Paul Doherty - A Brood of Vipers

Enrico looked back, biting his lip, as if faced with some vexing problem.

'There could be another solution,' he said. 'What if I accused you of the murders?' 'There's still Maria.'

By now I was terrified. What could I do? If I followed him into the house and left Maria sprawled in the yard, he would know I was lying. If I stayed, he might kill me there and then. If I turned my back and pretended that Maria was only unconscious, that would leave me exposed. My mind teemed with plots and subtle strategies. 'We'll go in,' I said brusquely. 'That's good, Inglese.'

'On one condition. I go first. Lower your sword, Master Enrico, and put it and your dagger on the ground. As well as the sling or catapult you undoubtedly carry.' He smirked. 'How did you know?'

I shrugged. ‘We have a saying in England – don't judge a book by its cover. The choice is yours. We either talk in the house or we fight to the death out here!'

Enrico stepped back and placed his sword and dagger on the ground. From beneath his cloak he took out a viciously powerful-looking Y-shaped sling with a leather cup. He put it on the cobbles beside his sword and dagger. 'Anything else?' I asked.

Enrico put his hands in the air. 'Inglese, you have my word of honour!'

I felt so unreal. I sheathed my sword, took off my cloak and backed away, moving so that my eyes never left him. I wrapped the cloak around poor Maria's corpse, talking softly to her in English as if she were still alive. I pulled the cloak around her little face and head so that Enrico would never guess the truth. He might have another weapon, a stiletto pushed into his boot top, perhaps another damnable catapult or sling. However, as I lifted Maria, light as a feather, and began to back towards the house, I realized that the cunning bastard needed to talk to me. He needed to find out how much I knew, to see if there were any unseen gaps in his story. Or perhaps he saw me as a rogue who could be bought and sold. God knows the truth! All I remember is that it was one of the longest journeys I ever made. Carrying Maria, her thin body wrapped in the cloak, – the dagger still clasped in my sweaty hand, I backed towards the villa.

'Meet me in the hallway,' I ordered. 'Stand facing the wall, with your hands flat against it. I shall first go upstairs. Wait for me.'

I didn't like the way the evil turd was smiling. I returned to the darkened villa, knocking my shins against walls, doors and pieces of furniture, but at last I reached the stairs. Sweating and cursing, I stopped half-way up to light the sconce torches then, hurrying along the gallery, I reached our chamber. Benjamin still lay prostrate, in a pool of vomit. I placed Maria down on my bed and straightened her little body, passing my hand gently over her eyes. She looked as if she was asleep, except for the waxen paleness of her face, the blood coursing down one side of her mouth and the bloody tangle of hair around the nape of her neck. I stared down at her.

'Maria, before God, I meant you well! Before God, I swear, you would have returned to England with me and, before God, I swear I'll avenge your death!'

I covered her face. My master stirred and moaned. I hurried across. He was fast asleep but breathing easily and some colour had returned to his face. When I shook him he stirred and muttered. Enrico called from the bottom of the stairs. 'Master Shallot, I gave my word.'

I quickly dashed water over my hands and face and wiped them dry, took my dagger and edged out into the gallery. Now, on one wall was one of those armorial displays – two halberds covered by a shield. I took the shield down. It weighed heavily but, slipping my hand and arm through the clasp, I edged sideways to the top of the stairs. Enrico stood at the bottom in a pool of light provided by the sconce torches. He had his hands against the wall, smiling up at me as if we were two boys engaged in some prank. I wondered if I was having a nightmare.

'Master Shallot, you should hasten. Night draws on and by dawn the servants will have returned.'

I edged down the stairs, the shield before me. Enrico seemed to think this was funny. 'You look so frightened, Inglese.' 'I am not frightened!' I hissed.

'If I wanted to,' he continued conversationally, 'I could kill you. Shield or no shield. Don't you know, Master Shallot, I am no Alessandro but a master duellist.'

I stopped half-way down to control my churning stomach. Enrico was so confident. If I stayed he would kill me. If I ran he could denounce me as the murderer, rouse the local villagers, organize a pursuit and take me prisoner or kill me on the spot. I have met many murderers, cold hearts, black souls, but Enrico was one of the worst. He'd set up a game where the only way he could lose was if I killed him. Yet he had every certainty that in any duel he would be the master. If only Benjamin had been there as a witness. And what about the Master of the Eight? Didn't his men have the villa under close watch? But what if they intervened? Who would they believe? Me or Enrico? I reached the bottom of the stairs. Enrico smiled and walked into the refectory. He pointed to the table on the dais. ‘I have lit candles and there's more wine.' I followed him on to the dais. 'You, Master Shallot, sit at one end. I will sit at the other.' He splashed wine into two goblets. 'Taste it!' I ordered.

He shrugged, drank deeply, refilled the cup and passed it down to me. 'And the sling-shot? The catapult?'

He put his hand beneath his cloak and tossed it on the table. 'Well, well, well!' He smiled and sat down, leaning forward, gazing at me expectantly. 'All alone, eh, Inglese, you and I.'

'You forget Maria!' I snapped. 'And my master. He's not drugged,' I added quickly. 'I roused him. He's asleep but remembers we are here.' For the first time I saw his evil smile slip for a few seconds.

'Tell me, Master Shallot,' he said, 'about these silly allegations, or, rather, these groundless accusations. Why should I commit murder?'

'It started many years ago,' I began, 'when your father and uncle were murdered in Rome. They were there to buy jewels, precious stones. Two men were taken and hanged.' Enrico nodded.

'At the time,' I continued, 'Rome was under the dominance of Pope Leo X, a member of the Medici family. I suppose he trapped the killers?' Enrico murmured his assent.

'But you always had your suspicions. I surmise that, just before you left for England, Cardinal Giulio de Medici told you that your father and uncle's real murderers were not the two hapless unfortunates hanged. These were only the bully-boys who carried out the crime; the real assassin was Lord Francesco Albrizzi.' I sipped from the goblet. 'Now, you would have asked the cardinal for proof?' 'Perhaps.'

'You did,' I insisted. 'And the good cardinal told you that a priceless emerald stolen from your father's corpse was in Lord Francesco's possession.'

Enrico watched me unblinkingly. I breathed deeply to control my panic.

'Now the cardinal went on to say that when Lord Francesco arrived at the English court he would give King Henry a precious jewel. No Albrizzi had ever seen that jewel before; it was the one taken from your father.' I shook my head, ‘I don't know what further proof the good cardinal gave you, but you were half-convinced. The Albrizzis had certainly profited from your father's death. They had taken you into their house and, as your guardians, had access to your dead father's wealth. Of course, they had also arranged the marriage between you and their daughter Beatrice – a beautiful young woman with the morals of an alley cat.' Enrico smirked. 'How can you say that?'

'Oh, for God's sake!' I replied. 'You played the role of the doting husband well, but you were not blind to the lovelorn glances between Lady Beatrice, God rest her, and the soldier Giovanni!'