glass that hung opposite his table, before indicating for me to take a seat. “This is welcome news.”
I remained standing. “I have a name at last. For one of Enrico’s lovers.”
He smiled cautiously. “I see. How did you find his name?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Giovanni wiped a finger along the side of his mouth. “So. Who is it?”
I hesitated. “I’ll tell you later.”
I could see that he wanted to press me for an answer, but decided against it. “My master will be pleased. It has always been his desire that we find the friends of Enri
co.”
“His lovers, you mean?”
“Yes, Oswald. His lovers.” Giovanni coughed, as if this word had stung his tongue. “So, what will we do now?”
“I need to visit an island on the lagoon,” I said.
“Which island is that?” Giovanni backed against the desk, and let his fingers touch one of the piles of coins.
“It’s a convent.”
His face suddenly darkened. “Do you mean Santa Lucia? The convent of whores?”
“I do.”
“Women who claim to be the brides of Christ?” He clenched his fists. “What is a man who loves other men doing there?”
“Offering an alternative service, I suppose?” Giovanni took a great inhalation of air and was about to launch into a tirade, so I purposefully spoke over him. “I don’t care what you think about the place. I just want you to take me there.”
Giovanni hesitated. “I can’t,” he told me.
“Why not? I’m not asking you to get into bed with a nun.”
He crossed himself at my words. “Mother Maria. Don’t say such things, Oswald.” He then squeezed his hands together, as if in prayer. “Please. I cannot set foot in such a place, as it would taint my soul and damn me for eternity.”
I have never understood why some believers have such little confidence in the strength of their own faith that they fear even the slightest glance at evil will inevitably seduce them into Beelzebub’s den. “You have to accompany me,” I said. “Sometimes people cannot understand my Venetian. Particularly on the islands.”
He trembled. “I cannot go to Santa Lucia. You must believe me. Take the family’s sàndolo. There’s a man in the kitchen who can row you there.”
“I’d rather that you came with me.”
Giovanni shook his head and then fumbled about on his desk to retrieve his rosary, but succeeded only in knocking over one of the piles of coins. He turned and cursed his own stupidity, but when I went to assist him, he became aggressive. “Please. Don’t touch the coins!” he told me. So I deliberately knocked over a second pile, and then a third, just to annoy the fool.
He threw up his hands in a panic. “What are you doing? I counted those out specially.”
As he attempted to round up the coins, I picked out a florin. He tried to grab it back from me, but I held the shiny circle aloft, and he could hardly assault me in order to retrieve it. He withdrew a little. “Please give it back, Oswald. I’ve counted these out for my master.”
I turned the coin in my hand. “Why do you have coins from Florence?” I asked. I then pushed my hand through another pile, spreading them across the table. “And what are these?” I said, picking them up in turn. “Coins from Genoa, Hungary, and France I think.”
“Master Bearpark is a merchant, Oswald. He deals with many nations. Of course he has such coins. You would find them in any merchant’s strong box.”
“But what does he sell? There’s nothing in his storerooms.”
Giovanni looked at me askance. “Why are you looking in our storerooms? You have no business there.”
“It’s hardly a secret, Giovanni. Anybody can see that the shelves of Ca’ Bearpark are nearly bare.”
Giovanni turned his back on me and nervously began to re-create the piles of coins. “These times have been difficult for my master. The war with Hungary has ruined his trade.”
“But other merchants have stock.” I thought of the many small boats I had seen along the canal in the last few days, laden with furs, dyes, silks, and sacks of spices. These small vessels were transporting goods to the merchant galleys—ships that were now in a hurry to leave Venice. “There’s more to this than a problem caused by the war with Hungary, isn’t there?”
Giovanni sighed. “Yes. You’re right, Oswald. My master has had problems since he sacrificed his cog ship for the dead of the Plague. He can hire other ships of course, but they are always small or slow. If only he could hire a galley from the Venetian fleet, but such privileges are reserved for the families of the Golden Book.”
I suddenly thought about the fee that Bearpark had promised to pay me for finding Enrico’s murderer. “Is Bearpark short of money then?” I asked, trying to smooth over the anxiety in my voice.
