The Thief Of Peace

by Jess Whitecroft

  “No. Why did you do that? Do you have any conception of the trouble this could cause? If the wrong people find out that I’m here—”

  “—nothing will happen,” said the abbot, with a firm, angry tone that Teo had never heard from him before. “Your father greased the right palms. When young men like you get into trouble, their fathers make that trouble go away. So it has been, so it always will be.”

  Disgusted, Teo shook his head. “I thought you were better than this,” he said, glancing at the chest into which people kept pouring their life savings. “I thought you were above all this, making capital of my name to a cardinal. What’ll it be next? Relic peddlers carrying vials of duck’s blood? Fingerbones of the saints.”

  The abbot flung the door wide. “The chapel roof is falling down on our heads, Brother Teo,” he said, his voice icy now. “Not all of us have wealthy fathers.”

  Money. That’s all it came down to in the end. Money and influence. Teo had come here to escape that world, but it seemed it had – unknown to him until now – followed him behind the walls of the monastery. If only he had Nicci to talk to, but perhaps Nicci wouldn’t even come again. Perhaps he’d had enough of Teo’s father’s games, and gone to Rome or Milan as he’d threatened to do. It wasn’t fair of him to do this, to leave Teo alone for so long that Teo’s sleeping mind invented blasphemies while yearning for him.

  Teo fled to his room in angry tears. His faith felt like a pot that had fractured in the kiln, a vessel riven with so many tiny cracks that only the shape of the thing was holding it together. A thing that could be destroyed utterly by the touch of a finger.

  When the bell rang for Vespers he didn’t answer. He sat in the corner of the room, his sore eyes fixed on the discipline beneath the bed. He knew he should reach for it to focus his mind and punish his flesh, but he’d sunk into a kind of torpor of self-pity, and for once the thought of examining his feelings turned him mulish and resentful. Why should he feel guilty for being angry and disobedient? While he knew that he shouldn’t gaze at the specks of sawdust in others’ eyes, where was the limit? Where was the point when you had to criticise? When they turned a dead man into a fairground attraction? When they gave your family name to a greedy cardinal who selected young men as though they were sun-warmed fruit in an orchard?

  Oh, these were dangerous thoughts. He could feel the foundation of his faith slipping beneath him, and perhaps it had been the same for that other monk. Here I stand. I can do no other.

  And yet even the fear of sliding into heresy was as nothing to his rage and loneliness. There were so many thoughts swirled in his head, all of them so important that their very urgency seemed to cancel one another out, leaving nothing but a mental sludge of things too big and too awful to cope with.

  Brother Armando stuck his head around the door. “Are you all right?”

  Teo, ashamed at being caught out in such self-indulgence, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yes.”

  “You weren’t at Vespers.”

  “I’m sick,” said Teo, astonished at how easy it was to lie. He thought he might have lost the knack, but no. “I’ve been vomiting. Stay away. You know how contagious these things are.”

  Armando hung back. They’d had an outbreak of it last winter, and had started the new year with three new crosses in the graveyard. “Is there anything you need?”

  Teo shook his head. “Wait,” he said, remembering. “Could you feed the pigs for me after Compline?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Teo ignored the bell for Compline. Matins, too, went unheard. He had cried himself into a troubled sleep, and when he opened his eyes it was to first light and footsteps at the door. It was the abbot.

  “Father? What is it?”

  “Have you seen Brother Armando?”

  Teo sat up. His neck was stiff and his heart felt bruised. “What time is it?”

  “After Matins. Armando wasn’t there. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes. He was here last night. He asked if I needed anything. Why? What’s going on?”

  “He’s not in his room. Nobody has seen him. When did you see him last night?”

  “After Vespers,” said Teo. I asked him to feed the pigs for me. “Let me…let me look.”

  He got up from the hard bed and hurried away, desperate to be away from the abbot, whose very presence was like a reproach. The tranquillity of the abbey had been shattered by the crowds of pilgrims, but as Teo climbed the narrow path to the pigsty he couldn’t help but think how quiet it was. Even the birds seemed to hold their tongues. He slowed as he approached the sty, a chill settling on the pit of his stomach as he remembered the abbot’s grave expression. Teo willed his feet forward, telling himself that there was probably a perfectly normal explanation for this and that there was no need to worry.

