A Brood of Vipers

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. 'Signor Daunbey, yes?' Benjamin nodded.
    'Signor Daunbey, I do not wish to appear rude. But I have many orders to complete and in a few days I am to go to Ferrara and on to Rome. I thank your king for his favour. I will give my reply in a few days. You are staying…?' 'At the Villa Albrizzi.' ‘In which case I shall send it there.'
    After that he fairly hustled us from the room, slamming the door shut. Maria giggled behind her gloved hand. I glared at her. Benjamin flung up his hands in despair.
    'Mystery upon mystery,' he murmured. 'Why was he so surly?'
    I stared at the door. Something was wrong. Borelli had hardly welcomed us and shown no surprise at our offer. He'd made no enquiry about what fee or what terms would be given if he came to England, and he