The Madman of Venice
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The madman of Venice
The madman of Venice
LAcG IU D-E.G'C A
Prologue
FORTUNE’S CARDS
A Venetian window
Do WE NOT BLEED?
Bosco Alley
Questions
A DARK WEB
The she-wolf
Conspiracy
Murano
Betrayal
Mistress Quickly gets mad
Gamblers
The madman of Venice
The quality of mercy
Ghosts
Nemesis
The lovers of Venice
The madman of Venice
Masson, Sophie, 1959-
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uenice in 1602 is a vibrant city of mystery and charm. Yet beneath this splendor lies a sinister underworld.
Living comfortably in London, Master Ashby, his daughter, Celia, and his clerk, Ned, know little of this complex world. As the representative of a group of London merchants, Master Ashby must get to the bottom of the pirate attacks that have been plaguing their ships. The trio, along with Ashby’s sister, are about to sail to Venice when a musical entertainer visits Ashby’s home. She beseeches him to help her find Sarah Tedeschi, a Jewish girl who has vanished from the Venetian Ghetto after being accused of witchcraft by the powerful Countess of Montemoro. The only child of a doctor who saved the entertainer’s life, Sarah might have information that the Countess is desperate to keep secret. Ashby agrees to find out what has become of the girl.
After arriving in Venice, Ashby, Celia, and Ned are just beginning to make some progress in their investigation when Ashby disappears. Meanwhile, Ned witnesses the ravings of a madman, and Celia believes that she has figured out where Sarah may be hiding. Are these seemingly disconnected developments connected?
In this captivating and cleverly plotted novel inspired by Shakespeare, Sophie Masson entwines the parallel worlds of mystery and romance in a tale of missing persons, piracy, murder, and true love.
Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2018 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation
https://archive.org/details/madmanofveniceOOOOmass
The (Tladman
of Uenice
For dear Pippa and Joe, with love and congratulations
Cannaregio
AN'TA Croce, JH
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/a Grande ,, fU , \
'>cuo di San Rncco
MJ, OR SOtl OB O'
LAcG IU D-E.G'C A
Claudio’s home
San Mir hr !r
^ISLAND OF SAN MICHELE
.ASTEL'LO
Dr Leone’s home \
S. Pietro
What profit love that cannot show his face? What profit joy if she doth bring disgrace?
If thou must ask, then thou hast never known The sweetness and the sorrow that is love’s renown. Now listen well, for here thou will be told Of darkness, danger, and of lovers bold,
Of poison plots, of vengeance, and of love supreme, In fairest Venice, where we set our scene.
—from The Lovers of Venice, by Edward Fletcher
' ' .
Prologue
Venice, Carnival
1586
Ihe city is a riot of laughter and parties and noise . Everyone's masked . Everyone's too busy having fun to notice the two young lovers slipping away to the canal backwater ,; where they can be alone at last, safe from prying eyes .
Taking off their masks, they hold each other tight . The girl says softly , T wish . . . how I wish we could be together always,' and the boy says sadly, T wish it too, my love, but your father will never —'
She interrupts him, eyes suddenly wide with fright. ‘Hush . . . listen.
Footsteps. Stealthy footsteps. The girl and boy retreat into the shadows; hearts pounding , skin crawling. Have they been followed, after all? The boy clutches the pommel of his sword, thinking: If it’s one of his men, I’ll sell my life dearly. I will not be taken like a rat in a trap. . . .
Suddenly, the footsteps stop. But no one calls out to the lovers. No one challenges them. No one tries to grab them.
After a moment, they peer out cautiously. There is a man standing on the landing-stage that juts out into the canal. He has his back to them and is of middling height, wearing a long, concealing cloak and hat. One arm is crooked at the elbow, as though he is holding something — a bundle of some sort, though they cant see what it is.
All at once, another sound. Every Venetian knows it like he knows the blood beating in his veins. The steady splashing sound of an oar cutting through water.
There's the gondola now. It’s an eerie sight. All black, as the law demands, it's rowed by a tall figure, dressed from head to foot in black. The rower's features are completely concealed by a full-face Carnival mask of a pure, blank, anonymous white. The scene might be some sinister symbolic painting: ferryman Death in his boat, poling slowly to the watcher on the landing-stage . . .
The gondola glides in. The waiting man speaks. His harsh voice carries clearly to the lovers' hiding place. ‘You're late. What kept you?'
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No answer ,: The boat is now right beside him. He speaks again. Impatiently. Tt's done. The woman's dead. Now to play your part. '
The rower speaks for the first time. T don't like this.' His voice is flat, toneless.
It's not for you to like or not ,* says the other. He holds out his burden and all at once the watchers in the shadows hear a sound that makes their blood run cold. The thin, mewing cry of a newborn baby.
f Take it. Get rid of it, where it won't be found. The lagoon. The sea. Wherever you like.'
