'And finally,' Benjamin concluded for him, 'the Albrizzis may be powerful in Florence, but they are not knowledgeable enough about English affairs or London life to know where to hire such an assassin.'
'Exactly!' Agrippa concluded. 'So, like it or not, sweet Roger, it's Eltham for you, then the glories of Florence! A beautiful city,' he added, 'nestling in the golden Tuscan hills.
They say the wine is good and the women even better. So, don't despair. I am sure you will do the king justice and come back laden with glory.'
Sarcastic bugger! When, I asked myself, did that ever happen? Oh no. Hunted across cold moors! Chased by man-eating leopards in a maze outside Paris! Assassins of every hue and kind dogging our footsteps! Believe me, I was proved right. We were about to enter a nest of vipers and embark on one of the most dangerous escapades in my long and varied career. Yet, that's life, isn't it? If you sat upon the ground and told sad stories about the fate of kings (I gave a line like that to Will Shakespeare) you'd end up barking mad - yes, just like Will's Hamlet mournfully declaiming To be or not to be, that is the question'. Will Shakespeare thought of that line as he was sobering up after a drinking bout with myself. He has a slight strain of melancholy has Will, probably inherited from his mother and certainly not helped by his shrew of a wife. Lord save us, you could cut steel with her tongue! But, there again, poor lass, perhaps she's got good cause. Will's never at home and he's for ever mooning about some dark lady - he even refused to tell old Shallot who this mysterious Helen of Troy could be. I did try to make him change Hamlet's line. 'It's not being which matters,' I cried, 'but being happy!' Old Will just shook his head, smiled mournfully and refilled his cup. Ah well, that's the way with writers! Not the happiest or most contented of men. Except myself, but there again I do have Margot and Phoebe to comfort me and I tell these stories for a purpose -to reveal the wickedness of the great beast; to extol the virtues of my master, because he was a most honourable man; and finally to instruct you young men (and the not so young) about the dangers of lechery, cursing, roistering, drinking, gambling and all the other fascinating aspects of life. Yet the young never reflect and neither did I as we continued our journey and entered the joyous, filthy, tumultous city of London.
Now, I have lived ninety-five years and if I live another hundred and fifty I would never tire of London. It's filthy, reeking, bloody, violent, colourful and totally unforgettable. We entered by Bishopsgate. I was happy to be there, but Benjamin was puzzled.
'Surely,' he called out to Agrippa, 'we should pass through Clerkenwell to go down to Eltham?'
Agrippa pulled a face. 'I want to show you where Francesco Albrizzi died. You may not have the opportunity again."
I didn't care. I just stared around, drinking in the sights, listening to the bustle, the noise, the clack of tongues. I was searching out those whose company I so loved - the ladies of the night, proud sluts in their taffeta dresses; magicians and wizards in their black cloaks festooned with silver stars and suns; madcap tumblers; beggarly poets shouting out their works; princely rogues strutting in their silks and lambswool, mixing their rich perfumes with the sulphur sprinkled on the streets to hide the stench from the shit and offal thrown there. I kept my hand on my purse, watching out for those brazen-faced villains, those varlets, grooms of the dunghill, rats without tails, all the lovely lads who, in my youth, I had run wild with.
We turned down Threadneedle Street, past the stocks and into Poultry. We crossed Westchepe, stabling our horses at the Holy Lamb of God tavern near to St Mary-Le-Bow. The gallows birds who accompanied us immediately rushed into the tavern bawling for tankards whilst Agrippa took
Benjamin and me across the bustling thoroughfare. Now Cheapside hasn't changed much, so you can imagine the scene. To the north of Cheapside, between the college of St Martin-Le-Grande and St Mary-Le-Bow, lie two main thoroughfares - Wood Street and Milk Street. Separating the houses built along Cheapside between these two streets are narrow alleyways or runnels. Agrippa, pointing to his left, showed us the clothier's stall where Francesco's daughter Beatrice had been shopping. He then moved forward a little.
'Francesco was standing about here.' He pointed between the stalls and we glimpsed the mouth of a dark alleyway. 'So he must have been looking towards where the assassin was hiding.'
'And the son-in-law?' I asked.
'Enrico?' Agrippa pointed past the clothing stall to a line of shops. 'He was in that goldsmith's. Can you see it under the sign of the silver pestle?'
'And no other members of Francesco's household were around?'
'Apparently not.'
'So, what happened?' Benjamin asked.