But my luck was not that bad. We came to a heavy, crude door, from which Sandro took down a bar. Then, having to duck his own head at this point, he went in ahead of me with his candle. The room was small and windowless, meaner than my own cell back in the Tower of Solomon, and ovenish with heat. A girl lay on the floor. Her face was in shadow and she appeared so small my first thought was that they were offering me a kidnapped child. But as she sat up on the strawed floor I saw the soft proportions of a grown woman’s body under the rough shift that appeared to be her only garment. I noticed now that one of her ankles was secured with a fine, bright, elegant pet’s chain to a vertical beam supporting the low roof.
My guide held up his candle, that I might see the captive better. “She has been here two days, continually insulting us,” he explained, rather like a physician detailing the symptoms of a mysterious illness to a visiting specialist. “She will have nothing to do with us willingly, gentle though we are.”
The girl’s face, when at last I could see it under her fall of darkly matted hair, was bruised as well as grimy. Yet I was certain of it at first glance. “Why then did you bring her here?” I asked.
Either Sandro did not hear the question, or he preferred to let it pass. “Two nights ago she was scratching and biting like a wildcat, my brothers and I can all testify to that. All the fire anyone might want, my friend. Myself, I haven’t been up here since then—maybe she is a little weaker now, I don’t think she has been fed much.”
The girl’s eyes, that at first had blinked and squinted even in the weak candlelight, were steadily open now. She had the self-numbed, withdrawn look of a brave prisoner. With gentle caution I put a hand under her chin and raised her face more fully into the candles’ glow. “She’ll nip you,” Sandro warned. But she did not.
Yes, beyond doubt my first impression had been correct. This was precocious Leonardo’s model—but a Magdalen who now looked as if she had lapsed from divine forgiveness. She would indeed have liked to bite me, or to spit at me at least, but she no longer quite dared to do so. The Boccalini, not trying very hard, had taught her that much in two days.
I set down my own candlestick on the floor. “I thank you, cousin. This is what I wanted. I will see you in the morning.”
“I wish you a sound night’s sleep,” laughed Sandro. And with a bow my benefactor left, taking his own candle with him and leaving the door ajar.
I could hear him starting down the stairs. As far as I could tell the girl and I were now the only people on the whole upper floor of the great house. With a tired sigh I sat down on the dusty boards beside my candle, and then in afterthought, turned and bawled after Sandro: “Send up some water and wine! And food!” There came some unclear words in reply.
Waiting, I sat looking at the girl and thinking about her in silence. She was holding her torn shift together with both hands, and leaning against the wooden post to which her chain was fastened. She was looking back at me rather as if I were some inanimate tool with which she was going to be hurt.
A small padlock held a loop of the chain around the wooden post. Another similar lock bound another loop round her tiny ankle, which was certainly smaller than my wrist. The little room stank, in one far corner was a crude clay chamber pot. A dish and cup for food and water, both empty now, waited on the floor closer to the door, through which a little air had now begun to circulate.
In a few minutes a slave girl, one of the working servants, came up with the provisions I had called for. As soon as this servant had left the two of us alone again, I pushed the silver utensils within Helen’s reach and sat back. After a quick glance at me she grabbed up the bright cup and drank thirstily, then began to eat the biscuits and sausage. She kept what must have been a half-starved appetite under careful control, like one who has had experience of what a sudden load of food might do to a shrunken stomach. Between measured bites, she cast at me more calculating looks than before.
The pauses in her eating began to grow longer, and I helped myself to a portion of the remaining food. Helen sat back on her haunches and looked at me steadily. “And now?”
She had spoken in her bad Italian; I answered in her native Hungarian: “Now you are going to come away from here. With me.”
It was a shock. Until that moment I do not think that she had seen me as anything but another rapist to be endured somehow. But now she started. Her expression changed rapidly, as surprise was followed by the beginning of understanding, and that in turn by relief—a relief mixed with bitterness, but still a great liberation for all that.
She said in Hungarian: “Our Lady be thanked, for she has heard my prayers. I will certainly go to my brother, even, to get myself out of this.”
“I should think you would.” I did not tell Helen that returning her to Hungary was not one of the two options allowed me by her brother’s royal command.
I moved close to Helen now, and drew my dagger. The bright links of the chain had scraped her slender ankle sorely where she must have tried to force it off. Holding her ankle and the chain against the floorboards, I could feel a delicate trembling in her leg, in her whole body. My dagger, a crude northern weapon, bit silently through the links when I leaned my weight upon it. It took me another moment to cut the other end of the chain free of the lock that held it round the post.
The blade went back into its sheath. Helen was still trembling, with the relief of the strain of fear. She told me later that she had been utterly convinced that the Boccalini were never going to let her go alive after what they had done to her against her will. Probably she was right. No one would take very much notice, or remember it for long, if a street waif simply disappeared. On the other hand a survivor telling stories would have been at least somewhat detrimental to the family’s standing in the eyes of business associates and of the church.
