‘Allow me’ said Dondo, taking the maid’s trembling wrist, before dampening the print of her index finger with the black ink. She shivered at the cool thrill of his touch; his hands felt so soft against hers - so free they were from grinding work. ‘Press your finger here’ said Beppe, locking eyes with Grizelda, and tapping to the bottom of the document that he rested on his chest.
Her blackened fingertip shook so much Beppe had to guide her hand in place. Her bosom pounded as she pressed forward to sign Illawara’s death warrant, and touch Beppe’s heart. The pair gazed at one another in silence.
Unnoticed, and looking through a crack between the wooden planks of the storage pen, Orsini’s Henchman, draped head to toe in a dark cloak, had watched Grizelda's prod stain and validate the document.
‘When she’s gone’ she sighed, as if liberated, ‘take me with you.’ She focused on Beppe with all her will. He closed his eyes for a moment and nodded.
The pact was conceived and born between them: that Illawara will die.
Chapter 20
The Arrest
Venice, evening, Monday the 11th of December 1611
Lucia sat in Professor Sloane’s room, long after darkness had fallen over a windswept Venice, as a gust of breeze murmured at the window shutters with a chilly whisper. The Professor had lit a meagre fire in the hearth - though past the fire curfew - to stave off the worst of the cold, and allow Lucia enough warmth to perform her work. The room had warmed, somewhat, with the crackling, but inadequate, heat given off by the amber fire - but the Winston still shivered in his bed as he felt disease begin to sap him of his vigour.
Lucia sat focused, and calm in her movements as she whispered her incantations, so as not to wake those that slept in other rooms, and for the first time, Winston found her voice a comfort.
He sat and watched her, propped up on his pillow, with admiration and without fear: so different to when he had first seen Lucia at her ball. When she conjured her hands above the crystal sphere, he allowed himself to hope and wished to his very soul that Illawara still had his carry case.
‘Think of Illawara and your case’ Lucia said, turning her hands in offering to the crystal, ‘and think of a moment you shared together: she must be clear in your mind.’
The Professor hesitated as a peculiar guilt passed over him when he realised his reluctance to think of Illawara at all. She reminded him of too much. ‘Focus’ Lucia chided, her eyes aglow with the eerie green fire that danced in her pupils, ‘your mind wanders. Think of her - as I said.’ He obeyed and saw Illawara as she was before he left her to travel with the Hermeporta: his great experiment. He recalled her wonder at the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and how she clambered to the top without fear of the ground below - that seemed to tug at all that dared to look over the angled drop. He remembered feeling charmed by the exuberant surprise of the then twelve-year-old when she beheld the stretching hills rolling out of view, and he saw Hermes as a hummingbird, an emerald flash, peeping out of her bag.
‘Good… good’ muttered Lucia, who looked at the images of the Professor's memories within her ball. His memories, like spirits, soared through the air to twin themselves with Illawara’s who shared them with the Professor - at a time when father and daughter created their memories together. ‘She cannot be far, for I’m led over the water to the mainland’ said Lucia, her eyes fixed and intent upon what she saw. ‘I’m above Padua now: there’s no mistake’ she said as she saw the distinctive domes of St Anthony’s Basilica. His memories of Illawara lead Lucia’s vision, Peter Pan-like, to where she resided. ‘I fly along a street, and into a home. I see her now, she's dreaming.' Lucia saw the memories caress Illawara's face as she slept, surrounding her like smoke before they slipped into her mind. 'My progression has halted’ she said looking into her crystal that glowed in her lap upon its black velvet. The Professor caught his breath.
‘Does she have the case?’
‘Shhh’ said Lucia, ‘she's awoken and now creeps from her bed’ she added, whispering as if Illawara should overhear her words from the lagoon. ‘It seems as if the household is asleep, and she walks into a room filled with gifts and many objects’ Winston shrugged at the detail, wondering what on Earth she could be doing in such a place. The image dimmed, ‘concentrate’ chided Lucia, ‘don’t let your mind wander or I shall lose her.’ He focused his mind again upon his memories of Illawara, thoughts he had banished to the back of his mind, and remembered how she had posed and played for the camera - comfortable with the aged city of Pisa as if it were familiar to her. Illawara’s regal confidence of her own worth, even as a little girl, had always struck him as uncanny: as if she were born to power and greatness. Winston allowed himself to relive again the unusual insights and things she would say as a child that could confound him and Iona.
