”Is he gone?” Her mouth was all a-tremble. “The vile creature.”
”He has indeed. It will be dark before he reaches the Black-eyed Boar. Perhaps his mount will see fit to throw him into a ditch and break his bloody neck.”
The idea of Martello’s sudden and violent death gave Donna Flavia some cheer.
”I know ‘tis none of my business, Milady, but if you would care to divulge –”
She held up a hand to silence me. I could wish a violent end on her visitor but now I had crossed the line. “Some tea, Leporello. And where’s that seamstress I sent for?”
”You mean – you – you actually wanted a seamstress?”
”Of course.”
”You mean, you weren’t just getting me out of the way so that you and –”
”A felicitous coincidence! I have real need of a seamstress. Were there none in the village?”
”Milady, I don’t know if you are aware that “seamstress” appears to be a euphemism for a woman of negotiable virtue.”
”A what? Oh! Oh, dear!” Her face flushed hot enough to boil the water for her tea. Flapping her handkerchief at her face, she withdrew into the drawing-room and I went to put the kettle on the fire.
***
Donna Flavia barely spoke as I served tea. After that she went up to her room, far from her usual self, it seemed to me. I knew better than to press her for answers. Instead I stole from the house and headed back down to the village. Perhaps someone there could tell me more of this rat Martello. And, I admit, it was an opportunity to steal some time with the lovely Angelina again if at all possible. To be nearer to her, at the very least!
One makes one’s way along a country lane at night with caution. A cart or stagecoach could suddenly be upon you with little warning – literally be upon you. I tried to stick to the side of the tracks as much as possible, having to fend off the unwanted attention of some hawthorn branches in some places, being wary of tumbling into ditches at others. I whistled, sang and recited lewd poetry as I went along, to scare off any wild beasts that happened to be in the vicinity but also, I realised, to announce my arrival to any brigands, footpads and ne’er-do-wells that might be lurking under trees.
The prospect of seeing Angelina again filled me with a foolhardy courage. I had left the house armed with nothing but my rapier-like wit. Very well, my vegetable knife-like wit, and I was beginning to regret my rash departure. (Usually, one is glad to be rid of a rash... Concentrate, Leporello! You’re on a mission!)
The smithy stood in shadow and silence. The smith could perhaps furnish me with information about the rascal Martello, having conducted a transaction with the rogue, but I didn’t fancy the idea of disturbing the mighty fellow from his rest. Perhaps in the morning, I could pose my questions to him. I thought of the innkeeper. His occupation meant he would come into contact with local people and travellers alike. He, or perhaps someone else present, would know of this Martello and be willing to spill for the price of a drink.
I patted my pockets. Thankfully, I had remembered my coin purse. It weighed less heavily than it had done, but I should have enough to purchase information from even the most tight-lipped sot.
Lights from the tavern, a rival establishment to The Black-Eyed Boar, operating under the sign of The White Swan, welcomed me. My spirits lifted to see their friendly glow although I was not going in to lift spirits, or even wine, to my lips. I glanced across the yard to the stables – therein the lovely Angelina sat, keeping a vigil for her deceased mistress. I found myself smiling at the building, something only a fool in love might do.
I stepped into the inn. It was alive with drinkers and the roar of their laughter and conversation. I approached the counter and tried to edge myself between several burly men of toil in order to attract the innkeeper’s attention. This was not an easy task and the stench emanating from these fellows belonged more in the farmyard than the hostelry.
Time was my master and I could command the attention of everyone in a tavern and receive ready service as soon as we made our entrance, whether we were in disguise or no. My master had a way of drawing the eye and, it has to be said, all too often censure.
Eventually, the tapster’s gaze met mine and he raised his eyebrow to learn my pleasure. Even as I framed my first question I could see his lips tighten and his eyes glaze. I knew at once I had approached him from the wrong direction. I showed him one of the larger coins I had left and ordered wine. Drink loosens the tongues of some, hard currency the tongues of others.
I gave Martello’s name and a description. The innkeeper claimed not to recognise either. I offered to buy more drink but he, honest fellow, said that would not be necessary as he really had nothing to divulge. He suggested I ask around but that, judging from the shoulders turned coldly towards me, was not going to be an easy task. I took a large swig and almost choked; my large coin had bought me undiluted wine. I had not been expecting that. At once emboldened and rendered a little unsteady by the drink (I was unaccustomed to it of late, with all that physical work and fresh air and what-not) I swaggered into the middle of the room and raised my voice.
”A drink! A drink for anyone who is willing to talk to me!” This cut no ice and made me sound desperate for company so I added,” A drink for anyone willing to talk to me about a man!” Again, this gave entirely the wrong impression. “A drink for anyone willing to provide information about a rogue goes by the name of Martello.”
This brought about a change in the room. Judgmental eyes looked me up and down. Some sneers appeared and faces turned away. They decided I didn’t look as though I could afford to buy drink enough for them to give me the time of day. They were right, too.