  The first thing he saw was a foot. It was bare and white, and a sandal lay on the hard-baked mud, a few inches away. The chill inside him turned to a solid lump of ice, and the sudden weight of it pulled so hard on his guts that a small, shuddering cry burst out of him. He knew without looking that he was in the presence of death.

  Armando lay face down beside the pigsty. His robe was up, baring his legs almost to the thigh. His face was purple and black, reminding Teo of how quickly the darkness closed in when someone wrapped their fingers around your neck and squeezed.

  Teo staggered backwards and retched. He had nothing in his stomach, but the force of it was enough to take his legs out from under him. A dead bird on the chapel floor. Oh, it seemed stupid now, that it had scared him so, but he’d been right. And now he would have done anything to have been wrong.

  8

  It was close to dawn when Nicci was awakened by a loud pounding from the street below. He pulled the pillow over his head and groaned, but the noise continued and nobody did anything. Wrapping a cover around his waist, he rolled out of bed and shambled to the window.

  “Hello?”

  He almost dropped the blanket when Teo stepped back from the door and looked up.

  “Teo?”

  It seemed as outlandish as opening the window and finding that an angel had landed outside your front door. The boy was still dressed in his rough black robes, his face flushed and frightened, as though he’d rode fast to be here. “Help me,” he said. “Please. Please.”

  “Wait there,” said Nicci. “I’ll be right down.”

  Still not entirely sure he wasn’t dreaming, Nicci threw on some clothes and ran down the stairs, two at a time. He flung open the front door and Teo almost fell through it, sobbing and shaking.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone tried to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “They killed…” Teo said, but he was falling over his own tongue in his haste to get the words out. “He’s dead. He’s dead…and I as good as killed him. What am I going to do?”

  Nicci steered him into the dining room and reached for the wine. “Slow down,” he said, pouring him a cup. “Drink. Breathe. Who’s dead?”

  “Armando.”

  “Who?”

  Teo drained the cup in two gulps and held out the cup for more. “I got into an argument,” he said, with deliberate slowness. “With the abbot. I don’t know what’s come over me lately. I can’t find God. I can’t find peace…”

  Nicci covered his mouth with his hand.

  “…and I didn’t want to see anyone. I said I was sick. That I couldn’t go to prayers.” Teo’s dark blue eyes spilled over. “And Brother Armando came by and asked me if there was anything that I needed.”

  “Right.”

  “And I asked him to feed Margarita,” said Teo, crying harder now. “And I thanked him. And that was the last thing I ever said to him. I found him by the pigsty. I think he’d been strangled, but there was…there was blood, too. It was soaked into the earth around him…”

  “Oh my God.” Nicci reached out and grabbed Teo�
�s shoulder. He was shaking.

  “It should have been me,” said Teo. “We’re the same height. Same age. And we all look the same in our robes. And it was dark. And now he’s dead, because someone thought he was me.”

  “Teo, slow down. Who do you think…why would anyone want to kill you?”

  Teo shook his head and gulped. “Please don’t ask me that right now. I can’t…” He tried to drink, but his teeth chattered on the edge of the cup. He set it down. “Just help me, Nicci. Help me. Don’t leave me.”

  “No, never. Of course not.” Nicci reached out, and then the next thing he knew Teo was in his arms, clinging fiercely, hot breath hitching against the side of Nicci’s neck as he sobbed. “It’s all right,” Nicci said, returning the embrace. “Shh. I’m here.”

  Whatever was going on, one thing shone out clear in his mind: they couldn’t stay here. If someone was trying to kill Teo they needed to get him to safety. To Prato, where the old man could hire guards to watch Teo around the clock if need be.

  “Drink your wine,” said Nicci. He wiped Teo’s tears with his hands. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “No. No. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

  “It’s only for a moment. I need to ask the servants to saddle the horses, all right?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m taking you to Prato.”