The Professor then wondered what Iona would be doing with her life, back in the future - she another person he had suppressed thoughts about for some time. ‘Steady your mind’ Lucia corrected again, ‘you almost lost her.’
‘Sorry’
‘She has your case’ she said, ‘she looks into it and thinks of you: she knows you must come for it, and you must. Your daughter awaits you.’
Professor Sloane closed his eyes and sighed, but the word daughter jarred with him. Winston saw how she came to him after a flash of light from the Hermeporta, the first experiment to awaken it, and as a babe held in Hermes' arms: with the youth’s panicked Greek spoken to him as he became feathered and began to shrink before his eyes.
The Professor had snatched Illawara up as Hermes diminished, unable to finish all he had to say. Questions had died on his lips as he looked at the baby with amazement. Iona had almost fainted with shock at the whole spectacle before her.
She would not go near Illawara for days: like some stunned new mother unaware of her pregnancy, though always wishing for a child. Iona wanted children, his children, as Winston knew by then, but the situation was not what she expected: all had been thrust upon her - every choice beyond her control.
‘We should never have begun all this’ the Professor remembered her saying, ‘but you didn’t listen… It’s always the same. You knew this was wrong.’ The words came fresh again to his mind like a forgotten specimen thawed from ice. Iona’s words still pricked.
The image of Illawara changed into Iona within the crystal ball, as she took up her cases and left the house with a young Illawara chasing after her crying. Winston caught her and told her to stay, and followed Iona outside as he called her name. Lucia looked at Winston with enquiry as the glow left her eyes. She said nothing for a while and just watched him as he lay there as if engulfed by another world.
‘Who was the woman with the fair hair?’ said Lucia, and the Professor bolted upright for a moment before laying back. He then sat still, reluctant to speak - unwilling to divulge such things to her - but she had seen his thoughts, and he reasoned that it was already too late.
‘She’s someone I used to know’ he said, whose expression had fallen into one of deep regret.
‘You loved her once’ said Lucia, reading the Professor’s expressions. He nodded and pulled the covers over his shoulder to turn away from her. She paused. ‘But not enough…’ she whispered, seeing, as she always did, more than he was prepared to reveal.
‘It was a long time ago’ said the Professor, with a croak, ‘what am I saying?’ he tutted, shaking his head, ‘I mean in the future… I…’ his words trailed off.
‘I understand’ she said, more than able to comprehend. She studied him before she spoke again. ‘Illawara’s in Padua, and near Saint Anthony’s Basilica. I don’t know the street, but local people must know of her: she’s striking and not easy to miss’ said Lucia, as she wrapped her ball up in its black velvet and tucked the orb under her arm. ‘Sleep and get some rest’ she said to the Professor as he lay back in bed, ‘I fear that you’re getting worse.’ He did not remember the waft of Lucia’s hand before he fell asleep, but when he awoke the next d
ay she had quenched the fire, and long since left his room.
Padua, morning, Tuesday the 12th of December
Cardinal Orsini chatted with Cook over breakfast in the morning and listened to her crow about the 'Mysterious Beauty of Padua.' Cook had been fishing Orsini's mind in a multitude of ways: one of which was by dropping hints, while affecting disinterest, as to his recent and curious visit uptown, so well dressed. Orsini struggled to avoid her banter: all the more still for Cook had to cut off the stays of Orsini’s girdle, when he had returned so that he could breathe - so faint he had become after his encounter with Illawara.
He tried his best to keep quiet - although he struggled not to titter at Cook’s masterful innuendos that elicited information from him by his laughter alone. He picked at his eggs without Cook’s usual liberal dose of Parmesan, or blue cheese, much to her chiding, and pondered his next visit to Illawara.
