A Brood of Vipers

ankle. 'I want to go home, Master,' I murmured. 'To hell with the glories of Italy!'
    I could not curse any longer – my stomach heaved and, coughing and retching, I staggered away from the house.
    The Albrizzi garden was surrounded by thick privet hedges. We went through an archway in one of these – and stopped. Before us stood a figure dressed all in black, the head and face hidden behind a black pointed hood with gaps for the eyes, nose and mouth, a small candle in its hand. In the poor, flickering light from the candle it was a terrifying apparition. Moaning with terror, I fled through the garden. Thank God, Benjamin had the wit to follow. By the time we made our way back to the main doorway, the whole household was aroused, everyone in various stages of undress. Lord Roderigo, a night robe wrapped around him, was screaming at Giovanni to organize the servants, who were rushing up the stairs with slopping buckets of water from the well and fountains. Thankfully, we were ignored. Benjamin hissed at me to pretend that we had been taking the night air in the garden. We helped douse the flames, but not before they had reduced Preneste's chamber, his bed and corpse to a pile of steaming ash. Lord Roderigo and the rest left the servants to clean up whilst they began a fierce discussion about how the fire started. Now I couldn't be involved in that. I didn't give a fig. One of those Florentine bastards had tried to kill me. My head was thick, my stomach churning. I wasn't frightened, just terrified absolutely witless by what was happening. Benjamin and I went back to our chamber. Believe me, I checked everything – the bed, the chairs. I even kept the window shutters open despite the cold breeze, just in case I had to leave quicker than I thought. Benjamin, God bless him, wanted to discuss this and that, stating the obvious, that someone had tried to kill us. 'Or,' he said pensively, sitting on the edge of the bed, 'did they know we were in the room? Were they just trying to destroy any evidence that might be there?' I groaned, rolled the woollen blanket around me and stared at the white-washed wall. I sucked the tip of my thumb, a gesture I always make when terrified. I wanted to go home. I promised every saint I knew that, if I was brought safely out of this, I'd light a thousand candles, go to church every day, never steal. Yes, I even proposed to take a vow of chastity! You can see how desperate I had become! No, perhaps you can't. Ever since I had entered that bloody doctor's house in Wodforde, I felt as if I had slid into some dark maze where a demented killer was hunting me. And who had been that hooded bastard in the garden? I listened to my master's voice murmuring on. Benjamin was applying logic. Logic! In my view we were confronting a killer with a blind blood lust to wipe out the Albrizzis and anyone connected with them. I drifted into an uneasy sleep and woke late the next morning, quite refreshed and wondering how passionate the Lady Bianca was in bed. Benjamin was already up. I stripped, washed and shaved. After which, as I remarked to Benjamin, I was ready to take on the Sultan and all his harem. (Oh, by the way, some years later I had to, but that's another story!) We walked down the gallery and glanced at the damage done to Preneste's room; the place was a shell, the timbers charred, blackened with smoke. My nightmares of the previous evening returned and I felt like indulging in my litany of woes but Benjamin's face was hard set. He was very rarely like that, but when he was I kept my thoughts to myself and my mouth shut. 'Let's break our fast, Roger,' he murmured. 'Master,' I whispered as we went downstairs. 'Who was that hooded figure in the garden?' 'Making a wild surmise,' Benjamin answered quietly, 'I suspect it was one of the Eight, the de' Medici secret police, keeping a watch on the house.' 'Couldn't he have been the assassin?' 'Possibly. But remember, Roger, we have been attacked twice. Never once did that man lift a hand to hurt or hinder us.'
    We entered the sun-filled refectory – a beautiful whitewashed room with hanging baskets of flowers along the walls. The wooden floor gleamed and the air was fragrant with the savoury meats and fresh bread baking in the kitchen beyond. The tables were ranged along the side and, on a dais at the top, only one figure sat. Enrico, wearing his eye-glasses, was poring over a manuscript. He looked up as we approached and smiled at us to join him. 'A