A Brood of Vipers(21)

'Why don't you ask for your son's life?' the royal bastard bellowed.



'I am too ashamed,' the poor man mumbled.



'Then, if you are too ashamed to beg!' the beast roared, 'we are too ashamed to grant clemency!'

Can you believe it? Sending a young man to his death, refusing a pardon, just because the old father was too frightened to beg for mercy! I have a copy of Holbein's painting of Henry. I keep it in my secret chamber. Every so often, when I am in a bad humour, I practise my knife-throwing skills, an art I learnt from a member of Sulemain's harem.



Now, in that chamber at Eltham, another painting caught my attention. It hung on the wall to the left of the king. Beneath it, on a cedarwood table, an eight-branched silver candelabra burnt like a votive offering before a shrine. Whilst the king and Wolsey made commonplace pleasantries with my master I kept staring at it. It was a huge painting, at least two yards high and about four feet across. It caught my attention because of the resplendent colours and the life-like brush strokes of the artist. (You young people must realize that in 1523 England had yet to see the full glories of the great Italian artists.) Now this painting depicted Henry VIII, much younger, slimmer and better-looking. He was kneeling at a prie-dieu, a flower in his hand, before his father's tomb in Westminster Abbey. Above this hung a canvas depicting a saint in armour who, I presumed, was St George. A small monkey, looking in the opposite direction, crouched at the young king's feet. Henry's other hand was on a book and, narrowing my eyes, I could see it was the Bible opened at the Book of Deuteronomy. Beside the tomb was a simple altar surmounted by a silver crucifix. A vase of flowers stood at either end. Beneath the altar was a small triptych depicting the death of Henry VIII's father, his burial and the coronation of the new king. On the steps of the altar, to the left of where the young king knelt, was what appeared to be a small bucket with an Asperges rod used for sprinkling holy water, which was ringed by more flowers. Wolsey noticed my wandering glance.



'Master Shallot, you like the painting?'



'Yes, Your Eminence, the colour and life.' I bowed towards the beast. 'It does His Majesty great credit.'



The king pulled a face.



'A gift,' he murmured, 'from the late Lord Francesco Albrizzi. That and this.'

Henry plucked from beneath his cambric shirt a gold chain with the most brilliant emerald gleaming there. Cut in the shape of a heart, and set in a pure gold clasp, the jewel blazed like fire in the candlelight.

'Gifts from the Albrizzi family and the city of Florence,' Wolsey said. He smirked. 'Though nothing more than His Majesty deserves. Florence needs our alliance, our wool and our support.' He paused as Henry leaned across the desk and slopped a goblet full of wine. 'Now, our good friend Doctor Agrippa,' Wolsey continued, 'has informed you about the dreadful assassination of Lord Francesco?'



Benjamin nodded.

'And can you help, dearest nephew?'



Benjamin spread his hands. 'Dearest uncle, it is a conundrum, a puzzle. How can a man be shot in public yet no one glimpse the assassin? Especially one carrying an unwieldy handgun which he had to load and prime?'



Wolsey shook one gloved hand. 'I realize the problem, dearest nephew.' Again the smirk. 'But I have every confidence in your ability and skill.'



'Who would assassinate the Lord Francesco?' Benjamin asked bluntly.



Wolsey shrugged. 'A powerful man always has enemies.' 'But in England, dearest uncle?'



'Perhaps not. Nevertheless,' Wolsey continued, 'I have no doubt that the assassin is someone in Lord Francesco's household, though how and why the murder was committed is for you to resolve.' Wolsey licked his red, sensuous lips. 'We cannot be accused of being dilatory in protecting our guests and accredited envoys. What better response than to appoint my own dearest nephew to hunt the murderer down.'



He gazed fondly at Benjamin. I closed my eyes and cursed. The good cardinal wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on his soft, plump nose. Oh, I knew, as the old bishop said to the buxom milkmaid, there was more to this than met the eye.



'But, dearest uncle, must we go back to Florence with them?' Benjamin asked.



'Ah!* Wolsey raised a finger and grinned over his shoulder at Doctor Agrippa, who stood there, holding his broad-brimmed hat, his face impassive as a statue. 'We have other missions for you.'



'Such as, dearest uncle?'



Wolsey ignored the sarcasm in Benjamin's voice. 'First, His Grace would like the Florentine artist who executed that painting to come to England. We want to commission him to do similar paintings of His Majesty's family and court.' Wolsey gnawed on his lip. 'The other matters are more, how can we say, delicate?'



(Oh Lord, I prayed, here we go: poor Shallot into the den of lions. Or, as usual, cast head first down the deepest privy).