Cook observed his blank stare at his breakfast before she spoke:
‘So, you’re trying to be thin are you?’ She said with a jaunty look, as she dished herself more eggs. Orsini puckered, and he twitched his shoulder to shrug off her observation, prodding a fork at his food. But Cook, with a crooked brow, carried on undeterred. ‘You’ve gone off your cheese, and you look at cream now as if it were retched up by a dying cat.’ His mouth twitched with a smile, but he did not want to crack. Cook sniffed a chance to continue. She scooped a mouthful of omelette, caked in Parmesan, into her mouth with a: ‘mmmmh’ of pleasure. She then prodded here and there at her ample figure - firm tyres of flesh that had not known sickness in her whole life. ‘My, my’ she said, lifting parts of herself as she sat at the table, ‘I remember a time, not long ago, when I was so thin I could dive through a wedding ring.’ Orsini spluttered into laughter for the statement seemed so ridiculous to him.
A devious smile crept across Cook’s face as she carried on with her caprice. ‘So, you mock and laugh' said Cook pretending to take offence, 'on my dear father’s bones tis the truth’ she said scowling, hand over heart, before squeezing her forearms together which raised her considerable bust. She then gave out an extended sigh and shook her head as if she had a mane of long hair. ‘Oh, how the men would chase me then - young and old without shame’ she mewed, ‘for years I had neither sleep nor peace: with such clamour they sang praise up to my window’ she added with an extended flutter of her eyelashes.
Orsini cracked, and he shook his head with unrestrained laughter looking at Cook as she carried on. She then posed as a young maid at an imagined window, pretending to catch, and fussing over, dried herbs she tossed at herself as if they were flowers. Seeing that she had got the Cardinal laughing Cook started acting the part of an innocent dairy girl at her butter churn and gasping with coquettish surprise at male attention. By the time Cook had taken up some absurd positions on kitchen furniture, impersonating imagined men that were smitten with her, and posed with pots and pans, and whatever else came to hand, she had Orsini doubled over. Cook then started warbling serenades in an attempted baritone till Orsini was limp with laughter: she chose her moment.
‘There is much an older man will do for a young woman’s love’ said Cook, chancing his reaction to her words. Orsini’s laughter died off.
‘I’m not old’ he said frowning, ‘or at least I don’t feel old’ he added, pushing his plate away. She worried she had gone too far and tried to think of a way to change the subject, but Orsini carried on as if relieved to talk on the subject. ‘Sometimes I look in the mirror and don’t recognise myself’ he said, his face askew, ‘I think “Who’s that?” and then I realise it's me.’ Cook sighed with recognition and mused on how life and time had devastated her once curvaceous figure.
‘I feel the same’ she said, ‘I avoid my reflection now, but I still use a hand mirror to look at my feet: they’re not too bad.’ The two chuckled, and then fell into silence and brooded on the inevitable realities of ageing.
‘Cook, tell me the truth’ said Orsini in earnest, to break the silence, ‘can a young woman ever love a much older man? Or does she dream instead of some young STALLION?’ Cook sat surprised that Orsini, a man she still did not know much about, had been so open with her. But having induced the conversation, she thought it decent that she should give an honest reply. She took a deep breath.
‘It depends on the man’ she said, trying to seem matter of fact. Orsini then nibbled at his fingernail. ‘Stallions are overrated’ she added, as if to offer encouragement, ‘they frolic in your fields and then gallop off.’ The Cardinal smirked, remembering his younger self for a moment. ‘A clever woman is wise to choose an older man who still has his spark’ she continued, ‘young enough to play, but old enough to stay.’ Cook added a wink to her statement to try and cheer the pensive look that had replaced the smirk on Orsini’s face. But instead, he ruffled at his balding head.
‘I confess it: I miss being young’ he said, ‘if I could have youth again I would take it.’ Cook breathed deep and made ready to respond with sage wisdom when loud knocking came from the kitchen door.
The pair were both startled by the insistence of the noise, and Cook’s face flashed with unease as she approached the door that dreary overcast morning. She opened the door, and her shoulders slumped. Orsini’s Henchman strode in, cutting the air with his presence before Cook shut the door behind him. His thin body seemed to radiate cold.
