The cardinal clapped his hands softly. 'You are truly Thomas Wolsey's nephew,' he said. 'Yes, you are right, Master Daunbey. Giovanni is a mercenary in more ways than one. He listens well and tells me everything that happens.'
'So, why send the Master of the Eight's men there?' Benjamin asked.
The cardinal's face hardened. One purple-gloved hand went down to the arm of his chair, to the same place where he had pressed that button. Watching a picture on the same wall as the secret door, I saw the eyes of the man in the portrait move. This was a common surveillance device. The cardinal's bodyguard was watching us. Lower down the wall I could see other small, hidden, apertures with more eyeholes above them. If either Benjamin or I posed a danger, I am sure the door would be flung open or, more speedily, a crossbow bolt would be fired straight into our chests. The cardinal was seated so that he was out of the line of fire. He leaned forward.
'Master Daunbey, tell me what you saw?'
Benjamin told him what had happened, avoiding any mention of the fact that we had been in Preneste's room when it had caught fire. He described how we had gone to the garden and met the hooded figure there. The cardinal got to his feet and walked across the room to the window, as if disturbed by the growing noise from the piazza below.
'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot,' he said. 'Come here!'
We went across to where he stood and looked down into the square, now thronged with people. They had gathered around a tall, three-branched scaffold that towered up from a large circular platform. A ladder was fixed to either side of the scaffold's post. The platform was ringed by a group of men, garbed completely in black, their heads covered by high, pointed hoods. These awesome figures, armed with sword and dagger, some with shields and lances, kept the crowd back as others, similarly dressed, dragged three unfortunates on to the circular platform. This was to be one of the quietest executions I have ever seen. The crowds murmured, but there were none of the cat-calls or jeers you get in England. The three prisoners had all been severely tortured; each was a mass of bleeding wounds from head to toe. A black-robed figure pushed one up a scaffold-ladder. The executioner climbed the ladder on the other side. Once the prisoner reached the top, the waiting executioner looped a noose around his neck and pushed the unfortunate off. In a matter of minutes the same horrifying fate befell the other two. They hung, choking and kicking. Beneath them the black cowled figures began to heap bundles of faggots. When all were in place they sprinkled gunpowder over them and set them alight.
The cardinal, arms crossed, watched as the flames roared up to engulf the pathetic figures twitching there. The fire grew higher still; the bodies themselves were now burning. I saw a foot shrivel and break off and I turned away, sickened. I noticed then that Benjamin was not watching the scene in the square. He was studying a portrait on the wall to the left of the window. The cardinal didn't move until all three men completely burned, then he sketched a blessing in the air, closed the window and turned to us.
'That was the work of the Master of the Eight,' he said sourly.
'Who were they, Your Grace?' Benjamin asked.
'Apostates, or so the Master of the Eight claims - traitors to Florence, who were caught carrying messages to the French forces in Naples.' The cardinal leaned elegantly against the side of his desk. 'I believe you met Brother Seraphino last night. He is a dangerous man.' He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the window. 'I knew one of the condemned, a beautiful singer. Even my influence could not save him.' He crossed himself. 'God rest him! I did my best, but Brother Seraphino was insistent, the man had to die.'
Oh, I caught the clever bastard's threat, the subtle hint that, even if we were envoys and enjoyed his friendship, he might not be able to save us from those black-garbed devils below.
'I wonder,' he murmured, 'what the Eight are so interested in at the Villa Albrizzi?'
I could see from Benjamin's drawn face that he was tired of being taunted. 'Oh, surely, Your Grace,' he said, 'Alessandro Albrizzi is well-known for his love of the new learning from Germany.'
The cardinal pursed his lips and nodded, staring down at his gold pectoral cross. He caught Benjamin's gaze and pointed at the portrait.
'You were admiring it?'
'Yes, Your Grace.'
'It's of me.'
The painting was of an angelic, almost effeminate young man. The face was younger, thinner, but the eyes were as clever and their gaze as sneering and arrogant as now.
