A Brood of Vipers

English. I gathered he was some apostate cleric or one of Italy's eternal students. I tried to ignore him but he began to taunt Maria, wondering if her privy parts were as small as everything else.
    'Stop and play with us, little one!' he shouted, smacking me on the back of the head. 'The other one can go home and play with his mother!'
    'Well, at least he's got one,' I said, 'and I know who my father was – claims none of you bastards can make!'
    Well, that was it. Back they stepped, cloaks going over their shoulders, swords and daggers in their hands. I drew my own sword, seeing with relief that the landlord had opened a hidden door and was beckoning us to safety. Benjamin went to draw his sword. 'No, Master,' I ordered. 'Take care of Maria!'
    We moved across the tavern floor, my body shielding both Benjamin and Maria. God knows what happened then. I never discovered if the tavern-keeper was part of the plot or if he just panicked. He dragged Benjamin and Maria through the door. I went to follow, but he slammed it shut in my face. I heard the bolts being shut even as I hammered on the door. 'Let me in!' I screamed. 'Oh, for God's sake! Let me in!'
    The door didn't move. I whirled round, raising my sword just in time to block an attacker's thrust.
    (Now I see my little chaplain giggle, his shoulders shaking. I know what he's thinking. Old Shallot either wetting his pants or telling lies! I rap him firmly across the knuckles with my ash cane. The little whelk of a bird-dropping! Yes, yes, I am a coward! There's not a tavern floor in London I have not crawled across in a mad desperate attempt to reach the door. Many a time I have told the attacker to look behind him and, when he does, I've hit him on the head and ran like the wind.)
    However in that Florentine taverna it was different. I was cornered! And you know what they say about cornered rats? There were four attackers. Two were just bully-boys but the other two, one of them the leader, were professional swordsmen. They closed in, dancing, swords jabbing, daggers thrusting. I became hysterical with fright. My sword and dagger flashed like a scythe and, I tell no lie, I sliced off the leader's nose! One minute it was there, the next minute it was hanging by a few shreds of skin whilst the blood spurted out like wine from a cracked jar. He threw his sword and dagger to the floor and staggered back as a comrade took his place. Encouraged by my success I now opened both eyes. I pricked another attacker in the shoulder and was beginning to wonder whether I could play the hero again when the taverna was invaded by the black-garbed men of the Master of the Eight.
    The braggadocios vanished like puffs of smoke, taking the noseless one with them. The men of Eight concentrated on me, battering me with their staves till I was beaten to the floor. I fought back, because I couldn't forget the nightmare scene, earlier in the day, of those three corpses twirling above the execution fire. One of the hooded men bestrode me and began to beat me around the head. I lunged back, biting the man in the genitals until he screamed. I fought on until a stinging blow on the head knocked me unconscious.
    (Do you know, I always reflect on that? Some poor Florentine walking around with Roger Shallot's teeth marks in his balls! Whenever Benjamin used to say 'Roger, you always left your mark', I'd remember that fracas in Florence and, to my master's astonishment, burst out laughing.)
    When I regained consciousness I was lying at the bottom of a cart, manacled hand and foot. My head ached and I was sore from chin to crotch. I hoisted myself up. The driver of the cart and his assistants were dressed in black, as were the men marching alongside, swinging their lead-tipped staves. Peering through the slats of the cart, I saw we were crossing the old market. I glimpsed the colours and heard the shouts of the crowd, but these died as soon as the Eight's men made their appearance. Believe me, they had no difficulty getting through the throng.
    At last the cart stopped. I looked over the side and my heart sank at the sight of the grey, forbidding building that loomed before me. The whip cracked and the horses moved on. I saw a great, iron-studded gate slam shut behind me and smelled a stench that has haunted me all my life – the odour of unwashed bodies, swollen sewers and dirty cells that is the hall-mark of any prison. Now, on a number of occasions I have been in Newgate. I am acquainted with the