I turned to the innkeeper with an exasperated shrug. He jerked his head towards a corner where the blacksmith was draining a tankard of ale. I bought a pitcher of the foaming beverage and took it across. I filled the blacksmith’s tankard and without waiting for acknowledgment or thanks I sat facing him.
”Martello,” I said, hanging onto the pitcher. “What do you know of him?”
The smith stuck out his lower lip and jiggled his shoulders. This I took to mean the name meant nothing to him. I repeated my description, well-rehearsed by now and with added facial contortions. The smith eyed me with a quizzical expression and no doubt scanned the room for exits should the freak before him turn nasty.
”You were shoeing his horse when I came to your forge earlier today.”
”Oh! Him!” The smith’s face, having been washed for his evening at the inn, brightened further with the light of realisation. “Oh, he’s a regular. Stops in every month as he’s passing through the area. Don’t know what his business is.”
The above might make it seem that this information flowed from the blacksmith like water through a sluice, but it is a summary of a lengthy interrogation from which I was able to sift these nuggets. In all it took me an hour and two more pitchers of beer to learn even that much.
”Why, do you think, he would call upon my mistress? And do you think this is part of his monthly business?”
The blacksmith managed to perform a shrug with his entire body, including his face. I thanked him for his time and left him, holding out his empty tankard for still more ale.
If this Martello passed through the region on a monthly basis, someone else would have seen him, have had dealings with him... I looked around. Many of the patrons appeared to be farm labourers, peasants, judging by their attire. I doubted any of them were noblemen and their servants in disguise out for a night of wine, women and wahey! There was nothing flamboyant or elegant about them. My master truly was the last of his kind.
A group of men were playing cards, hunched around a table. Their clothes suggested they might be servants on their evening off. Not that they were in livery but their high quality garments were a little worn and a little out of fash
ion. Some nobles like to see their servants dressed well, even off-duty, and so hand down such clothes when they no longer have use for them.
I considered crossing the room to them. Perhaps the rogue Martello had called at their houses and they had overheard some of his conversations with their masters. It seemed a good idea to me but, alas, the opportunity to pursue this line of enquiry was denied me.
At that moment, the door of the inn was thrust open. It crashed against the wall, stupefying a man who was standing there enjoying a beer. In the doorway stood Donna Flavia, in a state of high distress. Her clothes were in disarray, her face smeared with smut. People got to their feet and reached her before she could collapse and before I could get to her. She was lowered to the floor. Someone fanned at her face. Someone else offered her a drink. I tried to see over their shoulders, to force my way through to my mistress for surely it fell to me to assist her.
And what the hell was happening, anyway? What would bring this proud woman out in the dark and in such a state?
”Leporello,” Donna Flavia gasped. She took another gulp of the wine that was held to her lips. “Oh, my house! My beautiful house!” She coughed roughly. “All gone! All burned! Oh! Leporello!”
Her eyes rolled back in her head, the whites even whiter in contrast to the black smears on her cheeks. She fainted away.
”Where is he?” growled someone.
”Let’s hang the varlet!” said another. I’ve heard that word before: varlet. Invariably when it is being addressed to me. My mind raced to piece together this fragmented information. Donna Flavia’s sooty appearance, her cough, her words.
Dear Lord! Her house was on fire and, more vital to my continuing well-being, the denizens of this drinking den were of the opinion that I had done it. That I was responsible for torching the place I had spent the last month of so cleaning and repairing – for what? To raze it to the ground?
I decided against staying put to point out the error and indeed folly of their rash assumption but the general air of seething indignation advised me to make a sharp exit. If there is one thing my master taught me is how to extricate oneself from a sticky situation – and I’m not even being bawdy when I say that.
In the confusion of bodies and voices all searching for the arsonist Leporello, I ducked down, my coat over my head as if I myself were in a burning building and I scuttled out of there, hoping it would be some time before they realised I was no longer among them.
But where could I go?
The church? Perhaps I could claim sanctuary and Father Lorenzo would take me in... I stood dithering in the inn yard while I considered this option. It didn’t appeal, I have to say.
”Psst!” a voice hissed from the stables. Startled I raised my hands to the sky.
”Here, you fool!” I glanced around. The lovely face of Angelina appeared in the shadowy doorway, like a lone star in the night sky. “In here, quick!”
That voice could have bid me step off the edge of a cliff. I found my feet moving towards her at a rapid pace before my mind could evaluate the situation.
A single lantern hanging from a post illuminated the scene. The casket containing Angelina’s late mistress stood on trestles, beside it a three-legged stool. Even in my excitement, I was struck by the sadness of the scene. The faithful and, (did I mention lovely?) Angelina had been keeping vigil here since our parting. I froze.
”I’m interrupting,” I bowed my head. “I’m sorry.”
”Nonsense, I’m glad of the company.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me into one of the stalls. “The horses have all been moved into the next stable,” she explained, “Out of respect for my mistress.”
”Ah – “I wanted to ask if the church wouldn’t have been a better resting place but she anticipated the question.
”Your Father Larry –”
”Lorenzo.”