“He is not really a savage man,” Helen told me, rubbing her freed ankle, and at first I thought that she meant Sandro. “But he is king.” Her eyes lifted, and for a moment I saw a spark of her own royalty in them. “And your name?”
“Here I am called Ladislao. But at His Majesty’s court, Wladislaus.” I could see at once that the name suggested nothing in particular to her. All to the good, I thought. Had the lady known me by reputation, my task might well have been still further complicated.
As it stood, it was quite demanding enough.
One of the options allowed me by the king was to report back to him that with my own eyes I had seen his sister safely and anonymously dead. For me to take that course would mean at least that the family name was guarded from any further damage. And it would be possible to hope that in time the scandals already generated might be forgotten.
The only other alternative I had been given by Matthias was to try to civilize the girl—which would of course require that first I take her to wife.
Startled though I had been when the king first broached this plan to me, I had now been able to mull it over long enough to appreciate the reasoning behind it. I had been forced to conclude that from the king’s viewpoint it had merit, the advantage of making some positive good at least a possibility.
Consider. For Matthias to somehow put an end to Helen’s escapades was imperative. They put him in danger of becoming an international laughingstock, and a king who has that happen to him is lucky if he retains his crown, let alone such a position of world leadership as the ruler of Hungary was grasping for. So he had to either kill the girl, tame her, or send her to a convent—and having had one bad experience with such an establishment already, His Majesty was not disposed to favor them as instruments of policy. To tame the wench into a public asset was a much more attractive idea—Matthias was never one for wasting people who could still be used. Helen as my wife would bind me to his service, and might even produce strong nephews to aid the royal cause in later years. And, again, Helen’s re-emergence into public life as a lady of importance would tend to give the lie to the extravagant stories that must be already in circulation regar
ding her behavior. Whereas her permanent disappearance would tend, if anything, to confirm them.
For my part, I had wit enough to see that such a marriage must be a mixed blessing for me at best, despite the royal alliance that it entailed. Like an awkward military position, it might have to be defended constantly, not to mention the time and effort that would probably be required to manage the woman herself.
“Should you choose to wed her, Drakulya, then I will not have you put her away again, do you understand? For as long as she lives, once you are married, she must appear in public as your devoted wife, honored by all and worthy of honor. Any more scandal I will not tolerate. In time I mean to have you both back at court—when time has proven that the arrangement works.”
On the other hand, killing the girl quietly and quickly here in Florence would present me with no serious problems—no immediate ones at least. If the Boccalini came up to the attic in the morning and found her dead, they might disapprove—but not very loudly or strongly. They would certainly see to it that any killing in their household was effectively hushed up. In time the Medici would doubtless learn about it; but as long as King Matthias sent them no anguished inquiries about his sister, they would keep the matter quiet too.
So what held me back from instant murder? Was it only my own daring ambition, my wish to get ahead by presenting my lord king with the best possible solution? Was there no pity in me for Helen’s helplessness? Looking back through the centuries at myself I believe there was, though I was not known for pity, and it was in general a hard and ruthless age.
And was I not attracted to Helen’s beauty, which hard usage had not yet destroyed? Again, yes, I was—and, yet again, I think there was still more.
I had a feeling for what Matthias in his heart of hearts must really want, however firmly he had empowered me to kill his sister on the spot as soon as I could find her. Oh, he really meant it when he told me I could do that. Doubtless, if I reported to him that I had seen her dead, he would reward me for the favor. But then, afterwards … aye, forever afterwards. What would such a monarch always feel for the loyal servant who had carried such an order out? I had been a brother myself, and a prince too, and I could guess. Sooner or later a good use could be found for such a loyal man right in the forefront of a battle. And if the Black Army did not actually retire from him, and he survived—well then, later there would doubtless be something else again.
And still, besides all these reasons to spare Helen, I think there was yet more. My mercy in that little attic room had purpose yet unfathomed.
I had spoken earlier to Lorenzo about the possibility of a wedding. Seasoned intriguer that he already was, he had offered no comments and asked no questions but had obligingly set in motion some necessary arrangements. All I need do now was to get Helen out of the Boccalini house and to some place of safety, without overt Medici help.
While my unknowing bride-to-be prudently consumed the last crumbs of food from the silver plate, I wondered silently what would be the reactions of my adopted cousins if I simply strolled downstairs with her and asked to have the front door unlocked. Opening that door would not be something that we could do casually for ourselves; I had seen how they barred and chained the place up like a fortress for the night. And if Sandro should decide that he did not want me to take the woman away … well, I would not be able to manage either violence or bribery on the scale required to gain my way.
I stood up and stretched as well as I could under that low roof, then looked out into the corridor. All was dark and I thought there were no listeners nearby. Doubtless none who could speak Hungarian, anyway.
“Can you still walk, Helen?”
“Yes.” She got to her feet, stretching too, but not as I had. Her movements were furtive and sinuous.
“Can you run?”