'A good likeness, Your Grace,' Benjamin said. 'And we take your hint. The Master of the Eight is all-powerful in Florence, so it's best if we seek your protection. That's why we were invited here, at this hour, is it not?'
The cardinal laughed and ushered us back to our seats, putting one arm round Benjamin's shoulders.
'You are clever, but far too blunt, and I apologize for playing games. Yes, you are under my protection.' His face became grave. 'But the Master of the Eight is a law unto himself. Here in Florence we play for high stakes and the game is only beginning. The prize is information, because information is the key to power. Now, repeat what your uncle said before you left England.'
'If Rome says yes,' Benjamin replied, summarizing the message, 'then England says yes.'
The Lord Giulio nodded. 'And I have thought of my reply. Tell your Uncle this: "When the time has come, and the moment is ripe, Rome will say yes". Repeat it!'
Benjamin did so twice. The cardinal extended his hand for us to kiss. We genuflected, kissed that clever bastard's hand, received a small purse of silver each and were ushered out to join a sticky-faced Maria in the antechamber.
We never exchanged a word until the iron gates of the Medici palace slammed behind us.
'Master, what was all that about?' I asked. 'We come to Florence and what happens? We are threatened by the Master of the Eight, God knows for what reason.'
'Threatened?' my master queried.
'Well, watched.'
'What's this all about?' Maria spoke up, jumping up and down, her mouth still sticky from the sweetmeat she had been eating.
'Oh, shut up!' I snapped, attracting the attention of the crowd.
We left by a side street on the other side of the Piazza de' Medici from where the execution had taken place. My master wrinkled his nose at the sour, smoky smell wafting from the pyre. He tugged me by the arm into a small alleyway.
'We were sent to deliver a message to the cardinal,' he whispered. 'We have received his reply. Only God knows, dear Roger, what he and uncle are dabbling in. We know that the Medici have a spy in the Albrizzi household and that someone is busily killing off members of that household. And have you noticed that, since we came to Italy, there's been no further threat against our lives?'
'What about last night!' I exclaimed.
Benjamin shook his head, i don't think we were meant to be killed. I think the killer wanted to destroy certain evidence.'
'You mean the letter from the cardinal to Preneste?'
Benjamin pulled a face. 'Perhaps. I was tempted to ask His Eminence what it all meant. However, as the saying goes, "least said soonest mended". Now we have delivered our message!'
'Master,' I interrupted, 'Why do you think the assassin is no longer interested in us?'
'Oh, I am sure he or she still is. What happened in England was only an attempt to deter us from going to Florence. Now that we are here the assassin sees us as irrelevant in this silent but bloody war against the Albrizzi.' Benjamin pulled me back into the street again. 'As I have said, we have delivered our message and received His Eminence's reply. Now for the painter.' He called Maria over. 'The artist Borelli in the Via Fortunata?'
Maria pointed further down the street. 'Across the Mercato Vecchio. Come on, stop whispering to each other and I'll take you there.'
'Have you been before?' I asked.
She shook her little head and tripped down the street leading to the old market place.
'No,' she called over her shoulder. 'Lord Francesco commissioned the painter, it was his idea alone. Oh, and by the way, you are being watched.'
I whirled around. My blood froze. Standing in the doorway of a shop was one of the Eight, dressed in a dark-brown robe, arms hidden beneath his sleeves. He just watched us, the smooth-shaven face impassive, though the eyes were hostile.
He reminded me of a hunting dog unsure whether to attack or not.
'Ignore him!' Benjamin hissed. 'We are doing no wrong, Roger.'
I hawked, spat in the spy's direction and followed Maria into the bustling square. Now the Mercato Vecchio is a singular place. On each of its four corners stands a church. Around the square craftsmen and dealers of every type have stalls stocked high with all kinds of goods, from sovereign remedies to silk from the lands east of the Indus. Apothecaries and grocers shouted for trade. Traders in pots and pitchers fashioned their wares and sold them. Tramps and beggars lurked in every corner. Butchers, their stalls festooned with hares, chunks of wild boar, partridge, pheasant, huge capons, shouted prices. Across the market the hawkers and falconers tried to restrain their hunting birds, restless as they smelt the blood pouring out from under the fleshing knives.