  Teo shook his head. “No.”

  “Yes. You’ll be safe there. Vicini will know what to do.” Nicci pressed the cup into his hand. “Drink. It helps.”

  Nicci hurried to the stables, his head spinning. When he came back, Teo was sitting squashed in the corner of the room, as though trying to draw the very walls around himself for protection. “Let’s find you some clothes,” said Nicci. “You can’t ride to Prato in that.”

  “I rode from San Bendetto in this.”

  “So you did,” said Nicci, reluctant to think about the logistics of riding in a robe. Especially not as hard as Teo had evidently rode. His horse was still sweating in the stable. “But whoever is trying to kill you is looking for a monk. Come on. Come with me.”

  Nicci led him upstairs, and Teo followed, like a figure from a fantasy so forbidden that not even Nicci had allowed himself to entertain it. Together they entered the bedroom, and the strange fancy shifted into a sharper focus. Nicci turned to look in a chest, sorting through his clothes for something that might fit Teo. When he turned around he was startled to find Teo already undressed.

  He stood at the end of the bed, shivering in the early morning chill. He wore nothing but a hair shirt and a wooden cross around his neck.

  The coarse garment only reached the tops of his thighs, as though it was meant to reach lower but Teo had grown out of it. Beneath the hem his legs were even more beautiful than his perfect, marble feet. Thick, well-shaped calves, strong thighs, and surprisingly delicate ankles. He held the hem of his garment down with both hands, drawing attention to the width of his upper arms. It had been impossible to get any real sense of his body while he was swimming around in that great tent of black wool, but now it was off Nicci saw that his initial impression of a peach in a hair shirt hadn’t been that far from the mark. Teo was ripe, in the full bloom and beauty of new manhood. His shoulders were broad, his arms thickened with the work of fetching wood, scrubbing stones, feeding pigs and all the rest of it. Where his robes had covered him, his skin was white as marble, the blue veins showing against the bulge of his bicep.

  “Here,” said Nicci, handing him a shirt and a pair of hose. “Put these on.”

  He didn’t ask if Teo was going to remove the hair shirt, because he knew the answer. Teo turned away to step into the hose and Nicci saw the marks of a whip peeking out from where the hair shirt bagged in the back. What kind of mad God led a young man to believe he needed to mortify his beauty in such a fashion?

  When he was dressed – in a dark blue doublet a little too tight around the chest for him – Teo looked remarkable. “There,” said Nicci, tying his sleeve in place for him. “Can’t do much about the hair, I’m afraid, but there are always hats. Nobody would mistake you for a monk.”

  “Thank you,” said Teo. He’d stopped shaking, but every now and again his eyes would gleam too bright. “Thank you for being there when I needed you.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  Nicci reached out without thinking and patted the side of his neck. His fingers lingered. His thumb brushed the corner of Teo’s mouth and his heart roared like a fire with a bellows under it. “Do you want some more wine?” he said, withdrawing his hand too quickly.

  “No. Thank you. I’ve had enough.” Did he blush at the touch? “Let’s get going. You’re right. Vicini will know what to do.”

  They didn’t speak much on the ride to Prato. The sun was climbing in the sky, gilding the grass and the slight flanks of spindling poplars. Teo, on a dappled grey gelding, proved to be a skilled and graceful rider. It made sense that he’d have a knack with horses as well as pigs, and he gripped easily with his thighs, coaxing the grey on with only the gentlest knocks of his heels. His short blue cloak flew out behind him as he picked up the pace.

  Nicci, on the black mare, hung back and watched for a moment. The brand-new morning still had the texture of a dream and he kept waiting for the moment when he’d open his eyes and wake up back in Florence, with a gutful of wine and a hammering head. He could hardly believe that was Teo up ahead of him there. Out of the monastery. And in trouble.

  He tapped his heels twice against the mare’s flanks and picked up speed.

  It was still early, but Vicini was up, if he ever slept at all. When he saw Teo ride up he stared for an unguarded moment, open mouthed, then saw Nicci looking at him and drew his lips back into their usual straight line.

