A Brood of Vipers(62)

'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.'