The din was ear-shattering, reminiscent of Cheapside, and as we crossed the market apprentices and women tried to catch us by the sleeves offering dried chestnuts, eggs, cheese, vegetables, herbs, flans, pies, and favourite Florentine dishes like ravioli. Girls from the country made their way elegantly through the throng, baskets stacked high on their heads. It was a miracle they could even walk, never mind hold burdens so easily. At last we were through the market and Maria led us down one street and into a narrow alleyway mis-named the Via Fortunata. It reeked of urine, the hordes of cats that plagued the area and boiled vegetables. Maria asked directions from a hawker, who pointed out a yellow, crumbling tenement.
'We'll find Borelli there,' she said. 'On the second floor, or so this fellow says.'
We entered the shabby building and climbed the rickety wooden stairs.
‘I don't think we'll have much trouble persuading him to come to England,' I whispered.
Benjamin shrugged, then paused.
'Why this painter?' he murmured.
'Because the king liked Lord Francesco's present.'
Benjamin shook his head. 'An English court hires the best. Have you ever heard of Torrigiani?'
'Never.'
'He was a great Florentine artist, famous for his sculpture as well as for breaking the nose of the divine Michelangelo.' 'A thug?' I queried.
'A thug but a great artist. He was taken by the Inquisition and died in prison only last year. The point is, though, that he worked for the king's father.'
'So, why is Henry so interested in a minor Florentine artist like Borelli when he could have hired the best?'
'And that raises another question.' Benjamin turned to Maria. 'Why did your master hire such a minor painter to execute something for the king of England?'
Maria spread her little hands. 'Lord Francesco could be generous,' she replied, 'but perhaps he thought the work of an unknown would be more impressive.'
Benjamin sighed. 'We will do as the king wishes,' he declared sourly. 'Let's meet Master Borelli.'
We knocked on the faded, cracked door on the second floor. It was flung open by a thin, narrow-faced man with tousled black hair, close-set eyes and bloodless lips above a receding chin. He was dressed in an old smock covered in blotches of paint.
'Signors?' he queried.
Maria rattled out the introductions. The man stared at us.
'I speak some English,' he said. 'I was in your country seven years ago after I had visited Bruges.'
'Can we come in?' Benjamin asked.
The man waved us into a dark room reeking of paint, oil and stale cooking. Every available space was filled-with pots of paint, brushes, knives, easels carrying canvases. The fellow kept us standing as he wiped his paint-daubed hands with a rag. He muttered something to Maria and stared over his shoulder at a half-finished canvas.
'Master Borelli is busy,' Maria explained. 'He has a commission to complete.'
I studied the fellow closely. Busy, yes, but he was also very nervous. He kept swallowing hard and made no attempt to put us at our ease. Indeed, if we had walked back a step we would have been up against the door. Benjamin, too, was uneasy.
'Master Borelli,' he said, 'we bear the compliments of the king of England; he praises the painting you gave him, the one you did for Lord Francesco Albrizzi.'
The man gave a crooked smile.
'I am glad your king was pleased.'
'We also bear messages from England,' Benjamin continued. 'His Majesty the King and my uncle, Cardinal Wolsey, have authorized us to offer you a commission. If you come to the English court, under the patronage of the king, undoubtedly there would be much work for you - and certainly more opulent surroundings than these.'
Borelli pulled a face, turned his back and went over to the easel. He picked up a brush and, holding a small pot of paint in his right hand, began to dab carefully at the canvas.
'Master Borelli!' Benjamin took a step nearer. 'Are you not interested?'
'Very,' the painter replied. 'But, as I have explained to your companion, the little woman, I am busy. I have paintings to do in Florence.' He turned back, the brush still in his hand. 'And, as for my surroundings, I like being here. I have my friends, my taverna, the sun, wine, the glories of Florence. Why should I exchange all this for an uncertain future at your cold English court?'
Borelli put the paint brush and pot down. He plucked at the rag tucked in the cord tied round his waist.