The rower's voice rises. ( God's blood, man, this is an innocent child!'
A harsh bark of laughter. ( No one is innocent in this world. God will sort it out in the next. It is not your place to question. Do it. Or perhaps you want to explain yourself to —*
'No!' The flat voice suddenly has an edge of fear in it. T never said I wouldn't do it. I only said I didn't like it.'
( Objection noted and dismissed,' says the other man, with a hint of cold laughter. He throws the bundle at the rower, who catches it; there is another
thin cry, hastily muffled. Then, without another word, the gondolier puts the baby down in the boat. He takes up his oar again and turns his boat down the canal. As he does so, the moonlight flashes on its prow for just an instant. And in that moment, the boy sees something that makes the hair prickle on his scalp.
-H- 3
As the boat glides away , the watcher looks around him. Seemingly satisfied, /?£ turns on his heels, walks rapidly away up the alley, and is soon gone from sight. Neither of the young people moves, till both boat and watcher have quite disappeared. Only then do they dare to stir.
The girl whispers, ‘We must tell what we've seen and heard this night. At once. My father —’
‘No! No! We cannot . 3 He swallows hard. We ... we must forget we saw anything, heard anything . 3
She stares at him, uncomprehending. Why ? They are gone. They did not see us. What danger is there to us now ? 3
‘No. For God's sake . . He takes a deep breath.
‘Didn't you see that the boat was marked?'
‘Marked ? 3
‘Marked with the lion , 3 he says dully. ‘The Lion of Venice. This was a boat from the Duke's fleet. Now do you see, my sweet ? 3
She shivers. ‘No . . . surely ... no ... it cannot be. .. . The Duke would never. . . This is monstrous.
‘If it is not the Duke himself, it is someone in his household, in his inner circle. But those men—they had the air of hired swords. Venice is crawling with such men . 3 He speaks with the authority of experience. ‘Hired in secret, on a dark and bloody task. And that means we have blundered into something dangerous. Very, very dangerous. And we must leave it alone. Surely you must see that ? 3
-H- 4
‘But that poor child. . .'
He crosses himself There are tears in his eyes. Tts fate is sealed. We can do nothing. Only God can protect it now/
She cries, ( Oh, darling. I cannot bear it. We must. . . we must leave this terrible place. I cannot bear it any longer. I cannot live here, while such things go on . 9
( Then we will leave , 9 he says, holding her tight. ‘We will leave, you and I, for ever . 9
She looks at him, her eyes big with fear and grief and horror and longing. ( Yes , 9 she whispers.
‘Will you meet me tomorrow, at our usual place and time ? 9
She starts. ‘So soon ? 9
Tt must be. You must understand that . 9
‘Then I will try my utmost to be there . 9
Til wait for you at midday. If youre not there, I 9 ll understand you can't come and I'll wait for you, same time, same place, next day . 9 He takes her hand and looks into her eyes. ‘Promise me you'll tell no one what we saw this night. No one. Not your confessor. Not your cat. Not the walls. No one. Nothing. Promise me ? 9
She nods, without speaking.
( Think, my sweet. Soon, we'll be away from this accursed place, starting a new life, far from all this . 9
‘Yes , 9 she murmurs. ‘Yes, yes, my darling, away from all this . 9 But her words are mechanical and jerky, for her ears are full of that helpless baby 's cry.
-m- 5 ->■>■
Part One
A NOBLE VENTURE
London, May 1602
ihe woman was small and slender, dressed in an unusual shade of deep red that set off her dark, exotic beauty. Under the cowl of her velvet cloak, her sleek jet- black hair was threaded here and there with silver, like filigree in fine velvet. Her large, intelligent brown eyes were set in an oval-shaped face, and she had the kind of skin that would quickly go golden in the summer.
Ned Fletcher was puzzled. She looked like a fine lady—maybe even a lady of the Court. Yet she’d come alone, on foot, without a servant. And she didn’t look
like a merchant’s wife, at least none that he was acquainted with. She had a bold, spirited look that spoke of some other station in life. Not the streets, though. Something he was unfamiliar with.
‘Young sir, I wish to speak to Master Matthew Ashby. I understand this is his house.’ Her voice was soft and musical and, despite her foreign appearance, very English.
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Are you his son?’ He could see her glance washing over him, taking in all the details of his appearance: the tall, gangly frame, the unruly red hair, the freckled face and green eyes, the shabby clothes. Ned had never been in the glass of fashion. He never could be. He was too untidy. Too poor, also.
He saw she was waiting for an answer. Blushing, he stammered, ‘No. I—I’m not his son. I’m Ned Fletcher. His clerk. I’m an orphan. He was kind enough to—’
She cut into his speech. ‘I was told your master and his household are leaving for Venice this week. Was I reliably informed?’