”Lorenzo wasn’t too keen on the idea of my sitting with my mistress throughout the night. Perhaps he thought I’d help myself to Our Lord’s valuables, I don’t know. Besides, I want to make an early start. It’s a long way to Cadiz.”
She was heaping straw on top of me. Then she pushed me down so that the straw wouldn’t keep dropping from me. I sneezed.
”Hay-fever,” I explained, sneezing again. “What are you doing, by the way?”
”Have to get you hidden, don’t we? Sounds like you’ve stirred up a nest of hornets.”
”But I –”
”Hide now, explain later. Here they come!”
Even beneath the pile of straw she had piled upon me, I could hear angry and determined voices crossing the yard.
”And try –”
”A-tishoo!”
”- not to sneeze!”
I curled up tight, both hands clamped across my nose and mouth, my ears straining to hear the scene that was playing out in the stable. I heard the raised voices of the mob as they rushed in, and their sudden silence as they were met with the sight of Angelina on the stool, her head bowed in prayer at her mistress’s side.
”Excuse me, Miss,” one of the lynching party piped up, “but has a devilish, squirrel-faced rascal come through here?”
Squirrel-faced? Me? Squirrel-faced?!
I sneezed. Then caught my breath, certain I had sneezed on my own death warrant. Angelina sneezed also to distract the men’s attention from my stall. Oh, wonderful girl! Wonderful, clever, fast-thinking girl! Wonderful, clever, fast-thinking and lovely girl!
”Not that I’m aware of,” Angelina spoke slowly, sounding as sorrowful as she could. My heart leapt and began a country dance that was nothing to do with the peril I was in. “You may look around if you like.”
That was the stroke of genius.
The men hummed and ahhed and backed out. There were some muttered apologies and a few murmured imprecations as they left to continue their search elsewhere.
”Stay put,” Angelina whispered and I knew she wasn’t addressing her mistress. I fought back another sneeze and it almost blew the back of my head off. “Ssh!” Angelina soothed me as one might a skittish steed. “They will be gone soon.”
How I wanted to leap out from that pile of straw and enfold my arms around her, pick her up and spin her around! That would have been imprudent at that moment; even I had sense to realise. I was not like my master who lived by his impulses alone.
”We will wait until the dawn,” Angelina said calmly. “And then we’ll get you away from here. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you have the face of a squirrel.”
With that, she went back to her stool, and I nestled within my bed of straw, like a mouse in its nest, a mouse who despite the peril his life was in, was a very happy mouse indeed.
***
”You want me to what?!” I gasped at her. I was still picking straw from my clothes, along with un-cricking my neck and stretching my limbs.
”Do you have a better idea?”
”Well, other than not doing it, no.”
”If you are seen you will be killed.” This was in a sing-song manner that was both cute and infuriating. “My mistress won’t mind. She is past all care.”
”But I bloody mind!”
”You should stop being bloody-minded and get in the bloody casket.” Her dark eyes flashed almost as brightly as her wit. I found no argument against her. ”And be quick about it!” She punched me on the arm and giggled. I knew at that point I could deny her nothing. Not even sharing a coffin with a dead old woman.
***
And so it was that a little while later, I found myself engaging in one of the most disgusting things I have ever done – you have to remember that most of the while my master was indulging in disgusting things, I was outside the door, holding his coat – clambering into a casket with the dead body of an old woman.
The casket wa
s an oblong crate with parallel sides and not, thank goodness, the tapered shape of a proper coffin. I imagined Angelina’s mistress would be wrapped and packaged for Our Lord as soon as she reached home soil –and before she was placed beneath home soil, too.
I insisted that she be covered with straw before I climbed in so at least I’d be unable to see her. Angelina rolled her eyes and shook her head but helped me to gather large handfuls. I baulked also at lying on top of the late mistress. That was an extreme of impropriety that would have given my master pause. So the old lady was rolled onto her side to afford me some room alongside her in the box. I also insisted on going top-to-tail with the cadaver. I didn’t want a bump in the road dislodging the straw packaging and that wrinkled blue face suddenly leering at me, eyes closed or no.
Angelina bore my delicacy with what looked like amusement. She tried to chivvy me along with concerns for the swift approach of the morning and the increased danger daylight presented to my person. Gingerly, tentatively, I stood in the casket, like a person stepping into a rowing boat for the first time.
”You’ll have to lie down, you know,” laughed Angelina, already ready with the lid. “Honestly. You’re not getting into a tub of hot water.”
Before I could waste time quipping I was in enough hot water already, thank you very much, noise from the yard spurred me on. Men were gathering. Some of those men had brought dogs.
I picked up the pace and lowered myself into the box like a child rushing into bed on a chilly night. I tried to keep myself as close to the rough side of the crate as I could, the tip of my nose flattened against the slats. I was all too aware of the macabre passenger behind me. I could feel the toes of her boots against the back of my, um, back and I wanted to jump out and take my chances running from the hounds.
Leporello on the Lam Page 5
