The thieving woman was at the head of the crowd, and denounced me with an accusing finger. “There she is! The walking dead woman!”
This earned her jeers of derision and a couple of rough shoves from the people behind her.
”That’s just an ugly old woman,” said someone at the back, hurting my feelings.
”That’s a man in a frock!” said someone with better eyesight. This enraged the assembly further. They surged towards the cart. I jumped up and onto the casket.
”She’s getting back into her box!” cried the screaming thief.
”Get her!” yelled someone.
”Get him!” yelled someone else.
Several men clambered onto the cart. I was seized by my arms and held in place while they tore off the lid of the casket.
”Oho!” said one, although I don’t know what he was expecting to find therein. By this point, the innkeeper, still in his nightcap but with a jerkin hastily pulled over his nightshirt, had come to the forefront and was endeavouring to take charge of the situation.
”Peace, friends, peace!” Used to dealing with unruly customers and the occasional brawl, his voice carried over the cries of the mob. They respected his authority. After all, you don’t want to piss off the man who serves you drink. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got here.”
A couple of men jumped down from the cart to allow him room to climb up. He looked me up and down then snatched away my bonnet. This elicited a loud gasp from the spectators.
”Told you it was a man,” came a self-satisfied voice from the rear. I looked across and saw Angelina, keeping back. I sent her a signal with my eyes and a slight shake of my head, hoping it communicated that she should not come forward, that she should get away from the scene as fast as she could. She didn’t move, so I suppose I was halfway successful.
”And what’s this?” The innkeeper had turned his attention to the casket. “A dead body! On my premises!”
”He conjured it out of the box! He makes the dead walk!” The thieving woman was beginning to get on my nerves at this point but the crowd seemed to believe every word she said.
“He’s - He’s one of them man witches!”
”That’s warlocks!” I tried to correct her.
”You watch your language!” the innkeeper rounded on me. Right then I could see how this would go. Misunderstanding and wilful misinterpretation would govern the outcome here.
I’ve been in trouble before, many times, invariably due to the actions of my master. Usually grovelling and pleading did the trick – at least until I could make good my escape. The way these fellows were holding me upright meant I could not fall to my knees and begin the usual snivelling imprecations and pleas for charity.
”Hold your peace, Leporello!” My master whispered to me. My eyes darted around. Was he in the crowd? Hiding in the shadows? Standing beside me? “All will be well if you hold your tongue. Don’t start crying, for heaven’s sake!”
”Look!” someone else called out. “His eyes are rolling! That’s not right! You can’t tell me that’s right.”
”He’s trying to conjure us!”
The mob gasped and murmured. Their expressions were visibly fearful by now. They were afraid of me? How preposterous! If only I could explain...
I did not get the opportunity. Someone yelled, “Get him!” and the cart rocked as the mob surged forward. The cart toppled over, casket and all. The corpse flew out, landing on the thieving woman, and that satisfying scene was the last thing I saw before a blow to my head turned everything black.
***
Things were still pretty dark when I came to. I don’t know how much time had passed since that scene in the barn but my head was throbbing like the worst hangover. Considering I hadn’t had a drop to drink, the injustice of my treatment was magnified.
Cold stone, slimy with, well, slime, and the intermittent dripping of water were the unpleasant first impressions of my present surroundings. A heavy, rusty chain linked my ankles. A passing rat gave me an indifferent appraisal.
I was in the nick.
Me! Banged in the pokey! I’m not fluent in the vernacular of the underworld but I was definitely confined against my will. (There are some people who enjoy this sort of thing. Even my master would give them a wide berth). The thought was father to the voice. No sooner had he occurred to me, than my master’s voice was inside me.
”Oh dear, Leporello,” he was tut-tutting, his amusement clear. “Landed yourself in quite a bit of bother, haven’t you?”
”Hah! You told me to hold my peace. If only I could have explained –”
My master laughed that cruel laugh he had sometimes, the one that made me want to leave his service. I turned my face away – but away from what? It’s very hard to give someone the cold shoulder when they are just a voice in your head.
”I’ll go then, shall I?” My master adopted a tone of mock sympathy. “Leave poor wittle Weporello all alone?”
”Go to Hell!” I sneered, not sure if I was speaking out loud or not.
”Been there, done that, got the trident. But let’s not argue among ourselves, my good man. Let us rather take stock of your situation and consider how we might improve it.”
”I think you not speaking to me ever again would be an instant improvement.”
He laughed. My dead and gone-to-Hell reprobate of a master laughed.
”Who said I was dead?” he gasped. “I was merely travelling abroad.”
”So you’re reading my thoughts now, are you?”
”And such dull thoughts they are! Tell me, where do you keep the good stuff, the stuff that gets your arm pumping in the middle of the night? And you needn’t blush, although if I were you I would be glad of the additional warmth in this godforsaken hole.”
”I don’t like the idea of you in there going through my private things,” I told him. He laughed again.
”You haven’t grasped the way this works, have you? You don’t have to speak. I will hear what you want to say to me. Can’t have you locked up as a mooncalf who talks to himself, can we? Whoops! Too late!”
