'A terrible sign,' she whispered. She looked up, her little fists pressed against her chest. 'Master Shallot, the Florentines are the most superstitious people on God's earth. For an owl to fly into the house in the early morning is an omen of dire portence. For it to die means the house is about to fall!'
I stared back at the villa. 'It looks secure enough to me!' I joked.
She grasped my fingers in her little warm hand. 'It's a sign that the Albrizzis will fall from power.' She pulled on my finger. 'Let me come to Florence with you and Roger.'
I stared down. 'No Crosspatch now?' I jibed. 'I am sorry,' she whispered.
I dug my hand inside my shirt and pulled out her little glove. 'May I keep this?'
'Of course,' she whispered. 'But promise me, promise me, that when you go back to England you'll take me with you!'
She looked so lonely, so pitiful, that I agreed. She turned, skipping like a young girl up the path, waving at my master, who was striding down to meet me.
'You'd think the sun had fallen from the sky,' he commented, nodding back at the villa.
'Master, even in England the owl is considered a bird of ill omen.'
'I don't believe in such nonsense, Roger. Oh, yes, Preneste could call up Satan, but I think all creatures are God's.'
Benjamin walked over to the midden-heap, picked up the bird and studied it curiously. He took his gloves from his belt, put them on, prised open the small yellow beak and sniffed.
'Master?'
Benjamin wrinkled his nose and flung the bird down.
'I agree, Roger. That little owl was not so much a bird of ill omen as ill-omened.' He pulled off his gloves. 'The poor thing's been poisoned, with a good dose of belladonna. But how was it made to fly into the house?' Benjamin tapped the side of his nose. 'Roger, what do owls love?'
'Mice.'
'Oh, don't be stupid!' 'Darkness, barns.'
'And if you released a bird, a young owl that had been poisoned, where would it fly to?' 'Straight for shelter.'
Benjamin turned and pointed to the great open window.
'Well, the poor thing flew through there.'
'But who released it? Everyone was in the room with us.'
'Were they?' Benjamin asked caustically. 'The two ladies perhaps. But it would be so easy to go out, release the bird and come back.' He looked up at the villa. 'Very clever,' he murmured. He pointed to the windows shuttered against the sunlight. 'Someone prepared this. Do you realize that's the only window open? Moreover, I am sure if that owl had died anywhere else it would have had the same effect. Some hysterical servant bounding in, bawling the news.' Benjamin rubbed his chin. 'But I do wonder who released it?'
'We must not forget the Master of the Eight!'
'Aye,' Benjamin muttered. 'And we mustn't forget our meeting in Florence. Come, master swordsman, it's time we left.'
By the time we returned to the villa the Albrizzi household had gone their separate ways. A physician had been called to attend to Alessandro's scratch. The two ladies were in their chambers with an attack of the vapours. Giovanni was in the stableyard, with our horses ready. Maria, standing some way off, held the reins of her little white donkey. The look on her face showed she had already clashed with Giovanni in her efforts to accompany us to Florence. I'd washed and changed my shirt after my sweat-soaked duel. My master had advised me to wash regularly in such a warm climate.
it opens the pores,' he explained, 'and keeps the skin fresh. Otherwise' - he grinned - 'you can end up scratching and clawing at your codpiece fit to burst.'
(A sensible man, my master. I only wish others, particularly the present queen, had his standards of cleanliness. Queen Elizabeth's idea of a bath is to dab rose water on her face and hands, then hide nature under numerous bottles of perfumes. I tell you this, the English court, at the height of summer, smells like a midden-heap. I once tried to pass my master's advice on to the queen, but she stared back horror-struck.
'Bathe at Easter and Christmas!' she exclaimed. 'Don't be stupid, Roger! Warm water weakens the humours and ages the flesh.'
Well, what could I do against the advice of some silly fart of a physician?)
The sun was climbing in the sky when we left the Villa Albrizzi. You must remember it was still early in the morning. (The Italians rise just before daybreak and take their rest in the early hours of the afternoon.) At first Giovanni was taciturn, still frightened by that bloody owl, but my master had questions to put to him and was insistent. He conversed casually at first, complimenting Giovanni on his horse and his skill at riding, asking where he had been born and what campaigns he had fought in? Giovanni was like any soldier the world over and, as we ambled down the dusty track winding through the vine- and cypress-covered hills towards Florence, he explained how he had been a soldier for as long as he could remember. I listened intently, trying to ignore Maria, who rode behind Giovanni pulling faces and mimicking him.