Rupert Thomson - Secrecy

‘So it’s not true that all art leaves you cold.’

Stufa’s face looked even bonier than usual, and his eyes, though piercing, were lightless. His vigil had taken its toll, and he was still grieving, of course, but it also seemed likely that the death of his protector had left him feeling unanchored and exposed.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said.

‘Is that why you came? To gloat?’

‘Actually, I wasn’t expecting to see you. Since you’re here, though, there’s something I want to put to you.’

‘Really?’ Stufa sounded sceptical, sarcastic. He clearly doubted I could say anything that would be of interest to him, and that prompted me to be more blunt than I had intended.

‘You’re a murderer,’ I said.

I had expected him to be startled, but he held my gaze. ‘What happened? Did that spineless Frenchman die?’

‘No, he didn’t. Not yet, anyway.’

‘In that case, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’ve got evidence that connects you to the death of a girl.’

‘What girl would that be?’

‘She was found by the river. In Sardigna.’

‘As it happens,’ he said slowly, ‘there is a girl I’m interested in. It seems we’re destined to be together. Look inside her name. I’m there.’ He waited for me to understand. ‘You don’t see it? My name, her name — the one inside the other .’ His lips were thin and bloodless; his tongue showed between them, dark as a parrot’s. ‘I’ve already penetrated the girl you’re in love with. I’ve already had her.’

‘You’re just playing with words.’ But he had ruined Faustina’s name for me, and he knew it.

‘People like us should share things, don’t you think? That’s what you said, remember? People like us .’

I turned away, making for the cloister.

‘Are you going already? Don’t you want me to tell you where she is?’

I kept walking.

‘Put it like this. Tomorrow I leave for the south-east of the duchy. There’s a little village, on a hill …’

He was claiming to know where Faustina was, and I couldn’t afford not to believe him.

That afternoon I told my mother I was going to look at the gypsum quarries near Volterra, and that I might be gone for as long as a fortnight, then I borrowed a mare from Borucher, strapped a sword to the saddle and rode south to Siena, forty-seven miles down that lonely, stony switchback of a road, the sky low and dark, the weather unseasonably cold for March. In making for Torremagna, was I protecting Faustina or was I putting her at risk? I had no idea.

As I approached Siena’s northern gate, my path was blocked by two men on horseback, their breath steaming in the icy half-light. At first I assumed they were working for a local hostelry — they would offer me low prices, clean linen, fine wine; they would offer me the world if only I agreed to choose their establishment over all the others — but as they drew nearer I saw that they had a jittery, flamboyant look about them that had nothing to do with honest business. The man who rode in front was tall and angular. His grizzled, greying beard didn’t match his hair, which was chestnut-coloured and luxuriantly wavy. The other man had a lazy, laconic air, as if he was used to people finding what he said amusing. One of his eyes didn’t open properly.

When the bearded man noticed me looking at his incongruous hairpiece, he reached up and stroked it. ‘A whore I fucked and killed in Poggibonsi. And here’s something else I got.’ He undid the buttons on his tunic. A strip of bloodstained fabric showed.

‘Is that silk?’ I asked.

He nodded, then glanced down. ‘It was white before I gutted her.’

‘Nothing like a bit of silk to keep you warm on a cold night,’ I said.

These were men for whom violence was as ordinary and natural as sleep.

He told me there was a fee for entering the city, which should be paid to him and his colleague directly. It wasn’t my intention to enter the city, I said. I wasn’t even passing through. I was bound for Torremagna, a village forty miles to the south-east.

‘There’s a fee for that as well,’ he said.

‘I thought you might say that.’ I reached into a pocket and took out Faustina’s hair, which I had tied with a piece of ribbon. ‘You’re not the only one who’s killed a whore.’

He came forwards on his horse and held out a hand.

‘No,’ I said. ‘This trophy’s mine. Kind of a coincidence, though, don’t you think?’

The two men stared at me, either curious or just plain foxed, and I realized I had to keep talking, otherwise the spell would break.

‘Are you on the road most days?’

They watched me with the appearance of shrewdness, as if they suspected there might be a right answer, but weren’t sure what it was.

‘There’s a man coming this way,’ I went on. ‘He’s a monk.’

The bearded man muttered something under his breath.

‘Have you seen anyone like that?’ I said.

He shook his head. A wind sprang up, and a few strands of his gruesome wig drifted across his face. He pushed them back behind his ear.

‘You couldn’t miss him. He’s a big man, dressed in black and white.’ I paused. ‘They call him “Flesh”.’

The man with the lazy eye wanted to know why. I mentioned a partiality for choirboys and suckling pig. In that order. The two men looked at each other, and I saw a thought pass between them, amorphous, yet coiled, feral.

‘And he’s a monk?’ the bearded man said.

‘A Dominican. Hence the black and white. You’re sure you haven’t seen him?’

They were sure.

‘He’ll be here soon,’ I said, ‘and he’ll have money on him.’ I paused again. ‘He wears an emerald. It was a gift from the Grand Duke’s mother. That’s got to be worth a bit.’

The bearded man picked at a tooth. ‘He’s hunting you, isn’t he?’

He wasn’t without a certain sly intelligence; I was almost proud of him.

‘If he asks about me,’ I said, ‘tell him I went to Torremagna.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘I want him to find me.’

I glanced over my shoulder. Night had come down while we had been talking, and the woods I had passed through earlier were already sunk deep in the murk. Ahead of me, the walls of Siena rose behind the two road agents, lights showing in windows that seemed randomly arranged. I remembered the striped churches, the curving streets, the penniless nobility.

I asked the bearded man how much he wanted. He mentioned an amount. I told him it was more than I could afford. He should remember that I was no different to him — a man trying to make his way in the darkness, a man with hair in his pocket and blood on his hands. I took out a drawstring purse where I kept such money as I was prepared to lose and tossed it to him, then watched as he loosened the string and poked at the coins that lay inside.

‘The monk will make up the difference,’ I said.

Tugging on the reins, I pressed my heels into my horse’s flanks, then rode past the two men. I was careful not to look back, not to hurry. I didn’t want to trigger a pursuit. I didn’t even want the idea to enter their heads.

Once I had gained the high ground to the south-east of Siena, I began to look for a place to sleep. By then, I was in the crete , as they were known, a series of chevron-shaped ridges and ravines that were often bare, revealing an unearthly, greyish clay-like soil. There was almost no vegetation. Sometimes a row of cypresses, sometimes an olive tree so gnarled that it looked biblical. The wind roamed the landscape unimpeded.

I came across an abandoned cart and tethered my horse to its one remaining wheel, then I walked a few yards off the track and lay down on a patch of couch grass, my sword beside me. He was good with a sword, Earhole had said. I wasn’t, though. I didn’t know why I had brought it. Pointless, really. The raw air skimmed across my upturned face.