I hate you, I told him, wordlessly.
”No, you don’t!” He said as simply as if he were stating what time it was. “Now, while you get some sleep and rest your battered head, I will mull over our predicament, for, you see, I am in this with you. Isn’t that a comfort?”
He laughed as a profanity flashed across my mind. I tried to shut out that hateful sound and find peace in unconsciousness.
***
My sleep was dreamless but I was roused from it by the clatter and scrape of a tin plate being pushed under the door. My companion, the rat, scampered over to claim the mouldering crust of bread. He was welcome to it.
As for my other companion, he was silent. Perhaps he had gone, along with my headache. Perhaps that was all he was: a side-effect, a symptom.
Ah, I told myself and then had to make sure it was indeed me talking to myself, you were hearing him long before you banged your head, or you got clobbered, or whatever it was happened to you.
I cried out in exasperation. A fellow could drive himself mad in this way. If I wasn’t mad already. How would I even know?
Another cry of exasperation escaped from me. I kicked at the plate, sending whatever muck that was masquerading as food to join the rest of the slime on the wall. The commotion did not faze the rodent in any way and he continued to nibble his bread. Clearly he was an old lag and had seen it all before. He was welcome to the crust but I would have given anything for his peace of mind. How low I had fallen, to be envious of a rat’s mental health!
I sat in a sulk feeling pretty sorry for myself and all alone.
”Master?” I thought, and then spoke his name out loud for good measure. He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t! He
was as unreliable and uncooperative in my imagination as he had been in life.
I have no way of judging how much time passed. I couldn’t tell if it was night or day – my cell must have been deep underground, a dank and dirty dungeon in which I could quite easily be forgotten. Perhaps one day the plates would stop coming and the rat and I would have to decide who was going to eat whom.
These morbid ruminations were curtailed by the jangling of keys, the clicking of a reluctant lock and the creak and squeal of hinges as the door was pushed into the room. The rat loped casually out of the way. Light from a burning torch in the corridor beyond threw the figure of the gaoler into silhouette. This sweating dollop of a man grunted then leaned in and pulled me to my feet. The shackles weren’t attached to anything other than my legs but having been seated on cold stone for so long, I wasn’t prepared to be vertical. I tottered and toppled to my backside. From beneath me came a plaintive squeak. My rat friend hadn’t foreseen my collapse and I squashed him flat, the poor little bugger and, not to mention, ughh.
The gaoler pulled me to my feet again and bundled me out of the cell. I tried to glance over my shoulder to see if there was any flattened rodent clinging to my bum but I was being propelled forward at such a pace I couldn’t tell for certain.
I was steered along the corridor at considerable speed, the fellow’s grip largely responsible for keeping me upright and moving. He pushed me to a stone staircase and I stumbled up it, half-stepping and half-jumping. The gaoler followed. He grunted instructions and curses in equal measure. Gradually the blood flow to my legs improved and I became able to stand up straighter and straighter with almost every step.
The staircase led to a large door, which was opened as we approached by a fellow who could have been the gaoler’s double except slightly cleaner and less dishevelled. This upgraded model escorted me along a passage with mildewed, plastered walls. We had progressed from dungeon to cellar. There was another staircase, wooden this time, and another door with another turnkey in attendance at the top.
This third fellow was altogether more respectable in his appearance and attire but none the less burly than the previous two. None of them made eye contact with me. They barely acknowledged each other as they passed me between them, the baton in history’s most miserable relay.
I essayed all the usual questions I suppose they get at times like this. “Where are you taking me?” “What’s going on?” “Have you ever had a bath?” but they ignored me completely. As long as I kept moving, they were content.
I was now being ushered along a corridor with wood panelling and high windows. Daylight! I grinned at it as though greeting an old friend. A shove from my escort caused the smile to drop from my face. We reached a pair of tall, ornately carved doors, guarded by men in breastplates and helmets. They blocked our way with crossed pikestaffs.
”The prisoner,” my companion growled. One of the guards nodded and knocked on the door.
There was an awkward moment while we waiting. The guards looked dead ahead. My escort fussed with his clothing, as if tugging a sleeve or dusting his shoulder would make him any more presentable. I failed to make eye contact with any of them. I may as well have been a parcel being delivered.
Presently, approaching footsteps could be heard beyond the doors. A shining brass handle turned and the doors were opened inwardly by a velvet-clad minion with a powdered wig and a powdered face. The escort gave me a shove and I shuffled into the room. The velvet-clad minion closed the doors behind me.
It was a large room with a black and white chequer board floor. Wooden panelling surrounded the floor, punctuated here and there with gold-framed portraits of dignitaries, worthies and big cheeses, all of them po-faced with baleful stares. Beneath a magnificent window of stained glass were three ornate chairs - one might go so far as to call them thrones – and on the central, largest and most ornate of these was seated a cardinal wearing the bright blood red of a shaving cut. The other thrones were empty. I was pushed to my knees. My knees creaked in protest.