‘She’s in grave danger, your Eminence’ he said, forgetting all pretence of addressing the Cardinal differently in front of Cook, ‘a denunciation has been made against her, and she’s sure to face arrest’ the Henchman added, not one to mince his words. His cheekbones jutted like horns from his face. Cook glanced at Orsini’s expression to recognise, beyond doubt, that the Henchman spoke of the young woman that had become the talk of Padua. Orsini seemed much affected.
‘Are you sure of this?’ he said.
‘I saw her sign the document with my own eyes’ said the Henchman, ‘the Inquisition have seen to it.’ Cook gasped.
‘Who’s signed?’ he said, grimacing.
‘Some housemaid I expect. I had to keep my distance, but there was no doubting it. They mean to arrest and try the girl.’ Orsini leapt up from the table to pace the room and rub at his brow.
‘I’d prayed that things couldn’t get this far: that it would all diminish. I must intervene. This must be stopped’ he said Orsini. The Henchman took on a doubtful look. Cook did not move a muscle as she listened to the men talk.
‘Your Eminence, for a Cardinal to interfere would cause a scandal.’ She gasped again: suspicious, but unaware, that Orsini had been a man of such high status. He no longer cared what Cook knew for she had already won his trust, and may as well know everything about him.
‘You’re right - I don’t wish to embarrass The Church further - but this must not happen. I will not see her flogged or beaten through the streets.’ The Henchman shook his head.
‘They mean to BURN her, I’m certain’ the Henchman said, ‘the pair spoke after she made her mark, and the woman enquired to be sure of it. The Inquisitor showed her a Papal seal, and is sure to use it - the two documents will seal the girl's fate.’
Orsini’s blood ran cold, and he closed his eyes to remember his own letter that he had received from the Pontiff. My enemies are hard at work he thought to himself and shook his head in wonder at why the Pope would not let Illawara go. ‘This is wrong - she’s no witch’ he said, seeing himself placing his mother’s ring upon Illawara’s delicate finger. He clapped his fist into his open palm. ‘I will see her protected even if it shall cost me a Pontificate’ Orsini declared.
Cook sat dumbfounded as the two men continued to converse, and tried to think of ways that they could avoid a calamity. The Henchman, although wishing to help his client, thought a young woman’s life not worth a Pontificate and anticipated a drop in his client’s status - along with a decline in pay, and the high stakes and intrigue that would come with it. The Henchman liked to serve a horse that was in
the chase. The Cardinal seemed to be flagging in his eyes.
Underneath his helpful words, the Henchman concealed a boredom that had begun to itch at him: he had not killed for a while.
◆◆◆
Professor Sloane struggled up from his bed and felt worse than ever. He massaged with caution at his tender throat, sure his glands were up and tried to swill up saliva into his dry mouth.
He creaked upward to stretch and looked down at himself with disgust.
‘I should have known’ he said to himself, shaking his head. He eased himself over to the tavern window, drew the slats open, and looked out at a miserable sky: grey, forlorn and hopeless. The clouds were indiscriminate, and drizzle had begun to fall through the mist which shrouded much of Venice, yet highlighted the decay that lay around: many buildings taking on the look of mouldering crags jutting from the water. Professor Sloane sighed, rubbed his head and saw a few strands of silver fall to the floor. He made haste to his mirror to ruffle again, and yet more hair fell. The Professor still had a full crown of locks, but he could not help but think of his mother laid on her hospital bed: her hair falling out in clumps upon her pillow. He shuddered, coughed and closed his eyes for a moment.
‘I won’t let you down’ he whispered to himself through tight lips, and fondled his hairline again but with more caution. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the sensation of his vitality deserting him, like a lover he had never dreamed of leaving him: a constant companion, loyal, reliable, and sure. But then health had become shy of him of late as if he were no longer worthy of special treatment - denying its blessing and withholding the protection he had so taken for granted.
He shook his head at himself in his mirror when he noticed his complexion, once so healthy and clear, that had dimmed to a dullness he had not seen since his mother’s funeral - it was as if his mother’s death mask had begun to stare out of him into his reflection. The recognition sent a chill up his spine.
Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2) Page 27
