Paul Doherty - A Brood of Vipers

'Master Daunbey, your uncle bids us good voyage.' He pointed to the barrels being brought on board. 'And sends us wine as a token of his appreciation.'

A little brown-cowled man, olive-faced with bright button-eyes, scuttled up on deck. He was chewing the end of a quill and studying a roll of parchment. He mumbled to himself, stared around and rushed hither and thither checking the stores and household goods of the Albrizzis. 'Matteo!' Roderigo called. 'Come here!'

The man shuffled sheepishly across. He looked a merry soul, more like a friar than a steward. He couldn't understand a word of English. Roderigo introduced him as Matteo, the Lord Francesco's principal steward.

'A man to be trusted,' Roderigo declared, clapping Matteo on the shoulder. 'My brother always said he would trust his life to him.'

Matteo caught the gist of his words, his face became lugubrious and tears pricked his eyes. He shook his head mournfully.

'He will mourn for ever,' Roderigo said softly. 'He loved my brother. Only by staying busy will Matteo keep his sanity.' Again he patted the fellow's shoulder. 'Matteo obtained this ship. He wishes to leave England as soon as possible.'

Roderigo said something in Italian. Matteo listened intently, smiled benignly at us then chattered in a torrent of Italian. 'What did he say?' Benjamin asked.

'I told him that you would obtain vengeance for my brother's blood,' Roderigo answered. 'And what was his reply?" I asked curiously. 'Matteo says he will give you every help.*

We both thanked him. Roderigo turned away. Benjamin and I walked towards the ship's side and leaned against the bulwarks, staring out over the empty dark quayside.

'Don't worry, Roger,' Benjamin murmured. 'We will return. I have a feeling in my blood. We will not meet our deaths in Italy.'

'Oh, thank you very much,' I replied bitterly. 'I still hate bloody ships!'

I stared up at the great mainmast, where the reefed canvas sails snapped in the early morning breeze as if they wished to break free. Sailors, naked except for a pair of breeches, padded around the deck, apparently oblivious to the cold, clinging mist – strange, lean, hard men, with their hardened feet and salt-soaked skins and bodies, and agile as monkeys. They scampered around us, mouthing abuse. I was too despondent to reply in kind. I heard some of the sailors whistle and looked round. Across the deck a small door to a cabin had opened and two figures emerged. One was Beatrice. Even in the half-tight I could see that she was beautiful. Unabashed by the sailors' comments and salacious whispers, she carried herself like a queen. I nudged Benjamin as she and her companion walked across the deck, past the group of sailors and came towards us. Benjamin turned to greet her. 'Good evening, signors!'

Beatrice's voice was musical and her English good, though tinged with a slight accent. Beside her, Giovanni threw back his hood, revealing his strange, harsh womanish face. I noticed how clean and well-kept his fingers and nails were. He gave a slight bow.

'Signors,' he said mockingly, 'welcome aboard!' He coughed. 'But you are-'

'You are in our place!' Beatrice snapped. 'This is our favourite spot on a ship.'

'In which case, Madam,' Benjamin replied. 'You have chosen well.*

Beatrice smiled at him and my heart lurched, for she was truly beautiful. She looked at me and her smile widened.

('Will you shut up!' I yell at my chaplain. 'In my day I was attractive to women despite the cast in my eye!' I pick my cane up and beat the little runt over the knuckles. What does he know? In my time I have courted the best, not like him, trying to peer down Phoebe's bosom whilst giving a sermon in church!)

I gazed speechlessly at her beauty. Her eyes were glowing, brown, wide and slightly slanted, with remarkably finely-shaped eyebrows which turned almost wing-like at the outer corners. Her nose was straight, her cheeks high-boned yet soft, her chin elfishly pointed beneath a delicate, rose-petalled mouth. (I can see my chaplain getting excited, jumping up and down, squirming on his stool, muttering feverishly. He always likes Shallot's bed trysts. I recount them because they are bound to keep the little bugger happy. Well, he should be more chaste.)

Anyway, on that mist-shrouded deck so many years ago I stood stock-still. Beatrice raised her hand, soft and smooth like the petal of some exquisite flower. I grasped and kissed it feverishly. Beatrice, the spoilt bitch, giggled. Giovanni looked on with disapproval. He stared up at the brightening sky. 'We should be gone,' he muttered. 'And the sooner the better. This could be a dangerous voyage.'

'Well!' Beatrice touched my hand, her eyes full of mockery. 'With a man such as Master Shallot, I should be quite safe.'

As a rabbit in a fox's lair, I thought. I was all set to continue the dalliance when, suddenly, the ship lurched. I grabbed the side and peered anxiously about. So engrossed had I been with the Lady Beatrice that I had hardly realized that the plank had been raised and orders for departure issued. Sailors released the ropes that held us to the quay and ship's boys scampered up the rigging as quick and lithe as cats up a tree. The Florentines moved away. I watched the gap between the quay-side and the ship grow and gazed despairingly into the darkness. Again the ship lurched. I thanked God Beatrice had gone, leaned over the side and vomited my breakfast.

(Mind you, whenever I think of ships, I remember the Mary Rose, Henry VIII's great warship, built at Greenwich. On its first voyage, the Mary Rose set sail, fired one cannonade and turned full-tilt in the water. Hundreds of good men died. The fat bastard Henry went purple with rage and commissioned me to seek out the murderer. Oh yes, don't listen to anyone else, old Shallot knows the truth. The sinking of the Mary Rose was no accident. Those sailors were drowned, and that great ship destroyed, by a soul as black as midnight.)

My voyage on the Bonaventure was a living hell. The sailors were pleased – they welcomed the winds that swept us out of the Channel and into the Bay of Biscay. I didn't. I remember some of the details of the voyage – the great white sails billowing in the winds, snapping and cracking; men shrieking; the patter of feet on decks; blue sky and racing waves; strange fish leaping up beside the ship – but it was all like a dream. I was sick in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening and during the night. At first I thought it would end eventually, but my stomach kept wringing itself like a wet rag and I was unable to keep any food down. I fell into a fever which lasted days.

I remember Preneste bending over me, my master's white, anxious face and, I am sure, little Maria mopping my brow and forcing some evil-tasting black substance between my lips. And then one morning I woke up. I felt light-headed and weak, but my stomach was calm. I didn't even retch at the stench of the fetid slops that had accumulated between decks and made the ship smell like a midden at the height of summer. My master bent over me. 'What day is it?' I croaked. 'The feast of St Ethelburga, the 25th of May.' 'Good Lord!' I replied. 'Twelve days gone!' Benjamin nodded. 'We have reached the tip of Spain.'

All around me I could hear the ship creak and groan. I noticed how hot and sour the air was. 'For God's sake, Master,' I groaned. 'Get me out of here!'

As my master helped me to my feet I saw how stained and dirty my clothing was. When we reached the deck I was at first nearly blinded by the light, for the sun shone hot and fierce. Then I saw a group including the captain and Roderigo watching some sailors dancing while a thin-faced boy played a flute. On the deck near the sterncastle some Florentines, Giovanni and Alessandro among them, exercised with wooden swords. When they saw me they called out and came over. The sweat coursing down their faces from matted hair, they looked like happy boys engaged in a game. I felt a stab of envy at their bronzed good looks.