A Brood of Vipers

nevertheless, trying to play the cool, self-sufficient hero, I followed him back into the refectory. Other members of the household joined us. Beatrice stood afar off. Now sire, too, had changed – she was looking at me, head slightly down, those lustrous eyes smiling and the tip of her pink tongue running slowly round those luscious lips. Her ample bosom rose and fell quickly – she was one of those people whom blood, as long as it is not their own, sexually excites. Lady Bianca was no different. She came up, touched me gently on the arm and, as she passed, allowed her hand to drop and stroke my codpiece. (Lord, what a family! Worse than the Boleyns!) Enrico grasped my hand, eyes screwed up.
    'You are a good swordsman, Master Shallot, a rare roaring-boy, as you Inglese would say. A fine touch, a fine touch, especially the twist of the wrist. I must remember that.'
    Benjamin looked at him curiously, but then Lord Roderigo came back with a carafe of wine and a tray of cups. He placed these on the table then, taking a golden, jewel-encrusted goblet, half-filled this and handed it over.
    'Master Shallot, this is from the Villa Mathilda, what the Romans called Falernian.' He smiled his thanks. 'The wine is yours and so is the cup.'
    (No, I haven't got it. We had to leave Florence so quickly! I did later write to that evil bastard the Master of the Eight asking for it to be sent on to me. The little slime-turd wrote back that it was on his shelf, just waiting for me to come and collect it! The evil sod!)
    I thanked Roderigo, toasted the assembled company and drank the warm, fragrant wine. This washed my mouth, soothed my throat and stirred a fire in my loins which would have boded ill for any woman present had it not been for the most curious of interruptions. Roderigo was pouring the rest of the wine, there was the usual chattering and back-slapping. I stood playing the modest hero when, despite the sunlight, a small owl fluttered through the open window from the garden, circled the room then fell to the floor dead. Lady Bianca dropped her goblet and screamed. Beatrice half-swooned and had to be helped to a chair, whilst the men paled and stared down at the bundle of feathers on the floor.
    My master went over, knelt, and studied the cluster of tawny feathers on the floor. 'What does this mean?' he asked.
    'The owl is the harbinger of death!' Roderigo whispered. 'For this to happen…' He turned to a pale-faced Giovanni. 'Burn it!'
    The soldier just shook his head, so I picked up the still-warm body and walked to the door. Everybody stepped hastily aside as if I was a plague-bearer. I walked into the garden and put the pathetic corpse on a midden-heap. When I turned little Maria was there, ashen-faced, eyes rounded as she stared at the corpse of the bird.
    'A terrible sign,' she whispered. She looked up, her little fists pressed against her chest. 'Master Shallot, the Florentines are the most superstitious people on God's earth. For an owl to fly into the house in the early morning is an omen of dire portence. For it to die means the house is about to fall!'
    I stared back at the villa. 'It looks secure enough to me!' I joked.
    She grasped my fingers in her little warm hand. 'It's a sign that the Albrizzis will fall from power.' She pulled on my finger. 'Let me come to Florence with you and Roger.' I stared down. 'No Crosspatch now?' I jibed. 'I am sorry,' she whispered.
    I dug my hand inside my shirt and pulled out her little glove. 'May I keep this?'
    'Of course,' she whispered. 'But promise me, promise me, that when you go back to England you'll take me with you!'
    She looked so lonely, so pitiful, that I agreed. She turned, skipping like a young girl up the path, waving at my master, who was striding down to meet me.
    'You'd think the sun had fallen from the sky,' he commented, nodding back at the villa.
    'Master, even in England the owl is considered a bird of ill omen.'
    'I don't believe in such nonsense, Roger. Oh, yes, Preneste could call up Satan, but I think all creatures are God's.'
    Benjamin walked over to the midden-heap, picked up the bird and studied it curiously. He took his gloves from his belt, put them on, prised open the small yellow beak and sniffed. 'Master?' Benjamin wrinkled his nose and flung the bird down.
    'I agree, Roger. That little owl was not so much a bird of ill omen as ill-omened.' He pulled off his gloves. 'The poor thing's been poisoned, with a good dose of belladonna. But how was it