Giovanni shook his head. “No, no. My master is a rich man. He has saved money all his life. There has been no need for him to trade for a number of years, but he will not give up. Even though he is so old and so ill.” He whipped around to face me. “But you mustn’t tell a soul about this. Do you promise? Master Bearpark likes the other merchants to think he is still prospering.” My nod must have seemed ambivalent, since his voice then rose to an urgent and shrill peak. “You must promise, Oswald. Reputation is everything in this city.”
I sighed. The Venetian mask—so brazen and yet so brittle. “I won’t say a word.”
“Do you swear it?”
“Very well.” I walked to the door. “And will you change your mind about accompanying me to the island?”
He hung his head. “No, Oswald. I will never go to that place.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I departed immediately for the convent of Santa Lucia, as Mother watched me from her upstairs window. She shouted down to me as I boarded the sàndolo by the water gate, wanting to know where I was going, but I pulled the hood of my cape over my ears and pretended not to hear.
As the sàndolo swung out of our narrow canal and made its way into the Canal Grande, we passed so close to the buildings on one side of the water that I could almost reach out and pull limpets from the walls of the palazzi. My oarsman, a servant from the house, then rowed into the center of the canal, where we were jostled by larger vessels making their way out to sea. On either side of us, women appeared at the heads of dark alleys, emptying buckets of shells into the water, while a dog barked at us from a wooden platform, the loose skin of its chin spilling out over a leash that was too tight about its neck.
As we rounded the end of the Canal Grande, we passed the tip of Dorsoduro and then headed out across the water toward the island of Giudecca. The convent of Santa Lucia was located to the south—at first nothing more than a thin line on the horizon—but then, as we sailed nearer, the island began to take on the form of a sea fortress, a square, flat-sided stronghold that seemed to float upon the lagoon.
During this journey I took the opportunity to make conversation with the oarsman as he followed the wooden poles that marked the safe routes across these shallow waters, avoiding the sandbanks that often lurked just beneath the surface. At first I had wanted only to practice my Venetian, as the man spoke with the same strong dialect that I had previously found so difficult to understand, but soon we were conversing on topics that went far beyond the weather and the names of birds upon the lagoon.
I told him of the Great Plague in England that had killed my older brothers and saved me from a life in the monastery. He had his own, sad memories of this contagion, as he had still been a child when it had swept through Venice in 1348, killing nearly every member of his family. It transpired that he had then been forced to seek sanctuary in the self-same convent to which we were headed. He spoke of the place fondly, however, explaining to me that this convent was more than a haven for the unfortunate children of Venice. It was also often the place where rich families sent those daughters for whom they could not afford dowries. These young women often had little sense of religious vocation and were frequently bored by the privations of the celibate life. As such, the abbess allowed them to receive male visitors, as long as a fee was paid to the convent—described, naturally, as a contribution to the work of their orphanage.
The story was scandalous of course, though I will admit that I was not scandalized. Nobody was being harmed by this activity, even if it was, in many respects, the business of a brothel. The sisters could choose their lovers, so the arrangement seemed to please one side as much as the other. And anyway, I had seen enough of the other style of brothel. The stews that clung to the riverbank at Southwar
k—full of thin, dead-eyed girls from the country and frequented by toothless old men and foul-mouthed drunkards.
Once the sàndolo was tied to the moorings, I left the oarsman and followed the sandy path toward the convent. In the early spring light, the orange bricks of the walls blushed with the warm glow of embers upon a fire, and I thought that it was no wonder that the young men of Venice came here to escape the stifling air and the narrow alleys of the city, where eyes watched you at every turn. Out here on this lagoon island, the world seemed a happier, simpler place.
I knocked at the heavy gate to the convent and was greeted by a boy who opened the door to me and then quickly slammed it again in my face. I waited politely for a few minutes, but nothing happened. I tried to push at the door, but found it had been bolted, so I knocked again. An upstairs window finally opened, and an old nun with a white wimple and a black scapular leaned out, and I recognized her immediately as the abbess I had met on the night of my visit to this place with Enrico, many months before. When she asked my business, I replied in my best Venetian, saying that I was looking for company.
