A Brood of Vipers

only in smocks, stood in the shadows of the doorways and watched us pass. Maria led us through and, in the shadow of the village church, stopped and knocked at a door. The old woman who opened it was small and sprightly, not much taller than Maria. She recognized Maria and was friendly enough, beckoning us in. She was the local wise woman, Maria told me, and her name was Richolda. The house was simple with a beaten-earth floor and lime-washed walls. A long table and stools were the only furniture. Pieces of meat and vegetables hung from the rafters, a pile of ash lay in the hearth. The only difference between it and any other peasant cottage was the sweet, fragrant smell from the many herbs and spices crushed and stored in small jars or heaped on shelves. Richolda sat us down and, with Maria acting as interpreter, I asked her questions about plants and flowers. The old woman, encouraged by the coins I placed on the table, answered pithily, most of the time nodding her head, agreeing with what I said. Maria looked perplexed and, on one occasion, asked what was the point of all these questions. 'You'll see,' I told her. 'In the end, you'll see.'
    We perhaps stayed a little longer than we intended. Richolda prepared a herbal drink mixed with orange and lemon juice, cool and refreshing. Then, as darkness fell, we collected our horses and made our way back to the Villa Albrizzi. Maria chattered away, telling me how she could help when she came to England, promising she would never be a nuisance.
    (Oh, Lord, I have to stop. The tears prick my eyes. Even now, seventy years later, I can still remember that nightmare. Horror upon horror, as Will Shakespeare put it.)
    But I hurry on. Let me take you back to that dusty track as darkness fell. I remember the beautiful blue blackness of Tuscany, the stars above us pricking the heavens with light; the sweet smell from the vineyards; the gentle movement of the cypresses in the warm evening wind; the clop of our horses' hooves; Maria's chatter as we entered the Villa Albrizzi and passed into a nightmare from Hell.
    As we dismounted in the cobbled stableyard the hair on my neck curled, a cold shiver ran along my spine, and there was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach – all the signs that there was danger around and that I should be on my guard. The silence was ominous, heavy, as if Satan himself was waiting for us in the shadows. I let the reins drop and loosened the sword and dagger in my belt.
    Maria's chatter died on her lips as she, too, became uneasy. I hissed at her to stay still, then climbed into the villa through the kitchen window. (I have learnt never to enter any house by the proper entrance when danger threatens but to go in by some narrow place where you are least expected.) The old cook and her husband lay sprawled on the floor. Her throat had been sliced; she lay propped against the table, eyes open. Her husband was lying in the corner, the crossbow bolt that had sent him crashing face down against the wall still embedded between his shoulder blades. Their deaths must have been sudden, quick, silent. The candles still flickered on the tables, even the cat sat curled before the small fire.
    I drew my dagger and went out along the galleries and corridors. Alessandro was seated in a chair, the manuscript he had been reading still on his lap. He, too, had died quickly. Someone had pulled his hair back and drawn a dagger across his throat from ear to ear. Now that poor foolish young man sat, half-bent, as if in death he was still surprised by the blood reddening his shirt and hose. Beatrice was on the stairs, her mouth still rounded in an 'O' of agony and pain, those beautiful eyes half-open, one hand slightly towards the dagger plunged into her breast. I felt her cheek and face. A slight tinge of warmth remained. I surmised she must have been killed within the hour.
    I stopped on the stains, gazing up into the darkness. Believe me, I wanted to run, fearful of what awaited me, terrified of what might have happened to Benjamin. I removed my boots, tossing them over the balustrade. They hit the floor below with a jingle and clatter which might distract the assassin. I went on. Lord Roderigo was sprawled naked on his bed, a crossbow bolt in his throat. Bianca, equally naked, had apparently tried to run. She lay face down on the floor, a great, dark, bloody patch seeping from the wound in the back of her head.
    I hurried on and burst into my master's chamber. I