  “Signor. You are home. I can hardly believe my eyes.”

  Teo jumped down from his horse. “I’m in trouble, Vicini,” he said. “I need your help.”

  “But of course…”

  Vicini led them indoors, where Teo tried to explain but started to babble all over again. Vicini held up a hand. “Slow down,” he said. “I don’t understand. Why do you think someone is trying to kill you?”

  “Because I’m the one who feeds the pigs,” said Teo, pacing up and down. “Because the abbey at San Bendetto is full of people. People who could be anyone. And I have no idea who knew I was there. A cardinal came. From Rome. And the abbot introduced me by my father’s name because he wanted to impress Cardinal Gatti. Who knows who else he’s talked to about me?”

  This was the first Nicci had heard about any of it, particularly the part where Teo’s location was such a closely guarded secret. No wonder Teo had been so skittish at their first meeting, when he’d seem to flinch even at the sound of his own name. A cold weight settled in Nicci’s guts. He had a nasty feeling he’d told rather more people than he should.

  Something wasn’t right here, but Nicci couldn’t grasp it. Too many things made little or no sense.

  He heard footsteps ringing out on the marble floor and turned to see the old man approaching. Albani hurried towards them, saw Teo and caught him in a tight, uncomfortable embrace. Teo’s arms were pinned to his sides by the force of it, and remained there while his father kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Teodoro,” said Albani. “Look at you. You’ve grown taller. Almost a man.”

  Teo stepped back, trembling. For a moment he didn’t speak and the tension in the room was close to unbearable, but then he licked his lips – as though the mere sight of his father had left his mouth dry – and spoke. “Was this you?”

  Albani shook his head, confused.

  “This,” Teo said “Is this how you did it? Nicci wasn’t doing what you wanted him to do, so you came up with another way to make me leave my home, didn’t you?”

  “Teodoro, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You wanted me out of that monastery,” Teo said, his voice rising. Nicci heard someone else
enter the room, a polite shuffle of feet from somewhere behind Vicini, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Teo.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner,” Teo said, furious now. “You had to find a way to flush me out like a boar, didn’t you? Couldn’t get what you wanted from Nicci, so you had a man killed?”

  “Killed? No. What in the world…?”

  Vicini was talking to a servant in low, urgent whispers. There was a package in his hand, a bundle of pale cloth and dark stain. Father and son continued, oblivious.

  “Teodoro, I swear, I have no idea what you’re talking—”

  “—you got what you wanted.” Teo was shouting now. “I can never go back to San Bendetto now, so I hope you’re happy. I am a danger to those innocent people. A brother is dead because of me—”

  “Signor,” said Vicini, in a small, sick voice. Albani, fuming, whipped his head round to face him and saw the gory package in the retainer’s hands. Teo, too, fell silent and stared.

  “What is that?” said Albani.

  “Someone brought it to the door.”

  “Who? What is it?”

  Vicini unwrapped the package. Inside were two small, round blobs of flesh, clotted into a drying mess of blood. Teo gagged and Vicini turned the colour of ash.

  “Are those…?” Nicci started to say, but he knew. He had, after all, seen far more of the human body than a God-fearing man was ever supposed to see.

  Teo swallowed audibly. His breathing was too loud in the huge, high ceilinged room. The old man looked like a thundercloud. Somewhere a clock was ticking, perhaps the very one built by Girolamo della Volpaia, Nicci’s spurious ancestor. Vicini opened his mouth to speak and Nicci had the strange sense that the ticking was coming from him, from the mechanisms currently working away in his tidy, intelligent mind.

  “That she-wolf,” Vicini said. “This is her. I know it. Fiorina del Campo.”

  Nicci wanted to say that that wasn’t right, either, but nothing was. By leaving the monastery, it seemed as though Teo had broken a spell that was holding the world together. And now the world had fallen apart in thousands of little puzzle pieces, none of which made sense or even seemed to have any relation to one another. Nicci looked at Teo, pale and scared and angry, and realised he may as well have been staring at a stranger.