A Brood of Vipers

great deal of excitement!' he exclaimed as we took our seats. 'Preneste's murdered and even then he's not allowed to rest in peace.' 'What was the cause of the fire?' Benjamin asked innocently. 'Well, Lord Roderigo believes it to be a negligent servant.' I stifled my anger – even a child would have smelt the oil. Benjamin, however, was studying the young man intently. 'Your eyesight is poor?' Enrico shook his head and took his eye-glasses off. 'Only close up. I have always suffered from eye-strain when reading a manuscript or book.' He chuckled softly. 'I thank God I am not a priest.' 'You mean like Preneste?' Enrico shrugged. 'Look at Italy, Master Daunbey, full of corrupt priests and proud prelates. Can you really believe in the God they worship? If Preneste wished to dabble in dark mysteries that was his concern.' (Now, I suppose the fellow was correct, but since then there have been many good priests in Italy eager for reform-men like the great Loyola, a fanatic but a great saint. The popes have also changed. Sixtus V cleansed Rome with both sword and water. A cunning old fox, Sixtus had a deep admiration for our great Elizabeth. Do you know he once told me that if he and Elizabeth had married their children would have ruled the world. Elizabeth just laughed when I told her; what Sixtus didn't know was that the queen and I have a child, a lovely lad. He might not rule the world, but he'll certainly steal anything in it!) Anyway, I digress. Benjamin and Enrico became involved in a short debate on the state of the Church when my master abruptly changed tack.
    'You seem to take all these misfortunes of the Albrizzis very calmly,' he observed. Enrico put his knife down and spread his hands. 'I am a Catalina. These deaths have more to do with some secret feud against the Albrizzis.' 'You have your suspicions?' in Florence, Master Daunbey, nobody trusts anybody else. The Albrizzis have their enemies. You have met His Grace Cardinal Giulio? And Frater Seraphino, Master of the Eight?' 'But surely you are an Albrizzi?' I interposed. 'You are married to the Lady Beatrice. You have taken their name.' Enrico shrugged. 'True. But, as everyone knows, I am a merchant prince in my own right and have been ever since my father's death.' 'How did your father die?'
    The young man's eyes clouded over. His hand shook as he picked up a knife to cut a green, lush pear from the fruit bowl. 'My father was a great man. A supporter of Florence. He and his brother Alberto were members of the Signore, the council that rules Florence. Now my mother had died giving birth to me. I was left in the charge of nurses. My father and his brother were often away on their travels on behalf of Florence. One day they were in Rome; they were leaving a church near the Colosseum when the assassin struck. A crossbow bolt hit my father in the neck. Alberto was hit in the chest. My father died immediately. His brother a few days later.' 'And the assassin?' 'No one ever knew. Lord Francesco was my father's friend. He was in Ostia when my father died and immediately hurried to Rome. My father had been buying jewels – diamonds and an exquisite emerald. All were stolen and never recovered. Two criminals were later hanged on suspicion of being involved in my father's death but nothing was really proved.' Enrico looked up and blinked. 'For some years I was looked after by shepherds just in case it was a blood feud. Lord Francesco searched for the killer but discovered nothing. Another mystery, eh, Master Daunbey?' 'But you do have your suspicions?' my master asked. 'My father was no friend of the de' Medici. Perhaps they settled a debt. But be assured, Master Daunbey, that if I ever discover the identity of the murderer, I'll tell you just after I have killed him!'

Chapter 8
    Benjamin was about to conclude the conversation when Lord Roderigo, followed by a swaggering Alessandro, entered the refectory. Alessandro had lost none of his bombast. Dressed in a tight-fitting jerkin and even tighter hose, daggers thrust into his ornate belt, he looked every bit the swaggering street fighter. Roderigo, usually so self-confident, was now clearly worried – his face was rather pasty and dark shadows ringed his eyes. His hair was greasy and his fingernails still black from the fire the night before. Beside him Alessandro looked the picture of health, his smooth face glowing, his hair neatly coiffured. He dismissed me with an arrogant glance and bit noisily into an apple.