The cardinal nodded to my escort who, it seemed to me, had grown considerably more uncomfortable since our admittance to this splendidly imposing room. The escort, his forehead and above his lip awash with perspiration, nodded solemnly, clicked his heels and scurried out of there like a cockroach surprised. The powdered minion had just enough time to open the doors and let the escort out before he could collide with them. I felt cheated; I would have liked to have seen that.
”Well, well, Leporello,” said the cardinal in a tone that reminded me of my master’s old governess. Any second now would come a request for me to explain the bite taken from her midday apple. The cleric got to his feet and sauntered towards me. He was a tall man – that was the impression I got. He could have been standing on a midget’s shoulders for all I knew. His fancy red frock reached the polished floor and swooshed around in a manner he clearly found satisfying while he walked.
The attentive reader might be able to detect a touch of flippancy in my narration. Let’s face it: you and I both know I will survive this encounter or I wouldn’t be writing out my tale for your delectation right now. Foreknowledge of my survival inevitably colours my account. I will try to adhere to recalling how I felt at the time, when I did not know if my life would end that moment or the next, or the next... You get the idea.
He told me his name was Ignatius. He was from Rome and had the Pope’s ear. At first I thought he might be boasting of some grisly trophy or perhaps a family resemblance. What he meant, of course, was he was not without influence. I believe he was trying to impress me. He would have to start farting lightning bolts if he wanted me to tremble. The things I have witnessed are a tough act to follow.
He must have registered the lack of trembling on my part so he upped the ante.
”There will be a trial,” he went on. “This meeting is merely a preliminary inquiry. You will be given a fair hearing, found guilty and then executed.” He paused. I didn’t so much as quiver.
”Are you not afraid?”
”Yes.”
”Yes, you are afraid?”
”Yes, I am not afraid.”
”You’re a peculiar fellow, Leporello.” He paused then decided not to acknowledge he had made an inadvertent rhyme. He was trying to maintain his gravitas, which at his age was probably becoming more difficult. “You might be interested to learn the charges that have been brought against you.”
I shrugged.
He reeled off a list of my crimes. I was told I had robbed my mistress Donna Flavia’s house and burned it to the ground. In so doing I had attempted to murder Donna Flavia. I had kidnapped a contessa. I had fraudulently entered an inn dressed as a woman. Therefore I was a sexual deviant –
He broke off here, enjoying the moment when this accusation caused my jaw to drop to my chest. I was clearly, obviously and openly aghast.
Sexual deviant? The chance would be a fine thing! Perhaps, as usually happened, I had been mistaken for my master.
And what was this about kidnapping a contessa? Is that how my riding alongside a dead body was being misconstrued?
”I want you to tell me everything,” the cardinal towered over me like a tree, a red tree with only two branches. He was tall, is what I’m trying to convey. My mind was racing at the moment. So far he had not mentioned Angelina, who no doubt would be tainted as my accomplice. I would remain tight-lipped. I was not going to take her down with me.
”We do not believe you were working alone,” the cardinal bore down on me. I flinched. I have lost so many card games thanks to my stupid, motile face. He leaned even closer. So close I could see the hairs on his nose. Not in his nose, on his nose. I looked away. He mistook this revulsion as a sign of guilt. “Believe me, Leporello, we will find out all. You will tell us.”
Well, good! Part of me wanted to cry out. Let me tell you everything and you wi
ll see this is a series of unfortunate misunderstandings. Except I could not. I couldn’t tell him everything because it might endanger the lovely girl who had helped me. I would have to think this through with care and give him a version of my story that did not involve or incriminate her.
”You will undoubtedly have heard of the Inquisition.” He paused, waiting for me to soil myself in terror. I gave no outward sign of anything. Yes, of course I have heard of the Inquisition. The way things had been going for me, their presence in my tale was altogether expected. “You will have heard stories of the methods we employ to extract confessions, and confessions, as you may also be aware, are good for the soul.”
Oh, no. He was going to be one of those villains who spouts clichés, wasn’t he? How tiresome.
He drew himself up to his full height. It was like the air in front of me had suffered a gaping wound.
”Do not worry yourself unduly,” he smiled, baring his little teeth. “I have found that rumours of torture are sufficient to loosen even the most reluctant tongue. I barely have to lift a finger. Or should I say, break a finger.” He showed me the teeth again, a uniform row of tombstones in the pink earth of his gums. Do they do yellow tombstones? “You will tell me everything willingly. You wouldn’t want me to get blood on my raiment, would you? Oh, wait. It wouldn’t matter if I did.”
The teeth again. I realised this was how he laughed: purely visually. The weirdo.
He returned to his throne and sat down. He inclined forward leaning his chin on his hand in a display of paying attention. This was my cue to begin.
But where to begin and how to begin?
”Don’t be shy, Leporello. “ The cardinal flicked a wrist. The powdered valet tripped forwards with a ewer of water and a lead crystal goblet. The cardinal took a huge gulp of water and smacked his lips in appreciation. He looked at me then at the ewer then at me again.
Leporello on the Lam Page 8