Still holding the wretched shift together with one hand, she tried walking for a few limping steps, then paused to look at me. “If I must, I can. Then all has not been neatly arranged? I am willing to try anything to get out of here, but I must know.”
“Arrangements have been made. Perhaps not neatly, however, and not with the people of this house. These people we are going to have to surprise. Bend your knees, swing your legs, loosen them up.”
She did as I bade her, exercising as well as the tiny space allowed. “I can run.”
“Excellent. Now, I am going to chain your hands together—that is, I will wrap the chain around your wrists, but so you can shed it at will. After that we will go downstairs, and, I hope, out into the street. If there is any argument about our going out, pretend you are reluctant to do so. And move slowly, as if you can hardly walk—yes, that’s fine. Then when we are outside, as soon as I tug twice on the chain, slip it and run hard. Right into the darkness, in the direction I will have you facing. Helpers should be waiting for us.” So I hoped it would be; so it had been tentatively planned. “Run, run till you are caught, and pray Jesus it will be a friend who has you then.”
Chapter Nine
The bored male midwestern voice at the other end of the long-distance line informed Mr. Thorn that Lieutenant Keogh was busy right now on another phone, and would he like to hang on? When Thorn submitted that he would, he was left to do so with a minimum of courtesy and a mutter of subdued office noise to keep him entertained. During this lengthy interval it crossed Thorn’s mind that he might have made this call last night, and caught the good lieutenant at home instead of during business hours; but then, last night Thorn had himself been quite busy.
At last the receiver in Chicago was picked up again. “Lieutenant Keogh.” The voice was familiar to Thorn, but at the moment it carried a load of official boredom he had not heard in it before.
“Yes, Lieutenant. This is Jonathan Thorn, calling from Phoenix, Arizona. Regarding that merchandise you were trying to trace, I believe I will have the information you need very soon now. If you could call me back, at your convenience, here at my hotel?”
At the other end there was a silent pause, concluding in a sigh and followed by a muttered vulgarity. After this a footstep, and then the shutting of a door which effectively cut off the office background.
When the lieutenant’s voice returned it sounded no happier than before, but at least all traces of boredom had been effectively expunged. “We can talk now. This is something really important, I take it?”
“Of course, Joe, of course.” Thorn smiled and lay back on the bed, letting his lean frame relax. A white plastic bag as long as a mattress and as narrow as a cot had been unfolded on the rich green spread. This bag was thin enough to be folded into a suitcase, and it was sparsely stuffed with something that crunched faintly as Thorn’s weight came onto it, sounding for all the world like dried earth.
“Of course,” he repeated into the phone. “Neither of us would call upon the other in a merely trivial matter, is it not so? Your wife’s family did not summon Dr. Corday from London, after all, until the situation warranted. By the way, how is the lovely Kate? And how are her fine parents?”
“Fine, fine.” The distant voice remained wary. “Her brother and sister are okay, too. By the way, if you’re looking for Judy, she’s away at school. But I guess you must know that.” The comment was tinged with a certain fatalistic disapproval.
Thorn made his own voice soothing. “Say hello to Kate for me. No, Joe, I am not looking for Judy. Nor do I want anything from you that might be embarrassing to you officially. My dearest Mina would be unhappy if I did anything like that with anyone in the family. By the way, I am somewhat surprised—pleasantly, of course—that you continue on the force.”
“I like to work, and I’m too young to retire.” Joe’s voice showed no sign of relaxing yet. “Anyway, Kate’s busy a lot with volunteer work, and her old man respects me more for being self-supporting … so, tell me what you want.”
“I would like whatever information you can give me about two people. The first is Mary Rogers.” Thorn recited a brief description. “Mary tells
me that she was a nun, or at least a postulant, in the Chicago area, where she did charitable work with runaway youth. She—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Mary Rogers rings a bell. Wasn’t she a kidnap victim, a hostage, in that double Seabright killing out there in Phoenix?”
“Yes. I was about to add that.”
“Ho. Wait a minute. Ho, ho, ho. You’re mixed up in that?”
“My present concern is not with that sordid crime directly. Of course if I should come upon anything that might aid in its solution, then you in turn shall hear it from me. As from an anonymous and confidential source. Is that to your liking?”
“Well, yeah, of course I’d appreciate any kind of a tip. If you’d rather send it my way than tell it to the locals, and it worked out, it wouldn’t do my career any harm. Who’s your second person?”
“A young man. Patrick O’Grandison.” Thorn gave the spelling that seemed to him most likely. “As I understand it, this youth is somehow involved in making films, quite possibly pornographic ones. Probably in Chicago during the last few months. I should like to find and talk to him.”
“What about?”
“A personal matter.”
“I know what some of your personal talks can be like. Listen, I wouldn’t want to help you find this guy, assuming that I can, and then hear later that he’s missing some parts or something.”
“Joe.” Thorn sounded reproachful, almost hurt, a wounded uncle. “I have said that I mean only to talk to him. Of course what he tells me may conceivably change my attitude. But at the moment I bear him no ill-will.”
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