Ned stared at her. ‘Who wants to know?’ he snapped. The trip to Venice wasn’t exactly a secret, but it wasn’t supposed to be common knowledge either. For Master Ashby was going to Venice as the representative of a group of London merchants. In just over two years he and his colleagues had lost three ships, laden with rich cargoes, to pirates operating off the Venetian coast.
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These pirates were particularly cruel and ruthless. Not only did they steal cargoes and ships, they also slaughtered every member of the ships’ crews. The London merchants’ Venetian agent, Salerio, had been investigating the problems. But three months ago he had been murdered, supposedly by street thieves, before he could complete his investigations. It all stank to high heaven, and the group of London merchants were determined to get to the bottom of it. The only way to really do that was to send someone, undercover, to Venice.
Matthew Ashby had been the obvious choice. He had lived in Venice as a young man, and kept in touch with his best friend there, a famous alchemist by the name of Orlando Leone. It was easy enough for Ashby to go to Venice on the pretext of visiting Leone and showing his family the golden city.
Ned was going too: an exciting fact that had been on his mind for weeks. But he’d been told not to talk about it. And yet now here was this woman, boldly making free with the information. He repeated his question, sharper this time. ‘Who wants to know?’
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Master Ashby’s guard dog has a good barking tongue in his head! Have no fear. I mean no harm. But I make it a practise never to discuss business on the doorstep. Will you not let me in and let him decide for himself whether he should speak to me?’
‘Ned, what’s wrong?’ Celia appeared in the hallway,
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her blue eyes alight with curiosity. Ned’s heart gave its familiar, hopeless leap.
‘This . . . this lady wishes to speak to your father, Celia. But she will not state her business or her name, and your father distinctly said—’
‘Miss Ashby,’ interrupted the woman impatiently, ignoring Ned, ‘you may tell your father that Mistress Emilia Lanier wishes to speak to him on a matter of the greatest importance. Go now. Tell him. See for yourself whether he will speak to me.’
Celia opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Flinging a ‘Stay there, Ned’ over her shoulder, she hurried off.
‘What a very pretty girl,’ observed Emilia Lanier with a little smile.
Ned blushed again. ‘I... I cannot say.’
She laughed. ‘Then God has cursed you with blindness, young man.’ She leaned towards him and he caught a whiff of her perfume: some heady, musky scent that made his senses reel. ‘A piece of advice: both meek sheep and snarling guard dogs repel a lady. Show a lion heart and then you’ll win her.’
Ned was scarlet now. How dare she interfere in his personal business! He would have dearly liked to say something cutting in return, but nothing would come. Nothing would, when you wanted it to. Words came easily enough to his quill when he sat in his chamber at
12-H-
night; but would they make their way to his lips? Never. He was too shy, too awkward, too—
At that moment Master Matthew Ashby erupted into the hall. Ned could see at a glance that his master wa
s furious. And with him, most likely—for the glare he directed at Ned would have melted iron. But all he said was ‘Mistress Lanier, pray forgive the zeal of my household. Please come in. It is so very kind of you to call.’
‘Not at all,’ said the woman, swishing past Ned with a tiny wink. Ned swallowed. His master was a good man, but he had a hot temper and he could not suffer fools gladly. And I suppose I acted like a fool, thought Ned glumly as he closed the door. What if . . . what if Master Ashby is so angry he doesn't take me to Venice as he promised? He’d been looking forward to it so much.
Venice! On one of the walls in Master Ashby’s house hung a painting of the fabulous golden city, floating on its lagoon. The painting depicted a Carnival scene with crowds of revellers in fine clothes and masks, and since the first time he had been taken into Master Ashby’s household five years ago, Ned had looked at it more times than he could remember, imagining himself amongst that motley crowd. He had also read about Venice in stories and seen it depicted in plays at the Globe Theatre, for the Globe’s resident playwright, William Shakespeare, frequently used the city as a setting for his
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dramas. Ned had so longed to see it in real life, but had
never imagined he ever would. . . .
•«>
Even more to the point, Celia was coming to Venice too. Chaperoned by Master Ashby’s sister, the widowed Mistress Bess Quickly, of course. But that didn’t matter. Away from London, away from ordinary life and all the constraints that meant Ned must always appear as a mere clerk, a familiar bit of the furniture to Celia—perhaps he’d have a chance to prove himself to her in a new light. Perhaps he might even make his fortune and win her heart. . . .
Ned didn’t learn what Emilia Lanier wanted till a couple of hours later, when Celia barged into the room where he was working on the accounts. Or at least pretending to— for instead of taking down figures, he’d begun jotting down words for another poem about Celia. When she came in, he started violently and quickly covered up his writing. Fortunately, Celia didn’t notice. She was too full of her news.